love when men cry about body hair bc "it's hygiene" and yet 15% of cis men leave the bathroom without washing their hands at all and an additional 35% only just wet their hands without using soap. that is nearly half of all men. that means statistically you have probably shaken hands with or been in direct contact with one of these people.
love when men say that women "only want money" when it turns out that even in equal-earning homes, women are actually adding caregiver burdens and housework from previous years, whereas men have been expanding leisure time and hobbies. in equal-earning households, men spend an average of 3.5 hours extra in leisure time per week, which is 182 hours per year - a little over a week of paid vacation time that the other partner does not receive. kinda sounds like he wants her money.
love that men have decided women are frail and weak and annoying when we scream in surprise but it turns out it's actually women who are more reliable in an emergency because men need to be convinced to actually take action and respond to the threat. like, actually, for-real: men experience such a strong sense of pride about their pre-supposed abilities that it gets them and their families killed. they are so used to dismissing women that it literally kills them.
love it. told my father this and he said there's lies, damned lies, and statistics. a year ago i tried to get him to evacuate the house during a flash flood. he ignored me and got injured. he has told me, laughing, that he never washes his hands. he has said in the last week that women are just happier when we're cooking or cleaning.
maybe i'm overly nostalgic. but it didn't used to feel so fucking bleak. it used to feel like at least a little shameful to consider women to be sheep. it just feels like the earth is round and we are still having conversations about it being flat - except these conversations are about the most obvious forms of patriarchy. like, we know about this stuff. we've known since well before the 50's.
recently andrew tate tried to justify cheating on his partner as being the "male prerogative." i don't know what the prerogative for the rest of us would be. just sitting at home, watching the slow erosion of our humanity.
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it’s the sound that tips him off.
it’s late, half-past hell by his last count, and mactavish knows there shouldn’t be a single soul in the showers this time of night. though he’s sure if he asked, he’d be told a soul isn’t in there.
just a ghost.
he almost chokes on the thick steam filling the locker room; humid and hazy and the perfect cover. or it would be, if the man collapsed in the far stall cared about hiding.
mactavish hates himself a little for the low sigh that falls from his lips. he wishes he wasn't so disappointed; that the promises he's heard over and over and watched be broken as many times hadn't wedged their way into his heart and convinced him that maybe, maybe this could be the time it sticks.
he doesn't know what's worse; the disappointment or the lack of surprise.
he holds his breath through the steam and leans over the limp body; stinging hot water hitting his back, instantly soaking through his clothes and already starting to burn. he flicks the tap enough to take the bulk of the heat out and straightens; a groan startling out of the man beneath him at the sudden lash of tepid water.
mactavish crouches, knees clicking and hooks a hand under his bicep to pull him up straight against the wall. if there was any vomit on his skin, it's been washed away by the pelting stream and he supposes he can count himself lucky for that. he tilts his limp head back and slips his fingers into his mouth; holding down his tongue and ignores the way it lazily jolts under his fingers to check his airway.
clear.
another small victory.
mactavish pulls his fingers out and cups his chin, keeping him tilted up and moves in the way of the water again so he can pull at his eyelid.
the eye he's met with is cloudy, so dilated there's hardly a ring of blue left.
he sighs again; hand falling away and letting his eye fall shut. "god damnit, riley."
riley moans, all his weight resting on the hand holding his jaw.
"aye, 'm talking ‘bout you," he grunts tiredly.
he lets riley's head fall forward to grab his arm, pulling him away from the wall to sit behind him; propping his body up against his chest. he leans his head back over his shoulder, keeping his face out of the water and his airway open just in case he hasn't actually finished throwing up.
he takes the rag riley'd half-managed to soap up and mechanically runs it over him; cataloguing new bruises and cuts and checking if the old ones are healing. sickly yellow fingerprints ring his hips, red splotches paint his ribs; too new to have settled into the deep purple he knows they’ll become.
riley slowly makes more noise as he rubs life into his body; still lying limp against his front but his head's starting to roll restlessly on his shoulder. he swipes between his legs and carefully doesn't think a single thing about what he finds.
"sean?" he rasps and mactavish's hand stills; eyes falling shut. he bites his check, hand clenching around the rag tight enough to shake and breathes hard out his nose.
he doesn't say a word, just forces himself to go back to cleaning.
he's not sure what would come out of his mouth if he did.
riley isn't conscious enough to hear him anyway.
he runs his fingers over his inner elbows for tracks and manages to muster some relief when he doesn't find any. seems to be a pill and booze night; far from the worst condition he's found him in.
he rinses him off, running a curtesy hand over his shaved head only for it to fall back to his jaw; his thumb stroking over the thick scar carved into his cheek.
"you gotta stop doin' this," he whispers.
he isn’t sure if he’s talking to riley or himself.
mactavish gathers up riley's too-light body into his arms and turns off the shower. his head lolls into his throat and he throws a towel over his dripping body and another over his shoulder. it doesn't stop him from tracking water all the way to his quarters but he'd like to see someone try to put in a complaint about it.
he lays out the other towel on the bed and sets riley down; moving his body into the recovery position in an all-too familiar routine. he dries him enough that he won't soak the covers as he pulls them up to his chest and kicks the waste bin within grabbing distance of the bed.
he goes to pull off his sodden clothes when a different noise makes him freeze.
a low sniffle.
mactavish slowly turns back to the bed to find riley's eyes squinting open; glazed with tears as he kneads at the covers.
he stares at him for a moment as he looks around the room and those hazy eyes lock on him for the first time. "cap'n?"
he swallows. "aye; s'just me, riley."
his hand pokes out from under the covers and for all the promises he's made himself - all the “never again”s and “this is the last time”s - at the end of the day, he's weak.
he sits on the side of the bed and takes riley's hand in his; already so cold after nearly boiling himself alive.
"y' mad a' me?" he sniffs.
mactavish runs his tongue over his lip and slowly shakes his head. "no, i'm not mad at you."
"prom'se?" he pushes.
he reaches out and caresses his temple with his thumb. his hand almost covers his head and it cuts like a knife to remember just how small riley is. "aye," he says, hushed. "i promise."
riley's eyes fall shut, voicelessly murmuring 'promise’ to himself over and over.
"I’ll ge’ bett'r," he slurs and between one breath and the next, he's out.
mactavish sighs, running his hand in a final pass over his head and stares at a face that looks so much younger in sleep; bruised and sallow skin hidden in the shadows. "i know you will."
he presses a slow kiss to his forehead, shutting his eyes against the grief that wells in his heart and gets up to pull a chair over to the bed; settling in for another long night's vigil of watching his broken lieutenant sleep, ready to tilt him over if he throws up, eyes locked on the slow rise and fall of his chest fearing tonight may finally be the time it stops.
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I do feel bad for Owen. Clearly this is NOT his forte. #freeowen
I'm guessing Owen has some kind of contract to do all the covers for the "Erin Hunter" books, since he also seems to do the art for Bravelands and Survivors. Which baffles me.
When you look at his portfolio, it seems clear that animals are NOT his strong suit. He mostly designs them as monsters or setpieces, not as characters in their own right. His humans, objects, and backgrounds are excellent, while his animals are quite generic-- So why did they choose this artist to design for their xenofiction series?
The art he does for Percy Jackson and Artemis Fowl is not as jilted and uninspired as his work for any of the Erin Hunter series. He does have a thing for harsh lighting (too harsh for my taste) but the composition is fine and the characters are recognizable. Certainly not "someone tried to unlock your phone" tier. It's strange.
It strikes me like he's not "comfortable" enough with animals to experiment with them, heavily referencing zoomed-in photos and leaving it there. Note how his cats are almost never doing anything, just sitting or standing around looking confused.
Has he ever even drawn a battle cat... battling?
I don't really feel "bad" for him, OR "mad" at him, because we have no idea what's happening behind the scenes, but I WILL say that I feel he is an absolutely awful match for WC. I don't understand what about his portfolio made him look like a good replacement for Wayne McLoughlin, besides some executive recognizing his style from somewhere else.
I hope he is compensated well for his work, but I don't buy hardcovers because of his art and am holding out hope that someone else takes over someday.
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Since I saw that post about og!Cale solving a murder crime in Alberu's noble meeting, I've been obsessed with detective!ogCale, who solves crimes on his free time because he's too fucking bored.
Hence: bungo stray dogs crossover AU where, while a transmigrated RokSoo and company go around doing the usual "let's mess with white star" stuff, og!Cale got basically adopted by a bunch of weird professional detectives.
I'm talking about an AU where bsd happens in the world of tboah/tcf. So, while a member of the agency was going through the county for reasons, they witness og!Cale stealthy dropping a hint about a mystery to a near knight. Then he leaves, pretending to be drunk all the way to his home.
What everyone else sees is the local drunkard ready to cause trouble at the minor inconvenience.
What the detective in question sees is a very bright teen, good at solving crimes, who has nothing to do but pretend to be drunk. Needless to say, they take Cale back with them.
(It could be anyone, but it's most likely to be Dazai if they just take Cale with them and don't tell anyone. Though, I think it would be funny if it was Kenji the one who did it. Double-way adoption ensues)
Og!Cale is puzzled at how he ended up at the Armed Detective Agency as a recruit, but he doesn't complain. He even likes his job and his coworkers, even if Dazai keeps trying to unalive himself.
Besides, he doesn't have to keep with his trash act here. Everyone here is smart enough to tell he's acting. They're detectives, damn it. It would be strange if they didn't notice.
So, freedom.
And the ADA people like him too. This quite quirky, smart, witty and creative teen fits just right with them.
At some point, Ranpo has to tell him that "no, you're not smart. You're really smart. Not as much as me, although" because og!Cale's hypercompetence is normalized for him and sometimes he doesn't realize that "everyone else hasn't reach to that conclusion yet" when talking with normal people.
Fukuzawa looks at this sassy child and is like "I guess I got yet another son". Because, why would the hella rich son of some noble be so happy to join a group of strangers and do all this hard job? You can say he obviously loves his family from the way he talks about them, but he also brights up at the minor genuine act of care. It's concerning. Not urgent, but still concerning. He's keeping him. He's eighteen, legally an adult, and came on his own will. So, It's not a kidnapping.
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walki with me... tommy kinard calling buck "baby"..... tommy kinard kissing buck..... tommy kinard gently holding buck's waist.... tommy kinard making buck laugh.... tommy kinard listening to buck ramble with stars in his eyes.... tommy kinard peppering kisses all over buck's face as buck blushes..... tommy kinard letting buck set the pace for their relationship..... tommy kinard calling buck "evan".... buck learning to love his own name because how can he not when tommy says it so gently..... buck sitting in tommy kinard's lap..... buck getting hurt on a call and tommy is there right away taking care of him.... buck waking up in the morning with his head pillowed on tommy kinard's chest as the sunlight streams in through the window and casts tommy in a sort of halo and his breath catches and buck is so happy he made it through his twenties and the tsunami and truck falling on him and the embolism and the lightning strike and any of other myriad of ways the universe has had it out for him because he gets to wake up to tommy motherfucking kinard in his bed as the sunlight gently cradles them in her embrace
("baby," tommy says, eyes still closed, less than two seconds later, hand brushing along buck's spine to card his fingers through buck's hair, "you're thinking too loud. go back to sleep."
buck honest to god flushes at the endearment. because that's what he is, tommy's baby. he's tommy's baby. jesus fucking christ, he feels like combusting. burying his head in his boyfriend's (boyfriend!!!) chest, buck tries not to whine.
"don't wanna," he whispers, peeking up at tommy, "wanna look at you."
tommy's other arm comes up to settle along his waist and buck wants to, fuckin', purr or whatever with how right it feels. tommy cracks open his eyelids to peer down at him.
"evan," his boyfriend (boyfriend!!!) says fondly.
and that's another thing he never knew about himself until he started dating tommy. he loves his name. not his nickname or his last name or buckaroo or any variant of that but his first name. he fuckin' loves the name "evan" or maybe he just likes the way tommy says it. and tommy has so many ways he says buck's name.
there's a soft, whispered "evan" in the mornings, and fond "evan" in the afternoons. there's an "evan" that tommy says like he's holding 3 tons of solid gold in his hands. there's an "evan" that he can barely get out through his laughs when buck bursts out with a fun fact at a wrong time. there's a choked-off, bitten, "ev-" when they're in bed at night and tommy can't believe buck is under him, gorgeous and panting. and there's the panicked "EVAN!" on a call gone wrong and there's an angry "evan" when buck doesn't take care of himself and there's a worried, two-syllable "ev-an" when he comes home with more bruises than he left with and there's-,
well the point is that there's a lot of different "evan"s that tommy says these day. he's going to catalogue them all one day. like his very own personal auditory archive. something to pull out on his off days.
"evan," tommy says fondly, "i'm not goin' anywhere sweetheart. i'll be here when you wake up. so go back to sleep, i'll be right where you left me."
and well-, buck forgets sometimes that this is a two-way street. that he may be tommy's baby but tommy's his boyfriend too. that tommy's practically required by law to be here when he wakes up. (oh by law?, he can almost hear his boyfriend snark. buck's bites the inside if his cheek to stop himself from giggling.) and more than some vague, ephemeral, Boyfriend Laws™️, tommy wants to be here when he wakes up. this is something tommy is actively choosing to do.
so when tommy says, "go back to sleep sweetheart" and "i'm not going anywhere, evan", well, who is buck to question that? he burrows deeper into the warm cocoon tommy has made, and let's his boyfriend's heartbeat lull him back to sleep.)
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