like i almost set everything on fire over this

Things we learn in nursing school

One of the things that we learned in nursing in school is to not talk about ourselves when we’re with patients. Something about not making the conversation around us and making the patient (or in this case patient’s family) feel like they’re not as important.

Quite frankly, that’s a load of crap.

I’ll give you a story as to why that is.

I was talking to my patient’s daughter today. She’s an ICU RN, so my respect for her jumped 100 fold.

Her mom was made comfort care. The neurologist said that there was nothing that could be done and that she probably had days. 

We were getting her ready to go to hospice.

We were making small talk, as patient’s family members and nurses do in order to break that awkward barrier. She was telling me how she was telling her mom that it was okay to let go and she had finally accepted it.

I told her the story of my Lolo’s passing last year.

How my Lola had told him to fight through the illness and that he couldn’t give up. He had been through stuff before, so there wasn’t a reason that he couldn’t do it this time.

My mom and aunt had literally just gotten back from the Philippines after he had been discharged from the hospital when they got the message that he was back in the ICU. My aunt had flown on ahead. You can slam a gas pedal in your car to the floor, but you can’t make a plane go faster, no matter how hard to you pray.

My cousin is an RN and was at his bedside and had to make the call to take him off of dialysis. Everything was shutting down…the vasopressors weren’t doing anything…his blood pressure kept dropping like a rock.

Me, my sister, my mom, my aunt, the cousin who is an RN, and her sister in Abu Dhabi were setting the message thread on fire. My sister and I were at work when this all happened. She clocked in and powered through; I told Charles I was too emotionally compromised to safely work and he sent me home. On my way home, my phone dinged. 

“Guys…Lolo is dead sorry :( ”

My mom wailed over the phone when she called me, and almost collapsed in my arms in the doorway…

The daughter interrupted my story to say something, I don’t remember what it was. But we had a mutual understanding though. Having encounters with death (or death in the foreseeable future) can do that. 

We held each other and cried. Me mourning the loss of my Lolo and her mourning the impending loss of her mom. 

After we composed ourselves, I went to go round on my other patients. When the EMTs came to take her via ambulance to hospice, I gave her Ativan to help her stay comfortable before I took out her IVs. She couldn’t tell me she was anxious or in pain, but I knew from her respiration rate being 36 that she was uncomfortable.

Her daughter was in the doorway and told me goodbye.

“Do you want a hug?” I asked. I’d like to think that I’m one of the few nurses on our floor who likes giving patients or patient’s family members hugs.

She smiled sadly at me. “I’ll always take a hug from you.”

She told me to stay happy.

I told the EMTs to take care of her.

And then I moved on with my day. 

There’s a lot of stuff nursing school can prepare you for. It can’t prepare you for moments like this. Making connections to patients and their family member might just give a little light to some of the darkest moments of their lives.

fluffyblue-artnwriting  asked:

Could I request... BNHA (manga), Bakushima, a scenario where they've been clearly into each other for a while but Bakugou is Oblivious™ and Kirishima tries to get him to see it but in vain and so eventually Kirishima has to just... whack Bakugou over the head with it (figuratively or literally) ?

… *slides you a copy of the manga*

jk of course I’ll write that but like. Is that not also basically their canon dynamic lol.

Forgive my characterization, it’s the first time I’ve really tried to write these two. Also this got… long. Like I love it, but it’s Long. :/


Kirishima might have the hardest head in all of UA – rivaled only, perhaps, by Tetsutetsu – but he didn’t think he’d ever met anyone as dense as Bakugou Katsuki.

It had really started, he supposed, that first night in the dorms. After the whole “King of the Rooms” business had wound down, and after their conversation with Tsu, Kirishima had come downstairs in the quiet, unable to sleep. Bakugou was sprawled across the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

“I thought you went to bed,” Kirishima mentioned casually.

“You were all being so fucking noisy I couldn’t sleep,” Bakugou shot back, but there was no venom in it. Kirishima leaned on his elbows on the back of the sofa, next to Bakugou.

“Satou won the room contest, but only because he gave everyone cake,” he said.

“Like I care about your stupid room contest.”

“Yeah, the room contest thing was kinda stupid, but Satou’s cake was really good.” He licked his lips at the memory.

“What kind?” Bakugou asked shortly. Kirishima glanced sideways at him. His eyes were still firmly fixed on the ceiling, and he was still sneering, but he sat waiting for the answer.

“Chiffon. Super sugary. Well, that makes sense for him I guess. It would make my teeth ache eventually, and I guess it’s not an especially manly thing to eat,” he laughed. “But I’ll save a piece for you next time.” Bakugou didn’t respond for so long that Kirishima started to stand up and leave. When he finally did speak, it was so sudden that Kirishima almost fell over.

“My dad likes baking.” Steadying himself with a hand pressed into the sofa, Kirishima turned fully toward Bakugou, unable to stop himself raising an eyebrow.

“And you like setting his bread and cakes on fire?” he asked. Bakugou’s face knitted into a snarl, finally turning to look at him.

“I don’t just set everything on fire!” he shouted. Kirishima stood, crossing his arms, meeting Bakugou’s glare with skepticism, until, abruptly and unexpectedly, it melted away, and Bakugou flopped his head back against the sofa, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “He really does make good cakes, when he gets a chance to.” Kirishima hovered for a long moment, uncertain whether he ought to leave or not. Bakugou stayed silent. The only noise was the gentle breeze from the air vent. Kirishima began to walk back towards the door.

“I’ll make sure he bakes one if you ever visit,” Bakugou said. Kirishima stopped dead, a jolt of electricity racing up his spine. Slowly, he returned to his previous position, leaning over the back of the sofa.

“I have an uncle who’s a fisherman,” he said into the quiet. “Whenever I spend the weekend at his place he has the best fish I’ve ever tasted, they’re so fresh.”

Kirishima didn’t quite recall how it happened, only that they stayed down there, talking about nothing in particular until the sun came up. He remembered he never came around the sofa to just sit down, but at some point leaned he slid over the top of it, his head hanging down off the cushions, his legs still hooked over the top. He stayed there until the extra blood flow to his head started making him feel dizzy and he flipped upright, sitting next to Bakugou, both their arms flung out to the side yet carefully never touching. Neither of them said a word about it the next day, or let out a peep of complaint about being tired.

Bakugou was never easy to talk to, but after that he seemed like he finally wanted to talk to Kirishima. He would be rude and abrupt, but he would shut him away from conversations – at least, not usually. There was the night he and Midoriya came from whatever fight they’d had, both of them black and blue with bruises, Bakugou’s eyes red as if from tears. He’d shoved Kirishima bodily away when he tried to ask what happened, tiny firebursts in his palm warning of the potential for a real explosion. Kirishima stepped back and didn’t ask again, not even as the weeks went by and Bakugou still refused to say a word about what had happened.

But most of the time, there was an element of his brutal honesty that Kirishima appreciated and respected. There was intelligence and calculation behind it. He wasn’t afraid of Bakugou, which he supposed helped – Bakugou’s explosions couldn’t hurt him unless he really decided he wanted to attack, and Kirishima trusted he wouldn’t do that.

There were days and nights when Bakugou would vent his rage to Kirishima, or occasionally on Kirishima’s room – he cringed at some of the burn marks left on his desk – but more often than not those nights ended calmly. He’d been almost frightened the first time the rage had just vanished out of Bakugou and he’d dropped like a rag doll into the chair next to him, muttering “Stupid fucking Deku,” as an end to a twenty-minute rant about Midoriya. He’d been quiet for almost five whole minutes before Bakugou snapped, “Are you going to say something or should I just leave?” They’d talked for three hours before Bakugou finally left for bed.

Kirishima had been waiting for a while for Bakugou to say something. He didn’t particularly want to make the first move himself, since Bakugou usually reacted to any display of serious emotion with SHUT UP YOU FUCKER I DON’T NEED TO WASTE MY TIME HEARING ABOUT THIS SHIT. But really, it was getting a bit ridiculous. He would have settled for actions over words, since that was more Bakugou’s modus operandi anyway, but Bakugou never initiated anything physical, even if he never jerked away when Kirishima’s arm or leg “accidentally” came to rest against his own. It wasn’t until Aoyama made some jibe about Uraraka and Midoriya’s occasional awkward flirting and Bakugou responded with a completely vacant look that it even occurred to Kirishima that Bakugou might not know how he felt.

Watching his conversations a bit more closely now, Kirishima realized with a sinking feeling that he was right. Bakugou had no idea how Kirishima felt about him. He tried getting more blatant, at first. He was no flirter, and Bakugou wouldn’t have responded well in any case, but he tried to slide suggestion and innuendo into the conversation from time to time. With his quirk, some jokes were almost too easy, and, he would have thought, painfully obvious. Yet, they provoked no reaction. He tried inching closer to him, so those occasional thigh touches became a constant of their talks. No reaction. He blatantly grabbed Bakugou’s knee and squeezed it when he was upset. That earned him the briefest quizzical look and absolutely nothing more.

He had a forty-eight hour crisis where he wondered if he was going insane and had misread every single signal Bakugou had given him. Maybe Bakugou wasn’t even gay, and Kirishima was about to walk into the biggest mistake of his life. He went to Mina in panic. She watched him, staring curiously, as he paced back and forth, tearing at his spiky hair. When he was done pouring out his insecurities, she held up a finger, and returned a moment later with Tsu.

“We don’t really know what to think about Bakugou being in a relationship,” Mina giggled. “But Tsu and I agree, if he has feelings for anyone, it’s definitely you.”

“What if he doesn’t have feelings for me at all, though?” Kirishima asked. His hair hung down and loose about his face as he tugged at it nervously. “What if he’s just my friend? I’m going to fuck that up completely if I say something.”

“You have to say what you’re thinking, Kirishima,” Tsu said, her wide eyes fixed on him. “It’s Bakugou. He’s probably too scared to admit he feels anything unless you say something first.”

“Bakugou. Scared.” Kirishima said flatly. Mina burst into giggles. Tsu ribbited.

“When it comes to feelings?” Mina asked. “Bakugou is terrified of those. Scared to admit he has a ‘weakness’? Abso-lutely.” She leaned back on her hand, grinning and winking at Kirishima, waving him out of her room. “Go on, lover boy, let us know how it goes.” He’d left somewhat comforted, but nowhere near ready to actually talk to Bakugou.

Bakugou came by less once Kirishima was off at his internship, busy with his remedial classes and still nursing the humiliation of having failed the provisional license exam, while Kirishima would drop into bed exhausted each night after the double work of his internship and continuing classes. Still, the night after he faced down the man with the quirk power-up drug Bakugou turned up at his door, looking furious and complaining about the stupid people in the remedial classes – “IcyHot is such a fucking goody two-shoes, he’s insufferable” – for an hour, but eventually his yawns overpowered him and he sat on the edge of the bed, quieting down. “Congratulations on your hero debut,” he muttered. Kirishima had beamed like the sun. He sat on the bed next to him, pressing their knees together.

“Fat had to bail me out,” he said in embarrassed honesty. “I almost let him trick me and get away. I’m too trusting.”

“You would’ve gotten him,” Bakugou said. Another yawn stretched his jaw. He flopped back on the bed, eyes drifting halfway closed. “You’ll make a good hero, Red.” He yawned again. “But don’t get too comfy… Soon as I get my provisional license… I’ll outdo you all…” His eyes were closed.

“As long as you’ll still let me fight beside you,” Kirishima said. He dropped back onto the bed beside Bakugou, who grunted an acknowledgment. Kirishima let his own eyes drift closed as they stayed quiet for a moment. “Hey, Bakugou…?” he started. There was no response. Bakugou was asleep, legs still hanging off of Kirishima’s bed. Kirishima, as gently as he could, pulled Bakugou’s legs up onto the bed. Bakugou stirred but didn’t wake up, turning over and muttering in his sleep. Taking a deep breath, Kirishima crawled onto the bed beside him, trying not to spoon him. He turned onto his side so they were facing opposite directions.

“Just sharing a bed,” he whispered to himself as he reached over to turn off the light. “Nothing weird about it. Just two guys, sharing a bed, deadbeat tired…” When he woke up in the morning, Bakugou was gone. He didn’t see him for almost two days with the way the internship schedule shook out, and when he did, they both acted as if nothing had changed.

He was sleeping lightly these nights, the weight of everything he’d learned from Fat and from Midoriya and Nighteye on his mind. Bakugou came in later than usual, pausing uncertainly on the threshold at the sight of Kirishima reaching out of his bed to switch the light on.

“You were asleep,” he said flatly. Kirishima shook his head.

“Only sort of. What’s up?”

“I’ll let you sleep.” Bakugou turned to go and Kirishima sat up.

“No – hey. You can stay. I’m up now, anyway.” Bakugou hesitated, and then came back into the room, dropping into a chair and propping his feet on Kirishima’s desk. The door swung shut behind him. Kirishima pulled the blanket around his shoulders, shivering in the night air.

“No yelling tonight?” he asked, a wry smile on his face. Bakugou glared at him.

“You really won’t tell me what’s up with the internships?” Kirishima rolled his eyes.

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Why is Deku involved?” he asked bluntly. Kirishima stared.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you and two of the girls all muttering and whispering together with Aizawa-sensei. I’m not an idiot.”

“I really can’t tell you, Bakugou,” Kirishima said. He pulled his legs up onto the bed and crossed him underneath him. “You’ll get your provisional license soon, I know you’ll do fine on their individual test. So you’ll have an internship of your own soon enough.” Bakugou scowled.

“Yeah, but this isn’t just about the internship,” he said. “Something’s up with the four of you.” Kirishima shrugged.

“Okay, you caught me. I still can’t talk about it.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Bakugou said. He fiddled with a pencil on Kirishima’s desk for a moment. “I should just go to bed. Sorry I woke you up.”

“Bakugou, did you come to my room in the middle of the night just to ask me a question you already knew the answer to?”

“I tried to leave when I saw you were asleep,” he growled.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he shot back. “Goodnight.”

“Bakugou, wait.” Bakugou was standing, already making his way toward the door. Kirishima pushed off the bed, dropping the blanket from his shoulders and stepping towards him, the sudden chill of the air raising goosebumps on his skin. “Bakugou. Bakugou, stop.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Bakugou shouted, tiny flames bursting in his palms. “Just let me go to bed. It’s late.”

“And you came to talk, so talk.”

“You won’t say anything.”

“But you knew that coming in, and you came in anyway.”

“Because I was hoping you would say something!” Bakugou shouted. He swung around, an explosion bursting from his palm with enough force that it left ash on the floor. He was glaring so furiously at Kirishima that he took a step back. “Something’s going on and you won’t tell me what and it’s us, it’s UA, so that means it’s dangerous, and it’s Deku, so that means it’s stupid. So you’re out there doing something stupid and dangerous, but you won’t tell me what, so what’s the point of me staying?” His hands curled into fists. “Huh?” Kirishima stared at him.

“You don’t have to be worried about me,” he said slowly. “The internships are all with pros. We’re safe with them.” Bakugou’s face darkened.

“Were you safe when you chased that guy into an alley? You were alone, then. You got hurt. You said yourself Fat showed up in the nick of time.” Kirishima stared.

“I got nicked because I didn’t realize he could cut through my hardening, I was hardly hurt—” he started.

“We do dangerous shit. Doesn’t matter who we’re with. Even All Might—” Bakugou sucked in a breath and stopped. “The pros aren’t infallible,” he said.

“I know that, but—”

“Just shut up.” Bakugou’s face was dark, the shadows from Kirishima’s bedside lamp throwing sharp angles across it. “Go to bed, Kirishima,” he said. He turned to go. Kirishima’s arm shot out and caught his shoulder.

“We all do dangerous shit,” he said. “That’s why we’re here. We do dangerous shit so other people can be safe.”

“I said shut up,” Bakugou said, refusing to turn. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Kirishima hardened his hand, trying to get enough strength to yank Bakugou around to face him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “I’m glad that you care. But you can tell me you care about my safety without getting angry at me about it.”

“I don’t care about your safety, I know you’re fine,” Bakugou said, trying to push Kirishima’s arm off his shoulder. “It’s just stupid that I can’t even know what kind of danger you’re getting yourself into. Let go of me!” He pulled away violently, shoving Kirishima backwards until he stumbled into his bed. “Just forget it, okay? Forget it.” He yanked the door open.

“Bakugou!” Kirishima shouted after him. “Bakugou, stop! Katsuki!” He paused, startled, and suddenly staggered backward as Kirishima launched himself forward and slapped him. “Katsuki, you absolute fucking idiot, will you get back in here?” Glaring at him suspiciously, Bakugou slowly walked back into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Kirishima crossed his arms. “We need to get a couple things straight, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re apparently allergic to the idea of expressing emotions other than anger. And that is going to have to change, at least with me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You came here tonight because you’re worried about me and what’s going on with the internships. Because, if I’m not completely mistaken, you care about me.” Kirishima glared at him, practically daring him to deny it. Bakugou stuffed his hands into his pockets, refusing to reply. “And I care about you. Holy fuck, Bakugou, I care about you more than I care about almost anyone I’ve ever met. You’re smart and you’re manly and you’re an amazing hero, when you’re not cussing out everyone within earshot. And it’s incredible. You’re incredible. And I love sitting here and talking to you and actually getting to know you. But you’re going to have to get a bit better at accepting that you, like the rest of us humans, actually are a person and you have feelings.” Bakugou still remained silent, staring intently at a spot on the wall just over Kirishima’s shoulder. “Am I completely off the mark in thinking some of those feelings are about me?”

“Yes, fine, you’re my friend and I know you can handle yourself but I don’t want to see you get hurt, especially when I don’t even know what you’re doing or where or why and I can’t save you like you saved me.” Bakugou threw up his hands. “Are you happy now, Eijiro? Is that what you wanted me to say? Are we done? Can I go to bed now?”

“Am I just your friend?” Kirishima asked, ignoring the jolt he’d felt when Bakugou had said Eijiro. If he was being honest, he wouldn’t have put money on Bakugou actually knowing his given name. Bakugou glared at him.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“Have I really not been obvious enough?” Kirishima groaned. He took a step forward, grabbed Bakugou’s face between his hands, and kissed him as hard as he could. When he released him, Bakugou stumbled back, his face white. He stared soundlessly at Kirishima for a long moment. Kirishima felt panic crawl up his spine. “Was that… Did I just…”

Before he could coherently form a thought, Bakugou had closed the distance between them and then some, shoving Kirishima back up against the bed, pressing their lips together ferociously, his hands tight on the back of Kirishima’s head. Kirishima melted into the kiss with relief. His hands came up to grip Bakugou’s waist, closing any gap between them as he returned the pressure on his lips with fervor until both of them had to break, gasping for air. Bakugou pressed his forehead against Kirishima’s.

“Did that answer your question?” he asked. His breathing was heavy and hot.

“I think so,” Kirishima answered faintly. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you elaborating on your answer, though.” Bakugou reached down and scooped Kirishima’s legs out from under him, practically flinging him onto the bed, and crawled up himself, his knees planted on either side of Kirishima’s hips as he leaned down to press another kiss to his lips. He moved, nipping at the corner of Kirishima’s mouth before pressing his lips against the back of his jaw, down his neck, to his collarbone. Kirishima grabbed the back of his head and pulled him back to his mouth, slipping his tongue out and running it along Bakugou’s lips. He bit it playfully and Bakugou jerked in surprise.

“Watch those sharp teeth of yours,” he growled. Then he abruptly flopped down on top of Kirishima, his face sideways on the pillow next to him. The two boys shifted until they were both lying on their sides facing each other.

“So…” Kirishima said.


“Are you going to be able to actually talk to me now? At least sometimes?” Bakugou scowled.

“I’ve always talked to you,” he said.

“You know what I mean.”

“At least sometimes,” he grumbled. “But we’re clear where I stand on…” He reached up a hand in between their bodies to gesture between them. “This?”

“I think so. And we’re clear that I feel the same way?”

“Crystal,” Bakugou replied. He kissed Kirishima again, his tongue lazily sliding across the roof of his mouth. They lay quiet for a few moments. Somehow, their hands found one another and fingers interlocked. Thumbs rubbed circles and their fingers twisted and stroked quietly. Both their eyes were drifting closed when Kirishima’s phone buzzed loudly. He jumped, reaching over to grab it. His eyes widened at the screen.

Meet in three hours. Eri Mission is today.

He jumped to his feet, leaving Bakugou staring at him curiously. He stammered as he spoke. “I… I have to go. I— I’m so sorry, this is the worst time it could have… I’ll be back tomorrow night, I promise. We’ll… I’ll…”

“It’s fine,” Bakugou said, propping himself up on an elbow. “Just go. Kick some villain’s ass for me.” Kirishima nodded, and then bent down impulsively to press a last kiss to Bakugou’s lips.

“I’ll see you soon, Explosion King,” he said.

Yes, this DOES take place right before the mission where Kirishima literally shatters from a beating, because it’s me and I’m an angst queen. (Also, more practically, because I was trying to fit it into the canon timeline and that was the best spot for it lol) But hey, he’ll have someone very aggressively caring for him when he gets back home. Please picture Bakugou literally camped outside of Kirishima’s door wrapping him in more blankets whenever he tries to move and sending explosions after anyone else who gets close. Hope you enjoyed it angst and all :P

Send me prompts!

wellcrazythis  asked:

Fires, Dean

You sat back, rubbing your hands together and watching as Dean tried his damnedest to start a fire. A string of curses fell from his lips as the match he lit instantly flickered out and fell to the ground.

“You want some help?” You offered. 

“No, I don’t want any damn help.” Dean grunted, pulling the matches from his pocket again and retrying his last failed attempt. When it ended with the same result, you stood and took a step toward him.

“Dean, seriously, let me help. You’re just getting frustrated.” Your voice was calm, comforting even, but Dean didn’t care. 

“I’ve got it.” He yelled, causing you to raise your eyebrows and step back slowly.

“Yeah, you got it.” You sank back down onto the log you’d been sitting on, folding your hands in your lap and curling your chest to your knees to stay warm. Dean watched your reaction and knew he’d messed up. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It’s just… I never learned how to do this stuff. All my fires were started with kerosene and a match on top of a pile of salt. I never went camping, I never did the Boy Scout thing. I just - I’ve never done this before.” He confessed, sitting beside you and putting his hand on your knee.

“I know all of that, Dean. That’s why I offered to help.” You looked at the messy pile of branches laying inside the fire pit. “Am I allowed to touch it now?” You cocked an eyebrow in the direction of where the fire should’ve been.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Dean sighed, passing you the matches. After restacking the wood, putting the kindling in the center of what looked like a teepee made of sticks, you set a match ablaze and watched the kindling smoke and then turn into a burst of flames. “Where did you learn that?” 

“I didn’t grow up like most girls, Dean. I went camping almost every weekend. Learned how to start a fire when I was six.” You smiled proudly as you walked back to him.

“That’s my girl.” He grinned and pulled you in under his arm. You stuffed your hands inside his jacket and threw your legs over his. As the wood crackled and turned to ash, you snuggled closer to Dean and spent the night telling him everything he’d yet to learn about you, about your childhood, about your plans and how they’d changed, and about what you wanted out of life - a life with him, whatever the hell that brought with it. As long as you were by Dean’s side, nothing else mattered. 

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kurodai day (01/01) collab with art by mydearesthenry and writing by lullabye! i had a lot of fun writing your lovely idea rehn and the art you made is stunning. i hope i did it justice and that you enjoy the fic to go along with it.

sunlight, held by water
6,668 words, T at most
italian bistro au wherein daichi is the head chef, kuroo is a newly hired sommelier. title is a quote from galileo. the idea was rehn’s and i did my best to expand on it. there will be a sequel but for now this is complete.

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Keziah Ravenshade, Witch of the Outlands, has sworn never to love again, but her predictable life is upended when she takes a dying stranger into her home.

Esdelot, the Golden Prince, can outfight or befriend anyone- except for the usurpers who tried to kill her with a poisoned blade. Finding the young royal delirious and on the verge of death, Keziah saves her life. But while Esdelot regains her health, betrayal comes from an unlikely source: her brother has taken the throne in her absence and declared himself king.  As the two women travel to the capital city to stop a false ruler’s coronation, they form a friendship that seems poised to turn into something more. But Esdelot has promised herself in marriage to a woman she barely knows… and Keziah knows she’s fallen too deeply for a woman whose betrothed waits for her along with her throne. When an enemy from Keziah’s past resurfaces, a mere conflict of politics becomes something that threatens to upend the gods themselves. Will love win out?

Buy My Lady King here:

What people are saying about Kayla Bashe’s writing:

“Bluebell Hall is an awesome book. Seriously, it has EVERYTHING I LIKE. Magic. Boarding school story. Representation of marginalized groups. I love the writing style, and it has just the right amount of drama and calm moments.”

“At the very opening of [Bluebell Hall,] you are immediately introduced to a myriad of characters that you feel like you know almost instantly, along with a setting that comes alive before the first chapter is over.”

“Bashe continues to show off her taste for the macabre mixed with wit and dashing heroics, a combination that made Graveyard Sparrow a delightful read.”

Trigger warnings: mentions of emotional abuse, blood, fire. This book also contains a rad bisexual protagonist, trans and nonbinary characters, an ENTIRE CAST of QPOC, and a road trip.

so I played a D&D game where all I was able to choose was my base race, my base class, and my name, and the DM also had us choose our stats by doing a word search to pick our stats in a line (like with letters to make words, but with numbers that the DM rolled ahead of time) while EVERYTHING ELSE was chosen by the DM and the other two players

I ended up making a female Drow Archfey Warlock with the Entertainer background named Kusaeli Lianodel who is SUPER flirty and is utterly and unequivocably G A Y, and over the course of the short first campaign, she managed to:

1) flirt unsuccessfully with a barkeep’s heterosexual daughter, 2) almost kill her by setting a cage wagon on fire after a large troop of “bandits” had thrown her into it unbeknownst to me, and 3) ACTUALLY kill her when she turned out to be on the Enemy Side, which was 4) a lie because she was actually married to a GODDAMN FAERIE GOD who may or may not be my patron idk and who kidnapped her and some villagers as a ruse instead of just going to her father and being like “hey i’m literally a god and I married your daughter thnxs bye”

so basically I attempted to fuck and succeeded to kill the human wife of the faerie who may or may not turn out to be my character’s patron


Happy birthday Liam Hemsworth (January 13, 1990)

I feel that, as humans, when we are scared and thrown into a position where we are not knowing, that’s when we learn the most. For me, lately, I’ve been thrown into some pretty scary places and things that are unsure and unknown. I’m learning more about myself than I have ever learned – that’s when you learn, that’s when you grow.

AN: Sorry for being gone. I’ve been working on some art stuff. Anyways, thanks for being patient. (THIS GIF IS MINE. I MADE IT.)

Pairing: Pietro x Reader

Plot: Hey I have a prompt that ever since becoming an avenger Pietro becomes quite cocky and kind of loses sight of why he joined in the first place and all the avengers (especially Wanda) are really sick if it and in whatever way you want to write it he gets humbled somehow. Idk you can play with it however you want if you’re up for it ~Anon



You wiped the sweat from your forehead, and continued to throw punches at the worn down punching bag. You hit it harder and harder, steadying your breathing as you went along. 

“Someone’s a little on edge today.”

Startled, you turned to see Steve behind you.

“Sorry.” You murmured.

“You okay, Y/N?” Steve questioned.

“Not really, but I’ll get over it.”

“Is this about Pietro?”

“Maybe.” You admitted while unwrapping the tape on your knuckles.

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Sleepy Ficlets Pt1 of ?

It hadn’t happened all at once. He knew that it wouldn’t have, and the very thought of it doing so was so beyond ridiculous. But it turned into the small things. Things around the flat that were so perfectly Sherlock, that John could only ever associate them with their life there in 221B Baker St. 

Sometimes he would come home from the clinic and there would be a singed smell to the air but before he could start yelling, a warm cup of tea was being pressed into his hand and Sherlock was already running down the details of the three cases that were barely a 4 that Graham…



John could only smile, sipping his tea, that had steeped to the perfect balance of bitter and semi sweet. “His name is Greg, Sherlock.”

“That’s what I said… Geoff” and he plows through onto the task at hand. One case had involved a kitchen fire and some hair remains. This is of course Sherlock’s way of saying ‘I didn’t mean to set the whole kitchen towel on fire… Just the hair fragments. Please don’t be mad. Drink your tea, John.” Of course he only said this last part out load and some how, in John’s ears it came across fond and almost endearing. 

It was always small things like that. 

Then, not unlike plunging into a cold swimming pool, he had fell in completely and there was nothing for it. Sherlock just didn’t feel things like that. But that was just fine. Everything was fine. He could cope. They had cases and take away and small spats over the spliced fingers and congealed blood in the fridge next to said take away. And with that, he could easily be happy for the rest of his days, even when the longing got to be too much and the guilt would burn into his skin as he took himself in hand and thought only of dark curls and bowed lips and pressing into those sharp angled hips. And always, his flatmate’s name caught just behind his teeth, like a pray he knew would never be answered. 

And so their life went on. For weeks and months and then finally, one night, after a particularly bad chase that found Sherlock badly bruised after knocking the jewel thief to the ground and even worse, cut from elbow to shoulder from the knife the criminal was wielding, the pair found themselves as they usually did after cases had gone like this; sitting in their kitchen, John cleaning the wounds while Sherlock sat quietly, filing away his observations and trying not to squirm. 

“I told you…”

“I was perfectly aware that he had a knife, John.” Sherlock snipped back defensively. 

“And yet here we are, me stitching you up yet again.” John grumbled. He sighed through his nose, dabbing at the last bits of gravel that had managed to embed themselves into the gash. “It’s not terribly deep but still. It could have been a lot worse.” He couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice and he knew it the moment the words were out. In for a penny… In for a pound. “What if he had manged to get at something important, Sherlock? What if I wasn’t able to stitch you back up.” Suddenly, there was heat in his voice and something dark from deep within him snapped. “I… I couldn’t lose you again, Sherlock.” And suddenly it’s out. Suddenly the world has collapsed around them and those words were left hanging in the air like dew caught in a web. 

John couldn’t bring himself to look up at his roommate as he started stitching the ruined flesh back together. He managed to keep the tremble that was wrecking the rest of his body out of his hands as he worked. It was only when the cool fingers slid across his face that he realized Sherlock was even paying attention. Usually by then, he would be so far gone in his mind palace that John’s reprimands often went unheeded. 

The blonde looked up to find green eyes fixed on his own dark blue ones. They were softer than he had ever seen them and something in him ached. “I…” It was all he could do not to start yelling, to start crying, to start giggling crazily at the whole damned thing. Sherlock’s hand was impossibly gentle on his face as he let his fingers trace the edge of John’s stubbled jaw. 

“Please John,” and that gave him pause, “It was never my intention to make you think I would ever be purposely reckless, knowing how much the last time I did so, hurt you beyond measure.” Those soft green eyes searched his face, almost begging for permission that the shorter man would always ALWAYS freely give. There was never need for permission. Not for Sherlock. Not ever.

He pressed up into the man in front of him before he could convince himself otherwise, and brushed his lips softly, hesitantly, ever so carefully across that impossibly clever mouth. He pulled back a little, leaving the room for the other man to reject him if he so choose. He braced himself for the possibility but it never came as Sherlock bent down and crushed their mouths together, all hesitation and doubt leaving both of them. 

Scattered Thoughts on Shipping Korvira

My tiny trash ship feels so under appreciated and often misunderstood. People complain”Ah but they tried to kill each other!” or “They’re too similar to work!” (Both which I addressed here), among probably other arguments which I can’t think of right now.

I’ve recently seen a post questioning what Kuvira even has to offer Korra, to which I retaliate with what does anyone have to offer Korra at this point? She’s got it. She’s more powerful than ever, level headed, and loves and understands herself to know what it is that she needs. She has become more wise, thoughtful, and authoritative. What does anyone have to offer Korra but their friendship, support, devotion and the occasional wise words? No one is going to have anything groundbreaking to offer Korra that’s going to substantially change her life at this point, but a continuation of the above are of the greatest things a person can offer her.

While both parties in a relationship will impact each other, there have been several times in the series where Korra has had a more substantial impact on a friend’s life than her friend has had on hers (though the impacts both ways were important), and in return those friends were supportive, devoted, and they became some of my favorite relationships in the show, both because of that and how their personalities play off of each other..

Korra definitely has more to offer Kuvira in terms of a personal impact, but in turn, I can see a very similar situation to the above playing out.

Korra could have such a powerful ally and friend in Kuvira.

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What I find so refreshing about Nomi and Amanita’s relationship is that there’s really no ‘How Will The Partner React to Nomi’s Supernatural Nature?” There’s no like suspense towards Nomi on Amanita’s part, it just is. Amanita just, accepts, and puts Nomi above a doctor who almost successfully lobotomizes without Nomi’s consent. Amanita literally sets off a fire alarm because she values Nomi’s consent above everything and above a doctor who supposedly knows more than them. Amanita still shelters Nomi after Nomi confesses that she possesses some sort of supernatural power. 

I’m just so tired of the whole like “I have a power I must keep secret from my partner at all Times” and sense8 skips over that and makes it so Nomi is not at all scared that Amanita will not believe or accept her because, what the fuck, there could be a whole different story there to explore instead of that tired, tired trope.

dalledayul-deactivated20170322  asked:

Can you please try not to post anything about the 2011 London Riots? I know about what you post, but those riots were awful. They may have started off well (protesting the murder of a guy named Mark Duggan), but they descended into a bunch of twats setting shit on fire and looting anything that cast a shadow. Please don't glorify that shit.


Look, I get asks and comments like this about almost everything I post, from people smashing a store window to hitting a nazi to blocking a street to even just protesting in general. There’s always someone who thinks that what the people fighting oppression are doing is just a little too forceful or too impolite or too inconvenient. What I do try to avoid posting are right-wing riots, or non-political riots over sports wins and losses and shit like that.

About the looting during the 2011 London riots: You see this regularly when you have riots in poorer areas where riots over social issues can turn into looting and I don’t think that deligitimizes the original intent of the riots or the protests at all, and I can see where the looting comes from. To quote an article by someone better at words than me:

“I have sympathies with the hooded kids on the streets of our cities, if only because they’re among the most neglected, ridiculed and dismissed people in Britain. I don’t sympathise when they’re breaking into my house. I don’t sympathise when they’re setting fire to local shops, when they’re mugging and intimidating.

But when I see the TV shots of them in Manchester city centre, breaking into the Arndale Centre – a truly Debordian Palace of Consumerism – stealing shoes and tracksuits, I find it hard to be overly critical. These are kids brought up in an age of buy and sell. Labels, logos, status, advertising. This is the world we’ve given them; a world they’re throwing back at us.

Andrew Maxwell, an Irish comedian, put it best: ‘Create a society that values material things above all else. Strip it of industry. Raise taxes for the poor and reduce them for the rich and for corporations. Prop up failed financial institutions with public money. Ask for more tax, while vastly reducing public services. Put adverts everywhere, regardless of people’s ability to afford the things they advertise. Allow the cost of food and housing to eclipse people’s ability to pay for them. Light blue touch paper.’ “