how i’m feeling today and probably the rest of my life:
RIP Andre Braugher. gone too soon but never forgotten. thank you for bringing Raymond Holt into our lives and beautifully portrayed a queer black man in power. i’ll always cherish you and Captain Holt in my heart 🤍🕊️
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I think Deku has a bit of a mean streak, actually. he’s no Bakugou—that’s for sure—but he’s not this innocent, sweet angel baby that the media has painted him out to be. but you only catch it when you least expect it, when you’re pushing his nerves, when the stakes to everything around him are high, when he’s tired of endless sleepless nights and just—snaps.
“Oh?” you go, grin unfurling like some grinch, chin resting on your hands as you leer at him from across his expansive desk. “You’re mean.” your words are teasing, a snarl that curls your mouth up. Deku stutters, eyes going wide, jaw snapping shut in surprise as he tries to think back on how rude he just sounded.
“No, I’m not—I mean, you wouldn’t stop and I just—there’s a lot on my plate right now—and you just—you keep on—I’m not—I’m not mean.” He’s sputtering, hands all over the place, the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose falling even lower with how he jabbers on and on. it’s endearing really, to see how he tries to upkeep his image of being so kind and understanding, even though his nostrils just flared at you. and his eyebrows turned down and he gritted at you, his hands were balled into fists, his words were so nasty, so ugly, so unbecoming for Deku.
you liked it. loved it even—vowed to get him like this every single fucking second that you could.
you pick and poke at him whenever you see him, teasing him and pulling at him. pushing him around even though the hero is so much stronger than you, so much bigger. and he lets you, tries to defend himself but—that’s not what you want. you want the ugliness, the snark, the mean.
he snaps, eventually, when you least expect it. grabs you up in black whip when you go to push him against the wall for the third time in only a minute, his eyes suddenly dark, the aura of the room suddenly charged.
“That’s what I was looking for.” you whisper to him, the grin spreading your face quickly dissipating in only seconds when you become the prey. when you become the one pushed up against the wall with teeth at your neck, a hand in your underwear, bullying your hole with too thick fingers.
“Why do you want me to act like this? Be so mean to you, huh?” he sounds so frustrated with himself, with you, growling and nipping and licking when you don’t answer quick enough. but your breath is caught in your lungs because finally—finally, did you get what you wanted. it just took a little bit of pushing, you suppose.
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someone should have stopped me from putting these side by side but here we are. i can't do this anymore what the fuck.
a difference from at least six thousand years—and they are completely different people, crowley is absolutely right about that. the starmaker was lost in the fall, and crowley has been trying to find himself again ever since.
the final fifteen robbed him of anything light that was still persevering, because crowley's don't bother is him giving up. he's done. he can't do this anymore and then he still waits.
he still waits.
and he will keep waiting.
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It is interesting how much math comes into even the most basic of like. Making things. Making almost anything. And often not numbers necessarily but proportions and geometry. I think all the time about how castles were built with geometry at the heart of it. And I use the same kind of proportional math to make socks fit. And none of my pieces are ever knit with a prime number of stitches--because you use factors to make neat colorwork and ribbing and different stitches. Idk ! I remember constantly thinking 'how the hell is THIS gonna come in useful ?' But it always does. Math is at the heart of everything, and knowing how to apply it is a tool of critical importance to Thinking Up A Shape And Making It.
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“Perplexed is a soft word, charming. A dog turning its head to the side when it doesn’t understand what you mean when you say I love you. I was perplexed, and by this I mean I was stuck in the space between terror and awe. I wasn’t confused; I wasn’t weighing the options. I was startled by the incomprehensible—as if confronted for the first time by vinegar or polka music or a bright yellow. It was delicate, precarious, the eye of the storm. It collapsed, often and easily, into fear or confusion. It was constantly interrupted by self-pity and breakthrough pain.”
Richard Siken, “On Perplexity: Chrysanthemum” in Poetry Magazine, October 2023
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