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willbyerstm · 2 years

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[ What if the reason Will told Mike the wrong numbers (what he said vs what was in the paper and the subtitles) and still worked was because he has some kind of ability to ‘sense’ what is right? We know he and the Mindflyer are connected but it could be more than that ]

#st4 spoilers #headcanon #or rather #st4 theory #?#hmmm #I mean it could be simply because they messed up #but it’s a big thing to notice isn’t it?#ANYWAY #I might use this #regardless to what happens in a4 #*s4 vol 2

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ineffable-suffering · 8 months

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Aziraphale, I love you. But you lied. And here's why.

Okay. I’m not gonna beat around the bush for too long. It’s time now for me to also throw my try at a personal Good Omens Season 2 Magnum Opus into the mix of already existing magnum op..i? Opusses? (Smited? Smote?)

If I’m honest, it isn’t fully my own magnum opus, as I read this meta not too long ago that made me go: „Oh! My God! That’s it!“ And I’m pretty sure a lot of other people have clocked this too by now. Of course I’m not saying it’s the objective truth but after having mulled it over for many endless nights and days, wading through the onslaught of coffee theories, body swap theories, The Metatron re-writing the Book of Life theories and many, many more, this is the one I think is most plausible and, if you look closely, most obvious.

And it goes as such: Aziraphale lied.

To all of us. All of them. And most of all, to Crowley. He lied to him. Well, he sort of did and also sort of didn’t. He certainly didn’t tell the truth. At least not all of it. I hear you ask: “OP, what the fuck are you talking about”. I answer you: Let’s start from the top and under the cut.

(Small note: this meta ended up being way too large for Tumblr, which is why I will redirect you to an external doc at the end of the post, where I have written it all down nicely and accurately. It's about 35 digital A4-pages long, just in case you want to save it for later.)

(Word count: 12.831 | Approximate reading time: 50 minutes)

Let’s start with a short recap of what happens before the Metatron crashes the bookshop party and everything goes to shit. The proper visuals for this are in my Tumblr post but I am absolutely convinced that right up until when the Metatron comes to take Aziraphale away and talk to him, the angel is fully ready to get into Crowley’s Bentley-chariot and finally ride off into the sunset (or Alpha Centauri-set or whatever). You can see it in his face and body language. You can see when the penny drops for him that a) Crowley loves him b) he loves Crowley and c) they can finally start their happily ever after. Aziraphale realizes this all throughout said Brielzebub reveal in the bookshop. And he’s such a lost cause once he does.

I mean, look at that. Look at it. This (very shitty recording, sorry, I'm not tech-savvy enough to avoid the Amazon Prime screen recording blocker) is the very second Aziraphale realizes hat Crowley loves him. When he hears him suggest Alpha bloody Centauri as a getaway for Gabriel and Beelzebub, as Crowley has done to Aziraphale for so, so many times now. He finally understands what Crowley was trying to tell him with that all those times.

Aziraphale realizes this all throughout the Brielzebub reveal in the bookshop. And he’s such a lost cause once he does.

Right when Crowley suggest Alpha Centauri as a nice getaway spot to the two, Aziraphale looks at him and he gets it. That Crowley has loved him, has been loving him for millennia. Truthfully, they've both known that for a long while now. But there's a difference between knowing, wanting, craving and actually being able to finally have something. And that's exactly what we see on Aziraphale's face here. This is it. This is where it all starts working out for Crowley and him. This is were they can start their eternity together.

So from that second on, Aziraphale only has eyes for Crowley. He keeps physically pawing at Crowley with complete heart eyes, as if to say „Look, look, that’s gonna be us too! Finally!" He’s actually so smitten that he doesn’t even hear what Crowley is saying when he asks Shax if he can have back his apartment now because he’s sick of living in his car. (Also, what way to drop that bomb right in this moment Crowley, lmao).

Once the Metatron comes in, the first thing Aziraphale says is that they don’t need to talk because „he’s made his position quite clear“. He doesn’t even want to talk to the Metatron, because in his mind, he’s already made the choice. Actually, he made the choice way before the bookshop showdown. For starters, I’m convinced that the Jane Austen Ball actually never was for Maggie and Nina but for Crowley and him (you can read more about that here). And apart from that, for this whole season we have seen Aziraphale trying to advance his relationship with Crowley romantically and domestically and move them to the literal next base (our car!). And after everything he just witnessed with Brielzebub, the final nail in the coffin of ethereal-infernal romance being possible, his choice is absolutely crystal clear: It’s Crowley. It’s always been Crowley and it always will be Crowley. And now it can be Crowley. They can be an us.

The whole of Season 2 is such a massive learning curve for Aziraphale’s character, with him remembering all those important pivotal points of his past, and this very moment is the peak, with him not only understanding that Crowley loves him (because he certainly knew for quite some centuries now) but accepting that love, letting himself have that love, being allowed to want that love and taking that love and starting their new and final chapter with it. Nevertheless, the plot clock ticks for them. The Metatron saunters into the bookshop, evil and stinky as Metatrons do, and urges Aziraphale to come with him with his whole Take The Coffee schtick, which I will get into later. And Aziraphale, immediately sensing there’s Something Up, does. Can’t really turn down someone as high-ranking as the the voice of God, after all. Even if you were currently already planning how you were going to elope with a certain red-haired serpent of Eden.

he next time we see Aziraphale on screen, it’s so painfully evident on his face that he is neither happy nor excited. Not even the slightest bit. We’d know if he was, thanks to Mr. Michael master-of-microexpressions Sheen. None of the usual “Aziraphale is happy”-signs are there. No blinding eye-smile, no giddy wriggling, not giggles and gasps. No, when the Metatron tells Aziraphale to „go tell your friend the good news“, his expression looks like this:

I’m gonna go out on an entire limb here and say: That does not look like someone who’s absolutely tickety-boo hyped to tell his demon soulmate that he just got the juiciest promotion and that they can both be angels and live happily ever after in ethereal eternity now.

This, folks, looks like someone who knows exactly that the news he has to break right now, are going to be tickety-shit awful and very upsetting to said demon soulmate. And already, from that very short snippet of conversation, we can tell that Aziraphale isn’t really given a choice by the Metatron. Because while the Metatron does tell him that he doesn’t have to „answer right away“, he immediately follows it up by: „Go ahead and tell your friend the good news!“ Very distinct and definitive choice of words here. It’s “good news” because it’s already been decided. Because it’s already a done deal. There is no “yes, no, maybe”. This is the only choice he’s giving to Aziraphale. Because it’s ‘Coffee or death’.

And he already gave him the coffee.

***

Tumblr won't let me continue this over a certain character limit and I am not even remotely done yet – so, I feel like this is a good moment to redirect you to the continuation of this insane meta before we're in too deep. You can do so right here!

I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions about this once you've fought your way through it. Hope you have a good time with it!

#good omens #good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #good omens meta #good omens analysis #neil gaiman #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens predictions #i lost my mind writing this #it must be nice to be able to be a casual enjoyer of media #who doesnt spend 5 days writing a 22 page document on an angle and why he lied to his demon boyfriend #my own meta

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loganlermanstanaccount · 10 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 3)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 2, Part 4

summary: A bad day turns even worse. Miguel surprises you.

warnings: angst angst angst, mentions of grief, very vague mention of domestic violence and abuse.

recommended reading: the painting Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and the song Ophelia by the lumineers.

a/n: i lowkey suck at communicating my "big" ideas so i really really hope this makes sense!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 3.8k

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

they were here, she says,

You’ve had your share of bad days.

Oh God , enough to fill an A4 binder with. For example, knocking out that tooth when you were twelve. A butterfly effect of fuck ups that led to a scuffle at school: blood in your mouth, a tooth on the ground, and a looong suspension. You received quite the earful at home, that day.

And then there was telling your parents you had dropped out of college. Telling them you were moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend. Breaking up with said boyfriend in your favourite diner; thus sullying Pam’s waffles and pancakes with the bitter taste of… oh-fuck-I-don’t-know-how-I’ll-afford-an-apartment-now. Oh, and heartbreak – although that wasn’t as immediate.

Scratch that, the day of the breakup had been fairly mundane. Pleasant, even. Jamie had an off day, and you only had a few lectures. He didn’t tell you, of course, so meeting him in the apartment was a surprise. You’re home earlier than usual, and you can’t quite bear to wake him up; slumped on the sofa like an old cat. He’s tired, lectures and clerkships running him ragged for the past few years. Only a year out until residency, with bags under his eyes as proof, and you see him less and less. All things considered, you’re glad to spend the rest of the day with him.

You’d spent too long after the break up analysing the days leading up to it: for a sign, something in his behaviour that would’ve warned you. And so, you remember it quite vividly: kicking your shoes off, putting your bag down, and sinking into the sofa next to him. You curl into him, looking up at his face: steady, tempered breathing. Something at your chest, solid and heavy. He looks peaceful, happy; and you haven't seen that side of him in quite a while.

When you shift against him, you knock against his shoulder. Jamie stirs, groggy, and eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing he sees as he wakes is you; romantic, in theory. His expression is etched into your subconscious; stark and stiff like a marble statue, or a tombstone. A flash of disappointment, lip drawn in what seemed like disgust – but only for a moment.

" Morning , baby." You squeeze his side, and take his hand into yours. That look ; it's gone almost as quickly as it came.

"Thought…" He frowns, fighting dregs of sleep. "I thought you would be back later."

"Nope." You give him a smile and he returns with one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He puts a hand on your cheek.

"Morning," Probably tired, he sighs deeply. You move on with the day. And he breaks up with you, not even 6 hours later.

You had had 4 years of that: good days, bad days, but most of them had been… mundane. Boring. Not quite the heat and intensity of true love, as the movies had gaslighted you into believing in.

You like the old black and white ones the best. Old fashioned, old-timey folk; declarations of love in tinny transatlantic accents. Suddenly, you’re on the floor of your childhood bedroom; eyes wide at the Sound of Music. Maria and Von Trapp hand in hand: her dress billowing, the flash of white glove on the small of her back. Love, love, love; and your lack of it.

You feel its loss all the same.

Despite all your efforts – including a dash to the station that could rival an Olympic sprinter – you were late to your first lecture. Sweaty, out of breath, and ambushed with a pen and paper; thrust into your hands on arrival. You look around to see dozens of heads down, scribbling furiously. A surprise test – and you’re late.

Hand aching, you barely finish within the two hours, after bullshitting your way through at least half of the questions. By the looks of the people streaming out of the hall; faces rumpled and grimacing; you’re not the only one. However, it does little to comfort you. You’re sure you're the only one failing so spectacularly, with the semester already half over.

You'd smacked your leg on the coffee table on the way out and a book had slammed to the floor. An art book, the kind in a model home - and you know damn well Miguel's not an enthusiast. The image sticks for some reason, leg aching as you trudge to your next class. When he gives you that blank look; the memory of men gone past is haunting – dead-eyed, and blank, like eyes cut out of a painting. You wonder if a Van Gogh would feel the same with the brilliant blue of eyes slashed out.

Nevertheless, you feel like lead. Off

to your next class, and it's going over material passed out the day before; which you didn’t have the time to look over. The professor drones on; voice monotonous and gravelly. Struggling to keep up, you sink into your seat – tapping away at your laptop, whatever you can get down. You pick at your lip, unravelling; unfurling like the tip of a slashed rope.

That's what you’re waiting for, you think: sandbags clattering down from stage left, to bring the rest of this whole farce down.

A sinking feeling, that starts at your chest and makes its way to the tops of your fingers and toes, leaves you numb for the rest of the day. Dread, like a shadow, at your heels in the corridors, across the courtyard, all around campus. Another lecture, and you make it in time for labs, barely, but there’s no time to go over notes; what you managed to scrape together in preparation. And of course , your lab partner’s sick, because that’s just the kind of day you’re having. It’s hectic, doing the work of two people with only the scraps you’ve cobbled together.

The pressure mounts. Like liquid in that flask you weren’t meant to stopper; and you just might end up like its remnants on the counter. Glass everywhere but where it should be. For a good grade, it helps to be organised: everything in its place, always. Except it isn’t, and you’ve fucked it up, again . It means the results don’t match up in your lab book, and another hour staring at liquid decanting, monitoring temperatures. Staring at stark white walls, with achy legs.

You step out whilst machines run in your stead, and shed your lab coat. It’s hot and stuffy in there but out in the corridor, you can finally breathe. Forehead on the cool wall, it all stops for a moment. The persistent buzz of your phone, sat in the pocket of your trousers, creeps into the quiet.

Absent-mindedly, you turn it on with a click. The buzzing stops. You’ve just missed a call from Miguel. It’s odd, he doesn’t usually call, but it’s the little box underneath the notification that makes you pause. A message, from a number you thought you’d blocked – that you should’ve blocked.

From:Jamie <3

Hey

From:Jamie <3

We should meet. I’ve still got some of your things in the apartment.

Your blood runs cold. Dread, like a shadow; its hand wrapped your neck. You can’t breathe, stuck under the weight of something at your chest. You can’t breathe, the walls close in. We should meet , he says. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world; just friends catching up over a coffee. Like you didn’t watch him carve out a chunk of your heart with a rusty spoon.

A panic attack, and you’re awkwardly hunched over by the wall, phone in hand. Someone will find you here, lying on the vinyl floor in Block B, spread eagle between lab 6 and 7. Dramatic timing, but if it kills you; you’ll find a way to haunt your ex's ass for the foreseeable future. And Miguel’s too, because if you’re having a bad day; then somewhere out there, he’s having a good one.

~~~

The apartment is still when Miguel gets back – unusually so. You’re not on the sofa, watching a mindless soap opera, or howling some song in the shower. And he’s had to deal with that most days for the past few weeks, a break in the peace and quiet he’s so carefully cultivated. Rigorous routine, they keep him together. He needed it; the way myth needs a martyr, the way flowers on a small grave needs a body. A tick-tick-tick in his head, that drives him a little less crazy after a morning run, or a good meal when he comes home. A countdown, he thinks, a mechanical clock whirring and puttering with a shake of its gears. He feels them stutter and start, slowing down, but not quite stopping. An ache so deep, he feels its creak with every step.

Absent-mindedly, he looks around the empty apartment, pulling at his ears.

When he was younger, Gabi would pull at his ears, to get him out of a book. Reading, always reading, whenever he could. At the dinner table, when his mamá would rap his knuckles with a wooden spoon and chuckle lightly at his little grimace. No en la mesa, Miguelito. Not at the table, Miggy. Léeme más tarde – read it to me later.

It was when he got his braces, and picked up a slight lisp. He stopped talking for a while, not completely; but a lot less, not as interactive in lessons. And it was always little Miguel, at the front of the class with his hand up to answer. It didn’t help that Gabi poked fun at him, often sneaking up to him to hiss in his ear: palms pressed together with a slithering motion, and then a strike to his ribs like una víbora - a viper , struggling to say his S’s. They’d fight because of it after, tousling on the floor of their bedroom in a mass of limbs, like pythons squeezing prey. Or at least, until their mamá rushed to separate them.

She didn’t like it when her boys fought; so they’d been forced to make up every time. He still has the scars to prove it.

Car magazines at first, and then the newspaper, whatever book he had picked up at the library that week. Even with his lisp, his mother made sure he read to her, and sometimes to Gabi as well, at least once a week. Looking back, she was never perfect; the things he knows now about his dear mamá, and her visage tumbles like Ozymandias in the sand. Her mother, married to a piece-of-shit mechanic; and his mother, elbow deep in the oil spill. That’s the funny thing about love, he thinks. Love, and the lack of it; dripping through the cracks, passed on through generations. Maybe mamá felt the gears shuddering in her chest. He hopes Gabi was saved from that burden.

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s not enough. Doesn’t explain the little boy pulling at his ears, in Miguel’s jacket and dress shoes.

A glimpse in the reflection of a shiny pan on the side table, and he looks like shit. Eyebags, a permanent scowl, shadowy lines that prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s ironic, crows feet without the penchant for laughing. He thinks you’d find it funny. The pink and purple of a setting sun spills in through windows and makes him sigh. It’s late, and you’re still not home.

God, you're strange; sticking your nose where you shouldn't. Disrupting the calm of his apartment. A sanctuary, and you've got your grubby paws all over it. Your shit is all over the place; pun-based mugs in the cabinet, chewed pen lids with no pens in sight, a blanket on the couch. The same blanket, a ratty old thing, that he usually meets you wrapped in when he gets back. A creature of habit, he folds it up; trying to ignore the whispers of your perfume, sweet and heady on the fabric.

He gets dressed, starting with dinner; knife on a chopping board cutting onions and peppers into cubes. It's therapeutic, the steady thud ringing out into the kitchen. Quiet, for a fleeting moment. But the worry, it sticks ; despite his better judgement. Before he changes his mind, he clicks open his phone to call you. It rings out – you don’t pick up.

The urge to call again is surprisingly troublesome, so he shoves it down with a piece of tortilla. It sits in his chest, regardless.

~~~

You trudge into the apartment. Squelch seems more accurate, sopping wet as you step out of waterlogged trainers. It was an inopportune time to wear jeans and forget a jacket – and you fight the urge to wring out onto the wooden planks. Miguel would kill you; the place was already falling apart, and water-warped floorboards might just be the last straw.

It’s thundering outside; a torrential downpour you’d just been dragged through. Dragged, half-running through streets-turned-streams, with nothing but a tank top and hoodie on your back. And you must look a sight , eyes bleary and slick with rainwater. The bag heavy on your back goes first, slipped off your shoulder and on the floor next to the coffee table with a thunk . You’re unzipping the flimsy canvas, inspecting its contents. A soaked through textbook, clumps of loose paper. You’re ready to cry when you see what's happened to the pages of your lab book; bleeding ink that’s only half-legible. But it’s the state of your laptop that makes your chest really heave and knees weak.

It’s slick with rainwater, and the sandwich you’d forgotten to eat, smeared across its fans. Caked on, more accurately; an odd sludge that you try your best to wipe away. You put it on the coffee table and your hand shakes as you press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands between the coffee table and the couch. Everything was on there: photos from senior prom, end of semester projects – your whole life. You have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a scream.

Miguel peers from the kitchen, watching your silent breakdown. Quiet, and so still, with only the slight shake of shoulders to tell him that something is wrong. He glances at your half-opened laptop. He’d eaten already, clearing up what remains of his dinner and this is the sight he’s greeted with: the lady of the lake, lain between the reeds.

He shakes the image out of his head, and walks over. You feel a tentative prod, and look up.

“...I called you,” He says lightly, scratching at his neck.

You blink up at him. He thinks you look like a painting, watery and forlorn, framed in the yellow light of the soft bulbs.

“I was busy,” It’s not said with malice, nor as lilting as your usual sarcasm. Plain, simple. Busy. Your head slumps back into the little hollow you’ve made with your arms.

And so he sits, shoulders brushing against yours. He’s frustratingly patient, presence warm and comfortable despite… well, despite everything.

You can’t help it. Popping back up, you state, “You never call, though.”

“You’re never this late home.” Home. The word is heavy, knocks you onto your heels.

“So?” You shrug. “Could’ve been out with friends, or at a club–”

Laughter slips out like apples loose in a bag, spills onto the floor. Crisp, sweet; but you glare at him all the same.

“You don’t have friends.” He says it with the remnants of a smile, teasing. A challenge, and you’re more than happy to accept.

“ Not true , fuckface.” It is. You'd lost track of most of your friends after moving – and all the ones you made here? Your friends were Jamie's friends, and they chose him in the divorce. " You don't have any friends."

"I do ."

"You don't." It's your turn to scoff. "It's a Friday night and you're in here, washing up and planning to go to bed at a reasonable time."

"I'm an adult, doesn't mean I don't have–"

"The ones you fuck don't count." And then you pinch the bridge of your nose. "God forbid, if that's how you treat your friends…"

He laughs, properly, and you feel it in your chest too: the kind of laughter that bubbles like little breaths rising to the top of a lake.

“M’serious.” He says it in between gasping breaths and you try to steady your own giggles. "And, I have a friend who could take a look at your laptop, if you wanted."

His eyes flick over to the crime scene besides you. It's sweet, but.. "It's gone, Miguel, I know. You don't need to… try and make me feel better."

" Chula ," He flicks the deep lines forming at your brow. You look up and he says, softly, "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you off of the floor so I can mop up that puddle."

With the way he says it, with that little smile, you don't believe him.

Now he's got your attention, he says, "You could've skipped that 9:00am. Or just been late. Don't think it would've mattered."

"Maybe." You shake your head. "M'not the best student. I'm blindingly… average. Just wanted it to be different, this year."

Your voice crackles, leaves something in the air he can't quite name. Quiet, again, except this time it's thicker. Smoke, ash, rolling clouds of melancholy in the little front room. For once, he doesn't know what to say.

You've got your head back on the sofa now, with a deep sigh. You look at the ceiling, and he's looking at you. It's the first time he's able to really study your features, trace the outline of your lips and sloping cheekbone. Your lashes, damp with little droplets of water, look crystalline in the light. Sparkling. Like the paintings depicted in the hefty book sat on his coffee table. He's read that one, twice , cover-to-cover in a fit of… insanity, maybe. He's not a man of frills and fancy, didn't really get it; nor why Gabi had given him the book in the first place. It felt like a filler piece, something to put on the little table and forget about, or to prop up a wooden leg. But that's not how his brother works, frustratingly convoluted. It's stupid, Miguel thought. Everything had to mean something , or what was it good for?

But looking at you, here, like this ; it clicks. Reaching over for the book, he leans it against the flat of his thigh. And you see it in the corner of your eye, watching as he flicks through the pages. Filled with art, it's the kind of thing on a table in a model apartment: a space-filler in a false home. When you first came here, the starkness and severity of the space had stuck. To you, the book had only reinforced it. Who was Miguel? A serial killer for all you know, stocking fluff pieces and coffee table books; only pretending to be human.

Finally, he stops, finger over a specific place. A double page spread, of surprisingly good quality.

He clicks his tongue. " This one. "

You follow his finger. A woman in a lake doesn't do it justice. It's beautiful, but it doesn't mean anything to you.

" Ophelia, John Everett Mills, 1852 ." He reads out the little label at the bottom of the image. "Like from Hamlet."

You shrug. "I don't…?"

"Well, she's in love with Hamlet, and then her father's murdered, Hamlet fucks off; and she's left heartbroken, goes mad because of it , arguably–"

"I've taken tenth grade English, Miguel. I don't get what that has to do with anything."

"She drowns herself. Also arguably, to be fair," He chews his lip, thinking. "Slipped off the bark of a willow tree, into a brook. Incapable of her own distress, or something. Drowns. Do you know how horrible drowning feels? How violent? And yet–"

He taps the page, and you come a little closer. Beautiful. She's beautiful.

"I'll admit it, I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. Gabi – my brother – is way better at this stuff than me. Drama and intrigue and–" He gestures vaguely. "– love . That's why he likes it, apparently. And I… I know someone who really liked this page; I think it was the colours, or the flowers…? She said it looked like a photo, and that the woman looked so pretty in the water."

He pauses, dead-eyed. He's rambling, only taking a breath to compose himself." I… didn't have the heart to tell her that Ophelia, in this painting, is dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Dragged through still water, sentenced to death by her passivity and grief – but you wouldn't know it."

Unconsciously, you trace the outline of her hair with your finger; swirling locs that blend into muddy reflections. She's on her back and fully dressed; a beaded skirt billowing out into the water. On her back and looking up, like you were on the sofa just a moment ago. Oh. Oh . You blink at the image. Flowers, peppered around to frame Ophelia in her watery grave. It doesn't look like a grave from where you're sitting, but there's a body in the water all the same.

There's a lump in your throat. Grief; the loss of 4 years of your life in a middling relationship, the aftermath of dead eyes and brilliant blue slashed from a canvas frame. Grief, rising to the surface like a bloated carcass. You thought you'd bound its ankles to cinder blocks and tossed it in a river long ago.

"I'm probably overstepping. For that, I'm sorry, and I mean it. But I think there's something else. I..I hear you rattling around at night; and sometimes, when I look at you..."

Your eyes are glassy, tears threatening to spill over. You’re hearing him but you don’t quite understand. Does he know? God, does he know?

"...it reminds me of this painting. You remind me of Ophelia .”

He sighs, turning to you.

“I know how it feels. And I think this shit is going to kill you, if you're not careful."

~~~

He doesn't talk about it. He runs off to start the shower, bundles you into towels and leaves you reeling. God, it's like you've been shot – barely a 10 minute conversation and he's cracked open your ribs to root around in what's left of you. He sees you; wades through the undergrowth and cuts through the bulllshit - he sees you.

You couldn't even answer. That's what stings the most.

You’ve settled on the sofa, cross-legged and still fresh from the shower. There’s a documentary on the TV; mindless background to Miguel clattering in the kitchen. He’s putting together some leftovers, even though you insisted that you weren’t hungry, that you’ve already eaten. Well , he had pointed to the gunk caked onto your laptop, wasn’t that the problem in the first place?

He’s good at it; wraps you up in the blanket you always keep draped on the cushions, and hands you a full plate. Wordlessly, because you suppose he’s said everything he needed to. Dutifully, he takes care of you, without a word; the strain of cutting you open on the coffee table clearly too much to bear.

You thank him, and he settles on the armchair opposite, mug of coffee in hand. The gloom of the TV bathes him in light, cuts his cheekbones and jaw just so. One of your mugs in his lap, and he's in a thick knitted sweater. His hair kisses the tops of his lashes, but he brushes it away. You swallow thickly, and when he turns, you look away.

“...You okay?” He asks, confused.

You nod, unable to speak. He gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like crepe paper. You return it with one of your own.

He sees you. Finally, you see him too.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #angst #lots of angst #atsv x reader #miguel o'hara angst

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mirra-kan · 5 months

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A king is he that can hold his own or else his title is vain. I stick with the artificial limb \ prosthesis theory A4 and A6 prints

#maedhros #silmarillion #silm art #tolkien #tolkien art #noldor #artmirka #feanorians #won't be posting it online for some time

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kaonarvna · 5 months

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I finally did it: I found the spoons to make an actionable (and semi-gameified) visual representation of spoon theory that I can actually use.

I've been thinking about doing this for months, and I've posted about it once or twice.

But, I finally did it, I made these bad boys for myself:

I have Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Which is to say, my body is very poorly held together, in a lot of pain, easily exhausted, and easily injured. I'm at the point now where I've had every intervention under the sun, nearly a decade of physio, we've found the best pharmacological interventions for me, and...we just have to get by. It's hard, it is, but it's the only mode of existing I know.

Maybe it's because I'm an aphantasiac, maybe it's because I'm (more than) a bit neurodivergent, but spoon theory has always been a little too abstract for me. I grew up on JRPGs (cough final fantasy has me in a choke hold), so putting things into just...stat bars and a table of effects, items, etc is more accessible to my fatigued, pained little brain. This is familiar. This makes sense to me.

Who needs an arbitrary amount of spoons, when you can have 200 HP & MP?

There's twenty notches in between the bars, so I can more accurately knock off health/mp as it ticks down. I teach in a primary school (children who only come up to my hip, mostly!), so you bet I've printed and laminated these, and have them slapped up somewhere I can easily see and access with velcro. If I can't see it? It doesn't exist. I can easily use a dry erase marker to take off my health/mp as I self-evaluate through the day, and start fresh the next.

「 As of this post going live, I've been using this for about a week! The MP drain seems accurate to life give or take, and the HP bar has been a good representation of just...the state of mess I'm in. There are injuries and "real life debuffs" that aren't on the list, but -20HP/-20MP has been a safe bet for those. The A4 is for at home, and one of the A5s follows me to work/out and about in my BUJO! 」

And it's not perfect, of course it's not! I'll probably tweak my board in a month or two. But, maybe just having a list of the things I can do to help myself right in front of me will help. Maybe, being able to show it to my spouse will help them help me better. It's worth a try. Bullet journalling and visual timetables are lifesavers, but they can only communicate so much at once.

I've made a blank version, in the event anyone wants to download it and fill it in for themselves.

This link should let you access a view-only version in canva. I'd imagine you should be able to make a copy and do it yourself! If not, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll try to find a workaround.

Hopefully this might help one or two busy-brained people like me manage their energy and pace their bodies a little bit better. Or, at the very least, give them a starting point for making their own resources.

#disability #actually disabled #chronic pain #chronic illness #chronically ill #chronic fatigue #hypermobile ehlers danlos #ehlers danlos syndrome #ehlers danlos zebra #Eds #Heds #spoonie #spoon theory #not enough spoons #neurodivergent #disability resources

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weirdowithaquill · 6 months

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Traintober 2023: Day 19 - Revolutionary

Where did that Iconic Phrase come from?:

To understand the struggles that the steam and diesel engines faced in the 1950s and 1960s, we must first understand what exactly was meant by Diesel when he said: “We are revolutionary.” It’s a single line that holds a lot of hidden weight, particularly when considering how the diesels came to not only know such a line, but regurgitate it over and over again. It’s a common line from diesels – they claim that they are revolutionary, that they are superior, and that steam engines spoil their image – but why?

What led the diesels to hold such deep prejudices against steam locomotives, and why is it that they are so adamant about their superiority? Well, I have two theories:

Firstly, that this bravado was designed as propaganda by British Railways to justify their actions in scrapping thousands of steam engines as well as to increase loyalty for the company through diesel locomotives, a plan which utilised the railway rulebook to reinforce their ideology in these diesels’ minds and create a generation of unquestioningly loyal engines to a company that was notably suffering from strikes, low revenue and pre-nationalisation infighting.

Secondly, that this bravado was invented by the diesels to try and cover up their own shortcomings caused by the rushed nature of the Modernisation Plan of 1955, which saw British Railways give up on their original plan to slowly electrify the railway network while keeping steam engines until electric engines could replace them in favour of scrapping all the steam engines and replacing them with diesels.

Let’s break these two different ideas down and I’ll let you all decide which you like more.

Option 1:

British Railways was losing £300,000 a day as early as 1961, and it can be easily surmised that this extremely unprofitable position was not a new one. British Railways was disliked by the extremely antagonistic pre-nationalisation employees or engines – LNER, LMS, GWR and SR locomotives could be often found arguing in stations, further degrading public opinion of the company. Early BR steam locomotives were often sent to bad areas – such as London and Manchester – to try and create unity through a desire to mentor the younger engines. This in part worked, were it not for the scores of pre-nationalisation designs still being produced – especially of GWR designs. This extremely divided workforce left BR with very few options on how to bring unity to the company and restore their public image.

Enter diesels. These were almost completely new to the railways of Britain, with only a few experimental types and shunting classes existing before the 1950s, partially due to the work of Sir Nigel Gresley and his A4 Pacifics, which matching the diesels of the 1930s in terms of speed while hauling significantly more. This meant that they were different to what had existed in the British Isles prior to the war, and their differences would make it harder for steam engines to integrate these new diesel classes into their own cliques. British Railways decided that in order to protect their own image, as well as phase out the ‘more difficult’ steam engines, they would develop a banner for diesels to group themselves under – they found a unifier for diesels: “We are Revolutionary.”

It’s strong branding, for starters. The diesels now have a simple, catchy slogan to rally behind and that gives them a sense of importance that leads them to utilise it against the steam engines (as suggested “gently” by British Rail), leading to the diesels developed a single, united clique which is loyal to their railway company against the ‘old, outdated’ steam engines. It also was given to them by British Railways, furthering the company’s control over their engines and building a strong connection between the image of modern diesels and being a loyal part of the company. In other words, this was propaganda fed to the diesels purely so they would repeat it and create an image on both the railways and in the public’s mind of diesel traction being this great, modern revolution to Britain’s railway network that would change everything.

This, of course, failed badly – but considering that in the 1960s and 1970s Japan, Germany and France all developed high-speed electric trains capable of 200 kph while Britain’s railway closed rail lines, dealt with innumerable failed diesel types and lost its profitable freight traffic to the roads.

Option 2:

This option is perhaps a more interesting one, personally – because this option sees British Railways adopt the slogan after its invention in order to try and recover public face. Instead, the slogan “We are revolutionary” was developed by early diesel locomotives in the 1950s to try and promote themselves as modern and exciting as a way to cover up their own shortcomings – and let’s be clear; these diesels had a lot of shortcomings. The Metrovicks alone had enough mechanical faults to make an engineer run away screaming, while also having windows that fell out at speed. Other diesels caught fire, or belched out thick smoke, or just didn’t work almost all the time. The Pilot Scheme of the 1950s and 1960s was an absolute failure, all things considered – and while there were successful designs which became the backbone of the British Network (the Class 20s, Class 47s and Class 37s are all still in revenue-earning service, sixty years later), most of these classes were a terrible investment. And they knew it.

The public knew it too – the failings of British Railways was major news, both in parliament and in everyday households. The diesels needed a Public Relations victory – and fast. Remember, the Modernisation Plan of 1955 was a modification of the original intention of BR, which was to use steam locomotives until they electrified (a method used across continental Europe) and were diesels to fail any more than they already were, the company could have very easily shelved dieselisation in favour of this potentially safer (and less likely to catch on fire) option.

So, they developed a slogan to recite to the public: “We are Revolutionary”, and they got their most promising diesel classes (the Class 08s, Deltics, Class 40s and other successful designs) to repeat the line as often as possible around the public. The public caught on, and while it did not reverse the fortunes of the company, it did renew BR’s interest in diesel engines.

Either way, the slogan “We are Revolutionary” was developed specifically for diesel engines, and was used as propaganda against steam engines to try and cement the modernity and superiority of diesel traction in the minds of the public.

Back to Master Post

#fanfiction writer #railway series #thomas the tank engine #railways #weirdowithaquill #rws analysis #we are revolutionary #ttte diesel #british railways #british rail #ttte analysis #traintober 2023 #traintober

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thatgirl4815 · 8 months

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So! I just found this picture from when they were filming (https://64.media.tumblr.com/d26d626a15156984abd9294fa66435e0/66e4766c059416ae-a4/s1280x1920/8531ea234eea891f8369b0b6cfc59337310378ed.pnj) sorry for the long link! it kinda seems like Ray has a bruise on his mouth? and it also seems like he has on the same outfit as this scene (https://64.media.tumblr.com/70ec496c388d22b8245c7919d6dbbc03/66e4766c059416ae-15/s1280x1920/a9ac510b38197f0463f428fde77cbce6a3c96cd1.pnj) which i find really interesting! Did something happen after that scene, did they fight? or maybe Ray fight someone else? idk but thought i would share haha

Ooh YES, actually this reminds me of a post I made during filming time (feels like forever ago now!) here which calls attention to that little bruise we see. Since then we’ve seen a bit more of Ray in that shirt—just so we can view everything side by side, I’m gonna include the pics here (in no particular order)…

Ok, I believe that’s every time that white/black shirt appears! With all of those in mind, maybe they spend the day together, then they go to the club (the same club Sand sells his plum wine, it seems), Ray tries to serenade Sand with a song, they drink and smoke together and Ray gets something on his shirt so they go to the dressing room (😶)…and then they get into a fight? Or Ray fights someone else?

The timeline is confusing because Ray is definitely wearing the shirt when he has the bruise, but I don’t see the bruise in any other pic (besides the BTS one). That could imply that he gets the bruise in a later scene. After the dressing room scene, does he put the black/white shirt back on or change into something else?

I’m probably overthinking this, lol. But anyways, yes, I agree that bruise is super interesting and I’m excited to learn how all these scenes fit together! Can’t wait for the episode to air so I can find out how bad my timeline theories are, haha.

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onyxedmusic · 11 months

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music theory lesson 1 - note names, clefs, and the staff

hello hello!! this is the start of my (hopefully weekly) music theory lessons!

todays focus is note names, clefs, and the staff, which are the foundation of western written music.

notes

western music is composed of 12 tones, or notes, which repeat in groups called octaves. when looking at a full 88 key piano, the notes start at A0 and end at C8. C is the "beginning" of each octave, with the octave number corresponding to each note being determined by which octave C is in.

the notes circle from A to G, with additional markings known as flats (♭) and sharps (♯) slightly changing the pitch. flats make it slightly lower, while sharps make it slightly higher. flats and sharps are grouped together as accidentals, and each accidental corresponds to a black key on the keyboard.

each note has a corresponding flat and a corresponding sharp, each with an enharmonic equivalent. enharmonic equivalents are when 1 pitch has two names to refer to it. these include:

C♯ and D♭ D♯ and E♭ E♯ and F E and F♭ F♯ and G♭ G♯ and A♭ A♯ and B♭ B♯ and C B and C♭

notice the orange in that list: why is it that one of the notes in each of those pairings is not accompanied by an accidental marking? this is because there is not room for those notes to be made higher (E, B) without it simply becoming the next note name (F, C). this is seen on the keyboard, as there is not a black key between B and C or E and F.

clefs and the staff

there are 4 main clefs in western music: treble, bass, moveable, and rhythm

the treble clef, also referred to as the "G clef", is the highest clef, and it looks like this:

this is where the staff comes in. the staff is what we call the lines and spaces you see in the above image; those lines and spaces tell you what note name you are playing or singing. the clef tells you what note corresponds with each line and space.

in treble clef, the 5 lines, from the bottom up, are E4, G4, B4, D5, and F5, while the four spaces are F4, A4, C5, and E5.

next is the bass clef. the bass clef is the lowest clef, and is also referred to as the "F clef". it looks like this:

in the bass clef, the lines are G2, B2, D3, F3, and A3, and the spaces are A2, C3, E3, and G3.

these two clefs can be combined into something that is referred to as the grand staff, mostly seen in piano music. it looks like this:

but how are they connected? A3 doesn't connect to E4.

well, that's where these things called ledger lines come in. ledger lines are lines that are added above or below the staff to add more notes. this is a grand staff with notes connecting to each other:

"middle C" is also known as C4, which is how the two clefs meld so seamlessly.

next is the moveable clef, or the "C clef", which is a bit more complicated. the moveable clef looks like this:

the notes in the clef are determined by which line the center of the clef is on, and that line is always C. here are the most common examples:

the most commonly used moveable clef is the alto clef, which is pictured in the center. the viola of the string family reads in alto clef; the other clefs are not used nearly as often.

the final clef is the rhythm clef, which looks like this:

this clef is used for unpitched percussion instruments, such as the snare or bass drum. there is no actual staff, as there are no notes or pitches to be identified, only rhythms.

i hope this was helpful and/or enjoyable!! if you have any questions, feel free to ask them!!

#music theory #music #classical music #music lesson #music lessons #music theory lesson #music theory lessons #lesson 1

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tornadoyoungiron · 1 year

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Excuse me for having a fangirl theory moment, heads up because this is going to be a long one.

Theoretically, Henry could consider himself as a part of the Gresley build, while being part of the Stainer build.

Henry used to be a flawed Gresley prototype, rebuilt into a black 5. In a human's case, he’s like that one family member who is born with disabilities, later having a big comeback after a major surgery. It is quite similar to Great Northern’s case in which he was a Gresley, and was rebuilt into a Thomson. The only difference between those two is that North still considers himself as a Gresley after the rebuild, even when Scotsman and his siblings rejected him. While Henry does not have an actual opinion on lineage in the first place, until he meets the other black 5s.

Supposedly, if Gordon and Scotsman agree to it, Henry could be a Gresley as well. Hopefully Hilsy won’t yell at them if they want to sign the adoption contract.

After all, being in one build or another, it is all up to Henry anyway. What do you think?

Henry never really considered himself a Gresley, though he did bring it up to Olivia Gresley and Stanier in a story. Gordon has long known Henry's origins but never brings it up to him because he himself has experienced how Gresley engines treat misfits and doesn't want his half-brother hurt. Scotsman also knows but does not bring it up for similar reasons.

Unlike the Stanier Black 5's who pride themselves on familial bonds and are generally excepting of most engines, (They themselves adopted the BR Standard Class 5's as their own), Gresley's have a different attitude that may not make Henry feel welcome.

Gresley's are less about familiar bonds and more about pedigree, performance and standing. If you can't uphold the Gresley name or values you get exiled like Great Northern, who was not only rebuilt but had a reputation for being super controlling and nasty. Even if he wasn't spurned, he was so much of an asshole that no one wanted anything to do with him anymore.

Black 5's however will keep Biggin Hill around even though she doesn't uphold their values because she's their sister. They unconditionally love their own no matter what.

The Gresley attitude has waned over the years and Scotsman did adopt Tornado, so Gordon and Scotsman would adopt Henry as a half-brother. They would 100% do it but you can bet that North and some of the A4s would have issues with it. Olivia would be 100% on board, she's no prude.

Scotsman threw Spencer into a lagoon for disrespecting his adopted little sister Tornado so he'd most likely do the same for Henry. The Black 5's themselves wouldn't care because if it makes Henry happy, then that's all alright with them.

As for my version of Henry, I think he sees all the drama that the Gresley's go through and wants no part of it.

Henry's called Gordon Fat Face and they've tried to outwit each other numerous times anyway so they're practically brothers.

#my asks #ask answered #ttte gordon #ttte henry #ttte young iron #ttte young iron au #ttte flying scotsman

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neytris · 1 year

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Hey girly, what’s up???

loving the Neytiri pfp as always💕💕

Also,I just had to touch on this subject but idk about Jamie flatters unfollowing James Cameron and the cast on instagram or whateves but he’s in the cast for Avatar3. (I feel like maybe James told him to do that to not give away the plot of the movie and make it seem like he won’t come back?)

look at it on IMDb (I think that’s a more official site tbh- I hope he’ss in the next movie, Neteyam is way too popular and has created a lot of new loyal fans and I think James Cameron would lose a lot of the fan base if he decided not to add him to the next movie. I know a lot would want to stop watching or might not do as many theater repeats as with atwow. 🚨Spoiler alert for next movie(maybe)Also, there are theory’s floating around based on leaked scripts from avatar 3 and some pics of spider that spider will have a kuru and that he’ll be breathing pandora air just fine without the mask and norm supposedly asks him in the script something like “spider, you’re breathing without the mask?”(or something like that) and he’s like “yea, I’m kinda an expert at it now” and plus at the L.A. exhibition (I think it was L.A.) it showed spider in the water without a mask. I mean I know he wouldn’t need one in the water but like it kinda proves this and plus the photo floating around of spider with a kuru??? Also, the script for A3 also showed Kiri having another seizure or hearing some voices when she connects to the tree of souls(I think?) and mo’at telling her to not tell anyone about it. (Idk if that part relates to what I’m writing but oh well)

basically what I’m trying to get at is that if the next movie is really called “The Seed Bearer,” it would make sense as Kiri is so close to Eywa and it would probably show her powers growing and if she really does that to spider I feel like she’ll also eventually revive Grace(it just makes sense for some reason like Grace being revived and the whole mom thing with Grace and Neytiri-at least maybe in the future movies?? Like idk why but I have a really strong hunch about it) then ofc Neteyam will also be alive?

I hope that wasn’t too difficult to explain, it was kinda a messy but hopefully it made sense to you?🥲 lol

Cast of A3:

he’s also in the cast for A4. I tried looking at the cast for A5 but it just showed the adults(Jake, Neytiri, Norm, Grace, Tonowari and some doctors but not Ronal?? BUT LIKE SIGOURNEY WEAVER IS THERE AS GRACE AND NOT AS KIRI??? so like maybe the movie focuses on the adults and so that obviously means that Grace is alive and has been revived and if she’s alive and revived then that obviously means Neteyam too??!! Lmao I’m freaking out cuz I just thought of this right now as I was typing and now I’m super excited. guys, we’re not delulus after all😭❤️❤️❤️

Neteyam alive and thriving as he should🤧💞

hey munchkin 🫶🏻 thank you mwa mwa !

firstly, thanks for sending me this long-ass theory omg ! a part of me truly wants to believe you but i don’t think grace and neteyam are coming back. at all. not even with kiri’s powers. i mean, maybe we’ll see them in flashbacks/spirit tree scenes but that’s it… i saw that whole spider-breathing-the-pandoran-air-without-a-mask thingy too and i’m like 99% sure kiri gave him that “power” but for some odd reason, i don’t think she’ll be able to revive people :(

what if the “script” is not real. like i’m genuinely thinking that right now… i also do think kiri won’t have another seizure because… it’ll kill her? no? that is if i recall correctly lmao.

don’t get me wrong, i wanna see grace and teyam as much as the next person but i just can’t see that happening, yknow… probably because i don’t trust imdb either lol. i do want to be proved wrong tho ! teyam’s just sleeping. he’s such a heavy sleeper 🧘🏼‍♀️🕯

#me n eyrina are INSANE #i love that for us #𝐞𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚 ᵕ̈

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beanbagbuddies4life · 4 days

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What size would you recommend printing your dragon beanie pattern at? I might just have to give it a try myself! Thanks for sharing!!

It's formatted to be Scorch-sized when you print it on a sheet of A4 paper!

(At least in theory. But I think it might actually come out a touch smaller, so do with that what you will. Idk you saw them side by side)

#the prototypes take me a really long time to make and I need to get more appropriate fabric so it'll probably be a hot minute #before i finish details like that #it would be really cool to see someone else try it and maybe get out of my own head a bit haha

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fundiscrimination · 6 months

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To make up for missing yesterday as a treat here are all the Star Trek characters who are ace:

(dang maybe a some point they should branch out from STEM huh?)

Seven of Nine-Voyager (Not Picard)

also winning the coveted A4 spot (asexual, aromantic, agender, autistic) Seven could not catch a break, just 4 seasons people constantly telling them she's doing humanity wrong and pressuring him to conform. It could not be a more relatable character tbh.

My favorite character, always iconic

Billups-Lower Decks

Come on. seriously. we all know this man is asexual. just watch the show it's not subtle. If you disagree you're just wrong.

Odo-Deep Space Nine

Another A4, if there's one thing you can rely on Star Trek for it's the A rep (in infinite combination). (btw I also support trans masc readings of Odo, also whatever's going on between him and Quark)

Yes he has canonical romances and relationships, yes I am ignoring them they're weren't good. Odo started the show just completely baffled and a bit judgey about sex, romance, and gender roles and he should have stayed that way.

Jean Luc Picard-The Next Generation

Remember when Riker tricked him into getting a I-wanna-fuck statute on the sex planet and instead Picard went on an archeological scavenger hunt while dealing with multiple scammers and thieves?

I love him for his genuine hatred of/discomfort with children, his various hobbies, and his lack of time or interest in relationships.

I apologize for finding Q's stalking and sexual harassment of him funny.

Data-The Next Generation

Honestly I'm just going to point In Theory (4.25). The most annoying thing is the show trying to act like it proves Data doesn't have human feelings. When we all know he has friends he cares about. He's close with various members of the crew including Troi and Geordi. He gave Keiko away at her wedding. And look at that picture, that's Spot and Data loves her very much.

In summary, Data doesn't need to want sex or romance to "be human" or "have feelings". He's fine with friends, and his cat, and his autisum.

Tendi-Lower Decks

Because I want her to be.

Ok, I do think it'd be fun to explore an asexual Orion and validate her close relationship with Rutherford as important AND platonic. And we need more femme-presenting/assumed ace (coded) characters on Star Trek. And it'd be really cool to have 2 ace characters on a show.

Also cause I want her to be.

Spock-Star Trek

Did you think I forgot him? The original? The blueprint?

Now, obvious sidenote, I believe in the premise and it's very embarrassing of Star Trek to keep avoiding confirming it, and also I just think Kirk/Spock/McCoy is the ideal dynamic and basically what's already going on. And maybe in either of this ships mentioned, they fucking nasty (or whatever)

However, none of that prevents Spock from being asexual. Which he is.

Please feel free to share your other Star Trek Ace headcannons with me

If you disagree or feel offended by anything on this list please feel free keep that shit to yourself I don't care

#ace week #ace headcanons #asexuality #star trek #queerness

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dlartistanon · 1 year

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oh man i wanted a yato alter as much as the next guy but Not Like This…….. the dnd theory is the only one i will accept

If Ceobe can hallucinate an entire game mode fueled by ingesting shrooms, it's not outrageous to picture this collab being a grand re-imagining of one of A4's game nights.

#dltext #Anonymous

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idlesugarpuff · 1 year

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