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[adelareviews]

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[fashionavenuenews]

hOW TO HAVE SOFT HANDS

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[bendythumbsnz]

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[luveline]

I am humbly requesting a steve zombie au where the reader gets hypothermia hehehe😌

ty for ur humble request babe ♡ steve zombie au —steve freaks when you show symptoms of hypothermia. fem!reader 2k

"Steve, I think there's something wrong." 

Steve raises his head to show he's listening, keeping his gaze on the map. You say it through shivers, sleeves pulled down over your makeshift mittens. "What's wrong, honey?"

He's noticed you aren't yourself today, and he thinks a soft tone is the least he can give you. The stupid map in his hand is tattered, creased down the middle from folding and unfolding. He thought getting to Michigan would be easy, walk in one direction and keep on, but you both need to eat and rest and the weather is too cold to go any further. He needs to find a residential, tonight. 

"I feel off. I'm tired and I…" Your mumbling drifts off. 

Steve shoves the map under his arm, "What? Tell me." 

"Cold," you say, slurred, offering your hands. "I can't feel my fingers." 

You're wearing socks over your hands, the best gloves Steve could offer. He takes them with a severe frown, unhappy when the cold of your skin permeates through. You're ice. 

"And you don't feel well?" he asks, feeling up your arm to your neck. 

Steve digs under the layers of your shirts, hoodie, coat, feeling for your pulse. It feels alarmingly slow. He'd never guess from looking at you how slow your heart is pumping. 

Steve doesn't know everything, but he knows you're not supposed to be this cold for this long. You shiver as his fingers warm your neck, a pained hum coming from the very back of your throat as he pulls you in for a hug. 

"Okay," he says, rubbing your back even though he knows it's pointless. "Don't worry. We can't stay outside anymore, huh?" 

Steve aches to have to drag you down road after road, stretches of streets littered with little protection to offer. The roadside stores here are rocked by the elements, windows smashed and ceilings caving in. You're stumbling by the time a crop of houses appear in the distance, lethargic. Steve thought it was bad that you were cold, of course, but this is a more primal fear. You're not cold, you're freezing, actively freezing. 

"You're okay," he says again, his gentlest reassurance. "Sweetheart, just a few more minutes. See that house, the big brown shutters? That's where we're going. Can you do it?" 

"I can do it," you murmur. 

"I know, but it's my turn to ask stupid questions." 

Dead trees line the street, a planter of flowers by the door turned to crisps. Steve props you against a beam of wood holding up the angled porch roof and opens the screen door. He tries the handle on the interior. It's locked, a good sign. 

He's admittedly feeling the adrenaline of your imminent demise. Furious with the world and circumstances and himself for letting this happen, Steve kicks the door down with three big kicks. The bang rings like a shot through the entire neighbourhood, he imagines, but there's no time to worry about it. 

"You have to–" little gasp, Steve's head hurts, "have to sweep the house," you say as he pulls you inside. 

If there's something in here, he has to risk it. Out of options. 

He's as softhanded as he can manage dropping you into a seemingly intact couch. The room appears untouched from whoever left it, rather plush, it's a room Steve would've liked to live in. 

He grabs your face. You meet his eyes, startled. 

"I'm going upstairs for blankets. If something happens, you yell for me as loudly as you can. You don't have to say anything, just scream. Seriously." 

"Yeah," you say breathlessly. The last street of walking and the few steps has exhausted you. 

"Don't sleep," he says severely. 

"No, I won't." 

Steve dumps his bag on the floor. He backtracks to the porch to grab yours and wedges the splintered door closed using your bag as a temporary stopper. 

You must be hypothermic, cold for days, too cold to sleep last night, and it's all Steve's fault. We can do it, he'd said, just another push. He hoped for better standing further out of Indiana. None of it will matter if you get sick. 

He spins to walk up the stairs, falls weak and rushes back into the living room to check on you. 

"Everything's okay," he says, taking your face again into his hands and kissing your forehead. It's purely selfish. 

You touch his elbow. "I know." 

Steve takes off his jacket and puts it over your lap. The house is vaguely warmer than outdoors but it's far from enough to make a difference to you. Heart in his throat, he bounds up the stairs and onto the landing, an L-shape with one bedroom straight in front and four doors on left. The smell of gore coming from the closed master bedroom explains how it could be this clean; it wasn't uncommon at the start of the apocalypse for people to lock themselves in, kill themselves and their families. He has no interest in seeing it, nor unleashing the mould spores that come with decomposition. Whatever blankets were in there are worthless now. 

He takes a left and opens the door with a slam. A teenage bedroom not unlike his own back home, a simple comforter on the bed. He grabs it and tosses it on the landing, dipping into the second room. Bathroom, nothing worth having. The third room is a utility room with a jackpot of folded sheets, towels, padded quilts, and a comforter rolled into a log. He throws everything onto the floor and forgets the fourth door, arms fit to burst with fabric as he descends back downstairs. 

"Steve?" you ask.

"Yep, yes. I'm here." He drops the blankets at your feet. "Are your clothes damp?" 

"I think… no." 

"I'd tell you to take off your jacket," he begins, shaking the biggest comforter out over you as he talks, "but I want as many layers as possible. Come here, sweetheart. Lift your back a little." He tucks you in like a pastry. "Good. Good, thank you, sweetheart." 

"You're being very nice," you mumble, your eyelashes twitching like you've dimes weighing down your eyelids. 

"I'm always nice." 

"No," you say, your head falling back into the couch cushions. It's a family couch made of soft fabrics, not the showy leather piece you'd expect in such a mammoth lodging. "You're okay, though." 

Steve piles blankets on top of you. The cold is eating at him too, his nose stiff, his hair standing on end as gooseflesh ripples over his arms. 

When you've been sufficiently sandwiched, he feels your face again. You're already warmer, his hand creeping down into your shirt to feel for your pulse. Ropey. 

"Sweetheart, I need you to try and perk up," he says, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. 

"Not feeling perky." 

"Ah, but you're always perky. You're my sun, 'cos I'm so awful," he says, panic lining his plea. "You are. I'm going to make you something hot to eat." 

"Hot air?" you ask, slinking further down into your hump of sheets. 

"I think we might be in luck." 

He speaks too soon, really. The cupboards are lackluster. The can of soup he'd been hoping to find doesn't materialise. But there's a small can of ravioli, enough salted fish to make any tom cat happy, and a jug of water beneath the sink. He looks at it and sighs in relief. You have two litres of rainwater in your bag, and that had been the rations. This is one less thing to worry about. 

Steve makes sure that there kitchen door and the patio doors in the lonely dining room are locked, taking a big cooking pot from the pantry (depressingly empty bar a bag of sugar spilled on its side and a sack of grain) and a saucepan from atop the stove. He checks the gass but he's never that lucky, resigning himself to a typical campfire when it doesn't work. 

"Steve, put it back on," you say as he comes back in, your eyes a little wider, slightly more alert. You've pulled your arms out from under the blankets, with his jacket in your hands. 

Steve has kissed you before. You haven't talked about it out loud —he'd like to think a lot has been said in hand-holding, in spooning, and in you hand carding through his hair. He's eager to kiss you again, dumping his findings to hold your wrists. "Thank you," he says, kissing you clumsily, your lips cold. "Now put your arms in. I'll pull the blankets up." 

"Can you kiss me again?" 

"I'm trying to make you some hot water." 

"I'm warm enough already. Please?" 

Steve kisses you again. This time, he closes his eyes, puts his hand against your jaw. The sound of your lips pressing to his seems loud in the quiet. 

He pulls away with a final peck. "Are you feeling warmer?" 

You blow breath up your face. "Bet so." 

Steve rolls his eyes and turns away to make a campfire in the stolen pot. He'll boil some water in the saucepan for you to hold like a risky hot water bottle, and make some warmed ravioli. It'll be sweet. And tomorrow, if you're feeling better, he'll scavenge for supplies in the neighbourhood. Tonight, he'll burn the kitchen chairs. They don't need them anymore. 

"Settle in," he says, opening his backpack for the fire starters and matches. "We'll stay for a while, okay?" 

"Yeah, okay. Sorry for the fuss." 

"Are you kidding?" He can't look at you. He'll probably cry. "It's cold. You were cold, and we didn't– I knew your coat wasn't good enough but I just thought… well, it's my fault. It is. And I– I care about you so much," —he says it in a rush, true but unused to admitting his feelings to you or anyone— "I can't do this without you. I'll take better care of you, I swear. It won't happen again." 

"You know what would really warm me up?" you ask. 

Steve turns on his heel. "Let me make you something to eat." 

"Not hungry, just cold." 

Steve tamps down a giddy smile into one more respectable. "Let me feel your pulse," he relents, lifting the heavy layer of blankets to climb inside. Its roasting, the warmest he's felt in weeks, and your arm is alive as he slides into your side. 

He puts his hand against your neck, waiting for a steady bump. 

"Am I cured?" you ask. 

Steve sighs in relief. "You're cured." 

You wrap your arms around him. Life with you and in this situation is an endless rise and fall. Something shitty happens, you scrape by, and, as a victory, he gets to hug you in the end. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Steve asks. 

"You just said I was cured, Steve," you mumble, digging your face into his shoulder. "Just. Stay here. Keep feeling me up." 

"Not what I'm doing." 

[aspureasamelody]

"Huh?"

"AH!"

"Omi bot? Where are you going?!"

"Don't you ever run off like that again!"

"Oooohh, I cannot stay mad at you."

Robo-Omi wandered off on his own where he's not supposed to be just as fast as big Omi did in New York! And Omi tried and failed to be strict and scold him for it, but much like the real Omi, he's just too adorable for that

Omi's so warmhearted and softhanded when given his own little guy to be in charge of

[queenlua]

politics kvetching cw

nothing pisses me off more than when some concern troll is like "unfortunately, to win elections again, we must abandon The Transes...,,,"

particularly when it's done with the nasty undertone of "just among us cis people ;) i'll say what we're REALLY thinking ;) ;) :)"—no, fuck off, i'm not part of your fucking ingroup

and particularly when it's spoken with the bizarre implication that this is the sort of thing ppl only care about because, idk, they took too many gender studies classes or something? got too Academic or whatever?

like—bro, i have plenty of softhanded effete urban-coastal opinions, guilty as charged, but this is not one of them! this is not an abstraction for me! i feel like if you have even one (1) trans friend + an ounce of human feeling, and you hear them tell a story about whatever bureaucratic fuckery they had to fight against just to live their very normal life—i mean, maybe this is the part of me that was Raised In The Holler™, but my first reaction is generally: I Will Light The State Capitol On Fire If They Ever Fuck With You Again.

hell, i remember the first time a friend came out to me in high school (after she'd been rejected by her crush for Oh No What About Jesus reasons), i was so angry on her behalf that i was briefly but powerfully convinced that it was a cosmic injustice that everyone on the planet wasn't simply bi, because then all human society would thus be radically different and then she could just date the chick she liked. i didn't really know jack shit about Gender™ at the time & i had plenty of attitudes i'd cringe to look back on now, but i knew i loved my friend.

anyway yeah. the people that Mr. Jagoff In The Commentariat wants to jettison? they turn out to be my family & friends & beloved colleagues, and maybe that doesn't mean much to a guy like him, but it's The Fucking Point Of Being Alive for most of us, as it turns out...!

[foursaints]

WAIT I HAVE A CARROWS THOUGHT.

You know how you said the Carrows' greatest wish is money? what if the carrows were part of the sacred 28, but seen as one of the lesser family due to their lack of renown and wealth. they don't even have more than 2 properties so why would they be seen as important?

they join voldemort in order to create connections to better pureblood families - voldemort doesn't recognise their lineage and they are laughed at. they have a desperate thirst to prove themselves, and the twins cling onto eachother because their family is so low they can't attract anybody else.

the carrows are born in the dirt and they will die in the dirt - even after helping to commandeer hogwarts they are shoved into lowly teaching positions of the worst subjects, because they are simply not worth anything else.

@jewishregulus it is such a beautiful thing to see an anon being perfectly correct...

i agree wholeheartedly! the idea of the carrows being a dirt-poor and disgraced family line (but still of pure, sacred blood) is fundamental to how i see them. you're so correct in commenting on how this outsider status drives the twins closer together.

to add on: i believe alecto blames their mother for "dooming" the twins before they were even born. alecto is an angry & desperate girl raised in the lowest poverty, but brought up on fairytale stories of her noble bloodline and pureblood birthright. she was raised in a small fisherman's shack in hokkaido. all she has is a brother.

i want to see this vengeful outsider (born from dirt and squalor!) both fascinated and disgusted by pureblood england. alecto bites her tongue bloody the first time she is fitted for a silk gown. she is clawing for everything she believes she is owed, and no-one will ever see her this way. she has more grit than any softhanded pureblood heir or daughter: she disdains barty, regulus, pandora. she is dragging amycus along with her at any cost.

i picture the carrow twins sharing a room in marvolo manor, a habit from their bygone days sleeping in a threadbare cot together as children. they lay so close they share the same breath.

[thefrsers]

#SoftHands™

[ms-newvegas]

Getting high and a little heated about Kristan’s new comer softhand coworkers making more money than she does

[mysoftpart]

#softhands #sexybenz #moscparfume

[theskyexists]

I think possibly this website is a bit in a bubble on the AI topic... It was interesting to learn that a friend of mine is genuinely concerned about jobs becoming obsolete in IT but also production because of AI and that robots are now able to do very detailed, softhand work like pick tomatoes. That last thing really is a huge limitation for automation in greenhouses over here. I do think that... There is going to be a bit of a crunch - that is to say, generating code does weed out the banging out basic shit people. Except it still needs to be read and adjusted and tested extensively. So they're never getting rid of most coding specialists. So I think he's also in a bit of a bubble (he called it the reinvention of the wheel...) My prediction is that the investment bubble is going to partly collapse because most startups and companies can't sell AI or sell useful AI. But I do think some big tech companies offers' are going to replace (very) low-level graphic work, writing work and coding. And yes, make it available to more people who otherwise would never have paid for it. It'll make live transcription and translation even more feasible. I think robotic applications are going to be developed, which might replace people in factories and agriculture. Only if they manage to continue to offer low prices however. (And then predatorily lock in the market). If the development of detailed factory robotics continues then we will see a further accumulation of the means of production into fewer hands - and that would be bad. Jobs in factories and warehouses would be eliminated except technical supervision, and that increased efficiency is not going to create wealth that'll pass to most of the population. I'm not sure if the field is developed enough however... And investors are getting impatient. Maybe softhand applications like picking fruit and vegetables, but sewing remains unlikely in my opinion. I think neural network 'AI' will continue to be developed by those who have capital to burn, but its unpredictability and inconsistency is a hurdle. And of course it won't do shit if the climate crisis wipes out our civilisation.

[sartanhair]

[docholligay]

Ep 5: Jackie

Hello! This is about up to Episode 5 of Yellowjackets, and ONLY episode 5 of Yellowjackets. I have not seen beyond the fifth episode, at all, and know NOTHING about this show. Please do not spoil it for me.  Things that are spoilery in nature, for me, include: saying things like  “Just wait!!” confirming or denying anything I put forward, outside information about the cast interviews or creator statements, leading questions like “Do you think “blank moment” means anything?” etc. Remember  that Y’ALL HAVE SEEN THE SHOW AND I HAVE NOT. This informs the way you  talk about things relating to the show. Just be really careful is all  I’m asking. Also: If there is LITERALLY any stance I  could take on this show or character that would make you upset, please  just fucking block the tag

If you WOULD like to discuss the show and my takes on it, the Discord is right here! I don’t go there, so it’s a great place to get every emotion out.

Please thank @sailorsunspot and @moonlight-frittata for backing this odd way of doing a liveblog, and remember my tip jar is always open

I don’t think we’re supposed to love Jackie in this episode, and boy does that work for me. I am who I am, and I come bundled in with my own assumptions, values, adn experiences, and with all of that as knowledge, I say: Jackie is fucking lazy, and I would be losing my absolute shit if I had to deal with her. 

I live a more communal life than many, and while many people have a very romanticized view of what that means, as a practical matter it means that everyone pulls their weight. Sometimes that involves doing jobs that are not so much fun or are difficult or whatever, but in all cases it means that you gotta work. Jewlet helps set the table, for God’s sake. We all have a piece. 

And I’m not even in a situation where SURVIVAL ITSELF is at issue. We see that all the rest of the team is hard at work doing the things that are necessary for them to survive, and they are getting tired of Jackie’s bullshit, and for good reason. Jackie was a leader for a specific time and place, and that specific time and place was within the social norms and softhanded lifestyle of New Jersey. She has never had to measure out the things she is capable of doing, never had to do something physical and not fun. There’s a lot oif fair criticism of all the hard work you have to do as a kid in the country, but I tell you what, mucking out a stall at a young age, learning how to chop wood,. All of that teaches you that yes in fact you are capable of doing work. She’s even bad at GETTING WATER OUT OF A LAKE. ANd yes, water’s very heavy, and yes they should look for a large branchthey could carved to hold it over your shoulder, but at the very least, Jackie could walk out a little bit into the lake to lessen the chance of sediment. 

In Jersey, she was smart, but here she has no goddamn sense, and the rest of the team is having a crisis of faith with her. Jackie is no longer any kind of a leader. 

Shauna is showing so much love in trying to help her find something that she’s capable of doing, of trying to make her a part of the team when she is very obviously separating herself from the work of staying alive. Shauna has seen the way the girls are looking at her, and she knows Jackie may become a sacrifice, either figurative, or, maybe even at this point, literal, if she doesn’t prove that she has use and value. She could end up as broken from the team as Allie, for the crime of her own weakness. 

On the one hand, Jackie knows that she’s terrible at this, and that she doesn’t like it and that she’s not cut out for it, but on the other hand, she is absolutely incorrect to characterize everyone else as “enjoying this boring back to the land bullshit” liking something is totally fucking irrelevant at this point. It’s what you need to do in order to survive. THe other girls understand that. But Jcakie can’t get with the program. 

Shauna tells her she’s so great at cheering people up and making people feel like things are going to be okay just by showing up, but is she actually good at those things? I think if she were actually great for morale, the girls wouldn’t resent her for being so lazy in the physical department, because frankly if she were providing a necessary service like that, they wouldn’t be thinking it at all. What does she do when Shauna is pulling for something she’s better at? Makes her feel small and useless. Even though Shauna is putting in far more work than she has since day one. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this” Think very carefully about your other option, Jackie. 

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[raccoongodapollo]

i wrote a thing for history

"To continue, the aforementioned lack of preparedness showed itself in 3 forms - the amount of gentlemen brought over to Virginia as to skilled workers, the blaring lack of women compared to said clique of softhanded men, and the unfortunate incident regarding a ship full of traded grain abandoning the Jamestown colonists to starve during winter. Although one may be tempted to think that the previous sentence references the 1600s Virginia Company possibly sending a gaggle of flamboyantly homosexual individuals to starve through the harsh American winter, this is not the case, as in this context a Gentleman refers to a noble who does not work with his hands instead of referring to his sexuality; nevertheless, the lack of women could still be suspicious without the consideration of the blatant sexism of this time period." i fucking LOOOOOVE having author powers. i'm going to get points taken off for the lack of professionalism. i don't care because isn't that the embodiment of be-gay-do-crime, even on just a smaller rebellious scale? write more subtly gay things into your stuff and then call out the reader if they're thinking gay because it's funny to watch people get embarrassed or defensive.