#my waterbottle

[albonium]

17 days worth of clothes for temperatures from 0 to 30°C 🤪

[general-bear]

Tossing a Colorado Miku into the mix

[ricketyracketyy]

probably posted about this already but it don’t matter. you’re going to witness it again.

[rogdona]

[gloomurii]

anyone else feel like there's a critical lack of captain marvel/shazam merch? officially, i mean. i know he's a less popular justice league member, but i can't even find KEYCHAINS i like of his logo...

[smokeygrayrabbits]

reading fics where people get creative with the different robins ages gets crazier the older I get DO YOU GUYS KNOW HOW TINY AN EIGHT YEAR OLD IS????? THEY'RE JUST LEARNING MULTIPLICATION THEY SHOULDNT BE IN THE CLUB OR FIGHTING CRIME THEY SHOULD BE IN BED ITS PAST 9PM

[alchemistc]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @liminalmemories21, who Doesn't Go Here but whom I am going to try to tempt further into the fold by choosing a hockey heavy snippet just for funsies. Just to see. Also I couldn't decide where to clip this so... enjoy like a whole game.

Tommy shifts his weight and settles the nerves, accepts the smack to the back of his helmet, and watches Binnington throw a fit between the pipes when the stripes don’t call the puck trickling in behind his net an icing.

They’re five minutes in and everyone’s getting testy. He can feel it.

This is where Tommy does his best work. It’d been a task, ten years ago, a part of the job he’d accepted because he was good in a fight and fully capable of taking a few punches. Under the thumb of the old boys club it’d just been expected of him — the ability to throw his weight around was what had kept him from complete obscurity in a lower league that would have worn him down much sooner. Tommy’s fists and his ability to twist his shoulder just in time to knock a guy flat on his ass were the only things that mattered when his agent settled him down with two offers and he’d chosen the team most likely to make his dad proud.

Never mind that his dad had come to three games when Tommy was a bright eyed-rookie, seen Tommy get his ass handed to him by a man twice his size, and stopped bothering to show up.

He’d turned that around, in recent years. Longer stints with the affiliate teams, less time under the microscopic eye of the national press (even as a role player he’d had his moments under that eye) — he’d learned when to pull his punches, when to turn the other cheek, and when to lock his ankles and aim for the fucking chest. He had friends up and down the continent who knew him as the guy who’d take them all out to dinner after a bad loss, find something stupid and entertaining for them to do after, and then go into the next game with a chip on his fucking shoulder.

There were three kids with insane star power in the league who had him on speed dial even though he hadn’t played with them for a year or more, because for some fucking reason he had the ability to talk them off a ledge when the pressure drove them towards it.

He’d never tell a soul that Crosby still sent him gym selfies so they could compare the relative size and plumpness of their ass during the offseason.

There was still a reverence for real enforcers, in the league, even if they’d fallen by the wayside as teams got smaller and quicker. They were more a deterrent than anything else these days, but that usually meant Tommy got to lumber around on the ice for a few minutes a game, remembering what it had felt like the first time he’d laced his skates and stepped out to a roaring crowd, before he took another dumb penalty and spent the next forty-five minutes riding the bench. He’d been instructed not to take any dumb penalties, tonight, because St. Louis didn’t tend to get sloppy until the game was on the line.

Thirty-six minutes in, Schenn takes a chop at Diaz’s knee under the guise of a poke check and the home crowd gets loud, and ornery.

Nash smacks him on the shoulder on their way back down the tunnel for the third, eyes a little wild, and Tommy immediately recalls the old highlight reels of Nash shaking hair out of his eyes while he squared off against a guy twice his size, motor-mouthing his way into getting the other guy to take the first swing. Minnesotans and their right hooks weren’t something to fuck around with. Too much time in the cold not to have a little crazy in them.

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth, tilts his head to where Diaz and Buckley are bent over the boards together on the bench, already prepared to hop out the moment Bannister tries to get a match-up that’ll tilt in the Blues favor.

Nash sends him out with the rest of the fourth line, and Tommy doesn’t waste any time.

It’s immediately clear that they’ve all been warned to keep level heads. Schenn won’t engage, Buchnevich barely acknowledges Tommy when he hip checks him into his own bench — he goes ass over tea kettle and Tommy gets nothing more than a few shifty looks and some smack talk from the guys sitting.

There’s an easy way around that, though.

Tommy clambers back over the boards and waits out his next shift, practically vibrating with it when a shot pings off the crossbar and Greenway skates right through Binnington’s crease chasing after it.

Kyrou tries to take out Buckley against the boards, looks livid when Buck skates just free of it, and Buck does some ankle breaking in a rush to the goal. It hits the post, and when the whistle gets blown fifteen seconds later Tommy watches level heads not prevail when Binner says something snippy to Kyrou that has him rolling his eyes on the way back to the bench.

It takes another minute and a half for Nash to set up the line matches the way he wants them, but as Greenway skates off for relief and Schenn’s line stays stuck in their own zone spinning their wheels, Bobby smacks a thick hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Kinard, you’re up!”

Tommy takes an awkward pass once he’s past the blue line and goes full tilt towards the net. Full tilt for Tommy isn’t anything special, but it’s not what the Blues are expecting, and most of them have been out for two plus minutes at this point, hemmed in by their third and fourth lines just shoveling the puck back in every time it nears the blue line.

The snow shower he aims at the goal, half an inch into the crease when he fully stops, isn’t anything to write home about, but it has it’s intended effect. Already short on patience, Binnington watches Schenn intercept and send the puck careening down the ice — a third icing in a row — and lashes out with the butt end of his stick, a glancing blow Tommy laughs at as the rest of the players start to circle up at the whistle. Tommy’s laugh pisses him off. The laugh pisses him off so much.

It’s so fucking easy to rattle him with he’s already two goals down. There’s some shoving, a few hockey hugs to keep things from escalating, but Panikkar has apparently cottoned on to Tommy’s plan, and he says something under his breath that has Sundquist in his face, and Binnington skating around behind the net in irritation while the zebras break up a few of the more reticent shoving matches.

Tommy wins about one face-off out of every fifty, but that’s not the reason he’s bending across from Schenn now at the circle.

“We could end this before he loses all his cool and breaks his stick on the pipes,” Tommy goads, and the linesman with the puck rolls his eyes towards Schenn. The other man shifts, readjusts the grip on his stick. “Or I could just keep taunting him for something that isn’t even his fault, this time.”

Schenn’s not a particularly bad dude, just a little gun shy about fighting when his coach has clearly told them all not to engage.

Tommy wants him to fucking engage.

Schenn waits for the puck to drop, and miraculously, it’s Tommy who scoops it up to a fresh-faced Buckley just in time for the man to wind up and sneak it through about four bodies on it’s way over Binnington’s shoulder.

It takes Tommy a few breathless seconds to remember to skate in and hug the rest of his team, and another five to realize that technically the assist is his. He stopped caring about stats so much the second year in a row that his time in the box exceeded his time on ice for more than five games out of the season, but it sits there, in the back of his mind, his name next to Buckley’s on the score sheet.

And then Schenn gets sloppy again, a check into the boards that has Panikkar limping back towards the bench while the crowd boos the refs, and Tommy doesn’t give Schenn any time to think about it when Nash sends him out in the immediate chaos.

He catches Kyrou mid-ice with his head down, a shoulder right to the chest that sends him reeling back, skates leaving the ground as he crashes backwards, and Schenn is on him in the next five seconds, gloves off and a resigned look in his eyes. Tommy grins and shifts his weight back, tossing his own gloves and reaching for the neck of Schenn’s sweater.

i know it's late so consider this a no pressure tag for Thursday Tidbits: @beefcakekinard @rcmclachlan @kirkaut @xofemeraldstars @princessfbi

[penisslayer69]

HELL YEAH GUYS I GOT THE FUCKING BAG RAHHHH

[murdochia]

[stormy-nyx]

Baby girl Tobirama

[drfrogphd]

Lethal Company Stickers are now in my shop! ✨ etsy.com/shop/drfrogphd

[inky-fwog]

Watching an 8hr video as soon as it comes out with no prep... Call that austism

[dumb-patrol]

[dacuslucy]

psychopomp & circumstance

[bil-daddy]

bildad im on my period (i just got it recently) and im scared of the blood :(

Hey, kid (human, presumably). Sorry you got initiated into this particular club, that nobody particularly wants to be in (I blame @the-almighty-god). Periods suck, even when you're not afraid of blood, but being scared of blood makes it worse.

I know it's easier said than done, but try not thinking of it as blood. Because technically, it's not just blood, it's more than that and it's your body doing what it needs to do to eliminate waste, same as numbers 1&2, which are gross, yeah, but also completely necessary and normal so everyone gets used to it. So you could just think of your period as going number 3.

Can I ask what's scaring you about the blood?

If it's seeing the blood, then maybe keep the lights off/low while you clean up and change pad/tampon/menstrual cup so you don't see the red, and it just looks like chocolate sauce in the dark. Or you could try black period panties, and just toss them into a plastic bag to be laundered when you're done, and maybe you won't see any blood at all.

If it's the smell, wear a mask and/or spray some perfume/febreeze/poo-pourri to cover up the scent.

If it's the texture of blood, wear medical gloves.

There are also birth controls that can stop you having periods, or make it so you have fewer a year. But that's something to discuss with your doctor and your parents (if you just got your period for the first time recently, I'm assuming you're still with your parents).

Or, if you feel up to it, you could try to habituate yourself to the blood and get used to it until you're not afraid anymore. This might happen on it's own, anyway, since your period'll come once a month.

In the meantime, have some midol and a hot waterbottle (platonic)

[sucha-coolcat]