#wildly overcorrecting

[5ellaal5]

You know what? I totally missed that this came off as supporting anti trans stuff. Yuck. And upon rereading I realize I said misogyny, queer hatred and forgot the obvious trans hatred that is the point. 🙇🏻‍♀️

I read that headline and was like

Hell yeah. Get that abusive ass hat away from children. Look what other horrific behavior [edited for clarity] not respecting people’s identity is a harbinger of!?

Very enormous oops.

Stupid media and their stupid headlines.

Edited. Let me try this again.

You know what’s funny about these fearmongering headlines?

If anyone reads even a little more, instead of furthering the idea that respecting identity is something Gone Too Far (cancel culture aaaarrrgg), instead they link how the behavior of refusing to respect someone’s identity is linked with overall disrespect of others in many realms, and possibly (definitely, here) behavior and beliefs that are a danger to others. Behaviors that act against society.

The headline says, look how extreme the response is. The article says, look how extreme the disrespect is.

The editor who crafted that headline undermined their own vendetta by linking it to a person with documentable terrible behavior.

But of course, this Tumblr screenshot shows the first paragraphs that immediately undermine the headline, but —as many have observed— most people only read the headlines.

Anyway. Stupid headlines.

I apologize if I contributed to anyone felt even the slightest bit more unsafe on Tumblr about being authentically themselves. Truly, I apologize.

Mad this. It literally says he got jailed for ignoring a court order telling him to stay away from the school - yet the headline says it's for not calling a kid they. He broke the court order cos he was being a self righteous stalkery Christian weirdo. I know the sort, they did the same to us at school cos we were scruffy poor unfortunates / desperate people that apparently needed god to save us. Loads of Christians are like this, proper weirdos.

[boyfeminism]

sid wright is fascinating to me. that you can worship one god so totally, so effectively, and still in one moment break and become the herald of a god that is essentially the opposite

[brbabcseu]

The Alaska PTA Squad (aka- the parents of all of AJ's friends and by extension Jesse's few friends) did NOT look on Meriwa kindly when she came into the picture. Not everyone agreed with Jesse's more lax parenting style but they knew their kids were safe and secure with him during stay-overs; he was quiet at the gatherings, especially at the beginning, but they wanted this scruffy dog to be included in the circle regardless! They grew fond of him and his sometimes awkward, often hard-to-read personality. He was reliable and most importantly a kind and loving parent. They had a vague idea of how tough it was for Jesse to be more or less a single dad-- sure, Delilah was there, she would always be an honorary co-parent, but despite the fact that Jesse never talked about it, they knew there was some unsavory backstory with the absentee mom. He never talked about it in detail but they squeezed the sparknotes version of it out of him. So yeah, naturally they're protective of him, and AJ too because ofc they also care about that kid, and so when Meriwa (from their perspective) decides to finally "saunter in" years later, they are very cold and unwelcoming to her. Even Delilah at first is pretty hesitant, but she trusts Jesse's judgment and decisions and makes an effort with her.

Externally Meriwa is a brush-it-off type of person and she kind of shrugs and is like, "I wouldn't want to be friends with these people anyway if this is how they're gonna treat me," but it really bothers her. And it obviously makes her start to feel guilty in a way she hadn't before. So many sideways glances, cold shoulders, passive aggressive remarks. They've done this a lot to Sam's mom Eliza, too. Huge double standard bc Jesse's a recovering addict as well!! Jesse eventually has to put his foot down about it and Meriwa gets a little pissed at that bc she doesn't want anyone to think that this whole situation makes her upset and she doesn't need Jesse "speaking for her". It's a whole thing lol. All the while Mer bitches about the other parents to Eliza over a cigarette and she just deadpans, "Welcome to the club." At some point AJ jokes that they have more way more high school drama amongst themselves than the actual high schoolers do and he's not wrong !

[hag-lad]

Don’t ever show children’s media to children, honestly. Just fkn show them Star Trek, Twilight Zone, Fantasia, Lord of the Rings, Labyrinth, The Princess Bride, and anything else aimed at broad audiences (not primarily children) that engages their imaginations and encourages active play. They’ll be fine. Better, even!

[lesbianshepard]

while frustrating, the funniest response to historical erasure of same sex couples is people wildly overcorrecting and assuming any interaction between two men in history was a secret homosexual relationship covered up by Big Historian. i saw someone on r/sapphoandherfriend sincerely ask if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were lovers.

[syndrossi]

#YES i saved thoren in this#also daemon and the cat🖤#he went back and took that cat that the hatchlings met for a lil while#you guys know what that means! IT’S TIME TO NAME! THAT! CAT’

I like to think that Rhaegar, being clever, names the cat Sȳndorys, so that the family has Shadow (the dragon) and Shadow (the cat).

Ser Thoren: You have children!? That's amazing!

[ Jon and Rhaegar run past. ]

Ser Thoren: See? They’re so cute.

[ Baela and Rhaena run past. ]

Ser Thoren: Oh. There's more-

[ All of them run past. ]

Ser Thoren: Many. Oh my. You are definitely not related to that one, or that one, or that one. What's happening? How many children do you have?

Daemon: Nine. Plus one on the way, dragons, and this really cool table that lights up. We also have a cat.

[funfactbuck]

i’m a big fan of buddie secret relationship, but particularly with the caveat that they don’t actually even need to try hiding this development bc everyone is so used to them acting like freaks about each other that they don’t recognize that there’s been a change. which is fortunate for buck and eddie at first because they actually suck at trying to keep this under wraps - buck starts overthinking all of their casual touches and wildly overcorrects to avoid any contact. eddie’s blushing like a fool at every wink and innuendo buck throws at him (when he’s not throwing eddie the lube.)

but once it becomes apparent that no one is actually paying any attention to them, buck is extremely put out by this. because what do you mean his entire world has shifted and he’s snagged the hottest guy in los angeles and no one’s bothering to notice?? so he changes course and tries to be as obvious as possible - drapes himself all over eddie at every opportunity, starts waxing poetic about how eddie’s eyes look when the sun hits them, starts complaining about this weird redness on his upper lip and ‘what do you think it could be eddie?’

(hen and chim actually picked up on that mustache burn, as well as some very obvious marks on eddie’s neck, from the very first day those two walked into the firehouse post-coupling. they also recognized buck and eddie trying to keep things quiet and opted to let them have this time for themselves to enjoy the early days of what everyone knew was inevitable. while also getting more than a little bit of enjoyment out of seeing buck spiral over their indifference)

eventually bobby, tired of the nonsense, just tosses some hr papers at buck and walks away. eddie’s off somewhere rolling his eyes and thinking about when he can next put his ring pop skills to work

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 2

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When Colt Seavers' sister, Parker, finds the professional asshole in a vulnerable moment, she decides to sideline the attitude to help. Is an asshole still an asshole if no one is around?

read the story here: prev / next

The movie was finished, and, apparently, a whole lot of people were happy and drunk over that little fact. The wrap party was currently being hosted by Gail—producer extraordinaire—and it was quite literally the nicest house that Parker had ever seen in person. White leather couches that cost more than her car dotted the living room floor, decorated with Williams Sonoma pillows, and a Versace rug that spelled the brand name out in big, bold letters. Art hung on every available space, while odd statues were placed at random throughout the living room. There was even a pair of perfectly groomed Afghan Hounds doing tricks near the conversation pit.

The opulence of it all was counteracted by half-drunken executives milling around the pool, very drunk equipment techies playing a game involving dice, a quarter, and a banana in the kitchen, and one particular Colt Seavers miserably attempting a handstand on the back patio.

"It's harder than it looks, you know," he told the crowd of onlookers as he teetered left and right. Venti swatted his shoe when it knocked into the back of her head, while Jody tried to act impressed with some half-hearted clapping. "I did this once—two hours. Could barely talk afterwards."

"Two hours?" she echoed; half doubt, half amusement. "That sounds almost impossible."

"Heh, well, nothing is impossible if you believe hard enough. You're the only one who gets to decide what you will be remembered for."

"Is that written on a poster somewhere?"

"Uh, not exactly—"

Colt's peacocking was cut short when an unfortunately timed sneezed caused the stuntman to lose his balance. He swung his legs wildly in an overcorrection that ended up knocking a full glass of Chardonnay right onto Parker's lap.

She responded in true sisterly fashion: by promptly shoving him as hard as she could on the hip with the toe of her shoe. And though his literal job was to know how to take a fall, the entire patio got to watch as he went ass over face into a nearby potted plant.

Alcohol, a nice sunny evening, good music, and better food made the fiasco a spectacle, and everyone keeled forward at the waist in laughter. Jody, bless her, did her best to muffle her giggles behind her hat while Colt awkwardly floundered on the ground. Parker didn't have such restrictions.

"It was a Taylor Swift quote, actually," she told the camerawoman. It wasn't as funny when she noticed the damage to her pants, and with a sigh she attempted to blot the wet spot with Venti's crumpled napkin. "These are brand new jeans, you ass."

Colt popped back onto his feet with a flushed face. A pair of executives raised their eyebrows at him curiously, and in response he offered his typical awkward smile and wave combo. "What did I tell you about being cool?" he hissed at his sister.

"You're the one attempting cheap Cirque-de-Solei acts on Gail's back deck," she tutted.

"You're not even supposed to be here," he whined while plopping himself down beside Jody. She pretended to sympathize by offering a pat on the back. "How are you even here? You didn't even work on the movie!"

Parker shrugged. "Dan brought me as his plus-one."

"His—? I didn't even get a plus-one!"

"Maybe because you do stupid stuff like a handstand in the middle of a crowded party," she sniped. Colt didn't rise to the bait, however, and instead slumped onto Jody's lap with a long-suffering sigh.

"S'not fair," he muttered into her leg, words half smothered by the denim. "This is my first big party, and you just happen to be invited as well. Oh, the misery."

Parker blew a raspberry.

Colt batted his eyes at Jody and she conceded with an easygoing smile. "I didn't get a plus-one either, babe. But you know what? If I did, I would haven't wanted to bring anyone but you," she cooed while tapping him on the nose.

And—god, it actually worked.

Colt's entire face broke out into a starry-eyed smile.

Parker, still wet and now grossed out, decided that was as fine a time as any to excuse herself. "Well that's officially disgusting. I'm going to try to find a hair dryer and see if I can't dry this before it stains or I throw up."

"There's a loo by the kitchen," Jody pointed.

Colt popped up out of her lap, his tantrum already forgotten about. "Oh, hey! Will you get me another beer? Something cold, domestic maybe. A bud light if they have it. If not, I'm cool with whatever is on tap."

She blinked at her brother. Once, twice, three times.

"Yeah," she shook her head at him. "And I'm the embarrassing one."

"What'd I say?"

Both women promptly ignored that as she asked if Jody wanted something, but the camerawoman was still working on her very much un-spilled glass of wine and therefore didn't need anything. Venti made a general request for some snacks, which Dan quickly seconded.

Parker gave them a thumbs-up before heading inside. The mansion was no less shocking the second time she traipsed through it, but it was certainly more daunting to brave without her date, brother, or Jody and with a giant wine stain near her crotch.

No one seemed to notice her discomfort, however. There were plenty other things to occupy their attention. Between the caterers walking around with trays of fancy finger foods and freshly made mojitos there wasn't any reason to take note of the unfamiliar face in the crowd. She wound her way past whatever game was happening on the kitchen island towards where Jody had said the bathroom was. Unfortunately, the free food and alcohol did seem to have a penance; the line was seven women long.

"Wine?" a waiter offered on a silver tray.

"No thanks, I'm still wearing my last glass off," she joked with a dry smile. The kid followed her line of sight to the large wet spot on her pants and went bright pink.

Still, it couldn't have been the worst thing she had seen before, and with a modicum of professionalism that impressed Parker, she pulled forward a second tray with a variety of fun colored drinks. The one closest smelled of coconut and had a cute umbrella sticking out of it.

"Piña colada?" she asked.

"...yup."

Parker grabbed a glass and didn't hesitate to take a large gulp. And—damn.

Thank you Gail Meyer.

The waitress then leaned closer, glancing pointedly at the bathroom and then Parker's jeans, before saying, "there's two more bathrooms upstairs that are open for guests."

Channeling Jody, Parker grinned. "Brills," she chirped.

She felt a little bad that she didn't have any money to tip the kid, but before she could try to work something out, the redhead was already drifting off through the crowd to offer the other guests her variety of drinks.

"Brills indeed," she said again, even more pleased.

Following suit, she wound through the crowds of people until she reached a large staircase. From there, the crowds seemed to thin out considerably.

A few people sat in conversation at the foyer at the top; a beautiful blonde woman that was the lead actress in the film was chatting with some friends. She was utterly gorgeous, with pearly skin and silken hair, and without even looking where she was going Parker covered her pants with her hand and darted to the hallway on her right.

The first door revealed a linen room with a washer/dryer set that she half considered smuggling out when she left later that night. The second a yoga studio. The third was locked.

The fourth door was tucked all the way on the end of the hallway, hidden between a glass statue of a pelican and a snake plant that was taller than her. It wasn't locked—in fact, whoever had previously been inside had left the door ajar.

Parker stuck her head inside, and was ecstatic to realize it was a bathroom.

A nice one, she thought while stepping inside.

There was a marble counter with a large white sink, a mirror with LED lights, a beautiful tile floor, a clawfoot tub next to a large window that overlooked the back yard, edited photos of Gail on every wall, plants hanging from the ceiling, candles propped across floating shelves, a stunning white rug of questionable descent, and—

Tom Ryder. Hunched over a toilet. Puking.

"Shit."

The sound of her voice echoed in the nearly silent bathroom. Tom jerked upwards, all red flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, and though it took him a moment to realize just who had walked in on him, he didn't manage so much as a glare before he was retching into the toilet bowl.

"Uh, fuck, um—do you—I can totally come back. Sorry. Sorry!" she said, panicked, backtracking towards the door before she not so smoothly slipped on said rug. Parker hit the ground with a squeak, and her piña colada only added to the wet spot on her pants. "Fuck!"

The hurling stopped for a moment as he took in a large, calming breath. And the sudden awkwardness of it all had her freezing in place on the ground, staring.

Always fucking staring when it came to Tom Ryder. Never able to look away.

The white button down he had arrived wearing was discarded haphazardly near the rug. His ripped jeans were bunched on the calves, shoes nowhere to be found, while sweat-dampened tufts of hair were plastered to his forehead.

He looked... well, awful.

Which was a far cry from the first time she had ever seen him on the set, and the three or four times after that in which the pair had equally unfortunate run-ins with one another. Every single one had been filled with witty barbs and well-placed insults. Mostly on her part. Tom seemed to prefer the approach of generally being an asshole in everything he said, did, and thought. It came natural to him, really, and just like their introduction it always ended with Colt playing referee to keep the two from drawing blood.

Well. Colt was nowhere to be seen, and Tom was already down.

Suffice to say Parker certainly had the upper hand if they were going to fight.

But—well, fuck. The dude was lying on the bathroom floor at his producer's house during a party that was practically being thrown in his honor.

Alone. Sick. And looking a little too close to death for comfort.

"Ah, fuck," Parker seconded under her breath. She set aside the cup to shake ice cubes and an orange slice off her shirt. Of course the towels were all white. Wincing, she started to pat dry her, well, everything with a side-eye in his direction. "Are you... okay?"

He scowled. Sorta. It was hard to tell when his face was half hidden in a porcelain bowl. "What the fuck do you think?"

"I don't know. That's kind of the purpose of asking."

"Fine."

"You sure don't look fine."

He glanced at her, eyes darting over the wet spot on her pants to the newly wet spot on her shirt. Somehow, he wasn't too sick to roll his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the cold porcelain. "You're supposed to drink it, not wear it."

"Says the guys vomiting his drinks right back—"

The mention of the word vomit had his face turning a shade of green, and not a moment later Tom pitched forward to throw up once more.

Parker winced. She didn't have a strong stomach, and the sound alone was already threatening her own health. "...er, sorry."

"Can you go bother someone else?"

The vomiting subsided. Parker looked at her pretty pineapple glass with a despondent sigh before she filled it up with cold tap water. He didn't accept it when she offered it, however, and with a defeated sigh she set it onto the sink counter.

"I'm trying to be nice, asshole."

"Hm. Since when are you nice?"

"Well I'm pretty sure if you choke on your own vomit and die, I'll be liable as the last person to see you alive. So," she fluttered her hands at him, unsure of what to do or where to touch, and eventually Parker settled for planting her hands firmly on her hips. "Just—chill out for a moment, okay. I'm going to call Colt and have him find Gail."

"No, no, don't—don't tell Gail."

"Are you kidding? I think you might actually die, dude."

"Just don't," he snapped in a tone that left little room for argument. Of course, it was plenty easy for her sidestep the argument considering he was down for the count on the bathroom floor, but after a moment of a silent stare down, his shoulders deflated with a sigh. "I... she's going to flip. Alright? I'm fine."

"Fine?"

Tom attempted a shrug. "Bad reaction to shrimp."

Parker heard alarm bells ringing. When she spotted a nickel sized baggie on the counter those bells turned into sirens. She pinched it between two fingers while arching a brow at him pointedly. "I know giant shrimp are a thing, but I didn't know microscopic shrimp had started to gain traction."

His lack of a retort was more concerning than the vomiting.

"I think I should get you some help."

"It's not—" he started before stopping when he took too deep a breath. Something darkened in his features; mouth flattening, downcast eyes, furrowed brows. Was that guilt she saw? Or shame? "Just... relax. I took some Xanax and it... well, you know, fucked with the alcohol."

Parker couldn't withhold a snort. "Xanax? Seriously. Are you secretly an unhappy soccer mom or something?"

Whatever look had been curling his eyebrows vanished in seconds, replaced full force by a glare. "Fuck off, alright. I take them sometimes for anxiety."

"What in the hell do you have to be anxious about?" she asked.

There was a long pause. Music thrummed from outside, laughter, chatter, and shouting echoing happily in the summer evening air. The bathroom itself was cold.

Even colder when he said, "you know you can be a real asshole sometimes too."

And—yeah.

That single sentence fucked with Parker. Because upon closer introspection she realized that, shit, he was right. The guy was on the ground, throwing up, in a vulnerable state surrounded by some very powerful people that could easily ruin his career if they found him and here she was kicking him when he was down. Literally.

Pot, meet kettle. You two have a lot more in common than you think.

Disgruntled at being called out—by Tom fucking Ryder of all people—it was Parker's turn to flush red in shame. She tucked the pill baggie into the pocket of her jeans so someone else wouldn't stumble upon it and his piss poor excuse, before sticking her head out into the hallway. Whatever was going on in the landing seemed to be keeping everyone occupied, and the noise wafting from downstairs made it clear that the party would continue with or without her.

Satisfied, she firmly pulled the door shut. Paused. Then locked it for good measure.

The bathroom was surprisingly empty despite all of the decorations. Thanks Kim, now even Gail is part of the minimalist movement. The mirror cabinet was completely empty over then some Q-tips and an extra bar of soap, and there was no space under the sink for storage. Tutting, Parker pulled the hand towel free and stuck it under the tap.

Then, she lowered herself to his level. Physically.

Tom seemed surprised that she hadn't left. Even more so when Parker offered the cup for a second time.

"What?" he asked, a bit dumbly. Fair though, given the circumstances.

"You should drink some water."

"Can't you just piss off?"

She sighed through her nose and gently shoved the cup into his hand. "Drink some fucking water, Tom."

They stared at each other for a long moment before he accepted the cup. He shifted so that his back was now pressed into the shower so he could drink without choking. Parker took advantage to close the toilet lid, flush it, turn on the overhead fan, and crack open a nearby window.

Immediately, it felt easier to breathe.

Tom took two, small sips before setting aside the cup. Patronizing, even when he wasn't trying to be.

"Do you want me to go find one of your friends?" she asked; almost entirely because she couldn't stand not talking.

He shot her a deadpan look. "No."

"O-kay. How about some food?"

He grimaced.

"Right," she clicked her tongue. "Some soda? Ginger-ale might help with the nausea. I don't think you should take any ibuprofen right now or else I would offer some."

"What are you doing?"

"What?"

He gestured vaguely to her, to the room they were in, and then to himself. She could tell by the way that his face paled even that small use of energy was taxing, and Parker shoved the glass of water back into his palm.

"I'm just trying to help."

He harrumphed, but chanced another sip of water. "Why?"

"Because you were... right," she muttered through clenched teeth. He blinked at her through hazy eyes, and she tried not to notice the sweat dripping down his bare chest. "I was, well... being an asshole. And you need help. So."

He still said nothing. Parker tried not to feel super awkward.

After a moment of indecisive staring Tom took another sip of water before letting his head hit the wall with a soft thud. "Is this some sort of trick?"

"How on Earth is me hanging out in a bathroom with you a trick?" she scoffed.

"I don't know," he shrugged, sipped the water, and took a long, hard swallow that made her wonder if he was biting back another round of bile. Subtly, Parker propped the toilet lid open again. "Blackmail, or whatever."

What a fucking asshole, she thought.

"Just because everyone else is dying to get a picture of Tom Ryder doesn't mean that I am," she said. Her attitude did little to convince him of her good intentions if the wary look he shot her was anything to go by. Rolling her eyes, she plucked her phone from her back pocket, waved it dramatically around in the air, before turning it off. When the screen was good and black she half-heartedly tossed it aside. "Happy?"

He grumbled.

Parker huffed. Don't be an asshole, she had to remind herself while clambering to her feet. The hand towel was properly wet and cold by now. She switched off the tap and took a moment to wring out as much water as she could. Then she promptly slapped the wet towel onto his forehead with a thwap.

"What is—?"

"Just shut up and leave it be, okay? The cold water should help with the flush. Once your skin starts returning to a normal temperature, the nausea should be more manageable. I don't know anything about downers, but... it's the best I can do without getting help or using my phone," she said; adding a pointed glared at the mention of her discarded device.

He grumbled a bit louder, but didn't remove the towel. In fact, she watched his eyes flutter contentedly as he smoothed it out along his hairline. "Are you a doctor now or something?"

"On the side. I'm at A-list parties all the time. You're hardly the first celebrity I've found on a bathroom floor with an empty pill baggie."

"...seriously?"

"No. Not seriously, Tom. That was a joke."

He blinked at her. "Oh," he said awkwardly. Then, added, "wasn't that funny."

It was her turn to bang her head onto the cabinet behind her. "Well, sorry for trying to lighten the mood. I'm still a little worried I'm going to get sued or something for this."

"For spilling on Gail's mink rug?"

"That's mink?!" she shrieked, jerking around to give the rug a better glance over. No wonder it was fabulously soft. "Who the fuck keeps a mink rug in the bathroom? Shit! Do you think she'll charge me to clean it? I can barely afford eggs!"

There was a noise half between a grumble and cough, and when she glanced towards Tom he was sporting a crooked smile under the towel. "That was a joke."

"O—oh," she said. Parker glanced at the rug once more. "Well, it wasn't that funny."

"You don't know how to clean mink fur?"

With the panic subsiding from her suddenly too-tight chest, Parker returned to her seat on the ground, and glared. "I guess I skipped over that chapter in my cleaning manual."

"Is that where you learned the thing about wet rags?" he asked, subtly fixing said wet rag with a sigh. His shoulders relaxed as he settled against the shower glass, and in turn Parker tried to relax as well.

"No. I read that in an old textbook once. A physiology manual from, like, the 1930s. So, I actually have no idea if it's outdated information or not. Guess we'll find out, huh?"

"Why the hell are you reading a physics manual?"

"Physiology."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. Like... a lot," she deadpanned. He responded with a blank, empty, no lights-on-behind-the-curtains look. Parker pinched the bridge of her nose before decidedly moving on. "I read a lot."

"Don't you work?"

"Says the guy who reads bad scripts for a living," she retorted. His cheeks had been slowly returning to their normal color, but quickly blushed an irritable red as he scowled at her.

"My movie scripts are not bad," he shot back with just as much heat. "They're million dollar enterprises, that make quite a lot of people rich and famous. Like people here, at this party. What have you ever done?"

"Not have my face plastered on a billboard."

"Exactly."

"Yeah, and thank god for that."

"There's not a chance in hell you would ever."

"Good!"

It took them both a moment to realize that they weren't actually agreeing on anything. Parker thought having her face plastered on a billboard was a horrific nightmare that she would not be able to endure, while Tom clearly took pride in his advertisements spread all over the Hollywood acres. Somehow, though, in their attempt to insult the other, they had missed the mark entirely.

The pair shared mutual glares.

Stopped short when he turned green in the face, pitched forward, and vomited a third and final time.

"Oh, shit," she said, hands waving around and not knowing what to do other than to snatch the wet washcloth from where it had fallen into his lap. Awkwardly, Parker patted him on the back. Once, twice. "Um... better out than in, right?"

"Did you read that in a book too?" his voice echoed hoarsely from the toilet bowl.

And, well, it was such a ridiculous question to be asked while he was hurling into a toilet worth more than her car, that Parker didn't have a response other than to huff.

Which turned into a giggle. Then an actual laugh.

In an even more surprising turn of events, Tom laughed too. "S'not funny."

"No, no, actually," she corrected him to gently lay the cold towel across the back of his neck. "I think that's the funniest thing you've ever said, Ryder."

Some time passed as he focused on taking deep breaths before the nausea passed for good. As he returned to his former position against the wall, hand towel now dripping a trail down his chest, Parker flushed the toilet a second time, and folded her legs into a pretzel so she could lean an elbow on her knee. "I read a lot for work. Out of boredom, mostly," she admitted.

"Bad scripts?" he echoed her earlier sentiments.

"Bad biographies, mostly," she corrected him. He gave her an odd look, to which she shrugged. "I work at a bookstore. Er—own—a bookstore, I mean. I just read whatever I happen to find that day."

Parker wondered if Tom Ryder had ever stepped foot in a bookstore before or if he got too distracted by his reflection in the window outside.

"I don't think I've ever been to a bookstore," he said, almost as if he could hear her. The reason why remained inconclusive. "But I thought the idea was to sell books, not read them."

"Generally, yeah," she conceded with a sigh. It wasn't so funny now and she frowned at the thought of her dilapidated store with shoddy lighting and a half-functional air conditioner. "It's not exactly... well, successful. Not like your movies, anyway. I can't throw giant wrap parties for my employees because, well, I don't have any. I don't get a lot of customers so I read."

"Movies are better than books," he said.

He must have caught the irritated curl of her mouth because he made an amendment to his statement before she could argue.

"I mean," he added in the raw sort of voice one got from throwing up five times in an hour, "they make more money. It's all anyone cares about in LA."

"Yeah, well, maybe I should get a billboard."

Tom snorted. "You wish."

Parker wanted to glare, but... it was a little on the nose. The idea of shelling out money to plaster her face—or even her bookstore's name—on highway billboards went against what she believed in. She liked the idea of having a small, hole in the wall shop where lonely wanderers like herself could take solace in. That's what the shop had been in the decades before she bought it. Then again, her old boss had been all too eager to hand it off to her, and how bill days she suspected he knew that it was a dying market without a hope or a dream.

Only—LA was supposably the land of dreams... right?

"You ever read sci-fi?" he asked.

Thrown by the question, Parker had to shake the static out of her brain before it fully comprehended. "Uh, sure. Loads. There's tons of source material from the 70's and 80's that is pretty fun. They're all considered kind of hokey nowadays though so they don't sell that well."

Tom shifted the towel back to his forehead with a thoughtful tut.

He didn't seem so sickly pale anymore, and his breathing had evened out. Even his chest had dried up a bit.

How didn't he die of lack of service if he was never wearing a shirt when she saw him?

"There's this role that I want to go for, a big sci-fi thing. Gail said that I'm not right for it, though."

"Not right for it?" she echoed, scrunching her nose. "Seriously?"

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "Too pretty, she said. Which—duh—that's a given," he added. Parker responded with an over the top eyeroll, but she refrained from faking a gag. She was a little too worried that they weren't out of the woods yet, and that the sound (fake or not) would provoke Tom to start hurling again. "But it's a smart role. Intense. A great script. I think I'd be perfect for it."

"Can't you audition anyway?"

"I don't know, I—she—Gail tends to know what roles I'm good for, you know. She doesn't think I can pull off a smart, sci-fi type."

Parker snorted. "Why not? All Chris Pine has going for him is blonde hair and blue eyes and he got three movies out of Star Trek. Pretty sure you got that covered. You know, box dye notwithstanding."

Tom shot her a cross look. "I would never use box dye on my hair."

"Even better," she waved a hand at him flippantly. "Audition then."

Something weird happened then. Something so out of character and bizarre that by the next day Parker would convince herself it hadn't really happened; that it was provoked by the bathroom fumes of Febreze and vomit.

But Tom Ryder, A-lister, looked... unsure.

"Yeah, I... I don't know. She's probably right."

Sounded it, too.

Parker didn't even know how to react to that. The guy had been a grade A tool since the moment she met him, and in the several run-ins they had since, he hadn't disproven the label. He basically worshipped himself. Once, she had even caught him admiring a paparazzi photo taken of him wearing low riding swim trunks in a cheap magazine.

Seriously!

The guy loved himself, talked about himself, and never let people forget who he was! What could ever provoke a moment of self-depreciation like this?

Oh, duh. Drugs.

"Jesus, how much Xanax did you take? You don't even sound like yourself."

The question pulled him from whatever pensive moment he had been having, and Tom's response was to promptly chuck the wet towel at Parker. It landed atop her head with a smack.

She plucked it off with a grimace. Wet pants, wet shirt, now wet hair. She would have to go home after this to save herself the sheer embarrassment of being an utter disaster at her first mansion party. And by the time she glanced back over at him he was back to his normal mode of self-importance as he started to run a hand through his damp hair, singular moment of weakness already forgotten.

"Is my hair okay?"

Parker sighed.

It was nice while it lasted, she thought.

"Yeah, Ryder," she deadpanned while ambling onto her feet. She fixed her own hair in the mirror while he finished the last of his water. He actually looked close to normal—because, of fucking course he looks fine after coming down from a bad drug cocktail—and she avoided the mink rug entirely to pick his shirt up off the ground. "Your hair looks fine, Chris Pine. Your shirt is probably all wrinkled though."

"Fuck. That's Dolce & Gabbana."

"I thought it was linen," she snarked.

There was some groaning and whining as he teetered onto his own feet, and while Parker was half afraid that he might just keel over and die on her, he seemed more scandalized by the fact that she was touching his designer clothes.

Snatching the shirt out of her hands, Tom huffed, "do you even know what linen is? I thought all you knew how to wear is that polyester crap you seem to like so much."

Wow. What a fucking asshole.

It was her turn to take a deep, calming breath as he ambled towards the mirror. He didn't seem sick anymore, his breathing was normal, shoulders relaxed, and he was able to stand on his own. Somehow, even his skin had bounced back with a lively, bright sheen.

Fuck, even his back was beautiful. How did—?

A wrinkled Dolce & Gabbana shirt was slung over his back, effectively cutting off her gazing. Parker ran a hand through her hair a second time. When she glanced in the mirror, however, she found Tom smirking at her.

"Staring ain't free you know. The pap pay a lot for this," he said.

For fuck's sake! she thought as her mouth curled sourly.

Shaking herself of both her stupor and kind hearted feelings, Parker snatched her phone off of the ground. She didn't miss the way that he was ogling her back side in the mirror, and she flushed a bright shade of pink without meaning to. That only incensed his smirk further.

"Yeah, um, Tom? I did lie," she admitted, pausing in the doorway to bat her eyelashes at him as dramatically as she could. She wasn't an actress, but she was pretty sure the point got across when she cooed, "your hair looks awful."

She watched his jaw slacken in the mirror with a sharp smile, before Parker swung the bathroom door open, and made her way back to the party.

.............

And the love/hate continues.

[scribefindegil]

There's more to it than that--Mogami Arc is the first time that Reigen watched Mob get hurt and knew it was his fault. He'd never really worried about the spirits they went after before because Mob could always destroy them without breaking a sweat, and because Reigen has no powers he could never tell how big a threat they might be. When the biker spirit in the tunnel tells him that Mob is facing something truly dangerous, Reigen panics and tries to call him back, but he'd never have known otherwise. Mob always emerged unscathed, so Reigen can keep believing that he's not actually putting him in danger. And the 7th Division fight is scary, but Reigen isn't responsible for it in any way; he just shows up.

Mogami is different. Reigen accepted the job and took Mob with him and Mob almost died. You know that the guilt from that must be overwhelming. But what does Reigen do when he gets overwhelmed? He blusters. He buries his insecurities. He overcompensates and swings wildly in the other direction.

In Separation, he doesn't really believe that Mob's friends are using him. He just wants to believe that. Because that would make it easier, wouldn't it? If everyone else in Mob's life was as shitty as him, then he could overlook his own grievous failings. He could be a protector; he could be needed. He wouldn't have to face his own guilty conscious. He needs Mob to believe his lies because that's the only way that Reigen can keep believing them.

And you know the worst part? Who else told Mob that the whole rest of the world was out to get him? That his faith in other people was naive and childish? That he was the only one who could understand him, the only one he could trust? Reigen is so afraid of Mogami but in that scene he ends up sounding just like him.

a lot has been said about the way that the events of the mogami arc prelude the events of the separation arc from mob’s perspective but you know what i just considered? reigen pulling out all the stops to keep mob by his side makes a little more sense when you remember that he just spent god knows how long supervising his lifeless body with no way of knowing he would come back.

[vechter]

For the director's cut ask game, what was Roy thinking when Dick kissed him?

ooh, okay, so when i first wrote that scene, i was a little doubtful about it (still am tbh) because i didn't want it to come across as out of character; there's an element of my personal headcanoning for dickroy that went into that scene.

in the past, both of them have had moments where they've felt that the other person is in love with them but they've never really had the opportunity to act on any of it. there's a fair bit of insecurity about their places in each other's lives and they're both prone to underselling their own importance to each other.

we already see roy doubting dick in chapter one— roy knows dick's hiding something and even though he doesn't know what exactly, he knows that once all these clues add up, he won't like the bigger picture. he already doesn't!! and even though dick is a wildly unreliable narrator, he hits the nail right on the head at roy's apartment when he clocks roy analyzing him; he recognizes that roy knows something is stopping him from being nightwing again— which is perhaps the truest extension of dick grayson, a fact they're both keenly aware of.

roy's life trajectory at this point: he lost his daughter and he lost his arm. and although he got lian back, there were months where he assumed lian was dead and was lost in that grief. now that he's at a place where he's somewhat made peace with the events of cry for justice, he'll no longer deny himself what he wants or engage in self-destructive behaviour like he used to/has done in the past.

you see dick mentioning how effortlessly roy is connected to the community around him, how sure roy's sense of self is through dick's eyes and i think there's a part of roy that recognizes dick's admiration and envy over it. plus, that time dick and kory almost got married is usually in the back of his head— how he and the other titans knew that it was a hasty step— a very bullheaded move from dick to bandage the deeper wounds of mirage/anti-alien sentiment/kory's own struggles with dick's acceptance of her. so he's very much aware of how dick swings wildly between overcorrecting or running. and he doesn't want to be that for dick.

it's why he kisses him back, because he wants dick to know that yes, the love is there and it's waiting for him, but both he and dick deserve better than this. he doesn't want to be dick's only tether to reality/his sense of self. which is why he establishes that boundary. he tells dick to get his shit together and implies the most important thing in that interaction— that they're both too grown to do this half-hearted dance they've been doing for a decade. they've been in each other's corner since they were kids and the only way that it can really work between them without ending badly or hurting each other: they need to be sure of who they are outside of each other, outside of the shadows and absences of their mentors/father-figures.

love is a choice and roy is willing to make that choice but he needs dick to be in a place where he can make that choice freely, not when he's trying to run from what he's lost.

come ask me for a director’s cut on my fics!

[housederiva]

considering that ppl have had 10 years to holler abt how nothingburger the inquisitor was particularly compared to past protags+bioware has spent the last few months wildly overcorrecting for how Horrible the past games’ combat/characters/mouthfeel/etc have been and how datv will be the Best To Ever Do It, i am cautiously optimistic that rook may very well, perchance, god willing, be somewhat less of a passive blank slate

I get the role is to just move the plot along but I miss how Hawke felt like their own person

[blubushie]

Speaking of wildly inconsistent sniper i think he can charm his way into offering his services but he would literally rather kill himself than have to make eye contact with somebody for a second longer than he has to. Something aomething the only thing worse than being an assassin for hire is not being an assassin for hire.

I'm going antithesis on this since we grew up in the same environment where it's "polite to make eye contact, Micky" and this woulda been beat into him socially from a young age cuz for some reason this is really important to the old folks.

He overcorrects on eye contact by default now. It's part of why he wears the sunnies--besides it helping on a quickdraw when needed, it also helps blur where his eyes are focussing once you're a metre away. Means people won't pay attention to or notice the overcorrection, and he doesn't cop shit for "staring too much".

[fiachrastudios]

*Bernie Sanders voice* I am once again experimenting wildly with my style.

A little something for the personal project I've been working on recently. I tried going a little looser with the flatting instead of the lineart, which is definitely an interesting effect. I don't think I'll do it going forward (just because I try to work under the assumption I might print any of my pieces eventually, and don't want to have to worry about misalignment), but I like how it came out here. I'm also trying out big eyes, usually I try to draw them more realistically but they always turn out way too small, so hopefully I can train myself by overcorrecting for a bit.

[olderthannetfic]

Sensitivity readers have a place in mainstream-media if used correctly - if you're writing a TV show with a disabled character, I want a group of disabled people BTS making sure it's not offensive because although all disabled people have different views, you can guage with average opinion. That doesn't mean 'disabled characters can't have dark storylines', it generally means 'stop making them commit suicide because it's too hard to be disabled' (half-decent alternative would be 'make them suicidal, let them grieve what they've lost, and then they move on).

Sensitivity readers for fanfiction? Fuck off.

--

I think much of the drama comes from YA publishing and such spaces where people use them frequently but seem to either pick terrible people or overcorrect for one area while being wildly offensive in some other.

[glitterdustcyclops]

i think those posts pointing out the unrealistic nature of the common rhetorical devices in modern fiction are hopelessly cinemasins pilled losers but also are reacting to a somewhat valid critique and doing the thing the internet does where it sands off all nuance in favor of easy dunkings

phrased like "his eyes darkened" or "he smelled of mountain air and sin" certainly could be annoying if they are overused or used incorrectly or not being used to actually communicate something valuable to the work and its themes. there *is* a lot of amateur prose out there (romantasy i'm looking directly at you) where authors have learned that "These are the things Good, Deep, Literary Writers use, so i'm going to use them too" without thinking about why those writers might be using such devices, and what effect they might be trying to achieve apart from "Sounds Deep" and that can absolutely lead to some buckwild incomprehensible tedious purple nonsense

but just because a tool can be used to annoying effect by amateurs does not mean the tool itself is inherently flawed, and the important point is not to wildly overcorrect into this idea that all prose must be logically structured and indefensible, written like a twitter thread being read by the most bad faith audience imaginable, because that writing style fucking sucks

[quicktimeeventfull]

truly one of the most frustrating things about being minoritized & in particular racially minoritized is the absolutely unhinged paranoia of ‘is this actually bad or am i just wildly misinterpreting the circumstance’ that it generates in you. like you kind of have to be on guard but sometimes you overcorrect. and other times you convince yourself you were just being paranoid when you were in fact correct. ime the latter is much more common but it’s not universally the case SO what are you supposed to do u know. what’s the solution here.