i've spent all day deciding whether to post this or not

anonymous asked:

whenever you have time/energy for it, could you talk about headcanons for if hera somehow got a physical body? no rush, just wanna know what you have to say on the matter

(not quite sure whether this is headcanons or a ficlet? or whether it’s at all what you had in mind? but boy, do I have Thoughts about AIs and their relationship to humanity and Hera in particular, and that comes through here.)

  • Hera’s first concern when they start talking about making her a body is that she wants to design it herself.
  • it isn’t that she doesn’t want a body. and it isn’t that she doesn’t want to be able to engage in the kind of comforting physical socializing all of her friends use their bodies for – she really, really wants to finally high five Eiffel, for one thing.
  • (he started leaving handprints on the Hephaestus’ monitors within a month of the day they met.)
  • but Hera knows what kind of shape they’d think of for her – not maliciously, she knows they love her, but it’s like the words they didn’t give her, the mind they did – they only ever conceptualize one shape, one kind of body, one way of being.
  • Hera doesn’t want a body so she can be more human, doesn’t want to be a pretty little android. she doesn’t want a body that proves that she’s just like all of them, because she’s not. Hera wants a body that makes her more Hera.
  • it does not need to move or look like anything human beings have referent for, although she pulls inspiration from everything from plants to animals to industrial engineering (anything she thinks seems cool, honestly; she confesses this to Eiffel but would never admit it to Minkowski, and she’s not lying when she tells Renee that she has a coherent functional and aesthetic goal. and she’s quite proud of it, in the end). Hera does not want a body so she can be a person (she knows she is already a person); Hera wants a body to do the things she can’t without one.
  • she is so hungry for experience, for seeing and feeling and doing – now that the station is no longer a part of her, now that so much of her mind and identity are not occupied with a million calculations and routines and consciousnesses keeping the Hephaestus running, now that she finally gets to decide for herself what she wants to do – she realizes she wants to do everything.
  • Hera’s body is built to house any sense they could think of, all that freed-up processing power devoted to every kind of experience - vision in spectrums beyond human comprehension, as many tactile sensors as they could cram in, temperature, electrical impulses, electromagnetic waves, even taste, of course taste, she has spent almost her entire life listening to her best friend describe food, like she would miss out on that entire slice of what the universe has to offer
  • and she thought space was full! she never understood how it could be called a void, called emptiness – but suddenly it makes sense why people would say that, because even with the limits of a human body, there is so much – this world is so much, every square inch of it, and just going fifty feet down a street is such a kaleidoscope of incredible things. it is awe-inspiring and disgusting and painful and amazing and beautiful and she is full of wonder at it.
  • (there is so much in this world that she is the first person ever to know. there are so many experiences so intrinsic to life here that no one thinks about them and that she is feeling and wondering at for the first time.)
  • people do not generally find it a comforting body. hera doesn’t care; she didn’t build it for them, and her friends don’t care, either, and that’s all that matters. she has an emotional body language of her own which Minkowski can read as easily as her own humanoid shoulder shrugs and eyerolls. Doug does not seem at all to mind sitting back in his apartment, propped up against her humming-warm metal side as he dozes in front of the TV, as long as she has all the right appendages to give him a hug.
  • (Lovelace will walk down the street next to her as naturally as though she was any ordinary human being in the world; and Hera’s senses can easily read the tenseness, like coiled springs, in her step as she does. but she also knows there is nothing defensive there, only a fierce pride, now, in both of them, for knowing and deciding who and what they are. daring the world to try and tell them differently. Hera and Lovelace understand each other really well these days.)
  • and it’s nice, she finds, nicer than she expected, to be able to stretch limbs and feel the brush of textures and the weight of physicality and think this is mine. this is me. it is something she could never feel with the Hephaestus, which was always neither her body nor something she simply piloted, but frustratingly in between. there’s comfort in this clearer delineation of what is and isn’t Hera, in her own right to decide what shape that space takes.
  • hands, she tells them, are very useful for doing all kinds of things, as humans prove, and were an obvious choice to include in her design.
  • (they’re good for high fives, too.)

anonymous asked:

I've been curious for over four years now since I started reading Legacy, so I'm just gonna ask: what was your inspiration for making Ryouma illiterate? Wouldn't it make sense for the village in either the Leaves or Legacy universe to invest in correcting this? A thousand more questions swimming around in my mind, but also wanted to thank you for creating Hakone (according to DK) and hope you can work him into more Legacy fics :-)

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Bad boys and good-byes chapter 1

There’s no way Jimin’s a bad boy when his smile makes Jungkook’s heart feel so warm.

Pairing: Jikook
Author: blt_prf
Words: 3206
Genre: Highschool au
Summary: Jungkook’s life as a newly debuted singer is way too busy and he can’t afford to get distracted by Taehyung’s noisy friends, never mind fall in love with one of them.

January | February | March | April | May | June |
July | August | September | October | November | December

Jungkook hates winter. 

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anonymous asked:

Amber, I was accepted into a few art schools that I've been dreaming of going to for YEARS and I was just really hit with the fact that, despite actually getting a lot of scholarships, there's no chance that I'll be able to afford any of them. I know art school isn't everything, and I'm already honestly pretty good, but I'm afraid that without art school connections I'll never make it, and it's killing me to know that, no matter how hard I work, I won't be able to afford it

What you’re feeling now is what nearly knocked me out of the game about a year ago. Even after I accepted that I couldn’t afford it, I still had so much leftover pain that I had to work through. I had spent my entire life planning to go to art college and it really felt like my future had been robbed of me. I spiraled for months. 

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marry me - luke fluff

word count: 907

summary: luke gets home from tour and takes you for a drive before popping the question.

a/n: i’m suffering from the world’s worst writer’s block and this is just a drabble but i hope you guys find it cute. i promise i’ll post a real one shot soon. :-)

The sun was high in the sky overhead. It warmed your skin, contrasting the cooling surrounding breeze. The wind was whipping past quickly, unwavering as the car sped around the highway beside the coast. The humid air slipped through your fingertips as your hand dangled from the window freely. You could feel the warmth - the happiness - and how it engulfed you, blanketed the proximity between you and Luke.

He was the one behind the wheel. You couldn’t help yourself when your eyes flickered over to him occasionally, studying his side profile and the way he would smirk once he sensed your curious stare. Black sunglasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, hair jutting out in all different directions as the wind caught it. You noticed the static smile that tugged at his pale lips. It hadn’t left since the two of you climbed in his convertible and decided to take a drive out of the city toward the ocean.

You could feel his hand and the way it was casually rested on your thigh. It was hard not to think about that - about the way his thumb would smooth circles over your bare skin, his touch virtually igniting your stomach with a fire of butterflies. Everything Luke did made you feel something, whether it was the brief glances he would cast your way at a red light or the lingering kisses he’d press to your knuckles just to let you know he wanted you close. Each action he made left you dizzy in the head and whole in the heart.

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The Abominable Blob

Blob blinks blearily and peels open their eyes, squinting in the harsh light as the world around them slides into focus. Everything is muzzy and confused. Their head throbs, and they try to think back to how they ended up like this.

Work. They had been at work. At their desk. It had been a late night, working on coming up with clever captions for all those new gifs that the interns had made. They had had a quick bite–just a sandwich–and then they must have fallen asleep at their desk.

Blob’s head jerks up, looking around worriedly to see if the bosses had noticed, but the sight that greets them is not at all the one they expect. They’re still at their desk, but instead of the sleek, modern, glass-and-metal design that serves as their home away from home, the desk is a dark, wooden monstrosity, heavy, with ornately carved legs. Instead of their computer, there’s a typewriter and a ream of crisp paper, and Blob wonders for a moment how on earth anyone gifs things on those. (And how exactly is a poor armless blob supposed to type on that, too?) Instead of the comfort and quiet of their small cubicle, there’s the chaos and noise of a large open space full of employees, everyone rushing to and fro in a whirl of papers, set to a soundtrack of the steady clack clack clack of fingers on typewriters keys.

What is this place? Blob stands and walks toward the nearest group of people, unsure if they know anyone here or not. But wait. There’s Brian, sitting at the desk by the window like normal. Except… Why on earth is he dressed like that? It takes a lot of convincing for the Brian that Blob knows to even wear a shirt, much less one with starched collars. Or a tie. Or a waistcoat. And is that a pocketwatch? And when did Brian grow that ridiculous moustache?

A quick glance around reveals that everyone is dressed similarly to Brian. Is today some kind of fancy dress day? Hipster day perhaps? Blob tries to remember if they had seen this on the office calendar. Bring a meme to work day is coming up of course–an annual favorite–but Blob doesn’t remember anything like this.

Gathering their nerve and trying to look as if they’re only maybe half as confused as they feel, they approach the desk cautiously. “Brian?”

Brian doesn’t move; he just keeps working, which is odd because Brian normally does as little work as possible.

“Brian, what’s going on?” Blob asks a bit louder, but still Brian doesn’t respond. He just keeps scribbling furiously on the paper on his desk.

“Brian,” Blob repeats again, nearly yelling. “What’s happening? Is this some kind of weird party?” Still Brian doesn’t look up, and Blob, irritated at being ignored, tries to give him a sharp nudge with their shoulder, but where there should be solid flesh over muscle and bone, Blob only feels air. Trying again, they watch horrified as their futile attempt at contact fails, their orange shoulder sliding right through Brian’s elbow as if it weren’t even there. “BRIAN!” they scream, standing quite literally in his face, which would probably be considered rude if Blob weren’t so immaterial at the moment. When Brian simply sneezes and scribbles on, Blob begins to think that something has gone very wrong.


Something has gone very wrong indeed. Blob ducks and runs as shots ring out, dodging a hansom cab as they flee. There’s no time to think, only to run.

Blob had just wanted to understand what was happening, so they had wandered out into the streets of an eerily unfamiliar London. It was the same street, but it had been re-paved with cobblestones, and everything and everyone around looked as if they had been transported here from the set of BBC’s new, sure-to-be-a-hit drama Dickensian. There were gas-lamps and horse-drawn carriages, men with walking sticks and top hats, women with full skirts and puffed-up sleeves. All these people around and no one seemed to notice the lonely, confused blob wandering the streets, mouth agape and eyes popping. It was as if they weren’t there, and occasionally, someone would even walk right through them. It was a curious sensation only in that there was no sensation at all–Blob couldn’t feel a thing when others passed through them, and they wondered if this was what it was like to be a ghost.

They had wandered aimlessly, lost in the hustle and bustle of this otherworldly London. Then suddenly, there had been a familiar voice. “Come, Watson, come.”

Could it be?

It could! Blob turned the corner and there stood Sherlock Holmes and his trusty companion Doctor John Watson. They looked as if they had stepped straight out of that most recent batch of gifs and into Blob’s life. Watson’s moustache was even more glorious in person, if Blob did say so themself. And they did. Or at least they tried to. But as with their attempts to talk to Brian, their attempts at complimenting Watson’s perfect moustache also went unnoticed. (If they had fingers, they would have tried to twirl it, too, but alas, Blob had been cursed with a fingerless existence.) But the lack of response had given Blob an idea. If no one could hear them and no one could see them, perhaps they could follow Holmes and Watson around unnoticed. It was worth a try.

And so Blob had spent their entire day wandering around in Holmes and Watson’s wake. There had been a murder, and so Blob had been able to check out the crime scene with them, watching as they worked, listening to Holmes’ rapid-fire deductions and Watson’s ebullient praise. The crime scene had looked familiar, and Blob realized that they had seen it before. Oh! Somehow they had actually stepped into the Sherlock special! Their excitement grew then, and they bounded off after Holmes and Watson, taking in every detail of their adventure, not wanting to miss a second. And oh my, what an adventure it had been. The things Blob had seen. It had been enough to nearly turn an orange blob white.

When Holmes and Watson had solved the case (the key clue to it all had, oddly enough, been a half-eaten baguette) and retired back to Baker Street, Blob had decided to try to make their way back home because it seemed too weird to creep into someone else’s home when they didn’t know you were there. Some of their tumblr friends might try it, but Blob liked to consider themself a more respectable blob than that.

And so Blob had turned for home, unsure if their home even still existed in this version of London, wandering through unfamiliar familiar streets, when suddenly a woman appeared on a balcony overhead, pulled out two shiny pistols, and started firing.

Blob isn’t certain whether or not bullets have an effect on someone in their state, but now isn’t the time to find out. They bob and weave, looking for a place to hide. Aha! A bakery. Surely that should be safe. Blob runs straight through the open door and ducks for cover underneath the window display, carefully hidden behind rows and rows of bread. It’s the safest place they can imagine to hide because, honestly, who shoots bread?

The window shatters as two bullets pierce the soft loaves, slicing through them like knives (well, like bullets actually, but knives sounds more poetic in Blob’s head), and penetrating right to Blob’s core. Blob doesn’t feel it, but they start to bleed all the same, their lifeforce pooling at their non-feet. They try to scream for help, but everyone is oblivious to their plight. The darkness creeps in as Blob pulls in shuddering breaths, their last thoughts that they’re glad they at least got to find out what happens in the special before they died.


Blob wakes with a start, shaking their head to clear it and looking around to find Brian standing in the doorway of their cubicle.

“Brian! I had the strangest dream.”

“I know,” Brian replies with a disappointed sigh, grabbing the remainder of Blob’s sandwich and tossing it in the bin.

“What? How could you–”

“You were screaming about the bread,” Brian says, stepping aside so that two bulky security officers can slide into Blob’s cubicle.

“Blob, we need you to come with us,” bulky man #1 says as bulky man #2 grasps Blob firmly and guides them toward the exit.

“What? Why?” Blob wriggles in their panic, but bulky man #2 just tightens his grip. “Brian, what’s going on?” Blob calls back over their shoulder.

“You know too much, Blob.” He shakes his head sadly. “You know about the bread.”

“I don’t know anything!” Blob screams as bulky men #1 and #2 drag them through the exit and down the stairs. “I don’t know anything about bread!” The two men carry them farther and farther down, their plodding footsteps echoing Blob’s doom. When they pass the door to the ground floor, Blob finally realizes where they’re taking them. “No! Not the basement! There’s no wifi in the basement! Nooooooooo!”

“Exactly,” says bulky man #1 as he unlocks the basement door. “We can’t have you warning anyone about the bread–that’s the key to it all. To the special. To the whole show, don’t you see? The baguette. The loafy window display. Even your sandwich. It’s all about the bread. And down here you can tweet, liveblog, post, update all day long, and no one will ever read any of it. You won’t be able to tell a single soul.”

Bulky man #2 shoves Blob inside, laughing maniacally and closing the door, leaving Blob with only these ominous parting words and never-ending darkness: “In the basement, no one can even hear you stream.”

anonymous asked:

Hi I've just been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and ME and in struggling to accept it. I currently use a wheelchair 75% of the time and was told it'll only get worse by my doctor. I was struggling to get a diagnosis for over a year and now I am diagnosed I can't accept that it's for the rest of my life...I'm only 21. Iv had to take a year out from uni but if it only gets worse how will I ever finish? Or complete post grad and hold a job? Is my life now over, will I have to live on benefits? :(

I know how scared you must feel, I went through the same thing when I first fell ill so I truly empathise. I can only speak from my own experience with chronic illness, but here are my thoughts-

- The illness probably will get worse, but it’ll probably also get better too…chronic illness is nothing if not unpredictable and very, very variable. I promise you you will have good days to break up the bad, you’ll have periods of respite that come in the form of pain-free days, or weeks where one symptom decides to disappear, or months where you just find yourself able to do a little bit more. I know it’s not a huge consolation, but those good periods really do make chronic illness just that much more bearable.

- There’s absolutely nothing wrong with needing to take a year or more’s break from uni, it will always be there waiting for you, there’s no deadline on your education. I’ve been studying for the past 5 years doing one subject at a time, it’s tedious and confronting, but I’m doing something and I have a goal I’m working towards, however slowly that may be. Progress doesn’t have to come in the form of huge leaps and bounds, it can be tiny steps that slowly add up over time. 

- I think one of the worst things you can do when you have a chronic illness is spend time obsessing over the future and trying to envision what it might look like. I don’t think you need to try to visualise what you might be doing post grad and when that might be, I don’t think you need to worry about holding down a job right now. Your health is the priority for the time being and that’s totally okay. If you’re only able to study sporadically that’s okay too. Having goals, however big or small, is fantastic, but don’t beat yourself up if you don’t reach them when you expected to, don’t set yourself unfair deadlines or overwhelm yourself trying make 5 or 10 years in the future look a certain way…remind yourself that it’s absolutely fine just to focus on what you’re doing in this present moment and that your progress will accumulate over time.

- Your life isn’t over, I promise. I fell sick 11 years ago at the age of 13, I spent years thinking my life was over, wishing that it was over, but I’m 24 now and the world as I knew it didn’t end. It’s absolutely fair and reasonable that you would mourn the life you had and the life you might’ve had without chronic illness. You should let yourself grieve and be sad and angry and utterly resentful because this situation sucks and I’m so sorry it’s happened to you. But please also realise that thousands upon thousands of people are living with chronic illness and have worked out ways to do the things they want to do within the confines of their condition/s, and there’s no reason you won’t be able to do that. The thing about living with chronic illness is you get pretty damn good at living with it after a while and you do learn how to manage your life around it. It’s okay to be really angry at it, but it’s also okay to try to make peace with it and live with it somewhat civilly. 

- There’s nothing wrong or shameful about living on benefits. I’ve been on a disability pension for the last 6+ years, it is hard and truthfully I do resent it sometimes. I would absolutely love to be working and earning a living for myself, and I know I would be if it were at all realistic. But the thing is that it’s not realistic, and that doesn’t mean I don’t still deserve to eat or look after my dogs or go to the movies or pay rent or buy my friends a birthday present. It’s okay to accept help and support when you need it, whether that be financial, physical or emotional, and it’s not something to ever be ashamed of. You may not ever have to live on benefits, there are so many jobs that can be done from home now, but it’s okay to accept that help if you do need it.

Good luck with everything, I really hope things get easier for you xo

anonymous asked:

Hi, you've probably been asked this before but, it's been causing me a lot of confusion lately and you're someone who's opinion I really respect, so I was wondering if you have any thoughts about whether or not dysphoria is a requirement to being trans? I feel like my gender probably doesn't match up with what I was assigned, but I'm struggling to determine if I've felt gender dysphoria or not, and there's so much arguing about it lately I'm just not sure what to think...

I’m putting my response under a cut so that people who are sick of this topic can skip it.

(Warning for mentions of misgendering, cissexism, invalidation, and genitals. Also a couple swear words. Nothing graphic or explicit though.)

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I have an unusual fic rec I wanna share with you guys. I read it one week ago when it was first posted, but because of the way it affected me, it’s taken a while for me to decide whether I love or hate it.

But here goes:

With Delayed Expression by Idday

“I have… well… she said that she thinks that I maybe have… PTSD?”

The line goes so dead that Derek almost thinks Stiles hung up on him. He waits eight very quiet seconds, and says softly, “Stiles?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says, breath whooshing back over the phone line.

“I have PTSD,” Derek says more firmly. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, not as a question. It hasn’t really seemed real, until now. He’d spent the whole of his last session arguing that Tamara was wrong about him, and saying it out loud is like admitting it’s true. “Post-traumatic stress dis—”

“I know what it means,” Stiles interrupts, “I just didn’t think I’d heard right. Oh my God.”

10,397  |  M  |  CANON

Because here’s the thing: I was diagnosed with PTSD last year, by my new psychologist who said I’ve been misdiagnosed for the past five years. Problem is that I don’t think I ever landed in the fact that I have PTSD. I kinda just brushed it off, didn’t read into it, didn’t think about it, and I didn’t continue with the treatment very long after that because I thought I was fine.

This fic turned my whole life upside down, again, and I had my first panic attack in a long time just the other day because it just dawned to me that I’m basically Derek in it. It’s not what I expected when first starting to read this fic, and I didn’t expect crying through most of it but it really hit home.

So thanks to this fic, I’ve spent my sleepless nights researching PTSD and learning the symptoms, recognizing most of them, and finally accepted that I do indeed still suffer from it. I’m not completely fine. There’s a reason I don’t function like I should/want to. I still haven’t recovered from the trauma I went through because I haven’t been treated for it. I’ve adapted to it, just like Derek.

I finally gathered the courage to sit down with my family tonight and tell them about this, admit it to them. It was the hardest thing I’ve done all year, and I’m not feeling at my best right now, but I know it’ll be okay.

Our fandom has accomplished many amazing things, but personally this fic has helped me reach a point I otherwise wouldn’t have, and while it’s made me feel all kinds of things the last few days (anger, sadness, fear, shame) I’m still grateful that I stumbled upon it.

A Sterek fic made me accept my mental illness. That’s something.

tersyne​ asked whether or not it was mentioned on Jurassic World the Game that Owen was in military prison. I decided to make a post about it ‘cos while it’s not necessarily canon, his military background (and how he came to work in Jurassic World) could probably be useful/interesting for fanfic authors, people who do RPG, or JW fans in general :)

  • Hoskins brought it up to Claire; said that Owen spent time in military prison and was issued a discharge by a general court-martial at the end of his tour for bad conduct.
  • Owen Grady was in the Navy for three years. First lieutenant.
  • He was a part of the MK 9, a human animal cell in the Marine Mammal program for naval operations. They train dolphins, sea lions, everything that could help them underwater.
  • One day, one of the dolphins pinged back an object was heading towards them, which later turned out to be a false alarm. His captain almost gave the order to fire by mistake.
  • There were rumors about an inquiry into MK 9′s lack of efficiency on and off the field.
  • Owen ‘volunteered’, in a way, to be discharged. ‘MK 9 was my baby’ and he wasn’t about to let some desk jockey admiral tear down years of hard work. The dolphins depended on him, but shutting down the team meant they wouldn’t have the protection from the Navy.
  • Owen offered an idea to the captain to tell the media that they’re ramping down on the mammals for something else: drones. Less risky, fewer accidents.
  • They had to find an investor to take the dolphins cos they wouldn’t be able to survive in the wild, and the captain suggested Masrani Global as private sector might have interest in animal handling and training. They’d heard about Masrani Global acquiring InGen for a new special project. 
  • Simon Masrani paid all the expense to relocate the dolphins in exchange for Owen’s service. He flew out to Isla Nublar the next day. 
  • He didn’t know he was going to be training raptors when he took the job.

TL;DR - Owen Grady used to train dolphins *coughs* wet owen *coughs* before he trains raptors

[I’ve deleted some of my screencaps, so some of these came from memory. Please do tell if I got stuff wrong and I’ll make corrections. If there’s anything more mentioned about his military past later on, I’ll make another post.]