A playful two-month-old grey wolf pup is spending time in the Children’s Zoo nursery at the San Diego Zoo. The 23-pound pup, named Shadow, is in the process of completing a 30-day quarantine, after which he will live at Wegeforth Bowl and serve as an ambassador for his species.
Animal care staff members are introducing Shadow to various smells and sights, which will help prepare him for his new role as an animal ambassador. Keepers working with Shadow will give him items such as ficus browse to smell and chew, ice cubes to chase around or cardboard boxes to climb on. The young wolf can also see guests visiting him at the nursery, which keepers say is also beneficial.
“He sees people in the window when they come by to visit; these things are all new and interesting to him. You’ll see him key in on something and really get in tune with it,” said Kim Weibel, senior keeper of veterinary services at the San Diego Zoo. “That’s a neat thing with wolves, the way they tune into things; they are very intelligent,” Weibel said.
tom holland in england: adorable cozy boy who wears soft clothes, walks his dog, drinks tea and hangs out with his mom. practices lines in the morning, goes out to pubs and gets a lazy happy kind of drunk. is asleep by 10 pm everynight without fail. probably cries while watching titanic and likes the smell of grass
tom holland in new york: This Bitch™ who wears tight clothes that are all dark like his soul. titties are Hard and tattoo gun is Out. goes boxing every day and probably is always in the mood to make out with somebody. lowkey sleepy all the time. he’ll kick your ass he’ll kick my ass he’ll kick his own ass
tom holland in california: a fuckboy with a heart of gold. never wears a shirt, probably doesn’t even own shirts anymore bc he burned them all then lit a joint on the flames. eats raw fruit a lot and drinks only ice cold water. smells like sea salt and always has some sand in his hair. he loves life he loves himself and he loves his friends. good vibes man
a friend who i’m very tactile with introduced me to her dog and he just!!! loved me instantly!!!!!! like literally it was like he’d known me his entire life. also, two weeks ago she came over for the first time and my dog had the same reaction to her. we discussed this and concluded her dog is probably used to my scent and vice-versa since we hug pretty much 50% of the time when we hang out
ANYWAY THIS GOT ME THINKING. maccachin’s reaction to meeting yuri is the Cutest, but like, it’s not common? not even for such a soft dog like macca? i’d understand a tail wig and whatnot but it litERALLY TACKLED&KISSED YURI’S FACE ALL OVER LIKE IT WAS MEETING AN OLD FRIEND
and i’m just here like. um. what if maccachin had such a reaction because… it already knew yuri, in a sense?
enters the banquet, a.k.a the Best Night of Victor’s Life. if i’m sure of one thing, it’s that the Katsuki Fragrance™ got all over him that night
so, what if victor came home from sochi and refused to wash his banquet clothes? what if he’d sleep with his nose buried in his jacket, because it still smelled faintly of yuri? what if maccachin noticed this, and realized whoever that scent belongs to, they are the one victor craves for? what if maccachin tackling yuri wasn’t just a “hello, i like you” thing and more of a “hello, i like your Musk™, and my dad does too. this makes you my new Other Dad. Dad #2, if you will” thing
he’s a hockey player and hockey culture can be a cesspool of toxic masculinity bullshit and he’s absorbed a lot of it, he’s working on it
but he does and says a lot of things that get bros side-eyeing him
he’s captain of the vegas team and he’s got a calder and led a team to the stanley cup in his first few years in the NHL, so people let a lot slide. they laugh it all off as ~antics~ from that one hockey guy, but no.
kent “fuck the gender binary” parson is dead serious
the photo of lardo and kent saying that kent got beat in flip cup circulates around the locker room, and everyone tries to laugh at kent for being beat by a college girl. kent says fuck yeah he did, that college girls are badasses. he says lardo could drink them all under the table, too.
kent thinks it’s the weirdest fucking thing that people seem to think that liking things that smell nice is inherently feminine. are boys supposed to want their lockers to smell like toxic waste? fuck that. kent likes candles that make his place smell good. kent likes lush products a little too much for an ordinary person’s budget. kent spends enough of his time smelling like sweaty hockey boy out on the ice. he’s gonna buy some fucking shampoo that’s good for his hair and smells like fucking flowers.
kent definitely claims picking playlists for practice days out on the ice as captain’s privilege. and he does not have any tolerance for people complaining about his bubblegum pop, calling it girly shit. he’s chill with people not liking the music out of personal preference (though he thinks they’re wrong), but the second they act like that pop music has any less value than hipster music or dad rock because it’s ~girly shit~, he’ll throw down. he unabashedly loves britney spears. they’re in vegas and she’s a fucking legend, how should toxic not be on the practice playlist?
kent loves doing charity work with kids, and he makes a concerted effort to work with and donate to community programs for youth girl’s hockey teams and youth co-ed hockey teams. he knows that women in hockey face a lot of bullshit that the dudes don’t, and he takes every opportunity he can to support women’s programs and to call shit out on twitter.
kent is the captain, and he knows everyone expects him to be stoic and tough, but that’s just not his style. kent knows he’s fighting a losing battle, and that he’s not even always so great at it himself, but he tries to make his locker room a place where dudes can have emotions and express them in a healthy way. he doesn’t buy that ‘dudes are supposed to be tough and never cry’ bullshit. he cries a fucking lot, and he doesn’t hide that. as someone who has experienced how much not dealing with emotions can fuck a person up, he isn’t gonna promote that shit in his locker room. and he definitely is gonna call it out when someone tries to act like being a human being with emotions that aren’t just ‘chill’ and ‘hockey-induced rage’ is somehow not masculine.
kent parson does not subscribe to gender binary bullshit, and he is not fucking around
On a date to the zoo once, Yuuri was picked out of the crowd to take part in an experience with the pandas (ie. he helped feed the young ones). The pandas refused to let go of Yuuri’s leg as he tried to leave the enclosure, leading to a pouting Victor because clearly the pandas were trying to steal Yuuri. Makkachin was also upset when they got home, since he smelled something weird on Yuuri.
Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense, and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A panting, nostalgic smell that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.
But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.
Memory, your personal museum, takes you into the realms of what is lost. A sesame field, a plot of lettuce, mint, a round sun that falls into the sea. What is lost grows in you and in the sunset, which grants what is distant the attributes of paradise and purges it of any defect. Whatever is lost is worshipped.
Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence, trans. Sinan Antoon
every YA author: “he leans in close and I breathe in his scent. He smells like-” [spins wheel] “-cinnamon and-” [spins wheel] “-hairspray, with a hint of-” [spins wheel] “-stagnant river water. It’s masculine and comforting.”
Prompt: Fred and George ask the reader to smell a love potion and when she can only associate the scent with George she refuses to tell them.
Warning: None, fluff.
“Y/n, our dearest darling friend, we’re in need of your assistance.” Peeking out from over your essay you found a set of two feet standing in front of you. There was no need to look up, your accusation was confirmed by the mismatched socks. The Weasley twins hardly sorted out their clothes and snagged the closest, cleanest smelling, item they could find and threw them on. Also over half their socks had holes in them causing their big toes to break free from the rest of their friends.
There was also the towering shadow that casted over you that gave away their identity as well. The boys beat you in height by a mile- or rather so at least a foot. If you walked by their side travailing to and from classes, you were jogging half the time and out of breath when reaching your destination. Not to say this was out of the ordinary or loathed, you enjoyed working overtime to keep up with the boys. Besides by the end of the day you had reached two days’ worth of cardio and were all set.
“Oh no. What have you two gotten yourself into now?” You rose an eyebrow at the pair. On look at them and there was no question about it, they were up to no good. George had his hands behind his back and look slightly bothered. You set your homework down on the table in front of you and went to ask him if he was alright but Fred started in instead.
eva mohn: fairy lights hanging above the bed, polaroids scattered on freshly cleaned sheets, crumbling flower crowns, rain drumming against the window, sinking into the couch after a long day
noora saetre: moonlight sinking into water, secretive glances from opposite sides of a room, hot tea latte in an oversized mug, matte red lipstick, the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat
chris berg: rolling down a green hill, the smell of freshly baked cookies through an open window, melting ice cream dripping down your hand, an evergreen tree standing in the snow
sana bakkoush: whispered secrets late at night, the gleam of light reflected on sunglasses, stormy waves of the ocean at night, scented candles, a fresh layer of paint over bare walls
vilde hellerud: sunflowers blooming in an open field, the pounding of your feet against the asphalt when running, bursts of laughter that takes you by surprise, wearing fluffy socks when it’s cold, the stillness of empty streets at dawn
instead of andreil how abt some angsty andriel hcs?
Happy 900. Here is the angst, as promised.
It happened, sometimes, on bad days that got worse.
He’d wake up in the morning and feel it like an itch under his skin, like bugs crawling and biting and burrowing so deep that he’d never rid himself of the phantom sensations of them. No matter how hot the water he ran in the shower, how brutally he scrubbed and clawed at his skin.
He felt dirty.
He felt like a lie.
When he first saw his reflection, it would come as a shock. Everything within him would ground to a halt, and there would only be the brutal realisation of who he was, of what had been done to him, of what he had done. He would stand and stare at that reflection for hours, until shapes and lines blurred, and the icy blue of his eyes turned into an empty pit into which he fell and fell and fell.
It was his father’s face.
When Neil smiled, the Butcher smiled back at him.
Andrew would drag him away, put cubes of ice into his hands and squeeze them around it until they burned. He would talk to Neil, random and pointless things, until Neil looked at him and he could see recognition in those empty eyes, instead of that hollow, blank stare.
His hand on the back of Neil’s neck, clutching Neil’s around ice, his voice filling his ears, the smell of him near and constant, it was comforting. It grounded him, enough for thought to penetrate the incessant chorus of liar liar liar cycling ceaselessly through his mind.
“He was my father,” Neil would whisper. “He made me.”
“He isn’t,” Andrew would say, ferocious, insistent. “He didn’t. He was a killer, and you ran away. You are a fox. You are Neil Josten.”
“Then why don’t I feel that way?”
Andrew would grab his face and force him to meet his eyes, would press his thumbs to the scars on Neil’s cheeks and step in close.
“Because you are having a bad day. That doesn’t change anything. You are still the man I gave those keys to, you are still the man who made this team into something worth a damn. You are still the man I told to stay.”
Coming from Andrew, the truth of those words was a lifeline. Neil would cling to it desperately, as he clung to Andrew desperately, and the blond would allow him this comfort. With Neil’s hands fisted into his shirt, his face pressed into the crook of his neck, Andrew would wrap an arm around his shoulder, another in his hair, and Neil would feel grounded and steady. He would feel safe.
The lingering touch of his father would fall away, irrelevant. The smell of burning rubber and metal, the sting of knives and the stench of sticky blood coating his skin would diminish.
Autism Vs Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: Is This ASD or PTSD ?
@askaboutautism and @undiagnosedautismfeels have gotten quite a few questions regarding autism and PTSD, specifically ones asking about the differences and how to tell if you’re autistic if you’ve also got PTSD. I had troubling finding resources that clearly laid out how the two could look like each other, and also what the differences were when I was first researching autism. It make figuring things out rather difficult. I also got a positive response when asking if anyone would be interested in a post like this, so as an autistic with PTSD, I’ve written up this post.
This post is written with PTSD caused by chronic or long-term trauma (often called Complex or C-PTSD, but is not officially recognized as a dx in the DSM 5) in mind, and obviously influenced by my PTSD. My official dx is PTSD (chronic per the DSM IV and still included on my records as of 2017 for some reason) with dissociative symptoms.
So, here’s the Diagnostic criteria for Autism Spectrum Disorder pulled
off the CDC website. With examples of both how PTSD could resemble the
ASD criteria, and how being autistic would fulfill the criteria. These are by no
means exhaustive or iron-clad, they are simply a starting point.