Geumseon kisses <3
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Game of Thrones Daily

#extradirty
Three Goblin Art
Sweet Seals For You, Always

izzy's playlists!

Kaledo Art

Andulka
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

shark vs the universe

titsay
noise dept.
we're not kids anymore.
Show & Tell
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
h
Monterey Bay Aquarium
d e v o n
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$LAYYYTER

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@dnotl19
Geumseon kisses <3
It hurts me to know that Geumseon is clinging to the blanket with the smell of 704
a sequel of sorts.
turns out, lan wangji does think about it.
Kiss
By Force / 175
By Fun / 269
By Surprise / 311
By Heart / 318
By Possession / 328
By Fear / 333
By Love / 369
the iliad//the song of achilles
𝙴𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗 𝙱𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝙴𝚞𝚛𝚢𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 // 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚜.
Anyone else find it weird how whenever you finish a new book and your parents are like “but you only started it yesterday”. Yes I know, I’e been doing this for 15 years i thought you would be used to it by now. Can I or can I not order the sequel?
HAPTIC COMMUNICATION refers to communication through the sense of touch. These touches often communicate support, appreciation, inclusion, affection and romantic love. (insp)
Does he get that look in his eye when he's with you? [pt. 2]
Based on the post by @19daysquotesorsomething
Set a little a week after He Tian comes back.
“If I get rid of these inner demons - would you forgive me?” 荒城渡
fellas is it GAY to walk around with the shattered remains of the soul of the man you spent three years fawning over in your pocket with the hopes of returning him to life because his death broke you in a way nothing ever has
I’ve been contemplating for several days something, and I’ve been trying to distill it into meaning, and put nice little bullet points on how this relates to things that have been bugging me about some common Discourses I’ve been seeing, but at the end, I only really have a story. So here, have a story.
About ten years ago, sometime in the eventful 2006-2007 George W. Bush-ruled hellscape of my identity development, I was just starting to figure out how I felt about my conservative upbringing (not great) and whether I was some brand of queer (probably, but too scared to think about what brand for too long). I was working as a server at a popular Italian-inspired sit-down restaurant that was the closest thing my tiny South Carolinian town had to “fancy” at the time but isn’t really fancy at all.
The host brought a party of four men to one of my tables. It was hard to tell their ages, but my guess is they were teenagers or in their early 20s in the 1980s. Mid-40s, at the time. It was standard to ask if anyone at the table was celebrating anything, so I did. They said they were business partners celebrating a great business deal and would like a bottle of wine.
It was a fairly busy night so I didn’t have a LOT of time to spend at their table, but they were nice guys. They were polite and friendly to me, they didn’t hit on me (as most men were prone to do – sometimes even in front of their girlfriends, a story I’ll tell later if anyone wants me to), and they were racking up a hell of a tab that was going to make my managers happy, so I checked on them as often as I could.
Toward the end of their second bottle of wine, as they were finishing their entrees, I stopped at the table and asked if they wanted any more drinks or dessert or coffee. They were well and truly tipsy by now, giggling, leaning back in their chairs – but so, so careful not to touch each other when anyone was near the table.
They’re all on the fence about dessert, so being a good server, I offered to bring out the dessert menu so they could glance it over and make a decision, “Since you’re celebrating.”
“She’s right!” one of the men said, far too emphatically for a conversation on dessert. “It’s your anniversary! You should get dessert!”
It was like a movie. The whole table went absolutely silent. The clank of silverware at the next table sounded supernaturally loud. Dean Martin warbled “That’s Amore” in some distorted alternate universe where the rest of the restaurant went on acting like this one tipsy man hadn’t just shattered their carefully crafted cover story and blurted out in the middle of a tiny, South Carolina town, surrounded by conservatives and rednecks, that they were gay men celebrating a relationship milestone.
And I didn’t know what I was yet, but I knew I wasn’t an asshole, and I knew these men were family, and I felt their panic like a monster breathing down all our necks. It’s impossible to emphasize how palpably terrified they were, and how justified their terror was, and how much I wanted them to be happy.
So I did the only thing I knew to do. I said, “Congratulations! How many years?”
The man who’d spoken up burst into tears. His partner stood up and wrapped me in the tightest, warmest hug I’ve ever had – and I’ve never liked being touched by strangers, but this was different, and I hugged him back.
“Thank you,” he whispered, halfway to crying himself. “Thank you so much.”
When he finally let go of me and sat back down, they finally got around to telling me they were, in fact, two couples on a double date, and both celebrating anniversaries. Fifteen years for one of them, I think, and a few years off for the other. It’s hard to remember. It was a jumble of tears and laughter and trembling relief for all of us. They got more relaxed. They started holding hands – under the table, out of sight of anyone but me, but happy.
They did get dessert, and I spent more time at their table, letting them tell me stories about how they met and how they started dating and their lives together, and feeling this odd sense of belonging, like I’d just discovered a missing branch of my family.
When they finally left, all four of them took turns standing up and hugging me, and all four of them reached into their wallets to tip me. I tried to wave them off but they insisted, and the first man who’d hugged me handed me forty dollars and said, “Please. You are an angel. Please take this.”
After they left I hid in the bathroom and cried because I couldn’t process all my thoughts and feelings.
Fast forward to three days ago, when my own partner and I showed up to a dinner reservation at a fancy-casual restaurant to celebrate our fifth anniversary. The whole time I was getting ready to leave, there was a worry in the back of my mind. The internet web form had asked if the reservation was celebrating anything in particular, and I’d selected “Anniversary.” I stood in the bathroom blow-drying my hair, wondering what I would do if we showed up, two women, and the host or the server took one look at us and the “Anniversary” designation on our reservation and refused to serve us. It’s not as ubiquitous anymore, but we’re still in the south, and these things still happen. Eight years of progressive leadership is over, and we’ve got another conservative despot in office who’s emboldening assholes everywhere.
It was on my mind the whole fifteen minutes it took to drive there. I didn’t mention it to my partner because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the occasion. More than that, I didn’t want to jinx us, superstitious bastard that I am.
We walked into the restaurant. I told the hostess we had a reservation, gave her my last name.
She looked at her screen, then looked back at us. She smiled, broadly and genuinely, and said, “Happy anniversary! Your table is right this way.”
Our server greeted us, said, “I heard you were celebrating!”
“It’s our anniversary,” Kellie said, and our server gasped, beaming.
“That’s great! Congratulations! How many years?”
And I finally breathed a sigh of relief, and I thought about those men at that restaurant ten years ago. I hope they’re still safe and happy, and I hope we all get the satisfaction of helping the world keep blooming into something that’s not so unrelentingly terrible all the time.
So this one’s doing the rounds again, and there’s a lot of sweet well-wishes in the notes, so I thought I’d let you all know that we got married last November in a beautiful hotel that treated us like spoiled, favorite princesses (they brought my wife’s ginger ale up on an effing silver platter, and when she tried to open it, shooed her away and said “No! Don’t mess up your nails! We’ll open it for you”) with several of our best friends in attendance, including @freneticfloetry who alerted me to the resurgence of this post and stood beside me as a bridesmaid, and then we went bowling for our reception, in our floofy wedding dresses, on Disney property where everyone yelled, “Congratulations, princesses!” at us as we passed.
So now we celebrate two anniversaries – we’re on #8 for dating, and 2020 will be #1 for married. Thanks for all the love, y’all, and continue spreading it – and please VOTE BLUE up and down the ballot this November!! Consider it an anniversary present for me!
All this time He Tian was fighting against a clock. He knew his time was running out. He was trying to make Mo feel something for him that was real before he had to leave. He Tian knew how far gone he was for Mo and he was trying to create something between them that mattered enough for Mo to feel it too. This entire time he just wanted to make something precious enough for Mo to remember He Tian when he's gone. He Tian was acting goddamn crazy in the last chapters because he was running out of time. With the guitar, and the picture, and with everything, he's saying goodbye, and he's saying "please, please don't forget me".
He's so lonely, and so in love, and he's hurting so badly. I wonder if it will only dawn on Mo when Mo can't do anything about it anymore.
— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment
boyfriends™