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"Thanksgiving with Vampire fam ❤️ (2023)" via juliana rychlikova's instagram (she was the assistant director on season 2)

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louis de pointe du lac got these men acting unwise

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New year same blorbos. They’re at a house party 🍸🍾

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Gather 'round friends, let's learn from one of the best guides to action in this moment. *Checks notes*. Uh.

Marvel's Endgame?

*clears throat*. Okay. So.

Remember this? At this point in the movie, Steve Rogers thinks he's the only person left - that everyone else has been dusted or taken down by Thanos. And he gets up, cinches his shield in place, and prepares to face down not only Thanos but his entire army.

It's quintessential Steve Rogers.

But that's not my point.

My point is that right now it can feel like we're in his position - alone, isolated, uncertain, facing down an entire army of bad guys.

But we don't give up hope.

Despair, it's famously said, is a tool of our enemies. You can think of a host of people right now who are preparing to govern with the very worst ideas in mind, and the people who are enabling that or capitulating to that. It's a whole Thanos army of shit. But we don't give up hope.

Hope means you can imagine a different future, and as poet Martín Espada once said, "No change for the good ever happens without it being imagined first, even if that change seems hopeless or impossible in the present.”

We need to be Steve Rogers, cinching our shields in place and being prepared to face down Thanos, because Thanos is a fucking asshole.

And if we all do that?

"On your left."

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Joe’s late to the party at the neighbor’s apartment. He can hear the distant hubbub of cheerful conversation before the elevator doors open, and he tugs at his shirt, hoping he’s presentable.  His battered backpack and damp jacket are hung two floors down in the tiny hallway of his and Nicky’s place, and he has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. His curls are no doubt some kind of riot from snow and the overheated cab that brought him home. But the doors slide open and the tinny echo of music he couldn’t quite puzzle out transforms into the warm sounds of a big band on ancient vinyl. He grins and ambles down to 11F, doesn’t bother to knock on the door. He steps inside.

The living room is packed with people gathered in knots by the record player, the radiator, the drinks cart. Joe sets down his bottle of wine, nods at one of his hosts and raises an eyebrow, gets a “kitchen!” in return and smiles his thanks. It’s slow work, threading his way between people deep in conversation and the handful of brave souls attempting to dance, but Joe’s patient, and the chill in his toes and his fingers is fading, and someone hands him something that looks a lot like bourbon and it’s warm when he drinks, welcome and bitter at the back of his throat.

He gets to the kitchen eventually, excusing himself as he slides between two men deep in conversation, and then from the corner of his eye he sees Nicky.  He’s leaning against the sink with a glass of red wine in one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other in the way that Joe knows means he’s arguing with someone about food.

Joe waves to catch his attention, but the motion is swallowed by all the other bodies in the room. He’d yell, but no one would hear him, so he keeps on moving, shuffling ever closer to the man he loves.

And then Nicky sees him—sees him and beams.

Joe feels the force of Nicky’s smile like a physical force, enough to weaken his knees as if they’re newlyweds. No, he thinks, like they’re new acquaintances, all heady curiosity and raw attraction, as if the confidence with which Nicky watches him is a bald-faced dare. Joe is the surest of things, as head over heels for this man as he has ever been, and he feels light-headed with it, utterly alive, and that’s worth celebrating with a tumbler of bourbon and a glass of wine, their fingers tangling as they get close enough to touch. Nicky reels Joe in, grinning still, and Joe shakes his head and laughs at him fondly, and they kiss as if they’re completely alone. Joe lights up at the press of Nicky’s lips, and he’s seen a lot and been a lot of places, but swears he’s never known anything better than the tannin-taste of Nicky’s smile.

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im watching the old guard again and if my friend’s neck got slashed and apparently died and then actually lived and it looked they hadn’t even been touched?? i would be so fuckin excited dude i’d be like “cool you’re definitely a superhero i’ll be your guy in the chair let’s figure this shit out” like rip to nile’s friends but i’m different

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My wish fulfillment for 2 Old 2 Guard is an interview-style mockumentary where the Guard is being debriefed individually by Copley after a mission went tits up.

Each of them is telling a wildly different version of events, and we get their narration over different thematic recreations of the mission. Joe and Nicky are both telling a romance, but Joe’s version is a romantic comedy and Nicky’s is a historical period drama. Andy’s version is akin to a Quentin Tarantino film. Booker tells a film noir spy thriller. Nile’s is an indie coming of age story. Quynh’s is a horror/thriller version.

Meanwhile Copley is pulling his hair out because they are the most unreliable narrators ever, and they have an international incident on their hands.

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Reblog if you are employed / have a full time job and are a fanfic writer who still actively writes and posts new chapters / new works.

My friend says you can’t be an adult, have a full time job and be a fanfic writer at the same time, because you’ll have to sacrifice your writing, fandom activities, for your career. And I just… don’t think that’s the case? At all? Unless I’m missing something? Unless I’m doing it wrong by being employed and still writing fanfics?

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Joe’s late to the party at the neighbor’s apartment. He can hear the distant hubbub of cheerful conversation before the elevator doors open, and he tugs at his shirt, hoping he’s presentable.  His battered backpack and damp jacket are hung two floors down in the tiny hallway of his and Nicky’s place, and he has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. His curls are no doubt some kind of riot from snow and the overheated cab that brought him home. But the doors slide open and the tinny echo of music he couldn’t quite puzzle out transforms into the warm sounds of a big band on ancient vinyl. He grins and ambles down to 11F, doesn’t bother to knock on the door. He steps inside.

The living room is packed with people gathered in knots by the record player, the radiator, the drinks cart. Joe sets down his bottle of wine, nods at one of his hosts and raises an eyebrow, gets a “kitchen!” in return and smiles his thanks. It’s slow work, threading his way between people deep in conversation and the handful of brave souls attempting to dance, but Joe’s patient, and the chill in his toes and his fingers is fading, and someone hands him something that looks a lot like bourbon and it’s warm when he drinks, welcome and bitter at the back of his throat.

He gets to the kitchen eventually, excusing himself as he slides between two men deep in conversation, and then from the corner of his eye he sees Nicky.  He’s leaning against the sink with a glass of red wine in one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other in the way that Joe knows means he’s arguing with someone about food.

Joe waves to catch his attention, but the motion is swallowed by all the other bodies in the room. He’d yell, but no one would hear him, so he keeps on moving, shuffling ever closer to the man he loves.

And then Nicky sees him—sees him and beams.

Joe feels the force of Nicky’s smile like a physical force, enough to weaken his knees as if they’re newlyweds. No, he thinks, like they’re new acquaintances, all heady curiosity and raw attraction, as if the confidence with which Nicky watches him is a bald-faced dare. Joe is the surest of things, as head over heels for this man as he has ever been, and he feels light-headed with it, utterly alive, and that’s worth celebrating with a tumbler of bourbon and a glass of wine, their fingers tangling as they get close enough to touch. Nicky reels Joe in, grinning still, and Joe shakes his head and laughs at him fondly, and they kiss as if they’re completely alone. Joe lights up at the press of Nicky’s lips, and he’s seen a lot and been a lot of places, but swears he’s never known anything better than the tannin-taste of Nicky’s smile.

[sheafrotherdon]

Joe’s late to the party at the neighbor’s apartment. He can hear the distant hubbub of cheerful conversation before the elevator doors open, and he tugs at his shirt, hoping he’s presentable.  His battered backpack and damp jacket are hung two floors down in the tiny hallway of his and Nicky’s place, and he has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. His curls are no doubt some kind of riot from snow and the overheated cab that brought him home. But the doors slide open and the tinny echo of music he couldn’t quite puzzle out transforms into the warm sounds of a big band on ancient vinyl. He grins and ambles down to 11F, doesn’t bother to knock on the door. He steps inside.

The living room is packed with people gathered in knots by the record player, the radiator, the drinks cart. Joe sets down his bottle of wine, nods at one of his hosts and raises an eyebrow, gets a “kitchen!” in return and smiles his thanks. It’s slow work, threading his way between people deep in conversation and the handful of brave souls attempting to dance, but Joe’s patient, and the chill in his toes and his fingers is fading, and someone hands him something that looks a lot like bourbon and it’s warm when he drinks, welcome and bitter at the back of his throat.

He gets to the kitchen eventually, excusing himself as he slides between two men deep in conversation, and then from the corner of his eye he sees Nicky.  He’s leaning against the sink with a glass of red wine in one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other in the way that Joe knows means he’s arguing with someone about food.

Joe waves to catch his attention, but the motion is swallowed by all the other bodies in the room. He’d yell, but no one would hear him, so he keeps on moving, shuffling ever closer to the man he loves.

And then Nicky sees him—sees him and beams.

Joe feels the force of Nicky’s smile like a physical force, enough to weaken his knees as if they’re newlyweds. No, he thinks, like they’re new acquaintances, all heady curiosity and raw attraction, as if the confidence with which Nicky watches him is a bald-faced dare. Joe is the surest of things, as head over heels for this man as he has ever been, and he feels light-headed with it, utterly alive, and that’s worth celebrating with a tumbler of bourbon and a glass of wine, their fingers tangling as they get close enough to touch. Nicky reels Joe in, grinning still, and Joe shakes his head and laughs at him fondly, and they kiss as if they’re completely alone. Joe lights up at the press of Nicky’s lips, and he’s seen a lot and been a lot of places, but swears he’s never known anything better than the tannin-taste of Nicky’s smile.

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Sleep well

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Just a bunch of old people on a bus

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Nicky has a book in his hands, but the words dance on the page. He can’t concentrate; can’t fix the type to the paper, not when Joe is sitting across from him, deep in his own reading, his face a study in shadow and lamplight.

It’s a familiar face. It is not that the play of light is new against the slope of Joe’s nose and the angle of his jaw, but that there is a comfort to be had in staring across the room and seeing his love again and again and again. It’s a weight in Nicky’s bones, anchoring him to his chair, pressing his feet to the floorboards, dimpling the cushion at his elbow. It’s a gladness that animates his heart, that rises and falls with the thrum of his blood, that sweeps from the top of his head to the ends of his fingers. It’s a tightening in his belly, and a tingling at the back of his neck. It is belonging and freedom and hope, this acting of sitting, this act of watching and waiting with a smile.

Joe looks up and meets Nicky’s gaze. “Two shiny dinar for your thoughts,” he says.

Nicky nods. “I was thinking of how fortunate I am.”

Joe tilts his head a fraction, smiles in understanding. “No less fortunate than me.”

It has been a long year. When Nicky lets his mind float across his memories it’s fighting he sees; fighting he remembers in the ache of his upper arms and the tension in his thighs. And yet tonight there is nothing but this – two books, two chairs, a lazy, flickering fire in the grate and shifting touches of gold in Joe’s hair.

“I am lucky to have you,” he tells Joe.

Joe sets down his book and crosses to Nicky, elbows his way between his thighs as he kneels in front of him. “It was something greater than luck that brought you to me,” he says quietly. “Something for which these many years later I still do not have a name.”

And Nicky sets his book aside, lifts his hands to frame Joe’s dear, familiar face, and leans to kiss him with an affection that is made up of every late morning, every shared meal, every letter written, every phone call made, every hand that reaches out for the other’s every time they fall.

[sheafrotherdon]

Nicky has a book in his hands, but the words dance on the page. He can’t concentrate; can’t fix the type to the paper, not when Joe is sitting across from him, deep in his own reading, his face a study in shadow and lamplight.

It’s a familiar face. It is not that the play of light is new against the slope of Joe’s nose and the angle of his jaw, but that there is a comfort to be had in staring across the room and seeing his love again and again and again. It’s a weight in Nicky’s bones, anchoring him to his chair, pressing his feet to the floorboards, dimpling the cushion at his elbow. It’s a gladness that animates his heart, that rises and falls with the thrum of his blood, that sweeps from the top of his head to the ends of his fingers. It’s a tightening in his belly, and a tingling at the back of his neck. It is belonging and freedom and hope, this acting of sitting, this act of watching and waiting with a smile.

Joe looks up and meets Nicky’s gaze. “Two shiny dinar for your thoughts,” he says.

Nicky nods. “I was thinking of how fortunate I am.”

Joe tilts his head a fraction, smiles in understanding. “No less fortunate than me.”

It has been a long year. When Nicky lets his mind float across his memories it’s fighting he sees; fighting he remembers in the ache of his upper arms and the tension in his thighs. And yet tonight there is nothing but this – two books, two chairs, a lazy, flickering fire in the grate and shifting touches of gold in Joe’s hair.

“I am lucky to have you,” he tells Joe.

Joe sets down his book and crosses to Nicky, elbows his way between his thighs as he kneels in front of him. “It was something greater than luck that brought you to me,” he says quietly. “Something for which these many years later I still do not have a name.”

And Nicky sets his book aside, lifts his hands to frame Joe’s dear, familiar face, and leans to kiss him with an affection that is made up of every late morning, every shared meal, every letter written, every phone call made, every hand that reaches out for the other’s every time they fall.

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Series: Part 6 of Menagerie Summary:

“In my defence,” Joe said when Nicky opened the door, “I didn’t plan this.”

Nicky looked past him to where their ageing Fiat 500 sat in the entrance to the yard. He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you could fit so many goats into one small car.”

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Series: Part 6 of Menagerie Summary:

“In my defence,” Joe said when Nicky opened the door, “I didn’t plan this.”

Nicky looked past him to where their ageing Fiat 500 sat in the entrance to the yard. He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you could fit so many goats into one small car.”