#i should really make an effort to be more effort on here

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Mission Mishap

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: A recon mission gone awry leads to Bucky having to protect his sunshine. As the snowstorm gets worse, he becomes her shelter from the storm, showing a tenderness that he rarely allows others to see.

Word Count: Roughly 1.8k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, fluff, injury-related pain, bruising, cold exposure, mild language (like two curse words)

Author’s Note: It was snowing, and I got ✨inspired✨

This felt a little choppy because I combined two drabbles, but I think it works :)

Navigation

What should have been a quick recon in the mountains became more complicated when a snowstorm hit faster and harder than previously anticipated. You could barely keep up with Bucky as he pushed ahead, his sharp eyes scanning the nearby. The cold penetrated through your layers; gnawing at your bones and intensifying the ache of your bruises, but you forced yourself to keep moving.

"Can you handle a few more yards?" he asked, his voice low, and despite the chaos, was comforting. "Map says there’s a hostel a quarter of a mile away."

"I’m fine," you mumbled. You knew your words were merely a weak attempt to reassure both yourself and him.

Bucky turned his head toward you, his gaze softening. 

"Don’t do that," he replied. "Stop pretending you’re fine when you’re so clearly not."

The harsh wind bit at your face, and you tried to keep up with him, you couldn't hide the way your teeth chattered.

"You need to stop," Bucky said, voice sharp and authoritative. "You’re shaking like a leaf. Let me help you."

Before you could argue, he moved without hesitation, shedding his jacket in one smooth motion and draping it over your shoulders. 

"Come here," Bucky said. "No arguments. You’re freezing, and I won’t let it get worse."

You tried to protest as you stammered, "I-I’m fine. Really, Bucky, I’m fine."

But Bucky wasn’t having it. 

His glared down and you and you looked away.

"No, you’re not," he said again, this time softer. "You’re going to listen to me now, okay?"

He didn’t wait for a response. He wrapped his arms around you, guiding your arms around his neck and lifting you without much effort. You buried your face in the crook of his neck as you gave up on protesting. His body heat radiated through his sweater and the warm jacket he wrapped you in helped in instantly melting away the cold that had settled into your bones.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell under you, steady and reassuring, grounding you as the world around you spun with snow, harsh winds making it difficult to see. He held you close, his grip never wavering as if to say he wasn’t letting go, not for anything.

"You listen to me," he said said softly. "If anything happens to you out here, I’m going to be fucking pissed. Understand?"

"Noted," you said softly, your voice muffled by his neck. You tightened your grip on him, clinging to him as your life depended on it because, in a way, it did. Not that you’d ever complain.

You could feel his steady heartbeat, the way his breath slowed as he focused on getting you both to safety. His steps were purposeful, unhurried, but determined as he carried you toward the small hostel.

When you finally reached the building, Bucky didn’t waste a second. Without a word, he guided you inside and he gently set you down on a chair. The warmth of the room feeling like a stark contrast to the biting cold that had gripped you just moments before. Pun intended.

"You stay here," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. "I’ll get us a room and call the team."

You nodded. 

As he moved to make arrangements, you wrapped yourself tightly in his jacket, the faint scent of him still lingering on the fabric. 

You winced from the pain in your side, but you manged to stay still. You looked out the window, watching as the storm raged on.

When Bucky returned, he didn’t waste any time sitting next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. 

"Better?" he asked.

You leaned into him, letting the comfort of his presence envelop you. 

"Yeah," you said softly. "Much better. Thanks, Bucky."

"You don’t have to thank me," he muttered, his voice low, almost intimate. "I’m just doing what’s right. Keeping you safe."

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into the warmth of his embrace. "I know," you whispered, your voice quiet but filled with gratitude. "And I’m glad you’re here."

Bucky’s fingers brushed through your hair, his protective grip never faltering. "And I’m not going anywhere," he murmured.

A moment later, he scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to the room he booked and dumping you on the bed. The sudden motion made you giggle as you kicked off your boots.

Bucky turned up the heat, and as the warmth began to fill the room, you settled onto the covers. 

"What did the team say?" you asked quietly.

"They’ll try to make it tonight," he replied. "But I told them we can wait until the morning."

You raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Why?"

"Because I’m keeping you safe tonight," he murmured, quickly adding, "And Sam snores. I can hear him from two rooms down the hall. I’m in no rush to go home, sunshine."

You laughed softly, your eyes brightening. "You’re unbelievable, Bucky."

Bucky grinned, his usual grumpy expression softened. "Yeah, but you’re stuck with me."

"Seriously though," he said, his voice suddenly quieter, "I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not on my watch."

"I know," you whispered, your voice soft but filled with sincerity. "And I trust you."

His eyes softened, just for a moment, before he cleared his throat and pulled away slightly, pretending to be unaffected by the vulnerability in the air. 

“Hey,” he muttered, his voice hushed and rough with concern. He paused for a moment as if considering whether to push or back off. He couldn’t ever quite figure out how to balance his protective nature. But when it came to you, he couldn’t help himself. “You sure you’re okay?”

You forced a smile, shifting a little more, trying to get comfortable, but the throbbing in your side was relentless. The last thing you wanted was for him to notice. He already had enough on his shoulders; you wouldn’t let him add your worries to his pile.

“I’m fine,” you whispered. Lie.

"Bullshit," he grumbled, his voice laced with frustration, the one that surfaced when he cared too much and couldn’t fix things fast enough. "What’s the matter?"

Bucky stared at you, his eyes narrowing. 

God, that stare. 

It was like he could read every inch of your soul, and you couldn’t breathe under the weight of it.

“Talk to me.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your side flaring up in protest. You winced, sucking in a sharp breath, hoping he didn’t notice, but of course, he did. 

He always noticed when it came to his sunshine.

"My side. Just a little pain," you admitted, the bruise hidden under the layers of clothing you still wore.

Bucky’s face softened, his worry evident. Without a word, he stood up, reaching for the small medical kit in his bag.

"Lift your shirt," he said, his voice low but commanding.

"I'm fine-" You mumbled. 

But Bucky wasn’t one to back down. He crouched in front of you, his large hands already moving to your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt with a touch that was far too tender for someone like him.

“Lift.” The word was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to it, a warning wrapped in affection. The way he said it made it clear that this was happening.

You frowned and you raised the hem of your shirt, exposing the tender spot on your side where the impact from earlier had left its mark. "Shh, sunshine." He whispers soothingly. "You're okay, promise."

Bucky’s hands were gentle as he inspected the injury, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin, and his touch was careful but sure. There was something tender about the way he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him. It made you lightheaded.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” he muttered, though you could hear the underlying concern in his tone. “But we’re still gonna clean it up, yeah?”

 His brow furrowed, and for a moment, his expression softened into something that hurt to look at. 

Like you meant something to him.

The second his fingers brushed over your side, just lightly grazing the bruise, you couldn’t help it. A whimper escaped, and your body tensed. You hated it. Hated being weak.

“Shh.” His voice was soothing. “You’re doing so good.”

You tried to move, to escape the pressure, but Bucky’s hand was already on your abdomen, holding you gently but firmly in place. His fingers splayed out over your skin, not forceful, but steady.

“Sorry,” you muttered, your voice strained as another wave of pain hit and you squirmed.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bucky murmured, his grip tightening just a little, his other hand reaching for the antiseptic wipe. "Just breathe for me, okay?"

Something about his voice, soft yet commanding, made the tension in your body ease just enough for you to inhale deeply, to steady yourself.

“You’re tough, sunshine,” Bucky murmured, his eyes softening even more as he cleaned the bruise. "You’ll be alright."

But his voice held a gentleness that made your heartache. As he worked, cleaning the wound, his touch was slow, deliberate. The sting from the wipe was sharp, but his hands on your skin were grounding, like he was pulling the pain out of you with every careful movement.

Every time you whimpered, every time the pain made itself known, he soothed you with gentle words,“I know, sunshine, I got you,” “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He cleaned the wound with slow, careful movements. The cool, sterile wipe stung a little, but his gentle touch was soothing, making the discomfort easier to bear. 

“I got you.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. A calm anchor. “Just breathe, sunshine.”

And you did.

When he finally finished, he leaned back and reached for a bandage. He pressed the bandage against your side like he was trying to heal something deeper than the bruise, something you couldn’t name.

“Good as new.” His voice was softer now. “You’re tough, sunshine. You’ll be alright.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing the edge of the bandage. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grumbled, but there was no bite to it. His gruffness was a comfort, like a wall of security you could lean against when everything else felt shaky.

“Just-” His eyes softened as he looked at you, the rare tenderness that always made your chest tighten. “Get some sleep, alright?”

You nodded, curling up under the covers.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, your voice small and soft as you nestled against him.

Bucky’s hand gently brushed through your hair, his fingers pausing to stroke your scalp in a way that made you feel like the most important thing in the world.

“Goodnight, милая девочка.” Sweet girl.

His words were quiet, a soft reassurance in the night. You let out a sigh, the ache in your side fading as the warmth of his body enveloped you, and slowly, you drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Bucky stayed awake for a while, keeping watch, making sure you were alright. But as the night drew on, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, making sure you were okay before falling asleep himself.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Much love x

- Maeve

[kiryoutann]

warning(s): MDNI, ANGST, simon riley being an asshole (like really), kind of gore description as metaphor for REAALLYY desperate love??? non-consensual tracking by reader (SURPRISE!!)

Simon might be the worst denialist ever. Because, how could he say it was all casual?

“I forgot something in your car.” You tell him.

Simon's frown deepened, his head tilting slightly as he seemed to contemplate your words. It was absurd—after all these weeks, here you are, standing in front of his apartment, having somehow discovered the address, and claiming to have forgotten something in his car.

But he doesn't say anything, just continues to make his way to the car. You follow closely behind him. He opens the door to the passenger seat, then steps aside to let you check the car. You stretch your hand under the passenger seat, blindly feeling for anything, brushing through the dust and small gravel collected there until you finally touch something cold and metallic.

Pulling it out, the phone you had planted there weeks earlier came into view. You knew this meant Simon had laid his eyes on it too. It wouldn’t take long for him to connect the dots and figure out you had been tracking him this whole time.

Fucking hell. Simon remembered what he had said about modern phones. He closed the car door with a sharp click, then turned to you.

“So you’ve been followin’ me, then?”

“You didn't return my texts,” you stated bluntly.

"I asked you a question." He growls, almost like he's threatening you.

You observed the anger brewing in the depths of his dark eyes, radiating from him like a hot flame. Good, you thought silently. At least there was something that riled him up; otherwise, you would be suffering alone while he goes to fuck any willing bodies he can get his hands on.

"Why didn't you call me?" You ask again. “Why does it say your number is no longer in service? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he snap, voice dripping with venom. “You think I owe you an explanation?”

Your blurry vision missed a flicker of change in his expression. When the tears escaped and the world came into focus again, all you saw was Simon gritting his teeth, jaw locked. He turned and began to walk away.

You followed him, quickening your pace to catch up. “Simon! Simon, wait!”

Despite your best efforts, he continues to keep his back turned to you, refusing to even spare you a glance. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, seemingly hell-bent on creating a vast gulf between you. You called out his name once more, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night, but he kept right on walking.

“Yes, I deserve an explanation! I don’t know why you’re being like this. We were fine the last time we were together. What happened? Why did you just disappear on me?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the sleeve of his jacket to get him to stop and face you. He came to a halt. A jolt of electricity surged through you as he encircled your fingers with his own, but it soon faded as he let go of your grip on the leather. Something inside you dropped away, leaving a shameful hollow space inside.

Simon towers over you, his stature imposing and intimidating. He locks a hard glare on you. “I asked you a question, didn't I?” His voice fell to a dangerously low tone. “Why the fuck have you been following me?”

The dam holding back your tears broke, leaving you choking on your own sobs. How could he not know? All these tears, all these cries… how could he still fail to see that it was all for him? To be stripped bare only for him to overlook it. Should you skin yourself alive then? To tear your heart out, to hold the raw, bleeding organ in the palm of your trembling hand as an offering?

“Because I want to know where you are,” You settle for the simpler version, hyperventilating as you take a breath. “You know my place, my workplace... You even went to my cousin’s wedding. And yet, I know nothing about you, Simon. Nothing.”

“You think just ‘cause we fucked a few times, that gives you the right to pry into my life?”

A sharp pang of pain shot through your chest. The world was ruby-colored, either from your boiling anger or the hemorrhage from the sharpness of his words. Your jaw clenched, your gaze sharpened.

“Fuck you, Simon,” you spat. “You know we’re not just fucking.”

The clenched fists at your sides tremble, and you don’t know if it’s from anger or hurt or the weight of your own expectation to make him see it. Or perhaps it’s all three. How could he speak like this when there's a specific section in your dresser for the clothes he frequently brings and leaves, when he constantly returns and stays longer even as the morning has risen, when he drove you to the countryside and dances and twirls you around like those old couples do? Not when he embraces you until your tears subside, nor when each of his kisses offers that one thing you've chased your whole life.

There’s no way this isn’t love. He just needs to stop denying it.

Simon's eyes narrowed into slits. "Then you read it all wrong, darlin'."

The way he said it was cold, without a shred of sympathy—but nothing was colder than the way Simon continually turned his back to you as he continued to walk farther and farther away, as if all he wanted was to get as far away from you as possible. Disgusting woman in love. But you never got the hint, did you? You kept following him, running after him like a stupid little dog created solely to love, love, love, and never be loved back.

[sneak peek of chapter 13 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Lilia Vanrouge - Room Relaxation Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

[Courtyard]

[rustle, rustle]

Lilia: Heeey, Malleuuus～ Come out, come out, wherever you are～ Sebek's about to burst into tears 'cause he can't find you～

Jade: I was curious what you were up to what with your fervent rustling through the hedges… I see, you were searching for Malleus-san.

Lilia: Oh, Jade. We're supposed to be having an important meeting in the dorm right now, but he's nowhere to be found.

Jade: My, an important meeting? How fascinating. Is there some pressing issue?

Lilia: Nothing dire. Actually, the Pop Music Club decide to throw together an impromptu birthday performance tomorrow!

Lilia: And we wouldn't want it to clash with the party we're hosting at the dorm, right? So, we wanted to make sure the schedules lined up.

Jade: Aah… So that's what it was. Speaking of the Pop Music Club, I found the performance they gave during the freshmen club orientation to be utterly captivating.

Jade: To think you were putting in this much effort behind the scenes to make it happen. I'm sure this one will be just as hilar― splendid as last time.

Lilia: Well, yeah, we're gonna go all out and rock on! It'll be in our club room like usual, though.

Lilia: There's no admission to come see us this time. You should come and witness my amazingly passionate screamo.

Jade: Fufufu, just hearing you speak of it is giving me quite the thrill. I definitely will be coming by.

Lilia: Kheeheehee, I'll be waiting. …Oookay, I need to get back to searching for Malleus. See ya, Jade.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lounge]

[Diasomnia Students chatter]

Lilia: ―Everyone, I found Malleus. Just as I thought, he hadn't realized it was the meeting time already.

Lilia: Now, we might be a little late, but we'll start the meeting now! We need to quickly chat through the important stuff, since we're short on time.

Lilia: For our Housewarden's sake, we'll start with the agenda for today…

[Diasomnia Student A speaks]

Lilia: …Hm? You've already spoken through the topics? You all thought it would be rude to bother Malleus with this meeting?

Lilia: So you're saying… I DIDN'T NEED TO GO LOOKING FOR MALLEUS～?!

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lilia's Room]

Lilia: Whew. It's a struggle having so many model students taking initiative...

Lilia: Well, now I'm done with my shower. I'm not taking one step out of my room anymore.

Lilia: Let's gooo, the sun's set already so I'm feelin' at the top of my game. My day finally starts now!

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lilia's Room]

Lilia: First, I'll do all my daily quests for my game… Huh, where's my keyboard? I swear I had it here yesterday…

[rustle, rustle]

Lilia: Ohh, here it is. It just got completely buried under this stack of papers.

Lilia: There sure are a ton of papers scattered about. This is a test from last year, and that's something I got my first year here. Oh, and this…

「Survey on Quality of Life Improvements for the Student Body」

Lilia: A survey? …Oh right, Crowley was practically demanding that it gets filled in.

Lilia: I was ignoring it, since I couldn't really think of anything to write. I guess I should finish it up before it gets buried under things again.

Lilia: But even so, what am I supposed to request…? We're kept out of the rain and wind, and have fully working AC. I also have an abundance of time to spend eating or enjoying myself.

Lilia: I am able to watch over my family learn, while surrounded by friends. It would be too greedy to ask for anything more.

Lilia: I'll just write, "I have no issues with the current quality of life," and―

[clatter, clatter…!]

[CRASH!]

[THUD! BAM!]

Lilia: Things just keep falling off their little piles whenever I turn around. …But hey, it's no big, since it's not interfering with me at all!

[knock, knock]

Lilia: Hm? Looks like someone's here, and so late at night. Coming! I'll open the door so hold on a sec.

[Diasomnia Student B speaks]

Lilia: Oh, it's just my neighbors. Don't worry, there's no problems here.

[Diasomnia Students leave]

Lilia: Dear me, that's the problem with stone buildings, they make even the smallest noise echo so loudly. Especially when it's quieter at night.

Lilia: Whenever I'd play my instrument, there'd be an uproar about some kind of terrifying sounds echoing night after night.

Lilia: All I was doing each day was playing a little drums while doing a little dance… Dorm life sure can be difficult to get used to.

Lilia: If I didn't have to deal with that, then I could watch movies at full volume, or stream video games…

Lilia: Ohh, I guess this is something I can add to the survey. "Sound travels too easily. I'd like to install a soundproofing system.

Lilia: What else…? Ah! I don't have time to be doing this. I'll miss my consecutive login bonus. I need to log in to the game right now!

Muscle Red: Farewell, see you next raid.

Lilia: Today's drop rate was trash… On days like this, it's best to just cut my losses and not keep going.

Lilia: Before I turn off my computer, I think I'll check out that online crane game. Sometimes they have some real fun prizes there.

Lilia: Ooh, that plushie armrest looks cute! How many people are waiting in line…? Oh, just one. Perfect, I'll join the queue then.

Lilia: I never thought there'd come a day where I'd be able to play a crane game from the comforts of my room.

Lilia: It has so many different things, from snacks to everyday objects, and even gives a free play for logging in. Someone thought this through real well.

Lilia: Even these dragon feet slippers I'm wearing now was something I won from using those free play tickets.

Lilia: Oh, it's finally my turn. This little plushie looks like it has a heavy head, so… I'll start by dropping the crane around here!

Lilia: Take that! …Nice, it moved like I wanted. Then now, I'll aim for the same place one more time―

Lilia: ―Now I'm just feeling waaaay exhausted… Even after it felt like it would almost fall, it still took a long time to get there.

Lilia: Everything came out alright in the end, since I got it, but… Looks like it wasn't just the drop rate in the game earlier, my luck is just no good today.

Lilia: But I was able to get what I wanted, so I'm happy with that. Winning it when I wasn't expecting it is just another kind of fun.

Lilia: Well, I guess next I'll continue watching that one drama on the streaming site… Hm? What's this recommended video…?

Lilia: My favorite band just released a new song! I gotta check out their music video right away!

Lilia: Kheeheehee, there's still so much I get to do tonight. I love how every single day is packed full of fun things.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lilia's Room]

Lilia: Urrrgh… Urh… Bright… …Why's there sunlight?

Lilia: Oh, I forgot to close the curtains… ...Tch. …Disgusting…

Lilia: ...Ah, no, I should get up… Hrrrnnngh, so briiight!

Lilia: In the end, I wasn't even able to do half of what I wanted to do. Night sure does pass quickly…

Lilia: If I just get everything ready with magic, I could fall back asleep now and still make it in time for class… Or not, I'd probably just end up sleeping in.

Lilia: I guess I'll head to the washroom to try and wake up.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Washroom]

[splash]

Lilia: Whew! The water in the wintertime is so chilly that it wakes me right up. Now, next is…

[Diasomnia Student C speaks]

Lilia: Oh hey, good morning. I see you've come to the washroom as well, this morning. …Hm? What am I doing?

Lilia: It's skincare, S-K-I-N-C-A-R-E! You shouldn't skimp on it, you know～? For example, I'm going to…

Lilia: Hm? Was I supposed to start with this watery stuff first? Or was it the more paste-like stuff?

Lilia: …Eh, shouldn't matter which goes on first! Once they're on my skin, it'll all end up the same.

Lilia: 'Kay, skincare done! As for the makeup… Ooh, right, I should try to do the clumpy eyelash I saw in a video the other day.

Lilia: I'll just use magic to toss on my eyeshadow. Done. The eyelash curler is… Ah, here it is.

Lilia: First, I need to make sure my eyelashes are standing straight up. Like―

Lilia: …Ouch! I caught my eyelid! The road to cosmetic beauty sure is filled with pain and patience…

Lilia: Once I brush the little hairs, I need to apply mascara to make them longer before they lose their structure.

Lilia: Then, I'll use the tweezers. I need to make little clumps before the mascara dries―

Lilia: And there we go, I've given myself the doll-like eyelashes that's all the rage with the young folks these days!

Lilia: Hehe, it really goes well with my big and bright eyes.

Lilia: Next is fixing my hair style. I'll just apply some silky smooth hair milk all over my head, and…

Lilia: Then poof it to completion with a bit of magic. Kheeheehee, I look splendid, befitting of what a birthday boy should look like!

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lilia's Room]

Lilia: Okay, time to get chan… Ouch! Uuuurrrrg… My pinky toe… What numbskull left an amp right in the middle of the walking path!?

Lilia: …Right, this is my room, so the culprit can only be myself. Why does it feel like this room just feels smaller than before?

Lilia: Should I get more storage?

Lilia: …Nah, if I'm going to buy any furniture, I should prioritize getting a small tea table for when Silver and the others come to visit.

Lilia: …Haha, listen to me now. When I was filling out the survey, I thought I was satisfied with everything as they are, but…

Lilia: I can still think of more things I want, and even more things I want to do. Now, when did I learn to wish for such extravagance?

[Main Street]

Jade: Good morning, Lilia-san. Was yesterday's meeting able to go off without a hitch?

Lilia: Morning, Jade. Both the party and the performance are ready to go. Today is going to be a real fun day.

Jade: Fufu, I am certainly looking forward to see what sort of performance we'll be… blessed with today. A very Happy Birthday to you.

Lilia: Right-o! Make sure you have the time of your life during today's performance, too!

Requested by @kingren77.

[infiniteglitterfall]

IMHO, the unifying thread across the history of Arab Palestine is that Palestinians have had horrible fascist clown leaders forced upon them over and over again. From Amin al-Husseini right through to Hamas.

No one has ever given Palestinians much say in what their leadership does, much less the opportunity to "be peaceful about it."

Translated from Arabic by Google:

This is how Hamas is dealing with the people of #Gaza now, with live bullets and excessive force, all because people came out saying we want to live, we are hungry

Translated from Arabic by Google:

Human rights calls to stop the death sentences in Gaza carried out by Hamas since its founding until today. It has executed 240 people, most of them unjustly and for reasons that do not deserve execution, knowing that the death sentences are not based on the rulings of the Palestine Liberation Movement and because Hamas is not a member of it. Details here in the link

Gazans in particular, currently, have been actively protesting Hamas's decision to force war upon them for well over a year. Even though Hamas responds by shooting at the protests, threatening protesters, and even with beatings and executions.

Translated from Arabic by Google:

I am from #Gaza and I demand that Hamas make all possible concessions in order to stop the genocide, including:

Declaration of surrender,

lay down arms,

waiver of judgment,

handing over prisoners,

Deportation of leaders,

The occupation remains in parts of the Strip,

Entry of international forces,

Prevent the armament of Gaza.

Because nothing is more important than the lives of our children.

Translated from Arabic by Google:

Dissatisfaction with Hamas is growing in Gaza. A resident of Gaza: “I don’t want hostages or war or anything that Hamas does... We want to live in peace... If they like it, welcome... If they don’t like it, then stay away from our hearts. We want to live in peace.”

One of the worst things about Hamas is that it has been so incredibly successful at controlling all forms of expression in Gaza.

IMHO, the worst thing about this is the way it treats Gazans. But the extra knife twist in that is the way it's prevented Gazans from getting any international support around it.

Hamas has been so successful in silencing Gaza that if you manage to find and support the actual Palestinian resistance, you can't really work with the pro-Palestinian movement.

Without decades of Hamas/PFLP propaganda, it would be obvious that there should be nothing ABOUT Gaza WITHOUT Gaza.

People would be protesting Egypt's blatant war profiteering, instead of only fundraising to pay its $5k-$12k fees.

People would have protested when Egypt closed the Rafah crossing entirely, letting aid rot for weeks on its side.

People would have protested the multiple times that the World Food Programme, the only agency delivering aid to northern Gaza, stopped delivering for weeks because the crowds were just "too chaotic."

People would be coordinating their protests with the ones in Gaza, to signal boost them across the whole world.

Translation:

"We want to live": the heat wave that ignites the flames of protests against the terrorist Hamas in Gaza.

Translation: From Rafah, demonstrators chanting: “The people want to overthrow Hamas”

Quoted tweet says: "The Israeli newspaper Yedioth Ahronoth says that a meeting took place last night for representatives of the families of those killed in Gaza, which resulted in the appointment of a spokesman for them, and they decided to demonstrate today, Saturday, at eight o’clock in the evening, in the university square in the city of Rafah, under the title “The People Wants,” and according to the families’ statements, the goal of the demonstration is to convey A clear message to Hamas that they are not interested in continuing the war. This movement comes in the wake of the killing of a young man from the Arja tribe at the hands of Hamas militia in Rafah. The Arja tribes issued a strongly worded statement yesterday in which they accused Hamas of destroying the Gaza Strip to serve foreign agendas."

The unifying force would be that everyone in Gaza and Israel fucking hates Hamas & Co and deserves to be free of them. People would call out and fight for whatever was needed, instead of being driven into a narrow and self-defeating corner.

Instead, there's a weak but loud pro-Palestinian movement, focusing on Israel to the exclusion of helping Gaza.

If the movement's goal is to speak over everyone in both Palestine and Israel, and to convince as many people as possible that Israel should be destroyed, then it's doing fantastically well on the left.

If its goal is to prevent the left from hearing from Gazan activists or even knowing they exist, it's doing amazing.

If its goal is just to spread Hamas's jargon and framework, mission accomplished.

And of course, inasmuch as it takes direction from pro-Hamas and PFLP-linked groups, that's exactly its goal.

I don't think very many people in the movement WANT to be Hamas's proxies.

I also don't think they'd choose those goals.

I think that all of them would be absolutely fucking livid at Hamas if they sat down with someone from Gaza for an hour and heard any of this shit.

But that's not going to happen, is it.

why are jews skeptical of antizionism? a guide for gentiles

I'd be ok with the notion Israel wasn't needed if y'all could be trusted not to fuck it up when Jews needed somewhere to flee. But last time (to put it politely) you fucked it up real bad, and six million Jews died.

Fundamentally, antizionism is asking Jews to put our lives in the hands of the same people who saw us screaming for help, who knew that death awaited us, and did all of nothing. Nada. Nil.

(As demonstrated by the recent Amsterdam pogrom, Israel is totally ok and often proactive in flying Jews out. Around the same time as Palestinians were being exiled, Jews from all over the Arab world were being driven out in similar numbers. The reason you don't hear about that refugee crisis? Israel accepted them, without complaint or delay or objection, just urgency.)

Pardon us for being a bit skeptical of your assertions that it won't happen again when a constant theme throughout our history has been it happening again.

This is a slightly modified form of an older, longer, post's tags/tldr.

[vyl3tpwny]

genuine question: why is genesis so low on ur topsters?

also, if you can: could i hear why hawaii: part ii is rated 3.5 on ur rateyourmusic? (as opposed to like. anything higher)

(p. s. your music inspires me to be the sincerest version of myself, and for that i thank you. the impact you've had on my life is unforgettable.)

genesis isn't rated low. my number one album of all time is genesis' "the lamb lies down on broadway", for about 16 years running. my topster is organized by relative colour, it's not perfect but it just looks nice!

—

when it comes to talking about music, what i like and like about it, almost 100% of the time i NEVER want to discourage people, talk down to artists, or claim my opinion as fact. the only time i will actively talk down about art is if it's purposefully harmful (see artists like: Tom Macdonald, etc).

with that said, music by miracle musical - and by extension tally hall - often does this thing where there are a handful of really impressive, well written songs that just blow me away. but then the rest of the album outside of those handful of songs are either just ok/catchy or don't interest me very much. the tally hall gang's highs are very high, and equally their lows are just sort of pace-killers for the albums.

it's dynamics like these that prevent me from liking some of my other albums for similar problems! i think albums like queen of misfits and glitter are bogged down by an absurd amount of boring filler that could have just been left out or reworked to be more interesting, it makes it hard to ever listen to those albums front to back. ironically i don't feel that way about fairytails, my 40-song long ass album, almost everything in it still feels rather purposeful to me. i listen to my own music a lot, and once i've finished a project i tend to try and listen to it and enjoy it from an audience perspective rather than an artist one.

while i'm on the topic, i don't necessarily agree with even rating hawaii pt. ii 3.5 because in the past few years i've completely lost interest in the idea of weighing albums by arbitrary scores. nowadays i like to just give 4-5's to albums i like and then ignore anything else. it doesn't really make sense to me to assign a number score to something with good faith, other than to show that score to other people. interfacing with art is not a black and white process. despite the so-called 3.5/5.0 score i gave hawaii pt. ii whenever that was, the reality is that record has influenced me and i've enjoyed it. honestly that's what matters the most. we can sit here and talk album dynamics, technicalities, compositional proficiency, lyric profundity, and """""consistency"""""" (which is a word music critics love to throw around without actually realizing what the fuck they're talking about) all day, but what matters the most is:

Did you like the music? (Yes/No)

Did it inspire you in some way? (Yes/No) [Optional]

Does it seek to do harm? (Yes/No)

Do you respect the efforts and goals of the artist? (Yes/No) [Should always be the inverse of Question 3; i.e; if you answer No to 3, then you should answer Yes to 4]

honestly if you answer yes, yes, no, yes, then it's a good album. i really don't care. not every piece of art has to push the envelope to new heights and be the most innovative thing in the world - i mean wouldn't that be extremely fatiguing and overwhelming? everyone wants to be a critic and tear down shit that doesn't click with them within the first viewing/listen these days, i don't know why, it's probably an ego thing, bred by the echo chambers in the corners of the internet. but a lot of music criticism can be COMPLETELY discarded in favour of "this just isn't for me", and a lot of people go leaps and bounds, doing mental gymnastics over internal compensations, to just avoid saying the dreaded phrase of "this just isn't for me".

trust me, i'm someone who has immense experience with tearing other people down to compensate for my internal insecurities, it happens extremely often which is why a lot of art criticism makes ZERO fucking sense. it's never about making meaningful commentary about anything, it's always just trying to justify in the format of a dissertation - the subjective experience of "this just isn't for me".

so. do i like hawaii pt. ii? yep. is it a perfect album? no. why did i rate it 3.5? probably because at the time i wanted someone somewhere to perceive me as Very Articulated and Well Educated In The Realm of Discussing Art In Front of Other People, in Order to Appear Superior in Intellect and Refined in Taste, Because I'm Insecure Just Like Everyone Else.

[blueraith]

What does fanfiction mean to you?

I'm asking this question because today I came across some ugly, mean-spirited, catty behavior towards a fic author that I haven't seen in a very, very long time, and I think it's important we discuss it as a community.

Y'all know how long I've been doing this? Fanfiction, that is.

Eighteen years.

I've posted across different platforms, on different handles, in different ways for a long, long time. More than half of my life at this point, from fourteen years old.

Fanfiction is how I personally engage with fandom the most. It's THE most important thing to me, frankly, because it is the common thread between each and every single fandom I have ever participated in.

It's self-expression to me. Folk art. Collaborative and fun. I truly hope that most people who engage in fanfiction learn what it is to beta for someone even if you don't write yourself. It can be a fantastic experience in and of itself. Being the backboard to someone else's ideas, watching as they take genuine joy out of spinning a story together to put onto the page, seeing it come to life before anyone else and feeling almost as proud as the author themselves after they finally post it.

It's ultimately why I decided to make this post far more positive and productive than the angry, grumpy, blood boiling rant that I initially was churning over in my mind after the horrible posts I saw earlier.

I'll detail them here purely for context because I think it's important to recognize toxic fandom behavior when we see it. And speak out when we stumble across it.

The first post lauded itself as an 'honest review' of a popular fanfiction in a community I am a part of. That honest review was nothing more than a pop-critique filled with a sort of catty, snarky write up that is so popular nowadays online purely to gain clout more than to act as actual, constructive criticism. It was unnecessary and acted as though the fanfiction author was a professional, New York Times Bestseller rather than someone devoting hours of their free time and effort into a hobby that is ultimately meant to be fun and pleasant.

The second post by the same person claimed that their friend had challenged them to write their own version of the premise of this fanfiction under a read more cut. It spent some time applying a thin veneer of so-called respect to the original author, but was merely nothing more than contempt really. I simply fail to see the need to ever do this while publicly attaching an author's name and work title and arrogantly parade your own work as superior to their own. Why tear down someone else?

I pushed back against them directly on this post, they took it down, but not before childishly trying to excuse their actions and claiming that 'if someone is publicly posting, then they should be able to handle vocal criticism.'

But you know what? One, what that person was doing was not constructive criticism. I think back to the beta session I had with a friend right after this incident and I think to myself, how sad must it be that this is what this person thinks is valuable criticism. That this is the way they chose to engage with the fanfiction community and thought they were in the right to do so.

Two, and perhaps even more importantly, people are accountable for the things that they post. The things that they say. It would have cost this person nothing to never make those posts in the first place. To never risk an author coming across a mean-spirited and malicious teardown of the work they put hours into and risk harming their self-esteem, mental health, or confidence in their own writing.

Because we do not know who these people are behind their handles. We do not know if they're new to writing. If they are experienced but going through a tough time. There are real people who write the content you choose to consume.

Fanfiction is a collaborative process. Writers provide the free content, and it is the reader's responsibility to know when their input would be valuable.

Is what you have to say helpful? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

If the feedback you want to provide does not hit at least two of those things, what you have to say does not matter. Period.

And I daresay that in the vast majority of cases, kindness should be considered mandatory out of the three.

In return, writers will often throw in ideas they've read out of reviews, they'll reach out to their most ardent followers for things like beta-ing or joining a discord server nowadays. There's always been a give and take in this community.

Fanfiction is a cornerstone of fandom for a reason. And it is particularly important in the queer community, going all the way back to actual physical magazines in which people mailed in their KirkxSpock fic decades ago. Over time we've experimented on the process, moved to countless different platforms, survived collapses of all sorts of communities, only to rally over and over again around each other to be able to tell the tales we wanted to see but were not getting as queer folk amongst mainstream media.

And in that time, it's been long agreed on in this space that you do not tear down another writer to build yourself up. Ever. Period. This has long been the only thing in fanfiction that has been aggressively policed, called out, and nipped in the bud when experienced members of this community come across it.

It will not be tolerated.

I shouldn't have to make this post, but I suppose this is the changing of the guard, so to speak. We have a new generation of fic writers and readers coming into the space daily and while so many of you are wonderful, creative, and welcomed members of this space that has been here long before me or anyone of my age, there are some who do not know how to act in the fanfiction community.

And it is up to us to make it clear in no uncertain terms that they will need to either get with program or be pushed out.

To become the best version of yourself as a writer requires hours of work, of posting again and again, of experimentation, of putting hints of your own life and experiences onto the page. The vast majority of us will never be published, and that's just fine for most of us. We engage in this hobby because of how joyful it can be to write something dear to our hearts, share it with the world, and be validated that others enjoyed the work that we put in.

Frankly, readers will always owe it to us to respect that process and work. To be respectful and kind when interacting with authors. Constructive criticism can be welcomed but perhaps ask if the author is open to it and do not take it personally if they are not. And if they are, then learn how to give it with the writer's best interest in mind rather than your own ego.

I don't ordinarily request reblogs to my posts, I rant into the void and it doesn't matter to me if anyone really interacts on an ordinary day lol. But today, I want to ask that people share this message out in your fandoms, because I will be tagging it in the fandoms I interacted in, both past and present. Because fanfiction is a common thread that unites so many of us, and I think this is an important reminder on how we need to be respectful and kind to one another in this space.

If you feel comfortable, I would also love to hear how fanfiction is important to you. How you got into it. Why you love to either read, write, or beta it.

This is hobby that is meant to be fun, so let's have fun.

[kinglazrus]

Truce 2024

@charcoalhawk Happy Truce! Technically, I have not finished editing, but I didn't want to make you wait too much longer, so enjoy the first third of the fic! I will update this post with the full fic and an AO3 link when I finish editing tomorrow.

Prompt: Danny finds out that ghosts can have (non-blood blossom) food allergies

AO3 link to be added

—

Danny winces when the flash goes off, and rubs his eye as Sam’s camera spits out the photo. It will take a few minutes for the instant film to develop. Thirty seconds before they can make out basic shapes. A minute after that for the colours to settle in, and then one more until it’s at full contrast. But Sam plucks the photo from the ejection slot, raises her eyebrows at the still-white square, and tuts.

“You ruined it,” she says.

“Did not!”

“Yeah, I can feel it.”

Danny leans forward to snatch the photo out of her hands, but Sam scuttles backward across her carpet to escape. He could give chase, but it’s not really worth the effort, especially when Sam ends up in the far corner by her tipped over box of scrapbook supplies. Too much ammunition at her disposal.

Danny twists around to face Sam’s bed, where Tucker sprawls with one hand on a comic book and the other digging through a bowl of popcorn. “Come on, Tuck. Back me up.”

Tucker’s stare skips from Danny to Sam before sliding back to his comic, and he says, “I bet you blinked.”

Traitor.

Danny’s wounded noise is punctuated by Sam’s sharp laugh, and she keeps snickering under her breath as she grabs a marker. It takes less than thirty seconds for Sam to mark the photo with the date, select a handful—literally, she sticks them to her palm first—of ghost-themed stickers with complementary shapes and colours, and add the photo to the next empty page in her scrapbook with the stickers as a border. She even finds that empty page in a single flip. Danny has seen Sam’s mother attack a floral arrangement with the same precision, but wisely decides not to mention it.

Sam then scoops all the supplies back into the box with a single sweep of her arm and zero organization. (This, too, is like her mother, who has a drawer of trimmers and flower food and floral wire all in a jumble that Danny glimpsed once two years ago, and he’s still not certain it was real.)

“It’s fine,” Sam says as she shoves the box under her bed. “It’s as good as we’re going to get.”

“That’s not actually reassuring.”

“Here, look.” She shuffles back across the room, holding the scrapbook out to Danny and Tucker.

The colours haven’t finished developing, but the image is clear. Sam’s room with its purples and blacks and the occasional splash of red. Her curtains in the background, with deep shadows in the folds where the light can’t touch. The candles on her bedside table in the foreground, with their perfect little flames, or as perfect as a Polaroid camera can capture.

And Danny, sat cross-legged in the middle of her carpet, the air around him fuzzy and dotted with static, eyes wide, one pupil stretched and pinched in the middle, the iris around it a bit too green for his human form.

“Huh,” Tucker says. He’s holding the scrapbook now, though Danny didn’t notice him taking it, or even realize he was off the bed until that moment. “Should we be worried about that?”

Tucker turns to the previous page. This photo is dated a week prior, taken at Tucker’s house. Danny slouches on a beanbag chair, attention fixed on the monitor across from him. His pupil is normal, but the static remains. It’s in the photo before this one, too, and the one before that, and the one before that, all of them taken about a week apart. It takes a good ten photos for Danny to realize the field of static is growing smaller as they go back.

“So, I noticed something weird,” Sam says.

Danny glares at her. “Wow, really?”

“Just, look. Remember that extra credit project you did for biology?” Sam swats Danny’s hand away and turns the scrapbook to the very first page, revealing a picture of him and Tucker cuddling at the zoo. “It was only a few weeks after the accident. I didn’t even see it at the time, but a few days later I was going through my photos and spotted this.”

Sam taps Danny’s figure. It takes a few seconds of squinting before he sees it—a faint speckling around his body, little flecks that could be mistaken for damage if the photo weren’t only a few months old. The photo next to it is dated almost a month later, and the speckling is much more pronounced.

“I’ve taken a picture of you every week for the past few months to keep track, since I noticed it was growing stronger. I didn’t really think anything else would happen until your eye changed last month. And the pupils are new.”

“Oh, well, thank goodness for that. At least there’s something new,” Danny says.

“And you didn’t blink,” Tucker offers.

“This is bad, right? It seems bad.”

“We already knew you don’t photograph well.”

“I think digital files of me getting corrupted is a bit different than this, Tucker!” Danny flaps his hands at the scrapbook. This is great. Perfect! Just what he needs! A stock of evidence that could expose him if anyone found it. Not that Danny doesn’t trust Sam to keep the scrapbook safe—she did retrieve it from a box under her bed in the first place. But Sam isn’t the only person in the world who owns an instant camera.

It was fine when, a few days after the accident, they discovered Danny couldn’t be photographed by typical means anymore. No matter how many times Tucker tried it on a dozen different devices, the image was always corrupted, becoming a wash of static. But Sam’s Polaroid still worked, and so did the digital camera his parents made. He nearly panicked the first time his dad took a family photo after the accident, but apparently the Fenton camera’s ability to “capture a ghost in its truest form” means Danny looks normal in either form. No corruptions, no distortion. Just Fenton or Phantom.

How long will it be until that camera doesn’t work, either?

Danny wraps his arms around his head and groans.

“It might not be as bad as you think,” Sam says. “Before the eyes, I thought it was just your ghostly aura. But your powers are a lot stronger than they were a few months ago, and I think some of that is bleeding through in the pictures.”

“You think that sounds good? I don’t want to be more of a ghost.”

“Do you feel like more of a ghost?”

Would he even notice? He opens his mouth snap back, but Sam’s questioning look stops him.

“You don’t look any different,” Tucker says. “No fangs or pointy ears.”

“I don’t have those as a ghost.”

“You don’t have them as a ghost yet.”

Sam snaps the scrapbook shut. “Tucker, that’s not helping. But I have a theory. In more traditional ghost hunting, people use photography to capture what they can’t see with their naked eye. I don’t think you’re becoming more of a ghost, but as you get stronger, your ghostly aspects show up more on film. Your digital camera still works, right?”

Danny nods. They use it often enough that he would have noticed something by now.

“Then this”—Sam pokes Danny in the chest—“is still your ‘true’ form. But if you’re worried, we can always keep an eye out for pointy ears or fangs.”

Danny wants to pick through the scrapbook again, check every photo for something Sam might have missed. But she holds it tight in her lap and keeps looking at Danny like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. He’s so focused on the scrapbook that he doesn’t notice Tucker leaning in and making a peace sign until a shutter goes off.

Tucker lowers his phone and turns it around, his smile falling when he sees static. Squinting, Danny can only just make out what might be Tucker’s peace sign, and two brighter spots that are probably his own eyes.

“Aw, man,” Tucker says.

“Dude, what else did you expect?”

“I thought it might be different now since Sam’s pictures are. I still don’t get why that works but my stuff doesn’t.”

“Isn’t it some superstition that analogue technology works better around ghosts?” Danny asks.

“Your parents don’t use analogue!”

“My parents specifically design their gear to function around ghosts.”

“So unfair.”

Sam shrugs. “Those superstitions have to come from somewhere. Ghosts have probably been around as long as humans have. There has to be some truth to all those old stories. Like the blood blossoms.”

Sam isn’t looking at Danny when she says it. She’s turned away, returning her scrapbook to its place under her bed, so she misses the way Danny freezes for a second.

But Tucker doesn’t. “You okay?”

Danny forces himself to move, leaning back against Sam’s bed and folding his arms behind his head. “Yeah.”

It’s impressive how Tucker manages to say, “Dude, are you stupid? I know you better than that,” with nothing more than raised eyebrows. It’s also a bit rude.

Danny sticks his tongue out in return, but Tucker’s eyebrows don’t get any lower, and he has to look away or else he might crack. It’s stupid, getting worked up at just the mention of blood blossoms. It’s a flower. A couple petals on a stalk. Thinking of them shouldn’t make his skin hot and his chest tight and his tongue prickle.

He grips his knees and takes a deep breath, Tucker’s stare boring into him all the while. After a few seconds, Tucker says, “Okay,” and presses his leg against Danny’s. The warmth grounds him, and by the time Sam comes up from under her bed, his breathing has evened out.

“Think a salt line could stop him?” Tucker asks. He reaches up to the bed and grabs his popcorn. “Ooooooh, the great ghost boy, stopped by salty deliciousness.

“you said salt line, not salt...whatever this would be. Besides, popcorn would never betray me like that, no matter what Jazz thinks.” To prove his point, Danny grabs a handful and shoves it in his mouth. Buttery, salty, delicious popcorn. “I love you,” he says to it.

Tucker snickers. “Is Jazz still making your parents do that healthy diet thing?”

“Oh my God, yes, I hate it.” He sits up and puts on his best Jazz impression. “‘You need to take care of your body to care for your mind.’ It’s nice that she knows my secret, but I don’t think she realizes she doesn’t need to find ways to be useful. Just having her helps.”

“Maybe say that to her?” Sam says. “She probably feels bad that she didn’t mesh with the team. I get it. We’d be pretty upset if we couldn’t help you, right, Tuck?”

“Hm?” Tucker, as focused on the popcorn as Danny is, blinks. “Oh, yeah.”

“Okay, sure, but Sam. Please. She doesn’t let them buy chips. I haven’t eaten popcorn with salt and butter in a month.” Oh, how Danny has missed it.

“I bet there’s fudge,” Sam says.”

“Yeah, try and get my mom to stop making fudge. Or my dad to stop eating it. Jazz knows when to pick her battles.”

“And her enemy is popcorn.”

Danny nods solemnly. “It’s popcorn.”

[wandixx]

You know what? I'm on my "M’gann and Danny should be friends/lovers" kick again and I have thoughts about them in general.

I think both deserve to have some level of gender fuckery.

And here, bear with me because I'm as cis as they make us, so I may spew some absolute bullshit. Feel free to yell at me if I do, I'll try my best to do better.

I've seen a lot of genderqueer ideas about Danny, and these are all beautiful, valid takes. I love them.

But I think M'gann needs some, too. She comes from society that, if it does gender, has a really different way of handling it, of expressing and all that (I know it's not canon but also look me in the eyes, look at the species of shapeshifters, who can become whoever they want, not even looking like someone they saw or something, look me in the eyes again and tell me they can't shapeshift genitals, rendering this way of separating genders even more baseless than it is to humans and tell me they'd still have same or similar gender norms as Western culture circle on Earth). She escaped this society, and in efforts to fit in a new environment, she became almost stereotypically feminine and found comfort in it. It could be in part just because he found people who accepted her no matter what, and her form was tied to her comfort character because she wanted to feel like all of her problems could be solved in just 20 minutes too, but idk. I just feel like even if feminity was just part of her mask, just another way to cut Megan Morse on Earth from M’gann M'orzz on Mars, I want to see her kinda finding... well, part of herself in being a girl.

I have no clue if it makes any sense, I just kinda want to see M’gann as transfem with her asigned at birth gender as alien something.

Also, I kinda want to see girls from the Team or Danny's friends teaching her how to do make-up or how to style her hair or other "girly" stuff even though she could just shapeshift it on, and M’gann enjoying it, maybe even finds it soothing. I kinda want to see them both learning what it means to be whatever gender they're going for at the same time. Maybe have M’gann trying out Danny's pre-transition outfits (from photos, most likely) because she thought they looked cute and Danny having whatever reaction would be appropriate.

I kinda want to see M’gann shapeshifting into Danny's transition goals and then him possessing her to get feel of his dream body/help him on really bad dysphoria days.

I don't think I'm a good person to write that, but if it's anything, do with it what you want

[cctinsleybaxter]

2024 in Books

I didn't get quite as much reading done as I would've liked this past year, but the 30 books I did read were all over the place in terms of quality and subject matter so I'd call that a success. One trend of note was that I kept accidentally reading the fabled upper-middle class white American man's Great American Novel, and, worse, liked them best of all.

The Enormous Room by E.E. Cummings

Cummings' semi-fictionalized autobiography begins with the abrupt end of his service as a volunteer medic in WWI, having been arrested and interned by the French with his coworker/best friend and marked as missing by the US embassy, and I can apparently be tricked into like poetry if it's disguised as all that. My very first note says '[Joseph] Heller was here,' and that only became more apparent as the book went on. I'm flabbergasted that with time it lost status as a classic, and that people haven't pointed out its massive influence on all sorts of 20th century-defining media when it's THE prison novel. To describe the inhabitants of The Enormous Room or even pick and choose individual lines would be to recite poetry, which for me is like turning gold back into straw (oh god.. it's happening... American werewolf transformation.mp4), but everyone really should check out Cummings' structuring and storytelling graces here. Others have talked about a gift for pivoting between a kind of stereotypical artsy romanticism and stereotypical academic traditionalism, but if I had to sum him up in a word? Obnoxious <3

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Almost landed with the honorable mentions because it overstays its welcome and the descriptions of rape and torture progressed far beyond my stomach's limit, but like. Yeah. I don't think comparisons to Dostoevsky are overblown at all; hamfisted and predictable in places yet deeply clever and unexpected, NYC richboy ennui at the end of the 20th century has been captured so perfectly you can practically hear the cork going into the bottle. The moment I began to tire of the business card scene from the movie repeating ad nauseam and the My Immortal outfit montages and the hilariously-named restaurants where they know you I realized that it was a structural choice and started enjoying them all over again. My favorite chapter is one in which Patrick Bateman makes a last ditch effort to stop being a psycho by escaping to the Hamptons with his girlfriend ("like a spider, she accepted") only to spend the whole vacation vomiting in terracotta pots and standing around listlessly holding an ice pick. My favorite scene and line will have to remain a sickening, awful surprise.

The Devil's Candy: An Anatomy of a Hollywood Fiasco by Julie Salamon

Salamon signed on with Brian De Palma to document production of his Oscarbait adaptation of The Bonfire of the Vanities well before it became a notorious flop, and thanks to that this is one of- if not the- best books for explaining how a movie gets made. It's smart without talking down to its audience, and the fact that the film by all accounts sucked, continually and at every level, is icing on the cake for me. The approach Salamon took to forty-odd interviews and constant observational sessions, ultimately biographizing De Palma* as well as documenting the studio process is really good journalism, mostly very nuanced in how it describes people but also fun enough to select a few villains. There are so many details I'd like to share, but my favorite is the constant allusions to people taking vitamins, supplements, and random pills PAs gave them like candy because 1., it was 1990, 2., on a movie set you are not allowed to get sick, you will be killed, if the production is on a tight schedule and budget you will be killed more.

*As someone who has mixed-to-negative feelings on his movies I learned he's a very earnest artist who doesn't talk to his editors, so mystery solved.

Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

"For anyone who has experienced Moby-Dick, it is a privilege to introduce it to another reader- but a privilege that is abused if extended much beyond the invitation." -Andrew Delbanco

"The real joy in Moby-Dick is the pure act of reading itself" -Fone Bone in Bone (2001), Jeff Smith

"the x-files was groundbreaking because it was the first good tv show that was also bad" -Tumblr user thexfiles

Second favorite book ever.

Re-thinking History by Keith Jenkins

Jenkins wrote this short textbook in 1990, arguing that the way history is taught, especially in higher education, is centered around the idea that with enough work and primary sources an objective, fundamental past can be discovered and accepted across nonpartisan lines, while history taught from 'alternate' viewpoints is relegated to elective courses. Depressing that not much has changed in over thirty years, but I think the structure of Jenkins' argument is really helpful if you want to be able to talk about this stuff with people and push for change with institutions. His intent to make history an intersectional issue ("the ideas I discussed had long been circulating in practically all the other discourses around...”) means he lectures as such, and while I don't agree with everything he has to say we have way more common ground than is usual for me and philosophers. I'd also like to extend a special thanks to the tens of of grad students on here who started running their mouths about James Fitzjames shortly after I finished reading; if I wasn't sold on the argument that empathy isn't a progressive or even functional way of engaging with the past that did it.

From a Buick 8 by Stephen King

This is the best Stephen King book. It suffers from some of the same bullshit as all the worst Stephen King books, I think taken as a Vietnam war allegory and as a working class story (about cops?? famously working class) it may even be uniquely bad, I disliked the epilogue and think it should've ended with the last chapter, but I loved it. Not the second run at a haunted car story I thought it was going to be, but a science fiction story (within a story) wherein you are reading about nothing mattering at 800 miles an hour. It also made me realize that much as I tend to dislike King and his reign over my favorite genre he really is talented, and might be the best in the business at writing not just addiction but what can only be described as intrusive thoughts.

Okay, get in :-)

The Wine-Dark Sea by Robert Aickman

I have a deeply embarrassing phobia of eye floaters, something I'm only admitting here because it's too stupid (or perhaps.. endearing?) to use against me. The first time I 'saw' them at five years old was the first memory I have of feeling real fear as a child, and I always wondered if there was a horror author who could manage to capture that feeling- not in a Lovecraftian space creature way, not over-explaining, just imparting the dread of a little kid experiencing the banal everyday for the first time and it making them sick to their stomach.

Well, here you go. Aickman doesn't make the mistake of lunging for 'what's the scariest thing that could happen next?' He likes a yarn, indescribable only in that it would take every adjective, and incredibly well-written beginning to end. Even the stories that didn't do it for me gave me something to chew on, but my absolute favorites were The Trains and The Inner Room.

Honorable Mentions

An Unauthorized Fan Treatise by Lauren James

This compilation of blog entries from a fan of a fictional 2010s monster-of-the-week show was reworked into a published YA novel that I haven't read, but I think the original formatting of a website with hyperlinks and comment sections you have to manually scroll through is quintessential to its working in the first place. People are writing more and more fiction revolving around the internet I grew up on (some of them grew up on it with me!), but this is one of very few I've found to have both the correct voice and an engaging plot. My equivalent of taking a mass market on an airplane so a little surface-level, but the finer details had me covering my mouth to laugh in horror because yeah, that's exactly how it would've played out.

Right Ho, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

The entire plot stemming from an argument over a dinner jacket is hot.

Starman: The Truth Behind the Legend of Yuri Gagarin by Jamie Doran and Piers Bizony

"The Americans only counted down to add drama for their television." -Vostok guidance and trajectory expert Yuri Mazzhorin

A years-old rec from @barstoolblues that presents an excellent biography of Gagarin, probably as comprehensive as was possible in the 90s, but even more interesting insight into the space race. With years of interviews and research to sort through Doran and Bizony aren't always economical in their pacing, but the book is well-cited, well-written, and never boring. I also think it truly helps to have 'third party' (UK) authors who're critical of the USSR in very different ways than Americans and who are willing to be just as critical of the US. You'll have to turn to the book for wider context, but one of my favorite anecdotes is that they made Gagarin's professional rival Gherman Titov suit up ("dressed in the twentieth century's most distinctive suits of armour…") and go to the launch pad with him as his understudy. World's funniest, saddest psychological torture, though they did get to clonk helmets as a kiss goodbye which is very cute.

[allisluv]

COMING CLEAN

pairing: finnick odair x fem!oc

content warnings: concussions, disassociation, teasing, sexual jokes and innuendos, sweet finn and dahlia moments!!, nicknames and pet names, gore, blood, angst, death, burning, miscommunication (?), not being able to tell what's real, mercy kill (im sorry in advance yall).

word count: 4.8k

previous chapter -- next chapter.

Dahlia always finds it harder to keep a grip on reality in the evenings and tonight is no exception. Her concussion isn't helping matters and it takes every ounce of willpower she possesses to stop herself from falling asleep.

Mags has curled up in a ball like a cat, her chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, and both Peeta and Wyatt are snoring like trucks. Katniss is as alert as be damned, refusing to do so much as to even close her eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Finnick asks, knocking his shoulder into Dahlia's. He frowns when she recoils away from his touch. She's never done that before, and it makes him wonder if he's done something wrong. "You okay, honey?" She nods her head, eyes unfocused as she stares off into the distance. "Dahlia."

Her head snaps to the side so fast he thinks she gave herself whiplash. "Huh?"

"I asked if you were okay," Finnick says slowly, brows knitting together and causing the skin on his forehead to criss-cross with worry lines. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?" He asks, itching to reach out and tilt her head towards him, but knowing that she probably won't appreciate it given her previous reaction. "Talk to me."

Dahlia worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "Just... thinking," she says, lifting her shoulders up into a shrug.

"Anything you wanna share?" Finnick teases, tilting his head to one side in an effort to catch her attention. She doesn't blink, and he starts to worry that it's a side effect of her concussion. "I'm serious, honey, are you okay? Do you feel alright?"

"I'm fine," Dahlia insists. "You worry too much, Finn," she says, turning to look at him. He smirks, and she glares at him. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He chuckles under his breath. "You called me Finn," he sings, watching as her face crumbles and the blood rushes to her cheeks. "In all the time I've known you, honey, you've never gave me the privilege of a nickname."

She ducks her head to hide the colour in her face. "I call you an asshole," she supplies, trying to sway him into a different conversation altogether. "Surely that counts for something."

"You're deflecting!" He points an accusing finger at her and breathes out a laugh. "Oh my God, you're blushing! You're embarrassed!" He wears a shit-eating grin and before Dahlia has time to catch the thought and question it, she wonders if kissing him would make his ego inflate more or less. "Don't worry, honey. Personally, I think you should start calling me it more often. I mean, its really doing something for me here."

She snorts indignantly. "You're an animal. An actual animal."

Panem's national anthem sounds throughout speakers hidden around the arena and the fallen eight tributes are shown on a hologram high in the sky. Mags and the others stir from their sleep, tossing and turning as they push themselves up onto their elbows to peer up at the night sky. The anthem ends, and the hologram fizzles out.

"There's sixteen of us left," Peeta announces, voice quiet and laced with tiredness. He rests his head on Katniss' shoulder, eyes fluttering shut once more before the steady sound of beeping brings him back to reality. He groans, and stands to his feet, dragging his prosthetic leg behind him as they all move to crowd around the small parachute that has landed on the mossy jungle floor.

No one moves to open it, so Katniss takes matters into her own hands. She hastily rips open the  packaging and reads the paper note aloud.��"Drink up? It's from Haymitch."

"What is it?" Finnick wonders aloud, cocking his head to one side as he tries to study the small, metal object in Katniss' hands. "You can't fish with it, anyway. I've never seen that before in my life and trust me, being from four, I would have seen it if it had anything to do with catching fish for food."

"I think it's a spile," Katniss practically trips over her own two feet as she rushes to a nearby tree, throwing an explanation over her shoulder as she uses the jagged edge of a rock to dig the spile into the trunk. "It's kind of like a faucet. You put it in a tree and sap comes out."

"Sap?" Wyatt sounds bewildered. They don't have many trees in District Nine, and the few they do have wouldn't be the same ones that Katniss is referring to. "What the fuck is sap?"

"It's kind of like honey," Peeta answers as they crouch down beside Katniss and the tree. "You use it to make syrup. There must be water inside of these trees." He says excitedly. "Come on," he mutters under his breath, hoping to anybody who's listening that they haven't gotten their hopes up for nothing.

Just as they are starting to wonder if they've made a mistake and gotten this completely wrong, a trickle of water pours out of the spile, soaking the moss beneath their feet.

Dahlia could quiet literally sob her heart out at the sight of fresh water. She paces as she waits her turn, letting the others drink their fill before stepping near it herself. Ducking her head, she gulps back the water, feeling it soothe her scratchy throat.

It's warmer than any of them would have liked but beggars can't be choosers, and right now, the group of them would drain a bottle of damn bleach if it meant having something to drink. Mags is too fragile and old to bend, so Finnick instructs her to sit down and pours some water into a large leaf, using it as a bowl for her to drink out of.

Without their thirst to distract them, exhaustion takes over. Peeta is the first to fall asleep and both Mags and Wyatt follow soon after. Katniss reluctantly dozes off after an hour, head resting against Peeta's shoulder, and within a matter of minutes, they are tangled together like koalas, clinging to each other.

Everyone sleeps through a bell tolling twelve times and then a lightning storm on the far side of the arena and Dahlia can't help but wonder if they would sleep through a tornado, too.

Dahlia keeps her sickles firmly grasped in her hands as she and Finnick sit silently side by side, using a tall tree with long leaves to protect them from the weather, because despite it being the night time and the sun having gone away long ago, the air is still stuffy and humid.

Finnick convinces Dahlia to play twenty questions with him, but he's yawning after ten minutes. "Go to sleep," she instructs, coaxing him into resting his head in her lap. He resists, and she fixes him with a glare. "Don't be stubborn. You're clearly tired."

"And you have a concussion," Finnick retorts, cracking his knuckles one by one. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Dahlia says, refusing to give up. "Just lie down on my lap. I'm not going to bite."

"What if I'm into that kind of thing?" Finnick grins, trying to play it off with humour to hide how afraid he is of being vulnerable with someone. Even though it's something as simple as laying in someone's lap, it sends him into panic mode.

Dahlia cocks her head to one side, studying his face. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Finn. I'm not going to hurt you," she coaxes, watching as his shoulders sag ever so slightly, the tension his muscles hold dissipating. She sucks in a deep breath before taking a big step out of her comfort zone. "Baby, just lie down. I'm not gonna stop irritating you until you get some sleep."

His expression softens and Dahlia steels herself for his resistance. It never comes. Instead, he lies his head in her lap, using her thighs as pillows, and tucks his hands under his head. "Wake me up when you get tired, yeah?"

Dahlia's so taken aback by his willingness to trust her that all she can do is nod her head like a damn fool, and mutter a quiet, "Okay."

His body is taught with tension, clearly feeling out of his comfort zone as much as she's feeling out of hers. She smooths his golden curls out of his eyes, and he melts into her touch, allowing himself to take that leap of faith and place his trust in someone for the first time in his life. Blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp and he sighs contentedly, letting his eyes flutter shut.

A tiny smile pulls at the corners of Dahlia's lips. "I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear her over the sound of the wildlife in the jungle. "You can go to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."

It seems that her reassurance is all he needs to hear, because he drifts off quickly, his chest rising and falling with soft breaths. She continues to smooth his hair back out of his face and comb her fingers through his golden locks.

She can't help but think how nice it would be for him to lie in her lap more often, but then her mind involuntarily takes her back to nights spent with Capitol men, and she shakes the idea out of her head. Sure, Finnick might be nice, but some of those men were nice, too, and it didn't turn out well in the long run.

A situation like this could only end one way and that was with Dahlia hurt and alone.

She refused to put herself through that agony again. She wouldn't let herself grow fond of him, even if deep down, she wanted to. It wasn't an option. It wasn't in the rules she had set out for herself. It was the one protocol she refused to break; falling in love.

Her head runs at a million miles a minute. She thinks of all the things that could go wrong if she let herself get attached to him. She could let him in, and he could break her heart, or worse, use her secrets against her. Her breathing grows fast and she has to consciously remind herself that she's catastrophising.

Bloom would tell her that she doesn't have a magic wand and can't see the future. Malaki would make her a cup of chamomile tea and sit her down in front of the roaring fire. Juniper would tell her she can't miss out on the opportunity of falling in love because she's scared, and in her head she tells Juniper to leave her alone, only because she knows she's telling the truth.

Minutes stretch into hours and there's no sound apart from the occasional gasp of air as Katniss wakes up and panics, only relaxing when her eyes lock onto Peeta snoring peacefully next to her. Dahlia watches this happen three or four times, and each time Katniss wakes, she whispers that it's okay. Katniss glares at her, but there's no malice behind her gaze, just distrust, which she can not be blamed for.

Dahlia narrows her eyes when she catches sight of a fog rolling in, and Katniss follows her line of sight. It's quick, much too quick to be caused by the weather, and Dahlia doesn't trust it. It's not natural, and it looks too thick, almost like the clouds have fallen from the sky.

Katniss outstretches her hand warily. Her fingertips barely graze the fog, but it's enough. With a guttural scream, she pulls her hand back, writhing on the floor and yelling out in pain. Although Dahlia is a few inches away, she can hear the sizzling of Katniss' skin as it blisters and boils.

Katniss starts to shake Peeta awake, shouting a warning over her shoulder to the others. "Run! The fog is poison! Run!" 

Dahlia shakes Finnick awake and he shoots up iron-rod straight as if he's been poked in the back with a hot poker. "What's going on?" His eyes latch onto hers as he snatches his trident up, ready for battle.

"Run!" Dahlia screams as Wyatt helps him with Mags. She runs towards the fog, looping her arm through Peeta's, who's not able to run as fast as the others; he's still only getting adjusted to his prosthetic leg and the aftereffects of hitting the forcefield are showing. Katniss accepts her help gratefully for once, and between the two of them, they propel him through the jungle.

He trips over vines and branches, and the two girls are practically carrying him as the wall of fog gains ground on them. The mist extends further than the fog and latches onto their skin, burning like tiny flames. Peeta falls once more and stays down as the fog causes boils to show up all over the side of his face.

Dahlia slips, grabbing him by the hand and yelping when her skin touches the fog. Katniss failed to mention just how badly it stings, and she wants to wring Plutarch's neck for putting them into this situation. Finnick and Wyatt scream in the distance and despite all of her instincts telling her to move for them, she can't leave Katniss and Peeta alone. "C'mon. You can do it. Just follow our steps," she says, dragging him to his feet and not giving him much of a choice in the matter.

The blisters seem to have weighed him down some more and they're moving at a slower, stickier pace than before, which is definitely saying something. They trip once more and Dahlia's head is so sore that she stays down, hoping the fog will just take her, hoping that it won't be painful.

Wyatt slows to a stop beside them, skidding and slipping in the mud with Finnick and Mags right behind him. He gently taps Dahlia on the side of the face until her eyes open. "Don't think about it," he warns, hoisting her onto her feet and watching as she slips and falls again. He turns to the others. "She can't walk on her own. She's not even meant to be exerting herself."

"I can't carry Peeta," Katniss says, eyes prickling with tears. "I can't do it."

Finnick looks between Katniss and Peeta, at a loss. Mags hauls herself up, pats Finnick on the shoulder and plants a kiss on his cheek. "Mags?" He shouts as she heads straight for the fog. It takes both Katniss and Wyatt to hold him back from going after her. The canon sounds as he lets out another desperate plea of her name. "Mags!"

"We have to go," Katniss begs. "We have got to get out of here."

"She's right, Finnick," Wyatt says, lifting Dahlia over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. "I'm so sorry, but we have to keep moving. You understand that?"

Finnick sucks in a deep breath and loops one arm around Peeta's waist, while Katniss does the same to his other side. Time loses all sense of purpose as they bolt through the jungle, losing their balance and falling down an embankment.

Wyatt cradles Dahlia's head in his hands, using himself as a human shield to stop her getting a worse concussion than the one she already has. He takes the brunt of the fall, gasping when he makes contact with the solid ground, winded but thankful that he's spared his district partner. 

None of them move as they wait for their imminent deaths to arrive--- but it never does.

Dahlia eventually crawls off Wyatt, lying flat on her back in the moss. She tilts her head to one side and watches as the fog condenses, pressing up against what looks like an invisible wall that pushes it back the way it came. "It's stopped," she croaks, head pounding with pain as she rolls onto her back once more.

Every bone in her body aches and the boils on the back of her neck sizzle and burn. All she wants to do is retreat into her head where it's safe and warm and nothing bad can happen, but right now, she knows she can't afford that luxury. So, instead, she stays as still as she can, and counts the number of stars in the sky to stay tied to the real world, no matter how awful the real world may be.

Katniss screams but she hasn't got the energy to turn her head and see what's happening. She closes her eyes, unable to stop her brain from shutting off. It's okay, her head tells her, just rest now.

One minute she's baking cookies with her mother and the next, Finnick's hovering over her with that worried crease between his brows. She swims in the lake with Ivy, only to find that someone is holding her underneath the water.

She immediately interprets it as a threat, thrashing about, and when she opens her mouth to scream, it achieves nothing; all she does is inhale a massive amount of saltwater. She vaguely makes out the sound of muffled shouting before she's yanked from the water, where she begins to cough up a lung.

Blindly, she reaches out and grabs hold of what feels like a rock, using it to haul herself up onto dry soil. Someone's hands are firm on her face and she lashes out, kicking and flailing about as she tries to wriggle her way out of their grasp.

"You're gonna hurt yourself," Finnick argues, voice firm but gentle as he blocks all of her attacks without breaking a sweat. "I don't want to touch you but if you keep writhing about, I'll have to."

Dahlia pries her eyes open and carefully looks up at the sound of his voice. Finnick frowns down at her, hands held out like he's approaching a frightened animal. His golden curls are flat on the top of his head from being wet and the corners of his eyes are crinkled with concern. "Stay--- just stay where you are," she warns, feeling around in the moss for her sickles and grabbing hold of them.

Hurt flashes across Finnick's face before he recovers. "Come on, now, honey, don't be stupid. I'm not going to hurt you. You know that." He takes a tentative step forward, only to find out that she is in fact, not, bluffing. She swipes with her sickles and he narrowly hops out of the way. "Honey. Calm down. You're fine."

"I don't want to do this," she pleads. "So just stay there for a minute."

Finnick nods his head reluctantly. "Alright. I won't come any closer. Just clam down, yeah?" He says, sitting on a nearby rock. "Take a breath. You're okay."

Dahlia glares at him, but there's no real heat behind her gaze. Finnick doesn't take it personally, anyway; he knows that she is just putting her walls back up because she's scared, and that's the only way she knows how to protect herself. "You tried to kill me," she snarls.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Finnick laughs incredulously. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Well, why else were you holding me under the water?" she snaps, holding out her sickle. "You better start explaining."

Finnick sighs. "The water helps with the burns from the fog."

"What fog?" Dahlia asks, mind still hazy from swapping and changing from the world in her head and the one that's real. Finnick's brows dip and it takes a minute for her to piece together what's going on. "The poison fog?"

He nods slowly, and answers with, "Yeah. Did you not notice the burns are gone?"

She looks away for a moment, making sure to keep him in her peripheral vision as her hand flies up to touch the skin of her neck. It's still sensitive and warm to touch, but there's no more lumps or boils. "I don't understand. This can't be real. This is just something I made up in my head."

"No, honey, it's real," Finnick soothes, wanting nothing more than to just reach out and wrap her in his arms. He can see the doubt in her eyes, and he sighs. "Do you remember when I promised I would tell you the truth, hm?" She hums suspiciously. "Well, I don't break my promises. This-- all of this-- is real. I swear it."

Dahlia shakily pushes herself to her feet and says, "I believe you." She can feel the others staring at her as she sits in the small creek of water. Wyatt and Peeta go to find some fresh water from a nearby tree using the spile and Katniss gathers their weapons together, leaving her and Finnick on their own.

She soaks her feet and slowly lowers herself in until she's floating on her back. It's something that Wyatt taught her to do years ago. A grounding technique, he had called it. She still doesn't really know what's that's supposed to mean, but for some reason, it works.

Finnick scoots closer to her, inch by inch, until he's sitting in the water only a few feet away from her. "You okay now?"

Dahlia stares at the sky to stop herself from having to look at him. "I'm sorry. I just.. get confused sometimes."

His tongue darts out to wet the corners of his lips. "Can I ask... why?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time."

"I don't know how to explain it," she answers honestly. "I can't put it into words."

Finnick hums his acknowledgement. "That sounds hard to deal with. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Dahlia frowns. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No one's ever asked me that before," she admits.

"Ever?"

"Ever." She pauses, the words lingering on her lips as she sits up in the water. "I'm sorry about Mags. I know how much she meant to you."

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the lump in his throat. "She was never going to make it."

"That doesn't make it hurt any less," she says gently. "I'm here, you know that, right? If you need to talk to me, I'm here. I can't promise I'll always have the answers, but I'm a good listener. Or so I've been told, anyway."

Finnick opens his mouth to thank her, but the words get caught in the back of his throat as his gaze catches on something over her shoulder. She stills, too afraid to move in fear of what he's looking at. Neither of them speak as they reach for their weapons at the side of the creek, and that's when Dahlia sees it.

Heavy creatures balance on branches in the trees, tufts of orange fur sticking up in all directions as if they've been electrocuted.

"Monkeys," Dahlia mutters under her breath. Finnick looks at her as if to ask how she knows. "Ivy asked for one for her birthday, but they didn't look like these ones."

Katniss quietly sneaks up on them, pressing her back against theirs to provide coverage from all angles. Her bow is loaded with two arrows, as she tells them, "They're mutts." She calls for Peeta and Wyatt, who turn around at the sound of their names, faces dropping as they see the animals surrounding them. "Walk over here slowly," Katniss instructs.

Peeta grabs the spile and his sword while Wyatt pulls a couple of daggers out of his back pocket. It's hard for Peeta to keep his steps quiet with the loud thump of his metal leg hitting against the moss, but he manages it, little by little.

"We need to get to the beach," Wyatt mutters to the others, spinning on his heel as the monkeys start to crowd in on them. One lunges for him and Dahlia rips it's head off with one swift swipe of her sickle.

The mutts are relentless with their attacks, and nobody holds back as they fight off the animals. Katniss is pushed underwater by one and Wyatt spears his dagger into it's chest, helping her up as the monkey's body goes limp. "Go! Get to the beach!"

Despite the beach growing closer and closer the further they run, the mutts are gaining ground on them, and fast. Dahlia screams in pain when one sinks it's claws into her leg and kicks it full force in the face. She hobbles towards the beach, swiping and hitting out with her sickles, letting out all of the rage she's kept bottled up for years on end.

They are mere metres from the beach when it happens; a mutt has Peeta pinned against a tree, ready to make one final blow, when a camouflaged morphling from Six jumps out of her hiding spot in the treeline, allowing the monkey to sink it's claws into her chest.

Peeta gasps and sinks his sword into the monkey's back, tossing it off the morphling. Between him and Katniss, they manage to carry her to the oceanfront, while Dahlia, Finnick and Wyatt try to hold off their attackers.

As they reach the beach, Dahlia turns her back for a split second to make sure they haven't left anyone behind.

A split second is all it takes.

Wyatt starts to scream bloody murder, and then it dies out into nothing but a dull whimper.

She turns back around.

Three monkeys have pounced on him, pinning him to the ground, sinking their claws into him over and over and over and over again.

A scream tears out of Dahlia's throat as she rushes to his side, using her sickles to slash at the monkeys and pushing them off of him like they weigh nothing. The monkeys snarl at her as she grabs Wyatt under the arms and starts dragging him across the sand, leaving a streak of crimson in his wake.

Dahlia sets him down gently on his back, trying her hardest not to panic when she catches sight of the blood seeping from his stomach and neck. "Oh God," she cries, hands tremoring violently as she tries to stem the bleeding.

Wyatt tries to speak, but only a gurgled sound comes out, followed by a trickle of red. "It hurts," he manages to choke out.

Dahlia starts to sob as she grabs his hand. "I know. I know, but you'll be fine. You hear me, it's going to be okay."

"Kill me."

Dahlia's blood runs cold. "What?"

"Kill me. Put me out of my misery."

Her voice shakes. "No." Finnick's at her side, a reassuring hand on her back. She can barely feel it. "No. I can't-- I won't!"

"If you don't do it, I'll do it myself," Wyatt reaches for a dagger and Dahlia tosses it into the sea. He grabs hold of the front of her wetsuit. "I'm begging you."

"You can't ask me to do that," she sobs, chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. "You can't ask me to do that. It's not fair! I won't. I won't!"

Wyatt frowns, tears trickling down his face. "Please, Dahlia. Please. I'm scared."

Dahlia hunches over, screaming and crying as Finnick tries to coax her into his arms.  "Close your eyes." She begs.

"What?"

"I can't do it if you're looking at me. I can't."

"I don't want to see the dark," Wyatt gasps. "I don't want the last thing I see to be darkness."

Dahlia wants to be sick. But she has to stay strong. If not for herself, for Wyatt. "It's okay. I'm gonna be right here with you, holding your hand." She intertwines their fingers together and he lets his eyes flutter shut. A tear rolls down his cheeks. "You see that light? You see it?"

"I see it," Wyatt whispers. "I see it."

"You're gonna follow it for me, okay?" She muffles a sob into her hand as she raises her sickle and presses the sharp end into his throat. He breathes out a sigh of relief and she nearly keels over at the sound. "I need you to follow the light, yeah? It'll be okay. The light will take care of you."

"Okay," Wyatt murmurs, brows knitted together as if he really can see the light.

"It's going to be okay." Dahlia repeats. "Okay?"

"Okay."

The canon sounds, he goes limp in her arms, and Dahlia bolts up the beach.

[smileybasics]

Defending @lil-liaa

I usually don’t post in this blog cause i have other ones but i don’t think this is being fair, me and Lia have been moots for a year and I have seen all her work over the years, I don't know a more creative person than her and I have been with her while she makes her moodboards by call and it is simply impressive the hours she invests in doing it, today I She wrote so devastated and we made a call talking, she has worked on this for so long, I remember how excited she was when she reached 1k, what I mean is that her community and her blog are very important to her, these people are accusing her because three Posts are similar to those of other blogs and that seems stupid to me since you have not even seen her other posts to know if she really makes an effort or not, Lia has made collages, dividers, banners, and a lot of other things, to She is really passionate about digital art and the only time she left her blog was because of the loss of a loved one and the truth is I don't care how many people are going to believe me after this post I just want them to leave her alone, here I am attaching some evidence...

This doesn’t even have so much in common just a few pics that are in pinterest, in case you don’t know how moodboards are made, 2 or more colors are taken as a base and the images that best match the tones are searched on Pinterest, not only what she "copied" are just two photos but she also made a divider and a collage

Here’s just two pics and again i saw a lot of rude comments towards her that so unfair and hurt feelings cause Considering how long Lia has been on her blog it's like invalidating all her hard work!!

This doesn't just happen on the internet, but in real life, one of Lia's moots simply republished the post where they accused her of copying, she asked him/her why he/her did it so quickly, if it's supposed to we were moots and instead of responding privately she made a post just to make her moots laugh and the comments are gross, my god it's disgusting, this is directly bullying, if you are a thinking person and if you have ever had some kind of link you should try to talk something privately instead of calling the crazy girl and tagging all your moots so they can laugh, the worst thing is that you can tell that this girl only wants interaction because when she and Lia were chatting she threatened Lia with blocking her but then when Lia blocked her she made another post like "she blocked me" it's like, besides being a treacherous rat you can't have the decency to talk to her about it, Lia has been so nice to everyone but After all, this is where you can see who the ones who truly supported her are, and not the fake friends.

I'm not going to censor his/her username, he deserves it, tumblr is as much as real life, the importance of moots is like friends in real life, because if you want you can just harass someone and all your friends will laugh without question anything.

Also, Lia has a tutorial of a lot of things that she made! If she knows how to do it, why would she steal or copy from other blogs?

LIKE SHE DIDN’T CARE?! Sorry but this is so wrong, i can tell that, SHE CARES, all these people who are making posts mocking her and calling her crazy because according to what she "copied" three measly posts, when if I were in her place and all my years of work were at stake I would also act like a crazy person because it's worth it, here it is demonstrated clearly her hypocrisy, if Lia wants to defend all her hard work or defend herself from bullying by blocking you she is crazy but if she makes a post explaining everything it seems like she doesn't care, this frustrates me so much

Here more evidence of Lia’s drafts

Just a few of her drafts

And last but not least I want to give credit to Lia's great work these years, so you can see that there is a true artist behind all this nonsense controversy, here are some of her moodboards, my personal favorites that I can't imagine how much time it would have taken

Extra “Lia we know it’s you”

Evidence: Contact of Lia and me

Hi guys, it's come to my attention that someone in the moodboard community known as lil-liaa has been copying / taking heavy "inspo" from other creators like @y-unjins and @iluvrei view more for more info + evidence + my opinions on the whole situation

before i start, i'm not trying to run lil-liaa off the platform nor am i trying to stur up drama, this is just to bring light to the situation as not many people know and many people (including myself) defended her when this first happened, i also want liia to realize that what she's doing isn't right and that she shouldn't just brush off "accusations" like these when there is evidence.

proofs

you can see the similarities as lil-liaa used 3 of the exact same pics as iluvrei's including one edited by the original creator without adding credits to the post.

2nd

here you can instantly tell that the moodboard was copied (lil-liaas on the right being an exact replica of y-unjins), only changing 2 pics excluding the idol change and

3rd / last

lastly, you can see how one lia used the exact same divider (+ didnt give creds), two she uses the same images not only in the moodboard but also in her gif (same pics from y-unjins moodboard including the png)

now, lil-liaa was sent multiple anonymous ask from last year and one recently accusing her of stealing moodboards, although a lot of people defended her last year including me due to the ask having no sorts of proof of moodboards being stolen and no one else speaking on it but now the recent ask she has received included proof and her response to it was very (in my opinion) rude and just sounded like she didn't care.

in my opinion, i don't believe this was just a draft she had premade and i don't believe she somehow got the same exact photos from y-unjins moodboard recommended, i believe since this isnt the first accusation and now there's proof of this i believe she has been copying moodboards since last year when she was accused. i don't believe lil-liaa cares about this, the fact she's stealing from other creators and when she gets called out for it she pushes it off with the same excuses

tags

@miujo @rkkuri @lvioung @ciestial @aeraras @sugarish @gyareii @i-kyujin @daddldee @i-mmaculatus @haerinism @chaeryeos @bloomqi @h-yeoni @p-oisn @bitchey @yeritos @yonkiibums @y-vna @y-urios @fairytopea @shuaver @yeoniis

[muscari-midala]

Congratulations!

David 8 x Reader Words: 1144 Crossposted on Ao3 Crackfic Happy Birthday David ❤️ Idea from: @theropoda and @lehnsharrk

"Your Weyland-Corp package will be delivered in approximately 15 minutes."

Wow, that was fast! You had entered an online competition to become one of the beta-testers for the first model of their Home-Android line, and luck must have been on your side, because you actually won!

Putting your phone down, you scrambled through your room, hurriedly pulling on something more presentable than pajamas and hastily combing your hair into place.

Frantically running through your apartment, you tried to clear away stray clothes and dishes. You were so caught up in tidying that you almost tripped as the doorbell rang.

Sure, the Android was technically designed to help with housekeeping, but the delivery person didn’t need to know just how much you actually needed it.

Opening the door, you were greeted by a large cardboard box perched on a trolley, nearly obscuring the man in a green Weyland uniform and matching cap as he peeked out from behind it, checking his clipboard.

"Y/N L/N. Is that correct?"

You nodded, stepping aside to let him wheel the massive package into your living room. Once it was set down, he handed you an impressively thick manual and tapped on its cover.

"Here’s the QR code for the app. Please use it to send feedback or report any issues you encounter."

With a grunt of effort, he hefted the package off the trolley, left it in the middle of your living room, and exited your apartment without another word.

What.

Blinking, you stood frozen for a moment before heading to the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors. With a decisive stab into the parcel tape, you sliced through the middle of the box.

Inside was a beautiful man- wait, no. Android. Oh. A very beautiful Android.

You flicked through the manual, scanning for activation instructions. Ah, here it was. To activate, press a small sensor located behind his right ear for five seconds.

Taking a breath, you reached out and pressed the spot. Moments later, his eyes opened, and after a brief pause, his gaze locked onto yours.

Now he was the one blinking, his brows furrowing slightly as he began testing his limbs. With deliberate movements, he stepped out of the box.

“Good day, Ma’am,” he said in a voice that was smooth, polite, and just a touch mechanical. “My name is David 1. I will serve as your assistant and companion, ready to assist you with whatever you may require.”

He extended a hand, stiff but purposeful. “May I ask what I should call you?”

And that's how daily life with David began.

It was really weird to configure your timezone for something that looked so human, and to enter a PIN code for him via an app??

And the ads. You weren’t safe from ads, either. Sometimes, when he didn’t have anything to do, he would just stand around or sit on the couch and start citing commercials.

The first time it happened, you almost spat out the tea he had made for you beforehand.

“Would you like to renew your Audible subscription? The first three months are only $0.99.”

As you choked on your beverage, David stared at you apologetically before quickly getting up and patting your back to help.

“Sorry, (Y/N), I didn’t mean to surprise you. You can turn it off with the Premium Subscription for $19.99 per month.”

Putting your cup down, still coughing, you turned to him.

“I have to pay for that? Seriously?”

He just shrugged, his face imitating an :I emoji.

After a while, you noticed that even David got annoyed by the interruptions, disliking how your conversations were suddenly stopped by yet another commercial for shaving cream.

The two of you made it your mission to bypass ads with free trials he found online. He even read your books to you instead of you paying for another damn subscription.

HelloFresh? He grew vegetables on your windowsill. Man, he was amazing at making fresh pasta.

“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I DON’T WANT YOUTUBE PREMIUM! THIS APP SHOULD BE ABLE TO PLAY VIDEOS IN THE BACKGROUND WITHOUT ME PAYING FOR IT!”

You shouted in frustration. The ads were SO annoying, and you couldn’t turn them off!

David blinked, and for a moment you thought he had lagged as he processed your words. Then he answered.

“If you give me permission via verbal verification, I could enter the darknet and download an adblock mod. It’s a bit risky, but my firewall should be sufficient to withstand any viruses.”

You hesitated, not wanting to risk his functionality. But when he one day started quoting a Viagra advertisement like those on Tumblr, you caved.

“Please enter the darknet and find that mod. I can’t take this anymore.”

So he did. And you got really fucking scared for a moment, because one of his eyes twitched and stayed half-open, like your old dolls when you tilted them sideways. Oh shit, did you break him? Please, please, please no- oh. Oh God.

He needed a second to install and initialize. His expression reminded you of your Furby with dying batteries that suddenly came to life in the middle of the night, croaking its last words. But after another minute, he was fine.

This action had some side effects, though.

He still worked perfectly - cleaning the dishes, doing the laundry, watering the plants, until he suddenly called you a donkey while you were cooking. With an awfully familiar voice.

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“That wasn’t me,” he replied in his normal voice, furrowing his brows.

Nodding slowly, you turned back to add meat to your sauce, only to be interrupted by:

“Why did the chicken cross the road? Because you didn’t fucking cook it!”

Instead of getting annoyed, you broke down laughing, and even David couldn’t hide a grin as he watched you sink to the kitchen floor.

“I seem to have caught a serious case of Gordon Ramsay.”

That was it. you were officially cackling like a hen. On the ground. Crying.

It wasn’t so bad, really. He functioned just fine, even though he occasionally squawked like a bird at random. But you just squawked right back. Just normal ADHD things, to be honest.

At the end of the day, he became your illegally modded roommate, sitting with you on the couch, your legs sprawled over his lap as you both munched on popcorn.

You still weren’t entirely sure where the food he sometimes ate with you went, but you decided not to question it.

Weyland never got their Android back, you hid him in your closet that one time they tried to collect him after the testing period was over.

“I have the power of God and anime on my side,” your favorite person declared.

“Yes, David, you do,” you replied with a smile.

~The End~

[suckerforcate]

Hi! Love love love your writing. Really wanna request kate stewart/reader with soulmate storyline. Thank you 💕

Soulmate

Pairing: Kate Lethbridge-Stewart x Reader

Word Count: 2,3 k

Warning: none?, pinch of Angst maybe, sort of age gap

Summary: Soulmark AU // Kate and you are Soulmates but for some reason she doesn't acknowledge it. At all. You confront her.

A/n: This took me forever, I'm so sorry. My life went upside down. And then I just didn't know what to do with the story so it might feel a bit wobbly at times and the end feels kind of rushed. Lots of love.

■----------------------------------------■

You had suspected it for some time, but didn't have any proper evidence.

The concept of soulmates - two souls connected and always meant to be together, like they'd been parted at birth and needed to find each other again - had always been a bit vague and unrealistic to you. The thought was comforting though. The idea that no one was meant to be alone. Everyone on this earth should eventually find their other half.

And yet you hadn't. Sure, they could be anywhere from Iceland to South Africa, that did complicate things. But you tried to tell yourself that it wasn't important. Maybe you'd find them, and maybe you wouldn't.

As much as you tried to tell yourself it wasn't important, your eyes wandered to the bare space on your right wrist often. And one day you looked there, and it wasn't bare anymore. The skin there was graced by soft, thin colourful lines merging together to a delicate pattern. It looked a bit like an abstract flower. It was gorgeous.

You stared at it for what felt like hours every day, your mind reeling with endless possibilities. Who could it be? You touched what felt like millions of people every day. A handshake here, a quick hug there, a brush of a finger when paying at the shops. It could be anyone.

You didn't hide it, didn't make an effort to cover it up. The first time Kate had seen it there was this flash of...something in her eyes. Surprise? But she was good and covering it up and schooling her features. It was gone so quickly you thought you had imagined it.

After that she acted a bit suspiciously. She often looked at the pattern on your arm, eyes often lingering there. And her wrists were always covered. Always. They never had been before. She wore her sleeves rolled up religiously. Not anymore.

It took you a while to connect the dots. But it kind of made sense. Two souls parted at birth, waiting to be reunited. Kate and you just fit. It had always fit. It was just surprising how long it had taken you to find out. How was it possible to work with someone for such a long time and never touch skin to skin?

Whatever the circumstances and the path that had led you to this moment in time, this all-consuming, life altering second, you were there now. It's a bit funny. How one second can change your life forevermore. That tiny second in which Kate hadn't been pulled together perfectly like usual. That tiny second that her wrist was exposed for. That tiny, little second in which you saw the edges of that same delicate pattern that graced your wrist. It all fell into place. Everything made sense in a way you hadn't yet known anything could make sense.

But the second was over as quickly as it had come. Her wrist covered again, and the world went on, like nothing had happened. Like you hadn't just felt your heart skip and do a somersault. Maybe you had had a heart attack? What did a heart attack feel like?

To your disappointment the day went on as mundanely as possible. Time didn't care for you. Didn't care for your heart or for love.

It's hours later when a thought struck you. She must have known. She'd seen the markings on your wrist. You'd caught her staring at it. She'd known, and yet she hadn't spoken up. Why? You were sitting in the lab, alone, it was late already and everyone had gone home. You had wanted to work a bit more, but instead you stared at the wall opposite you and your mind was reeling, searching for possible explanations. You came up empty.

Was the thought of you so unappealing as her soulmate that she refused to acknowledge it? Didn't she like you at all? Wasn't she willing to at least try?

After an excruciatingly long time of thinking without any result you decided to just go and talk to Kate. Sure it was late, but Kate would definitely still be in her office. She always stayed late. Later than she should. Especially since her kids had moved out.

The halls of UNIT headquarters were only dimly lit, most rooms and offices empty. You took the lift up a few floors and stepped out. At the end of the hall, Kate’s office was undeniable still being used. Soft, warm light seeping out from under the closed door.

Right about now the nervousness hit, heart racing a bit quicker, hands sweating a bit. Hesitantly you knocked on the office door, right under the little name plate that so elegantly said 'Kate Lethbridge-Stewart'. She'd stopped hiding the Lethbridge some time ago.

It took a few seconds until her soft voice called out for you to come in. She sounded a bit tired and yet authoritative, always perfectly put together. You opened the door a bit, just a few inches to look inside, still a bit hesitant.

"Do you have a moment?" You asked carefully and shortly see something flicker over her face that was awfully close to panic. But as usual she schooled it in seconds, and you thought you might have just imagined it. She nods and puts her pen down. With a smile you stepped in completely, closing the door behind you.

You weren't entirely sure how to go about this, but really having made a plan beforehand. The whole decision of coming here was a bit sudden and without proper thought. You nibbled a bit in your lip, a nervous habit you had never been able to let go off. But then your eyes fall to her wrist, perfectly covered of course. "Show me your wrist." You suddenly heard yourself say, sounding much more confident and commanding than you felt.

Her eyes widened a bit comically, and she pulled her hands off the desk, hiding them and her wrists under the desk, out of your sight. "I’m not sure why I should do that." She answered. Did she really think she could still fool you?

"Kate, show me your wrist" You repeat a bit sterner now and approach her, slowly rounding the desk. She stubbornly kept her wrists hidden and shook her head. She looked like a petulant child and in any other situation you'd have found it cute.

A bit fed up with her behaviour you step closer and grab her wrist, she tries to pull away, but your grip is too tight. You push the blouse that's probably way too expensive to be justifiable away to reveal the mark. The same delicate pattern that graced your skin. The same colours, the same size. It made your breath catch and for a second you felt relieved, happy even. But then you remembered that she'd hidden it, despite knowing, and it makes the relief be swept away by dread and betrayal. You let her arm fall back into her lap and step back, body tensing up.

"Why? Why not tell me?" She doesn't answer, religiously avoiding your eyes. It makes you angry even more than hurt. Why was she acting like this? Why was she outright rejecting you?

"Kate, answer me." Again, your voice was a cold demand, leaving no space for arguing. Still, she didn't answer. "At least have the decency to look at me." You bit out, voice trembling with anger and disappointment now. She doesn't look at you though, still stubbornly looking everywhere but back at you.

"Is the thought of me being your soulmate so...repulsive?" You asked then, voice much less angry now and much more hurt.

She finally looked at you then, eyes practically snapping up and locking with yours. There was pain reflected in them and in her voice when she spoke. "No. Of course not." Your anger subsided a bit, because she looked almost afraid. "Then why? Why didn't you say anything?"

She looked away again, the pain mixing with shame for a few seconds before she composed herself again, schooling her features again. She looked a bit like this was some sort of diplomatic thing to simply agree upon. "I wanted to give you an out."

"An out?" You asked, confused now. What on earth was she talking about? What would you need that for? You eyed her curiously now, waiting for an answer, an explanation. She sighed softly, eyes slowly darting away from you again before stubbornly settling on your wrist, the delicate pattern and colours peeking out.

"This," she said motioning at her wrist and then at yours, "this is forever. Forever is a long time." She finally looked at you again, her eyes full of pain and regret, something else you couldn't quite decipherer. "That's the point, yes." You said a bit frustrated, patience slowly running out. You didn't see the problem at all and that in resolution seemed to frustrate her. Her slender hands settled in her lap again, the fidgeting there now the only sign of her uncertainty. Her face, yet again, perfectly schooled.

"You’re young, you can still build your life, make someone fall in love with you, have a family." She said reasonably, swallowing hard, her voice a lot more fragile despite the confidence and assurance she was trying to convey. You saw through it.

"They'll never be my soulmate. That's you. Only you" You replied. Kate laughed humourlessly at that, the sound cutting straight through you. "Soulmate. What a romantic idea. A silly, naive one. Love and a life isn't built on a piece of pretty coloured skin."

You blinked at her, not expecting such harsh words when normally Kate tried to encourage anything optimistic and full of hope, this, however, was rather cynical. The distance you had earlier brought between you two is now closed again. A bit gentler now, you lift her exposed wrist and put yours next to it. "This is real. It's not naive and it's not silly. It's just right. It's exactly what is meant to be." You said firmly, albeit not unkindly or harshly.

She tensed at the sudden contact for a moment, trying to resist you for a second, but then, resigned, she gives in and lets you. She looked at her skin next to yours, the colourful designs merging perfectly.

"I'm scared." She suddenly whispered, just the admission of such a weakness makes her close her eyes for a second, clearly ashamed of it. Kate Lethbridge-Stewart didn't admit weakness, and she certainly didn't show it. At least not at work. She was a warm and open person with her kids, not afraid to show emotions and vulnerabilities. But she was used to this mask of a fearless, composed leader, and she was fine with it.

"Why?" You asked gently, a bit surprised by her admission. It wasn't something you had expected, Kate to be afraid of anything. Your thumb absent mindedly rubbed circles over her wrist.

A soft shiver ran through her at the contact. Her skin was so smooth, the perfect contrast to the roughness of your own. Your eyes traced the patterns on her skin, the colourful and delicate shapes, your heart instinctively fluttering. Kate was silent for a long time, the ticking of a wall clock marking the passing of seconds, that felt like hours.

"Love is never simple. It's not a fairytale. It's messy and ugly at times, heartbreaking and devastating," as if remembering something from her past she suddenly looked at you again, pain and sadness in her eyes as she spoke in a whisper, "I don't want that for you.

To her surprise you smiled. Your free hand came up and cupped the side of her neck, the thumb gently rubbing over her jaw. "I want it all. The mess and the pain and the tears. All of it, if only it means I'll be with you."

It almost looked like she'd lose her composure for a second when you touched her like that. Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment it looked as if she might even cry. But she pulls herself together again. Slowly, shaking a bit, her hand came up to cover yours, holding it in place against the side of her neck. Your touch felt so warm and comforting. How had you managed to not touch for so long, when it felt so heavenly?

"That's right." You softly whispered, the smile still on your lips. "Nothing wrong with this." Gently your other hand came up as well, settling on the other side of her jaw. Your thumb ever so softly brushing over her lips. She almost trembled in your hands. The contact sent tingles down her body and she realised how much she had missed it. A gentle touch, skin on skin, the soft caress of another human.

Unable to withstand it any longer she closed her eyes and leaned into your touch a bit, feeling how a bit of the tension slipped out of her body for the first time in years. Without realising it tears were slipping down her cheeks, but you immediately caught them with your thumbs, brushing them away.

"This is so right. We're soulmates, Katie." You whispered tenderly, like a caress of her soul. "I'm yours and you're mine." An involuntary smile spread over Kate's lips at that and her eyes fluttered open. She swallowed hard, pulling herself back together and nodding slightly. "Alright." Her voice was a bit rough, and it made you shiver.

"Come here" You whispered at that, needing to feel her lips on yours now. She smiled a bit, a familiar glimmer of mischief back in her eyes and a few seconds later you captured her lips in a kiss. And it was right, like the Universe had meant for this. Which, it in fact had.

[hungharrington]

everytime you’re in my notifs i’m 😁

every time you’re in my notifs i’m like oh hello beloved :D

[goldkirk]

I don’t know how to explain any more clearly that it doesn’t MATTER if it seems legitimate to you. You have got to fact check every single headline and post and claim on the left just like you need to do on the right.

The left is NOT immune to misinformation and rushed reporting. And the more emotionally polarizing or shocking the talking points, sound bytes, and headlines are, the worse it is and more frequently it happens.

Learn to verify through multiple independent sources. If you can’t do that, you can’t trust it.

If you have to wait extra hours for the real information to come through vetted channels—NOT just one individual somewhere everyone links to, and not just one single media source either, EVEN if it’s a major news network—thats just how it has to be. What news outside of genuine local disasters near you TRULY needs your outrage and post-sharing in the next hour specifically?

Misinformation works best by not seeming like misinformation and by fitting in with the rest of what you already expect to see. It doesn’t help anyone to not be able to recognize and avoid the stuff.

[chiropteracupola]

granby + iskierka + keynes