#more of a whinge really

[walkman-cat]

want to draw but cannot. blowing things up with my mind

[corviiids]

gushing etc

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

"Porridge is a real thing??" I shout at my British F/Os

"Goldilocks is BRITISH!?" I shout at them in an even higher pitch

[divinekangaroo]

Really burned out trying to do more than one unit a year, so it seems.

[birt-art]

Something I really wish more creators would understand is that constantly complaining about your work not getting as much engagement as you'd like doesn't make me want to engage with your work more, it just makes you look bitter and the endless negativity makes me want to unfollow

[jankwritten]

why are my hyperfixations never on anything cheap, bro. it's always gotta be ENAMEL PINS or MECHANICAL KEYBOARDS or BOOKS or ARTWORK and PENS. and broken glass. i guess that one is kinda cheap.

[izzy-b-hands]

I'm awake again. Unfortunately.

[knife-dad]

One thing I will say, if there really isn't a planned ending for the mandalorian they could at least pace themselves better. There have been so many moments that could have been the arc of a whole season and they just pass by without much comment. They're really rushing through a lot of valuable plot points and there's not even a finish line to get to, yknow? If they were dealing with a looming finale it would make sense, but that's not the case.

I expected the scope of the plot to get bigger and more complicated, but if there's no plan to end the show, they could do that and still take their time. I thought pacing issues were just a book of boba fett problem but I guess not.

They've also lowkey dropped the ball on making this show character driven, in small but consistent ways. Like spending an episode on fixing IG-11 only to forget it later. We've seen Din be stubbornly goal oriented before- its weird for him to drop the idea almost as quickly as he had it.

I'm also not impressed with the circumstances that led to Din handing over the darksaber. It makes sense and is in character for him to do it, but the way it came about was a total coincidence. Not a plot by a known enemy, not even a compromise between characters with different ideologies- just one episode where Din lost a fight. Even the situation that led to Bo Katan seeing the mythosaur was circumstantial and an accident. Basically, it would be nice if things happened on purpose more often, even if it is funny when things happen to our main characters for no reason.

There's so much in this show that I still enjoy though! There's still a lot happening character-wise that I really love! Hopefully they can course correct with season 4, since I don't think there will be time in this one with only one episode left.

[navree]

i tonya is always a movie i'm gonna be annoyed exists, not cuz i dislike it (it's fine, its' not great but it's adequate and it has its moments) but because i have a vision in my head of a movie about that whole mess that is never gonna come to fruition because there's already been a major motion picture about it

[floral-hex]

I just get so tired of waking up every day and having to claw my way up to some emotional baseline

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

David Tennant interview at the British LGBT Awards, June 2024 (x)

Int: You being an ally to the community isn't something new. You've been doing it, but recently you've obviously really stepped up for trans and non-binary people in a time that's so, so needed. What made you do that?

David: I don't know that I feel like I've done anything that I wouldn't just sort of be normally doing. I mean, it's for me it's just common sense that there's there should be any suggestion that people aren't allowed to live the life they want to live and and to be who they want to be with and to express themselves wholeheartedly. I mean, as long as you aren't hurting anybody else, everybody else just needs to fucking butt out. I don't really understand why...

Int: ...it's controversial.

David: Yeah, there is and the thing... the thing, if there's something that's particularly sobering and depressing, it's that certain debates are being weaponized by certain elements of the political class, often for no... it seems it's not ideological so much as opportunistic. And I just think that's pretty disgusting, really.

Int: I couldn't agree more. What message would you like to send out to trans youth?

David: Please don't feel like you're not loved and that you're not accepted and that you're not... you know, most people in the world are good and kind and just want you to be able to be who you are. Most people in the world don't really care. I mean... you know what I mean?

Int: We're all narcissistic.

David: Exactly. Everyone's so self obsessed that really, the sort of noise that comes from a certain area of the press and of the political class is... it's a minority. It really is. And please don't let that make you feel diminished or dissuaded or discouraged, because, you know, you just... you have to be allowed to be yourself, and you are, and you are yourself and you must thrive and flourish, and we're all here for it.

Int: Amazing. I think, yeah, it's so important .I think sometimes it feels like there's so many people, but it is a minority. It's such a minority.

David: It's a tiny bunch of little whinging fuckers that are on the wrong side of history and they'll all go away soon.

Int: Like what happened with gay people 20 years ago.

David: When I was a kid, when I was a kid, exactly. You know, I was at school when Clause 28 came in and it all felt like being gay was something to be terrified of. And gay men in particular were demonised as paedophiles and now that just feels historic and ludicrous and, I mean, I don't see all those... all those battles aren't won, but we're in a very, very different place. And I feel like.I feel like history is on a progressive trajectory and it might get knocked sideways now and again by people for all sorts of reasons, which are often quite selfish and quite, as I say, not coming from a place of any sort of genuine belief system, but other than a place of opportunism. And that's something that we... I hope that in 20 years time, we're talking about, you know, these culture wars as something of the past.

Int: I believe we will. I'm a huge Doctor Who fan, so.

David: Oh, good, me too!

Int: You are my Doctor.

David: Oh, thank you very much.

Int: But recently, obviously, you came back for the 60th anniversary and you got to work with Yasmin Finney.

David: Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Int: What was it like working with her?

David: Oh, she's brilliant. She's fantastic. Yeah. And she's in the show again now, she's back in it, so that's fantastic to see. She's lovely, talented, cool as a cucumber, articulate, brilliant. I learned a lot from her as an actor and also as someone who, you know, who's become a sort of de facto activist just because of who she is and where she is, and she becomes a sort of symbol of hope, and she's wonderful.

[vvelegrin]

arabic linguistics book that transcribes arabic words in neither IPA nor arabic script but a secret third thing that i cannot read without flipping back to the beginning of the book to check every single time

[hannahchronism]

and then i scrolled my dash for .2 seconds and went UUUUUUUGGGHHHHHH out loud as i lost another blog i was following because i thought it was a nice netural same-fandom blog but then they went "MAN [thing i like] IS SHITTY AND STUPID AND WORTHLESS" and this just keeps happening to me. how do i get duped into thinking they're at least neutral??

like listen i have actively been accused of trying to dictate other people's opinions and i swear i'm not trying to do that it's just like. a big bummer that people are so nasty about it. you can dislike it it's whatever i just wish i could find. someone to chill in vague proximity to without the risk of opening my dash one day to nastiness u know?

[konigslilcumslut]

Simon was never one for cockwarming, didn’t see much point in it.

Until he did it of course.

It was supposed to just shut you up, you were so worked up and whining and whinging about needing something from him that he practically rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his office chair and listened to you rant at him.

Well…the ranting didn’t actually last long though.

He’d stop you with a simply raise of his hand, a quick command for silence as his eyes pierce straight into you.

“You’re gonna come over here. Sit on my cock. Do not move until I am done. Then I’ll fuck you good baby, alright? That sound good?”

I mean obviously that sounds great so there’s not gonna be much hesitation on your end.

But the one thing he didn’t expect was it to be

So. Damn. Difficult.

He’s just tryna focus on the damn paperwork, it’s important after all. But you’re squeezing him so tight and you’re practically panting into his neck while you keep his cock all nice and warm.

It takes everything out of him to genuinely focus on his work, not just slam you across the desk and absolutely ruin every single hole you’ll let him fuck.

By the time he’s finished with the paperwork he’s twitching and throbbing inside you, and it doesn’t take him long to have you completely bent over the desk while he’s just pounding into you like a wild animal.

“Fuck. That’s whatcha been wanting huh? To just sit on my cock and drive me up the fucking wall?”

“You’re gonna do this more often baby. Gonna have you sit nice and pretty till I wanna fuck ya again and again.”

So yeah…he wasn’t really one for cockwarming but hell now he definitely is.

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 2

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

“Fuckin’ hell…” Simon mutters under his breath, face twisting into a deeper frown as both exhaustion and annoyance settle in; etching into his features behind the itchy, damp cloth still covering his face. 

Another giggle bubbles up in your throat, resounds freely around the room as you keep beaming at him from your spot on his couch, though no matter how melodic it sounds, Simon can merely feel his stomach churn and his skin crawl. “Wowee, you sure do cuss a lot, Simon!” 

“Stop calling me that.” Simon deadpans. 

And the curses keep burning and festering on the tip of his tongue, some directed at himself self-deprecatingly, as he simply decides to ignore the stray currently taking up residence in his sacred space. He swallows those insults down. His wet boots squeak on the floor as he turns on his heels and marches towards his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it with finality like some pouty teenager. 

The mask comes off swiftly; uncaring of the sharp pain as he tugs at his own hair harshly, pulling out a few damp, dirty blonde hairs by the roots from his scalp before he tosses the mask onto his neatly made bed, and Simon takes a deep breath. 

He discards his BDU’s methodically, throws his dirty clothes into the old laundry hamper in the corner of the manageable bathroom, and takes a quick shower despite his aching muscles and bones screaming at him for more warmth from the hot water. And even after his quick wash, Simon cannot find it in himself to relax, not when he’s all too aware of the strange intruder currently occupying his living room. 

In spite of the hole in his stomach, the angry grumbling vibrating from its empty pit all up to his chest, Simon goes to bed hungry, though it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with from his past; he simply refuses to deal with you and he’ll try his damn best to keep the contact to the barest minimum until he’s forced to face you again in the morning to take you back to Price’s office–to let the old geezer sort this messy situation. 

Now Simon lies on his knackered mattress at barely 0830 p.m., stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling in utter darkness; ears strained to pick up every little sound you might be making. For a moment, he wonders if you’re snooping around through his stuff, even though he doesn’t really own many personal belongings or sentimental keepsakes. You certainly don’t give off any of those threatening vibes he can easily pick up on with new people; he simply thinks you too daft to be deceiving. 

As thick as two short planks, Simon muses to himself, snorting softly with a straight face. With your bloody tail and stupid dog ears; way too soft and defenceless, dependant on some stranger to be your bloody handler as if you’re not a grown, capable woman yourself– 

His thoughts get disturbed by a sound he hasn’t heard in a long, a very long time. It’s almost too subtle at first, but it still makes him jerk up in his creaky single bed, causing the prickly military-issued blanket to slip off his bare chest and pool around his hips. Simon hates how his heartrate increases slowly and despises the myriads of emotions crashing over him like a tsunami wave. 

And then he hears it again–a steady, high-pitched yet soft noise; alternating between pathetic whinging and gut-wrenching squeaks. 

Simon tries to ignore it for another moment, closing his eyes to will himself to sleep when it seems you’ve given up, until you pick up right where you’ve left off. 

Heaving his massive body out of his bed nearly silently despite the creaking bedframe and the soft groan escaping his throat, he puts on a pair of tattered sweatpants, its waistband hanging baggy and low on his hips from years of wear, and pairs it with an old Army shirt before leaving the safety of his bedroom begrudgingly to sneak back into the living room. 

There is no need to hide his face from someone who has no common sense to even care about his identity, so he doesn't bother to put his mask back on. 

As Simon walks down the short hallway from his bedroom to the open living room, he notices the change of scent as he keeps approaching with caution. It’s sweet, but not too overwhelming. Flowery and fresh, like chamomile and daisies drenched in honeydew, and it gets stuck on the back of his tongue as he can’t stop himself from inhaling deeply.  

The whining stops as soon as he switches the light back on, tawny brown eyes zeroing in on the spot on his couch where you’d arranged the few cushions into a meagre nest, and when your head pops up from within your little den, blinking at him with twitchy ears and wide eyes, Simon gets triggered and thrown back in time in a way that has his breath stutter momentarily and his chest ache as if hit with a sledgehammer. 

A memory of his late mother flashes in front of his inner eyes; lithe body curled up in a makeshift nest to keep her own cubs safe inside a cold apartment in one of the worse corners of Manchester. But it’s gone in a blink and slips back into the dark, rotten corners of his mind before he can begin to process it properly. 

He hasn't thought about her in too long, and the realization makes the shame even worse as it lodges itself in his throat, choking him slowly but surely. 

“Hello,” you chirp suddenly, pulling him back to here and now, and Simon notices the huskiness to your voice from crying out so much. “Oh! Your mask is gone,” you remark with fluttering lashes and a soft chuckle. “You’re so handsome, Simon–” 

Simon huffs. “O’right, stop,” he grumbles before rubbing a calloused hand over his face, scratching his stubble as he feels an unfamiliar heat rise in his pale cheeks. “Whaddaya doin’? Why are you whinging like some bloody puppy?” 

Your ears flatten, nearly disappear under your hair as you avert your eyes from him, and Simon catches himself wondering briefly how you make those cotton balls hide so easily before he hears you answer ruefully: “I'm scared. I don't like sleeping alone in the dark.” 

Ah, shite.  

Simon stares at you for a moment, unblinking and unmoving; shoulders barely rising with shallow breath.  

“Then sleep with the bloody lights on,” he counters eventually. “I don’t give a shite. I'm no' the one payin' for the fuckin' power bill.” 

The pout on your face makes his nose wrinkle in anger, and he hates that he didn't put on his mask, that he's giving you the privilege to judge his facial expression. He tries to reign them back in, keep his ugly mug more neutral. 

“Can I... sleep with you in your bed?” 

You actually manage to throw him off balance with that. His heart skips a violent beat at your innocent question and casual tone, like you're some damn child scared of the dark, but you're not. You're a grown woman asking to share a bed with a stranger, with Ghost of all people! Don't you know who he is? Did nobody bother tell you or are you really that foolish to care? 

“No.” Simon nearly growls at you, trembling hands balling into fists at his sides to keep himself from ripping his own hair out in frustration. He wants to say more, wants to lecture you, get some sense into your idiot hybrid-brain, but he only manages a curt answer. No.  

Your face drops even more, a soft keening whine reaching his trained ears before you swallow it down with great effort as Simon notices the way your delicate throat bobs. The sound brings back more memories of his mother, and pity along with it. For you, for him, for her. He doesn't quite understand the sentiment and he adds it to the list of things he hates, because he can't control anything he’s feeling right now, because you keep confronting him with it unwittingly. 

What Simon does remember is the way his mother had always found comfort in his father's scent. No matter how much of an abusive prick he was towards her, or her children. The memory makes bile rise in his throat and he swallows it quickly. 

“Here,” he gruffs eventually, reaching for the hem of his worn shirt and pulling it off in one smooth motion; uncaring of the way it leaves his broad, scarred torso bare in front of you. “You can have this, but no more whinging, lass.”  

Pity. It’s pity making him do this, he assures himself; something else he hasn’t felt in a bloody long time. A feeling right up there with mercy. It’s what makes him do it, despite knowing that you shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this from him. He isn't your handler, definitely not your friend. Simon is a stranger to you as much as you are to him, and yet– 

The fabric is thrown at your head with unmatched precision, hanging in front of your face for a moment, surprisingly soft and drenched in his heavenly, musky scent, before you slowly pull it off, tail finally wagging and thumping dully against the couch. But when your eyes uncover and you blink to clear your vision, the spot where Simon was standing previously is empty; leaving you lonely, sad and cold once more. 

As Simon slips back into his own bedroom, silent as ever, his jaw clenches tightly when he hears how the soft thudding of your tail stops at once before his door clicks shut behind him, and one thing becomes even more clear to him– 

He needs you gone. 

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses

[quarterlifekitty]

weaknesses: your cooking

König was on watch with you late one night, and you insisted upon filling the air with a bit of conversation– said you needed it to stay awake. You end up asking him lots of questions that night, including all of his favorite foods and drinks. He has trouble answering, he’s never had to come up with this much information about himself, but you don’t mind.

“Do you have a favorite dessert? Mine is lemon meringue pie,” you say with a sweet little smile. It makes him realize how cute you are. That, outside of your uniforms, a cute girl is talking to him. It makes him panic a little, such that he can only bring himself to respond with a quiet me too. 

He had no idea what his favorite dessert was when you asked. He wasn’t even sure he particularly enjoyed desserts at all, honestly. He’s hoping you forget about this embarrassing exchange, really. But you don’t.

You’re stationed in Switzerland when next it comes up. You proudly come back to your accommodations with a little box from a bakery. “I saw this in town today and remembered that you liked meringue too! So I got one, if you wanted to share it with me?”

He just nods. And it’s the best fucking dessert he’s ever had. Which has little to do with how the desert itself tastes. It becomes the first dessert he learns how to make at home, and he makes his best yet when you’re celebrating moving in together. It’s when he’s feeding it to you that he finally comes clean– when you’d asked him his favorite dessert, he’d never even eaten lemon meringue pie before.

Gaz takes incredibly good care of himself. He detests getting sick, maybe more than anything else. It’s just so annoying, and it totally ruins his momentum– throws him off his groove. So he very very rarely gets sick, and is in fact often disgustingly bright, healthy, and energetic. 

Gaz also comes from a home that had amazing food. His standards are, understandably, quite high. A piece of his soul leaves with every MRE he consumes. Which is why his favorite food from you is such a surprise.

It’s during the infancy of your relationship. You’ve been on a few dates. Exploratory, probing, trying to deduce if this is love or just the symptoms of it. He’s on the fence about telling you he’s fallen ill– it’s a little awkward, isn’t it? Partners are supposed to take care of each other in times like that, but he’s not sure you’re ready to be called his partner, much less be around him when he’s a germ factory. But he ends up telling you, if only not to look like he’s ignoring you if he slips into another death-nap while you’re texting.

You do end up coming over, despite all his warnings, all of the easy outs he provides you with. Get him a fresh gatorade before busying yourself in his kitchen.

You come back with a steaming mug that he doesn’t recognize. You say you brought it from home– that it’s your special mug you like to use when you feel icky. It’s got wisteria painted on the side with the scientific name in script next to it, and a little silver spoon with a teddy bear on the end is sticking out of it.

He takes the mug gratefully but still a little cautious– he doesn’t really know all that much about your cooking, and he’ll readily admit that his parents ruined the standard.

He looks down in it to see oatmeal. A bit of cinnamon dusted on, a golden swirl of honey going through it. Just a little bit of cardamom. 

He used to hate oatmeal when he was a kid, but he finishes the mug in record time and asks if you’ll make more. It’s just so soft and hot– gentle on his aching stomach and sore throat, the heat and cinnamon spice clearing up his sinuses a little bit. The sweetness is perfect and comforting as it sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Nowadays he keeps up the same wellness regimen, but he does almost look forward to getting sick, because it means you’ll make oatmeal for him.

When sharing a safehouse with Soap, there’s one inevitable constant: the whining. He always finds something to whinge about, just to ease his own boredom. It’s never about the conditions, having to sleep on shitty mattresses on floors, having to trek 10 miles through the dark and fog to even get there– it’s always about something stupid.

Girl who hasn’t texted him back. His deployment making him miss out on a limited edition thing he would’ve wanted to buy. That during his last leave a girl ghosted him after he barked during sex. Come to think of it, it was usually about his girl problems.

But this time, it was that he happened to be deployed on his birthday. Not that he’s sore about spending time with the taskforce, you’re his best mates in the world– but there’s not much celebration to be had out here.

“Could do with a fockin’ cake, ye ken?”

You were taken onto this squad for your adaptability. You’re brilliant when it comes to improvisation. And there’s a couple of shelf stable things left around in the cabinets here, although dubious.

So what are you able to bang together with flour, sugar, and the liquid from a can of chickpeas in some tin cups on top of a butane stove on its last legs?

That’s right. A fockin’ cake. Is it good? God no. The texture is weird as hell and it’s somehow dry on the outside but completely raw in the middle. But Soap smiles the entire time he’s eating it, and god knows he’s finishing the whole damned thing.

He was always of the mind that it’s rude not to finish your wife’s cooking.

It’s Price’s first holiday with you, and his expectations are low. Not as in he doesn’t think you’ll be lovely and amazing, he most certainly does, but his whole squad is coming over and preparing for that is a pretty big undertaking. So if it’s something a little more casual, maybe a bit of potluck, he’ll be perfectly fine with that. His ex used to order catering and tell the guests that she’d cooked it all herself, so anything is a step up from that in his book.

You stun him absolutely stupid when you not only plan a spectacular, full holiday dinner, but you make his boys help out– commanding them in the kitchen the same way he does in the field. Well, maybe a bit less forgiving. You’re less tender-hearted than him when the moistness of the roast in the oven is on the line. Everything is delicious, full of love, and satisfying beyond belief.

But his true fulfillment comes about a year later when his soldiers are awkwardly talking around their plans for the holidays, trying to nudge him into inviting them over again to make dinner with his missus. Muppets, the lot of them.

A lot of Ghost’s concept of vegetables come from army food, school cafeterias, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Typically frozen, only to be thawed and overcooked to an ungodly degree. On the rare occasion he had a half-decent meal with a vegetable side, it was typically covered in butter, cheese, or finely chopped bacon. Sometimes a combination of the three.

You’re a hookup he falls back on a lot when he’s on leave. Keeps him away from his empty apartments and crowded mind. This time, he comes straight to your place when he lands, wanting to lose himself in your cunt more than anything else. And you’re accommodating, you don’t have anything better to do and he doesn’t leave you wanting.

Usually he makes himself scarce pretty quickly, but this time he finds that maybe he was still running on adrenaline when he came in, and now that it’s wearing off with his post-orgasm high, his entire body is killing him. He feels like lead. And he hates that his struggle is plain to see.

“You can just stay, y’know. S’not like I’ll be expecting a wedding ring in the morning or anything. I’m just gonna go make dinner.”

He’s too tired to protest. Falls asleep just about as soon as you’re out of the room, despite very much intending to get the hell up and pass out somewhere that isn’t your apartment. He wakes up to an amazing smell.

Your dinner isn’t complicated. You’d just planned to have dinner by yourself, so it wasn’t fancy or anything. Grilled some salmon, put it over rice with some unagi sauce, steamed some fresh veggies for the side. Simon just barely has the energy to amble over to your kitchen table when it’s clear he won’t be leaving the premises any time soon.

When he’s not eating food that’s mass produced and shitty, he expects to be eating the kind of battered and fried pub faire that sits like a stone and ravages the digestive tract.

This may very well be the first time he’s eaten a meal that was genuinely good that didn’t make him feel at least a little bit disgusting afterwards. And god– it’s like it’s his first time tasting a vegetable for real. Why didn’t anyone tell him they could be this way?

You’re quite frankly shocked when you wake up in the morning and Simon is not only still there– he wants to take you out to breakfast. 

The truth is that he got a pretty remarkably good night’s rest, but in the wee hours while he was waiting for you to wake up? He was planning. The jump from friends with benefits to marriage won’t really be so difficult if he can play his cards right.