#break from regularly scheduled program

[heartmender]

tan lines

please read this VERY good johndave fanfic by my bestie @voloth !!

[akabaka-dev]

how it feels to run a Merchant build in metaphor ReFantazio

[everykiba]

Happy birthday Kiba & Akamaru!!!

from naruto official on twitter

[basiatlu]

Fun fact: I obsessively drew Pokémon for 8 months thinking I could easily draw 151+ sticker designs in a reasonable amount of time

[abirddogmoment]

Something unique to Rory out of all my dogs so far is how she needs dedicated focused attention during the day. At least once a day I have to put aside what I'm doing and give her my full attention in the form of full body pets, snuggles, or smooches. I call this Rory Appreciation Time and it is extremely cute.

[the-californicationist]

Goldfish (SanSan AU) - 1/8

Sansa grabs a drink with her sister after winning her court case over the murder of Ramsay Bolton. A judge decides there is not enough evidence to claim she trained those hounds to eat him alive. At the bar, Sansa runs into the only hound she couldn’t tame: Sandor Clegane.

Warnings: descriptions of abuse, canon-mentioned abuse and domestic violence, mention of ramsay bolton, modern au, oral and vaginal sex

Sansa’s lawyer sat stoically beside her as Judge Ryker read out the verdict. In the case of first degree murder of Mr. Ramsay Bolton, Sansa Stark was not guilty. In the case of his manslaughter, she was also not guilty. The jury claimed that there was no evidence which showed that Ms. Stark exhibited prior control over the hounds of Winterfell manor, nor could they find any substantial evidence that she would be able to restrain a man as strong as Mr. Bolton without evidence of a struggle. His death was an accident.

A loud strike of the gavel made Sansa jump slightly in her stiff seat. Case closed.

“You’re free to go, Ms. Stark. May the Gods be merciful to you on your journey home,” her lawyer shook her hand and left her there, staring down at the dark, wooden table.

The eldest remaining Stark stayed seated for some time. Her pale hands lay clasped together as if still cuffed, unmoving. She breathed in deeply, but it was ragged at the end. As she tried to reach for that full gasp of oxygen, Sansa was halted by a small sob. She shuddered, not crying, yet still in some sort of ugly pain. A sick feeling ravaged her from her chest and into her throat. She breathed in again, pressing her feet so hard down into the bottoms of her patent leather pumps that her toes began to burn with pain. She wished, fleetingly, that her feet would kindle, and that she could catch fire, searing herself in the flames and consuming this goddamn wooden table for fuel, choking on her own soot and smoke. Suffocating in her own blaze. So much of her had already been licked away by others’ embers; maybe there was no tinder left to ignite? Just ash.

Everyone in the courtroom had almost filed out. A small hand caught her arm, shaking her from her internal inferno.

“Sans,” Arya said, “Let’s go. I parked out back.”

Sansa followed her sister dutifully. Arya was dressed up, if it could be called that. She wore black from head to toe; leather boots, men’s cargo trousers, a knit tunic, and a long, woolen pea coat. The younger Stark girl did not own makeup, nor would she wear any, and her hair was shorn into a buzz cut. Her skin was tanned, but clear, and her hands were shoved deep into her pockets, defensively. Sansa hadn’t seen her in more than four months, but she was glad she was with her now. She had even been kind enough to let her stay at her place while Sansa went through the last part of the trial.

Sansa climbed into the passenger side of Arya’s sporty little Mazda. Her sister eyed her, hesitantly, from the driver’s seat, round aviators sliding down her nose as she checked the parking garage for signage.

“So, where to?” Arya asked, genuinely unsure if Sansa would know.

Sansa sighed,

“I need a drink.”

Arya smiled,

“I know just the place.”

They had driven all the way to the northernmost point of the city; most people didn’t even consider it to still be London. Arya’s place that she knew so well was called The Wildling, and it was a true dive. Sansa didn’t care. As long as someone gave her a neat scotch and a chair, she would deal with whatever nonsense followed with it.

The bar was large, masculine, and smoky. It was filled with darts and pool, and it wasn’t the sort of spot to host hen parties. The walls were concrete block, painted back, and the floor was whatever material existed between dirt and tile. Sansa’s heels made a crispy noise as her soles walked over the stickiness of the floor. Heavy metal rattled through the building. Sansa expected to be overwhelmed by the sensory overload, but she didn’t really feel anything at all anymore. Ramsay had made sure of that.

The barkeep waved at Arya and came over to serve her. Arya turned to her sister,

“You want the usual?”

Sansa nodded. Arya knew what she drank these days. It was always hard liquor, and it was nearly impossible for her to order anything but scotch. Ramsay had been a gin drinker, Tyrion had been a wino, and Joffrey had preferred vodka, of course. Sansa hated the bloating that came with beer, so whisky it was.

Drink secured, Sansa sat down at a small table facing a window. She watched Arya for a moment to see if she would join her, but she had gotten stuck into a conversation with the bar staff. Sansa turned back to staring into the blackness of the night, admiring the wet gleam of the cobblestones in the street outside, and wishing she had made different choices.

Suddenly, the roar of a motorbike ripped her from her thoughts. It sped toward the bar, only to pull into a space right in front of Sansa’s viewpoint. Its rider, a staggeringly large man, killed the engine and stepped down from the dark machine, ruthlessly kicking the peg into place. He was dressed in black leather pants that strained against his muscular legs. His broad back was covered in a matching moto jacket, no patches. His helmet hid his entire face with a black visor, and the only identifying symbol was a small, silver dog painted on the side near where his jaw would lie, its mouth wide and snarling. As an icy cold realization ran down her spine, Sansa stared out the window and gazed up at a form she had not seen for a long time. It was the Hound.

[robobrainmurdermysterytheatre]

I've been waiting to confirm an official fundraiser for this before posting, and this one appears to be legitimate. Please consider helping Briana Boston's legal fund here: https://gofund.me/0dc5a077

Briana Boston is the woman who had a medical claim denied and ended her call with Blue Cross Blue Shield by allegedly saying “Delay, deny, depose. You people are next," echoing the words on the bullet casings found at the scene of the shooting of United Healthcare CEO Brian Johnson.

I have worked in customer service for about 15 years, but for those of you who haven't, it's not uncommon to deal with people making threats and employers, let alone police, do not typically respond in any fashion. If you have an especially shitty employer, threats will get the customer what they want. Best case scenario your employer denies them service. The words weren't even a direct threat!

Make no mistake - this is a politically motivated arrest designed to strike fear into people speaking out in support of the movement that has begun in the wake of Thompson's killing.

Her arrest is a wholehearted slap in the face to every person who has been legitimately and personally threatened only to be told by law enforcement it's "freedom of speech," and there's nothing they can do. This happens on a regular basis, sometimes up until the point that the aggressor ends up making good on their threats.

If you are financially able, please show some solidarity and donate to her legal fund. Even if you can't, please reblog this so it gets in front of the people who can or post the link to your own blog to boost it. I wanna see the same energy everyone had for Luigi for Briana as well!

[namtan]

firstmix → benzatthanin

[usernyoom]

24/08/23, Zandvoort - Yuki Tsunoda talks to media during the run-up to the 2023 Dutch Grand Prix

📸 by Peter Fox

[a-couple-of-notes]

Yesterday I voted for Kamala Harris.

It was a struggle. I applied for a mail-in ballot, and though I had listed my mailing address on the application as my current residence, and had received mail-in ballots to that address before, my county sent my ballot to my former college dorm that I'd moved out of three years ago. (This was partially my fault; I hadn't updated my voter registration since then.)

Three weeks before the election, when the ballot didn't come, I called my county elections office. I'd seen that the ballot was sent to the wrong address, and I just wanted to cancel it and vote in person. (I didn't trust the time it would take to mail a new one.) They told me I would have to submit a cancellation form. I was in the middle of moving to another apartment, so I had to go down to the library, get a library card, print out the form, go to the post office, and buy envelopes and stamps before I could mail the thing. But I did.

Later, I decided to call the elections office again, just to make sure the cancellation form had gone through and I could vote in person. The support worker (who was very nice) eventually confirmed that the county does not process cancellation forms after mail-in ballots have been sent out. I also could not vote in person without surrendering the unmarked mail-in ballot to a poll worker on Election Day. So either way, I would have to retrieve my mail-in ballot from the address it was sent to (which, again, was a college dorm I had not lived in for three years).

So I got off the phone. I looked some things up.

And I got on a train and went back to that college dorm.

Luckily, I only live an hour from my old college. I had totally forgotten which building I lived in for that final semester, so I had to dredge up my moving-in instructions from 2021(!!) from the bottom of my saved emails. I also pulled up my voter registration so I could show the security guard that my ballot was sent here.

I walked in, and the security guard looked at me. I said, "This might be weird, but I lived here three years ago, and my ballot was sent here?"

Miraculously, the security guard said, "Oh, yeah, I remember you. Go on in." (I did not realize I was that memorable.)

The student working the mail counter wanted me to tap my student ID. I told her I'd graduated and didn't live here anymore, but she said it didn't matter--I guess I was still somehow in their registry. Also miraculously, I still had the student ID.

And the most miraculous of all: they still had the fucking ballot.

I'd retrieved my ballot--somehow. I went home. I filled it out for Kamala Harris. I called the elections office a third time to make sure that the cancellation form absolutely 100% would not go through after I cast the ballot and render it void. They assured me it would not. They also told me that I couldn't drop my completed ballot off at the polling place, which I did not know at the time; I had to go to one of the county's designated dropboxes.

I did, on November 5th. I drove forty-five minutes to the dropbox and put my ballot for Harris into the damn slot. A sweet old lady gave me my "I VOTED" sticker.

My story's pretty funny. All of the things that happened to me were inconveniences, miscommunications, or the consequences of my errors. Plenty of other people faced true voter suppression, including damaged ballots, more convoluted processes, and pressure from family or intimate partners. But I'm writing this down because I want it to be known that I did fight, I did try my goddamn best, and so did so many other kind, brave people in this country. I don't want that to be forgotten.

We'll keep fighting. We'll keep trying. We'll find moments of surprising grace and kindness, like that security guard who recognized me or the fact that my ballot had been kept safe in that mailing room for almost a month. And come 2028, we had better fight harder.

[crownomancer]

Rebel - Basim Ibn Ishaq

[ducks-and-other-birds-enjoyer]

every new bit of information i hear about this movie makes me even more upset it got tax write-off'd so this is how i cope

[paulmccartneyexplodingonstage]

i love starting a mural today for an event on tuesday and then having torrential downpours completely destroy all my work :D

[everykiba]

kiba and akamaru icons from naruto official twitter!

[imaginepostingonmain]

i try to like. go kind of 50/50 on the oc vs liveblog content depending how much time and space i have in a day and im soooo sorry* today's going to be more of an oc day x)

* im not sorry at all. perceive them.

[thedawningofthehour]

oh god, you handshake me like please let me just

yeet the uterus out

donate it to someone who actually wants it

i hope you feel better soon, shit sucks when your internal organs are trying to kill you

I've actually thought about selling my eggs because you can apparently make some good money that way, but you have to be on some crazy hormones to do it, plus I have a family history of depression and other mental illnesses so parents would definitely not want my genetics. And some places won't even let you do it if you don't have two kids already, because it can cause fertility issues down the road and whenever a woman says she doesn't want kids a doctor just pats her on the head and tells her she's a foolish child and doesn't know what she wants.

I'm actually not averse to having kids, I just...really don't want to be pregnant. That freaks me out. I'm not a huge fan of the baby stage either, (like, they're cute, but I can admire cuteness from far away without dealing with the rest of the bullshit) but having a thing INSIDE me? For months? And I can't take it out? And the whole thing that happens when it does come out?! No thank you. I can admire the beauty of life and understand why a lot of people want to undergo that specific miracle while not wanting to touch it myself.

I am feeling a lot better today, thank you. I got my heating pad and I took less drugs, so my brain isn't leaking out my ears.