#it’s not my fault it’s so nice

[bloodibambiidoll]

I’ve never wanted to peg a man or eat a man’s ass until I saw Joe Keery’s juicy delicious peach.

[glacier-shrimp]

Some flowers for you ❤️

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[willczek-art]

The real nightmare of Nightmare Time is that there's so little of it

[faeriekit]

Writing the Occult: quick notes for non-practicing hobby authors and other nerds🕯️

Hey. Real talk. If you're writing about occult rituals, magic, the works, whatever, there are some great ways to clean up your act and get some better, more aware accuracy in there. A lot of stuff in the wider consciousness of pop culture is kind of...not correct, or, uh. Should be something you're aware of. For instance:

G*psy is still a slur! No, Romani people aren't more likely to be fortune tellers than anyone else. Quit it with the weird stereotypes. The "g*psy fortune teller" thing hasnt even been on trend since the early 1900s. Move on.

"Voodoo" dolls are a racist perspective of an African-derived traditional religious practice. Vodun is a religion. It's not even a gone or far away religion either; Vodun and Santería have followers and priests all over the US, as do other ATRs. Since. You know. Slavery. The word you're probably looking for is "poppet", which is the term for the tool itself (tiny cloth doll for magical use) as opposed to, like, a whole religion.

A wendigo isn't a catch-all cannibalistic creature; it's part of a wider religious worldview of the Algonquian peoples. Native people have requested that you Stop Talking Abou That— yes, even asking that one YouTuber to Stop That, not that he seems to care. White people seem to cannibalize other people all the time anyway, so I don't see why there's a huge need for a Native scapegoat... There are other supernatural creatures and shapeshifters that eat humans. Pick anything else.

A lot of higher-level occult rituals as writ are just. Straight up antisemitic! If you're writing rituals and your magical language of choice is in Hebrew...hey. Stop that. Same thing goes for "elites who eat babies/drink blood." A some of it is a clumsily handled metaphor for the cannibalistic nature of having an upper class in a society, but a lot of it really is just dressed-up antisemitism in a trench coat. If you're looking up real rituals for worldbuilding...FYI, you may want to glance again before adding it to your work.

Just because ten dudes are standing next to each other in order to do a weird ritual doesn't make them a cult. That's just a ritual. Cults have more specific requirements; ie, whether or not there's religious abuse going on. You can make your weird spooky org have religious abuse, but if they're just, like, high schoolers, they're probably just novice occultists who occasionally hang out together.

I haven't seen anyone use "spirit animal" in a couple years, so that's great! Native people have also requested that we Stop That. Spirit Animal is a specific religious concept we don't have to tread on. Think of a synonym for the concept you're trying to convey; don't steal a word that's already in use for a religious practice. (Same thing goes for totem FYI.)

Hallucinogens often make you throw up. Like. A lot. People do certainly attribute religious visions to them, but also like drink a lot of water and keep a bucket nearby, because the whole scenario is just super disorienting. Most spiritual circles who utilize similar substances will have a trip sitter (someone sober to call 911 if there's an emergency) if they've got the resources.

Making up rituals for your story is totally cool. People invent new rituals all the time. There isn't a standard to be held to on that front unless you outright name a real life religious or occult group they're meant to be part of; THEN people will want standards. Until then, though, you're probably good.

Most TYPES of rituals have, like, a label, though. A ward prevents something from entering a protected space, an invocation brings something forth from within you, a banishment pushes something away from you, a consecration makes something sacred...A lot of these may be obvious to you from pop culture, but if you're going to try and make a character an expert on magic, adding the vocabulary to their lexicon makes their expertise more believable.

There are a ton of ways to exorcise ghosts! Basically every religion has, like, ten of them. If you want to add a little extra flavor on banishing/preventing evil spirits, google [character's religion/culture] [ghosts/spirits] to see what sort of flavor you can add to their specific person.

Occultists and witches and wizards and priests who do magic argue all the time. ALL the time. Interpersonal drama is real and it can Get You.

It's traditional to do certain specific rituals naked. Just FYI. It's not required. Just traditional. Utilize this knowledge for narrative potential... or don't. I'm not your boss.

Yeah, sometimes there's blood; your mileage may vary narratively. Most people don't go for the whole knife thing —you can get lancets at any drug store—but maybe your character is especially dumb or otherwise desperate. Palms and fingers hurt the most knife-wise; if your character knows what they're doing, it won't be their hands.

The keeping skulls around thing is real too, if legally and financially difficult to arrange in many cases. It's usually animal though. Human remains have a lot of laws in the states and, obviously, relatives want to keep their family close to their family — still, narratively, your mileage may vary.

The "White magic" and "Black magic" dichotomy is racialized. No, seriously. The things people demonize about dark magic— soul magic, necromancy, zombies, love/control spells, etc— are all really warped versions of Ancestor worship and other spiritual practices from African Traditional Religious beliefs. Well, the whole Zombie thing is actually a holdover from slavery and it's more about forcing ex-slaved peoples into performing more labor even after their death while White people are afraid of traditional Black spiritual resistance against colonial religious oppression— I'm going too deep into this, just trust me that if a dichotomy says that White is good and Black is bad, there's probably something hinky going on.

And, finally:

Ouija boards are sold at Barnes and Noble by Hasbro for $25, and a tarot deck can retail for as little as $20 from Spirit Halloween or Spencer's. No, they can't summon demons from the astral into your house. Can they talk to ghosts? Up to you; it's your story. Are cheap paper board and plastic planchette powerful enough to murder people, though...? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ My magic 8 ball says that the odds are unlikely.

Obviously, you can do whatever you want with your work— I'm not your dad and I can't stop you, but if you're the kind of person who's like, hey, maybe I do want to prune out accidental racial slurs from my vocabulary...hey! This list is for you! Halloween is a time to get spooky! Get scary! Get booped, even; still, if you want to have an underlying thread of what the occult looks like in practice, you might want to dust off a couple of mid Magic/Witchcraft/Spiritual/Occult books from your local library and flip through 'em for ideas. There's some fun stuff in there.

Like the sacred blowtorch ;)

Happy Halloween, everyone! 👻

[lost-in-fandoms]

This is me, trying to preemptively soothe myself for whatever will be said about Daniel in this incoming race week. This got longer than I was expecting, it's about 3.5k, so it's on ao3 too if you prefer to read it there.

Daniel wakes up to the feeling of Max sliding in bed behind him. He smells like Daniel's body wash and his skin is still warm and damp when he tucks himself close against Daniel's back, knees slotting in behind his.

Still too asleep to find a way to work his voice for a proper hello, all Daniel manages is a sleepy sigh, but Max doesn't seem to want to break the silence either, squeezing the arm he sneaked around Daniel's waist in his own quiet greeting, smushing his face against the sweaty back of Daniel's neck.

The room is still fully dark, a combination of the blackout curtains and the fact that it's still not even dawn, so Daniel is happy to let the sound of Max's breathing pull him back under, until he realises two things.

First, Max is still curled up close behind him, sweat already condensing between them, not rolling away like he usually does, complaining about Daniel's mound of blankets, which piles up especially high when Max isn't there.

And second, Max is supposed to be in England.

Suddenly much more awake, he opens his eyes again, trying to make his sluggish limbs coordinate to allow him to turn around, but Max squeezes him harder, keeping him in place, shaking his head slightly, nose dragging against Daniel's skin.

"Hey," Daniel mumbles, raspy and heavy with sleepy. Max doesn't answer.

"Max," he tries again, feeling more and more awake, as confusion and worry start to mix in his stomach.

Max, stubborn in this like in everything else, doesn't budge. His steady breath is damp on Daniel's nape.

For a moment, Daniel considers the pros and cons of trying to have this conversation now, trying to turn around and make Max answer his questions, but finally he decides this can probably wait for the morning. If this isn't a dream, Max will probably still be there, and it will be easier to figure out what happened between this morning, when Max had facetimed him on his way to the factory, and now, Max tense and too warm in his bed.

So he lets it go, intertwining his fingers with Max's and sighing again, feeling Max's acknowledgment of his momentary retreat in the way his muscles finally uncoil, relaxing against him.

Silence falls again in the room, only broken up by the whirring of Daniel's white noise machine and the buzzing of far away traffic, LA's neverending lullaby, but neither of them falls asleep for a long time.

The next time Daniel wakes up the room is still dark, in that unique way it gets when it's light outside and his blackout curtains are doing their job, and his bed is empty. For a second he wonders if it had just been a dream, a weirdly realistic fantasy conjured from the aching spot in his heart that is missing Max all the time. But he can smell Max's scent on his skin, even hidden underneath his own body wash, and the sheets beside him are still just barely warm.

And when he reaches the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and tugging on a hoodie he had picked up from the floor, Max is sitting on a stool, very much not a dream.

"Morning," Daniel greets him, trying to figure out if asking what are you doing here right away is going to get him an answer or an annoyed Max.

He doesn't get the chance to try though, because Max only smiles at him, bright even if pinched at the corners, before pointing at his phone and at the earbuds in his ears.

Almost done he mouths. He pulls a face, exaggerated and ridiculous, but so paper thin Daniel can still perfectly see the annoyance behind it.

Daniel nods, joining him at the counter, sitting on the stool next to him and smiling as Max scoots closer, intertwining their ankles.

He wishes he had grabbed his own phone from the nightstand to keep himself busy, or maybe to order food, since he's not sure on what's in the fridge, but he's feeling too lazy to get back up, so he resorts to laying his head down on the countertop and look up at Max's face.

His mouth is in a hard line as he nods along to whatever they're telling him, distractedly running a hand along his unshaven jaw. He looks tired, and annoyed, and beautiful, and Daniel missed him so much it feels like even sitting like this, close and touching, is not enough to soothe the gnawing pit in his chest.

Max rolls his eyes, then looks down at Daniel and smiles again, reaching over to brush a hand through his hair, the motion smooth and practiced, the same he uses when petting his cats. Daniel fights hard to not close his eyes.

"Yes, change my schedule, email it to me, whatever. I have to go."

Daniel frowns at the snappiness of Max's tone, watches as his expression grows even stormier at whatever he's been told. Something tells him Max was not exactly free to come here.

"Yes, fine. Bye."

If Max had a flip phone, Daniel is pretty sure he would have just snapped it closed. As it is though, he just swipes his finger on the screen and drops his earbuds on the counter, pressing his hands against his eyes with a sigh.

"I'm going to throw out a wild guess, and say you're not a happy bunny this morning," Daniel says, hoping to ease some of the tension from Max's shoulders.

He partially succeeds, as Max does drop his hands, rolling his eyes at him, before laying his head down on the counter too, so that they're staring at each other from the same point of view.

"I am happy to be here," Max says, slow and precise, the way he gets when he's trying to correctly convey his feelings, "but the team is not."

Daniel hums, bumping their knees together. He doesn't really care if the team is happy or not, but he knows being at the receiving end of a scolding like the one Max must have just gotten is not fun.

"They're not very happy with me lately," Max adds a bit ruefully, closing his eyes. His cheek is smushed against the marble, making the bags under his eye disappear a little, the other one much darker in comparison.

"Flew away from many sponsor events then?" Daniel asks, again trying make Max smile. This time it works only halfway, a corner of Max's mouth ticking up, the other kept in place by his cheek and the counter.

"Just a couple. They..." Max stops, a hand coming up to tug at his ear, fiddle with his hair. Daniel wants to grab his fingers, press his mouth against Max's forehead and learn each one of his thoughts like that.

Instead, he has to speak. Boring.

"Why are you here, Maxy?" he asks, because he can't not. He wonders if he should add that he is happy that Max is there, hopes that he doesn't have to, that Max would know anyway.

"I missed you."

Simple, easy, deadly.

Daniel feels his heart do a weird stuttering skip, lungs squeezing, trying to accommodate the surge of love suddenly flooding his chest.

"I missed you too," he chokes out, giving up on resisting the urge and leaning forward, bumping his nose against Max's, their knees knocking together, looking for a kiss.

Max tastes like orange juice, Daniel probably tastes like sleep, and it's awkward because of the uncomfortable position. It's the best thing Daniel has done this whole week.

"They briefed me," Max murmurs, lips still brushing together, sounding like it pains him to speak. A part of Daniel wants to go back to kissing, but he can feel they are now getting to the real reason why Max is there, and doesn't want to stop it.

Not that he doesn't believe Max missed him, Max never lies, never says something sweet if he doesn't mean it, but he knows there must be another reason why he looks like this, instead of just happy to be with Daniel. And even if some part of him knows this will probably not be an easy conversation, he also suspects it's one they need to have.

"On what to say about you."

Daniel jerks back a little before he can really think about it, the words stinging sharply.

He knows it makes sense. He knows he now basically is an ongoing PR disaster for the team, and a part of him enjoys it, but the reminder of it still hurts. And it hurts to think about Max, sitting somewhere across the world, getting told what to say when asked about him.

Max's eyes are open again now, but his expression is carefully blank, just studying whatever Daniel's face is doing, and Daniel suddenly hates it all, pain and rage swelling once again inside him.

He's been doing well, trying his best not to think about it. He's been keeping himself busy, keeping himself with people, refusing to let the feelings dwell and drag him under, but it's unavoidable with Max right there, talking about it.

And something must show on his face, because he sees something flicker under Max's blank expression, and then he's moving back too, out of the space where they were still sharing air, taking his head off the counter with a wince.

For a second, Daniel thinks about staying where he is, neck starting to twinge painfully, and letting Max say whatever he's going to say, probably some kind of apology, then an excuse, and then letting him leave. He thinks about letting Max think that for Daniel it is worse to have him here, painful reminder of everything he's not going to get anymore, than have him gone, aching pit of absence in his stomach. Thinks about where all of that would lead.

He straightens too.

His wince is probably identical to Max's, his neck aching and sore from the awkward position, and he knows that normally it would make Max smile, it would make them both crack a joke about it. But now Max is too busy trying to hide what he's feeling, wanting to calibrate it on whatever Daniel is feeling, to joke about old age or something, and Daniel hates it.

He grabs Max's arm, pretending he doesn't see Max's barely there flinch, pretending it doesn't send a new wave of hurt through him, and leads him out of the kitchen, to the couch. Max follows him quietly, trustingly, not even asking where they're going, what is happening. Daniel hates it.

He lays down on the couch, tugging Max on top of him. A part of him wishes they had done this last night, when they were close and aided by the dark, but he knows that, as much as he doesn't like it, this is probably better. He doesn't want to have this conversation more than once if possible, so it's better this way, something they'll both remember clearly.

Max is still tense on top of him, careful, but he relaxes a little as Daniel winds his arms around his waist, tugging him closer, the familiar weight of him on top of him comforting.

It's only when they're properly settled that he lets out a breath, and he forces himself to face this head on.

"What did they tell you to say?"

He's proud of how steady and neutral his voice sounds, the swirling mess of emotions inside him nowhere to be found.

For a long moment, Max doesn't answer. His hair is barely brushing against Daniel's chin, and he can feel where Max's chest is expanding as he breathes, pressing against him.

"I am not going to do it," Max finally says, voice quiet but sure. "I told them, I am not."

Daniel hums, not even tempted to doubt him.

"What did they say?" he asks again, wanting to know, wanting Max to tell him.

"That you knew." Ouch. "That you were not performing." Ouch. "That this was the best choice for the team, and I am excited to see what Liam can do." Ouch.

He's not surprised Max wouldn't say any of this, he's more surprised the PR team would even try to make him say this, but it still hurts to know that this is how they are going to spin the story.

"Excited, uh?" is all he manages to say, slightly choked.

Max pushes himself up on one elbow, struggling against Daniel's hold on his waist, to glare up at him, eyes steely and fierce and red rimmed.

"I am not going to do it," he repeats, forceful and sincere. "They are wrong and they are stupid, and I am not going to sit and lie and..."

He breaks off, pursing his lips and pressing them firmly together, eyes shiny. Daniel loves him so much it hurts.

"I know I can't tell the truth," Max says slowly with a grimace, voice breaking under all the feelings he's trying to keep at bay, "but I am not going to lie."

Daniel wants to kiss him again. He wants to tug him close and kiss him and get lost in each other and in love until everything outside the door doesn't matter anymore. He wants to push all this away until it isn't hurting either of them.

Instead, he gently pushes Max down on his chest again, one hand on his neck and one on the small of his back, and breathes.

"You told them that?" he asks.

Max's nod drags the fabric of his hoodie against his skin, bunching it up.

"I said, I will be polite and I will say nice things about Liam, and about Yuki and Checo, but I will not say that shit about you. I am not fixing this for them."

Daniel wonders what the Daniel of 10 years ago would have said, if he got told that in 10 years time Max would still be by his side, fiercely on his side.

"Thank you, Maxy," is all he can say, his feelings to messy and big to try and put them into words without spilling them all over the room, making clean up a bitch he doesn't want to deal with today.

Max nods again once, rough and too quick, dislodging the hand Daniel still has on his neck.

"They were not happy," he says, squirming a little until Daniel puts his hand back. "They told me there will be consequences," he snaps, slightly derisive, "so I told them I can do consequences too, and left."

Well, that explains the scolding.

"You left?" Daniel asks, not disbelieving, but still incredulous somehow.

"I didn't want to be there anymore," Max says, as if that explains it all. It probably does, for him.

For Daniel, it's yet another confirmation of which side Max is on. Not that he needed one more, but it's still nice to have. Nice to know that even in something like this, something this big and catastrophic, Max will choose him, over and over. The flood of love is back, and this time Daniel has to tip his head back and breathe, trying not to let it out through his eyes.

"How angry are they?" he asks, when he feels like his voice isn't tangled up in a knot in his throat anymore.

Max shrugs awkwardly, trapped between Daniel's body and Daniel's hands.

"Angry."

It makes Daniel snort despite himself, the sound slightly wet.

"Can't have everything their way, I guess."

He can imagine it, Max storming out of a meeting room, leaving behind a mix of perplexed and angry people, knowing they can't really punish him in any meaningful way that isn't making him do more sponsor events. It's a very satisfying thought.

And then Max takes a breath, pushes himself up on an elbow again, and decides to shift Daniel's world once again.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks. Then, probably because he sees Daniel starting to frown, he adds "not here. The team."

It knocks the breath straight out of Daniel's lungs.

He blinks, unable to process what Max has just said.

"You...what?" he stutters, shifting back a little, trying to look at Max's face better without straining his neck.

He's almost expecting Max to laugh, to take it back, to crack a joke. But Max is deadly serious, the same unshakeable firmness Daniel knows from years of debriefs and arguments on his face.

"I want to win," Max says, not taking his eyes away from Daniel's. "I want to race, and I want to win, for a little while longer. But I don't like what they have been doing, what they did to you. I don't like what the team has become. I don't like what the sport is becoming. So if you want me to leave, if it would help that I leave too, I will leave at the end of the year."

Daniel can't breathe. There's loyalty, and there's Max being loyal, and then there's this. He doesn't know what to do with any of this.

"You can't...I can't ask you to leave." His voice sounds distant to his own ears, so overwhelmed it doesn't even feel his.

"If you want me to, if it would make you hurt knowing I am still racing with them, if it would make you angry, or hate me..."

"I am not going to hate you," Daniel interrupts. He doesn't know many things right know, but he knows that. He's suddenly torn between wanting to tug Max close again and wanting to keep looking at him while they talk about this, and settles on bringing his hand up to Max's cheek, relishing in the way he immediately leans into it.

"I don't want you to stop racing because of me," he says, another thing he's sure of.

"I would, if you asked," Max tells him, easy and steady, as if it's not monumental. Max Verstappen, willing to stop racing, for him.

"I won't."

Max nods, then breaks eye contact, suddenly looking shakier, unsure.

"You can't..." he takes a breath, bottom lip jutting out. Daniel's heart is beating too fast in his chest. "You can't hate me for it. I asked, and you said no, you can't hate me for it, now."

Daniel gives in, pressing Max to his chest again, bending his head to press his lips against his hair.

"I won't," he promises, voice swollen and heavy. "I won't hate you, Max. I won't even be angry at you, not for this. It was never on you."

Something that Daniel hadn't even noticed seems to uncoil between Max's shoulders and he slumps against Daniel's chest with a shuddering sigh, arms coming around Daniel's waist to hold him tighter.

Daniel wonders for how long Max had been carrying the weight of this misplaced guilt, of this fear. Wonders how he hadn't seen it before.

"If you want to leave for you," he carefully says, giving himself time to properly word what he wants to say, thinking about retirement jokes, and about much more serious retirement conversations, "you are free to leave. I will not be angry about that either."

Max shivers as he nods.

"I don't know if I want to," he mumbles, half lost in Daniel's hoodie. His hair is soft against Daniel's lips.

"You don't have to decide right now," Daniel tells him, suddenly and strongly grateful they're having this conversation like this, and not through a phone. Or worse, not having it at all. "I am not going to be your WAG, but I am not going to be angry either."

There's many things Daniel has to work through, to figure out. The past few weeks have been hard, some days spent in bed, too sad and angry and betrayed to feel like getting up, others spent doing things, feeling like all of this is just the start o something better. He is still confused, and a bit lost, but this he knows. Max he knows.

"I love you," he says, because it's the easiest way he has to promise forever without saying it, the word too big for a moment like this.

"I love you too," Max says, easy and unwavering, as if he wasn't shaking in Daniel's arms a few moments ago, as if the words are a steady enough pillar to sustain the weight of the crumbling word around them.

And maybe they are. Maybe they are.

The conversation isn't over, he knows it. What Max has said is too big to just let it go like this, especially if he really is considering retirement. And he wants to know when Max has to go back, what the team has told him, what his punishment for leaving like this will be. But for now, Daniel presses his lips again Max's hair again and breathes out, feeling like they have pushed past something, undone a particularly nasty knot.

And for everything else they have time.

[hyriaven]

Gift for @/pistachikou I went with the fantasy prompt, hope you like it!! Thanks @/stlweek for hosting!!✨ . . I was debating what role I should give them, but Mitsumi is perfect as a knight Shima could have been an archer but the staff suits the compostion better so i went with this i wonder what roles the others would have

[sneaky-eel]

More “sleeping” assassins! These are from back in October and I just never posted them because I didn’t finish an Altair & Connor one, but they aren’t doing anything sitting on my tablet so here they are!

“The Retreat”

Connor knows how to pick his battles and this one is not worth it. Probably leaves and goes to sleep in the hallway to get away from Ezio’s snoring.

“War Zone”

Unlike Connor, Altair isn’t so nice. He can and will kick Ezio out of bed, then they just spend the whole night fighting.

[ceaselessims]

jon and martin's first real conversation in s3 in mag 102 is SOOOOOO like you can feel that they've both noticed that something has shifted in their relationship,,,,, and the way jon awkwardly is like "ah,,, alright then i should probably leave now" makes me think they were sitting very close indeed,,, having a moment when Jon is genuinely touched/concerned about Martin reading statements and it became Too Much ,, maybe staring a Bit Too Long or leaning in a Bit Too Close

[nat-20s]

Overall I do think things would've gone significantly better for Martha if Donna had accepted the first offer she got from The Doctor and been in season 3. Donna would absolutely be the Number One member of the Martha defense club and would've constantly been like "SHE'S SO FUCKING COOL AND BRILLIANT AND SMART AND BEAUTIFUL AND IF YOU DON'T CHEER AND CLAP FOR HER I'M BLOWING UP THIS BUILDING" like Donna IS her living breathing hypeman. Also I think Donna would've killed the master so that whole year that wasn't? Never happened.

That being said. Rip to Martha Jones because I think she would've had a disaster bisexual moment where on either side of her is an incredibly attractive person that is ruthlessly teasing her for her crush on the other. Neither of them have figured out she has a crush on them. She is not subtle about it.

[stealingpotatoes]

every year i think "there's no way I can draw as much as I did last year" and then then I make myself look like an idiot. ending 2023 with a genuinely disgusting number of arts this year:

anyway call me a tree bc i'm abt to get real sappy: thank you all so much for a genuinely INSANE year in terms of how much i drew, how much i improved, and how much LOVELY support i've gotten!!!!!!! like my followercount more than quadrupled from the start of the year and i just can't believe?? there's this many of u?? that like my art???????? dead on the floor i love you all SO much!!!! thank u!!!!!!!!

[shalom-iamcominghome]

SWAYING. Worshippers can often be seen swaying during the standing part of the service, or while reading aloud from the Torah. Judah ha-Levi, a great medieval poet and philosopher, explained this by saying that because of a shortage of books, scholars had to keep moving around to look over their colleagues' shoulders. Vigorous swaying during prayer may be seen especially in a Hasidic synagogue and is called in Yiddish, shuckling.

-Dictionary of the Jewish Religion, Dr. Ben Isaacson, 1979, p. 156

[crystallizsch]

The First Kiss (?)

yuusha tala x jamil viper (oc x canon) word count: 800+ cw: pure angst

(awajkjfsdkjl omg some writing reveal about their relationship dynamic? 😳 ALSO THIS ENDED UP BEING LONGER THAN INTENDED AAHH and there are bound to be typos in here but uhhh anyways—)

At last, they found themselves alone, wrapped in each other's arms, savoring the calm evening air.

Yuu smiled and raised her bare hands to cup Jamil’s cheeks gently. It was rare for the prefect to have her gloves off. So Jamil’s face heated up at the touch.

“Haha. Your face is warm, Jamil.”

“Whose fault is that I wonder?”

“Couldn’t be me.”

They joked, feeling their breathy giggles against one another and realizing their lips were almost touching.

Was this… Was this finally the moment?

Sure, she was already incredibly lax with him before — being affectionately touchy with him and constantly giving him quick and casual kisses on the cheek (as she does with basically her closest friends). But they seemed to have become close in a way that was more than Yuu’s “overly friendly” nature.

So what about a kiss on the lips?

A sudden wave of uncertainty hit the magicless prefect. Her hands dejectedly slid back down Jamil’s chest as they curled into fists.

The implications of a first kiss on the lips felt a lot heavier on her than she thought.

They have both been dancing around their feelings about one another. They both knew what they felt about one another and even made a show of teasing each other for it. But neither explicitly stated what those feelings even were.

Yuu felt much more guilty in that regard, considering her more than a flagrant expression of that affection toward him. One would think she was leading him on, but that was never the case.

And she really, truly liked him but—

Jamil tightened his arms around her waist when he felt the hesitation in her body. This subtle move caused Yuu to look deep into Jamil’s eyes again. Her heart squeezed at the sight of a soft and gentle look as she looked back with a distinctly sorry expression on her face.

It was bizarre that these were once the dangerous eyes that brought her pure hatred toward him. Now that they looked so kind and genuine, they admittedly felt more dangerous. How unfair.

“…..We don’t have to, you know,” Jamil said in a low voice. It sounded vague enough that even he did not know if he was only referring to them sharing a kiss or having a relationship overall. He also tried to be reassuring, but he was aware of the slightly sad and disappointed tone he let slip in his voice.

Yuu gulped and then felt her breath hitch in her throat. It was as if Jamil had read her mind.

Damn you, she wanted to say to him. At this point, she did not know what to say. Yuu felt like she was caught in a lie and wanted to prove him wrong. But she can’t. It wasn’t that she felt anything less for him; she simply felt conflicted about finally sealing her feelings with a kiss. The prefect just wasn’t ready. She doesn’t know when she will be. And she did not want to admit that.

Meanwhile, Jamil was relatively ready to receive that kiss. Of course, he would not say that out loud. From his perspective, Yuu would have to act first if there was truly something more to their relationship. But it seems like today was still not that day.

“I’m sorry…” Yuu whispered under her breath.

Jamil did not answer. Instead, he gave a quick peck on the prefect’s nose, which caused her face to flush. She quickly buried her face on his shoulder with a shaky sigh, her hands gripping his clothing. The vice housewarden half-heartedly laughed at her reaction as he snaked his hands higher around Yuu’s back, giving her a gentle hug instead.

There were no words exchanged between them for a period of time. They simply rested in each other’s embrace.

Still, this indeterminate name to their relationship weighed heavily on both of them.

Jamil couldn’t even say that he would wait for her. Because that would be a lie. As painful as that realization may be, he knows he wouldn’t. Why would he? Yuu repeatedly expressed her homesickness anyway.

Besides, Jamil was used to it. All good things were never permanent. That was what he was telling himself at least... Somehow this time, it was getting harder and harder to convince himself that he could simply accept losing something — her specifically.

And for Yuu’s part, she was also aware of this — that she knows she’ll be leaving all of this behind one day. The prefect had her own plans for the future, and she assumed that the vice housewarden would have his own.

There was no point in committing to anything. Because if they dare even act upon their true feelings, or heavens forbid say it out loud, it will make the inevitable separation even harder.

this was the vibe when i was writing this btw hgffjhklj

[oifaaa]

Little conversation i had with my dad today as he watched me unbox my red hood figure:

Dad: so what's with the crowbar, is that his superpower?

Me: the crowbars just his weapon of choice, sometimes, honestly I'm not a big fan of it as he was killed with a crowbar

Dad: Oh so this lad isn't around any more

Me: no he got better... Eventually

[chiropteracupola]

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine / Whatever it costs I will pay / So be easy and free, when you're drinking with me / I'm a man you don't meet every day...

[moeblob]

You know, when I kept getting asked "so you didn't ever have severe pains before now?" in the hospital and I kept replying "I have a high pain tolerance" I meant it. However, there is only so much pain my tiny 4'9" body can hold... (aka I am sweating and in agony bc I'm getting told to use LESS severe pain meds so I don't rely on them too much and it is AWFUL)