#bitch get COMPETENT!!!

[megkuna]

50% of today was just bitching about coworkers. i can't

[grandwretch]

i do think peak comedy is a steve who is absolutely aware of the effect he has on people, but has never felt that way towards anyone else-- the closest he got was with nancy and robin, because he loved them both in different ways, and sometimes he felt like he was going to go insane if he didn't talk to them or touch them right now, but it was never like he had seen other people act about him. robin and nancy made him a better person. they didn't drive him to ridiculous levels of violence and obsession. maybe people in hawkins were just fucking weird.

and then he meets eddie, falls in love with eddie, and he's like... yeah, okay. alright. no, i get it. if anything happened to this guy i would steal the nuclear launch codes.

[trashogram]

Oh man I rewatched some fizzmodeus scenes…

Yo why do they talk to each other like that??? All the time?!? I think I blocked the baby uwu stuff out of my brain bc this is genuinely hard to sit through.

[popodoki]

Head full, many thoughts, all of them filthy x

Had to get this little bit of Catwin nsfw out, so I can focus better on the other little bits of Catwin nsfw I have planned ദ്ദി ≽^⎚˕⎚^≼ .ᐟ

Content description below the cut

Edwin with a competency kink, the Cat King shreds an enemy for him and they get off on the thrill by rutting against a wall

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The worst part of getting tied up in his own thoughts to the point of missing the impending threat until it was too late, grappling weakly, getting yanked into a malevolent demon’s terrible grip, nearly killed again was, unquestionably, getting tied up in his own thoughts, grappling, getting yanked into a demon’s terrible grip, and nearly killed, again. 

The second worst part of it was that he hadn’t been killed, thanks to the Cat King’s interference, and as a result, his obviously depraved and malfunctioning brain had been given the chance to decide it was the hottest experience of his life. 

Never let it be said that Edwin Payne was above begging. The one contingency of it happening so far, though, was that he was naked, and at the mercy of one mercilessly thorough lover. 

Watching his lover rip apart a demon with his bare hands, claws, with the same kind of merciless thoroughness, made Edwin beg to any even slightly less malevolent being in the universe. Needless, for the obvious ease with which the Cat King ducked out and around the demon’s flaying range, a controlled tension to his body that suggested, proved, his mastery of understanding his own body, and its capabilities. He danced, he played, with the promise, the knowledge of endurance. A predator prolonging the kill, not for amusement, but for the revenge of it all, revenge for Edwin. Swiping razor sharp claws in clean precise arcs towards joints, drawing blood each and every single time, blocking attacks meant to hurt with an intercepting arm, replying in kind with an expert grip, and teeth designed to hurt in turn. Edwin didn’t even know what precisely he was begging for, though his body, its reactions, made the underlying thread quite clear. Clear enough to the Cat King, as well, when he stalked up to Edwin, kill discarded as easily as it was made, crowded him against the wall of the alley, raised blood stained hands with claw tipped fingers towards his face, and found to his surprise Edwin leaning forward, eagerly, to meet those blood stained palms, at the same time the Cat King registered the red liquid dripping down to the pavement and had started to pull his hands back.  

“Please, please, oh Gods,” Edwin croaks, eyes widening in tandem with the Cat King, former in a glorious rush of awe and want, the latter in poorly hidden confusion and a building understanding that makes them both shudder with different levels of excitement as Edwin reaches out himself, “my King,” hands trembling as he cups the Cat King’s cheeks, coming off wet, and his lover smiles at him, with teeth gleaming red among the white, as he looks over Edwin’s shivering frame, sees the opposite of fear, “yeah?” tumbling off lips alongside drops of blood, answered almost immediately by Edwin’s “yes, yes, please.”  

Their lips meet, crash, they slot together, in a facsimile of senseless violence that can only be achieved by two people who know this kind of dangerous dance so well. Edwin licks into the Cat King’s mouth, swallowing down the bitter tang of blood as much as his lover’s moans. He imagines he can almost feel the adrenaline still coursing through his lover’s veins, the minute trembles that wrack the frame pushing him bodily into the bricks behind his back, though it doesn’t deter his lover, and Edwin is likewise ill-deigned to stop him in any way, when the Cat King’s hands grip his thighs and start to lift. He obligingly wraps his legs around his lover’s waist, mirrors the position with his arms flung across the other’s shoulders. There’s a time and place for foreplay, what is going to happen here and now rips the concept apart at the seams in a sense that feels far too right to ignore. The Cat King’s hand behind his head is the only thing preventing a splitting headache as Edwin curves his neck backwards with abandon, flashing the creamy expanse of his neck in an offer, a bid, for conquest, and the Cat King is long past denying them both. 

For a while the only sounds that fill the otherwise deserted alley are grunts and cut off moans, as the sole two occupants rut against each other, in varying degrees of desperation. Somewhere in the fray, the Cat King wraps a hot palm around Edwin’s searing hot cock, pulling his attention away from the throbbing of his neck, bruised and bitten, to a different kind of throbbing. He hadn’t even noticed the other opening his trousers, reaching in, and another shocked little gasp leaves him as he notices the Cat King’s equal state of lust only right as the other roughly jerks their hips together, the resulting flinch and pained hiss, as their sensitive cocks get pushed together hard and fast, rocks through both their bodies at the same time. Edwin’s own hands turn into as close as claws as he can make them, fingernails biting into the Cat King’s shoulders as Edwin’s head bows forward. “More, please. Harder.” The only answer is a snarl, a growl, reverberating through the bunched fabric slowly getting soaked with spit, where the Cat King is biting down on Edwin’s shoulder. The hips slamming into his don’t let up, increase their pace instead, so Edwin sighs, clamps his legs firmer around his lover’s waist, nuzzles his nose into sweat slick hair, and scores deeper red lines along the Cat King’s shoulders as he’s jostled, pushed and thrust into and against the brick wall.  

“There’s definitely something wrong with me.” Edwin mumbles, while he flirts with the edge of pain and pleasure, pulling the Cat King’s hair, guiding his face closer, back to his neck. A rough tongue follows a slick trail over purpling bruises, catching slightly on fang-sized punctures of various depths, followed by a similar rough chuckle close to his ear. Edwin rolls his ass against the wall, pushes back into the sparce space between their bodies, every brush of the Cat King’s cock against his own sweet, sweet agony. Hips grind into his, hard, unforgiving, as his lover whispers “Are you afraid, Edwin, just a little?”  

Edwin’s back scrapes against the rough surface of the bricks lining the wall with every thrust of the Cat King’s hips, no matter the fabric of his coat. The hands curled around his thighs are still claw tipped, blood rusted into an even darker shade of red, flaking off, littering their hips. He’s so close, they both are. The Cat King’s smile is dangerous, when their eyes meet. If Edwin pushes back, the Cat King will back off in an instant. He will have had his taste. As will Edwin. The Cat King has always been far more patient than Edwin. “Yes.” 

“Good,” the Cat King whispers back, low and dark. “You should be. I want no mere submission from you. I want you to struggle, against your instincts, your better judgement, to give yourself to me. I want you to give yourself to me, regardless. I. want. you,” the words come out with far more tenderness than the moment deserves, and his voice tapers off, into deep throated growls, the sound of victory, that lingers long after they’ve both come.  

[frogaroundandfindout]

“You can’t just run away from your whole life, I won’t let you.”

“Stop it! Stop avoiding me!”

“Aren’t you even going to try to hit me? Acknowledge me! Damn it Bruce!”

Dick gets upset when Batman says bruce has always been a mask to him and refuses to acknowledge dick’s place in his life as Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. Dick then tries to provoke Bruce into a fight to make him stay (Batman #600)

[leupagus]

BRB giving all the Lannisters a way more satisfying story arc than the one the show foisted on them

x

The wedding celebrations for Trystane's brother Quentyn and his new bride Desmera Redwyne lasted for nearly a fortnight, with dancing and feasting and even fireworks set off over the bay at the Water Gardens. Every noble in Dorne (and half the nobles of the Reach) had come; even Prince Doran had attended, and it seemed to do him good. His pain-lined face had been wreathed in smiles and he had sat at the head of the table at nearly every meal, coming out from his seclusion for the first time in ages.

Trystane noticed, too. "I don't think I have ever seen Papa so happy," he whispered, leaning toward her during the feast on the last night.

"It's because he has got rid of one troublesome son," she teased him, tapping her finger on his nose. It was true enough: tomorrow, Quentyn and Desmera would travel back to the Arbor where they would take up their duties as heirs to Paxter Redwyne.

Trystane scrunched his nose and moved closer to her on the bench, sliding his arm around her waist. "Soon he will be got rid of another," he murmured in her ear, kissing her gently on the cheek, then the neck.

"Ah, ah, this is not your wedding yet, little brother," warned Arianne as she briskly tapped them on their shoulders, pushing them firmly aside so that she could sit between them. "Room enough for the Mother, if you please."

"You're my sister, not my mother," Trystane grumbled. "And there isn't enough room for your backside!"

"Trystane!" Myrcella protested, but Arianne had it well in hand.

"If I were Mama, I would spank you on yours," she told him, and swatted at him anyway. Trystane yelped and hit her back, and their end of the table erupted into chaos as brothers and sisters, cousins and friends all shrieked and jabbed at each other, tickling and pinching as one can only do to those one truly loves.

Arianne and Myrcella had been thick as thieves when she had first arrived at Sunspear, still dreadfully homesick and afraid. Uncle Tyrion had promised her that the people of Dorne would treat her well; but though everyone had been kind, it was only Arianne who had truly been a friend at first. She had sneaked into Myrcella's room and hid behind drapes or under the bed to jump out at her, shown her the sights of the Water Gardens and Planky Town alike, even encouraged her to speak with Trystane, who at 15 had been terribly spotty and sulky.

Then Arianne had gone to visit her mother and her family, in far-off Norvos. It had been planned for only a few months, but the time had stretched on and on, and only Quentyn's marriage had brought her back at last. Myrcella had missed her even as she had grown closer with Trystane, and part of her dreaded their marriage that would take her away from the drowsy warmth and comfort of Arianne's company, even as it would deliver her back to her family at King's Landing.

Later that night, Myrcella crept into Arianne's chambers and hid inside the great wardrobe, keeping the door half-open as it had been already. (Arianne was shockingly untidy for a princess, and refused to allow any servant in her quarters to deal with the resulting mess. She used to drag Myrcella to her rooms once a month or so and make her sit on the bed, while Arianne picked up the clothes strewn about the floor or flung over the backs of chairs and complained about her own bad habits. Already, Myrcella thought, Arianne could do with a good cleaning.) A short while later the door to the chamber opened and Myrcella readied herself to jump out, just as Arianne had done to her so often.

But Arianne was not alone.

"—Yronwoods aren't pleased by the match," someone was saying. "Lord Anders thought Quentyn would marry Gwyneth, after being fostered with them for so long."

It was Ellaria Sand. She hadn't been seen overmuch at Sunspear since returning from King's Landing two months ago, Lord Oberyn's body in tow. Since then she'd avoided the court, instead spending time with Oberyn's daughters. The few times Myrcella had seen her, Ellaria had been as warm and friendly as before, but with a knife-edge to her smile that Myrcella recognized all too well from the courtiers in the Red Keep. She'd had taken care not to be alone with Ellaria, nor with the Sand Snakes, since then.

"Then Lord Anders is a fool," said Arianne in her sing-song voice, "and should be regarded as such. Gwyneth is a lovely girl, but she is far too little for a Prince of Dorne. The Arbor is a more valuable holding and the Redwynes far more valuable allies."

"And once Trystane is married to his blonde bastard girl, you will have both your brothers safely out of Dorne," said Ellaria. There was the sound of clothing being moved about, and Ellaria sitting down. "Really, dear, you ought to have someone clean in here. There could be mice, for all you know."

Arianne laughed, as though Ellaria had only insulted her housekeeping. Myrcella's hands clenched into fists. Was this what Arianne truly thought of her? And in Dorne, of all places! Where Ellaria herself, and all her lover's daughters, carried the last name of Sand! Ellaria had made much of the Dornish saying that bastard children were born of love and passion, and thus as trueborn as any child conceived by wedded parents. But clearly she held Myrcella in as much contempt as any of the rest of them would back home, if they knew the truth.

They never knew King Robert, the man who'd never once looked at her or her brothers but with resentment and bitterness. None of her mother's children had been loved, not by that oafish lumbering stag who saw them all as shackles that tied him to the Lannisters he hated so much. What shame was there in knowing her true parents, at least, loved each other? And loved their children, even if only one could dare show it? Myrcella wanted to burst out of the wardrobe and declare that she would gladly call herself Myrcella Waters — Myrcella Lannister — and dare anyone to judge her for it. 

But she huddled further into herself and listened, to hear what else Arianne might say.

"I've stayed away too long," is what she said, "if you're this comfortable calling poor Myrcella such names. She's done nothing to you—"

The scrape of a chair signaled that Ellaria had risen once again. "Her family murdered your uncle, who you seemed once to love—"

"—and yet I have been informed of a certain present you sent to Queen Cersei just a few days ago," Arianne overrode her. "A snake, with Myrcella's pendant in its mouth. Hardly subtle, my dear."

Ellaria did not answer, and Myrcella put her hand to her mouth to keep her own silence. Her pendant had gone missing during the wedding celebrations, she had thought a victim of one of the more energetic dances on that first night. But Ellaria had got hold of it somehow? And sent it to Mother as a...threat, it seemed. Or a warning.

"What do you want, Ellaria?" asked Arianne with more gentleness than Myrcella felt capable of. "The Lannisters have already suffered, even if not by our hand: their patriarch dead, their firstborn dead, their brother Tyrion probably dead and certainly dead to them. Even Casterly Rock itself is in dire straits, from what I've heard. You've spoken to my father a great deal of vengeance — but where will it end? Will it be satisfied with Myrcella's death? Or do you need every child of theirs to die, before killing Cersei and Jaime?"

"I—" Ellaria's voice was thick, and there was a long moment of quiet before she spoke again. "I do not know," she said at last, as if confessing.

"Well, I do know," said Arianne briskly, "and I will tell you, if you will listen."

"...I will," said Ellaria slowly. Myrcella hardly dared breathe.

"Good. I did not linger in Norvos for nothing, much as I love Mama. Do you remember Illyrio Mopatis, the magister from Pentos? We met him years ago, when I was a girl and you and Oberyn took me with you to Essos. You were pregnant with Dorea, I think, and Obella and Tyene followed you everywhere with pillows for your chairs. Illyrio then got you a litter and had you carried everywhere."

"Gods, yes," Ellaria said, chuckling. "And he had one to match!"

"Uncle Oberyn kept crowding out the litterbearer in the front so that he could carry you," Arianne said. "At any rate, I saw him — Illyrio. He came for a visit to Mama's estate, and we spoke at great length about certain plans he has been making."

Ellaria's laugh now was sour. "Ah yes, he and the Spider have been making those plans for nearly twenty years, haven't they? Put the Targaryen boy back on the throne with the assurance that this one is sane." She snorted. "They thought Rhaegar was sane, too."

"If by 'this one,' you refer to Viserys Targaryen, his sanity is a moot point," said Arianne. "He's dead. Has been for several years, apparently. But his sister Daenerys has survived. She's been making quite a nuisance of herself in Slaver's Bay. Along with her three dragons, Illyrio tells me."

"Dragons?" Ellaria scoffed. "Illyrio's always said a great number of things. That never made any of them true."

"Which is why I want you to go and find out what is true. Meet with this Daenerys Stormborn yourself. Take her measure. I could only discover so much in Norvos, with Mama's eye always on me. She doesn't approve of Papa's conciliation to the Red Keep, but stories of Targaryen princesses and their dragons aren't to her liking, either."

"Are they to your liking?" Whatever response Arianne made, it seemed to satisfy Ellaria. "Very well. I have two conditions."

"Only two?"

"First, I shall first go to Pentos first and speak directly with Illyrio. He never could lie to me, and if he is so sure Daenerys Targaryen is the true ruler of Westeros then he'll be willing to back that up with coin and supplies. Which we'll need, in abundance."

Arianne sighed. "Very well. Though if you venture so close to Norvos, Mama will insist you visit her."

Ellaria made a prevaricating sound. "Your mother always liked me best."

"She did. And does. What is your second condition?"

"Our daughters come with me. All of them."

"No," Arianne said flatly. "Aside from the fact that it will look strange to have all the Sand Snakes gone, Lorenza is barely seven years old. You would take her across the Narrow Sea to a slave city?"

"Better than leave her here, where Doran can fill her head with his witterings about peace and forgiveness," Ellaria snapped. "If she dies — if any of us die — at least we will not live like your father."

"Take Nymeria and Tyene," Arianne countered. "Obara, if you must. The rest of the Snakes are better off here. What would Sarella do in Meereen, or Astapor, or Yunkai? Those cities do not have a reputation for academic pursuits."

"She can bring her books with her. All of us go, or none. I want nothing of Oberyn left behind for someone else to take from me."

Arianne sighed. "I'll consider it. But I want you to consider, too. If this Daenerys Stormborn is what she is said to be, she will retake the Iron Throne 'with fire and blood.' Take care that it is not your blood, my dear."

They spoke for a bit longer, until the bells chimed the hour and Ellaria departed. How long until Arianne went to bed? Myrcella might stay here the whole night and then what would she do? Who could she tell? Who did she want to tell?

"You are thinking loudly enough to wake the entire palace, little lioness," said Arianne, and opened the wardrobe door all the way. Myrcella shrank back but it was no use; Arianne was looking down at her, shaking her head. "Let's talk, so that you might be a little quieter."

"Are you going to kill my brother?" she asked, not moving.

"No," Arianne said, with a certainty that Myrcella could not help but believe. "Nor will I let anyone else. We do not hurt children in Dorne." She held out her hand, and Myrcella took it.

They sat down on the bench near the window, the one that overlooked the whole of the palace and beyond that, the city of Sunspear itself. The stars here were clear and bright, even with the torches and lights from below burning merrily at this late hour.

"Tommen's in King's Landing, not Dorne," was the first thing Myrcella could think of to say. "And he's not a child anymore." Nor am I, she thought.

Arianne rolled her eyes. "So literal. I forgot this about you. You're right — he's a man grown now, and a husband soon, and already a king. But he is not to blame for the way things are now, anymore than Viserys and Daenerys were to blame for what their father and brother did during the Rebellion."

"My father always said Uncle Stannis should have killed them when he had the chance." She could remember that argument well, as it was one Robert made whenever Uncle Stannis irritated him — which was often. You had only to take them and drown them, and you couldn't even manage that! My brother the great tactician, bested by infants! 

"I very much doubt your father said any such thing," said Arianne tartly, "Though I am sure King Robert said it often enough." She tilted her head as she regarded Myrcella. "When did you first realize? About your parents?"

Myrcella hesitated, but it seemed silly to pretend ignorance now, of all times. "I've always known, I think. When the ravens came from Dragonstone, from Uncle Stannis, saying that we were bastard-born...it wasn't a surprise." Nor had she been surprised at her not-uncle's blunt declaration, cutting himself off from all claims of blood and family. Stannis had always been a hard man to love; she suspected he found it hard to love others in turn. Perhaps it had been as great a relief to him as it had been to her, to know there was nothing that bound them to each other after all.

"I am glad you know," said Arianne, "but that is one reason I wanted you to hear Ellaria's plans, as well as my own. She wants to hurt your mother and father very badly. Her rage has made her blind. My hope is that distance, as well as time, will allow her to see clearly again. But in the meanwhile it is best for everyone if you and she are far away from each other."

"But...those things you said, about Daenerys Targaryen. You want her to come here?"

Arianne sighed and took Myrcella's hands in hers. They were small and soft, dwarfed by Myrcella's long fingers. "Daenerys Stormborn is coming here. Nothing can stop that; sooner or later, she will arrive with her dragons, and she will take the Iron Throne. If your brother and your parents are to survive it, they must have somewhere to go. Someone who will take them in."

Myrcella stared at her. She couldn't mean Dorne; for one thing, Mother would never agree to live out her days here, strolling about the Water Gardens and bathing in the Summer Sea. For another, the Martells and the Targaryens had a complicated enough relationship; even Doran, even Arianne, wouldn't risk the wrath of a new queen by hosting the old king.

"Perhaps Highgarden—" but even as Myrcella said it she could see it for the farcical suggestion it was. She'd never met the Queen of Thorns, but she knew the Tyrells had sided with the Targaryens during the Rebellion; Olenna Tyrell would be only too happy to turn the Lannisters right back over to Daenerys should they put a foot wrong, even if Tommen's marriage to Margaery went through. Which left—

"Casterly Rock," she said, and felt ashamed that it had taken her so long to understand. "You want me to hold the Westerlands." It made sense: Jaime was still in the Kingsguard and likely to remain so, and Uncle Tyrion was long gone (and would be barred from inheriting anyhow, given the accusations that he had murdered Grandfather). Uncle Kevan and Lancel might have claims to it, but Tommen's last letter had mentioned Lancel's latest obsession with some odd religious sect that had gained popularity in the Crownlands. Which left...herself, of all the remaining Lannisters.

Arianne nodded. "Casterly Rock. You were raised to be the wife of a great lord. But I think you are better suited to be a great lord yourself." She lifted her eyebrows. "More importantly, little lioness, what do you think?"

All at once she wanted it more than breath: a home of her own, a castle, a people, a kingdom. A chance to be fair and kind and noble not just amongst the simpering painted faces of court, but in a place where fairness and kindness mattered. She could take Casterly Rock and make something more of it than the just golden bank of Westeros. Myrcella could feel a ravening hunger in her that she'd never imagined, that would take all of the Westerlands to sate.

Myrcella held on tightly. She could feel her fingers turning to claws, her hair a wild mane. "Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but roaring louder in her head, in her throat, in her chest. "Yes."

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Side request that isn’t on your WIP list at all, but if you ever wanted to share any snippets or to have an excuse to work on your hockey au (perhaps as a way of coping with watching the Bruins), then like

🌹

🏒🥅⛸️

Hockey AU my belovedddddd And thank you for encouraging me and listening to me drone on about it months ago. It has been on my mind as I watch my B's (which I am doing currently and they are actually winning!). For your generous ask, here is the (current draft) to the opening that gives insight into the fic itself:

Rebecca watched the movers take the David Hockney painting off the wall with a mixture of regret and disappointment. She should have asked for it in the divorce. Instead-she got the hockey club. She was now the proud owner of the Richmond Greyhounds, no matter how hard Rupert tried to destroy the team prior to her takeover. No matter how hard Rupert tried to destroy her. 

She survived him. And she wouldn’t let him take this team from the fans. Now Rebecca simply had to figure out exactly how she was going to do that. 

“Oh, surely not the Hockney, too?” Higgins grimaced, watching the mover carry it out the door of Rebecca’s office as he entered and took one of the chairs across from her desk. “That must be worth a million pounds.”

“I know Higgins, but we have bigger problems at the moment.”

Higgins made a strangled noise, “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with why you’re still here,” Rebecca said. “And why you didn’t follow my ex-husband out the door?”

Another startled sound escaped his lips. 

“Well, I believe in this team, and I’m not willing to walk away when I think it can still be saved,” Higgins answered. 

“We have a lot of work to do. Rupert did his best to run this team into the ground.”

“Unfortunately, I am well aware,” Higgins said. “And with all due respect, Mrs–Ms Welton, why are you here? Why do you want to be here?”

Rebecca sighed. She knew there would be a lot of questions regarding her position, so she might as well start swinging. 

“Did you know Rupert bought the team for me? It was a wedding gift. Not for me to be involved, of course, but my present was him owning the team.”

“Don’t tell that to Mrs Higgins; she’ll have much higher hopes for our next anniversary.”

Rebecca smiled sadly, “He forgot our anniversary the next year.”

Higgins winced. 

“But! Not the point!” Rebecca said with a forced cheer. “The point is we need to turn this team around and we only have eight games left to do it. If you’re ready to help me do that, I’m promoting you to team General Manager. Patrick has not built the team that we need. I think you will do a much better job of it than he has.”

“Patrick left with Rupert, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

Higgins nodded a few times as if unsurprised by this development. Higgins has worked at Richmond since before Rupert bought the team, working his way through the ranks, becoming loyal to Rupert and Rebecca wondered how loyal he would be to her, but she had little time to find a replacement.

“Let’s start with the team itself,” Rebecca said. “We are severely under the salary cap, Rupert choosing to save money rather than pay players.”

“While there aren’t many players available in free agency at the moment, and we don’t have enough assets for many trades, but I do have a lead on a sniper from Manchester City we might be able to get for under-market value. He’s an up-and-coming talent, but seems like he’s worn out his welcome with his current club, and no one else is willing to take a chance on him ruining a changing room. He’s a free agent at the end of the season, so it would just be a loaner, and there is absolutely no chance he’ll resign.”

“Make it happen. We need whatever help we can get for the rest of the season.”

[lesbianladyeboshi]

I must point out at no point in these Umbrella Chronicles novel scenes did Chris actually meet or speak to Wesker. Hoe regularly talks to himself about Chris in canon.

Also need it known that Jill was there for the Tyrant Confrontation and is fighting alongside Chris the whole damn time.

I hope the remakes keep "Wesker ignores all women and refuses to speak to them for Chris" because it's funny and iconic.

[thetimelordbatgirl]

I ain't gonna lie: as soon as you say JK Rowling, Elon Musk and Logan Paul have spoke on Imane Khelif taking part in the olympics, you just know without reading they raised no actual valid points and instead just went transphobic in whatever they said...all the while not once researching to find out that, ahem: IMANE KHELIF ISNT TRANS. She just has high levels of testosterone, but otherwise is a cis female. The transphobia went from being a bigot to trans people to just being pure sexist and saying anyone who isn't perfect standards of womenhood are suddenly trans... ...Also painting strong women as either a man or a fragile victim who got beaten by a 'man' (Imane's opponent...granted I've been seeing mixed things on how she took the situation and how she's been acting so like, dunno if she's helping encourage this narrative or not), because as we all know, according to terf's, women just can't do anything and men for some reason have an advantage at everything, including fucking chess...

[crossbackpoke-check]

yOu'Re gOiNg fOr a LiTeR? | "Habs react to Quebec Maple facts", 10.22.24

[glxybld-mustdie]

how i genuinely look like when i go in a random store and i try to convince myself that i will start getting hit on if i buy a fedora and look like patrick stump (my mum would kill me if i spent 10 bucks on a fedora)

[minicy]

Daily reminder that rural queer people exist, that queer people aren't a city-dwelling monolith, and that it's actually extremely badass/tight as fuck/based for rural queer people to enjoy living on farms and in rural communities, and to have connections to people in their communities, and to want better for their communities as well. If u think higher than average Trump-voting margins mean an entire place and group of people deserve to be abandoned and turned into a punch line then you are not a good person ✌

[dsmsix]

got back on twitter and was called bigoted towards gay men within the day. these people don’t understand the sibling rivalry between fags and dykes.

it was all because of a joke tweet about gay men stealing lesbian tv shows and how they should get their own fucking jobs. and my tweet was aimed at a friend who literally calls me fucking “truck driver” cause im a dyke like lmaoo be serious rn

[your-mom-friend]

i looked it up out of curiosity and i think it's fucking hilarious that the OG 5 members of the straw hat pirates are all like, under 20. they were out conquering the east blue because they couldn't be at the club they were too young

[trappedinafantasy37]

Haven't been able to get Shadowheart x Minthara outta my head and I may have accidentally written some... stuff involving them... So, time to get back to the Shadowheart origin so I can actually write a cohesive framework and write a proper fic. Now, where were we?

Finally made it to the city! Yay! Prepare yourselves Baldurians, a pair of evil lesbians with a fetish for mass murder is coming for you!

HAHA! Lesbian party! Do you think if we bully her enough we can convert Minthara to Selune? She's already got the hair for it.

I will never tire of seeing this dialogue tag. There are not enough words to describe just how much I fookin hate Shar. Forget the Dead Three, I wanna kill Shar.

She could be looking out in the Astral Plane, looking at the beauty and wonder of the never ending frontier of space. A pocket dimension that few are privy of seeing. To view the corpses of gods who have died long ago. But instead, Minthara looks at the most beautiful thing she can find...

"Unnerving though it is, if we are to face an elder brain, we could have no better ally than an illithid. The Emperor is the reason we have made it this far, and if the gith prince's suffering is the price of our survival, so be it." - Minthara Baenre for the 384th time.

We have officially made it to Act 3! Yay! There's so much we have to do. I'm still debating on what other side quests I want to complete since I don't really have the other companions around to compel me to go do them.

<Moonrise and End of Act 2 | Rivington >

[gotta-bail-my-quails]

man i thought i moved out to escape my family but it turns out i've jumped from the pan into the fire because holy shit my guys what the fuck??