#just thinking about it makes me burnt out

[jolapeno]

touch me. move me.

javier peña x f!reader wordcount: 910 warnings: smut. just ridin', after thigh ridin'.

Javier’s mouth lingers against your breastbone, his warm breath unfurling in soft trails along your skin.

Thick beads of sweat slip down your spine, skimming and sliding as his fingers dig further into your hip. It’s almost bruising, biting, likely leaving a pattern as you bear down. Hoping later you’ll be able to run your hands over each mark, even if his grip is nothing but guiding, aiding.

He’s perfect inside of you.

Real; something that's not formed of dreams or fantasies, chest heaving as you sink down, slow, inch by inch, a roll of your hips—dragging your needy, swollen pussy up and down, up and down.

There are still lines of silvery pre-come scratched across his lower stomach, drying in the hair around his naval. It’s there from when you’d stained his jeans, dragged your slickened folds against the rough fabric—him wanting his pleasure drawn out, wanna watch you come first. A glint in his eyes, lips moulding over yours until he’d whispered, no demanded—úsame, hermosa, you can use me.

You did, had done. Riding his thigh, chin lifted, eyes taking in his ceiling and the fan which struggled to disperse the thickening heat. His sofa had groaned when his leg raised, forcing his covered thigh up against you, scratchy, your chest heaving—pleasure desperate, it trying to rip its way through you, clawing. One hand on your waist, ribs expanding as you choke on mews, the other hand on his freed cock, it twitching, not able to take his fucking eyes from you—need to fuck you, Peña.

Now you are. A reward for being good, he’d smirked. His eyes now taking you in atop him, brown depths, holes. Enough to dive into, drown. Ravenous, incensed, it’s all utterly maddening as his thrusts meet yours, his fingers sliding up your neck. They catch, his nails, as your pussy makes vulgar noises around him, it grounding you as his lewd mouth slants over yours. Overcome by it all, every scent, every sound and the pleasure that shouldn’t be there for him, but it is, it is, it is.

You disliked him, or you did half a year ago. It had changed thirteen weeks ago, having found yourself introduced to his bedsheets, to how his bedframe clangs against the wall—plaster crumbling as he hissed in your ear.

The way the two of you have been, you’re surprised it’s not a crater, a cavity signed with your initials and his.

Been thinking about you all day. A shiver sparks down your throat as his voice pulls you back, his teeth grazing against your jaw—eyes finding yours, dark, voracious. You're lightheaded from it, your pussy spasms as a whine forcing its way out.

Too good, you think. Too good at this.

At knowing the spots, the ways he can undo you, turning you into a tangled mess, a puddle, a mess. The room is thick with sin, sweat, all heady—his thumb pressing to your swollen nerves, circling, nodding as you emit a needy cry as if knowing. Taunting. Always cocky, always having a right to be.

But beneath that hardened exterior, you know a truth few others see: he’s sweet—or can be. Less gruff, less heavy, a man who, in another life, might laugh deeply instead of hiding it behind a snort. He licks into your mouth, carrying a faint trace of smoke, a dark, lingering burnt taste. A dusky stain—one you cling to, let the hint of fire and ash burn your lungs.

Your movement flows in reaction, molten, magnetic, sticky fingers pressing to your neck as he leaves your clit. His eyes lock on you, a silent devotion, mouth agape as you take him to the root, fluttering, pressure building.

It builds, feverish—humming in your ears, a rush in your veins.

He’s so deep it’s unforgiving, hitting deep, skin prickling. Close, I’m close. His voice an anchor, eyes meeting his, body rolling with him, fingers tangled in the longer strands close to his neck. I know, let me have it. Hips snapping to his, almost trembling—face buried in his neck as you moan. The pace faster, praise there nestled between hisses, occasionally breaking through, forming words, good girl, like that.

You keen. Aware, distantly, of nails digging into his skin, piercing, leaving half-moons as your skin burns, it all thick around your neck as your lower stomach becomes nothing but molten heat, lungs utterly breathless. His hand, large, all deft fingers, palms at your breast, nipple pinched between thumb and finger, tongue laving at your neck, teeth grazing. It building, and building. It overtaking, mind rendering—

You tighten, clench—hearing nothing but white noise.

Then, it’s blistering heat. Every other sense fading, dissolving—pleasure flooding you. It spurns, rips up from somewhere. All static, a choked wail in your throat as you uncoil and his grip tightens, likely deepening the shade of your skin under the pressure as his cock pushes you through it, chanting his name, Javier, Javier, Javier.

Over-blissed, you feel his release. A pulse, him spilling into you with a grunt that’s bitten back—hissing it through his teeth, tip of his tongue there as his hips shudder, jolt.

You don’t dare move, simply melt into him, muscles yielding as you dissolve together into a seamless tangle of limbs. Skin sweat-slicked, seeing the wrecked look on his face—admiring it.

His gaze drops to where the two of you meet, yours following. Seeing the sight of his and your pleasure on the inside of your thighs, leaking out—staring down as he pulls himself from you with a whimper—seeing how it glistens, shimmers. His fingers are the second reason you gasp, two of them, swiping across your flesh as he lifts it, playing with it, coating his touch in your two’s pleasure, bringing it to his lips as you watch, in awe, captivated.

Then you crash your mouth to his, lips bruising—devouring, feasting.

“Stay,” he asks.

You smile against his mouth.

AN: drabbles may be posted here. but series/one shots will still live over on AO3.

[kokokoula]

drunk confessions

a/n: wow i haven't posted in a long while hahaha thanks for staying :) i'm so burnt out from exams please tolerate me🥲 again, not beta read, my beta reader is busy as heck because of a hellish sch system. also, i wrote all of this at 3am, i hope it's still readable TT (this is obvi in timeskip no underage drinking guys)

---

"i think i love you."

you rest your head on your palm, gazing at him with soft eyes and warm cheeks. you reek of alcohol; tsukishima doesn't seem to care.

the two of you sit by the bar at the far end, where the light jazz music gets faint. he's thinking clearly, only a bit red from a drink or two— or is it something else?— while you're flat out drunk. his eyes widen slightly at your confession, and pauses.

"don't say things you don't mean." tsukishima eventually brushes you off, pushing his glasses further up. despite that, his heart beats a little faster, and he hates it.

you splay out your arms across the countertop, burying your face in them. he takes the last swig of his drink. there is the distant sound of glasses clinking and a cheer.

"tsukki?" his name is a bit slurred as you turn to him again. your hair is in a tangled mess, locks of it falling over your eyes. he resists the urge to tuck them away and behind your ear.

tsukishima nudges your foot: a sign to continue.

"y'know, when i first met you, i thought you were an arrogant, self-centred bastard. i hated you." you state, fiddling with your empty shot glass. wow, and just when he thought things were getting intimate.

"where exactly are you going with this?" he frowns at you.

"we used to bicker about almost everything at school. i can't count how many times yamaguchi had to step in." you giggle, hiccuping at the end. you didn't seem to have heard him but he doesn't mind. he shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his face; you look so cute being lost in your own world.

"remember it was our last class, and it happened to rain that day? you laughed at me because i didn't bring an umbrella." yes, he remembers. tadashi was sick that day, and the both of you ended up getting lectured many times by teachers for your incessant arguments. he almost laughs at the thought of it.

"i didn't expect to find your umbrella in my shoe locker after you left, though. you said you had an extra when i confronted you about it but yamaguchi already told me you had returned home drenched." tsukishima's face starts to burn. shit, being reminded of how down bad he was—and still is— is embarrassing. he wishes he was much cooler about it.

"i couldn't accept that you were capable of being nice, let alone to me..." it's even more so because of you.

"...till i realised you're nothing like what i thought you were. you admit your own faults, are too hard on yourself, and incredibly encouraging of your friends in your own complicated way. hell, even to hinata and kageyama!" you're sitting upright now, your hands making exaggerated movements as you talk. you take a deep breath in.

"it's your fault that i can't stop thinking about you, and that i get so sickeningly happy when i see you. so shuddup, i do mean it when i said i think, no wait, i know i love you." you rebuke him, pointing your finger at him like an angry child.

you have done it. you've lit his face on fire with your words. he can't tear his eyes away from your piercing gaze.

tsukishima isn't the most affectionate person, but maybe it's the late hour, or the influence of the alcohol, because he reaches over to caress the back of your head and bring you closer to him. his lips softly presses against your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds before pulling away. he sees your eyes sparkle.

since kei believes actions speak louder than words, he hopes you know that this, everything, means something.

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about Wade is having a stay-in date night with Ness, and this means the kitchen light is traded for a colored one, candles, half burnt pasta, cheap wine, and Careless Whisper blasting throughout the appartment complex.

He starts off with some cringy dance while V is up on the counter, rolling her eyes and smiling, but she can't help but feel like there was something different about Wade. Yeah, she knew this dance. She knew the routine of his 'serenade' and his littlw two step slow dance he had going on, making backup sound effects for Mr. George Micheal and eventually grabs the pasta spoon, singing into it.

This is not new, but.. something was. She couldn't put her finger on it but she knew her boyfriend. She knew him well enough to become engaged to him, break up with him, and start dating again.

It was like he was glowing.

But why?

"Tonight the music seems so loud! I wish that we could lose this crowd-" His non existsnt eyebrows wiggle, and Vanessa can't help but to almost spit out her wine.

"Maybe it's better this way, We'd hurt each other with the things we want to say!" He shouts into the pasta sauce covered spoon, leaning into her a bit as she rolls her eyes again, looking up at the ceiling. She knew what Wade wanted. He wanted to "earn" her with his performance.

God.. he really is her peacock, wasn't he?

"We could have been so good together! We could have lived this dance forever!" Taking her arm, He pulls her waist closer to him, connecting their foreheads with those pretty heart eyes of his beaming into hers with such love struck gleam.

"But now who's gonna dance with me? Please staaaayy~" He sings loudly, letting her go enough for V to notice that Logan is now staring too, the same lop sided love struck small smile on his face.

"And I'm never gonna dance again- Guilty feet have got no rhythm!!" He says, dropping onto his knees and arching his back, using her hand to keep his balance.

"You didn't have any to begin with!"

She hears, looking up to see Logan smirking as Wade jumps to his feet. "ExcUSE me!? My bad, not everything is a waltz, old man! Like seriously, when's the last time you could do anything but a simple one two three? Lincoln's wedding!?" He calls over the counter and Logan grunts, his joints popping as he gets off the couch.

Wades eyes widden with dangerous excitment as he turns to her. "Oh now, im in for it!"

"Damn right. I can do more then Waltz, you know."

"Oh, yeah!? Like what? Square dance?!"

"Whats wrong with square dancing!?"

Then it clicked.

Him.

That's what was different about Wade.

Logan had changed him. Unconsiously, for the better. He was so... Happy. He was like a missing puzzle piece to complete Wades purpose of being, mirroring what Wade needed, even if that meant insulting his dancing skills mid date.

Grinning widely like a moron with a crush, he changes the song- Wade was serious. He would never dance with anyone else except V to that song ever again- Pushing next on their shuffle only for Madonna to come on.

Squealing, he waves his hands, shoving the pasta spoon back into the pot then took Logan's hands. "Can you swing?"

"S-swing?- Woah!! Hey!"

"You wanted to dance so were dancing!"

"I didn't say that!"

As she listens to them bicker, she laughs as she watches Logan awkwardly step on Wade's foot multiple times.

"Ouch!! Hey! I'm regenerative, not indestructible! You're like 400 pounds!!" He teases, and the blush on Logan's face is something she wants to take a picture of, watching as he tries to teach Wade how to 'properly dance', spinning him around, holding his wasit and dipping him at certian parts.

"Ahh!! Don't drop me!!"

"I'm not going to drop you, Stop screaming!"

"Ness!! He's gonna drop me!"

She giggles, giving Logan a playful finger wag. "Hey do you mind? He needs all the braincells he can keep!"

"Yeah! Cancer already ate half of them!"

"Oh, sssuurree, just the cancer, definitely not how many times youve made me shove my-"

"Lo-Lo!!! Not in front of Nessy!!" He whines, being spun again.

"Oh shut up, i'm not going to embarrass you infront of Vanessa-" he turned to her, whispering "I so am"

"I HEARD THAT!"

"What? It's not my fault your game is weak." Logan teases him, giving her a playful nod, putting his hand out for her to take "Ma'am."

She laughs, hearing Wade suddenly complain that he wasn't supposed to be stealing his date.

"Maybe she wants to dance with a real man-" Logan coes, gently taking V and spinning her too... Vanessa could see why Wade liked him.. he was quite strong. And a gentleman.

"My gender blindness has NOTHING to do with this!" Wade whined in a high-pitched tantrum like sound, grabbing her waist and pulling her into him instead.

Oh great. And now they were fighting over her.

Gosh... Maybe she has two Peacocks...

[astheforcewillsit]

Title: Rest Stop (ao3 link)

Summary:

Five years after the Clone Wars, the Jedi are being hunted. Obi-Wan and Cody try to navigate what that means for them. or Quinlan Vos goes missing, and Obi-Wan rescues him with some difficulty. They recover in a clone colony, and uncomfortable conversations are had.

"What do you mean there are people after you. Who is after you? Who did this to you."

Cody interrogates him in rapid succession. Without pause, words flow freely from his mouth as if he is commanding a platoon on the battlefield.

His voice rising at every syllable as anxiety seizes him.

It is uncharacteristic of the former commander's usual collected approach to disaster. Especially when that disaster is Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Though Obi-Wan cannot blame him. It has been two months since he last made contact with Cody, and even longer since he visited the clone colony.

Now he's returned looking worse than a walking bruise.

And in that time he had missed much.

New buildings have been added to this particular colony. Spring has settled upon it, and new life sings in the Force. The tension that engulfed the clones during the war has all but dissipated.

Cody's home has grown too. Both physically and in the Force.

The kitchen--now a temporary medbay-colorful and large. There are more dishes than there were last time. Baking trays, cookie sheets. Colorful utensils. The cabinets are the burnt yellow of the 212th, and there is an apron hanging on a door hook. The faint smell of spice hangs in the air. And the Force shows him a memory of laughing children, eagerly eating away at sweets that must have been put out on this very table hours ago. A table that Obi-Wan now sits at. A table his blood has stained.

He tries not to think about what the Republic says about the Jedi, now. How they ruin everything they touch.

He's brought back to present as a bacta patch is applied to his arms. His sleeves have been sliced off (he'll have to make a new tunic when he's able to), and the cool air burns at his open wounds.

The young medic--a kid really, Threads, curses loudly. He's doing what he can, but he never served under a general or in the war. He hangs around Cody because he looks up to him, but stopped his training when the clones got their rights.

He just happened to be the closest Cody could grab while the other went to flag down an actual doctor.

"I apologize, Threads. I'm sure you believed you escaped the horrors of war." "How on Earth did you get metal shards in your arm, Master?" He mutters, gaze focused in morbid curiosity. He pulls out sharp pieces of metal, and lets them clatter on the ground beside him, "And no worries. This kinda makes me want to actually go back to my studies as a doctor. But it would help to know what happened."

The past few days have absolutely horrendous, that's what.

Though now beside Cody, the adrenaline begins it's exit from Obi-Wan's system as it registers he is safe. Finally safe.

And with the adrenaline gone, the pain begins to collect its toll. He aches. Badly. Though for now he can use the Force to will the pain to numbness. His head is full of lead, his eyes carrying the weight of the world. He just wants to sleep. And strangely, Cody is the perfect pillow. He leans forward in his chair, and let's his head fall onto clone's stomach. Force, he could stay here in this chair for ever, face buried in the soft fabric of Cody's clothing.

"Obi-Wan, what the kriff happened?" It's more of an exasperated sigh, a breathless question as Cody runs his finger's through the Jedi's hair.

With great effort, Obi-Wan turns his head to the side, gaze landing on the cause of his current predicament.

Quinlan Vos has managed to push himself into a corner, avoiding Fox's touch like it's Force Lightening.

Quinlan, who is his own trembling mess of bloodied robes. Kiffar blood is so bright, disturbingly bright.

Sometimes Obi-Wan forgets Quinlan isn't human.

They'll need to clean the kitchen floor after this. Fox hovers over him, hands hesitantly raised above his Jedi, as if touching him will do more damage than has already been done to him. Contrary to his brother though, Fox has managed to keep himself relatively collected.

He only jumped when Quinlan used to Force to push himself into the corner.

It scared all of them, even Obi-Wan.

The adrenaline has finally run it's course. His body reminds him of the full extent of his injuries, relays the injuries to him as the medic continues to tend to him.

Obi-Wan's head throbs. Ribs ache. His arms burn from where molten metal painted his skin as he tried to deflect solid shrapnel.

And now, recognizing it's own bloodless state, his body begins to shake.

He needs to tell them what happened, at least as much as he's allowed. They've let him bleed all over their pretty floor. They've dealt with Quinlan who's fallen--again.

He closes he's eyes and speaks.

"There are people after the entire Order, Cody. Jedi...they've--we've been disappearing since the war ended. We thought it was the normal disappearance--" Waxer snorts. Clearly, he's frustrated. Obi-Wan didn't even know he was there. His control of the Force is wanning.

"What are normal disappearances? When is that a normal thing?" Cody articulates what Waxer couldn't. Because what the kriff? Normal disappearances?

"We thought they may have been bounty hunters. It wasn't uncommon for us to be targeted before the Clone Wars. " He grimaces in pain, turning his head back into Cody's stomach.

He stays there for a moment, and breathes in all that Cody is. Feels his solid muscles past his shirt, feels the warmth radiating off of his body.

It's grounding.

"But when Jedi Master's started disappearing," he continues, muffled, "powerful ones, we started taking notice. We started realizing we were being picked off. One by one. And with each one of them gone, there'd be a Dark Side user--who used their same skills, same fighting style. It didn't take us long to put together what was happening." Unease reverberates throughout the small kitchen. The light shines above them, dim as it buzzes. It doesn't reach Vos, who is shrouded in darkness that was not there before.

Those who know Jedi personally no doubt recount the last line of communication had with them. Wolffe leans against the wall, index finger nervously tapping his inner arm.

Threads lifts his head from where he kneels beside Obi-Wan, fingers red with blood.

It doesn't take a lot of brain power to guess who the strongest amongst the Jedi are. And what the implications of this means.

"Quinlan went missing a month ago, I volunteered myself to go after him. And when I found him--he attacked me, not of his own doing." Obi-Wan assures, "And whoever did this to him attacked me as well. But not with blasters, with bullets. They knew how to kill us."

That tastes like bile on his mouth.

Confirming it amongst the Jedi had been one thing, but admitting it to the clones? That they were being kidnapped and turned against one another? That is another thing. That makes it real.

Fox has managed to close the space between he and Quinlan, who looks worse off than they've ever seen. In the small moment that he and Obi-Wan looked at each other, he could have sworn Quin's eyes were gold. What corner was he pushed against to lean into the Dark Side? What agony did these monsters put him through for him to fall and attack Obi-Wan.

Not that it matters now. His face is mostly obscured from view by the tangle of his locs, eyes screwed shut as his fingers twist into his roots. They all watch watch as Fox's fingers unweave Quinlan's own from his hair, cooing him gently.

"Quinlan, you're going to hurt yourself." He seems to calm when his finger's find Fox's. Cody knows a bit about what Quinlan can do. And well, Fox has spent the past three hours baking cakes for the little ones--clones and natborns alike--singing with them in ways that Palpatine's toy solider never would have five years ago.

Cody hopes those hands give Quinlan some peace. And with the way Fox hauls him to his feet, he thinks that maybe they have. The shaking stops, at least. Though he's hunched over like he's in pain.

His hair still obscures most of his body.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

Obi-Wan hisses as Threads resumes his treatment.

It's a question that the Order grappled with.

"Because we are not your responsibility. Because we will not drag you all into another fight." The conviction is not as strong as Obi-Wan would have liked it to be, but he means it.

The decision was unanimous. They would not involve the clones.

"Obi-Wan, where is Master Plo?" Wolffe cuts through the bullshit, his voice is on edge in a way that means he's concerned. Very concerned. Obi-wan hadn't noticed him either. He wonders how many clones are filtering into this small rest stop.

"I--Commander Wolffe, it has been some time since I have--"

He doesn't get to finish explaining to him what has transpired. Wolffe peels himself off of the wall, and walks out of the kitchen.

"Cody, I'm taking Quinlan with me upstairs." Cody's eyes follow the retreating form of his brother, and with effort he pulls Quinlan close to him. Quinlan trips over his feet, making a considerable effort to keep up with Fox, " Somethings...not right. I've commed our medic. Sorry Threads, but I need an expert."

Cody nods curtly, turning his attention back to Obi-Wan. "Fox," Obi-wan calls out, weakly as the commander hauls Quinlan away, "he fought so very hard." "I know," now Fox's voice breaks. He sounds small, like he's struggling to hold himself together, "I know he did."

Still, Obi-Wan paints a clear picture, "It was not like last time, he did not want to hurt me. It was like--" "Like the inhibitor chips?" Rex has made his way into the kitchen, Obi-Wan's arrival gaining more attention. He moves to let Fox and Quinlan leave, placing a comforting hand on Fox as he does so.

"Yes, but when I managed to draw him away from the place he was at, whatever influence was on him released him. But clearly, it is still tormenting his mind. It was unfortunately almost impossible to reason with him when he was in that place."

The Jedi are being hunted. And they were are being turned against each other.

Part of Cody's world ripples at that realization. Happiness seems to be eternally just out of reach, it's sweet embracing kissing the tips of his fingers.

Teasing him. Weren't they supposed to live together? Didn't Obi-Wan talk about taking on a clone padawan? If Obi-Wan, who Cody surmises is concussed, wasn't burrowing his head into the clone's stomach, Cody would be sitting right beside him.

But somehow he always ends up holding Obi-Wan up. Today, he wishes he didn't have to. He hardly has the strength.

"You know, we get to chose when to fight too, Obi-Wan. If you're all being killed, we deserve to know. Our brothers didn't die so you could all die five years later." He manages, "Believe it or not, some of us will choose to stand with you."

For Obi-Wan's part, he's unsure of how to take the statement.

He's not sure how much of Cody wants to fight for him, or how much a decade of conditioning by the Kaminoans has told him--all of them that they have to.

"The Republic has people that will protect us--" Cody's temper flairs in the Force. Obi-Wan groans.

"You think natborns give a kriff about the Jedi? The Republic still doesn't trust you after the disaster of the Clone Wars. We're the only ones who can keep you all safe. We were made for you."

Cody catches himself too late. And collective, the clones hold their breaths. The silence is louder than it should be. Cody finger's still in Obi-Wan's hair.

When Obi-Wan was a young Jedi, newly made master to an even younger Anakin Skywalker, he enjoyed watching as his way with words often tripped Anakin up.

How the boy's head first personality would almost always end up a lesson of how not to approach the Jedi Way.

It was as if their entire apprenticeship consisted of Anakin proving Obi-Wan right, walking into a trap--be it physical or verbal.

I told you this would happen, Anakin.

If only you'd listen to me.

And now, Anakin, you have proven my point. Again.

He remembered the satisfaction that would fill him as he watched Anakin fulfill his own prophecy. Watch him enact the irony that Obi-Wan had warned him of.

Yet, He feels numbness as Cody does the same.

"And that is the problem, Cody." Obi-Wan smiles sadly through the fabric, slowly lifting his head to captures the clone's eyes, "you never should have been.

And yet, like Anakin, Cody continues to talk--argue. To reason.

Let us help you, it won't be like last time. Please.

Though at a point Obi-Wan stops listening, and simply feels Cody's presence.

Threads says something about a concussion, and suddenly, Obi-Wan's world gets a bit darker. Still, he loses himself in Cody's presence.

It's enough to eventually put him to sleep. He will worry about the world attacking his Order--his family--later. For now, he allows himself to succumb to the rest that Cody's very being has provided.

[deadpanwalking]

My grandmother died in 2019—she was only a little younger than Bisan when the Nazis started bombing Odessa in August of 1941. She was planning to start medical school in the fall but instead, she and her immediate family fled Odessa in a horse-drawn cart with their neighbors. They spent many nights huddling in open fields, while the bombs fell around them, so close that they could smell the burnt chemical odor in the air. Every avenue of escape got cut off before they could make it (literally, a boat they secured passage on was bombed as they stood on shore). By the time they found a safe place from which to evacuate to Tashkent, they were ill, starved, and shell-shocked. Every single story she told had parts that made me want to reach into time, find her sister's lost ration card, hand her mother medicine, take a warm coat to her father, give them all a place to sleep, anything to ease their burden. Even now, I'd give anything to do that.

Babushka never wept when she spoke of the war, so as a child I wept for her—she told me to stop being so overwrought, because it was so long ago it felt like it happened to somebody else, somebody stronger, braver, older. At 90, she told me she never felt as old as she did at 19. I think she would weep for Bisan.

For me, the chance to help Bisan's family and families like hers isn't just about moral obligation, human decency, or a matter of assuaging guilt—it is my privilege, my honor, my blessing to be able to reach out and offer them something that will make it possible to bear what is unbearable for another day, and get them a little closer to safety, do you understand? And it can be yours as well.

@truthhux just sent me this—the next goal is £13K and we're at £12,170—who's gonna match this donation and HELP BISAN AND HER FAMILY SURVIVE IN GAZA?

Just letting you know the gfm you were working on met it’s goal and now has a new goal set

Yes! I wanted to wait until I got home so I could write something down about why supporting (and continuing to support) families through vetted fundraisers is so important—a lot of people have written compelling and incisive posts about why, but since many of of you have followed me for a while, I wanted to share a bit about my family’s experience and give some perspective that might encourage everyone to keep up the momentum.  

185,000 Soviet Jews came to the United States between the 1970s and the 1990s.  We were a kind of immigrant that’s known as a transmigrant, because we had to immigrate to several different countries before moving to the US permanently; since nobody could go to the US directly from the Soviet Union, we had to do it through a somewhat convoluted process called the Vienna-Rome pipeline. 

My parents waited over ten years for an exit visa and were rejected several times, but were finally permitted to renounce their citizenship and leave Soviet Ukraine in the 1980s—there were three adults (my parents and grandmother) and two children (me and my older brother), all in good health.  Things were a lot more relaxed in the Soviet Union by then, but my father had spent some time in jail for dissidence, so everyone involved in the process of obtaining the visas had to be bribed, and towards the end we were living in an communal apartment with eight other people to save money—that and because my parents were worried the Soviet authorities would find a pretext to arrest my father again (this had happened to our friends).  When we got to the Odessa railway station (early in the morning, without saying goodbye to anybody, just in case), we were each allowed one suitcase, a very small sum of money, and our exit visa paperwork as identification. 

We bought as little as possible on the train ride to Austria and only ate the cured meat my grandmother brought in her bag, but after two Soviet customs checks on the train, we couldn’t afford the tickets to Vienna, which was the entry point to the West, and where the Jewish relief services center was, and had to buy tickets for a station 40 kilometers outside of the city.  When the train arrived, we stayed on board and were very quiet, and the ticket inspector either forgot us or showed us a small mercy by letting us stay. In Vienna, we lived in a migrant center (which, for us, was a hotel repurposed for migrant families) with other Soviet Jewish families while the JDC helped us put together our initial immigration applications to the United States, then made arrangements to get us to Rome so we could wait there for our various documents to get processed and approved, while applying for relief aid that would help us live from day-to-day in the meantime.

That was the most difficult part.  We lived in migrant housing just outside Rome for 11 months. The Jewish relief aid services helped us out with almost everything—housing, groceries, social services, medical expenses—but it still wasn’t enough.  When you have no steady income (and, as a sovereign citizen of nowhere at all, aren’t allowed to work), every expense is prohibitive, every setback is financially devastating. We got by because local churches gave us clothing, local students volunteered to teach us a little Italian—but when I got pneumonia (twice), when my mom needed another pair of dentures, when a translator who said he'd help streamline some paperwork took our money and disappeared, our case worker reached out to help us get sponsor families in America so they could help organize financial assistance (my dad would write to thank them in Russian because his English wasn’t very good, and their Russian friend would translate—we even got to meet one of the families when we moved here, and they’re still our close friends).

It was very fucking rough. By the time we were on the plane to America, I was pulling out my hair from stress, my grandma had developed a heart murmur, and we had almost nothing we brought from Odessa left in those suitcases. 

Now read Bisan’s story.  Or Mohammed’s. Or the stories of countless others. Tell me my family’s journey isn’t a fucking pleasure cruise compared to what they're facing.  We fled political and religious persecution—but we weren’t sick, we weren’t starving, we weren’t being bombed, shot at, tortured, exterminated.  The Jewish orgs helped us so much, but people—those American families and their friends—kept us going when we were waiting for faceless bureaucrats to approve our application to exist.  And it didn’t stop when we got here, either.  So many people kept on helping. They gave us money, time, referrals, opportunities, coached us through the process of getting naturalized.

As a matter of course, I donate to and platform fundraisers that are provided by a local mosque, and I probably won't be doing too many fundraising things like this on Tumblr because I don't (despite appearances) invest as much time and energy here as I do to my offline activism—but I want everyone to understand how important it is to support these families in addition to international relief organizations.

[tallandsad]

Why are unpaid internships still a thing like deeply that shit should be illegal. I have to basically do a 6 month clinical at hospitals after my rad tech program and it’s minimum 40hr week for 6 months like bruh

[skrs-cats]

rut was really good im such a sucker for anything that just wants to be uplifting and genuine. so, here is them :3

[premamelody]

like theyre like siblings part 2 for me

explaination or smth

[territorial-utopia]

Huzzah! It's birthday time! I'm slowly accumulating more and more things I like (latest additions this vest I made and a travel typewriter! Still need to fix the latter one though)

Sure has been a year.

[bbnibini]

I find it so painfully heartbreaking that Solomon just...laughs off all the derision, the name-calling, and possibly even did "evil" things on purpose because it's expected of him at this point. (He had not always been like this as Thirteen pointed out before). There was a time when he was "innocent". When his soul sparkled. When it resembled the kind of soul everyone in these god forsaken (pun intended with spite) three realms seemed to associate with the ever loved MC. He's just...worryingly carefree. And because he's like that, he feels even more of a tragic character to me.

Sometimes it even seems that he himself would seemingly make up excuses on why he's hated. Oh, it's because I'm a sorcerer this. I might have won a war against Devildom single-handedly this. I have forgotten. But maybe, I did something bad, that. Hon, you were doing that to SURVIVE. You don't have to be a faultless person to deserve compassion. You don't have to be MC to deserve to be loved.

[lunarharp]

shirahama-sensei reminded me she has a thing for the teacher from pokemon s/v so i randomly went off on an au where qifrey is the professor. etc

[boarloved-art]

i like the car movies a lot.......

[gen4grl]

you would think after all the yapping i do about these losers i would have a plethora of art uploaded … no… so here is my first kantrio post lol

i did these over the last month while watching the olympic weightlifting and jamming to kpop (stan red velvet and kiss of life BTW!!!)

[angelmush]

starting to feel my enjoyment of cooking seeping back in after a long period of intense burnout that had me really slogging along preparing meals with gritted teeth for a good month there. i credit the return of this spark to the much needed break i took on our 3 day vacation that resulted in us eating solely theme park food. while delicious, in all its greasy overpriced glory, i found myself missing the kitchen. so last night for dinner i made heavily spiced chicken wings with crushed peppercorns and garam masala that rendered slowly in its own fat while roasting in the oven, resulting in flavorful charred crisp skin and a really juicy bite. we picked them clean over steamed rice with lime and scallions. i also baked a loaf of marbled pumpkin and dark chocolate bread yesterday for my neighbor as a thank you for doing me a favor last week. it looked delicious. the crumb was tender and plush and velvety, the spiced ginger molasses pumpkin batter swirling alongside the bitter dark chocolate espresso batter, with puddles of dark chocolate bubbling across its top. it looked so lovely i whipped up a second one for us to have for ourselves that's in the oven now, i think it could be a really good breakfast pastry for us this week.

[vaguely-concerned]

more for the garashir fairytale grab bag AU I am never going to actually write: garak knows exactly what would break his curse from the start, he just never tells anyone for the longest time b/c he's so sure it could never happen

(it's asking forgiveness, of course. he thinks it's tain's forgiveness he needs, and tain is fucking dead and knew he would be by the time garak woke up so it seems the perfect unbreakable parting fuck-you revenge curse. and garak would expect nothing less from his father than that, so he's resigned to dwindling away painfully. enter julian bashir and his fierce force-of-nature compassion (and also secret illicit immense magical powers) with a steel chair!!! to go 'OH YEAH??? we'll see about that', as you might expect. oh. OH necromancer-ish julian calling tain's ghost up to ask him about what the hell he did and how to undo it, ala his gambit to go see him the wire? and the knowledge he gains from that is what confirms garak's suspicions as to what is Up with this handsome young healer mage because it could be known only by those long dead. cue east of the sun west of the moon part of the narrative once julian understands his game is up and runs away??

anyway getting some true love's kissing in by the end of it all is just a nice bonus it's not needed like strictly magically for either of their situations lol)

[chemicalarospec]

you've heard of: aroacespec "is this person flirting with me" confusion, now get ready for: Does this person think I'm flirting with them (and also are they flirting "back" with me) because I accidentally bumped into them a lot?