#I’m thriving in this climate

[this-account-doesnt-exist]

Seems like we’re experiencing a late 90s seiyuu renaissance and i cant be happier about that

[lowwasteorbustanut]

Just remembered an important point about the low waste community.

Don’t forget disabled people.

I am disabled, and so will never truly be 100% zero waste. My pill bottles aren’t recyclable in the everyday containers, I have to wait for a special recycle event that the county puts on.

One of my meds is a biological self injection. Obvs that goes in a sharps container to be disposed of safely. The single use alcohol wipes I have to use before injecting myself are also trash.

And I wear glasses! Which means as I wear a (washable fabric) mask, as an immunocompromised person to help protect me from covid, I need to use single use anti fog wipes.

But all of these things are necessary for my survival! I literally cannot survive without these things.

So remember to include disabled people in your talks about the zero waste lifestyle. And that some people can NEVER completely eliminate their waste, and that’s ok!

Because human life matters above all else. And there is nothing an individual can do to reverse climate change.

There need to be laws to regulate the companies that got us here. So remember to vote! And communicate with your representatives about what you want to see! And to treat people with kindness!

[altsvu]

i love what you did with my last ask so i just knew i needed to do another. how about a aaron x black!reader she's 7 months pregnant and over the phone has a discussion with aaron about the baby's skin color telling him "what if when it gets older it gets killed" and even aaron has to take a breath but over all jack heard the convo and is confused because he's like 8 and doesn't understand race like that and you and aaron explain it

complexities of race

pairing: aaron hotchner x pregnant!black!fem!reader

wc: 1.3k

cw: underlying mentions of current climate (iykyk), brief mentions of race/racism, fluff, pregnancy

a/n: girlll your prompts are so amazing, i love that you give me a challenge 🫶🏽🫶🏽 this was so hard to write not gonna lie, but of course i enjoyed it nonetheless!!! also this is the first fic of 2024! :) also i’m sorry it took me so long to write this!

criminal minds masterlist! ✯ taglist!

✯✯✯✯

“Aaron... I have something to tell you.” you smiled, leaning against the frame of the living room walkway. You hoped that he would be just as excited as you were, all those nights making love paid off.

“Sweetheart... you’re smiling, grinning even. What is it?” He asked.

“I’m pregnant.” you gushed, revealing the pregnancy test that was hidden in your hand.

Aaron’s eyes lit up in excitement. He rushed over to you and pulled you into his arms. “Oh, Y/N, that’s amazing!”

You were crying tears of joy, you were super excited to finally have a baby with the love of your life.

Fast forward to 7 months, you were thriving through all the symptoms of pregnancy. All the motion sickness, waking up in the middle of the night to throw up, the kicking, just to name a few.

Aaron made sure to be there for you every step of the way, from the moment he found out you were pregnant up until now. He would rub your belly a lot, give you foot and shoulder massages, satisfy your weird food cravings, and even read to your unborn child when he could.

You had no worries about this pregnancy. Until the intrusive thoughts started coming. Being a soon to be mom, you didn’t know if it was mother’s intuition, or just the simple fact that you were a black woman living in America. You started thinking a lot about how your baby would be when they grew up. Facing racism almost everywhere you went was not fun, which was why learning how to handle a situation like that was extremely important. You didn’t want your child being made fun of for their skin color or the way they look and not being able to see their self worth, see how beautiful they are, and that comments like those are baseless and have no real meaning.

This was something that needed to be discussed with Aaron. He sees the world differently than you do so it was important to you that your significant other understand your feelings and experiences. It wasn’t going to be like any other conversation they have had about racism; this time it involved a child, an innocent child.

You were at your grandparents’ house for the weekend and you decided to call Aaron to talk while you had some downtime.

He answered the phone fast and the two of you got into conversation quick. He asked you if you were doing okay and that he missed you and couldn’t wait until you came back so he could take care of you. You expressed that you missed him as well and asked him how he and Jackson were doing.

Then you decided to let the cat out of the bag.

“Aaron?”

“Yes love?”

You exhaled out of your nose. “There’s something I’m worried about, uh, for this pregnancy. Or at least something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a while.”

“What is it?”

“Our baby is black. I just- I dunno, what if... our child gets killed when it goes out into the world on their own? This world is a sick place and it’s hard to raise a black child.“

Aaron paused for a bit. He knew what you were saying was the truth, and nothing but the truth. But he had no idea how to respond. Growing up, he never really knew what it was like to be made fun of because of the color of someone’s skin, let alone now in today’s world, where people get killed just because of it.

“Y/N, I want you to know that our baby will be protected to the fullest extent. Everything that you told me is all true, and I don’t want to dismiss any of your feelings.”

“I know, and I appreciate you for that.” you answered.

All of Aaron’s words were reassuring, but you still didn’t think he understood. It’s not that you were mad at him for that, you didn’t blame him for anything. You wanted to educate as much as possible.

You were the oldest daughter in your family, and seeing how your other siblings were raised, you wanted the best for your child.

You continued talking to Aaron about it in hopes that those intrusive thoughts would go away sometime soon.

✯✯✯✯

You were back from your grandparents’ house and you were now sitting on the couch at Aaron’s place, which became yours as well since you moved in with him.

He had something important to talk to you about, and a part of you thought it had to do with the phone conversation a few days ago.

“Is everything okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, um, it’s just Jack. He overheard our conversation the other day and he’s been asking questions and I think it would be best for the both of us to answer those questions.”

“I think that’s a good thing. He’s growing up and these are conversations that need to be held. I’m happy to help him understand as best as I can.”

Aaron took your hand and smiled. “I agree.”

A few hours later, after Jack came back home from school, the three of you sat at the dining table enjoying the meal Aaron cooked. Beforehand, you had told Aaron that you were gonna use the eggs in the fridge as an example since Jack was still so young to understand technical terms.

“So, Jack, we wanted to talk to you about something, and it’s very important, okay?” Aaron started.

“Okay.”

“So I know you’ve asked about what race is and things like that. I wanna show you something, okay? I think it will help you understand.”

You got up and got a white and a brown egg from the fridge as well as a spoon and placed them in front of Jack.

“Which egg do you want to break?”

“The white one!” Jack exclaimed, taking the spoon and breaking it.

You smiled softly. “Okay, good. Now how come you decided not to break the brown one instead?”

“I thought it would look different on the inside.”

“Well, do you wanna see something cool?” You asked. Jack nodded in response. You took the spoon and broke the brown one.

“They look the same on the inside.” Jack noted.

“You’re right, Jack. The eggs look different on the outside, but when you break them open, you see that they look the same.” Aaron started.

He explained to Jack that people have preferences for a lot of tangible things, and how it can apply to actual human beings. For only being 8 years old, Jack was very attentive to what you and Aaron had to say, and was asking all the right questions.

“Because the baby growing inside of me is going to look different than you, people may not like that. But my baby is a human too.”

“Is that why you were scared?”

You nodded. “I went through it too, and I just want to keep my baby safe.”

Jack went over to you and hugged your belly in response. It made you smile from ear to ear.

✯✯✯✯

“Hi beautiful.” Aaron said, kissing your cheek.

It had been evening time at this point and Aaron had just tucked Jack into bed, and you were lying down in the other room reading a book.

“Hi,” you responded back smiling.

Aaron got settled in with you in bed and cuddled. “Do you feel better about everything now?”

“Honestly, I know that deep down inside, those feelings are still there and will arise at some point but being able to talk about it freely is refreshing.” you admitted. “And that’s okay.”

He smiled. “That’s good. I’m glad Jack was able to take part of this conversation with us.”

“Me too. Surely we’ll have even more engaging conversations like this.”

✯✯✯✯

taglist: @averyhotchner @storiesofsvu @ssaic-jareau @blackbeautifulqueen @mstrinnyb @will-on-the-internet

[bowieandqueen11]

Resolved Issues / Roman Roy Imagine

Request: HIIIII gonna send my succession request while i still can lol.

how about roman and reader sharing childhood stories? him realising that perhaps, maybe the way his family has treated him is tiny bit Not Normal. the reader being somewhere between "oh my god let me give you a hug" and "i just might fight logan roy in the parking lot". yknow good old hurt/comfort you do it like no other

Thank you so much sweetie!! But also yes I feel this in my soul frick Logan Roy lmao 

Warning: strong language. mentions of diarrhoea and mentions of child abuse/ physical abuse! 

This 3k beast took quite a while to write, so feedback is appreciated! Thank you! :)

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @loverboyromanroy.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Roman shrugs his shoulders and looks steadily at you, straight into your eyes.

‘The fuck- how should I know? Like... twenty three, ish?’

Roman’s perching on the edge of his own sofa, so obviously uncomfortable even in his own apartment. His wrist flicks as he answers, and a few drops of the whiskey he hasn’t touched comes sloshing round the side to stain his brand new eggshell blue decorative pillows. He had never cared much for property. But then again, he hadn’t cared much for whiskey either growing up; it had been his father’s drink of choice, and therefore his. The faint fire in the cold marble fireplace behind his head licks between his ears, and illuminates the confused amusement gleaming in his eyes.

You scoff, and shake your head at him incredulously. ‘You own twenty three houses, and you choose to live here?’ Awaiting an answer you know will be even more ridiculous, you make an effort to tuck your legs criss-cross under you, and sit with your knees resting just underneath Roman’s lower legs. ‘And yet you still live in the coldest ass apartment, I swear to god I’m freezing my ass off, and that’s even with the fire going. Are you a fucking yeti or something, Roman Roy?’

He chortles as you continue: ‘you thrive in colder climates, huh? That’s not surprising, considering a glare from your father could freeze hell over.’ You take a final sip of your drink before reaching over and placing it on the sleek black coffee table; Roman’s eyes drop for a split second as if almost in despondency, some kind of deep scarred sorrow peeking its way out like a tired child, before rising back to yours, seeking comfort. It doesn’t slip your attention. You make sure your fingers brush against his socks as you slip your hands back to your lap, and give a sweet squeeze to the tippy toes. He lets out a giggle and kicks his foot out at you, and it’s the most delightful sound you’d ever hear: that true, unadulterated happiness that Roman Roy rarely ever is permitted to have, without some kind of malicious intention lurking behind it.

‘Okay, well, one’, he ostentatiously holds a finger up by twirling it in the air, and it takes you a second to realise he’s pointedly showing you his middle finger. ‘Fuck you. Two-’, he decides to count with his pinkie finger, ‘my dad owns twenty three hours, I own approximately zero fucking squilch of that. And three, I’m a fucking incredible designer - see that Feng Shui over there? All me baby, I would have fucking killed it as an interior design.’

‘Having one sad as fuck looking potted plant by the window and literally no personal items doesn’t count as Feng Shui, dumbass. You’re just sad.’

‘Okay - well - if you’re such a smartass-’, Roman winds his hands up by his head but nearly lets the crystal glass his brother had bought him for his last birthday fall onto the hardwood floor, so he grimaces and gently places it on the rug. He turns back to glance at you, and despite the fact he’s positioning himself as if he’s conducting an interview: elbows resting on knees with hands clasped out before him, face set in stone, he still looks intent and truthfully curious about the answer he’s hoping you’ll give. ‘What was your childhood home like then? I’m sure full of unicorns that shart rainbows and fucking fairies that sneeze glitter from the way you hate my deco.’

You pause to think for a minute, not fully expecting such an honest question to come from Roman Roy. You place a finger gingerly against your lip, and in that second, perched up on the edge of the pristine settee, Roman wishes he could just leap over and replace your fingertip with his lips. He had never been so entranced by someone: never had the privilege of knowing someone from this corporate world who would be so truthful, so different from him. And yet, at the same time, someone who so deliciously, so crudely, so cruelly reminded him of the young child locked in the cage within his heart: so unknowingly let him cling onto the little bit of him he had tried to keep alive. The only bit of him left that wasn’t a Roy. That was just Roman.

Yet, even in the hope that clouded his mind as he awaited your answer, your words came like slices to slit against his throat. ‘Well, I suppose my home was... well, not to sound pedestrian, or super corny, but it was a happy one?’ He nodded, content to bleed out in front of you. ‘There was usually a lot of laughter, and of course a lot of stress, but you know. We could all rely on each other. It was... yeah, it was nice.’ You stop, biting your bottom lip and switching your legs around so you could raise them up and pull them against your chest. 

You didn’t want to look at the man sitting before you suddenly. It was as if he had regressed into himself as you went along: withering, shivering slightly like a frosty chill over an empty playground. It looked - it felt unnatural, as he stared at you without seeing. He blinked languidly for a moment, soaking in your words, before jutting his bottom lip out and trying his best to grin at you. ‘Well, my childhood wasn’t so horrid either. My brother took me and Ken camping once, and although it was fucking sleeting down like bullets of pure fucking ice down by the stream, Connor did eat a fish that looked like a mouldy shoe and spent most of the night running off into the woods holding his ass.’

He snorts then, his little high pitched hyena laugh bubbling out of him as he places the back of his hand against his lips to try and hold it in, and you can’t help but laugh along with him at the sorry image of the supposed Roy brother patriarch scuttling around like a crab with diarrhoea. 

‘That’s sweet, but do you have any other actual memories with your family where someone isn’t being ridiculed?’

‘Woah, hey-’, he holds both his hands up, and slides down from the armrest to come sit in front of you. ‘When you meet my brother, you’ll understand that he deserves it.’ You flush slightly at the implication, becoming rather uncharacteristically bashful around Roman, and glancing quickly down between your legs. Pulling at a thread until it becomes loose, you pray the timid fire glow is enough to hide from him the rushing heat crawling up your neck. Due to the fact that Roman also is shyly looking down at the toes he’s currently wiggling to busy himself, you both miss the way the other is blushing. 

‘But...uh’, he starts finally after a moment of contemplation: a blessed few minutes of serendipitous indulgence, of growing warmth and familiarity, and just enough time for the two of you to realise how much your presence and conversation had only furthered endeared the two of you to each other, despite the hint of sadness that laced it. 

‘I really - I mean, my dad was like, always busy.’ He scratches the back of his head, embarrassed by the way you tilt your head and look quizzically at him. He becomes hyper aware of how close his knee is to resting against yours, and decides to swallow the fear that seems to be clogging up the back of his throat, and shuffles forward until there’s finally contact. ‘And my brother was like, following in his footsteps and all that jazz’, his eyes widen as he holds his hands out by his side. ‘So there wasn’t really much time for... fun, I guess. Or mistakes. Or family.’

It breaks your heart to watch him deflate once he finishes speaking, and suddenly the austere, cold walls and empty, hollow halls of his apartment make all the more sense. He looks so worn out, so tired of having to hide himself away behind a big, empty mansion full of props and antiques and nothingness all put out for show, because that’s what he was. That’s how he saw himself. A big, empty, tired, twisted puppet trying to bend over backwards to escape the marionette strings of daddy’s love, not realising they’re choking him. It was a strategy, a way to protect himself: to become placid, to mask yourself as being one of them, to fit in with his father’s lifestyle, and maybe then the slaps and strikes and kicks and whimpers would feel like something good. Because he’s trying to be just like his father. So if he’s hit, it’s only because the puppet hasn’t quite danced to the right tune, that’s all. 

As you glance around, you finally begin to notice how unused all the furniture in Roman’s apartment looks: the cellarette by the bar that looks as if it had been varnished yesterday, to the large screen television on the either side of the elongated room that Roman clearly only put on once a night to watch the news, to the velvet cushioned armchair positioned to sweep out and look across the skyline of the city, yet the headrest didn’t even have a dent. All these things. All this barrenness. It made you sick to your stomach. Here he was: a toy left on the shelf to collect dust, taken out to play with only when it suited the puppet master, and he was still so desperate for love that he still tried to copy his father. 

And you could see from the way his eyes were beginning to turn blood shot as he slowly sat there and turned the cogs in the back of his brain over, that this was a thought he had had many times before.

You try your best not to look at him too pitifully, in case he might take offence and retreat back into his shell again when you hold out your hands to him. He swallows thickly, watching your every movement as your fingers unfurl over his knees, and you signal at him to come closer. For a moment, as he squints his eyes at you, he seems tentative. But then you roll your eyes, trying your best to still seem casual, and flutter your fingers at him again. 

It takes less than a second for him to latch on this time, and his fingers grip into the sides of your skin so tightly you’re afraid he may draw blood. But then, you suppose, that’s all he’s been familiarised with.

‘It’s fine, I’m fine’, he tries to shrug it off, but his fingers only squeeze into yours all the more desperately. Worried he’ll try and pull away if you keep them suspended between your touching knees, you slowly pull them down to rest on your lap as he continues talking. He begins to play with your fingers almost subconsciously, looping them through his stout ones. ‘I mean, sure, my earliest memory is Shiv trying to drown me in the pool because she didn’t want so many older brothers to take all of daddy’s attention away from her. And Ken was never really present, dad was always shipping him away to some conference training or having him sit at his feet like his lap dog, but it’s fine. I’m fine. I grew up to be a well adjusted adult without any concerning issues at all.’

Although his tone is mocking, once he’s finished his rambling thought he lets go of your hand to rub his eyes. He does a half-yawn to try and cover the fact that they’re becoming rather bleary - to hide the fact that this is beginning to get at him, actually. And he’d rather stop now, if that’s alright. He’s the jokester in the family. The happy man. The go to cheer-upper. The pathetic one. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to cry in front of you. He was never allowed to cry.

He jumps when he feels your hand against his knee, and he sniffles slightly when he looks down and sees you’ve leaned closer towards him. ‘And your dad?’, you ask quietly, cautiously, pulling the hand of his you were still holding tightly into your sternum. ‘What was he like growing up?’

‘Well, I was annoying. I- I am annoying, so, you know-’

He chokes then, and this time he can’t stop the sob that breaks out from the back of his throat like an overdue bell chime.

‘I’m annoying. I’m fucking annoying, you know that?’, he chokes out between sobs, doubling over on himself, but he’s still laughing between each gasping breathe. ‘I’m such a piece of shit’, he states, doing his best to stop his lip from wobbling and the tears from clouding out of his eyes, but he doesn’t complain when you take your hand off his lap and guide it to the small of his back, just before the dip in his shoulder blades. Gently - ever so gently, as if you were cradling a new born child still so unused to human touch, you guide him down to lie on your legs. He goes easily, taking his hands back to lean them under his chin, and allowing you full utility of your fingers. You put them to good use, beginning to stoke back stray curls of his mother’s hair away from his face, tucking them behind his ear until his breathing evens again.

He watches the sun fall over the edge of the Waystar Royco building: a sight he has seen many times before, but one that feels all the more eerie as the slates of dark metal blot out the light like a flashy tomb.

You bring him back, pursing your lips together and trying not to laugh sorrowfully as he sneezes at the feel of your finger moving down his forehead to trace over the dip of his nose, and evidently tickle it. You move onto the curve of his left eye, and it fills you with at least a little comfort to notice the way he squeezes his eyes shut at the movement. What was less welcome, though, were the few pearly tears that slipped past the cracks of his eyes and began to trace down the old bruised shaped hollows of his cheeks.

‘God Roman’, you choke out, trying to gently turn his head so he’s looking up at you. For a moment, he throws a tantrum and shakes his head in refusal, but your fingers are unrelenting and all forgiving against the side of his jaw, and soon he can’t help but give in to the love he’s so desperately begging for. He allows you to turn him, still squirming in your touch, until the two of you make eye contact. And there’s such naivety there, such desire and craving and conviction and belief as he keeps his eyes trained wholly on yours, that the words just come tumbling out of your mouth.

‘I’m going to fight your whole family I swear. I’m going to fight them all, one by one, and then take over Waystar, maybe find out what the fuck is going on between this Cousin of yours and Shiv’s husband’, he chortles at that, and chokes a little, ‘and then the two of us can burn the place to the ground and ride off into the sunset.’

Although he feels only elation at your words, he starts to shake when you use the pads of his thumbs to gently, tenderly wipe the tears away from beside his nose.

‘Stop, please’, he whimpers, but you know he’s not talking about your physical actions. ‘My dad’s never going to die, even if he is gone. Just- just- get out while you can, okay? Just fucking run.’ He grabs up at your hands, and holds onto one intently. ‘Just fucking go, okay, because I will destroy you. I’m- fucking poison, alright?’

‘No, no’, you state more firmly, when you see the creases in his forehead begin to appear. He shakes his head, and his whole face crinkles up when you admit the one thing left unspoken between the two of you.

‘You - you’re worth it. You’re worth putting up with all of this for, Roman Roy. One day, you’ll be free, and we’ll get to make new memories. Better ones.’

‘Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. Please. Just-’

His words die out on his mouth when you lean down swiftly and replace them with your waiting lips. His hand falls from where it was encircling your wrist, and after a moment of stunned shock, comes up to press firmly against the nape of your neck. His widened eyes melt slowly into a blissful, languid close, and despite the fact that he has no fucking idea how to actually kiss someone he cares about, he does a mighty good job of latching onto your bottom lip and whimpering when you go to pull away.

‘You promise’, he whispers into the tense air between the tip of your nose and the side of his stubble. He leans up to kiss you again, and a bite of saltiness stings at your mouth. ‘You promise’, he murmurs again as he opens his mouth, refusing to break away from the kiss: instead breathing you in and licking the tip of his tongue against your own. Steadying yourself, you grip onto his biceps, and press a last, ardent kiss to his mouth by latching onto his top lip.

‘I swear, Roman, I swear to god I’m going to make up for all the lack of love your family has given you. And I’ll start right now.’

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Ben Cohen

South African Jews reacted with outrage on Friday after the country’s governing body for the sport of cricket stripped the Jewish captain of the U-19 national team of his role, citing the “risk of conflict or even violence” as the reason.

Cricket South Africa (CSA) announced that David Teeger, who is Jewish, would no longer captain the side just one week before the opening of the U-19 Cricket World Cup, when teams from 16 nations will compete in South Africa for the sport’s top prize.

In a statement released on Friday, CSA said that its security team had advised “that protests related to the war in Gaza can be anticipated at the venues for the tournament.”

It added that such protests would likely focus on Teeger — an observant Jew and resident of Johannesburg who made his professional cricket debut in 2023, scoring an impressive 51 runs for the South Africa Emerging Players side against North Cape. Teeger was only appointed to the captaincy of the U-19 team last month.

The targeting of Teeger could result “in conflict or even violence between rival groups of protestors,” CSA said. Invoking its “duty to safeguard the interests and safety of all those involved in the World Cup,” it said that Teeger had been “relieved of the captaincy … in the best interests of the players, the U-19 team, and David himself.” Teeger would “remain an important and active member of the team and we wish him and the team every success in the tournament,” CSA concluded.

CSA’s decision — against the background of rising antisemitism in South Africa, widespread support for Hamas in the wake of its Oct. 7 pogrom in Israel, and the charge of “genocide” brought by South Africa against Israel at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) — provoked fury in South Africa’s Jewish community.

Prof. Karen Milner, chair of the South African Jewish Board of Deputies (SAJBD), told The Algemeiner that CSA’s decision was “an outrageous act of antisemitism.”

“There is no basis for this decision, other than the fact that Teeger is Jewish,” Milner said. “It is shameful that CSA is embarking on a path that is dangerously reminiscent of Nazi Germany, when Jews were actively discriminated against, including among sporting clubs.” She stressed that the SAJBD “would do everything in its power to fight against this vicious prejudice.”

In a separate statement, the South African Zionist Federation (SAZF) said it would be calling on the International Cricket Council (ICC), the sport’s global governing body, “to investigate the CSA’s blatant act of discrimination.”

“The ANC [ruling African National Congress] government’s political hostility to Israel and its friendship with Hamas has created a climate in which it is entirely acceptable to target a sportsman because he is proudly Jewish,” the SAZF stated.

Among those expressing sympathy for Teeger on social media was three-time MLB All-Star Kevin Youkilis. “Heart goes out to this young Jewish man,” Youkilis posted on X/Twitter. “The ‘security risk’ excuse is bullshit.”

Former Boston Red Sox star Youkilis also referred to a speech that Teeger made just weeks after the Hamas pogrom, delivered after he received the “Rising Star” Award at a Jewish community ceremony. Teeger paid tribute to the Israeli military, saying, “Yes, I’ve been [given] this award, and yes, I’m now the Rising Star, but the true rising stars are the young soldiers in Israel.” He went on to dedicate the award to “the State of Israel and every single soldier fighting so that we can live and thrive in the diaspora.”

Teeger was being “punished for showing gratitude to the State of Israel,” Youkilis commented.

[todaysbird]

thoughts on falconry?

So, upfront, I’m going to say that this is not my area of expertise and what I DO know is largely US-based, so some falconry practices in different locations may differ. I have only personally worked with parrots, finches, and other common (unregulated) birds in a professional capacity, and while I have done independent research for fun, I do not have any hands-on experience with raptors.

My opinion on falconry growing up was mostly concern beyond the ‘cool’ factor, because I thought the birds were ‘kidnapped’ from their families and then kept lifelong. This went against everything I knew about handling and treating wildlife, so it initially seemed pretty messed up to do to a native bird.

However, beyond the initial shock value, and as I learned more, I found that falconry has actually shown to be very beneficial to birds. Falconers were largely behind the ongoing Peregrine Falcon restoration after the species was almost wiped out. Also, raptors have a VERY high mortality rate in their first year. Falconers keep young raptors taken from the wild in safe enclosed mews for their vulnerable years, while providing them with food while they hone their hunting skills. When the raptors are released (it’s very rare for a falconry bird to be kept permanently), they have a better set of skills to navigate the world. Temporarily captive birds = more healthy adult birds. With most raptor species on the decline due to habitat loss, climate change, introduced species and other impacts, this is a good thing.

Falconers also may use their birds to hunt for invasive species by taking them to areas where they are common. This is not a surefire thing, as raptors do not recognize species-specific commands - they will take down any rodent regardless if it is a squirrel or rat, for example. But some falconers have been successful in decreasing numbers of problematic species like starlings, Norway rats, and others (at least on a local level).

The downside is, like with any animal caretaker, bad falconers exist. It is possible to not give a bird enough free flight and let them actually become a poor hunter. It’s possible to provide improper nutrition in captivity and make your bird sick or fail to thrive. Injuries and accidents happen. But again, this is more on the shoulders of individuals than falconry as a whole.

With that being said, falconers DO have to complete licensing programs, so a bad/uninformed falconer is less common than most domestic animal owners, because you can’t legally go out and get a kestrel on a whim because it’s cute.

Overall, tldr: when performed by knowledgeable individuals, falconry can really benefit the birds and the environment.

(For a great beginner’s resource on falconry, read this - I also recommend checking out @raptorsandpoultry and @ordinaryredtail)

[flowerishness]

Eschscholzia californica subsp. californica (California poppy)

Train Time

The California poppy became California’s state flower in 1903 but this wildflower’s reach now extends far beyond the Golden State. This bright orange variety is native to California, Baja California, and Oregon but, what with climate change and all, here’s a healthy specimen thriving next to a railway track in Vancouver, Canada. Yet another international success story, It has now become’ naturalized’ and is considered an invasive species in Australia, South Africa, Argentina and Chile.

However, the California poppy does have one saving grace. It’s really quite beautiful! Does any wildflower say, “I’m loud and I’m proud to be orange.” better than the California poppy?

[justalittlesolarpunk]

I saw your post abt the US election but wanted to ask your thoughts on the UK gen election this year, I'm trans and have a trans younger sibling and I'm honestly shitting it

Heya,

So in the UK election I have slightly more confidence that the biggest bad guys might lose, though again I can’t predict the future. The issue is that this Labour Party doesn’t seem like they’re going to be any better on the climate or trans rights, to be quite honest. So, as I said to the American asker, it’s time to get organised, to key into mutual aid networks and protest groups, to find your people and start building a green, trans-liberatory world outside the state. I’m sorry that things are so crap, I really am. But your community will have your back and you can still survive this and even thrive into the future.

[charlotteharlatan]

Casual reminder that this scene in Good Omens

(The “I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go” scene, the “you go too fast for me, Crowley,” scene)

Takes place in 1967.

The same year that “homosexual acts” between men were decriminalized (to a certain extent) in England and Wales.

The Sexual Offenses Act of 1967 decriminalized sexual activity in private between consenting men over the age of 21.

This law wasn’t a cure-all, obviously. It still wasn’t safe for gay men to show most forms of affection in public; you could still be charged with gross indecency, the penalties for which could be dire. (Prior to this law, even private, consensual relations could be prosecuted; Alan Turing was charged with gross indecency in 1952, and his subsequent trial, conviction, and chemical castration is considered to be a major factor that led to his suicide in 1954.)

In addition, the age of consent for heterosexual and lesbian couples was 16, in contrast to 21 for gay men. Many attempts to equalize this disparity failed in Parliament until 2000, when the Sexual Offenses Act was amended.

So, the passing of the Sexual Offenses Act “wasn’t a moment of sudden liberation for gay men,” as Florence Sutcliffe-Braithwaite wrote in BBC History. But it was one of the major milestones for LGBTQIA+ rights in the UK. It was a necessary prerequisite for the increase in LGBTQIA+ rights activism that happened there in the 1970s.

For audiences not from the UK (and indeed, to many *from* the UK) much of this historical context will likely be missed by viewers when watching this flashback scene. I’m American and definitely lacked most of this context the first time I watched the show. A viewer may recognize that the backdrop of late-night Soho in the late 1960s represented a very specific cross-section of British society that was considered by much of the general public to be “distasteful” and subversive (to put it VERY mildly) at the time. But that’s just the broad strokes.

Having additional historical details, beyond the broad strokes, goes a long way to deepen our understanding of the cultural landscape that Aziraphale and Crowley would have observed and experienced as residents of London during that period. That secretive rendezvous in the Bentley was not only risky in the sense that they might attract the attention of Heaven or Hell; they also risked being seen by a human, possibly a police officer. To a human, it would have looked like two gay men meeting in public, at night, in an “unsavory” part of London, and could have drawn all sorts of negative attention to the two of them.

The truth is, Aziraphale and Crowley are categorically not gay nor are they men. But they are unquestionably queer and theirs is undeniably a story of queer love. And each time they meet up throughout history, and by necessity must do it clandestinely, the historical context points this queerness out to the audience. It’s queerness the way bell hooks once put it: “‘queer’ not as being about who you’re having sex with (that can be a dimension of it); but ‘queer’ as being about the self that is at odds with everything around it and that has to invent and create and find a place to speak and to thrive and to live.”

In the present day (which will in large part be the time-setting for Season 2), the current social climate for the LGBTQIA+ community is becoming progressively more terrifying.

As recently as 2015, the UK was considered the best out of 49 European countries for LGBTQIA+ rights by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association Europe (ILGA - Europe). Eight years later, the UK’s 2023 ranking on the same index has dropped significantly to 17th place, mostly due to the growing anti-trans rhetoric in public life. Transphobic hate crimes have grown by 56% in England and Wales since ILGA’s 2022 report. Homophobic hate crimes have also increased sharply, up by 41% since 2022.

Meanwhile, in the US, 2023 marks the fourth record-breaking year for anti-trans legislation. So far this year, 562 anti-trans bills have been proposed, 79 of which have been signed into law, and 354 are in active debate in their respective legislatures. In Florida, a bill recently passed that criminalizes gender-affirming healthcare for children and allows the state to take children from their families if they suspect the child is receiving such care. This is not limited to hormone replacement therapy - it also includes gender-affirming talk therapy. Florida has some of the most egregious examples of such legislation, but many states - Texas, Tennessee, Alabama, Indiana, and many others - have certainly been pursuing the same path. The number of sanctuary states is dwindling, and many families in trans-hostile states lack the resources they’d need to move somewhere safer, meaning these families live in a state of constant fear. (“LEAVE TRANS KIDS ALONE, YOU ABSOLUTE FREAKS.”)

So as we get every day closer to Season 2: always bear in mind the context. Remember the past. Be aware in the present. Consider the future and do whatever work that’s within your power to make it a good one.

[ephemerensis]

Here You’re Safe // Joel Miller x GN! Reader

another platonic gender neutral dad joel moment. TRIGGER WARNING DEATH like of a major character please proceed with caution !!! anyways this took me so long skkshd and the ending is rushed and rlly bad im sorry its 2 am :/ not proofread ALSO!! if i published a poetry book would yall read it :/

—

“Anything bad down there?” Ellie jutted a finger towards an empty hall, lined with lockers.

Outside, the wind screamed its grievances, making the old building creak whenever a particularly cruel gust swept by. It was winter in the middle of the country, and as much as the three of you adored the idea of camping outside, the snow violently pouring from the skies argued otherwise.

Thankfully, Joel found a school building nearby before the storm. A high school, it looked like. On the way in, you saw traces of the treacherous cordyceps roots intertwining through the doorway and walls. But you didn’t have much of a choice with the weather, and they were dry. Hardly anyone lived in the area to get infected anyways, and winter seemed to slow them down; the infected. Not the fungi itself. It grew just fine. Thrived even, in colder climates.

“Just you.” You bit back a chortle as Ellie scrunched her nose, almost peeved.

“You know that joke gets fucking old, Joel. I’m not even in there yet.”

The burly man just shrugged, adjusting his rifle strap as he slowed his steps to a halt, “isn’t a joke.”

“He can’t help it, he’s like eighty. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” You shrugged your pack off your shoulders, setting it on the floor to get situated for the time being. The man just grunted in response, glancing around the building before taking a seat at one of the long tables that littered the room. They were askew; clearly a struggle took place there sometime, but judging by the copious amount of dust that coated the place it couldn’t have been all too recent. Joel was sure it was clear, otherwise they would’ve heard you by now. The school wasn’t all that large after all.

“Whatever,” piped Ellie, rolling her eyes. She reached for your sleeve, tugging you towards the hall. “Cmon! I wanna explore a little!” Giggling, you let her lead you off, throwing a glance back to Joel before the two of you rounded the corner. His brows were deep set, almost furrowed above his eyes, as they usually were; but he looked about as relaxed as you imagined the man could manage.

“Hey!” he called after you. “It’s mostly dry, but you watch your step, understand? Haven’t cleared it completely.”

The two of you hardly heard him, though, distracted instead by the rows of little blue locked cabinets you’d only read about in passing. A lot of the world before was a wonder after growing up in the QZ. It felt like rediscovering a myth.

“This is so fucking cool!” Ellie ran her hand along a row of them, rattling the metal doors against their frame. It was a wonder they weren’t rusted after all these years, but they seemed almost untouched if not a little dusty.

“Didn’t you go to high school? In the QZ?” You didn’t get to. Before Joel and Tess you were a well kept secret, and after that didn’t change much either. They’d let you out as you pleased after awhile but you never went to school; ‘don’t need to be feeding you FEDRA propaganda,’ so they homeschooled you instead. Mostly Tess. Joel quipped in every now and then but he didn’t usually have the best wisdom to impart onto you. Aside from bedtime novels, that was always his specialty.

“Yeah but it was tiny. Just a gym and some classrooms.” Ellie had her head under a drinking fountain, staring at the pipes as she mashed the button. “This stuff is so metal, literally. It’s like your own little room at school!” Abandoning the fountain when no water emerged, she turned her attention back to the paint chipped lockers, “you think they left shit in here?”

“Like corny love letters maybe,” you tugged on one of locks to test it. It didn’t budge, as you’d assumed. Thoughts of life before were so enigmatic. They were more scared of the math test next class then when their next meal was gonna be. It almost made you jealous. It would if they weren’t probably dead. Better to grow up in hell then suddenly get thrust into it.

Behind you, metal squeaked as Ellie got one of them open, “Oh shit! Wait wait wait, Y/N check me out!” You turned around, lips pursed together in a crooked smile when you saw her. She’d found someone’s baseball cap and sunnies. Ellie flipped the bill back and slipped the sunglasses on, forcing a deeper voice as she swaggered in your direction. “Yooo what’s up bro, you going to my place tonight? Throwing a huge party!”

She pressed her hand into the locker, beside your head, leaning in. The moment your eyes locked eyes behind her darkened frames you both burst into laughter. Shaking your head, you took on a dumb expression before replicating her tone, “man, is Britney gonna be there? She’s a total babe!”

Ellie snorted, sending you both into another fit of toe curling laughter. It was all so absurd. You pushed off the locker when you’d regained your bearings, walking backwards as you tugged on the locks to see if any would pop.

“Is that really how they talked back then?”

Ellie shrugged, tugging on locks on the opposite wall as the two of you ventured forth. “Gotta be, that’s how it is in books.”

One of the locks you tugged on gave way, making you grin as you pried it open. Pulling out a binder, you thumbed through the pages before a little booklet caught your attention.

“Here, catch!” She caught it with ease as you tossed the comic book over.

“No way! Batman!” Ellie flipped through the pages with fervor, pausing in her pursuit down the hall. You, however, continued slowly wandering backwards.

You giggled, shaking your head at her glee.

A sickening crunch wiped the smile off your face.

Ellie gasped, staring at you with wide eyes as you muffled a scream. Looking down towards the source of the noise, you see it.

The semblance of a hand disintegrated under your foot. The body it belonged to seemingly dried out long ago, pressed flat against the wall of lockers it clung to.

The both of you stared a moment, as you slowly backed away in relief. Until you saw the tendrils lurking in the undergrowth, reaching towards you. Worse still, the rumbling sound that suddenly emerged from the upper floor made you blood run cold.

Shit.

Ellie saw it too, bolting first but you were quick to follow.

“Joel!” You called, turning the corner, almost colliding with him. “We have to run!”

“Y/N! Ellie! What’s going on?” The man was already ready, bags slung over his shoulder with a look of bewilderment embedded on his features.

Ellie pushed Joel forward, “Not fucking dry!” The three of you ran, making your way back the way you came. The thundering sounds of footsteps hitting hardwood grew nearer. Joel lead the way, rounding every corner with his shotgun raised.

“Why didn’t they hear us when we came in?” You choked out in a panicked whisper. Normally they came bolting at any noise you offered.

“It’s winter, were probably huddled to keep the hosts alive. Mushrooms can take the cold, but the bodies can’t.” Joel whispered back. The timbre in his voice was almost enough to soothe you, he sounded more tired than distressed as he pressed on.

“What do we do?” Ellie piped.

“Gotta get outta here first.” The three of you cleared another corner, sprinting down a hall. A violent thud against one of the classroom doors made you lose your footing, sending you plummeting towards the ground. You gasped as three runners pounded aggressively against the door, piling and clawing at the ancient thing long enough for the rusted hinges to give way.

“Shit!” Somewhere out of the corner of your eye you see Ellie pull out a knife as the three infected tumbled forward. They piled on top of each other, all scrambling to gain their footing and lunge at the nearest person in the room; you. You shuffled panickedly backwards, working to get up and kick the topmost one off your leg.

Ellie stabs one in the head, making the arm fall limp and successively freeing you. You managed to stand upright, the other two still clawing but trapped under the weight of the first. Joel fires a bullet, ceasing another one’s movement as they three of you back away from them.

Before he can shoot the third, the rumbling gets louder.

You’re all sprinting before you can fully gain your bearings. The burn in your lungs was starting to settle in, but the echos of clicks and groans mixed with the pummeling of foot steps filling the halls kept you motivated. Your heart beat so quickly in your chest, you thought it might burst out.

The doors leading out were in sight, though. The wind that bashed against it was less than inviting, but beyond that— the worn mahogany didn’t budge when you shoved. Ellie reached it first, nearly falling as she bodied the double doors. The snow must’ve piled up outside.

A glance and a nod were all you needed before the three of you charged against it unanimously. Once. The doors shook and the sound resounded, seemingly worsening the agitation of the horde heading your way. A second charge made it squeak open, the biting wind flaying your skin as it made contact. The first of the infected rounded the corner, running at you full force before you’d managed a third charge against the doors.

They burst open, giving way to a powerful gust that hit you like a wall. Joel made sure you both got out before he followed, pressing against the wind to get away.

The infected fared worse. Clickers wouldn’t be able to hear with all this noise, and runners couldn’t manage to fight the wind. Most of then fell behind, the few that persisted did so slowly; sinking perpetually deeper in the plush snow in their pursuit.

Fighting against the biting currents of the frigid wind, the three of you paved a way into the tree line. Immersed in forest, the storm felt better. The trees blocked off some of the wind to an extent, and as far as you were concerned no infected seemed to have tagged along thus far.

The ache in your bones was starting to settle as the storm did. You were deep in the woods by then, no sense of direction or time— but with the way the moon hung so high in the sky it couldn’t have been close to daybreak. Joel slowed to a halt, nodding at both of you before you and Ellie breathed a collective sigh.

Ellie dropped her bag to the ground, almost falling over. Your knees felt a surge of weakness too. The snow looked so soft you could sleep in it. You bent forward, heaving, hands on your knees. If you were born before the whole thing went down the cardio alone would’ve been enough to kill you, it was much better to be born into the apocalypse, you decided.

Thankfully you didn’t leave too much behind. A sleeping bag and more cans of food than you would’ve liked were lost, but you’d find more food and you had two sleeping bags still.

Everything settled enough for you to hear again. Between gasps of breath you could hear the crickets chirping. It was almost tranquil.

Ellie seemed the first to recover, standing up and stretching her arms overhead before stilling. She stared ahead at nothing in particular, cogs processing the monstrosity you’d just escaped.

“That was fucking brutal.”

You looked up to offer a laugh. Her dry humor in times like these were enough to send you into orbit sometimes; but that was when you saw it.

The lone stalker that lurched for her before you could yell a warning. Before you could think you reacted. Grabbing Ellie by her collar, you yanked her forward and out of its path.

Instead, if collided with your arms pushing against its chest with all the force you had left in you to muster. It was stronger, of course, knocking you down almost immediately as it clawed at you. You screamed as it opened its mouth, long tendrils extending themselves towards you, wriggling morosely.

Ellie was still in the thralls of scrambling up, but Joel took notice. A well aimed bullet made it collapse. Joel rushed to help haul it off you as you screamed from the pure terror and adrenaline coursing through your veins, clamoring as far away from it as your shaken body could manage.

He looked at you with a concern you hardly recognized, not that you even looked to see it. Everyone was still a moment until Ellie said your name.

“Y/N…” she said it uncharacteristically nervously, a shaky finger pointed towards the shining red that stained the snow beneath your palm.

You raised your hand to your face, barely able to see in the moonlight, but the indentations of teeth on your marred flesh was unmistakable.

Ironically, your veins felt icier than the frost covered leaves as you stared at it; shell shocked.

This was never supposed to happen. You’d always made it through before, why now? Not you. It could never have been you.

Ellie fell to her knees, fists bunching the fabric of your shirt as she shook you, tears in her eyes threatening to fall. “Y/N what the fuck! Why’d you do that!”

“No. No no no,” you murmured.

“I’m immune!” She was screaming at you now. “I’m fucking immune! I would’ve been—“

The older man cut her off, pushing her hands off you but not with more force than was enough to make her release her grip. He looked at you with the same shock that gripped your eyes. His hands hovered you, hesitant, but the gentle movement broke your stupor. Looking up at him you quivered under the weight of it all, “Joel.”

He looked at you with something you couldn’t quite grasp. It was pity and shock and hurt and all of it but none of it. Somewhere in the confines of his empathy and loving was a deep rooted instinct to compartmentalize. What was done was done. But you needed him now. The bullet was shot, but the dust hadn’t settled.

“Joel, I’m so scared.” Tears were already streaming, and you knew he couldn’t do anything about it; both of you knew. But as his weighty arms wrapped taut around your shoulders, it was good enough a cure. You inhaled, letting his familiar burnt wood settle in your lungs as it’d done a thousand times before.

“Shh, shh. I know baby, I know.” His hand pat rhythmically against your spine.

It’s over. It’s really over.

That’s all you could think. Behind Joel, Ellie just stared silently. It wasn’t out of anger or guilt or even pity. None of these things ever seemed real, and the three of you had been doing this together for so long. You’d survived so much of it all, and she was the cure. The hopeless, helpless cure. What else could she do?

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Joel wasn’t one to sugarcoat or lie. So often he said so little, every morsel of information or sentimentality you could pry from him felt more satisfying than a warm shower on a cold day. Maybe it wasn’t because he didn’t know what else to say. You were in hysterics and at the end after all.

But it felt true.

Your hand throbbed, but not more than the feeling of the ache in your bones— something you’d gotten used to after years of running. The air was stiller than it was before, it didn’t hold the bite of bitter wind it had moments earlier. In fact, after all the snow, it felt clear and crisp in your lungs. The birds cooed their grievances to the world overhead, never ceasing their song even in the middle of night. And the stars were so beautifully bright, it was enough to feel enveloped. Here, in this moment, in Joel’s arms, you were okay.

He’d only pulled you closer, almost swaying you with him as he kept the rhythm of his hand against your spine. You could hear how fast his heartbeat, “You remember that toy rabbit you had as a kid? What was his name? Pete? Peter?”

“Percy,” you whispered after a while. Rabbit was a strong word to describe it. It might’ve looked like one before, but by time it got to you it was anything but. Discarded and trampled on as people rampaged out of cities and infectious conjunctions. It was a mottled gray little thing, with an ear and both eyes missing. The other ear consistently found itself, for the better half of five years, securely grasped in your little hands. Regardless, you loved it. You named it the way you would’ve named a real rabbit, if you could’ve had one before all this. You held it the way you would imagine your parents held you, before all this.

“Yeah that’s right,” his chest vibrated against the side of your face as he chuckled. “You used to carry him everywhere, didn’t you? Thought you were gonna kill me when I took him to wash. Would holler bloody murder, it was a wonder the neighbors never complained.”

The wind settled earlier with the storm, and eventually so did the pace of your heartbeat. You smiled at the memory, strangely bashful. It’s almost an insult to Joel and Tess to say Percy was all you had. They gave you food, shelter, company on some days. But for the first few years he was all you had. He was promised and he was yours. Percy was the first you could ever call your own. It felt often like he was all you had. Especially on nights when the two of them were on runs, and the Fireflies would stir fights against FEDRA outside. Percy shielded you from the sounds of gunshot then.

“Course eventually you outgrew him; which was never bad! Used to get jealous of how often you’d hug it and not your old man.” He sounded wistful. You calmed down enough to pull back, now suffering from a bout of hiccups and sniffles as you tried to regain your bearings. Joel didn’t let you go, though. You stayed in his arms. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, offering a small smile in its place.

How could he be jealous of a silly little rabbit? Percy was all you thought you had then. But you knew better. Joel was all you had ever. He was all you would ever have again.

“Then there was that kid, down the street. Darwin or something?”

Damian. An awkward, lanky, 8 year old boy, with sand colored hair that never lay flat and a tooth that was perpetually missing. Of course, you were 9 at the time and you didn’t want to play with “little kids.”

Joel really sucked with names. You knew that. He was getting on in his years, but even when he was younger— they never stuck for him. People were untrustworthy and irrelevant, it was hard to want to try. So it meant a lot anyways when he halfway blundered the names of your childhood acquaintances. To you what was so fleeting was important enough for him to commit to memory, as cold as he could be. You never thought he’d cared so much.

“Brought you sidewalk daisies for months! Damn near ripped his head off, was about fed up with his yapping and stammering around you.” You smiled at that. Damian’s crush on you was so annoying then, but sometimes on longer days you’d wished someone would love you with the same persistence— even if it was a silly boy a year younger than you. “But you were always pretty, anyone could see it. No one will ever be good enough, though. Or, would be.”

Joel said the last part almost as a whisper. It felt like a death sentence, though you all knew there was no hope for you. A silence settled over your heads, you could feel it in your lungs as you inhaled the air that felt so crisp and clean and clear. Lungs that were still alive and well.

It would be dawn soon. And they had to go. The world was cold and bitter; they needed to get to shelter and then continue to their agenda. They. Joel and Ellie.

And when they went your lungs would still work, and you still breathe in clean crisp air. But they wouldn’t be breathing for you.

So, pulling far enough away from Joel to look him in the eyes you plead wordlessly. They darted between his, begging him to understand their request and praying for him to accept it.

It took a moment, confusion crossed his face before it dawned on him. Though he should’ve known what you wanted.

He shook his head, holding your gaze. It was a cruel thing to ask. To want. How could he when he raised you? When he loved you?

But you just nodded. He had to. It was all you wanted. So the two of you just looked at each other and pleaded. You knew you were going to win. Joel always yielded for you.

Your eyes shifted for a moment to lock with Ellie’s, offering her a small smile. She looked confused, looking between you and Joel as the pieces started to fall into place.

You looked back to Joel again, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him for the last time. Your eyes fell shut and you felt him squeeze you back. It was so warm here.

“Love you, Dad.”

You were safe here.

And that’s the last thing you knew before he pulled the trigger.

—

likes and reblogs appreciated !!

[safetycar-restart]

I can’t stop thinking about bunny being at his snow camp while Pierre was soaking up the warm weather in Dubai. I feel like there would have to be some surprise visits. Bunny and his poor ears would be so cold that they’d need some sun but of course he can’t be alone so poor Pierre would be by himself. Although I could see them spending hours in the hot tub at the ski resort.

Oh god you’re so right. I also love how you made this poly!piarles AND hybrid!au! For that au, Pierre is a wolf hybrid, so I’m gonna stick to that.

Firstly, you’re endlessly amused by how they both choose places that are not only the opposite of each other, but also that don’t match with their hybrid nature at all. Pierre, as a wolf hybrid, would thrive in the cold that Charles has chosen and Charles, the cute little bunny that he is, would be so much happier in the warmer climate Pierre has chosen.

But nope, they’re both very stubborn and have chosen what they’ve chosen.

From the moment they start to make plans, you realise you’ve going to have to do a lot of flying back and forth because both of them will be missing you. And of course they’ll both be missing each other too, so they make plans to visit each other too.

You go to visit Charles first, because you and Pierre both know he’s by far the most needy of them and Pierre has no problem with you visiting Charles first, in fact it’s his suggestion. He could never suggest you come visit him when he knows his bunny is all cold and miserable and all alone.

And yeah, Charles is indeed cold and miserable and lonely when you visit him. It’s only one week into his training camp and he is COLD. His poor little ears are frozen!! And yes he knows he can warm them himself or even ask Andrea but no! Only his mommy and his Pierre can touch his ears!!

So the very first thing he does when he sees you is push you down onto the couch and straddle you, bumping his head against your shoulder until you start massaging his ears.

You go visit Pierre next, and he manages to stave off his instincts until you’re back to his hotel room but the moment you are, he’s growling and throwing you onto the bed and scenting you and not letting you move. Pierre doesn’t function well when you and Charles aren’t with him, so the moment you’re back he’s immediately hoarding you, growling at anyone who comes too close.

Charles joins you and Pierre for a weekend, and unfortunately he doesn’t actually get to enjoy the warm climate because Pierre doesn’t let him leave the hotel room.

[steves-strapcollection]

Tig and Gareth for #16 please 😁

Aaaaaaaah thank you so much for your request!!! I love writing my boys!!!

This is actually going to be an official scene in the the Tigareth fic so please enjoy this little teaser I guess??

Tagging the scromies and tig fans: @sidekick-hero @scarcrossdlvrs @patchworkgargoyle @starryeyedjanai @stobinesque @vecnuthy @sentient-trash @steddieas-shegoes @wormdebut @theheadlessphilosopher @hellion-child

It was the worst fucking day of Gareth’s life.

He was hungover— as fuck— and he had to spend the day with the fucking cryptid. There was something about the producers “liking their chemistry” or some such bullshit, but Gareth knew what that really meant; bickering and animosity did wonders for ratings, and he and Tig had that in spades, so…

Well, Gareth had that in spades, if he was willing to be honest, which was never when it came to the back-up guitarist.

Not only did he have to spend the day with Tig, but it was hotter and more humid than Satan’s hairy taint and that meant both of them were a pair of grouches. Tig was especially grumpy.

“I fuckin’ hate the heat,” Tig groused as he tied his hair up into a high ponytail, showing off the blond undercut that was normally hidden by his long, dyed— a dark green, at the moment— mane of hair. It also showed off just how high up the black-out tattoo crawled up Tig’s neck and scalp.

“Don’t you live in LA?” Gareth asked sourly, tearing his gaze away from the line of Tig’s neck to stare out the SUV window.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Tig snapped, which actually caught Gareth a bit off-guard. Yeah, Gareth was a huge bitch to him all the time, especially when it was more than 90 degrees out, but Tig never matched his energy. Looking back at the man, equal parts offended and concerned, he could see Tig was already regretting his outburst. “Sorry, that was shitty.”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ was,” Gareth grumbled, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. “I just asked a question.”

At that, Tig rolled his eyes. “Yes, I live in LA. Also, yes, I have a low heat-tolerance. We do exist, actually. Don’t you live in LA, too?” he asked, basically pouting across the bench at Gareth.

“Yeah, but it’s the humidity that I hate,” he admitted with a groan, shifting uncomfortably in the back of the SUV. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’ve got swass something fierce. Why do leather seats exist in a fuckin’ climate like this.”

Tig got a look on his face that had Gareth’s heart hammering in his chest, the anticipation for the innuendo that was surely about to drop from those lips, in that voice. But then Tig just smirked and shook his head.

“What?” Gareth pressed, pouting when Tig snorted.

“Nothing, low-hanging fruit,” he said with a suggestive waggle of his brow, just as the SUV stopped moving. With a grumpy little huff, Tig rolled his eyes and said, “well, we’re here.”

“Where’s here anyway?” Gareth asked as he followed Tig out of the vehicle, just to stare at the building with growing confusion. They were at… the humane society? He was too hungover and too dizzy from the humidity to deal with animals, and yet here he was, apparently doing just that. “What the hell?”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to bring you but the producers made me,” Tig sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. At Gareth’s affronted look, Tig rolled his eyes and added, “Normally, I love your bitchiness, thrive off of it, really, but this is my thing that I do for me.”

“And what? I’m harshing the vibes?” Gareth snapped, feeling bad because he knew the answer.

Yes, he was harshing the vibes, and he was doing it for no good reason. They were both stuck on this dumb trip out together and instead of burying the hatchet, Gareth was just going to keep swinging and swinging and swinging it until they were both bleeding apparently.

Tig eyed him, and standing at full height had him practically looking down his nose at Gareth, sharp and appraising. It was stupid how hot Gareth thought that was.

“It’s more that this is an outing I would’ve preferred to take you on when you weren’t forced to,” Tig responded after a moment, then shrugged. “Also, yeah, you being a bitch is kinda harshing the vibes.”

“Oh, so like a date?” Gareth asked skeptically, mockingly even but the frown that overtook Tig’s features had Gareth feeling guilty.

Instead of answering him, Tig sighed and nodded toward that door. “Can we just get this over with? Appease the producers and shit and go back to the hotel?” he asked, and Gareth felt an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he sighed instead, following Tig into the building.

Turned out that when the rest of the band was off doing their stupid touristy things with the film crew, Tig was visiting humane societies in every city they hit on their tour. He was, apparently, spending his free time away from the band volunteering as a dog-walker or playmate for unwanted animals, as if the man could get anymore fucking attractive.

Today, they were apparently on Keep the Dogs Cool duty, which involved getting cooling vests wet, filling kiddie pools in the play yard, making sure the dogs were all playing nice in the kiddie pools in the play yard, and replacing the big ice cubes in the water bowls. It was nice, fun even, and Gareth was even starting to drop the whole… schtick he had with Tig. It was especially gratifying when Tig began to smile at him, big and genuine. The full force of that man’s smile, especially with those silver goddamn fangs, was enough to turn anyone’s legs to jelly, and Gareth was absolutely shaken by it, the world spinning around him as he struggled to catch his breath after one particularly blinding grin.

Actually, no, that wasn’t the smile making him dizzy, Gareth realized; it was the humidity and the hangover. That had to be it, right?

“You okay, Gare?” he heard Tig ask, and Gareth just nodded as he stared at the dog he was petting instead of looking directly at the other man.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just gonna go grab a drink inside,” Gareth said, swallowing hard as he stood up and spun on one heel.

Tig’s big hands were on him, one of his long arms around his back and the other around his waist. It was weird because Tig had been a few feet away and crouching, too; how was Tig holding him? Blinking his eyes open— when did they even close? What the hell? — he was looking up at the canopy over the play yard.

He was… on the ground? No, Gareth realized, he was not on the ground. He was in Tig’s arms.

Tig was talking, and there was a flurry of motion around them, but Gareth was too busy staring at the man’s worried expression as he talked to someone else. It was one of the camera guys— Brian? Maybe? — who handed Tig a washcloth, and when Tig turned his attention back to Gareth and saw his eyes open, he grinned.

“Hey, sweetheart, glad to see you back with us so quick,” Tig said, and his relief sounded so fucking genuine, Gareth’s heart ached for it. Then something began licking his face in big, slobbery stripes, breaking the spell of the moment. Tig laughed, shoving the massive Rottweiler away. “Dozer, back off, let the man breathe.”

“What the fuck happened?” Gareth asked, sighing as Tig laid the washcloth over his forehead.

“You fainted, like, straight into my arms,” Tig answered, and Gareth groaned. If that was caught on camera, he could only imagine how the producers were going to spin that in the finished documentary.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Gareth hissed, and Tig helped him sit up slowly.

“Y’know,” Tig started after a few minutes of them sitting and fending off slobber attacks from Dozer. Gareth looked over at him and frowned at the smirk on Tig’s face. With a grin, Tig continued, “If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“Shut the fuck up, Doug Jones,” Gareth snapped and the bewildered expression on Tig’s face was perfect for cheering him up. When the man apparently had nothing clever to retort to the new nickname, Gareth huffed grumpily and looked around. “Can we call it a day and go back to the hotel? Please?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Tig said, and Gareth huffed at the term of endearment, glancing away from him to hide the blush he could feel overtaking his features.

[solarpunkpresentspodcast]

Is This the Last Dance Before the Lights Go Out?

I hate to say it, because it’s not very solarpunk, but it feels a bit fin de siècle here right now. Like we’re in the last days of normality before we fall off the cliff. Every time we have a nice moment—in the late spring splendor of the garden, for instance, or even just when walking the dog through the fields—we stop, Spouse and I, and tell one another to enjoy it. Because feels like that in the midst of the cataclysms that are about to strike us, we’re going to look back at these little things and wonder how we could have taken them for granted.

And it’s not just us who’s feeling this way. Lately, when we have dinner with friends or chat with our neighbors, at some point, the group converges suddenly upon such thoughts. Be grateful for these moments, we murmur to each other, where we can relax together on our backyard patio, drinking cold white wine, and watch the sunset. Understand that they’re a luxury. Such days are numbered and once they’re gone, not all of us, and maybe not even any of us, will see their likes again.

Who can blame us for seeping in this bittersweet gloom? A perfect storm doesn’t just seem to be looming, it feels like it’s adding elements to itself all the time.

At first it was just the global warming we are still failing to address. But now it’s clear that this global warming is not just bringing deadly heatwaves, droughts, bigger and more frequent storms, sea level rise, and flooding, it’s also threatening to collapse patterns of ocean circulation within the next decade or two such that northern European temperatures will drop to resemble those in Anchorage, Alaska, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada, and Kamchatka, Russia. On top of all the other disastrous effects this would have—including sudden massive heating of lower latitude areas along the Atlantic—just imagine what would happen if farming were no longer possible in such heavily populated places like Britain, Ireland, northern Germany (where I live now!), Poland, and all of Scandinavia. Food prices soaring all over the world, anyone? Plus widespread famine (and not just in Europe) and the collapse of major economies? If we were young enough to start over again and had the money to move, I’d say we decamp back to my home state of California before climate change turns us into actual refugees. I’m sure I’ll kick myself in five, ten, or fifteen years when saying our garden full of potatoes and the neighbor’s Muscovy ducks and alpacas will be what gets us through the winter here without starving is not just a matter of gallows humor.

Meanwhile, we’re balking at getting the renewable energy revolution going fast enough soon enough to avoid environmental disaster. And why are we balking? Because it’s “too expensive” or because we just don’t want to change anything about the way we live, although these arguments are ridiculous because the cost of doing nothing is astronomically higher and the changes are coming anyway.

We’re also refusing to reverse the widening wealth gap that’s ultimately what’s driving people into voting for the far right, neo–Nazis, and other politicians with authoritarian urges and the desire to destroy democracy… even though these people and political parties will only add fuel to the fires that need to be put out.

Then there is all that misinformation and all the conspiracy theories that seem so perfectly constructed to stop us from working sensibly together to tackle the existential environmental, economic, and social problems that are making it increasingly harder for us to thrive, or often, even to survive.

On top of all that, here in Europe, we have the added issue of the political failures of the post–Cold War period that have had us sleepwalking into a dangerous situation with a resurgently imperialistically hungry Russia. After the Wall came down and the Iron Curtain opened, European politicians thought we could just be friends and trading partners with Russia. Because Russia’s interest in selling us natural gas and crude oil would weave them into our economic world and make them value our markets enough for them never to want to wage war on us ever again. Thus would we lull them into peaceful capitalist prosperity and democracy.

Cozy in that lazy thinking, Europe dropped its guard, domesticating itself rather than its enemy. Its armies grew thin and its stocks of weapons and military machinery thinner. Today, countries like Germany would need the greater part of a decade to build up enough weapons, equipment, and trained manpower to wage even a strictly defensive war. It’s not much different for any other country in Europe. Which is not the position you want to be in when one of your neighbors starts dreaming of their glorious imperialistic past.

To hear politicians and analysts tell it, unless some political miracle convinces Putin to remove crush western democracy from his bucket list, we have three to five years to prepare for war. Such a miracle might be as simple as a heart attack. More likely it involves a sudden splurge in funding to beef up European defenses ASAP plus upcoming elections handing power over neither to the far right in Europe nor to the raging danger that is Donald Trump nor to the Republicans party that has been taken over by people who’ve lost their tether to common sense, compassion, and reality. In other words, yes, we really are talking about a miracle.

I’m no professional, but from my little perch here in Northern Germany, having as long as three to five years feels optimistic. Ukraine is all that is standing between Putin and the massive expansion of his war. If Trump and the Republicans roll into the White House, that’s got to bump up the war is coming to us timeline to... sometime next year or the one thereafter. Seems to me, anyway, because Trump & Co will pull US support out from under Ukraine faster than you can say God damn the electoral college and then she will fall.

Won’t that be the start of the wider war, for the next stops will be Baltic states, like Estonia, Latvia, Finland, Sweden, and Poland, plus neighboring countries like Moldova? Or maybe it won’t even wait that long. Knowing this danger for Estonia, Estonia’s current leader has already more or less said that, in order to save Estonia, they’ll give everything the country has, in terms of funding and military support, to stop Russia from taking Ukraine. And since Estonia is a member of NATO, as soon as they do more than send funding and equipment, doesn’t that drag a huge chunk of Europe straight into the war, even before Ukraine falls entirely to Russian aggression?

Again, I’m no professional on this front, I just live here. But likewise, it’s also hard to see how it will be as long as three to five years before we’re all at war, given how zealously Russia is working to undermine peace, prosperity, and political stability in the West and how feebly we’re counteracting this. Russia takes a mile for every inch we give them, spreading misinformation, causing destabilizing political problems, and committing not even terribly covert acts of sabotage. This sowing of dissent aims to weaken western countries and coalitions ahead of the overt war Russia plans to wage on us. We totally know this! But our politicians are too frightened to retaliate against this hybrid war against us , lest it trigger a real war between us. You can all but hear Putin laughing into our timid faces. Real war is coming anyway!

All of that (plus a bunch of other equally dismal stuff that I haven’t had room to mention) is why living in Europe right now feels like the last dance before the lights go out.

Is it any wonder my thoughts have also recently frequently turned to how such a war would unfold?

Will tanks speed down the little lane we live on? (Honestly, actually, I’ve seen that already, because I think back in summer of 2022, they were training Ukrainian soldiers to drive Marder armored vehicles around here. There was a week when every time I looked out the window, one was zipping by… and let me tell you, it’s amazing how fast these things can race by.)

Will bombs flatten our house?

What can I do to prepare for what is coming? I live in Germany, a couple of hours from the Polish border. So, there is somewhat of a buffer there, but not a huge one. It isn’t inconceivable that there might be fighting here, or that we’d be the target of drones.

I don’t mean to be self–centered about this. There’s a whole lot of destruction and carnage that has to happen to other people and other countries before battles happen here. But it’s not right to just shrug this looming war off by thinking oh, well, it won’t happen here.

I feel like, at my age, I’d make a terrible solider. Never mind that I’ve never been great at blindly following orders, I’m small, middle aged, out of shape, and full of asthma and allergies and chronic injuries, the battle scars from too much fun and soccer playing in my twenties, too much swilling of diet soda, and too much stress in my career. Yet, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to go and fight than it would for someone in their late teens or twenties (or even thirties), who has so much more of life in front of them? Spouse says, well, it would be our jobs to do all the jobs that wouldn’t be getting done if a good chunk of the young men were off fighting. We’d be farming, or helping out in hospitals, or riding around in garbage trucks. I don’t know if that would really feel like doing enough. Part of me thinks he’d be among the first to sign up if Germany gets invaded, even the current work that he’s doing would be critical to maintaining Germany’s renewable energy infrastructure.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about how we live about 100 miles from the nearest city that would likely be hit by nuclear weapons, should things get that bad. I think that means we’d be the ones to die of radiation sickness, unless we could stay in a fallout shelter for the couple of weeks it takes the most acutely dangerous radionuclides to decay away. But, of course, like everyone else here, we haven’t got one in our backyard. We don’t even have a cellar. And I don’t want to die in an old abandoned local potato cellar or in one of the dank cubbyholes that passes for a cellar under some of the neighboring houses.

So, I haven’t just started thinking, whelp, even though I finally let us work down the supplies of toilet paper and canned goods I began hoarding in February 2020, it’s time to build up the collection again. I’ve started wondering how I could maybe turn our downstairs guest bedroom into a fallout shelter. It’s already got brick walls and a concrete ceiling. They’re not thick enough, but it’s a good start. What if I bricked up the window and then lined all the walls with another layer of bricks? Would that do, so long as I solved the issue of the flimsy wooden door? Also, could we rejig our solar panels to use them as an island, isolated from the grid, so that we’d have lights and could run a pump a few hours a day to bring air in through a Hepa filter? We could pee into buckets and poop into ziploc baggies, but how would we deal with the dog? With paper, pens, pencils, and maybe even our laptops, and maybe even something as decadent as an exercise bike, at least we wouldn’t die of boredom. Oh… a radio! And batteries. I’d better add that to my mental list.

Then, the dilemma. We have our anniversary coming up. Should I buy him a Geiger counter? Or would it be better to wait until Christmas? Or his birthday early next year? Or can I put it off even longer than that? I don’t want to buy one if I don’t need to buy one, but I don’t want to wait until it’s too late and be unable to get one and then die because we left the fallout shelter too soon, or didn’t realize we had a leak that was letting in dusty radioactive fallout.

But, honestly, argh! I have never in my life been afraid of the future. I even made it through the entire 1980s without having more than the occasional flicker of anxiety about dying in a nuclear war. But now thoughts like these are tying my stomach in knots and keeping me awake deep into the night.

As much as I love solarpunk, and as much as I believe in solarpunk’s vision of a great future that doesn’t require that we go through an apocalypse first, it’s hard to be optimistic about that right now. I cannot shake this feeling that our systems have been so broken and the changes we need to make to the way we do everything are so great that the only way forward is for it all to fall apart. It is hard to shake the feeling that we truly are about to go over that cliff.

That doesn’t mean I won’t stop fighting for the changes we need to make to avoid catastrophe on our way to a sustainable future. But I’m still stuck with the melancholy of these very possibly being the last nice days I will see for either a while or the entire rest of my life.

[spineless-lobster]

I’ve been thinking of Be (acoustic) through a queer lens and how important it is, especially nowadays due to… everything

Obviously the biblical imagery in the opening lines is something that a lot of queer people can relate to so I won’t go too deep into that, just know that I will always go feral over “be like the love that discovered the sin”

“Be, be as you’ve always been”

This line reminds me a lot about the fact that queer people have existed since people have existed. It is a reminder that we have always been here and will always here despite all of the hardships we’ve faced throughout history. It also speaks to the idea that the very act of us existing is an act of defiance. The singer is asking their partner to love them regardless of the tumultuous climate. Queer people living, smiling, loving, thriving, all of that is an inherent act of rebellion against the people who want to see us dead

“Be there and just as you stand / or be like the rose that you’d hold in your hand / that grows bold in a barren and an uneasy land”

This rose line once again makes me think of how hard queer people have fought to have the right to even exist. We’re the rose that grows stubbornly in spite of the harsh conditions and adversity we faced and continue to face. Our love is radical, our happiness is defiant, our existence spits in the face of our oppressors

I feel like I’m almost repeating myself a bit but I hope some of this makes sense because I have so many thoughts and so little words to convey them lol

[mathiwrites]

Wildflowers, a Tamlin x Rhysand prequel fic

Note: Is this the title drop chapter???

Chapter 8

During the days in Adriata, the war doesn’t exist. No one is dying; everyone is free. It’s a selfish feeling, one that Rhysand reprimands himself over and over again, but it’s true . His father wants nothing to do with him, especially not in peace talks, so he spends his days waiting for Tamlin to (inevitably) make his early exit from the war room. 

“Bored, already? It’s barely noon.”

“They’re breaking for lunch.” 

Whenever he leaves the High Lords, Tamlin seems heavier. Sombre. As if he’s carrying an unseen weight on his shoulders. Rhysand had thought it was the pressure of becoming the Heir, but as far as his conversations have revealed, Tamlin maintains no interest in power. 

Ah, so just the pressures of being a warhead, Rhysand had mused to himself upon that realization. 

“Are you bored? It’s barely noon,” Tamlin adds, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

“Thought you might need some rescuing.”

They’ve spent too much time together. In just a handful of interactions—two days, to be exact—Rhysand can see the way Tamlin lights up with curiosity about the new adventures they’ll get up to together. Yesterday, they’d walked around the market midday, and Tamlin taught him the meaning of the flowers for sale. He’d bought some seeds that the Spring Prince promised would thrive in the Night Court’s climate and sent them back to his mother and his sister.

“My father is going to establish his terms today; I need to be back for… posturing. So, no rescuing possible. Not today, unfortunately.”

“Ah, so the big bad wolf must be in attendance.”

“Mhm,” Tamlin nods. He would rather be anywhere else, honestly. His father would be terribly disappointed to know he hasn’t been listening for the past few days. Before going to the market, Rhysand had stood beneath the window, distracting him like an immature child. Tamlin, being the mature one of the two, did not laugh. He coughed into his hand. Several times, like a grown Faerie.

“Maybe you can rescue me .”

Tamlin’s blonde brow arches in curiosity. There isn’t anything he’s aware of that Rhysand couldn’t get himself out of; he’s seen him talk. That tongue is made of silver. “Go on?”

“Tarquin caught me. I can only avoid him for so long, and since you’re the one who’s been taking up most of my time—”

“You’re the one who won’t leave me alone.”

Rhysand smiles, sucking air through his teeth feigning annoyance. “Since you’re the only one I have patience for these days, perhaps you could attend his party with me tonight. Technically, it’s still the same party that Lucien invited us to. These things tend to go on for days,” he waves his hand lazily.

“Oh… I… I don’t go to parties.”

“It’s never too late to start.”

“My brothers will be there.”

“We can meet there.”

“I don’t drink.”

“You had mead.”

Pale brows furrows. Tamlin has never learned to say ‘no’, so he dances around the subject, hoping Rhysand will get the message. It clearly isn’t working. So, he tries again. “I’m not allowed.”

“You’re not a child, Little Lord. You can do whatever you please. If you want to go to the party, go. If you don’t, then say so.”

“I don’t want to go,” Tamlin says almost immediately, frowning at the pet name.

“May I ask why?”

It feels like a trap, but all Tamlin can do is sigh and acquiesce. “You may.”

“Are you really going to make me ask?”

“Oh,” he says softly. Tamlin was just being polite. “I don’t feel comfortable. Ever since the war started, I was to stay home and train. If I was strong enough, I could accompany my mother if she chose to leave our Court. She never risked it.” It was the smart choice. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I could teach you. It’s about enjoying yourself.”

All the support in the world won’t change Tamlin’s mind. He simply isn’t ready to go that far. Instead, he makes a face which tells Rhysand all he needs to know. He doesn’t push; he just puts his arm around his friend’s shoulder and makes a counter-offer. “Let’s go forage for some lunch for you, then?” And hey, it gets Tamlin to laugh. Bully for Rhysand.

An hour later, Tamlin is deposited at the meeting room doors safe and full of veggies, as he should be.

***

Tarquin’s home is a mansion on a different cliff face. The walls are non-existent, and the marble roof is held up by ornate Corinthian columns, like an open-faced temple to hedonism and pleasure. One thing Rhysand cannot fault the Summer Court for—they are a people of culture and arts. As hard as they work, they play even harder. He admires the architecture, respecting its human origins augmented by Faerie opulence.

Rhysand arrives fashionably late, a habit he indulges when seeking to leave an impression. He cares little for the people here, even if half of them cause him no issue. They are not friends nor foes, not even Lucien who is a social butterfly. (A nagging thought in the back of his mind suggests: he would make a good spy , but Rhysand trusts few outside of his circle… unless they’ve done something to earn his trust.) After all, he has an image to uphold: the Night Court, a place as vicious, if not more so, than the Autumn and Spring Courts combined.

“Rhys! You made it. You’re late, but you’re here,” Tarquin, the younger cousin of the High Lord, skips over. At seventeen, just two years younger than Tamlin, he has yet to have his growth spurt. His flowing white hair is stark against his ebony skin, but his features complement his pale blue eyes. He thrusts a goblet of wine into Rhysand’s hands and encourages him to down it with him, which he obliges. Age is but a number when it comes to Tarquin and his parties, as long as everyone’s having fun.

“If the party never stops, is there such a thing as being late? I’m from the Night Court, and I don’t go out in the sun. It gives me such an unfortunate sense of time.” 

Tarquin laughs, a light chiming sound. He bids the son of the Night Court farewell and twirls enough to get his aquamarine robes to glitter from the motion. A little bit of errant magic after too much wine never hurt anyone.

Guests are scattered all over the place, from the crystalline pool that overlooks the cliff’s edge to the flaming hearth surrounded by luxurious violet velvet chairs or the three-tiered fountain with live fish and fresh fruit floating in it. Rhysand plucks a floating fig out of the fountain and takes a bite out of it. The sweetness of its flesh is elevated by the drops of seawater still on its skin.

Tamlin would like this , he thinks.

This would taste even better with wine, he amends. He can’t explain why his thoughts immediately went to the other lord. He’s not around; he won’t be. Out of sight, out of mind, Rhysand.

“Look who decided to show up,” Morrigan slides up next to Rhysand, brushing shoulders with her. Perfect as ever, not even a single blonde hair out of place. 

“I thought you said I wasn’t missing much.”

“About that,” she hesitates. There’s a crash of something expensive breaking, laughter and a snarl. Rhysand’s attention wavers, and she turns him to face her. “Rhysand, you need to control yourself. Remember where you are and who you are surrounded by.”

“What are you talking about?” More sounds of chaos, yet every time he tries to follow it, Morrigan demands that he focus on her. “If there’s something interesting going on, why wouldn’t I ogle?” Rhysand grew up surrounded by these High Fae, most of whom are older than him, but he likes to think he knows them well enough that they cannot surprise him anymore.

Morrigan sighs and lets him go. She doesn’t even bother to follow. There are some headaches that can be prevented. Not this one, but she would like to finish her wine and enjoy the buzz before it’s effectively shat on.

Time seems to slow from the moment Rhysand steps into the lounge room. A sitting area has been carved into the marble floor, filled with more of the plush velvet cushions Tarquin seems to enjoy. Sitting in it is half the Autumn Court—Beron has way too many sons—and only two sons of the Spring Court. Rhysand’s eyes narrow at them.

“Up, boy! Come on, up, up!” One of the red-headed Fae pats his lap, trying to coax Tamlin like a dog. “Roll over, Lordling. Stick your tongue out. That’s what the humans teach their filthy mutts, don’t they? You think you can get a human to fuck you in your beast form? Bet you could.”

“Why don’t we try it? Look at him; he probably would enjoy it, too.” Another of Beron’s sons adds. They all share the same shit temper and auburn hair. As for telling them apart, Rhysand never cared to put in the effort.

“A leash would be more suitable,” says another. “Fits his role in this battle better than any armour.”

Tamlin growls, but there’s an uncharacteristic slur to it. Rhysand can’t get a good look at him but catches the loll of his head against his seat. His blood turns to ice. He doesn’t think. Anything Morrigan said to him might as well be non-existent. He has the mind to maintain his cold and calculating demeanour, which his father raised him to have as a guise (that he should one day adopt as his true self). 

“Pathetic,” he sneers at them, schooling his expression to be mocking.

Several heads whip in his direction, none of them welcoming. 

“Halfbreed, don’t you have somewhere to be? Somewhere where you’re wanted? Oh wait, you don’t,” says Tamlin’s oldest brother and the future Heir to the Spring Court, Enfys. “Why else would he sack you with a shitty little frontline legion? He doesn’t care if you live or die?”

“You can’t even get a seat in the war room. Did you think we’d pity you?”

“At least I can hold my own in battle. I don’t have to resort to poison,” Rhysand folds his arms and looks pointedly at Tamlin. “You know that’s a coward’s tool.”

“You sure of that? I’ll duel you here and now,” offers another Autumn son. They’re rather chatty tonight.

Tamlin tries to get up and fails miserably. He’s drunk off his ass. How much did they give him? By his size, they would have had to feed him barrels of wine. Most of them laugh. Rhysand doesn’t. He simply cocks a brow.

Rhysand could kill them all. (Slowly. Artfully.) He doesn’t, though. He just plucks a goblet of wine and hops down to sit with them. The room grows darker, ever so slightly, the night containing all his rage. “That’s faebane, right? I’ve never seen it work up close.” He has. On the battlefield, but only in the shape of physical weaponry. Maybe if they’re stupid enough, they’ll tell him all the important details without him even asking.

“The Little Prince won’t die. It’s a low dosage; it’ll wear off in a couple of hours.” The wine births loose tongues, especially from the Autumn Court. 

Rhysand brings the goblet to his lips and only lets the wine touch it. His throat bobs with the feigned motion of drinking. Violet eyes hone in on Tamlin, but flit immediately to Enfys whenever anyone looks at him. “You could at least try to hide your fear of your baby brother .” His sharpened words cut are aimed straight for his core.

Enfys snorts. “He hasn’t been a baby in a long time. He needs to learn to hold his alcohol and his own.” The dark blonde High Fae shares similar features to Tamlin, but sharper and lined with bitterness. 

Eris, High Lord Berdon’s oldest son, is more than happy to chime in. “You expect us to believe this is what we have to work with in our alliance? C’mon, Tammy, time for you to find a maiden to take as spoils of war.”

“We’re in a ceasefire,” Rhys snaps, taking another casual false sip. “There is no war, and there are no spoils.”

“You really think that? While the Prythian High Lords waste their time holding hands, the war continues, and you lose a little more.” Eris counters. 

“We’re just teaching Tammy how to celebrate,” an unimportant Autumn son adds. “Shouldn’t he already know how to fuck? Leading the Calanmai is Prythian’s greatest honour. You won’t get very far like that, Little Cub.”

“Calanmai,” mumbles the youngest Spring son.

The Calanmai is an important tradition in the Prythian, and it is the Spring Court’s responsibility to uphold it. It signals the start of spring for the Continent, and the celebration itself is a ritual meant to gather magic and release it once more back into the land. All the High Lords participate, but it is the Spring Court that leads. Of course, Tamlin would want that honour. Not for the sex, which is essentially what the great ritual is, but to make his father proud and to give back all that he has taken from nature in the name of his war.

Of course, Rhysand sighs to himself.

Morrigan stumbles into the room, barely staying atop her crimson heels. “I’ll take him,” she grins, falling to her knees and cupping Tamlin’s cheeks. She tilts his head backwards and whispers something in his ear. The growl that rumbles in his throat is loud enough to vibrate in the chests of those around. Everyone watches them, even Rhysand’s eyes narrow, as she takes his hand and pulls him up.

“What does the Morrigan want with my brother? You don’t expect us to let him leave with you?” Enfys asks, guarded. 

“I want to know if he can fuck like a bull. Cauldron knows none of you can get a female off. Is that not what you wanted for him?” She sticks a manicured finger up in their direction. Not the thumb, the ring or the pinky. The one meant to offend the delicate senses of proper lordlings. “You can try to stop me.” She glances at the dark cushions. “The blood won’t even show,” she sneers at them.

Her departure pulls the tension between the young lords even more taut. Rhysand has been left alone with a room of wolves, but no matter. Wolves always yield to the night.

***

“Mor! What the hell were you thinking,” Rhysand growls, barrelling down their guest quarters in Nostrus’ home. The fae lights have been dimmed, adding an intimacy to the atmosphere. Over the sound of his raging heart, he can still pick up the soothing hush of waves.

“Thank you, Mor. You’re Mother sent, Mor. I owe you everything , Mor.” The High Faerie leans against her door, arms crossed and looking perfectly unimpressed. (Also, without a hint of inebriation.) 

“I had it under control! You think I needed you to put yourself in that position for me?”

Morrigan rolls her hazel eyes. “You lost control the second you realized it was Tamlin. You can lie to Sieffre and the idiots of the Autumn and Spring Courts, but I’ve known you your whole life. Cut the shit. You should have put me in that position if it was going to achieve your goals.” She sighs. While she doesn’t agree with his father’s calculating methods, she firmly believes that Rhysand can stand to learn from the High Lord of the Night Court. The dynamics in place between Courts have existed for millenia, as well as each of their reputations. He could at least learn to fake it. 

Rhysand sucks in a breath through his teeth, a sharp, irritated sound. She’s right. He knows she is. 

“And stop treating him like he’s a child. He’s not you and he’s not your responsibility. With the way these talks are going, we’ll be back on opposite sides soon enough.” And I don’t want to see you get hurt, remains unspoken. Morrigan turns her head and cups her ear, waiting expectantly for what she wants to hear.

“You deserve better. I’m sorry and thank you .”

“Cauldron knows I do.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, I know you will.” 

The door rattles behind Morrigan, and it's coupled with the crash of furniture. She smiles and kisses Rhysand’s cheek. “The faebane and the wine are wearing off. He’s a bit angry. Rightfully so. Good luck! Love you!” She escapes before Rhysand can try to coax her for more help. She’s done enough.

No one knows how much work it takes for Rhysand to wear his mask. He’s a bundle of nerves, full of an anxiety he was never allowed to feel. Rhysand takes time to breathe. Never mind the sounds of Tamlin’s rage, he will deal with it in due time. He just needs to compartmentalize until he’s sure Tamlin is okay. When he’s ready, he enters and is greeted by a dresser narrowly missing his head.

“Hello to you, too, Little Prince.” The smile he wears is easy. Comfortable. Like nothing happened, like he would let Tamlin walk out the door without a single word exchanged. (He would, but not without being sure he’s alright.) That same smile is wiped off his face in an instant. Along with it, his breath is stolen from him, and all thoughts are replaced with splintering pain shooting up his spine as he’s slammed against the wall.

“You’re mocking me.” Tamlin’s words are low and vicious. His strong fingers clench around Rhysand’s pale throat. Nostrils flare as if scenting the danger he presents. 

Rhysand stares into those green eyes, and what he finds there, beneath the storming rage, is… pain. Tamlin was betrayed by a brother he loved and made a fool by his peers. Rhysand places his hand gently atop Tamlin's, exerting no force and only trying to free himself enough to talk. “I would never,” he wheezes.

It takes a monumental effort to fight the instinct to fight back; Rhysand is a warrior, first and foremost. His mind flits towards the different methods of escape with varying ranges of violence. While he understands, his body is taut with loathing for being forced into this position.

“Then why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?” Rhysand keeps trying to wriggle free of the hold on his neck. Every instinct in him demands that he fight back, but there’s a bigger play at hand. He wants to show Tamlin that he can be trusted—that he’s not here to fight. When he stops fussing, it finally clicks. Lordling. Little Prince. Little Cub. Those were the type of names that the others called him. They were diminutive, making him seem smaller than the great High Faerie he has grown to be in the last decade. 

“I-I didn’t know.” Rhysand finally says. “That they called you that, or how they treat you.” He drops his hands to his side in surrender. Tamlin releases him just as soon, willing to hear him out. “I won’t call you that anymore.” He rubs his throat, knowing there will be a bruise there in the morning. “Anything you do want me to call you?”

He’s suddenly aware of the space between them. (He’s always aware of Tamlin, especially when he pulls away and shuts the world out.) Violet gaze follows the large frame of the Spring faerie.

“I have a name.”

“Well, I want to be special.”

Rhysand manages, by the Mother’s grace, to somehow make Tamlin laugh. The sound is tense and bitter, an antithesis of the wild freedom he’d grown accustomed to in the past week. 

“I don’t,” comes Tamlin’s whisper. 

This time, when Tamlin pulls away, Rhysand closes the distance. It’s a silent promise he made himself when he decided he wanted to know him; he wants to make sure that Tamlin knows he isn’t alone. If he is, then it’s by his own choice, not Rhysand’s. He rests his slender hands on those broad shoulders that have carried far too much at such a young age. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

A snort. “And how do you see me?”

“You’re a wildflower in a marble jungle. When the rest of us are stuck up and whining about our luxurious yet fulfilling lives, you do what you want. Specifically, licking walls and asking the good questions.”

The laugh that follows is bitter, now. “Never in my life have I been free.”

“Yet, you still hope for it.”

To that, Tamlin has nothing to say. He lifts his head, shifting his gaze away from a distant point out the window to look at Rhysand—to really look at him. (And Rhysand is happy to find that the pain has dulled in those emerald eyes, replaced with something much brighter.) “That’s what you can call me, if you want.”

“What’s that?”

“Wildflower.”

Rhysand grins. He feels happy down to his very toes, like the first warm sun after winter. (Like basking in spring .) Yet, no tender moment goes unpunished in Prythian. Tamlin turns to the side and violently vomits the content of his belly, most of it wine, faebane and dinner. Rhysand pulls his friend’s blonde hair into his hands and rubs his back soothingly. There, there.

(In the back of his mind, Rhysand makes a note of all the ways he will punish the Autumn sons and Enfys for their cruelty. All in due time.)

“One last thing, wildflower. Put your hands on me again and we’re going to have a problem,” Rhysand grins and he means every word. His friendship is not without accountability.

Before the sun creeps into the sky, Rhysand heads to the market to fetch fresh bread for Tamlin. By the time he returns, his friend is gone. 

The negotiations have fallen apart.

[musings-of-a-maladaptive-dream]

This isn’t an abortion or gun problem, this isn’t a left and right problem, this isn’t a difference of opinions problem.This is a government problem.

Our government in the USA is such an outdated and amended mess it needs thrown out completely and started over. Our government doesn’t care about the people. It care about the rich and corporations and to religious extremists.

With this post I’m asking all you for your help in creating a;

Declaration of Revolution and Reform

I hope to push you all into thinking about how the United States government no longer represents the interests of the majority of people and that the governmental systems we have in place now are outdated and no longer fit into our modern society and advancements. Not to mention that the constitution is no longer a gold standard for leading this country and is instead stagnating our advancements and isn’t recognizable to our modern society and values.

The constitution and its amendments are outdated relics and should no longer be used for our future. I believe we need a complete rewritten and redefined governmental documents that fit in with our modern standards and values. The constitution didn’t say anything about black or womens rights or child labor nor healthcare or any form of rights to privacy. I believe due to this it should no longer represent our country and that by keeping these outdated values and opinions for our government we are holding the American people back from moving forward.

Our government is using and abusing its power and its structures to harm the people instead of help them. This in turn no longer represents the values of the American people who believe in our democracy and ability to vote for our rights and all else. The government is allowing the Supreme Court to make decisions that directly affect the American people without the voices of the American people being given the chance to vote on it. Outdated laws that weren’t in effect until the supreme court’s decision triggering on the action of roe v wade is against the American values of democracy and allows for old laws that have long since been socially not accepted or outright unwanted be put into place effective immigration without allowing the voices of the people to choose. This does not represent our country as we see it and our government is allowing these governmental powers to make the decisions without the consent of the people. The constitution no longer represents this country’s values and ideals and it’s only place is as a historic relic and not as a form of governmental practice anymore.

No of this fits with the foundation of the United States and not to mention there are several other issues to be addressed. Electoral college is another highly outdated part of the government as well as how the house and senate work. These governmental systems do not accurately portray or represent the people as they once did as there are many flaws and the systems could use rehauling and review by the American people.

As a reminder as to why a declaration of revolution and reform would be a great opportunity for the entirety of the people of this country is a list of issues which I’m sure many of you could add to;

Housing crisis where corporations or the rich can own multiple homes and apartments and basically squeeze money from people instead of allowing the everyday people the ability to own a place to live, climate crisis and the future of natural disasters and resources which is in desperate need of immediate attention so that current and future generations can thrive, wage gaps and the fact the wealth gap being great than that of the French Revolution, and I could possibly go for days on issues than need urgent attention but because of lobbying and voting windows and all around government departments slowing the processes down or throwing them out for lining their own pockets or their own extremist agendas that do not represent the majority of the American people and just think of all the corruptions within our government and issues at hand.We are in desperate need of Revolution and Reform to make this country once again stand for the ideals of the majority of the American population and its health and safety of its citizens.

So I challenge you all to collaborate and spread this sentiment to other platforms and to anyone who will listen that we desperately need a change in this country that directly reflects our values and society as it is today not as it was years ago. Remember this isn’t about right or left or abortion and guns or anything like that this is about the integrity of this country and the wills and freedoms of the American people and our own future.

This isn’t just about you this for everyone.