survey map

Environmental Hazards

(same group as this post)

In a Dragon Age campaign based during the first blight, we had been in a very large city for quite a while. The Blight caught up with us, and the dark spawn began to assault the city. We met the force head on in the outer sector of the city, only to come face to face with a horde of Hurlocks and the Archdemon itself.

Me, the Qunari Barbarian: (surveying the map our DM had drawn out) Ok, we cant win this - but if we run now we’ll die anyways. We need a diversion. How about this cow? 

Our DM had drawn a small enclosure with a cow inside it.

Human Barbarian: What if you throw the cow.

Me: I attempt to pick up the cow and throw it at the Archdemon.

Me: (Rolls nat 20)

DM: … You somehow lift the cow above your head, and throw it directly at the Archdemon… 80ft away from you.

Necromancer: I CAST SUPERIOR WALKING BOMB ON THE COW.

Everyone pauses to stare at our mage. After a quick check, the spell has a 120ft range. The spell succeeds.

Our DM begins to roll a saving throw for the Archdemon.

DM: (Rolls nat 1)

DM: … Roll for damage.

Necromancer: (Rolls crit, max damage)

DM: (Holding face in hands) The cow explodes, and transfers the spell onto the Archdemon and the nearby Hurlocks, who also explode. The explosions continue and damage the Archdemon until the entire group you were facing are dead, and the Archdemon is a pile of steaming goo. 

DM: This was the main battle I planned for this session. 

DM: I hate you all.

DM: I am never drawing a cow on the map again. 

Writing has nothing to do with signifying.  It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come.
—  Gilles Deleuze & Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

anonymous asked:

Hi!! New-ish Outlander fan here. I found your fic blog not too long ago and fell in love with your modern AUs, esp the Vietnam AU! Will there be more to come, pretty please? Thanking you X ☺

anonymous asked:   Any chance of your continuing the Vietnam AU? It’s such a lovely series. All the best! ❤❤❤

anonymous asked: Do Jamie and Claire get a cabin goodbye in the Vietnam AU? omg /death            


It was understandably a bit musty inside the cabin – and Jamie immediately set to work airing it out.

“Here – help me roll up the shades? Let’s get some light in here.”

Jenny hadn’t exaggerated – there were only four rooms. A large living area with an open hearth, what appeared to be two bedrooms, and a study/library. All the furniture and decorations were dated, but clean – well-kept. Taken care of.

“Do you come up here often?” She stepped to one side of the living area, eyes lighting on a large survey map mounted on the wall.

“Not since the fall. But I came here a lot right after I got back from Chu Lai. I needed – well. I needed time. And space. I did a lot of thinking.”

And then he was there, right behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, head resting on her shoulder.

She melted against him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you,” she whispered into the wall. “I’m sorry – ”

“Sshh.” His breath tickled her neck. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

Then she turned around. And locked eyes with him. And bit her lip.

Tension crackled.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His eyes closed – almost as if he couldn’t believe her words.

“I want you in my life, Claire. Now. In every way. For always.”

Then his eyes opened – brave. Unafraid.

“And God knows I want you – more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Do you feel the same?”

“You know I do,” she breathed.

“Then will you do something for me?”

Her brows furrowed. “Anything.”

He nodded, thinking.

“I want to handfast with you. It’s – it’s a Scottish tradition. We pledge ourselves to each other – and it’s valid for a year and a day. After that time we can part – or we can formally marry.”

“I don’t understand – do we need a priest or something? Why didn’t we do it at church?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “We do it just the two of us. It’s valid because we say it is. And in the eyes of God, it – it blesses us. Blesses our union. Because I want God to bless us, and protect us. And provide for us. Because He knows I prayed every single day for you to come back to me. And He delivered.”

Claire blinked back tears.

“Yes. Yes, of course. What do I do?”

He took her hands. “I’m going to make my vow to you – and then you can make yours to me. And then – one more thing. And then – then, we go to bed.”

She nodded. Quickly. Heart somewhere in her throat.

“I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, take thee, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp…”

It all happened in slow motion.

Jamie’s vow to her.

Her vow to him.

They sealed their vows with a kiss. And then – then he asked for her wrist. Pulled out his pocketknife – scored a shallow cut across her wrist. Held out his own wrist for her to do the same. Then pressed his cut to hers.

“Say the words after me,” he whispered.

Then he spoke in Gaelic – it was yet another vow. She didn’t understand it – but she *felt* it so much deeper than what they had just exchanged in English.

And Jamie’s eyes were so soft and dark and intense on hers.

And then another kiss.

And then they stumbled to one of the bedrooms, and Jamie struggled out of his jacket, and Claire lay a calming hand on his chest.

“Sshh. It’s just me. We don’t have to do this if it’s too much.”

And then Jamie straightened up, focused, and took proper care of his bride.

The orange sunlight of late afternoon sliced through the lace curtains that must have been made before the War.

Claire sighed, so content, legs still tangled with Jamie’s under the old plaid blanket, hands gently caressing the scars on his back. He made a small sound and tightened his grip – burying himself even deeper inside of her. Her lips parted in a silent gasp.

“Are you *sure* you’ve never done that before? Because Jamie – ”

“Well I seemed to learn a *lot* after the first time, hmm?” he laughed, sucking on her neck, delighting in her shiver. “I have a most excellent teacher.”

“It’s so, so good with you.” Her voice rose higher in pitch as he slowly, slowly began rocking back and forth. Teasing. “I – I had no idea it could be this good.”

“And just think – we can have this every day for the rest of our lives, Claire.” He kissed her swollen lips – the tip of her nose – her eyes, brimming with tears.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Jamie. I – ”

“Hush, *mo graidh.* Hush. Let me love you again.”

Slowly he eased her onto her back, and helped her lose all sense of space and time.

“You can’t go out there with no clothes on!”

Jamie briefly glanced over his shoulder to give Claire a withering look. “Who’s around to care? Just a few deer. Maybe a mountain lion or two. And you, but last time I checked you rather liked seeing me naked.”

Claire theatrically rolled her eyes and followed him, naked, across the living room as he opened the front door.

“I know it’s nice out – but don’t you feel the slightest bit cold?”

He darted back inside, grabbed her hand, and dragged her over the threshold. “Not when I have you to warm me!”

Her laugh echoed from the fir trees circling the clearing right outside the front of the cabin.

“And where is this cave, anyway? Some of us haven’t been hiking bare-assed through the woods since we were in diapers.”

“It’s right – oh! Perfect!”

Jamie abruptly halted and Claire crashed into his side. “What is it?”

He bent, plucked a small plant from the ground, and held it out to her. “I remember these from when I was small – wild strawberries.”

Sure enough, a small red fruit hid under the sparse green leaves.

“How lovely.” Claire plucked the berry from the stem and tasted it.

“Look – there are so many of them here.” His voice was suddenly choked – and she looked up at him in concern.

“Jamie? Are you all right?”

“It’s a sign, Claire,” he said softly, voice breaking. “The strawberries – they’re our symbol. The Frasers. Well, it’s what my Da always told me – that our surname comes from the French, when a Monsieur Freseliere came across from France with King William, and was granted land in the Scottish highlands for his trouble.”

“You mean William the Conqueror?” Claire’s voice was incredulous. “I had heard that Scots have long memories, but still – ”

“But Claire – it’s March. Strawberries here in the mountains normally don’t start until April. It’s a sign, Claire. It’s a blessing from God. It proves that you’re meant to be here.”

Gently Claire gripped his forearms – the hairs glowing in the afternoon sun – and turned him to face her. Then gently she lay him down on the grass, amid the strawberries, and sat atop him.

“I love you, Monsiuer Freseliere,” she said softly, and then took him inside her.

“Je t’aime, Madame Freseliere,” he groaned.

“Where have you been? Murtagh was just going to go out looking for you – you forgot the walkie-talkie, you idiot!”

But neither Jamie nor Claire took heed of Jenny’s haranguing. For Jamie simply bent to kiss his sister on the cheek as Claire pulled a bottle of whisky from the backpack and set it on the table.

“The ten-year! You’ve gone for the good stuff,” Ian observed, eyeing Murtagh’s faded scrawl on the label. “May I ask why?”

“We’ve handfast,” Claire replied. “We’ll marry as soon as I finish school.”

Murtagh let out a whoop so loud that wee Maggie, snoring in her playpen in the parlor, burst awake in tears.

But amid the cheers and kisses and hugs exchanged by the Fraser-Murray adults, nobody seemed to mind.

Writing has nothing to do with signifying.  It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come.
—  Gilles Deleuze

notevenjokingrightnow  asked:

Imagine Faith is asked to a school dance and Jamie has to meet her date. Nor is he pleased with her dress when she comes down the stairs to meet her date.

anonymous asked: Modern Glasgow AU: Does Faith have a significant other or any romantic endeavors (or maybe she is waiting?) We know Fergus has Marsali, and Brianna has Roger, but what about Faith in the middle? :)


“I canna believe ye convinced me to go tonight,” Faith huffed as Brianna helpfully zipped the back of her dress. “Ye ken I dinna like to dance – ”

“Nonsense,” Brianna smiled, tucking a wayward curl back into her sister’s chignon. “Ye *never* go to these things, and since ye’ll be graduating in just a few weeks ye might as well go this time.”

Gently she spun Faith around so that they faced each other. Brianna, at seventeen, was three inches taller than her sister. She had inherited their Da’s height and coloring, while Faith was the spitting image of their Mama. For years now she’d been taller than her older sister – and perhaps that’s why she always felt so much more protective of her.

For while Brianna had had Roger MacKenzie in her life since they were bairns in Glasgow – first as playground mates, then as friends, and now in a romantic relationship – Faith had never had that. Her curly brown head was always face down in a book, teaching herself as much as she could about science and medicine and technology. She was well-prepared for her first year of uni – and she had made their parents so proud when she proclaimed her interest in becoming a doctor. But she was always so *serious* - and so bloody smart – that the boys had never come calling.

The fact that they had the most intimidating father on the face of the earth likely didn’t help very much, either.

“Faith? Listen to me.” Brianna’s blue eyes met those of her sister – the only physical trait they shared. Faith narrowed her brows, and sighed, but pursed her lips. Waiting.

Brianna smiled. “Can ye relax, just this one night? Ye’ve met him before – ye ken he’s no’ a bad man. He’ll care for ye – he willa do anything ye dinna wish to. I bet he’s just as nervous as ye are.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “I feel like such a fraud – all dressed up. What if he wants to dance and I dinna want to?”

“Then I hope he respects yer wishes – and if he doesna, well then he’s no’ worth yer time.”

Faith nodded skeptically. “Well then. I’ll bring a book just in case.”

Brianna turned to look at herself in the bathroom mirror. “Ye’ll find a man one day who loves ye just as much as Roger does me. I ken ye will.” She leaned over the sink to apply another layer of mascara.

Faith took a deep breath, and sighed, and reminded herself to bring a crossword puzzle and pen in addition to her book.

“And how do ye ken wee Roger again?”

Jamie Fraser took another sip from his tumblr of whisky, watching the two young men squirm a bit.

“We’ve been roommates for a while now – I enrolled at uni last fall. Trying to get my life back on track.” Rob Higgins paused, just for a moment, to see how Jamie Fraser – Red Jamie, Roger had described him – would react. But the man’s face was frustratingly impassive.

“I joined the Royal Marines when I left school. I served in Afghanistan for two years. After the attack I was able to get a discharge. That’s how I got the scars on my face.”

“Why Glasgow, then? It’s far from Dorset. My wife – Faith and Bree’s mother – she was born in Oxfordshire.”

Rob shrugged. “I needed a fresh start, away from – well. I served with a lot of Scotsmen and they always told me so much about home. So – why not?”

“He’s a bonnie wee swordsman, too – captain of the fencing team,” Roger piped up, shifting uncomfortably in his suit.

“Are ye now?” Ice clinked in Jamie’s glass as he took another sip.

“Bree!”

The three men turned their heads at nine-year-old Julia Fraser’s exclamation. Julia’s blond head darted past them – followed closely behind by the dark braids of her friend Sinem, a Turkish girl whose parents had recently immigrated to Scotland and who shared Julia’s deep passion for archaeology. Sinem was sleeping over tonight, and already the girls had spread out survey maps of Lallybroch to plot out their expeditions for the next day.

Jamie, Roger, and Rob carefully rose from their seats in the parlor and watched Brianna and Faith Fraser descend the stairs.

Brianna – resplendent in dark green – beamed at Roger and darted down the steps and into his arms.

Faith – shy in a gorgeous shade of electric blue – shared a tentative smile with Rob, who carefully approached her.

“Your tie matches my dress,” she breathed, surprised.

Rob swallowed. “We have Bree and Roger to thank for that,” he replied softly, bending to gently kiss her cheek.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, and felt her flush against his earlobe.

He pulled back to present her with a simple, yet beautiful corsage.

“Gardenias? Wherever did you get those?”

He bent to pin it to her shoulder. “I brought it all the way from Glasgow. I – I wanted you to have something nice.”

She gave him the most beautiful smile – and immediately he knew he’d done the right thing.

Suddenly aware of the silence, Rob turned to stand beside Faith – and saw that they had had an audience. Bree and Roger, their arms around each other, grinning ear to ear; Jamie and his wife Claire, him scowling, her smiling encouragingly at her eldest daughter; Julia and Sinem with hearts in their eyes.

“I’ll go get the car,” he heard Roger say before dragging Bree out of the parlor – undoubtedly wanting some time alone.

“Mrs. Fraser,” Rob nodded in greeting. “So nice to meet you.”

Claire Fraser – who must have been in her forties, but was so beautiful that Rob’s heart actually skipped – extended a hand in greeting. “I’m glad to know I’m not the only Sassenach in this house now. Welcome.”

Rob’s brows furrowed. “Sassenach? What’s that?”

“It means ‘foreigner’ – or ‘outlander,’” Julia piped up, still star-struck. “Because ye’re English.”

He swallowed. “I hope that’s not a bad thing?”

And then his heart almost stopped when he felt Faith’s hand settle around his back. “It never has been in this house. Shall we?”

Here’s the squad after 15 straight hours of subterranean rappelling, climbing, and squeezing.(I’m the one wearing red coveralls, see if you can find me). While underground we surveyed a newly discovered room which turned out to be quite large! It’s exhilarating to know that there are still untouched places in this world.

6

The whole reason we went all the way down to Fukuoka for a few days was to make our Yuri on Ice pilgrimage to Karatsu, which is almost an hour and a half away by local train. Because the Fukuoka subway Kuko Line is the only way to get to the JR Chikuhi Line, using the rail pass is annoying because you have to get off at the point where the lines change, go out the gate, and come back in. If you’re fast enough, you can get back on the same train because most of them offer through service on both lines.

Once we got there, we made our way to the information desk and used our limited language skills to ask for the Yuri on Ice English sightseeing map, which prompted their English-speaking staffer to supply one and help us fill out the tourism survey. The map points out locations such as the shopping arcade where Yurio bought his shirt (which was actually playing the YoI soundtrack over its speakers) and the veterinary clinic where Makkachin was treated.

TrekFest 2017

Word Count: 1718
Tags: @southernbellestatues  @engineeringtrashcan @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @outside-the-government @samaxraph99 @flirtswithdanger @supermoonpanda @sugarshai
Prompt: “Why jeopardize your career to help someone you despise?” @storiesfromstarfleet


“I’m glad that Kirk kid figured out a way to beat the goddamn test. Commander Spock programmed it to be unbeatable. What kind of asshole does that? I mean, I get that command means understanding the burden of responsibility given to you, but forcing you to choose between life and death for you crew or others? While you’re still a student? That’s bullshit. I can’t stand that guy. And the worst of it? They’ll probably reward him with some cushy assignment. I hope they reward his ass out into deep space where we’ll never have to see him again!” You were exhausted, and on the precipice of breaking down into tears. You’d tanked the Maru yourself, and were obviously still bitter about it, months later. You followed your roommate into the lecture theatre, grumbling the whole time about what was rumoured to be a hearing about academic dishonesty. Rumour was that Jim Kirk had beat the Kobayashi Maru, but by hacking the program. You thought it showed ingenuity. Apparently the powers that be didn’t.  

You didn’t realize that Commander Spock was following you down the stairs. As you turned into the nearest row of seat, you took the last seat at the aisle, and as you turned around, there he was, right behind you. You felt your cheeks flush, but glared at him defiantly. You meant what you said. Torturing cadets by forcing them to choose who lives and dies was unfair. You believed it enough to fail the test by walking out, and you still believed it now.

“Cadet Y/L/N,” he nodded as he brushed past. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and gave him a curt nod.

“Commander.” 

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middlegame | ivar ragnarsson

sequel to ‘see the whole board

middlegame | the part of the game which follows the opening. plans are formed and put into action.

You goats, there is so.much.pining here. So much.

Ivar sat on the dock, staring out at the glut of boats before him. His fingers turned over, over, over the piece held between them. The ink was smudged and worn from his work over months. It had bled into the carving below it, melding the symbols into one.

He brought his eyes down to study it again. The thousandth time since it had found its place with him. It had been tucked in his shirt, stuffed in his boot, broken free to skid over almost into the waves that rocked the boat that carried it. He’d almost pitched himself into the water to save it. It lay under his pillow, turned in his hand, sat lodged in a beam in his chariot.

His finger came up to swipe over the broken edge at one side of the crown, snapped into his flesh as he’d grasped it at the news of his mother’s death. He would most likely have to kill her father. Would she hate him after that? Would she forgive him?

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azry_photography Aerial survey during geology mapping camp. Dense asian jungle that sits above chert formation and basaltic oceanic crust. |Recorded with DJI Phantom 4

anonymous asked:

What did albite do wrong?

On their mission the Albite’s were charged with surveying/mapping the terrain and planning where the injectors would be best utilized to create the best gems. The Orthoclase’s were meant to guard them while they did their jobs since their deafness left them vulnerable to attacks etc as well as being generally quite fragile. It wasn’t very practical but the Rebellion shook things up quite a bit and had Homeworld scrambling for advantages, where a job like that would usually be reserved solely for Peridots (Era 1 at the time)

They were meant to make an army for Citrine to lead into the fight, but Albite made a miscalculation that cost the mission some of it’s time and resources. Citrine had no tolerance for that, so she planned on shattering her before the Orthoclase that had been charged with guarding her intervened.

“Writing has nothing to do with signifying. It has to do with surveying, mapping, even realms that are yet to come.”


Deleuze & Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

(via heteroglossia)

Fraternité

Lafayette sat on the hillside, his eyes gazing in to the endless void above him, his vigil echoing those of the stars. He could see his breath as it curled around him, white and cloudy against the black night. Below, he could hear and see the fires of the camp, watching the smoke in its journey to the sky. He supposed part of him felt like that smoke, part of him was one with the smoke, part of him wanted to join the smoke and fly through the air. The hill was cold and Lafayette could no longer feel his fingers, or his toes; his chin had gone numb some time ago. But he didn’t want to go back to his rooms; he didn’t want to see anyone. So he sat, and he watched, though what exactly he was watching was elusive to him.

Crunching was the thing that alerted him to Alexander’s presence, though the other man was as light on his feet as a thief in the night, Lafayette was somehow so attuned to him that he always knew when Alex was around. He wondered, somewhere in the depths of his mind, when he became so. Alexander stopped about five feet from him, illuminated from the campfires behind him, and breathing heavily from the hike; Lafayette watched his breath as it curled into the air. He also thought about whether or not each man breathed the same, or if each man had a different pattern of breath. Though, for the life of him, he could not come to a conclusion.

“Laf? Is that you?”

“Oui.” Lafayette decided that, that evening, he would be French.

“Ca va?” Alexander caught on quick, in tune as they were with each other.

“Comme un vide,” Lafayette said, feeling the void inside him roil and bark, swelling and calming all at once.

“Un vide? Pourquoi danc?” Alexander asked, confused, Lafayette could see his eyebrows knit together like they did when they surveyed Washington’s maps and charts.

“Je suis comme une étoile, si loin de mes frères,” Lafayette could feel the separation, the distance between him and his France so fiercely. He longed for the narrow streets of Paris, the wide open country of his home, the gently rolling fields; the manicured gardens, the cobbles and the hustle. The French people, the food; he missed it all.

“Je suis ton frère, Jean est ton frère; toute l'armée est une confrérie,” Alexander said, eyebrows still joined; he came to sit by Lafayette, so close Laf could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Forgive me, but that is not so much what I meant,” Lafayette looked down at his hands, pale from the cold; he noticed, though it felt like his body was not his own, that he was shaking.

“I know what you meant, you’re homesick, Lafayette.” Alexander put his arm around Lafayette’s shoulders, drawing him into his body; cradling him there like a child. “It won’t be long till the war is over and you can go back to France.”

“It will not be the France I knew, there is talk of throwing out the monarchy. There will be more war and bloodshed yet in my life.”

“There is no reason we can’t forget the war tonight, at least,” Alex said, taking out a flask and handing it to Lafayette.

“Alexander?”

“Drink, mon cher,” Alex grinned as Lafayette tipped his head back and the alcohol slipped down his throat, burning false warmth into him.

“Rum? Really?” Lafayette coughed.

“It was all I could find on such short notice, you know Laurens was worried about you after you disappeared on him,” Alexander shrugged.

“Where did you get it from, Alexander?” Lafayette stopped short, an eyebrow raised.

“…Arnold…” Alex muttered, though Lafayette could not hear what he was saying.

“Who?” Lafayette leaned in closer.

“Benedict Arnold. I stole it from him.”

“You stole rum from Major General Benedict Arnold.” Lafayette said, slowly absorbing what Alexander had said.

“Um, yes?” Alex shifted where he sat, nervously chuckling, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head.

“Alexander, you certainly have your ways of cheering people up,” Lafayette, shook his head, taking another swig from the flask.

“Je pourrais penser á un million d’autres,” Alex grinned, all traces of nervousness gone from his face in an instant.

“Oh?” Lafayette quirked an eyebrow.

Alexander didn’t say anything, instead he took Lafayette’s face in his hands, his thumbs coming to stroke Lafayette’s cheeks. He tilted his head slightly and captured Lafayette’s lips in his own. Lafayette could taste the sugar sweet rum on Alexander’s lips and tongue; he could smell the alcohol as he breathed through his nose. He ran his fingers through Alex’s hair, taking it out of its tight ponytail; letting the silk like locks flow through his hands. Alex’s hands burned into the sides of his face and further down to his chest. Suddenly, and Lafayette was not sure how it happened, he was straddling Alex as the other kissed his way down Lafayette’s chest and neck. He could feel Alexander’s lips across his skin like a red hot branding iron, nipping and kissing, tasting and taking everything Lafayette could give. Then, sense seemed to creep up on them with horrible finality; Lafayette pulled back, gasping.

“Oh.” He said. “I hope you didn’t mean it when you said you were a brother to me.”

“I do not.” Alexander said, “we should take this back to your rooms. My fingers are going blue.”

They stood and, rather unsteadily, made their way to Lafayette’s rooms; their fingers interlocked the whole way. As they got through the door, Alexander took Lafayette’s lips in his own, and walked them back until Lafayette’s knees hit the bed. Their positions reversed, Lafayette took the opportunity to explore Alex’s body, running his fingers over skin, taking Alexander’s shirt off in the process.

“Alexander are-“

“Yes, a thousand times, yes.” Alexander didn’t let him finish his sentence; the words died in his throat as their lips found each other once more.


A/N: @halpdevon I blame you for this. I wrote this on the train sitting next to an old white lady… oh god… This is what this ship has done to me… 

A/N ptII: I’ve edited this post as my previous author’s note made people (understandably) upset and uncomfortable. I accept that what I said was a little yikes and so, if you could, please reblog the edited version of the post! 

I find anti arguments on MAPs … well … odd.

I was flicking through some blogs and saw: “well, we only have their word they don’t offend”. Well, sorry, pal, but we only have your word that you’re not a rapist yourself … all we have are people’s words, so why are we assuming they’re committing RL crimes when we’re not assuming you’re committing RL crimes? Or one of my favourites:

“Statistically, most of them offend” (no sources, obviously) … well, maybe most of them are too afraid to admit to being MAP, because you literally just said they’re lying about not being criminals or child molesters, or that you’re quite vocal in wanting them to die? If your only survey pool are ‘official’ MAPs, those will probably be prison population. If I based my statistics of male-on-female sexuality based upon rapists in prison, my data would be skewed too.

It feels like you want them to be bad people?

You’re literally creating biased sets of evidence, never use actual credible sources (or any sources), and then accuse anyone who comes to you with an honest opinion as ‘lying’. If you’re that adamant they’re monsters, why don’t you report each and every one you see? Like “I don’t have enough evidence”? No shit. If you admit to having no evidence, why make the accusations?

* * * 

I want to add these anti-MAP posts hurt real life victims … 

If people are too afraid to come forward, we can never get real and objective information to learn more about these attractions and/or support people who may need support. You also risk in rare cases creating abusers, because if you’ve led someone to believe they’re a monster just doomed to offend, why would they want to get help? It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

* * * 

I don’t know why it irks me so much … 

Maybe it was because I was expecting to see “this ship sucks” on such blogs, but instead came across a post that was literally detrimental to both MAPs and CSA victims/survivors … preventing people from seeking help, demonising a section of the community, and thus skewing data from an academic and/or medical health perspective. Thus, making law enforcement and the medical communities jobs ten times harder, as well a slew of other side-effects.

Essays in Existentialism: Soulmated

I saw a post once about people who have their soulmates’ names tattooed on their wrist and Clarke being confused bc no one on the ark is named Lexa and Lexa being like “Clarke is a dude’s name?? um??" 

Deep in the heart of the spinning, cold star, a single prisoner stares at the window above her, curiously thinking of so many things that she finds herself unable to focus on any, thus reaching an almost eerie state of lethargic fear or even anxious calm. 

The rumours ran rampant, like fire through the station, and despite her predicament in solitary, the prisoner hears the whispers of the guards, notices the scurrying of activity, counts the dwindling number of walks outside her window with nothing more than mild curiosity. 

But in the quiet that comes in the middle of the night, Clarke ignores all of it and continues being alone, savouring the sweet, delicious kind of ache it brings when she adds to the days that she doesn’t use her voice. Her walls are covered, like the tombs she read about once, in pictures and words and moments and memories and dreams. 

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Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain - which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad - old churches, country lanes, people saying ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ and ‘I’m terribly sorry but,’ people apologizing to ME when I conk them with a careless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, tea and crumpets, summer showers and foggy winter evenings - every bit of it.
—  Bill Bryson, Notes From a Small Island