#**** and i still **** ******** as evidenced by ** ****. for shame.

[dandyshucks]

i get slightly annoyed when people make community posts that tell ppl to stop doing xyz and use the phrases "they're a FICTIONAL character, theyre NOT REAL" to justify whatever theyre saying because:

1) everyone knows that already, we're all aware these are blorbos from our media;

2) if someone is genuinely struggling to grasp that because of a delusion or similar, a forceful reality check is only going to cause harm rather than help;

3) it just feels so needlessly patronizing;

4) most of the time whatever I see people complaining about is either smth that I never see anyone doing or if it is smth somebody is doing then the block button is a very quick and effective fix for the issue (or even a quick convo w the person in DMs can resolve issues!)

(granted I keep my following circle very small and probably miss a lot but if i can do that then perhaps... perhaps other people can do it too fhfkdl like just prune back whatever u dont like seeing! unfollow or block as needed!)

[uncertainlogic]

i know sarek gets a lot of crap for his Parenting Mistakes but he does have three children in his home who were working through trauma (that mostly wasn't sarek's fault) in drastically different ways in a situation that made it VERY DIFFICULT for any of them to seek professional help without bringing even more xenophobic bullshit down on his family

[epicdogymoment]

[EXTREMELY LONG CENSOR BEEP]

[covid-safer-hotties]

The US Government Is Shutting Down A Key Covid Website

Tomorrow the US government agency responsible for biomedical and public health research, The National Institutes of Health, will shut down its Covid-19 ‘special populations’ website.

This site hosts a huge amount of information about how to treat covid and long covid in the immunocompromised and in people with HIV, cancer and similar immune supressing conditions - so-called ‘special populations.’

The site is going totally offline.

It’s a shameful dereliction of duty by the NIH which, behind Harvard, is the second largest publisher of biomedical research papers in the world. Doctors and clinicians all over the world use the NIH site for advice and treatment ideas.

And it’s going offline during a massive summer surge of covid infections in the US, a surge that is now topping 1.3 million infections per day. (One of whom was Anthony Fauci, who was infected for the third time last week). A surge killing 750 people a week in the US. Many of whom will be precisely the type of people this website is intended to help clinicians treat.

It’s a scandal.

The message it sends to vulnerable people could hardly be clearer - when it comes to covid, there’s nothing else we can do for you. Sorry. That’s it. We’re done.

It’s so terrifying.

It also sends a terrible signal to the medical community about where we are with covid

and will be materially damaging in efforts to treat vulnerable people, both in the acute stage of the disease and those with long covid.

The move to shut the page down is premised on an entirely false assumption: that we already know everything we’ll ever know about how to manage covid so there’s no point keeping a live web resource because they’ll never be anything to update it with ever again.

This is simply not true. While we know a lot about treating covid four years in, we absolutely do not know everything, not by a long stretch. As evidenced by the hundreds still dying every week in summer 2024. And as for long covid, we know very little about how to treat it. For a start, there is no agreed treatment plan. Absolutely none. But apparently we also know so much about this disease we can start shutting down online resources dedicated to it.

Please imagine for a second if a Trump administration rather than a Biden-Harris administration was doing this.

There would be an outcry.

But this move has so far been greeted by media silence.

It is left to a few disability activists and the covid aware to shout into the social media void.

Not that this is a surprise. This is how it has been for the last two years at least, guided by the business as usual, vax-and-forget strategy. More people have died of covid under the Biden-Harris administration than died under Trump. Despite having vaccines since 2021. You’d never know it by mainstream media coverage.

Some people have written to the director of the NIH, Monica Bertagnolli, and asked them to keep the advice live and up-to-date. If you want to do this her email address is:

monica.bertagnolli@nih.gov

Long Covid Action has archived the site here

Maybe if enough people write to her and enough noise is made the decision will be reversed. Worth a try.

Overall it’s just another grim episode in the handling of the pandemic by the current US administration, an administration who, we should never forget, won power in large part due to the outrage at Trump’s handling of the first nine months of covid.

Solidarity to everyone still trying to protect themselves and their communities from covid against all the odds.

At least we can keep fighting for each other.

[minkdelovely]

catharsis

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“we are more

than our disguises,

we are more

than just the pain.”

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple ; MDNI 18+

tags/warnings: angst (w/a happy ending), established relationship, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions/allusions of abuse, mentions of death from illness, sexual content (biting, blood/blood play, kissing, palming)

word count: 2.5k

author’s note: guess who’s writing angst again?? this kinda hit me out of nowhere, but is fully inspired by @sunlit-mess / SOL 1 x 1 (on twitter) recent works (linked HERE and HERE) with alastor seeking luci’s comfort. seeing these back-to-back just set something off in my mind and i couldn’t rest until it was out. a special thanks and shoutout to our darling @fraugwinska for helping me get a title on this baby — without her y’all would have been reading ‘untitled’ 😂💖 quote is from twin flame by weyes blood. without further ado, buckle up and dive in; i hope you enjoy 😌 (also posted on my ao3 if that’s your preference)

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It was surprising, even to himself.

Alastor couldn’t recall the last time he had cried, much less in front of a witness. Composure and a display of strength were hard-won attributes he had built upon himself. Each unpleasant memory in his mind was a brick in his fortification; the tears he denied himself to shed the mortar between them.

He hadn’t always followed his own code of conduct and taken the ugliness of life on the chin. Before he had found his own strength, he could admit to being swayed by the will of others. Alastor found words to be harsher than the switch and was more than familiar with the sting of both. Though the switch was a boy’s punishment… A closed fist was more suitable for raising a man.

Or so his father had thought.

Mama’s boy… Just my luck. I got me a mama’s boy... C’mere you little pansy!

The repulsion in his father’s words hadn’t lost any of its potency, even after all this time. Alastor recalled them with more clarity than the face of the man they came from, which only served to plunge him further in his despair. Hadn’t he proven his resilience? Not only in body, but in mind and spirit? Perhaps not as much as he thought, with the way he was sobbing. If his father could see him now — bereft of stoicism and drenched in tears, drool, and mucus — he’d have been absolutely disgusted. Alastor loathed how much that bothered him. The fear of inadequacy lurching in his gut like a bad tonic.

Hot, angry tears flowed down the streaks that shame had carved on his face. Not that Lucifer would be able tell the difference with the way Alastor had burrowed into his chest. It was merely a fresh bout for the candy-striped vest to soak up. The saline fabric was beginning to chafe Alastor’s face, but he didn’t feel ready to surface; arms tightening around his lover’s waist as his hands gripped Lucifer with a desperation he assumed was buried long ago with his innocence.

Stop hidin’ behind your mama and come take your whoopin’ like a man!

Alastor choked on another sob and gasped for breath, heaving in Lucifer’s arms as the angel held him firmly. Gloved hands petting red hair and anguished, downcast ears. Hushed words of comfort spoken into the crown of Alastor’s head to soothe in tandem as they both shook from the force of the demon’s sorrow.

“I’ve got you. Shh, honey, I’ve got you.”

So much love conveyed in so few words. Alastor still grappled with accepting it. Evidenced by more tears fighting their way through his clenched eyes and a muffled, heart-wrenching cry into Lucifer’s chest. The pain of it went straight through the King’s heart as he pressed a firm kiss to Alastor’s head, feeling the distress on his face as he did so. How he wished to unburden the demon of his suffering. More than anyone, Lucifer could understand what it was like to be wracked with such melancholy.

If only Alastor could remember what had set him off, if he had, in fact, been triggered at all. He had just woken up this morning feeling low. Why was he dwelling so much on things that were better left to the past? Unbeknownst to either of them, they were sharing the same thought. And both knew that dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed did nothing other than inflict harm. Must they be plagued by the ignorance and rejection of their fathers for eternity? The cost of the scorn they’d endured seemed to grow ever higher some days.

That was one of the first things they had bonded over, sharing self-deprecating laughter to hide from their aching wounds. When love is built on a foundation of hurt, it’s only a matter of time before the walls crumble. Most times they were Lucifer’s, and sad as it was, it felt much easier to navigate. The angel was much more comfortable wearing his feelings, after all, and he’d had millennia of experience weathering his storms. Alastor was no stranger to being the shoulder to cry on. If anything, it came to him too naturally; a trait he couldn’t be sure was born in him or a side-effect of the wall he had built.

When Alastor buckled under the weight of his grief, it was devastating. He repressed himself for such long bouts of time that the force of his woe had the impact of an avalanche. Sadness, anger, shame, and regret cascading through his lithe frame until he was utterly hollowed out. Lucifer’s task of mending him was only beginning, he knew. It would be days before Alastor returned to himself, but he was more than willing to put in the work. Stitching his love back together with his needle of assurance and thread of devotion.

It was impossible to tell how long they spent this way. Alastor kneeling on the floor between Lucifer’s legs, knees sore and body aching, face still smothered in the drenched clothes donning the angel’s chest. Lucifer on the sofa in their bedroom, comforting the demon with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Until finally the tears stopped, replaced with uneven, sometimes stuttering breaths and hiccups. And soon enough those were gone too. Lucifer’s right hand rubbing Alastor’s back as his left cradled Alastor’s head. Before long, the demon was stirring. Sniffling a bit as he nuzzled his face into the mess of fluids he had left on the King’s vest and shirt. Lucifer didn’t mind, knowing that he could have it all gone with a snap of his fingers, but it wouldn’t do any good for Alastor to try wiping his face on his clothes in the state they were in.

“Let me clean your face, love. You’ll get a rash if you stay there,” Lucifer chided softly, manifesting a warm, damp handkerchief as he bent down to kiss Alastor's forehead for good measure.

It wasn’t a very convincing threat, both of them knowing that if Alastor did suffer a rash Lucifer would heal it in an instant. But Alastor conceded, and gingerly peeled himself away from the safety of the angel’s chest. His poor face was raw from tears, eyelids chapped red with irritation; dried salt crusted his cheeks like the vestiges of sea foam on the shore.

Alastor knew he looked awful. He could see himself reflected in Lucifer’s eyes proving as much. Every bit of moisture his body had was soaked into Lucifer’s chest, and he could feel the headache promised by dehydration blooming in his forehead. He was wrung out and exhausted but nearly began crying again, too moved by the tender act as Lucifer gently wiped his face. His Sire hushed him, voice calm and gaze full of adoration. Not even bothering to clean himself up before ensuring that Alastor was taken care of first.

The swell of affection Alastor felt in that moment was overwhelming, and he swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the comfort of his lover’s hands tending to him. His father’s cruel words fading into darkness with every soft swipe of the warm cloth.

You’ll find someone special someday, mon amour.

Alastor was grateful for his mother’s memory, and wondered — not for the first time — what she would think of Lucifer. She had been a God-fearing woman, after all. A fear that she did not pass down to her son, choice of partner aside. He had turned his back on God long before his eyes had set their sight on the fallen angel. If she could see him from Heaven, he hoped that she would be happy. The Devil wasn’t all he was made out to be, if the way he cherished Alastor wasn’t proof enough.

His mother never pestered him about settling down, but worried for him deeply when they realized that she was sick and wouldn’t be getting better. Alastor was self-sufficient by then, with a year of working at the local radio station under his belt. Not that he didn’t take her concern to heart. If anything, when it came to her, he took things all too seriously. He wasn’t weighed down by the need for partnership or marriage, especially not when his career still had traction to gain. Alastor would try to tell her as much, assure her that she had nothing to worry about, and they would drop the subject and speak of other things. But he never left the sanatorium without receiving her prayers; his large, warm hands looking almost comical in her frail, cold grasp. Her hold on him was as fervent as the words and wishes she spoke to someone Alastor knew wasn’t listening. Though that didn’t make the act any less sincere or appreciated.

It was a brand of care Alastor thought he would never know again after his mother finally succumbed to her illness. The near-decade that passed after this had only cemented that fact. He didn’t seek companionship nor did he deny it when the mood struck. But beyond his small circle of friends, Alastor was content with his solitary life. Besides, a partner or spouse would have only made his nighttime affairs much harder to juggle — if not damn near impossible — and having the reputation of an elusive bachelor only helped with his fan base when it came to his radio segment.

It wasn’t until Lucifer had broken through his defenses that Alastor understood how he had barricaded himself from the world. And that he wanted support and comfort and understanding more than he cared to admit.

There are things you need that you can’t take care of on your own.

Basked in the warmth of Lucifer’s affection and his mother’s memory, Alastor hummed and opened his eyes, a tired smile curling his lips. Lucifer smiled back at him, expression benevolent and soft as his hands found their way back into Alastor’s hair to resume their petting. And grateful as he was, Alastor couldn’t ignore that Lucifer had yet to address the mess setting into his clothes. He fought against the pain as he uncurled his fingers, stiff from the grip on Lucifer’s waist, and silently began unbuttoning the candy-striped vest he had come to adore as the angel’s signature.

“Hey, you don’t have to —”

Alastor stopped him with a kiss, his fingers continuing their work as Lucifer sighed against his lips. The tension in both their bodies deflating as they shared hungry pecks and inhaled each other’s breath. All the while, Alastor’s hands remained busy with the undoing of buttons. First on the vest, then on the white shirt beneath it. Each open button providing relief like the snapping of a taut string.

Perhaps it was the musician in Alastor subconsciously rising to the task, but Lucifer would never cease to be caught flat-footed by the demon’s impeccable timing. How Alastor’s fingers managed to perfectly sync with his kisses was a feat Lucifer could only describe as divine. As if the acts were always meant to be one, never separate. It made the golden blood in his body turn molten; roiling through his veins as he sighed and chased every touch with relish. He was not often given these affections without needing to ask, whether with a look or an outright plea. Games that Lucifer was content to play, knowing that anticipation and a good tease left them both more than satiated.

With the collar of Lucifer’s shirt loosened, Alastor straightened his back and bent his neck to suckle and kiss down the angel’s pristine throat. The demon took his time with this, hoping to convey his gratitude and desire with every press of his lips against the milky skin beneath them. When Alastor made it to the junction between neck and shoulder, he was unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in; the flesh yielding to his fangs like a ripened peach, and the nectar that soon coated his tongue was a gift in itself.

Lucifer hissed through the bite, hips jerking in space between them as Alastor groaned and languidly sucked and licked the blood rising from the wound. With his hands free from buttons, Alastor let them explore. How he adored the feeling of Lucifer’s small frame beneath them. Endlessly fascinated by the twitches and sounds he could elicit from the angel with little more than the slightest drag of his claws against sensitive skin.

Alastor released himself from Lucifer’s neck with a salacious pop and licked his lips for good measure. The whine that escaped Lucifer from the action had Alastor’s ears and groin at attention. The low creaking sound of antlers branching out mingled with their shallow breath. Alastor’s crimson eyes drank in the almost bashful look on Lucifer’s face, accented by a golden flush that made his abdomen tight with hunger.

How lucky he was, truly.

The silver lining of Lucifer’s descent was heavily in Alastor’s favor. Had Lucifer remained God’s favorite, he’d be in Heaven — a place Alastor had never planned to be. In truth, he never intended to be in Hell either, which is where luck came into play. He wasn’t destined for mortal companionship, but for something transcendent. Not a god to worship, but a sin. A king.

An angel.

“I’m unworthy of your benevolence,” Alastor lamented, desperately kissing and kneading the supple skin of Lucifer’s chest. “But I’m devoted to you, always.”

It was a sentiment he had expressed before, feeling much like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. But it made Lucifer’s heart jump all the same; its rapid beat calling to Alastor like a siren from under skin and bone as his teeth latched to Lucifer’s breast. Their pleasured moans harmonized as Lucifer cupped the back of Alastor's head, encouraging him to continue with a whisper of his name. Alastor happily obliged. Tongue lapping at the pert nipple, hot and fervent, as his mouth and teeth provided a deliciously sharp suction, drawing out the ambrosia in Lucifer’s veins.

Lucifer struggled to remain cognisant, lost and overwhelmed as Alastor’s mouth peppered a trail of kisses from right to left. Alastor shifted slightly between Lucifer’s legs as teeth sunk into the top of his left pectoral just as Alastor’s left hand palmed his groin. The wanton cry that echoed off the walls of their bedroom only served to make Alastor desperate for more. Eagerly succumbing to his need to worship the angel, the agony he had suffered earlier behind him but not forgotten.

An offering of gratitude and declaration of fidelity in a language they shared when words failed. When adoration was beyond articulation and the only thing strong enough to quell their aching hearts was propinquity. The evening had started with Alastor falling apart in Lucifer’s lap… but it would end with Lucifer falling apart in Alastor’s hands.

And they would wake in the morning with tangled hair in wrinkled sheets. Sharing hushed jokes and lazy kisses as the early morning sun colored their room in a hazy, pink glow.

Healing each other one day at a time.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @hyperfixations-keep-me-going, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @littlebluefishtail, @hazelfoureyes, @sugoi-writes, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

[chocobosdungeon2]

Anyway Ianthe has absolutely been emotionally manipulating/abusing Coronabeth since they were children. Their whole dynamic seems to be Ianthe lording guilt and shame over Corona to control her. Corona almost killing Ianthe in the womb is something she is NEVER allowed to live down. In Nona, Ianthe has ascended to lyctorhood and she still brings it up.

When Gideon first sees the pair, she describes it looking like Corona had been sucking up Ianthe's life force. This is revealed to be true in a roundabout way as Ianthe has been pretending to be two necromancers because their father wanted a "matched set." While Corona does allude to her father's role in this dynamic, Ianthe seems to imply that she does it all for Coronabeth's sake. This dynamic that requires them to be constantly together also seems to have been used by Ianthe to deepen her enmeshment with Corona. How enmeshed Corona is (in GtN) is evidenced by a desire to be Ianthe's cavalier or to play a similar role in her life. The Cavalier/Necromancer relationship is established to be one of the most intimate between two people in the culture of the Houses. Scenes in GtN including when Naberius stops Corona from practicing with a rapier and then at the end when she laments that Ianthe ate Babs instead of her point to this desire to be Ianthe's 'cavalier.'

From GtN to NtN, Ianthe negs Corona at every opportunity, reminding her that she's stupid, overemotional, and hopeless without her. She nitpicks her appearance in particular, implying she looks awful when everyone else in the room is swooning (or at least our POV characters lol). Ianthe is awful to everyone, but there's something really pointed about her insults to Corona/Crown. Such cruel comments dressed up as casual terms of endearment. Something you can only accept as love when its all youve known.

Its understandable that Camilla doesnt trust that Crown wouldnt defect immediately upon meeting Ianthe. Camilla had seen first hand how attached the two were. But I think in seeing Crown work against Ianthe, and even using their old dynamic to manipulate her, we see that she's broken free of that toxic relationship. We dont know much about what happened between Corona and Judith while they were travelling during HtN, but we know that it taught Corona a love that didnt depend on her sister's disapproval, and that she has grown and changed because of it.

[myfandomrealitea]

Would you consider it a red flag if someone in your fandom said "____should never be glorified/romanticized/portrayed positively in fic because young readers might believe this is what a healthy relationship looks like"? Or am I just paranoid about seeing antis everywhere? (not in the mood to be shamed/called out if someone went digging for the (relatively tame yet still unhealthy irl) kind of fic I write)

Most blatantly, yes.

Far too often fiction is deemed as the topmost or sole source of what we as people and society reference as what is 'normal' or what is to be idolised or idealised by, quite frankly, idiots. Its the same mentality as 'seeing boys kiss will make you gay.' They're essentially just claiming that people inherently lack the ability to think for themselves and will adopt what they see in fiction as a direct translation of reality.

This does, however, largely stem from our appalling global educational systems and online culture and religious oppression.

Fantasising about unrealistic relationships and relationship dynamics is nothing new, dangerous or damning. Trying to blame and condemn fiction as 'glorifying' anything because its romanticized or dramatized is just poor critical thinking skills, a lack of media literacy and frankly the poor ability to just have fucking fun.

Fiction is not inherently propaganda. It should not be treated as such. Fiction is not reality. It should not be treated as such. A reader's inability to healthily consume fiction is not the fault of the creator.

Frankly, if young people are reading or watching fiction and absorbing the stories as actual teachings and influences, that is a failure of a much larger system. And also an individual flaw.

If people are attempting to hold you responsible for the education of younger generations through your fanfiction, just block them or remove their comments. Or, do what I do, and simply reply back with multiple links to sources evidencing the contrary. And then block them.

[merlinfromberlin]

trick or treat :3

Treat! You get some Dadchet fluff. <3

This is from a oneshot based on S02E11 Flying Mind and deals with the aftermath of the Autobots being frozen still for hours on end by the Nemesis. Bee especially can't sit still and is driving Ratchet up the walls.

I also hope you don't mind this being longer, I didn't want to splice away the fluffy parts at the end but they made no sense without the first parts. ^^"

During the next decicycle, Ratchet had to remind Bumblebee four more times to sit back down, three times not to touch various medical equipment and five times not to play with either the IV line or the spark monitor next to his berth. On one particularly spark-freezing occasion he even had been forced to confiscate a small knife the scout had un-subspaced in order to fidget with. The medic was certain that the sight of the small yellow bot gesticulating wildly while twirling a small blade way too close to his own faceplates had cost him at least a vorn of his lifetime.

However, even if the medic had turned ever more gruff and grumpy with every additional warning he had directed at the scout, he had done his darn best to remain patient. Restlessness was, as evidenced by his older patients, apparently only natural after an encounter with waking stasis. And Ratchet had some experience dealing with Bumblebee’s particular brand of restlessness. In the end, however, he finally lost his temper when the mech knocked over his spark monitor, shattering its display in the process.

“Bumblebee!” Ratchet sat down the datapad he had been reviewing with a little too much force. As he fixed his most vicious glare on the troublesome scout he stalked over to remove the now useless monitoring line from his chassis. “I needed that! By the pits, you still needed that! For Primus’ sake, you are not only disturbing your own recovery but that of everyone else, too! Now get back to your berth before I magnetise you to it.”

The medic watched as the small bot sat back down, his doorwings drooping heavily in shame while twitching nervously every few nanocycles. He was small enough for his pedes to be dangling in the air as he stared down at the floor in front of him. ::Sorry, Ratchet. Didn’t mean to annoy you…::

For a moment, Ratchet kept staring at the scout. At the way his optics were a bit too dim and cycled sluggishly. At the way his helm kept listing to the side just a tiny bit before snapping back up. At the way his doorwings were hanging low not only in guilt and shame but also sheer, utter exhaustion. With a sigh, his remaining anger dissipated. 

The young bot was not only tired but so fragging exhausted that he would probably miss most of the next Earth day once he finally fell into recharge.

“You know what. Get up,” said Ratchet suddenly, his entire demeanour changing as an idea began to form in his processor. There might be a way to free Bumblebee of his excess energy and get him into recharge without bothering the others too much. “Get up. We’re trying something else.”

While the medic walked out of the medbay in order to fold down into his alt mode, the younger bot froze in place. Optimus shot Ratchet a short, contemplative glance before nodding encouragingly at the yellow scout.

“Come on, Bumblebee,” the medic repeated when he looked back only to find the small mech still perched on his medberth. The ambulance’s passenger door swung open and waved in a silent invitation.

Carefully, Bumblebee got up before nervously following the medic out into the main area of the base. His doorwings were still twitching anxiously. ::I won’t fit inside of you, Ratch…::

At that, Ratchet barked out a single laugh before allowing his door to fall close once again. Definitely exhausted. “Your holoform would,” he replied surprisingly mirthfully.

For a moment, there seemed to be something not unlike panic rushing through Bumblebee’s EM field but it was gone again as fast as it had appeared. Ratchet highlighted the moment in his memory files to review later and added it to his ever-growing list of inconsistencies about their young scout. He would need to work through that again, later. Right now, however, Ratchet had different priorities.

“But no. I’m not driving you around while you are this antsy. We are going for a drive. You need to burn off some energy before you break something we can’t rebuild. Doctor’s order.”

Bumblebee bleeped in surprise, but it took him a moment to fully comprehend the medic’s words. Once he finally did, Ratchet was glad to have readjusted his mirrors onto him. The yellow bot’s doorwings fluttered in excitement and he bounced on his pedes once before letting himself fold down into his alt-mode. ::Thank you, Ratchet!::

Ratchet was also glad that he had already transformed because he suspected that his smile as Bumblebee drove up next to him would have been way too fond. “Don’t thank me yet, young’un. You’re still under medical observation. That means no speeding, no racing and if I even catch you so much as thinking about drifting, you’ll be back in your berth faster than you can comm ‘Iacon 5000’.”

::Yes, of course.” Bumblebee sounded nonetheless chipper for any of the restrictions Ratchet had just put onto him. Instead, he just followed the medic out of the base, his EM field pulsing happily. ::I’ll be a textbook driver!::

“You better be,” answered Ratchet, a certain threat still edged into his words. There was no actual heat behind them, though. Based on the way Bumblebee playfully swerved to overtake him, he, too, knew that. The medic sighed silently.

Then he allowed himself to fall back behind the Urbana, strangely content as he watched his the youngling driving down the dark desert street.

They had not even been out for half an Earth hour when Ratchet had to comm Optimus because Bumblebee had fallen into recharge at the cliffside where they had stopped to watch the stars. The youngling did not even startle when the medic manually triggered his transformation to pick him up  and carry him through the groundbridge. Instead, he just cuddled closer.  

Hope you enjoyed your treat! <3

And sorry it took this long to answer, I was really tired yesterday evening and needed to read through this again because I hadn't touched it in almost two months. ^^"

This was originally supposed to be a scene in Numb Little Bug (Wip that will still take a while to see the light of day) until I realised that they start hunting for the Iacon Artefacts IMMEDIATELY after they get unfrozen, so I removed it from the longer story and now it's a sort of slight AU/companion piece to NLB/insight into Ratchet in NLB.

Which also means that it's edited very little yet. I'll only do that once I get to posting NLB chapter 3. Which will probably take forever. ^^"

[akkaweo-akkaweo]

Treatment

Jeong Jinsol/Jinsoul x M!reader

Tags: light edging, sorta JOI?, facial

WC: 1.3k

A/N: this photoset legitimately made me feel things so allow me to take you on that same journey. enjoy the different structure of this work.

—————

After a tiring day of work — presentations, meetings, the usual — you plop yourself on the bed, with barely enough energy to take your clothes off. You're staring at the ceiling for maybe two, three minutes before you hear the front door beep open and the unmistakable clacking of heels on tile rings around the dead silent studio.

"Hey baby," Jinsol said softly. "Busy day?"

You grunt in acknowledgement. Jinsol may have looked stunning today, as she always did, but you were way too spent to show it more meaningfully. She'd understand.

"Are you feeling alright? You look sick," she said, worry in her voice.

"I'm fine, babe. You should rest too. I'll make space on the bed for–"

"Hmm, this won't do. I've seen this before. You seem to have a buildup of sorts," she cut you off.

"What are you talking about, Jinsol?"

The whole while you've been staring up at the ceiling, you fail to notice Jinsol kneeling in front of your legs dangling by the edge of the bed. The only way you noticed was because of the confusion from her last statement.

"See? So much negative energy stuck in your head, you can't even see or hear properly. Luckily," she says as she starts unbuckling your belt, "I think I know just the solution."

You don't exactly have an explanation for it, but the more and more Jinsol undid your pants, you could feel yourself getting hard already. A quick draw of your boxers revealed your member, sprung up and hard.

"Ah, just as I thought. It's all stuck in here," she said, with a light tap to your shaft.

"Aigo, Jinsol, I said I'm too tired for this...," you say, trying to hide your shame of getting aroused so quickly.

Jinsol raises an eyebrow at you, then shrugs. "Okay. If you say so." She gets up and starts walking away from the bed, except you notice the way she's walking: an extra swing of her wide hips, slow enough to make you do nothing but stare, still fully erect.

She turns back, looking at you with a tempting gaze.

"You sure you're so tired? Doesn't seem like it to me," she teased

"Okay, fine, Jinsol. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm so–"

"No, it's okay. I understand," she replied, a tinge of singsong-y taunting audible in her tone. "You're not asking for it, so perhaps I'll leave you to it."

Again, unprompted, the taunting made you twitch in arousal.

Your vision tunnels, honing in on Jinsol's face: her porcelain skin, the shape of her eyes, her luscious lips — all the perfect seductive mix. You're pretty sure you've been staring at her way too long to be subtle, because Jinsol doubles down on her charade, tilting more of her shoulder away from you, hiding her body's curves around her tight dress, yet also showing the almost bare skin on her back.

"You sure you don't want this?," she teased, no subtlety on her end either.

That was enough to set you off. With a newfound energy, you jump off the bed, walking briskly to her, your surprisingly still hard dick swinging around — at this point, you didn't care. You just wanted Jinsol, and to humor her so-called treatment for your situation.

"You're such a goddamn tease, Jinsol," you growl under your breath as you wrap your arms around her waist. You pelt her neck and shoulders with deep, sensual kisses, made much easier with how little cloth obstructs your mouth. She lets out a soft hum as you continue, and as both your hands stray to her core and her chest respectively, you can feel — or rather, don't feel — any undergarments under her dress, evidenced by the tiny bumps forming on her chest and the warmth between her legs.

"Are you sure it's me who needs this treatment?," you taunt.

"Oh, yes, it's all for you, baby," she growls. "This is part of it."

She turns around and kneels once again before you, her face right in front of your dick, her breath close enough to send shivers down your spine.

"How are you so good at–"

"Tsk, just shut up and let me work," she barked. "You talk too much. All the cum built up in here," she continued, grabbing your balls, "is making you a lot dumber than usual."

You're ready to open your mouth in protest, but you stop yourself. She's right — the last time you actually had time to fuck your girlfriend was probably a month ago, on your monthsary. She definitely had a point, because she probably wanted this just as much as you needed it. Besides, how could you say anything when Jinsol's sucking was enough to make you speechless?

She knew exactly how to work you: she would take in all of your head, then midway to your girth, then all the way to the base, several times until your moans of ecstasy got loud enough. Then she'd take you out of her mouth and keep you aroused, kissing your length and licking your slit. Her hands weren't idle either: they moved between massaging your balls and stroking just the base of your cock. And in just a few minutes, you could feel the cum build up at your base.

"Fuck, Jinsol, you're gonna make me–"

She leaves you hanging completely, causing a sharp pain as you feel your orgasm denied.

"Sorry baby, for this to work, you gotta do it yourself," she pouted. "So will you do it for me? Please, baby?," she added, with a little whine in her voice. Fuck, she's irresistible.

You start to stroke yourself, and you see Jinsol adjust herself to rub her clit and squeeze her tits. "Yes baby," she moaned, "I love watching you stroke your cock for me. I love seeing it twitch and squirm for me. Is it all mine, baby?"

"Fuck... yes it is Jinsol... Tell me how much you want it," you beg, yearning to get off from her sensual squeals.

"I want it inside me baby... I want you to ram it inside me, all the way in. And I want your cum, all over my face," she begs. She tilts her head up, to show all of her face before your eyes.

Jinsol stared at you with hungry eyes, screaming for your release just as much as her own. Her mouth was slightly agape, ready to open it wide for your seed. And just the way she presented herself to you — should you miss her mouth, you'd still paint her face, and she'd enjoy it all the same.

"I want your cum, baby. I want it all over me. Please give it to me," she begged on.

You felt the cum welling inside your shaft start to rush forward; you were ready for release.

"I'm gonna cum, Jinsol!"

She opened her mouth wide and stuck out her tongue; just the view of her being in full display, ready for you, was enough to send you over. You spurt all over her face, a lot more than you anticipated, and aimed the last few strings directly onto her tongue. She closed her mouth and gave a deep gulp; as she did, she closed her eyes, satisfied and satiated. Whatever strings she could scoop up with her fingers, she did and licked it all up.

"Told you you had a backup," she said, still licking clean the tips of her fingers.

Honestly, you thought you'd be tired by then. But watching the hottest woman alive love the taste of you was a turn-on even you couldn't switch off.

"Oh, you're still hard?," she cooed. "Guess there's still a lot more in there."

"Ready for round two?"

—————

[raeinyourdreams]

... 💌: wip wednesday!

let's ignore that it's thursday for a second 😭 thank you so much for including me in the dynamic @sceletaflores 🫶🏻 sneak peeks under the cut!!

'you know it will always just be me'

messy exes to lovers with logan.. GIVE IT TO ME UGHHH im still debating on posting this tbh and it's FAR from done, but here's a small fraction of it that i like

Maybe it was the anchor you held on to, the alibi to leave your ex, but soon after breaking up with him, the feelings wearing off, the flaws started becoming prominent, you soon started wondering what you knew was in Logan’s head. Only he was more straightforward. “That’s a shame.. Why the fuck were you with him, then? Must’ve been damn good looking if he wasn’t a good fuck.” “Logan!” You squeaked, his name a miniscule retaliation, a small hint of embarrassment in your tone at the suddenly blunt remark, though you couldn’t help but think that deep down, he was right.. You’d never admit it, though. “Too eager for dick? You know silicone exists, right?” He scoffed, eyeing you up and down as your cheeks and ears turned red, the shit eating grin in his face only evidencing just how good it felt for him to know that he was right, and you’d confirmed it without having to open your mouth.

You looked at him in embarrassment, trying to not see red, as the team had advised you to stay in peace with the rest of the school under the pretext of it helping you mold and fit in. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, asphyxiating the fire brewing within you.  “It’s just not the same.. Pretty sure you know that.” You snapped back, eyeing him up and down condescendingly, almost knowing what he was up to after your separation, and you almost pitied him for not knowing how to keep it in his pants. “You could’ve just called.” “You wish.” You replied, rolling your eyes as you turned heel to leave, Logan watching your frame disappear into the hallway.. Part of you wished he’d stopped you. But you pushed the thought away, knowing it was over, you couldn’t go back, you promised not to go back. You did the first couple times, as he showed up to your work, called you late at night and won you over with his stupid cat eared hair and sultry raspy voice and his dumb 'c’mon, princess, let me in' that always seemed to work. But that was over. It had to be over. Can’t be under him if you wanna get over him.

'eating out of my hand'

so... feral!sub!logan... collared. giving you head. that's it. it's been plaguing my head lately so i HAD to write ab it.

You’d notice when it got hard for him, and in the beginning, he would push you away, deny. Try to control what he let you know like he did with the rest. But with time, he let you in, trusting you to care for him like no one did, and you were always happy to oblige. You would always know before he told you, it was in the eyes. The way he looked at you after a mission, or a really busy day teaching the kids. It was a look that he’d never give you outside of this headspace, of pure and utter submission. It had been a day since he'd gone. You were in your shared room, waiting for him to come back from the mission, patiently. Your eyes rake over in the image in front of you as he opens the door and you stand to greet him like you always do, only for you to find a man - your man - towering over you, his hair mussed and his clothes clinging to his body by a thin sheet of sweat that adorned him. He looked tired, and he was looking at you with such eyes that made heat travel to your pants in the fraction of a second. He’d never say it out loud, but his eyes screamed the plea loud enough. Please, use me. Take this from me, it’s all too much right now. You were always happy to oblige.

'out (like a light)'

tbh this is still a very rough idea, but i WILL write this (... eventually). essentially it's a poly!poolverine drabble where they finger you to sleep SKDJDJ

no pressure tags! @loganhowlettshousewife @buck-star @silverskyeline and whoever else wants to share! this is your tag 💗

[stuffing-seattle]

Bunni’s Stuffing pt. 1

Bunni was nervous, and he saw this as she squirmed in the passenger seat. “What is it, baby?” He asked her. She pouted because she didn’t know exactly how to put it into words. She was nervous, but the good kind of nervous. Excited nervous, the way you get when you are in line for a roller coaster. “I asked you a question.” He said, a color of sharp discipline in his voice. “I don’t know where you are taking me, Daddy.” This was. A half-truth. She knew what she had done, and was sure they were on the way for him to deliver punishment. “Do you remember Daddy’s lunch in the fridge?”

“No.” She fibbed. He scoffed. “I bet you are it too fast to remember.” He scolded, eyeing her swollen tummy peaking out from her character-themed tank top. Bunni blushed and tried to pull the top further down to hide her belly, but it was no use. Even on an empty tummy, her naval now sat exposed by the shirt, and the rabbit that had once adjourned the chest looked more like a panda bear, due to the stretching. “Whether you remember or not,” Daddy’s words cut into her thoughts like a knife. “I had to go to work with no lunch yesterday. That must mean I’m not feeding you enough, so I wanted to make sure you got your fill.” There was a sadistic edge to his voice, and Bunni gulped as they pulled into the parking lot of the towns cheapest all-you-can-eat buffet.

As they stepped out of the car, he got to drink in her full figure. When they had first met she was a petite little thing. Rail-thin and no tits or ass to speak of. Bunni was a glutton for punishment though, and always found excuse after excuse to act up. Her Daddy, of course had to discipline her, and his constant discipline was apparent for the whole world to see now. Her Daddy’s dominance sat around her waist in a a beach ball sized slab of fat. Her thighs had pudged up and her tits and ass had simply exploded from the results of her bad behavior. This was evidenced by her ass cheeks comfortably hanging halfway out of her many-sized too small shorts, and the fact that her tits looked like a popped can of Pillsbury grands in virtually any top shelf wore.he had to restrain himself from bending her over in that parking lot and putting a baby in her right then and there. *Patience* He told himself. *That part comes later*

She could feel the stares of the other patrons as they entered the buffet. White hot shame rushed to her cheeks as she knew they were all thinking what a pig she was. An equally white hot sensation travelled from her over-plump belly and in between her thighs. God she couldn’t wait for her punishment. “Sit down.” Daddy commanded. She obeyed. “Now, you are going to sit here and eat every single plate I bring you. Hear me? Every. Single. One.” Bunni smirked at him, trying not to betray the fact that she was absolutely sopping wet under the table just at his words. “And what if I don’t?” She asked smugly. He didn’t answer. He only left to collect plates. Fuck. He didn’t take the bait. She knew that meant he was serious and not here to play games.

Daddy was not gone long, but even so, Bunni’s belly began to gurgle and groan. She laid a hand on her belly and tried to shush it. Just then, Daddy returned. He had a plate of every cut of fried chicken, three slices of pizza, and a half rack of ribs. “I heard your greedy belly gurgling from across the restaurant.” He teased. “This should be a good start.” She gulped at the word *start* but dutifully dug in to begin her meal.

She tore through the chicken like an animal, and finished off the pizzas in short order. It was only by the time reached the ribs that she began to slow down. Already her mouth was covered in grease, and the ghosts of fullness were beginning to press at her belly, though it still did not show through all her extra padding. “You need a bib little girl.” Daddy said to her. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Not too full to be sassy, I see. Well then I’m off for round two. I expect those ribs to be finished off by the time I get back.”

“Finish those ribs before I get back.” She mocked. She saw a twinge of annoyance in Daddy’s eyes, but still he said nothing and left to other more food. As soon as he was gone she dropped the act and rubbed her full tummy. He was going to absolutely destroy her later, and she just hoped she was able to cash the check that her smart ass kept writing.

Either way she got back to work and went at the ribs. Daddy had not gotten her any utensils, almost certainly as another small punishment. So he gnawed at the ribs, getting barbecue sauce and chunks of meat all over her mouth and dripping onto her ample chest. She had just taken her last bite when Daddy returned with her second round of food. This time a mountain of mashed potatoes, a roll of sushi, and two hamburgers with fries. As if reading her mind, he also brought with him two tall glasses of soda. “This is it?” She smiled weakly. “Not by a long shot baby girl. Now dig in.”

She tried not to let on how much that comment both shook her and made her legs quiver. Instead she drowned her feelings in the closest glass of soda. In less than ten seconds, she had guzzled down the drink. Lost for a moment in the ecstasy of the stuffing, and basking in her bloated belly, she forgot where she was for a moment. *BWWWOOOORRRRPPP* Bunni opened her eyes in horror as she realized that the whole restaurant had gone silent and everyone was looking at her with quizzical expressions. She apologized meekly, and Daddy smirked at her.

“You really want this whole restaurant to know how much of a hopeless pig you are, don’t you?” He said. She blushed even harder and the fire forming in her belly was getting harder to ignore. “Why don’t you go get my next course and make yourself useful?” She snapped in a bratty tone. “Hope your eyes aren’t bigger than your stomach he said ominously, as he sauntered off to find more food. Finally she was alone with her food. She tucked in and lost herself to the pleasure and pain of stuffing her gut. Was this the mashed potatoes? The sushi? She was eating too fast to taste and it tasted too good to care. Before Daddy returned she had crammed every last bite of food into her overgrown tummy and polished off her soda to boot. She reclined back in her chair and groaned, this time managing to stifle a second burp. Her belly groaned and burbled audibly. It was as tight as a drum and she couldn’t even put a hand on it to soothe it without it sending a painful quiver through her midsection. Fuck, she had over done it so bad. And she had asked for another helping, what was she thinking? She was done for. As these thoughts swirled through her almost comatose mind, Daddy returned.

When he returned it was with two large slices of cake and a small mountain of ice cream. Bunni whimpered audibly at the thought of having to stuff it all inside her. She might really blow up. “You’ve been such a good girl for me, I thought you could use dessert.” Daddy said. Bunni still sat slumped in the booth and weakly opened her mouth, but all she could muster was a sick “Ooorrrp”. Daddy could see that she was slipping into a food coma, and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. He had one way to check. “I’m very proud of you, baby girl, you’ve been doing so so good. Can you finish all of this for Daddy?” Jesus he knew how to push her buttons. The praise managed to short circuit her brain, and the pain in her belly seemed to melt away. She sat up as straight as her belly would allow, and began to dig in. Daddy could see that it was taking all her concentration to keep the food down, so he just watched, enraptured by her gluttony. She finished off the ice cream and the first slice of cake. But once the time came for the final slice, it seemed as if Bunni’s hands were filled with lead. She couldn’t even bring herself to pick them up. She moaned which transformed into a burp halfway through.

“I can’t do it, Daddy.” She whined, tears welling up in her eyes. “You have to.” Daddy said gently. “You’ve been misbehaving too much lately, and it wouldn’t exactly be a punishment if it was pleasant would it.”

“Please my tummy’s gonna *uuuurrrp* pop.” She begged. Daddy was unwavering. “You have to finish baby girl. That was the deal. But I’ll help you finish this last piece.” He picked up the last slice of cake and held it in front of her mouth. Bunni clamped it tightly shut. “Open.” Daddy commanded. Bunni shook her head even as her cheeks ballooned out from another burp trying to force its way out. “Open or I’ll make you open.” He repeated. Once again, Bunni shook her head. “Fine.” Said Daddy. “But I tried to warn you.”

Daddy took his free hand and layed it on top of Bunni’s massively swollen tummy. Usually, it looked like a wad of raw pizza dough hanging around her waist, rather formless and blob like, but still sticking out. At this point though, it looked and felt as if she had swallowed a bowling ball. She could be mistaken for being 8 months pregnant from the stretch marks that were already starting to form near her back. She was so tightly packed with food, that the skin around her naval was beginning to turn pink even through her dark skin from all the pressure. This belly was a bomb just waiting to blow. So Daddy did what he had to do.

He placed his hand over her belly button, and gave it a jiggle. So many feelings washed over Bunni at the same moment. The disturbance of her belly caused a massive air bubble to come loose and travel up her throat. The feeling of Daddy’s hand on her bare skin after all this teasing with the food and his words felt like bolts of lightening traveling directly from her belly to her pussy. The monstrous burp that erupted from her caused her a sort of sexy embarrassment that she was only half-conscious of due to her almost comatose state. As soon as the burp was done, Daddy shoved the last piece of cake fully into her mouth, and the way it felt expanding in her throat felt like a cock. As it traveled down she could physically feel the cake stretch and warp her tummy, finding any last available space left. Each swallow that landed in her gut she could trace where it was coming to lie in her horribly overpacked tummy.

All of these feeling combined were simply too much for her little food-impaired brain to handle and she had one of the largest orgasms of her life. There were several earth shattering contractions of her cunt. The first one soaked her panties. The second one soaked her shorts. The third one left her dripping and drooling into the tile floor below them. It was a good thing she had cake shoved down her throat or she would have let out an ear piercing scream.

Daddy saw Bunni quivering and shaking and was at first afraid she was having a seizure, until he heard the splashing on the floor, and smelled the unmistakable smell of her cum. He looked under the table at the small puddle forming below her and looked back at her in awe.

She was beautiful. Her mouth and tits were absolutely smeared in food. It looked as if she had been hit with a water gun of icecream and sauces. Her belly was taut and red, and visibly quivered under the excessive pressure it was holding. Even to Daddy, across the table, it audibly gurgled and groaned in an angry way. Bunni’s pants were ruined. Somewhere in the mayhem her button had popped off, and her belly had surged forward, pushing the zipper down. On top of that, her pants were soaked and she looked like she had pissed herself.

“Are you ok?” Daddy whispered, legitimately concerned. Bunni was slumped in the back of the booth, eyes glazed over, looking at nothing in particularly, and her mouth hanging limply open. All she could muster was a tiny “Burrrrrrrp,” that sounded like air being let out of a tire. “We gotta get you out of here, baby girl.” Said Daddy.

He stood up and put one of Bunni’s arms around his shoulder. He hefted her to her feet, and the jostling elicited a roar from her belly, and a barrage of burps from Bunni. Luckily they had been there so long that they were the only two left in the place other than the employees, who were doing all they could to give the noisy couple a wide berth. Daddy helped Bunni waddle her way to the car, her one free hand trying in vain to rub and soothe her churning belly. Once Daddy had her strapped in he said, “You did so good today baby, I’m proud of you.” He gave her stuffed gut a small pat. “BRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!” Bunni moaned after the explosive release of gas Daddy had dislodged barreled out of her throat. “I just hope you are ready for the rest of your punishment at home.”

Bunni looked at him, horrified. “What?” Said Daddy. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easy did you? After all the back talk you gave me today? And basically shouting out to the whole restaurant what a slutty pig you are?” Daddy scoffed. “No one came to the buffet today to see a whale beach themselves, but they got a show anyway.” Bunni could only rub her poor overworked tummy and try to keep everything where it was. She hoped her next punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

[binkywinky]

do you think monica forgave carol too quickly?

Understanding is not the same as forgiveness. What happened in the movie was that Monica now understands why Carol did what she did. Carol owed her an explanation, and she gave it - that's it. Monica didn't say it was OK or that she forgave her, nor did Carol actually apologize for being gone.

I think Monica's lack of anger is being interpreted as forgiveness, but to me, it can attributed to the following:

She actually got to spend time with Carol. And despite how hurt she is, Monica values that relationship and wants to reconcile with her more than she wants to be angry with her.

She knows Carol came back for Maria. That goes a long way.

She knows Carol didn't just forget about them like they didn't matter. As evidenced by the photos on her ship and her memories, she thought about them all the time.

She knows Carol wanted to come home and that her reason for not coming home is based on guilt, shame, and fear, not a lack of love.

She knows Carol's actively trying to recover her memories of them, even 30 years later. That's a pretty big deal considering most people would have probably given up by now and moved on.

All of those things, I think, make it easier for Monica to drop her guard around Carol during the movie. She knows Carol loves her - it's plain as day on her face (seriously, she's like a goddamn puppy) and extremely clear in that moment in the movie where Carol tries to get her at the risk of fucking up reality. And she also realizes that Carol is a well-meaning idiot who still hasn't figured out how to properly manage or respond to her emotions.

So yeah, Monica understands Carol by the end of the movie and is certainly on the path to forgiveness, but I think there's still many conversations to be had between them. When that will happen, IDK, but now that a level of understanding has been reached, repairing that relationship can actually start to happen.

[cross-my-heartt]

I planned to make one big post about Kenobi but I think I'll have to tackle that show bit by bit.

Normally I focus on how they mishandled Obi-Wan, however that show did so much damage to other characters as well. Like Lea for example. A show that was meant to develop and expand on her character fumbled a big part of what made her so great, all in an attempt to replicate a tried-and-failed formula of shaming a deadbeat protagonist out of their depression and I don't think I'll ever forgive them for that.

Because if you look at what they did to Lea for the sake of a contrived plot, it takes away so much from her story. Lea was never meant to be the damsel in distress. Neither was her struggle against the Empire meant to be some kind of response to a scary personal experience she had with the bad guys as a child.

To me, Leia was always meant to be a character raised in power and privilege, who chose to use that power to fight for the defenseless instead of protecting herself. Her position as a princess meant that she could have had a comfortable existence cooperating with the Empire or even getting more privilege in exchange for lending it to them.

Instead she chose to take up the fight. The position we find her in at the beginning of ANH isn't that of a damsel but someone who has repeatedly challenged the Empire and used all the means at her disposal to undermine them, to the point of being unable to escape the repercussions any longer.

What I'm getting at is that Leia always had power and was supposed to be safe from the Empire (because canonically even Palpatine could only do so much against the Senate, as evidenced by the fact that he only dissolved it completely when the DS was complete). But she willingly threw that safety away in order to fight for those who needed it.

Compare that choice to that of someone who has personally suffered at the hands of the Empire and witnessed how corrupt they are as a child. Suddenly it becomes much less impactful.

And do you know who else made the same difficult choice of swapping privilege for justice? Leia's mother. That was the whole point.

Luke grew up defenseless in the desert until the Force gave him the opportunity to shape his own fate, as well as that of the Galaxy, just like his father. Padme grew up a queen and politician who could have ignored the hardships of others for her own sake but chose to wield her privilege to fight for them. (The only time she allowed herself to be selfish, to have something for herself, was in her relationship with Anakin which is another great theme for a separate post.)

Again, that is much more different from someone who has a personal motive for fighting the Empire instead of taking up arms because of other people's suffering. You could argue that show canon Leia could be motivated by both but that's still not as impactful as a personal choice no matter how you look at it.

Another thing the show does to undermine Leia's position of privilege is make her the victim of bullies and put her legitimacy under question. Which is such a superfluous element to begin with in addition to further undermining what I've already talked about. It gives her story more of that 'underdog knows what it's like to be oppressed and fights back' angle that distorts the original purpose of her character.

I know it's hard nowadays to imagine a person of privilege standing up for the underprivileged out of the goodness of their heart. Yet I hate how we stubbornly keep forgetting just how central the idea of hope was to Lucas' stories. We might not see it in our world, in fact we're so allergic to the idea that we've begun to pounce on every seemingly privileged character or group of characters in an attempt to prove that they're somehow corrupt (ie what the Acolyte tried and failed to do with the jedi). But I don't understand why people are content with being so cynical as to erase the legacy of characters like Padme, Bail, Leia, Chuchi and even the jedi order.

Yes, you can have characters in power who fight for the right things. Because you can have anything you want in a story about hope which is meant to teach you something.

In summary, I prefer a Leia who didn't have a firsthand negative experience with the Empire. I much rather one who empathized with the people the Empire oppressed, slowly adopted her father's values and mission of her own accord and in doing so unwittingly followed in her mother's footsteps. At the end of the day, that's a far more meaningful character to me.

[wowbright]

I Have a Dream

Martin Luther King. Jr.

August 28, 1963, Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C. (Source)

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities.

We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only."

We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,    From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania. Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado. Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia. Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee. Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, and when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

[toomuchracket]

girly is home sick one day before they’re together and he just keeps like making a point to walk past her desk waiting for her to come in, when one of her work besties clocks it and goes. oh she called in sick today. to which 1- he tries to back peddle being like “i was just on a stroll of the office stretching my legs, not looking for anyone” (not fooling anyone either). and 2 stops for way too many sick person supplies on the way home and brings her a little care package with like meds, sweets and soup or something.

i'm seeing this as being like at the point where you're fairly good friends but still trying to remain cool in front of each other lmao. you weren't getting the train in together this morning anyway because matty had breakfast radio press to do in central london already, so when you don't show up in the office at your usual time he's a little bit concerned - whatever, though, maybe a train's delayed, or you had an appointment, or some other trivial thing he doesn't know about. an hour passes, he wanders past your desk again, and you're still not there. same again forty-five minutes later, so he texts to ask if you're alright. there's no reply - maybe you're on the train? but no, as evidenced when he walks past your desk half an hour after the last time he did and the radio promotion girl at the next desk down is like "yo, matty, she's not here"; he's scrambling to sound nonchalant like "who's not here", and the girl smirks like "the person whose desk you've been walking back and forth to the whole morning", and he's like "have i? i've just been having a wander. knee keeps seizing. gotta keep it moving and all!", and the girl is like "uh huh. well, anyway, i answered her phone call earlier to say she wouldn't be in, and she sounded awful, bless her. she thinks it's sinusitis. doesn't know when she'll be back". matty's internally both distraught at the concept of not seeing you and extremely worried, and he's like "oh, that's terrible. should we send flowers?", and the girl is like "i mean... she's only been off less than a day", and he's like "yeah ok good point. well, thanks" and trudges back to his office quite glumly. he perks up a bit on his lunch break, though - nipping into the tesco express to buy cigs, he has the genius idea of getting you a little care package and dropping it off to you on his way home, so he grabs some chicken soup, and cold and flu meds, and nice tea, and honey, and chocolate, and a cute little bunch of tulips (and has to run back in to buy a gift bag lol). it takes you ages to answer the intercom and buzz him up when he rings the doorbell to your flat that evening, but you open the door so quickly matty suspects you were waiting by it for him, and he kinda loves that. you don't look well, your face sadder and more wan than usual, but he thinks you're adorable, all messy-haired and sleepy and cosy in your massive hoodie; your face lights up when you see him, and then goes all 🥺 when he hands you the little care package. you're like "thank you. this is really sweet, you didn't have to. but i appreciate it", and matty's like "just wanted to see how you were. missed you today" - you smile shyly like "yeah, i saw you texted, but my headache was too bad to look at my phone and reply. missed you too. was looking forward to hearing about the radio show at work today", and matty's like "it was good. you think you'll be back in a couple of days? we can listen to it together on the drive in". you smile and say "hopefully. m'feeling better after seeing you, so maybe if i keep thinking about you i'll be cured by then", and matty can do nothing but giggle like a lovesick teenage girl; he's like "darling i think the meds you've had are making you loopy", and you're like "nah, i'm lucid" and wink, and he teases like "well maybe you're more ill than we thought. i'd better go home and let you recuperate". but that's so difficult for him when you sigh and say "shame. but yeah, go and have your tea. and if you're not busy... call me later? talking to you is the most exciting thing that's happened to me all day", and matty's like "omg of course yeah i'll call you in a couple of hours. take it easy, darling. i'll see you soon", and he SKIPS to his car after you say goodbye and blow him a kiss. cute <3

[wanderingmind867]

Batman was best when he was silly, honestly. I still found him a bit boring then, but at least adaptions like the Adam West Batman show or the silver age tribute that was Batman: The Brave and the Bold...at least they had a sense of fun to themselves. I still probably only liked those shoes as much as I do because of the villians, but at least their version of batman isn't a man I'd want to completely write out of comics. So they clearly did a better job than most adaptations do.

I still don't get why there was such a backlash to the Adam West style. I know it happened (as evidenced by 70s batman under Denny O'Neill being darker than anything done in the 50s or 60s), but I see no good reason for the switch. If batman had stayed in the 60s, maybe I'd like him a little bit more. But if he stays in the grim shadows forever... then I'll feel no shame hating him. At least Daredevil or Nighthawk or the Blue Beetle kept a sense of fun!