#enjoy my mediocre

[bushflannelsart]

More self-indulgent DE bush pilot AU. Harry was volun-told to help the new pilot unload and move his belongings into his new residence.

Electrochemistry - You should go through his things. Maybe he's brought some good stuff from the *outside*.

Encyclopedia - Jamrock has drug and alcohol problems just like any remote northern town in Revachol. However, due to access points being limited to air and, water during the warmer months, illicit substances are harder to come by than in other, more connected communities.

Esprit De Corps - I highly doubt an ex-lieutenant of the Revachol Air Force is a drug mule.

Conceptualization - Yes, ex-lieutenant. He may look like he has a stick up his ass, but he might've been kicked out of the military.

Empathy [Easy: Success] - He's definitely too straight-laced for drug smuggling.

Logic [Trivial: Success] - He also wasn't kicked out of the military for misconduct. You were literally in the office when McLaine and Torson shared what they had dug up about him. They said he was released under service completed.

Electrochemistry - Still, when's the next chance we're going to have to see his stuff.

Logic - People's belongings say a lot about a person.

You - OK maybe just a quick peek.

Perception [Challenging: Success] - You quietly lift the lid of the sturdy box you're crouched beside. The shadow from the plane's wing makes it hard to see what's inside, but you can somewhat make out the shape of... a sewing machine?

Kim Kitsurag - "Khm, Officer."

Reaction Speed [Easy: Fail] - Shit!

Composure [Easy: Fail] - Shit!

Volition - Busted.

[saetiate]

hot take but i think sae prefers to be causing you to have reactions and doing things to you and watching the way you gasp and moan and how you heave for him, over receiving blowjobs. the part he really likes about blowjobs is watching you cry sometimes. it's also the vulnerability of having you watch him have a reaction the whole time you're doing something to him, i think that vulnerability is a bit much for him. he would much rather have his hands and mouth on you instead

[good-to-drive]

When someone says they wanna fuck that old man and it's a rock star who's been drenched in sex appeal for decades and has fucked hundreds of women I do respect and enjoy that, but when someone says they want to fuck that old man and it's Conan Christopher O'Brien, a man drenched in sexless Catholicism who is 90% leg and 100% heart, well, I just think that's pretty darn neat.

[carmenpeach]

boy x boy dont like dont look!!2!

[nat-20s]

Martin Blackwood writing extremely mediocre poetry for himself and himself alone in his late 20s is like soooo endearingly cringey but then YOU try writing extremely mediocre poetry for yourself and yourself alone in your late 20s and it's like OH. OH GIRL I GET IT!

[silverseaming]

Quiet means something different in Winter. It’s not only the absence of sound but the absence of movement, as if the whole world has burrowed away into hibernation. Even before the first snow the ground is frost-hard and branches are bare of leaves. It’s peaceful, strangely. Perhaps that’s the reason Kit finds himself still sat in the barn, long after he should have gone in for the night. It’s never intentional, the one more job after dinner that turns into just go to bed without me, love, I won’t be long, but it’s become all too frequent. He’s managed to convince himself that it’s easier than going back inside, lying awake next to Meg and feeling so utterly helpless. Knowing that she’s unhappy and being utterly powerless to make it better.

Something about the almost painful prickling of cold on his cheeks and fingers brings him back to himself, a tether, of sorts. It’s not enough to keep him aware of his surroundings though, and the sound of boots on the barn floor is a surprise. Meg stands in the doorway, shivering slightly despite the shawl wrapped over her nightgown. She’s almost ghostly, hovering at the edge of Kit’s vision until he turns to look at her.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” She asks tentatively. There’s something more than concern in her voice that Kit can’t quite make out.

“Of course, love. Right away.” The response is flat, a reflex; the words leave his mouth before he can think of anything better to say. What else can he say? That seeing her upset feels like it will break him, but the guilt of shying away is breaking him more?

“Really, Kit? I went to bed, and when I woke up you still weren’t there.” It’s resignation, that’s what he’d missed. Tired acceptance of some painful fact. She continues with an even smaller voice: “It’s alright if you don’t want to— but please come inside, it’s too cold to stay out here.”

Suddenly Kit looks up at Meg anew — this isn’t his Meg, who would lovingly scold him for catching his death and then drag him to the house by an arm. This Meg puts on a brave face, but she’s been strung out by disappointment. How could you have left her alone?

“Oh, love.” Kit stands to take her hand, her fingers are ice cold. “Love, it’s not that I don’t want to, I promise.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t blame you, I’ve failed you—” Meg’s voice trembles slightly. It feels like someone’s plunged a fist into Kit’s chest and closed it around his heart.

“Don’t you dare say that, Meg. If anyone’s failed anyone, I’ve failed you.” Words have never come easily or eloquently, and they seem to stick in the back of his throat, coming out painful and thick. “I— I can’t stand seeing you sad like this, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better, and— hell, if I could just give you a child I would, but I can’t. ”

“I’m not asking you for a child, Kit, you silly man. At least not like that.” Meg can’t help a small damp giggle. “I’m just asking my husband to be here. With me. To come to bed and hold me like he used to. If you think you can manage that, we can take care of the rest later.”

“Of course, my love.” This time Kit means it. He reaches a hand to Meg’s cheek, tracing it gently. Once again he wonders how he could have stayed away from her. The cold of the stable floor is a poor substitute for her warmth curled into him, the grounding pricks of frost nothing compared to Meg’s hands tangled in his hair. Every other thought pales in comparison, even the gnawing guilt-creature nestled at the pit of his stomach quiets. There will be plenty of time to feel it all later. “Forgive me, I should never have left you alone.”

“You’re forgiven, Mr Calloway. As long as you come in now, before you catch your death out here.” That's more of his Meg, though far softer and more tender than he deserves as she leans into his touch.

“Never mind me catching my death, you’re not wearing nearly enough.” Kit pulls Meg close as they wander back towards the farmhouse. She fits just right against him, still shivering slightly.

“That’s because I was sleeping, as you should have been.” Meg reproaches, though she nestles in tighter, hair tickling the side of Kit’s neck as she leans into his shoulder. “Anyway, I shan’t catch my death. Then what would you and Daisy do without me?”

“You make a good point, love,” Kit chuckles softly.

In their bedroom the fire is just going out, casting the whole room in a rosy glow. Meg’s head rests on Kit’s pyjama-striped shoulder. Tiredness is beginning to tug at the edges of his awareness, but it’s a pleasant, languid sensation.

“Kit?”

“Yes, love?” Kit murmurs.

“Do you promise not to do that again?” Meg asks, suddenly serious.

“I promise.” Cross my heart and hope to die.

“Good.”

When Meg pulls him down for a kiss Kit feels he might just die right there, never mind about his promise. Her lips are warm and gently and relieved and it’s so right. Not for the first time the only thought he can muster is to thank God for giving him Margaret Anne.

[aiura-stan]

more shitty saiki doodles

[mstiemountainhop]

For Luztoye week Day 1: I'll Be Seeing You by Billie Holliday

TAGLIST: @eightysix-baby @dontirrigateme @iceman-kazansky @1waveshortofashipwreck @wherethefairiesandgnomeslive @executethyself35 @brosreal @ipractical-joker @ithinkabouttzu

[romance-rambles]

eden ayn | the best of distractions

A moment in time, where Ayn attempts to write a letter and then promptly gets distracted.

1.7k, takes place during ayn's eden reborn ssr [traveler's letter], domestic fluff + light angst, reader is mc, series: none

— and happy birthday ayn!

[EXCERPT FROM AYN'S LETTER]

...

That day, I told you that you were my first—the first time I missed someone as deeply as I miss you. Thinking about it now, you've always been a series of first. The first one to tell me I'm worth it. The first person I ever kissed. The first person

[The rest of the line has yet to be written.]

As I'm writing this, I think of you, sitting on the couch with me. I'm sure your ears are as red as mine, but you'll still reach out and pinch my cheek. And I'll kiss the palm of your hand and you'll say, "You like me." As if you won't kick your feet and squeal, when you're alone—the way you do when you're reading a good book.

Since I'm a good lover, I'll pretend I didn't hear anything. Or that I don't know why you're suddenly in a clingier mood than normal. And I'm sure the next words out of your mouth when you read this will be, "That's only because you like being mean to me."

Whenever I write my letters, I think of everything about you. Your eyes, your smile, your cold feet—and the way you use me like a personal heater. About how I'm grateful you stayed, no matter how selfish I feel afterwards. About what it would be like if we were sitting together, instead of kilometers apart.

And now you'll say, "That wouldn't be a problem if you'd just take me with you."

...

[End of excerpt]

AYN STARES AT HIS HALF-FINISHED letter, keenly aware of the warmth traveling up his cheeks—a scene that, much to his chagrin, can't be chalked up to the rising sun outside his window. His only saving grace is that you remain entranced with the Ayn of your dreams, muttering blissfully about how cute he is, all the while oblivious to how cute you are.

It remains to be seen whether he'll include that part in the final letter. Or the part about how you clung so stubbornly to his sleeve as he was leaving that he feared you would wake up the moment he shook himself free.

Because, as it turns out, baring his soul on paper is no less embarrassing than it would be in person.

In fact, he'd wager it's more embarrassing.

Words spoken will eventually disappear. Only their memory will remain, and only in the hearts of the parties involved. Words written, however, can live on forever. So long as the letter remains, anyone can read it.

…provided they can wrestle it out of your zealous grip.

And, truthfully, not many can.

As he sets down his weapon of choice, his promise to you rings out clearly in his mind, reminding him that there's no escaping his commitment. After all, it was the only way he could think of to ease your disappointment—his deepest thoughts exchanged for another stay in Eden, where you would await his safe return.

Where you'd be safe.

Then a spark of inspiration paves the way for his next paragraph. The truth is, Ayn is aware that his desire to keep you safe is, in many ways, selfish. You were not the one who nearly lost control of your powers. You were not the one bedridden for weeks, vaguely aware of the hand holding yours, yet unable to open your eyes.

That was him.

And if something happened to him out in the harsh world that resides beyond Eden, you would be forced to twiddle your thumbs as the manifestation of your bond left you in agony. But you would be safe. He's allowed to hope for that much, isn't he?

Until he finds an end to the sands outside of Eden, at least.

After all, there were times when the roles nearly reversed, and it was him who had to stay by your bedside, even if only for a night or two.

"Alright, what else?" he mutters to himself, his gaze flickering towards the sizable gap left between his paragraphs. Somehow, it's enough to help him swallow down his guilt. Temporarily, at least. "What to add…what to add…"

Home is where the heart is, and where his heart sits is in the palm of your hands. And with that distinction comes his clumsy dreams for the future—a ring on your finger, and a matching one on his, followed by a kiss that comes too early.

But you laugh against his mouth, painted lips slanting into a smirk as you pull away first. The friends that have followed them both this far have many things to say, and on the topic of his affection, in particular. It boils down to this:

Ayn is whipped for his wife—and proud of it.

In that way, you are also a first.

He just has no idea how to tell you that.

Closing his eyes, Ayn lets out a sigh. It happens to coincide with the creaking of the door. This room was once a bedroom, but you had it converted into an office for the nights when you'd bring your work home with you.

When he asked—jokingly, wanting to have a turn at seeing you stutter and blush—why you couldn't have made this into his bedroom, you merely raised an eyebrow at him. Ayn had read enough of O'Connor's trashy romance novels by then to know that the correct answer was to back out of the discussion entirely.

As he leans back against his chair, twirling the pencil in his hand aimlessly, the feather light footsteps he's grown accustomed to come to a halt. Neither of you dare to breathe. A stalemate—and you're the one to break it.

You draw closer; the anticipation leaves him antsy. His heart is stuck on taking a peek. His mind is intent on biding his time. The hand left empty hovers by the edge of the desk, its owner knowing well how much you love your spoilers.

If he can discretely grab the letter before you notice—

A pair of hands—frosty, despite the lovely weather indoors, not helped by the ring on your finger—cover up his already closed his eyes. The empty hand changes its prerogative. It comes to rest on your wrist, squeezing gently before its other half joins it on your other hand.

Ayn opens his eyes and sees darkness.

"Morning," you say, and even without seeing your face, he knows of your silly grin. "So this is where you've been. Couldn't sleep?"

The weight against his back assures him you have no intention of swiping his draft. Your gentle tone asks, nightmare?

A faint smile slips onto his face. There is a kind of affection he's come to realize exists only for you. And if his heart is a cup, carefully built glued back together with a technique he's read of in the history books (kintsugi, he remembers, the art of mending broken pottery), then the surge of affection he feels is threatening to overflow.

For once, what kept him up was not a nightmare.

It was this letter—and you.

"You tend to snore, remember?" he tells you, mischief dripping from his words.

You do. Just not enough to disturb his sleep. But it's always fun to pretend, especially when it leaves you huffing and pouting indignantly. Like now.

"I do not."

"Ask anyone else." Before you can pull away and cross your arms, Ayn tugs your hands down. They sit encircling his neck, leaving his own hands to properly grasp yours. "They'll say I'm right."

Your hands have always been on the softer side. It's a consequence of your upbringing, in a world that knows mostly peace. Sometimes, he'll catch a paper cut on one of your fingers—and Ayn does not believe kissing it better works, but he makes sure to give it a try anyway.

As his scarlet eyes soften, he leaves a light kiss on the palm of your hand, then on the cool metal band on your ring finger. A simple promise ring, one he'd clumsily welded together with his powers.

"Morning," he greets, for no particular reason.

Something soft presses against his cheek, a flash of muted purple appearing in the corner of his eye. It's succeeded by a soft laugh, one that—like others of its kind—lodges itself in some distant corner of his brain, for the days when he misses you the most.

"You're okay?" you ask softly, seemingly having forgotten your earlier exasperation.

Ayn hums. "I'm okay."

Despite his words, he can feel your skepticism seeping out into the air around you. Letting go of your left hand, he taps the half-finished letter on the table. You lean over his shoulder, your slightly unkempt hair obscuring your side profile.

"It turns out I had a lot to say," he says, mirroring your tone, and watches your hair gleam in the sunlight. "Enough that I couldn't sleep."

Silence, as comfortable as it can be, engulfs them both. You pull back, burying your head in the nape of his neck. Your breath is warm—and if you ever ask why his ears are too, he'll chalk it up to a transfer of heat.

When you pull away, your tone is chipper and he's given up wondering about the words bouncing around in your head. But he thinks I'll miss you and Let me come too might comprise some of them.

"Come on." You exhale, as quietly as you can, and pat his shoulders cheerfully. "Let's get breakfast."

Ayn leaves I'm sorry for the letter, hidden amongst his fear of losing you. Instead, he swivels the chair around and catches you standing under the door frame, one hand holding onto the edge of the door.

And calling your name, he says, "I love you."

You whip your head around, startled. He thinks it has less to do with the frequency with which he says those words—a fact he knows only because you're no longer wide-eyed about it—and more to do with the thoughts in your hand.

Once you recover from your surprise, a grin spreads across your face. "I know."

Laughter accompanies you as you slip out into the corridor. Then, warmth spreads across the palm of his hand, dissolving his annoyed expression into a fonder one. I love you too spell the letters, with a little heart at the end.

Ayn glances at the unfinished letter with a wry smile, before following you to kitchen—where last night's leftovers wait to be devoured.

It isn't until night falls upon Eden once more that he remembers to pick up where he left off.

[dayundying]

87 and whatever fandom/character u want :^)

You got Digital Silence and Spottedleaf!

OKAY. So this ones loaded, the art itself is based on the album art, and Digital Silence is a general WC song to me? Associated with that ever since I tried to amv it, BUT. Blimbos posts about Spottedleaf lately has made me want to give more love to her and made me think more about her character and my interpretation of her. Though of course mine is very influenced by theirs! (Hiii Blimbo love the stuff Blimbo!!!)

At least in my mind this is a piece about misogyny, how the patriarchy affects women real and how that seeps into the fictional world and how it affects the writing of Spottedleafs character. Who really is she aside from her death, trauma, and love?

But that's just me, at the end of the day, a little bit unfortunately this is a warrior cats fanart for a spotify art challenge, not my big hit piece. Hope y'all enjoy eitherway

[mcr-heritage-posts]

just crawling out of the woodwork to clarify something for a second: if you still post about harry potter, in 2023, after, yknow, Everything. i don’t want you to follow this blog. you will be blocked. doesn’t matter if you think you’re the biggest ally to trans women in the world, propping up the work of a notorious, outspoken terf with the funds to literally morph the politics of the UK into a right wing dumpster fire is a shit move and i don’t want anything to do with you.

[jasminesilk]

It looks like our girl was hired by a local "organization" while out for drinks at an up-and-coming club downtown. It doesn't pay much, and it certainly isn't honest work, but it's better than nothing and doesn't require any proof of documentation.

Master the Criminal Career. (1/10)

- transcript under the cut -

Trinity's thoughts:

I've been going out, trying to make friends. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Really I'm just getting wasted. Trying to forget how much I miss you. How much I miss home. I stumble home alone most nights. I've never felt so empty. But tonight was different. I think I finally got a job! Thank fuck.

[hideyseek]

friend at dance last night very casually reminded me that this fic is in fact the longest thing i've ever written. so maybe i could be a liiiiiitle nicer to myself about how long it's taking and how challenging i'm finding the process to be,

[samanthamulder]

and what is director rob bowman doing these days

[legislacerator]

i keep seeing this sentiment that Actually Good media is “too good” for there to be fans of it forever/for there to be a strong fandom presence, but i disagree so much. that has been the opposite of every experience i’ve had. some good examples of the opposite of this phenomenon are breaking bad/better call saul, revolutionary girl utena, the sopranos, and neon genesis evangelion. people come back again and again to these works because they are good, entertaining, and have tremendous depth. every year new people watch these shows (despite their age) because they are fantastic and there is so much to say about them that a lifetime of study would still leave more to be discussed. tbh if you’ve never been gripped by a truly fantastic piece of media i hope that day comes for you soon

[rafyki]

Jack and Joker raised the bar so high, especially for the acting, that I can't watch another show without making comparisons anymore