#Restructurer

[mediworldvn]

NHỮNG TÁC NHÂN GÂY ẢNH HƯỞNG ĐẾN NỘI TIẾT TỐ NỮ ------ Nội tiết tố đóng vai trò quan trọng trong quá trình phát triển giới tính, chức năng sinh sản và sức khỏe nói chung. Nồng độ nội tiết tố sẽ thay đổi theo thời gian và theo từng giai đoạn, đặc biệt là ở tuổi dậy thì, mang thai và mãn kinh. 🔹 Nồng độ nội tiết tố luôn dao động và thay đổi trong suốt cuộc đời của một người. Trong đó, một số tác nhân có thể gây ảnh hưởng đến nội tiết tố nữ bao gồm: • Độ tuổi. • Chu kỳ kinh nguyệt. • Quá trình mang thai. • Thời kỳ tiền mãn kinh và mãn kinh. • Stress, lo lắng quá độ, căng thẳng thần kinh. • Ảnh hưởng từ một số loại thuốc chữa bệnh. • Môi trường sống và làm việc. 🔸 Mất cân bằng nội tiết tố nữ có thể gây thay đổi ham muốn, thể chất, tâm lý và nhiều vấn đề sức khỏe như rụng tóc, loãng xương, thậm chí là vô sinh. Ước tính có khoảng 80% phụ nữ sẽ bị rối loạn nội tiết tố ở một số thời điểm trong đời. ------ 🔹 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐫 là thực phẩm bảo vệ sức khỏe ứng dụng công nghệ Peptide, giúp cân bằng nội tiết tố, hỗ trợ giảm các triệu chứng bốc hỏa, nhăn da, khô da, suy giảm sinh lý do suy giảm nội tiết tố nữ. Đồng thời giảm tình trạng suy yếu sinh lý (cũng là yếu tố ảnh hưởng đến vẻ đẹp làn da) mà nguyên nhân do rối loạn Hormone gây ra. 🔹 Viên uống 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐫 phù hợp với các nhóm đối tượng như: • Phụ nữ thời kỳ tiền mãn kinh, mãn kinh. • Phụ nữ suy giảm nội tiết tố. • Người suy giảm sinh lý. • Phụ nữ có các dấu hiệu: bốc hỏa, da nhăn, da khô, sạm da,... 🔹 Sản phẩm chứa thành phần chính từ thiên nhiên, đảm bảo an toàn như: sâm tố nữ 80mg, bột cải xoăn nguyên chất, peptide từ gạo, collagen peptide, chiết xuất lá dương xỉ, chiết xuất hạt nho, chiết xuất kỷ tử 40mg, Vitamin C và Vitamin E,... 🔸 Lưu ý: Thực phẩm này không phải là thuốc, không có tác dụng thay thế thuốc chữa bệnh. Không sử dụng cho người bị u xơ tử cung, u vú, người mẫn cảm, kiêng kỵ với bất kỳ thành phần nào của sản phẩm. Người đang dùng thuốc tham khảo ý kiến của chuyên gia y tế trước khi sử dụng. 🌐 Xem chi tiết sản phẩm tại: https://bit.ly/3pFyxtg

[handweavers]

also the 9-5 workday just does not work well in hot climates and i think it exacerbates these problems by concentrating the most activity to the hottest part of the day. the old approach of waking up early to labour before the sun is hottest, resting during the hottest hours of the day, and finishing your activities once the sun begins to set and into the evening makes a lot more sense and i think it would consume less energy overall and prevent illness in working people, children, elderly, and other vulnerable people due to heat exposure. people structured their days like this for a reason, prior to the widespread adoption of air conditioning, and even in a world with air con it just makes more sense esp as already hot climates get hotter and those who face the greatest consequences have the least protection from the heat

[codenameyan]

Read the original fic in its full glory.

Huge thank you to @big-cheesy-productions for writing such an amazing, heartbreaking fic, and for helping me iron out some writing bumps I had trouble with. ��️

First of (hopefully) many from my 'I draw your one-shot fics' initiative.

[tendermiasma]

My contract with Powerhouse ends in September,

so I'm looking for work!

✨My Patreon (18+) will be my only guaranteed income for an unknown amount of time. I'll be posting more and expanding to include exclusive sfw art (BG3, Elden Ring, Vampire Hunter D, occasional tutorial/breakdowns etc) as much as I can.

If you've been eyeing it, it's a great time to join! I'm so grateful to all my patrons.

✨You do not have to pay for every post even though it's per-creation. It can function just like a monthly sub.

Most people set their pledge cap to $4 so they're only billed for the first post of each month and none for the subsequent posts (you'll still get to see all of them). Any higher pledge cap or tier is purely optional.

Thank you always for your support xx

[otrebot]

Chainsaw Man Chapter 179 Oh Mother, tell your children not to do what I have done.

[blondebrainpowered]

Martin Luther King Jr.

[trek-tracks]

In the absence of any on-screen confirmation of McCoy's eventual death...

[red-pearl-white-flower]

So I read Sha Po Lang...

[fluentisonus]

trying to figure out what cosette's wedding dress is supposed to have looked like given that a) the over part at least is from a period that m. gillenormand's grandmother could conceivably have lived in, knowing nothing about her and that b) it's a fashion that has "come up again" as gillenormand says (Assuming. that he is not just totally & completely wrong about this —she did actually wear it, so I can't imagine it's that insanely out of style (?) — and also that they didn't just modify it beyond all recognition).

I feel like it would have to be like (maybe?) one of those dresses from the 1670s/80s with the late baroque-ish but pre-18th century sleeves with lots of fabric right? I don't think it could be much earlier (although I think some earlier 17th century fashion would actually suit better) unless she was his father's mother & his father was older when he was born (which. well I suppose it might run in the family!), but any later than that & you start getting stuff that I can't imagine a fashionable young woman in the 1830s would want to be wearing without heavy modification (I know they did do this tbc but I just feel like it'd take a lot of work to restructure something 18th century to look good in 1833).

But we also get a description of it as being over a taffeta petticoat in a way that does sort of bring to mind 18th century dresses? and gillenormand says that it's the way old women dressed when he was a kid & I'm not really sure you'd get anyone even old women dressing like the 1680s in the 1740s, or that anyone from if you go too that far back in the 17th century would be alive in a way he remembers). so who knows maybe cosette is wearing something odd looking or very modified. or I'm just being stupid & missing something obvious. or hugo just didn't put the thought into this

the passages:

[mediworldvn]

TẠI SAO CHU KỲ CỦA CHỊ EM CÓ THỂ KHÔNG ĐỀU?

------

Kinh nguyệt không đều (rối loạn) là tình trạng độ dài hoặc tần suất kinh nguyệt thay đổi, không theo một quy luật nào cả. Đây là dấu hiệu cho thấy sức khỏe sinh lý của bạn đang gặp vấn đề gì đó.

Chu kỳ của phụ nữ thường dao động khoảng 28 - 35 ngày, thời gian hành kinh sẽ kéo dài từ 3 - 5 ngày. Nếu thời gian đến kỳ của bạn kéo dài lâu hơn hoặc nhanh hơn, điều này cho thấy bạn đang bị rối loạn kinh nguyệt với các dấu hiệu như:

• Vô kinh: không có kinh trên 6 tháng (không tính trường hợp mang thai).

• Rong kinh: thời gian hành kinh trên 7 ngày với lượng máu ra nhiều hơn bình thường.

• Trễ kinh: Kỳ kinh đến muộn hơn khoảng 4 ngày trở lên so với tháng trước đó.

• Kinh thưa: Khoảng cách giữa các kỳ kinh có thể từ 2, 3, 4 tháng.

➡️ Nguyên nhân gây ra tình trạng kinh nguyệt không đều thường do: thay đổi nội tiết tố, rối loạn tuyến giáp hoặc tuyến yên, hội chứng buồng trứng đa nang, ảnh hưởng từ một vài loại thuốc,...

------

🔹 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐫 là thực phẩm bảo vệ sức khỏe ứng dụng thành phần từ công nghệ Peptide cùng nhiều chiết xuất từ thiên nhiên an toàn, giúp hỗ trợ giảm các triệu chứng bốc hỏa, nhăn da, khô da, suy giảm sinh lý do suy giảm nội tiết tố nữ.

🔹 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐫 được nghiên cứu phát triển bởi đội ngũ nhà khoa học Việt Nam. Sản phẩm phù hợp với một số nhóm đối tượng như:

• Phụ nữ thời kỳ tiền mãn kinh, mãn kinh.

• Phụ nữ suy giảm nội tiết tố.

• Suy giảm sinh lý.

• Phụ nữ có các dấu hiệu: bốc hỏa, da nhăn, da khô, sạm da,...

• Quý ông mong muốn có phương pháp hỗ trợ chăm sóc da trắng sáng da, trẻ khỏe.

🔸 Lưu ý: Thực phẩm này không phải là thuốc, không có tác dụng thay thế thuốc chữa bệnh. Không sử dụng cho người bị u xơ tử cung, u vú, người mẫn cảm, kiêng kỵ với bất kỳ thành phần nào của sản phẩm. Người đang dùng thuốc nên tham khảo ý kiến của chuyên gia y tế trước khi sử dụng.

[handweavers]

every time i remember that art gallery in halifax literally lost my work despite it never leaving the premises and they're still trying to find it and it's looking like i may never get it back and will have to sue them for damages or something i get so angry i have to lie down

[aropride]

i hate my stupid neighbors and their fuck ass lawnmower (remembers im talking to #Leftists) i mean. i would like to call-in my neighbors and comrades to discuss the harm they have caused & how we will go about reconciliation from a restorative justice perspective. the harm caused by their thrice-weekly or often more frequent lawnmowing has been destabilizing our community for some time and in order to function effectively as a community and as comrades we must bring attention to this matter in a restorative, anti-carceral process of collaboration

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: two lineups of the Paranatural AU versions of the Commission characters; one set ten years ago and one set in the present of the au.

Ten years ago: only part of Carmichael's head is a fish tank; Herb has a dad-stache and is wearing a button up with a v neck; Dot has no glasses and her hair isn't pulled back; the Handler has longer hair and is wearing a typical Commission suit; Five is a teenager instead of an adult; Cha Cha has longer hair; Hazel has longer hair and a fuller beard; and the person who runs the commission, who is God in TUA, is a cowboy and a horse instead of a little girl. End ID.]

A look at the Paranatural au version of the Commission! They do basically the same thing as the Consortium in Paranatural (aka who the fuck knows not me, something to do with keeping spirits in line) and it is also similar to the Consortium in one other important respect that i will get to shortly

Some notes on designs:

reminder that AJ is a medium (person who is possessed by a spirit), and mediums (and tools) look more and more like their spirit over time. ergo, he has more human features ten years ago.

the handler probably wasn't management ten years ago, so she has to make do with the regular uniform

five probably wasnt actually in the commission ten years ago (tho he WAS already a spectral) but hes here anyway for thoroughness

i almost forgot to put hazel and cha cha in here which is a crime

hazel is 100% the guy who had a ponytail when he was 21

cha cha's spirit power is this gun she found

and finally

the little girl god runs the commission in this!! of course she does!! why didn't i think of it sooner. In the webcomic, the consortium is run by a mysterious medium whose spirit is a wight.... except it turns out theyre not actually a person at all, but a construct made to look human by a very very powerful wight. Every so often the wight 'retires' the current construct and installs a new one; thus, the little girl is the commission's current model, and cowboy god from the comics was her predecessor!

[superbat-lmao]

An au where Clark is River Song and Bruce is the Doctor.

Superman and Batman’s timelines are happening in reverse.

A Clark who knows Bruce, better than anyone, and standing before him seeing absolutely no recognition in his eyes. Knowing that he’s about to die and his husband has no clue who he is.

A Bruce that lives with the knowledge of how his husband will die the entire time he gets to know him. No interaction of theirs is untainted by this knowledge.

The both of them, falling in love in reverse.

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; best friend's dad | John Price x Reader infidelity. age gap.

He breaks your heart in Greece. Cuts a jagged line down your middle. Spills your wet, sticky blood over the Naxian marble outside of the Temple of Apollo with just a handful of words.

(fitting, you find: you've always considered your aimless pursuit to his heart some bastardised delusion akin to Icarus chasing the immovable sun—)

And you suppose it's kind. Or as gentle as a man like him could ever let himself be. Still gruff, surly. But you've always loved the sound of his voice, haven't you? That sarky growl reminding you of classic muscle cars, American-made; the low, gritty purr of an old Mustang. Enough to make you shiver, even as he's shaping it around these awful, cutting words. It makes you heart flutter, enraptured as he speaks like he's ripping a bandaid off.

Except that now that wound is being filled with salt. Acid. Cauterising itself from the friction burn when the gauze is wrenched off your skin. A permanent scar right in your sternum. A gaping hole spilling all the ugliness out. You wonder if he cares that it's being slashed across his shoes—no sandals, he griped when you teased him in the airport; I hate the feelin' of sand between my toes—that this madness inside of you is finding a home on the hot pavement, rotting under the summer's sun.

"m'thinkin' about marryin' her."

The her in question is ten years older than him. Pettily, you wonder if this is to compensate for the fact that he's nearly two decades older than you. An obscene age gap, you know. But—

It's Price.

Your best friend's dad. The man you've been in love with since you were sixteen. Falling all over yourself after a dumb boy broke your heart, and he offered to drive you home, silent the whole way there before he stopped, a block away from your house, and told you that boys weren't worth your time. Boys. Boys—

Not men.

Foolishly, you let yourself hope. Let yourself become the very thing they talk about in TikTok videos lambasting age gaps and silly little girls who let older men run them into the ground. Why would a man his age have any reason to be interested in a girl yours? Sickening. Disgusting. You're being lead stray, groomed. But you clung to it still, even as you thumbed through the comments on those videos and found pieces of yourself lying among the rubble.

You've always known what they say about girls like that. And you were just delusional enough to believe that you were different somehow.

And now—

"Gettin' older," he grouses out, and you wonder if she finds the ornery lilt to his cadence as comforting as you do. Or if it rubs her all the wrong ways. "Might be time to settle down."

Shamefully, you wish he'd say, but maybe you can convince me otherwise, climb into my lap, and eat this decision from between my teeth until all I see when I open my eyes is you.

But that's not the John Price you know. Mr Price. Single dad. Widower. Untouchable.

Mr Price who sees you for what you are—smarter than them, he'd said when you broke down in his Bronco after a softball game where everyone, your best friend included, went to an afterparty that no one invited you to.

Quiet, thoughtful, even when you spent the evening afterwards (the fight hashed out between your best friend and you; i'm so sorry and me too) thumbing through old vinyl records he kept in his basement, listening to the classics that kids your age just didn't understand, so why the fuck do you?

Weekends spent bonding over golden cinema (movies just ain't what they used to be; there's no romance anymore, it's all so—vapid; you don't talk like a kid; i've never considered myself one, do you? he didn't answer. you didn't expect him to). Listening to music older than your dad. Niche jokes and texts that read like I saw this and thought of you.

Your fault, of course, for thinking you could trick him into loving you if you played your feelings through Johnny Cash, Vashti Bunyan, Fleetwood Mac, and Smokey Robinson. An impossibility you know now.

Mr Price who knows you. Who sees through the thin skin you wear and into the heart, the core of you. Who must have known since you called him in the pouring rain to pick you up when you got too drunk to drive home. A house party in the suburbs. Waterlogged flats he told you to toss.

Said nothing at all when you apologised with your head pressed against the foggy glass. You never told him that your sorry, Mr Price was for kissing a boy and wishing it was him.

But he must have known.

open book. pages spilling out. silly little girl with your heart cupped in your palm—

So he knows. Has known. Hindsight says this is him letting you down gently before you get any ideas about forever with your diploma tucked into your chest like a shield. A trip to Greece with your best friend and her dad to celebrate the rest of your life looming over you like a thundercloud. Your eye slanting sideways, glancing yearningly back at him.

sorry, but no. look the other way—

And you think fine, fine, whatever, so long as this doesn't hurt anymore—but what comes out is, "oh."

What follows is this:

He says he's thinking about marrying her with his hands tucked tight under his arms. He tells you he wants to settle down with his chin tucked against his chest, four lines rucked across the pinch of his brow. An emphasis, perhaps, on just how serious he is.

You taste salt in your throat. Sand between your toes. The sun blisters against the thin straps of this pretty blue dress that match the melting sapphire of his burning gaze. It's heatsickness, maybe. Or just all the years of want building and building, festering and growing, until it can't climb any higher—forever reaching for god that won't spare you a glance—and—

falling down around you. wings of beeswax and bird feathers.

Solemn, he says, "it's what I should do."

(i saw this and thought of you—)

Your fingers knot into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut between your knuckles until it peels back from the seams, curling between buttons.

You've had too much to drink. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. Somewhere along the walk to the temple, you snatched a puff of his cigar, the nicotine blooming between your teeth. Head full of cotton too thick for you to think. To retreat.

In the morning, when he refuses to look at you, you'll blame it on the drinks. On the sun. On being young and dumb and untouchable under the Greecian sky.

Daddy issues, you can shrug. You have the diagnoses from every single TikTok psychologist embedded between your teeth. See, mine never loved me and now I'm taking it out on you—

But right now, you kiss him.

Or maybe—

Maybe he kisses you.

It's a mess in your head. Everything turned upside down, all askew because when your lips touch his, he shudders. His chest rumbles under your fingers, expanding with the sudden inhale as he breathes you in. Deep. Takes you into his lungs—all salt-slick, and sunburnt—and groans low in his throat, all want. All heat.

He should push you away. He's your best friend's father. Two decades older than you. Dating another woman who's so far removed from the person you are that she might as well be a different species. Mature. Stoic. Poised. Graceful.

The perfect antithesis to you.

Everything about this must be ringing shrill in his ears: abort, abort, do not engage. He should push you off.

And he does.

After a moment of your greedy, unpractised kisses pepper along the bristles hanging low over his lips, he makes another sound. Angry. Whitehot. His hands slip free from the damp prison of his armpits and latch tight onto you. Thick, hirsute fingers curling over your upper arms, and pushing, shoving—

Your back hits the marble pillar. The air in your lungs punched out.

But when you try to siphon more balmy air into them again, you find an obstacle in your way.

His mouth.

Searing, blistering. Slanting hungrily across yours, devouring. Intense, dizzying. Your head cracks against the wall when he shoves his thigh between the silken softness of your inner thighs, blanketed by the dress that made him swallow when he first saw you in it, eyes darkening like a storm.

(bit short, ain't it? he'd groused, and your friend slipped her hand into yours with a huff. stop being such a dad, dad—)

It slots there now like it's owed the right. Thick thigh spreading yours apart on a gasp, a groan. Corded muscle pressed taut to the seam of you that burns hot. Melted wax. Dripping against his leg. He must feel the way he liquifies you, turns you into putty. It drags a sound his chest. The misfire of an engine.

"Fuck," he breathes, all teeth. Salt. He should be saying, no, stop. go back to your hotel room, and we'll pretend this never happened, silly girl. But he pulls you closer instead, his hand looping around to cradle the back of your tender head in the cup of his palm. A small comfort as he delves his tongue between your teeth. "Makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"

The words are growled against your mouth. You taste the tobacco-smoked fury between his teeth when they sink into your lower lip. Angry, maybe, that you're making him do this. That you had to be who you are, and despite that, he kisses you like you're not.

"Price," you whine, arching into his chest when he pulls at your bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Skin tender, bruised. He ruts into you at the sound, nearly purring. You feel it then. The hard press of his thickening cock against you. Mindlessly gyrating against your hip. The turgid length proof of his desire. His want for you. All you. "Please—"

He folds himself over you. Tucks you into the bracket of his chest, his arms. His fingers are iron bars on your skin, holding you tight to him. Unwilling to let go. His hand on your crown; his fingers gripping your thigh, hiking it up his waist. It's good. Better than all of your meagre fantasies combined. You've wanted this since you knew what want was. When he wandered into the kitchen the morning after a sleepover with a towel slung loose around his hips, his hand scrubbing the damness from the wet tangle of his hair, spilling them down his neck where they disappeared into the thick bed of hair on his chest, his belly.

He paused in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the island, eyes wide and drilling holes into his chest.

"Shit," he'd cussed, gruff and mean with sleep. "Didn't think—"

But you did. Over and over again. With your face pressed against your pillow, fingers shoved into the sticky wetness leaking out of your cunt. Thinking of him. Wrong. Wrong. Terrible—

Dad bod, your friend said with a cluck of her tongue that afternoon. And you feel it under your fists as he heaves. As he eats you alive, whole. Because kissing John Price, Mr Price, is a whirlwind. A maelstrom.

He devours. He conquers. He owns.

He licks into your mouth, petting over your tongue, your teeth, until you can't remember anything else except the tobacco and whiskey tang of him. Heady. An elixir you want to sip from for the rest of your life. Damn him—

He tells you he's thinking about marrying someone else. Then whispers, ash-soft, against your chin that he can't get enough of you.

Grunts, "you need to go," as he sinks his teeth down, hard, into the throbbing skin of your pulse. Laying claim as he slowly comes to.

The coarse hair of his beard rubs your flesh raw when he buries his face into your neck. You can feel the thunder of his heart against the knob of your wrist. The heat of his skin burning through you.

"Fuck," he rumbles again, and you know this time it's for good. Ironclad. But the remorse is paperthin. "Shouldn't have done that, should have—"

"I want you," you whisper through bruised, kiss-bitten lips. "I want you so bad. I loved you since I was—"

"Don't."

The sweat beading along his hairline smears across the naked arch of your shoulder and neck when he moves; a shallow shake of his head. Muted and small. Heavy with reluctance.

The man who meets you when he pulls back is frowning with wet, red-stained lips. His eyes are hardened sapphire reinforced with unbreakable obsidian. There's no inch to move. No cracks to squeeze through.

"This—" he swallows. You hope he tastes you still. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. The drag of his cigar, the one he coached you through, scoffing when you choked, when you cough. You hope he runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes nothing but you. "This shouldn't have happened."

You don't say anything. Can't. The words are staining his lips.

You nod, slow. Cautious. He tells you he's marrying someone else. Thinking about it. Says this shouldn't have happened—

But he holds you like he can't bring himself to let go. Fingers clutching, clenching tight around you. Possessive. Greedy, even he as he slowly unspools from around you. As he pulls away, scouring his hand down his face with a deep, ragged inhale. Rough, worn fingers digging into his jaw until the knuckles under a dense cropping of umber hair turn white, nails pinking under the strain.

"This isn't—"

You nod again. Soft and slow, but you let your tongue flicker out, chasing the smoke drying on your swollen lips. It stings. The burn makes you think of him. Of his hot, heavy hands on your skin.

His eyes drop down to follow the slip of red that teases out between your teeth, blackening as they trace the new wetness left behind. You can feel him twitch against your thigh.

Your name is a broken snarl trapped in the thick of his throat. You've never heard it like that. Never. It does something. Lights you up from the inside out. Supernova in his arms. Icarus burning, crashing down to earth—

Catch me, Apollo—

He pulls away instead. Detaches from you with a heavy groan, as if the distance that now sits between you hurts him just as much.

The silence is broken by the sound of the crowd just beyond the pillar. You can see the moment it settles over him in the flattening of his eyes, the erasure of all affection that bloomed bright in blue. The terse set to his shoulders. The distance, the space, that grows and grows and grows—

He clears his throat. Mr Price once more. Untouchable. Off-limits.

"You should go," he says, and there's not an ounce of give in the rough flatline of his voice. Fixed. Firm. "You should go back to your hotel room. Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

"And you?"

He sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Don't worry about me. Just—go back to the hotel room. We can—we'll talk in the morning."

"Where'd you?" She asks when you crawl into bed, the starchy sheets rubbing against your sunbitten skin.

There is a deluge of things you want to say. Things like—

I'm sorry. I love him. I—

can't let go.

"I think I just got my heart broken," you say instead, and wonder when the tears are supposed to come. At the wedding, maybe. But right now, you just feel numb. Empty.

The bed creaks when she rolls over, facing you in the dark. "Really? Didn't know you were, you know, foolin' around with anyone."

"I wasn't. It's—" your dad. But you can't say that, can you?

There's something painfully nostalgic about loving a man you're not supposed to want. A man who cannot, should not, want you back. An unrequited love in a foreign land. Unconsummated in the summer's heart. Sticky, bittersweet heartbreak.

Or, that's what it's supposed to be.

They are not John Price, though. Your best friend's dad. And they didn't kiss you back—

But he did.

And you think it's the worst thing he could have ever done.

[wannaliveattheholidayinn]

i did actually like the ddba season finale, but i swear. WHERE WERE JESSICA AND LUKE THIS WHOLE SHOW???!!!