#and should be a foregone conclusion

[reitziluz]

one of the worst things is when you're undertaking a complicated, high-stakes, time sensitive Ordeal comprised of many smaller tasks and tribulations (moving apartments) of course the last issues to resolve are a smattering of minor decisions related to already solved for problems (when exactly a friend will drive the rest of my recycling to the recycling center?) and The Thing That Will Destroy Everything If It Fails.

an even worse thing is when the Thing With Grave Consequences is something you cannot do anything about except wait for people you cannot influence at this point to make a decision and move forward with it.

...

but hey, i'm getting the keys on friday and my bed will be delivered on monday! so that's something at least

[deus-ex-mona]

since the new year is just a week away (what even.), remember that time kyhn was almost a thing in honeypre?

we all know hina’s years-long unrequited love for yukki, but in this event~~~~~~ he found her cute!!! and he said “the boy who’ll become setoguchi’s lover will definitely be happy”!!!!

a n d he briefly pictured what it’d be like to date hina!!!!!!!! and the wish he made at the shrine was for hina’s happiness (for the rest of her time in high school)…

also!!!! they pretended to be lovers during this little new year’s date~~~~ they’re so precious~~~~

anyways!!! happy kyhn new year!!!!

[twofoursixohjuan]

Brotherband Championship Round 1 Match IV

[meganiums-petals-pokemon-shelter]

Gran gran once told me that she once cooked an oddish stew for someone and they got digestive inflammation so bad they had to be put in a medically induced coma. What do i do with this information

....Don't...cook oddish stew for people?? I guess?? Unless you really hate them. Or they're evil. I don't know what's going on in your life, Anon. Just don't poison anyone unless they're like, an evil team leader or something, I guuueeess??

For legal reasons this is a joke, do not poison people.

[fury-brand]

you forgot the part where he rips her arm off

Solavellan sounds like a horror movie to me to be honest. Especially if Lavellan agrees to having her vallaslin removed

Like this young woman in a relationship with a man who continuously belittles her culture at every opportunity, expresses distaste every time she acts like she’s proud of it, encourages her to distance herself from her peoples culture and then tells her that one of the most important cultural rituals her people have is actually a really horrible thing that used to mark you as someone else’s property and encourages her to let him remove it.

And then when he’s removed it, removed the thing that signifies her kinship with her people, removes the thing that is a mark of adulthood within her people, he breaks up with her. So now she has been distanced from her culture, and had the markings on her face that signified her place in that culture removed. She would struggle to return and be taken seriously, even if her clan is nice about it they would certainly find it odd. And she doesn’t even have the relationship she did it for

Or alternatively, when she refuses to change this thing about herself, refuses to let this man who has repeatedly belittled her culture cross that line, he breaks up with her. And she’s left feeling like sticking to her culture, who this man has repeatedly belittled at every opportunity, has caused this breakup.

And then instead of being allowed to get over him, she continues to pine. First for three years, at which point she discovers that this man has lied to her about everything, is several thousand years old, is one of the GODS from her pantheon (holy mother of power imbalances), and not only did he not consider her a real person who’s life had value and meaning for the entirety of their relationship but the reason he broke up with her was because that realisation made him feel bad about his plans to kill most people in the world. And instead of like. Changing those plans. He chose to ignore that knowledge and kill everyone anyway

And then TEN years later, never having spoken to him again, not being allowed to move on, most likely not being allowed to reconnect with her family and culture because she’s been distanced from it by a man who lied to her and abandoned her to kill everyone, most likely facing ridicule for being in a relationship with the man who’s trying to destroy the world, she abandons her home and her duty and traps herself in the fade with him for eternity.

That’s not romantic. Take away the magic and the elfiness of the situation, if you heard about that happening to someone you’d consider it emotional abuse and manipulation. It makes me super uncomfortable to even think about.

Why has she not been allowed to move on? Why has she not been allowed to recover from this betrayal? From this man who belittled and controlled her? Why is it that 13 years later, having not even spoken to him for a decade, she is throwing herself into the fade with him for eternity? Where are her family? Where are her friends? What is her life outside of Solas? Does she have one? Is she allowed to have one? Why is nobody able to save her?

[ayeforscotland]

The UK Government have launched a consultation on whether AI should be allowed to scrape content online with complete disregard for copyright.

The consultation is stuffed to the brim with technobabble buzzwords and jargon that frames AI as wonderful and that this is a foregone conclusion.

You can submit a response via the link above and tell them what you really think.

[alchemistc]

Part One

Oh, I've got plenty to be thankful for

I've got eyes to see with

Ears to hear with

Arms to hug with

Lips to kiss with

Someone to adore

-bing crosby

He keeps waiting for someone to say something. To accuse him of lingering where he doesn't belong, or remind him he'd never actually made it all the way in. To tell him to go home, maybe get a halfhearted promise to let him know how Buck is at some point.

Maddie lays an exhausted head on his shoulder and Bobby sneaks him a slice of pumpkin pie he's apparently been hiding in the tote at his feet. Hen tosses him a power bank with a lightning cord and Karen makes a joke about his holiday attire.

When the coffee comes, Howie takes the trip to the lobby with him, pulls out his wallet and does his damnedest to strong arm Tommy into letting him tip the haggard looking girl another twenty bucks on top of the fifty Tommy'd figured was appropriate for having to balance a literal stack of hot beverages from the parking lot on Thanksgiving. She eyes them both with a smile and Tommy is more compelled the grab the drink carriers from her tired arms than stop Howie.

They're halfway back when Howie purposely slows his pace, and Tommy fights the urge to pick his up and avoid whatever's coming down on him. "So. Was this the wake up call you needed, or can I expect Buck to order a freezer on a Black Friday deal for my garage to store more baked goods?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He can extrapolate, though. "He's been baking?"

"Tommy, I cannot stress enough exactly how much he's been baking."

He'd tried his hand at a few things here and there, but Tommy's used to experimental chef Evan Buckley, not baking Evan Buckley. To be fair, if he'd seen Evan working a KitchenAid, apron tied loose and flour on a cheekbone, Tommy doubts he'd have actually had the time to finish whatever he had planned. That was then, of course.

"What was he doing on that trail, Howie?" That, too, he could maybe extrapolate. He doesn't want to, but he could.

Howie eyes him. Uses his free arm to elbow Tommy in the ribs. "You were the first person he ever invited to a 118 Thanksgiving, you know. My guess? He wasn't in the mood to be reminded of it while there was no room in the oven to bake away his feelings."

Yeah.

Jax had been over the moon when Tommy offered to take his shift, no trades necessary. What would the point have been, when Christmas and New Year's would be unbooked too?

Evan had bribed like six different people to ensure they'd be able to swing dinner on the day. Hobbes had sounded so thrilled to hear Tommy asking for the time off that he'd approved it without even looking at the shift.

"I'm just warning you in advance. The grovelling process is gonna involve eating your weight in loaves, most likely."

And that's that, apparently. No heavy handed warnings, no suspicion about why Tommy hasn't fucked off yet. Like it's some foregone conclusion that Tommy's not gonna panic and bolt a second time. Nothing has changed, yet Tommy gets the feeling they're all expecting some tearful reunion and a return to TommyandBuck.

Tommy slips the tea into Maddie's hands and watches her sniff it in distaste, which is an interesting nugget he'll have to revisit later if -

If.

There's no guarantees, here. That Tommy will be able to articulate how fucking terrified he is, that Evan will understand it. That the two of them will find a way through it together. All he has to go on is a solo hike on a day Evan should have been with family, an apparent bakery full of feelings spread between the 118, and the quiet calm that had washed over him when Eddie prompted him to make a decision.

Feet to the fire, he'd stayed.

---

Maddie's pregnant. It hits him between the eyes right around hour three of sit-and-wait. He's not an idiot, or a fool, and he hasn't spoken to any of these people in weeks so he's not going to announce it to the world, but somewhere in between the sporadic naps on Tommy's shoulder and the way she is attempting (failing) to power through her now cold tea makes him think. She and Bobby had driven here, and it's clear everyone else had been indulging. Maddie's no lush, but he's seen her knock back half a bottle of wine before when she's got nowhere to be.

She excuses herself to the bathroom for a third time, looking a little green, and Tommy ends up locked in a staring contest with Howie that only ends when Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

He still hasn't gotten the story about Eddie and why he's not here.

Bobby and Athena are apparently closing in on a new house.

Howie is less than a year away from having a second kid.

Athena's kids are apparently at Howie and Maddie's, attempting to keep Mara and Jee from destroying the house in the absence of adults.

And Tommy wants.

Wanting has never really been the problem, though. Wanting is the easy part. Wanting doesn't get him over the hurdle of knowing he's not enough. For Evan, for this family he's built that just keeps growing bigger and bigger. It'd been a relief, those first few days after, not to have to wonder which member of the 118 would land in the hospital next, not to have to rearrange something else on his schedule because Evan was convinced he was cursed, or Eddie'd had another shitty call with Christopher.

The relief hadn't lasted. A week in, he'd stayed up all night demolishing the half-bath off his dining room, because he'd been putting it off for months and he'd nearly texted Evan something that was startlingly revealing and left him exposed on all sides. Two weeks in he'd finished grouting the backsplash in his kitchen. And in between, he wondered how Eddie was doing, if he'd made any progress with his son. He'd wondered if Maddie enjoyed the bottle of wine they'd brought back from a spur of the moment trip to Napa. He'd wondered how Nash was doing, if he was readjusting to having his crew and his station back. He wondered how Hen and Karen were, how many things Denny had already gotten stuck in his cast trying to ease an itch.

He'd wondered, and he'd sat in it, and then he'd rewired the shoddy work an electrician had done in his spare room that he kept telling himself he'd get around to.

The wanting never goes away. He just finds new places to put it when he starts to care too much.

"Kinard and Buckley?"

Maddie's still in the restroom. Tommy - has no fucking clue why the nurse is staring at them like they'll just materialize the right people. She sucks in her lips and gives him a dead eyed stare before her eyes dart to his chest. More specifically, the nameplate on his chest.

Tommy blinks.

---

The having is where he's always floundered. Things are temporary. People are temporary. He's always been borrowing. Borrowing time, attention, affection.

For a few months there, he'd really started to think he could handle the having. That he'd get to keep it.

---

"I'm Buckley, he's Kinard," Maddie says from somewhere over his left shoulder, and he turns in time to see her adjusting her jacket, wiping at her lip. She stabilizes, looking unfazed, and stands tall. As tall as she can, at least. "You have news about my brother?"

The nurse glances around the room. No one is bothering to pretend not to be listening. Maddie hovers a wave behind her.

"Ignore the audience, we're all waiting with bated breath to see how obnoxious my brothers going to be. It depends entirely on whether or not he gets pie tonight."

She gives them all a disapproving look. This must not be one of their normal nurses.

Christ. They have normal nurses.

"Well, no pie tonight, but he should be able to eat a sandwich in the morning."

He's fine. He's fine.

Tommy knew going in that most of his injuries were superficial. The ribs had been a concern but with the pain meds and the collar he hadn't really had a chance to exacerbate those injuries. There's no reason he should feel quite so relieved to know that Evan will have a few annoying splints to work around and he'll probably need to rehab his ankle for a couple weeks once it's healed. The concussion isn't ideal, and he'll need help for a few days, but he's fine.

Tommy can feel the tears building.

"He'll likely be out for a few more hours, but I'll let you know when he's set up in a room. Two visitors at a time," she warns. "The concussion will effect his response time. Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember much, loses his train of thought."

Hen shifts somewhere behind him. It feels a bit like she's being held back from correcting the nurse about the normal side effects.

Things move on around him. The nurse leaves, Hen passes a Stanley cup around that definitely isn't filled with water, the normal sigh of relief is released while Maddie drops into the seat next to him with a groan, the team has a strange competition around him to battle for visitor position.

Tommy breathes.

I should go, Tommy thinks to himself, as half the people in the room raise their phones.

His own phone vibrates against his thigh.

A message from Howie, time stamped two minutes - Tommy squints to make sure - two minutes ago, an update on Evan. Another from Eddie reminding them all to give Buck a patent Eddie look from him while they were giving him shit. A selfie of Eddie, with Christopher somewhat reluctantly bending into the picture over his shoulder.

In another thread, he's got three messages from Eddie.

If I have to remove you from this group I'm sending my kid after you with his crutches.

You guys hiked Griffith Park for your Not-A-One-Month-Anniversary-We-Swear date, right?

Send Buck my love. Not like that, though.

Tommy sends back: When the fuck did he add me to his emergency contacts? and then decides he doesn't want to know anyway so he turns off his phone.

---

Maddie goes alone, and Tommy spends the time alternating between tapping his foot against the tile to distraction, and clamping his hand over his knee in an attempt to stop the tapping.

Bobby and Athena go next, then Hen and Karen. Then they're pulling on jackets and promising to save a plate for Buck.

Howie slips away for a few minutes and then returns, looking amused. "You think everyone else got the same greeting?" he asks his wife, who grins tiredly at him, pats his wrist. Her gaze turns to Tommy.

"Should we stay?"

That's a trap of a question. That's an assumption Tommy doesn't have a clue how to handle. He clears his throat. Shakes a few curls loose.

"What makes you think he'd want me to?"

Maddie's perfected the unimpressed eyebrow. It must be a parent thing.

Tommy barely holds in the sigh. "Go enjoy your meal."

---

Evan's been watching the door. It's clear the moment Tommy makes it to the threshold - he presses up, winces, tips sideways just enough to peek around the corner.

"Tommy," he says, and his expression melts.

Tommy's heard some iteration of that name a million times. Tom, from his dad. Tommy, fond and quiet from his mother, who'd never really learned how to speak up before she was gone. Thomas, in school, from teachers annoyed that he wouldn't just apply himself.

He was Kinard, to teammates, then fellow soldiers, to the firefighters he'd worked alongside for a decade before he ever let any of them know him.

No one says his name with quite so much reverence as Evan Buckley. He's convinced himself, over the last few weeks, that he'd been hearing adulation in that tone. But now it just sounds...relieved. Happy.

Evan slumps back and tries to cross his arms in a pout. There are too many cords and wires attached to him for it to work. "I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you," he says, and Tommy steps over the threshold.

---

Hobbes sounds fucking thrilled to find out he's going to be down a pilot for five days.

Evan throws a fit when he finds out Tommy's plan is to sleep on his own couch for the short duration of Evan's stay. Evan wins the proceeding argument and doesn't even complain that Tommy hadn't argued too hard

Bobby brings over enough leftovers to keep them in turkey sandwiches for a week, and Tommy doesn't think to ask how he got Tommy's address.

Tommy breathes. Tommy thinks. Once Evan can hold a train of thought for more than five minutes, Tommy talks.

Evan listens.

---

"So no Christmas," Evan pouts, and Tommy wants to bite it. "And no New Year's."

Tommy shifts a hand over his shoulder, tucks his chin over top of it so he can't see the pout anymore. "We were both already working those anyway."

"Do people do anything to celebrate Presidents Day?"

"Evan."

"Tommy," Evan mocks, and pulls far enough away to catch his gaze. "In the interest of transparency that was mostly a cover so I didn't ask about Valentine's Day."

"Is this you not asking about Valentine's Day?"

His smile is deceptively sweet. "I need help with my sandwich."

Tommy's seen him balancing a glass of water, his phone, two books and a takeout bag in his one good hand. He's absolutely full of shit.

Tommy leans forward to grab the sandwich off Evan's plate for him.

---

"You should stay," Tommy says, an hour after midnight two days into the new year. He's tipsy on his second glass of cheap champagne and he can't think of a reason to keep this in, anymore. Evan crinkles a brow at him.

"I... wasn't planning to go?"

There's a gold crown perched in his curls, and Tommy still hasn't taken the cheap plastic 2025 glasses off. The house is quiet, and there'd been shockingly few fires started by fireworks this year, so he's less tired than he'd expected to be.

"I meant -." Tommy starts, and then pauses. "I meant permanently. You should live here."

Evan laughs. Takes a bite out of his cake, and rolls his eyes, and then...stops. His entire body stills. "What."

It's ridiculous. The very thing that had pushed Tommy up out of his seat just a few months ago, sent him out the loft door with wet eyes and a heaviness in his heart.

"Tommy," Evan prompts, and Tommy catches the hand frozen on the countertop. He'd planned to hold this back, wait until something significant or poignant. But Evan had baked them a red velvet cake and argued with him the entire drive back from dinner about the proper way to fold a towel, and Tommy's tired of denying this isn't everything he's refused to let himself want for decades.

"You don't have to say yes just to confirm you're not breaking up with me," he tries to joke, and it falls flat.

"Tommy," Evan murmurs, quieter but more insistent.

"I'm serious. I want you here. I want -."

"Yes," Evan says, and squeezes his hand before he ducks his head bashfully. "Sorry. Continue."

"I want a life with you." The tears tickle at the back of his throat. He's gonna fucking cry, again. He'd always fucking known opening himself up to this was just an invitation for more tears in his life.

He can't quite convince himself the rest doesn't make them worth it.

"Yes. Again. Tommy, of course." He tips his chin. Purses his lips. "If you're sure."

Tommy swallows down the lump in his throat. He's never been more sure or more terrified of anything in his life. So he tells him so.

The words are like knives, but he works his way through the soreness, fights up past the fear that he's not sure will ever completely go away, and claws past the reminder that it's been a blink of an eye since Tommy walked out on this.

"Well. You can't walk out of your own house," Evan points out when he's finished, and of all things, it's that that snaps the tension of for once in his life prioritizing something other than fucking survival. He tips a grin, curls his elbow to bring their entwined hands to his lips. "It's gonna take years to coordinate another Thanksgiving with everyone," he bemoans, looking suspiciously watery-eyed himself as he holds Tommy's own wet gaze.

Tommy can extrapolate from that.

[bread-making-vikings]

Hello, friends. It is once again time to try and bully the UK government into doing science properly.

The Cass Review, written by known transphobe Hilary Cass, was a report on UK trans healthcare, which is ultimately being used to deny services to trans people through the NHS. This includes the withdrawal of prescriptions from people who've been on them for years, have gender recognition certificates, and/or have fully medically transitioned (making it very dangerous to stop HRT), and also prevents people from starting hormones to begin with.

Maybe the most well known thing recently is the ban of puberty-blocking drugs from trans children and teens, under "safety concerns", despite them being allowed for non-trans children with precocious puberty or other conditions. This is even though the Cass Review itself actually kind of states that they work and applied suitably, but then draws a weirdly different conclusions from it.

The whole methodology of the Review is hugely suspect, with sources excluded due to a lack of double blinding, something hugely inappropriate for any studies of this kinda, and ultimately just ignoring the research it's referring to to reach a foregone conclusion. Classic UK government tbh.

Tl;dr: plz sign this and get some actual science applied to trans healthcare in the UK.

If you're not eligible to sign the petition (e.g. not a UK resident/UK citizen) then plz share but don't try to sign it - they've previously rejected petitions for too many international "suspect" votes.

[arenee1999]

This renewal fight isn't just about Our Flag Means Death. The cancellation is part of a broader problem that has multiple arms.

Original content is being canceled, shelved and pushed to the shadows while remakes, reboots and endless sequels that can be milked well past their expiration date take precedence.

Lgbtqia+ and diverse content is being canceled, shelved and sidelined in favor of more of the same homogenized stories that have been being done for 100+ years.

Shows that have absurdly high ratings are being canceled. If a show that was being considered a flagship show for the network, that had the highest ratings for 14 weeks, that has a 94% rating on Rotten Tomatoes with a 95% Audience Score, is being canceled what hope does any other show have?

Streaming services and Networks are doing a 180° on they type of content they're interested in. Just a handful of years ago they started pulling away from the long season shows that could be endlessly renewed in favor of short contained stories that could be told in 1-4 seassons with 6-14 episodes per season. Creators have given them those stories but are still having to fight tooth and nail to get the renewals that should have been a foregone conclusion because these are the exact type of shows that were asked for. And audiences were more willing to take chances on these shows because with such a tightly wrapped story with an ending decided on before it started there's no reason we shouldn't be getting the whole story. No reason for premature cancellations when the number of seasons needed to tell the entire story was part of the original pitch that the network agreed to. No need to cancel it unless it actually does have atrocious viewership numbers. But now, these stories that were specifically asked for by the networks, that have ratings well above what's needed to justify keeping it on the air, are being canceled or shelved in favor of going back to the idea of endless seasons and spin offs and reboots of tired franchises.

You want to keep getting good, original stories that aren't just endless reboots and sequels of a once good idea that's lost it's soul? Join the email & letter writing campaign to MAX and other streamers and networks. Tell them you are interested in seeing more original content. Diverse content, lgbtqia+ content. Help save OFMD and in the process save your own favorite shows. No, one letter, one signature can't change anything. But thousands can. Be one of the thousands.

@renewasacrew

[ddarker-dreams]

play wrestling — blade.

Embarrassment doesn’t find you easily.

To experience embarrassment implies a degree of self-awareness. While you possess some, it’s decreased significantly compared to your earlier years. Such is the natural progression of life. This is why you felt free to act on a little impulse, initially uncaring of how it’d reflect on you.

However, faced with two eyes as crimson as freshly spilled blood, you can’t help but do some reassessing.

“… What are you doing?” Blade asks, dryly. You feel the low rumble of his baritone voice against your palms, which you’ve splayed against his chest. His neutral countenance doesn’t give much away. According to your peer-reviewed scientific analysis, he alternates between three expressions — apathy, irritation, and wrath. There is an additional secret one for when it’s just the two of you and he doesn’t think you’re looking.

From what you can tell, you’ve landed yourself on the apathetic side of the spectrum. You can work with that. You’ll commit to the bit.

“Besting an intergalactic criminal in combat, obviously,” you scoff, faking a bravado you don’t have.

“Hm.”

“…”

“…”

Is he not going to do anything to free himself from this position?!

Blade had silently slid himself next to where you sat on the floor, playing with your phone. This unique opportunity activated a primal part of your brain that probably should’ve stayed in the vault. You wrangled him down. Now, he’s lying flat on his back, with you sitting victorious atop his lower abdomen. Long strands of his black hair fall along his side, painting a pretty picture. You suppress the urge to run your hands through his silky locks. That can come later, you have an objective to achieve.

“Are you finished?”

“Wh— well, no,” you frown. And here you thought he might indulge you. “You have to, y’know, fight back…?”

He raises an eyebrow and you want to groan.

“But I’d win.”

The declaration is made like it’s a foregone conclusion. Which, if you’re being honest, isn’t wrong. Still, he should give you some credit. You can hold your own in a fight! Maybe you’re not waving-around-a-three-thousand-pound-ancient-sword good, but you’re decent enough. He’s no fun. Kafka would’ve played around with you.

“How can you be so sure— eek!”

He grabs you by the shoulders and flips you around, reversing your position. Despite the immense speed he used, your head doesn’t hit the ground hard like it should’ve. He cushioned the impact by essentially cradling the back of your head with his hand. This is why you never believe him when he denies being a ‘secret softie.’ You know the truth.

“This is how,” he says.

You pout. “Did I at least put up a good fight?”

His silence speaks volumes.

After getting his fill of how nice you look beneath him, he climbs off you. The second you’re no longer restrained, you begin your counterattack. You lunge at him, intending to pin him down, only to feel the cool leather of his gloves against your wrists. You struggle valiantly to regain your freedom. All this does is amuse him further.

“We’re pretty evenly matched, right?” You ask, beginning to grow breathless from the energy you’re exerting.

The corners of his lips twitch upward.

“Mhm. Right.”

[moonstruckme]

tasm peter parker or james potter x anxious ! reader ??? i literally get so stressed and anxious at night that my heart starts beating rapidly and i can’t do anything let alone sleep 😭😭😭😭 wishing that i wasn’t all alone in this and had some company, but we can imagine ! 😭

Thank for requesting lovely

cw: symptoms of anxiety

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 628 words

Peter’s hand stopped moving on your back a while ago. It now lays flat just below your left shoulder blade. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat from back there. 

“Wanna try some more breaths?” he asks. His voice is soft with drowsiness. 

You inhale slowly, mostly in the hopes that your boyfriend will think you’re calming and he’ll fall asleep. But really, the achey, dissatisfying stretch of your lungs only makes you feel your thundering heartbeat more acutely. Every time you realize how much it hurts, it’s like an invisible boa constrictor wraps tighter around your chest. 

Peter starts rubbing your back again. 

“I don’t think this is sustainable,” you murmur. “You should go to sleep.” 

“What, and leave you by yourself?” he scoffs lightly. Your stomach sinks. If he was approaching sleep, you’ve brought him back. “Not a chance. But if you think it’s not working, we could watch a movie or something.” 

“No,” you say, though it does sound nice. The past couple of nights, you and Peter have cuddled up on the couch with a movie, and when you eventually get tired enough to fall asleep he brings you to bed. It works great for you; the catch is that then he’s the one staying up. 

It’s something about being in your bed, you think. It’s not an inherently unrelaxing place, but when you get into bed at night, the lights off and your home silent, suddenly dread is gripping you like a vice. Your thoughts go where you can’t stop them—you’re hardly quick enough to keep up at all—and before you know what’s happened your heart’s rattling your ribcage like it wants out and your eyes are glossy wet. 

“I don’t think it’s not working,” you tell him now, trying not to sound too hopeless, “I just don’t think it’s realistic for you to spend every night putting me to sleep like an infant.” 

Peter huffs a laugh. “C’mon, don’t be so fussy,” he teases. You pull back a little just so you can glare at him through the darkness. You’re pretty sure he can see you with that super vision of his, yet he chooses to ignore it. “You still wanna be my baby, right?” 

You try to groan, but a little bit of laugh makes it through. “Gross. Not like that.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Your boyfriend chuckles, encouraging you to do the same. Though it’s a begrudging sound, it does loosen something in your chest ever so slightly. “But hey, I don’t mind staying up with you. The anxiety is around going to sleep, right?” 

You hum. 

“Then we’ll give you some new feelings around going to sleep.” Peter leans forward, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. He says it like it’s easy. Like it’s a foregone conclusion, and even if it’s not he’ll just start trying the next thing. “We can do this. I’d rather be awake with you than asleep without you anyways.” 

You burrow in close to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and about twice as slow as yours. “That sounds like a cheesy line you got from a romcom,” you say, your voice inlaid with fondness. 

“Yeah, Sleepless in Seattle.” 

“Really?”

“Nope. Never seen it.” Peter gives your shoulder a firm scrub, and you can practically sense his smile as he lays another kiss on your head. “But it makes what we’re doing seem pretty romantic, huh?” 

If you asked the people who directed those movies, they’d probably be able to think of a million more romantic things you could be doing with your boyfriend than laying still in bed, whispering to each other and trying to outlast frantic thoughts. But to you, right now, it does seem pretty good. 

[moorishflower]

Hey just so you know if you start reblogging shit about how Trump is now definitely gonna win the election and all hope is lost and so why bother trying anything, I'm unfollowing you. I might like you personally, but if your response to that shooting is to just give up and assume the election is a foregone conclusion, you maybe need to do some self-examination about why you feel it necessary to spread further despair instead of using that energy as a galvanizing force for hope or, at the very least (if you feel you have no energy left to fight) not spreading posts that will further demoralize the people who are still fighting.

It is in the best interest of Donald Trump that people who dislike him lose hope and don't turn out to vote because "it doesn't matter," because "Biden is a warmonger," because "nothing ever changes," when we have copious amounts of evidence that things have changed, and Biden has been very quietly and patiently unraveling the tangle of shit that Trump left behind in his first (and G-d willing only) term. The United States are not in a position where huge and radical change is possible at the moment. The country is too large, the states too fragmented, the system of government too spread-out. There is no one entity that can be "overthrown" in order to effect immediate change.

So maybe instead of demanding radical and immediate change that isn't possible, and then whining and moaning when you never get it, maybe do what you can to not spread fear and despair through those who are trying to fight for small, incremental changes.

Me, I'm gonna vote. And I'm gonna bother everyone I know who's 18-26 or so to vote Blue down the ticket, because young voter turnout has historically always been good for the Democratic party.

So yeah. Maybe do some soul-searching. Maybe instead of looking at news you should go for a walk. But also, maybe, stop spreading posts about how the election is in the bag for Trump, because it isn't. There's four months left. There is still time.

Go out and vote. Even if it feels hopeless to you. The least complex of animals will keep fighting even if death seems certain to them, and so should we.

[djarins-cyare]

WIP Weekend

In my last WIP post, I mentioned I was 18k words into my Secret Relationship fic for the Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge, and it had turned into something much longer than I intended. Sooo, yeah, um… it’s now reached ~40k words!

I’d planned to start posting it next weekend, but my firm got audited so I lost a couple of weeks due to working overtime, and I still have three chapters left to write. So I think it’s gonna be a Christmas release now. Sorry for the wait.

But over the last few weeks, I’ve been tagged in WIP posts by @burntheedges, @papurgaatika, @almostfoxglove, @djarinmuse, and @the-mandawhor1an (thank you, my lovelies! 💚), and with my excuses comes another snippet to tide you over until I can release it…

Please check out my last two WIP posts for additional snippets from earlier in the fic, here and here.

I’m switching it up and giving you one from Din’s POV today; the context is that she’s trying to convince him to come to a show the following night (despite Uncle Karga’s vehement disapproval of them being anywhere near each other)…

Her focus drops to her efforts on his dick as she skilfully adjusts her angle without missing a stroke, but he nudges her chin with his thumb. “Look at me, senaar’ika,” he commands through heavy breaths. When he has her attention again, he breathes, “Tion’jor neliser ni nevore gar?” Her eyes shimmer like starlight whenever he speaks Mando’a to her – like she loves to hear it, even though she doesn’t understand it. It’s why he persists in speaking to her in an almost dead language. Now, though, she answers him as if she knows exactly what he just asked. “Please come, Mando.” She could be talking about right now or tomorrow night, but they’re both foregone conclusions. “Yes, fuck,” he gasps, his mouth spilling his agreement about ten seconds before his cock is due to spill his seed. The heat gathering low in his belly flares lower to engulf his balls, and the inferno of his orgasm brightens as it builds. She stokes him for all he’s worth, soft hand on silken skin, eyes still sparkling like the fuse that sizzles inside him… …and it magnifies and spreads, so fiercely thrilling that the alley falls away, and it’s just him and his senaar’ika and the silent symphony of pleasure she’s conducting… …but in an instant, a door swishes, a footstep sounds, and Din is tearing her hand from his pants, drawing his blaster and moving his body to shield hers. The adrenaline from his impending climax converts into combat readiness, but the low growl that erupts through his vocoder is equal parts anger and anguish. “You two out here?” Yerma’s rich and golden tones dissolve his tension, leaving him with the sullen agony of an orgasm snatched away. The ache in his balls, the sting in his pride, and the regret in his heart all battle for top ranking in his pantheon of displeasure. “What’s up?” his alleyway companion asks with enviable poise, stepping past him and around the stack of crates to stop Yerma from coming any closer. He takes the cue to hastily rearrange his underwear and zip up his pants, his erection deflating rapidly alongside his hope. This was a bad idea. As if to illustrate his thought, the Twi’lek states six concerning words. “Your uncle’s in the cafe, sweetie.”

Poor Din! 😬

Tion’jor neliser ni nevore gar? – Why can’t I say no to you?

If you don’t already know what his name for her (senaar’ika) means, I won’t spoil it because it’s vaguely plot-relevant.

If you’re interested in being tagged when I release this, please raise your hand or let me know in whatever way you prefer to communicate. You can also join my tag list if you like.

In the interests of making new friends and being sociable, I thought I should make an effort to tag more widely in WIP posts. I know that since I only write for Din and not all of you are particularly Din girlies (gn), some of you may not be interested in my fics, but I read other Pedro boy fics sometimes (Joel, mostly), and if I’ve tagged you below, it means I think you’re a fantastic writer 💚

No pressure to do a WIP post, or if you’d like to but don’t have anything to share or you’ve already posted this week, feel free to hold onto this tag for whenever’s convenient (that’s what I do 😆) or share something non-WIP related.

@ace-turned-confused @ak-vintage @alltheirdamn @alltheotps @almostempty

@alwaysmicado @ameerawrites @arcanefox207 @aurorawritestoescape @avastrasposts

@baronessvonglitter @beardedjoel @beefrobeefcal @bitchesuntitled @bluestar22x

@cas-readsandwrites @chiriwritesstuff @chronically-ghosted @clawdee @covetyou

@din-cognito @draculasfavoritewife @firstofficerwiggles @guiltyasdave @hapan-in-exile

@itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvest @jeewrites @jennaispunk @joelstummy

@justagalwhowrites @luxurychristmaspudding @mermaidgirl30 @milla-frenchy @moeswriting

@mothandpidgeon @mrsmando @murder-wife @novemberrain-writes @orcasoul

@ozarkthedog @pedgito @pedrospatch @perotovar @quinnnfabrgay-writes

@sawymredfox @schnarfer @soft-persephone @sweetpascal @thischarmingmandalorian

I’m also tagging my regular tag list since this is a snippet of an upcoming fic and a posting schedule update. Thank you all for your support 💚

@chiyo13 @harriedandharassed @leithatnight @lilac-boo @lucienofthelakes

@pigeonmama @punkygreeny @syd-djarin @wrathkitty

[vigilskeep]

do you actually have a ranking or like. rundown of each love interest's particular brand of insanity re: tranquil beloved...? or if that's too big an ask perhaps the highlights.. i am sitting so attentively reading all of the ones you've detailed thus far

in no particular order

zevran: cruel to the end to ask him to have his love’s blood on his hands again, but if he believed it was what they would have wanted, it would be the gentlest, tenderest, of assassinations

morrigan: what power does a templar possess that is beyond her ability to reverse? she will claw the answer from the far corners of the earth and the furthest reaches of the fade before she abandons what is hers

leliana: once, the chantry sunburst was a comfort, a sign of refuge in a world of darkness. now she can only see the one burned into their skin, the wondrous gifts the maker gave to them stolen in the maker’s name, the cruellest game he has played yet. could she keep her faith through such a test? would she even want to?

alistair: there is a hollow in his life that can’t be laughed around. a sick weight in the stomach, remembering flipping his runic token between his fingers in distraction through every chantry lecture where they promised this was necessary. he’s angry. he’s beginning to think he might be a very angry person, really. he’s beginning to think he’s got good reason

fenris: he wonders if, when the lyrium was touched to their forehead, it burned the way his does. he thinks better of asking. there was a time when magic felt like a curse on them both that he couldn’t break. he wants it back

anders: history always repeats itself. there are certain inevitabilities, foregone conclusions, lessons the circle teaches well. you escape, you get caught. you love something, they take it away. you destroy the last thread tethering a mage to humanity—you’re that brutal, that cruel, that stupid—and all you’ll have left is an abomination

merrill: she never understood tranquillity until it was this close; she could never really believe it was possible. it doesn’t matter. her love’s not quite here right now, even as she chatters away to them, but it doesn’t matter. you can fix anything, as long as you’re willing to pay the price

isabela: it’s her own fault, really. her own fault, for taking a chance on someone so targeted, so foolish, so—brave. her own fault for believing them, when they promised she wasn’t going to lose them. she should leave. there’s nothing left for her here. but it’s gotten so hard to run away

sebastian: this changes nothing. his love is as cold as the portraits that line the halls of the palace in starkhaven, as silent and empty as the chantry statues that offer no guidance for what will come. he still kisses their cheek, takes their hand, walks at their side. he is still a husband; he still has his vows, and one more to add to the rest—to find who blackened the maker’s name with this, and teach them what His judgement truly looks like

[marzipanandminutiae]

I never fully understood your annoyance to corset misinformation being spread around, until I went today to an exhibition in a museum about female fashion history, and of course the corset was presented as an item of torture and female repression which we were thankfully saved from by people in the 20th century, thank god, and I wanted to personally go argue with the curator and historian (the exhibition was nicely organized and not all of it was misinformed, but the areas about the 16th to 18th century definitely made me almost scream). It also made mention of the "many illnesses and health problems" all corsets caused to women. So yeah, it was an experience

Yeeeeep.

It's incredibly pervasive- this kind of idea about historical women's clothing, and its sister ideas like Nobody Can Function In Long Skirts Ever, are incredibly common even in the field with professionals who should know better. I've literally been talking to a curator who specialized in clothing history and heard her say "of course, these clothes WERE bad for your health" as a foregone conclusion (she didn't elaborate further and I didn't want to step on toes but in hindsight I should have pushed back a little).

And in the case of that exhibit, they're apparently ignoring the fact that corset-like garments persisted in western fashion up to the 1980s, but as the pure shapewear they believe the earlier examples to be. They may have been called "girdles" or what have you, but women were wearing something around their midsection for no purpose besides body-shaping with remarkable consistency until about 40 years ago. My mother and grandmother remembered wearing them. They just lacked the functional uses of earlier corsets (besides, at times, holding stockings up). So how's that LiberationTM story looking for you now?

I swear, when fashion starts looking more familiar to them and less alien, they just start assuming it was all the same underneath. And these are museum professionals. SMH, indeed.

[raptorific]

I feel like "Joe Biden shouldn't have pardoned his son because now Trump will get away with abusing pardon power on the basis that Joe Biden used it to save his son" is a spurious premise. Donald Trump will abuse pardon power and he will get away with it. Not "might," but "will." That's a hard fact. There is nothing you or me or Joe Biden could possibly do to prevent that. We had a chance to prevent it a few weeks ago and we failed. Since it is now a foregone conclusion that Donald Trump will abuse pardon power and will get away with it, why exactly does it matter what Joe Biden does with it at this point? If anything he should be going buckwild, issuing blanket pardons for himself and his family and all of Trump's political opponents, call the GOP's bluff and force them to either let Joe Biden get away with blatantly weaponizong the system against them, or curtail Pardon Power, cutting their guy off at the knees. There is no "if we don't act right, the Republicans will get away with acting wrong" anymore. The Republicans WILL get away with acting wrong. It no longer does anybody any good to feign being bound by rules that clearly don't apply anymore.