#not-that-anyone-asked-but
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myflagmeanslo.bsky.social
Not that anyone asked but apparently I'm the official owner of a car that I just named Totoro cause she's a round unit.
December 27, 2025 at 3:41 PM
stabbyspice.bsky.social
I went to the grocery store because my child asked me to buy "the spicy Ramen, but not the spicy Ramen."

Does anyone have any idea what that could possibly mean? I bought the Ramen he ate yesterday. He appeared to like that one.
a close up of a man 's face making a funny face .
ALT: a close up of a man 's face making a funny face .
media.tenor.com
December 27, 2025 at 9:48 PM
coyotegirl.online
🫶 not that it was your responsibility or that anyone asked you to, but girl you were def one of the women i was referencing
December 27, 2025 at 7:04 AM
dan401w.bsky.social
Not that anyone needs mine or my psychologist aunt's (who has taught it at university for decades) validation on Trump's insanity, but I asked her what she would diagnose him with, and she's 100% confident in malignant narcissism and advanced dementia. All the signs are there.

Big sigh.
December 29, 2025 at 1:15 PM
28darjeeling.bsky.social
For anyone who did not asked, but I shall tell you what I got anyway...
Happy Plants Botanicals lego set that I bought for myself
December 28, 2025 at 10:19 AM
maysuser.name
when i was younger i'd asked about getting my entire dick removed but i'm not sure anyone in the room took that seriously
December 24, 2025 at 5:02 AM
sethcotlar.bsky.social
She took the same tack with Steve Inskeep recently on NPR.
In the NPR interview, she said Fuentes had a right to speak, and referred to "the Streisand effect," suggesting that criticizing Fuentes would simply draw more attention to him. "For Gen Z, what people on both sides of the aisle need to realize is, the more that you tell my generation not to watch something, not to look into something, not to listen to something, that something is bad, or censor somebody, we're going to go look for that content," she said. POLITICS www Support for Israel among U.S. conservatives is starting to crack. MAK Here's why When asked if she agrees with Fuentes' claim that "Jewish gangsters" control the country, Cooper said, "Not really," though she added, ' am concerned about the impact of Israel in our country." She said she did not "agree with Nick Fuentes on everything," but largely didn't criticize him. "I don't think I need to sit here and condemn anyone either way."
December 25, 2025 at 10:55 PM
desibee.bsky.social
i'm pro abortion for anyone who wants one, no questions asked. it is not anyone's business but the patient seeking the abortion. i would rather people be able to get an abortion easily than force people to jump through hoops and hope that their situation is deemed worthy to be granted an abortion.
taliabhatt.itch.io Talia "Brown/Trans/Les" Bhatt ♀︎♀︎ @taliabhatt.itch.io · Nov 14
"my least woke opinion is---"

That's enough. We've had enough people indulging in the "thrill of a little conservatism", as a treat. Of considering reactionary thought to be a salacious and taboo in a world descending into reactionary mania.

Give me your MOST woke opinions. We're bringing it back.
December 28, 2025 at 6:05 AM
sethcotlar.bsky.social
This is the key part. Only Christian Americans are allowed to confidently proclaim the truth of their beliefs, if anyone else does it they’re trying to “ram their beliefs down your throat.”
Catherine Prendergast... @badtoss.... • 3h After a few years, he got a little tired of this. So the next time he was asked to talk to the very large religious studies lecture at the North Dakota University, he tried a different approach. He started by telling them he'd been doing this for several years, explaining Jewish beliefs, and that 1 ₴ 8 96 山… Catherine Prenderg... @badtoss... • 3h always after he explained what he believed as a Jew, he was barraged by emails from concerned students asking why he didn't believe Jesus was the son of God. And he said, "Well there's a very simple answer to why I don't believe Jesus is the son of God." "Because he's not." ① 17 • 150 山… Catherine Prender... @badt... • 3h Every jaw in the room dropped. He had done the unthinkable. He had not only told them his beliefs, but he had done it with the equal degree of certainty that they had employed in telling him theirs. And
December 25, 2025 at 9:09 PM
nathanburgoine.bsky.social
When I look back at promo that was successful, I’ve definitely not "cracked it" but one of the most effective things I ever did was for an anthology. I was the first story in the TOC of "Machine of Death, and I offered a death prediction flash fic to anyone who picked up a copy/reviewed it/asked.
This Is How You Die
If a machine could predict how you would die, would you want to know? This is the tantalizing premise of This Is How You Die, the brilliant follow-up antholo...
www.hachettebookgroup.com
December 28, 2025 at 5:36 PM
westonasher.bsky.social
I get some questions every now and then as a VTuber that somehow scuffs around on guitar. "Hey, what kind of guitar is that" and the like. So, without further ado, here's the thread about the guitars.

Why anyone asked for this, I do not know as I am very mid, but here you go. 🧵
December 27, 2025 at 11:36 PM
whynotscott.bsky.social
not that anyone asked or cares, but I've seen the second Avatar and not the first.
December 27, 2025 at 5:25 PM
sababausa.bsky.social
not that anyone asked me, but now that I see the letter was on a Hallmark card and sent in a decorative envelope I'm squarely in the "this unsubstantiated letter was very likely written and sent by a third party" camp

www.justice.gov/epstein/file...
December 23, 2025 at 2:51 PM
marinestjean.bsky.social
#Smutcember spice makes no sense without context, so you're getting a lot, over two posts.

From the cyberpunk sequel to Tyton.
Caoimhe sat up, sleeping bag bunched around her waist. The contrast of the cool air and the heat radiating off of Lusa’s body made her skin tingle in the most delightful way. “Did I do something wrong?” Lusa asked between laboured breaths, though by Caoimhe’s delirious grin, she knew she hadn’t. “I need to get something.” Caoimhe crawled out of the sleeping bag and reached for her rucksack. Lusa rolled onto her side, leaning on her elbow. Caoimhe even had freckles on her tiny bum. Lusa wondered if she knew that. Caoimhe held what she had been looking for aloft – the newest model of the absurdly large dildo she’d mentioned earlier. Even in the fading twilight, it glowed an eye-blistering shade of pink. Lusa realised her mouth was hanging open. “I told you to pack for camping and you took that to mean bring the largest strap-on I own?” Caoimhe ignored her and started listing off its features. “There’s a rumble function at the tip and the wearable end.” She pointed to both ends as if it weren’t obvious. “Dual motors that can be synched to your heart rate monitor and dopamine level sensors, though,” Caoimhe raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you have a heart rate monitor.” Lusa shook her head. “No hormone regulators either.” Caoimhe continued, unbothered. “This model has a magstrip attachment points, so no harness necessary.” “And you have…” Lusa narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t make out mag strips on Caoimhe anywhere near where the toy would logically attach. “They’re subdermal.” Caoimhe drew her fingers along the lines of her vulva. “I got them for my birthday one year. Back when Chalice wasn’t such an arsehole.” She looked around the tent, avoiding eye contact. “That’s not weird, is it?” Weird was the wrong word for it. Lusa wasn’t inexperienced, but toys were not something she had ever used. The Lake didn’t have anything like that, aside from whatever the adults had brought with them from their previous lives in Tyton. Anyone born there would have had to go into Tyton to trade for them. Caoimhe saw Lusa’s expression and she deflated. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. If it makes you feel better, I haven’t used this one with anyone else.” She reached for her rucksack to put it away. “No,” Lusa held her hand out, regretting her inability to keep her expression straight. “It’s not that. I’ve just…” Caoimhe set the rucksack down and crossed her legs. She knew it was ludicrous to feel ashamed for not having had this experience, but she still couldn’t look at Caoimhe. “I haven’t used… you know.” Her voice was too quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Those before.” “Oh.” Caoimhe sat up straight. “That’s okay, even the base models of these have LSOs.” Lusa’s forehead made tiny elevens at the bridge of her nose. “Uh…” Caoimhe tried to remember the acronym. “Lipid soluble oestradiol.” Lusa frowned harder. “It helps you…” Caoimhe spread her hands apart. “Open.” Lusa had never had that issue before. Then again, two fingers had always been sufficient. Any discomfort had been caused by wrong angles or a lack of nail maintenance. But anyone with functional eyes could see that two fingers was roughly a quarter of the thickness of the monstrosity Caoimhe held. Lusa took a few breaths while Caoimhe scoured her face for any hint that she might be pressured into doing something she didn’t want. It was sweet, and Lusa had to admit, the toy was alarming. Obviously other women enjoyed toys like this. If they didn’t, no-one would have made anything like it. There must be something about having a toy that large inside of you. Something that made what looked to be uncomfortable worth it. Lusa also had to admit that the more she thought about it, the more her body responded, and the less she could deny the thrill the idea ignited in her. She found that the corner of her lip had turned upward when she responded. “Yes.” Even in the low light, Lusa could see Caoimhe beaming with a mixture of relief and excitement. “I was so worried I’d offended you.” “Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” Lusa pulled her into the sleeping bag. Caoimhe squealed. She wasn’t used to being thrown around, and Lusa did it so easily. The wearable end slipped in with far less effort than it normally took. Without her regulator, her hormones must be all over the map. Either that or she was extraordinarily turned on. The magclip locked the toy in place. “I know you’ve never used one, but it’s not quite the same as a penis.”
December 27, 2025 at 2:40 PM
wat3rm370n.bsky.social
It's not just "young people" who are shut out of say. It's just anyone who isn't "important" and doesn't have a lot of money or connections. We're asked to do the grunt work but never ever have an opinion of how govt should work for us. Elites tell us what we should want & to be glad for that much.
buckscountybeacon.com Bucks County Beacon @buckscountybeacon.com · 5d
Young People Aren’t Abandoning Democracy — They’re Waiting to Be Invited In | They are routinely asked to vote, volunteer, or participate, but rarely invited to shape priorities, language, or direction, writes Yardley's Stu Faigen.
Young People Aren’t Abandoning Democracy — They’re Waiting to Be Invited In - Bucks County Beacon
They are routinely asked to vote, volunteer, or participate, but rarely invited to shape priorities, language, or direction.
buckscountybeacon.com
December 26, 2025 at 8:28 AM
tanukitycho.bsky.social
Somehow, this is the only use of "doctor" in the entire story(that's in pages that will actually be used, and not in the context of spoilers)
#WIPSnips #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompt #WriteSky
"Can't you lay down the law? Use the ToS?" Tycho suggested, uncerain what else to offer. He got what he could only describe as a Indignant snort from Korta, "...They tried before. They broke first." Okashi barely said above her breath. Tears rolling down her plump cheek. "Okashi!?" Tycho stood up immediately, grabbing the Goddess' arm. She perked up, surprised by the gesture, then smiled wearily at Tycho. Putting a hand to his cheek, caressing it. "Please don't worry about me too much it's just- well..." Okashi hesitated, but Korta spoke up again: "Gods aren't the ones who need Moon Rabbit Services, its the mortals- all Earthwalkers really." Korta noted, "Earthwalkers?" Tycho asked, "It's an umbrella term for anyone who has to exist on the Mortal Plains or under it, ninety percent of the time. Beings like you and I." Korta elaborated as he offered a cup of coffee to Okashi which she accepted as Tycho let Okashi's arm go and she began to doctor up her coffee. Tycho looked to the wyrm with full attention now, it grumbled as it offered the tanuki a cup of coffee. Just as the cup was set next to him, he was offered coffee creamer by Okashi, basic French vanilla. He began to pour some as Korta spoke; "Look, kid. I don't get Godly affairs like the bunny herself, but from what I understand the Gods are sort of... Bored of eternity as it is. The most exciting thing to happen for them happened several hundred years ago. And we don't talk about it all, so don't ask." Korta began to explain. Tycho nodded as he stirred his coffee, "Well... unlike us Earthwalkers. When a God gets bored a book or a round of twister won't alleviate that boredom, not any more." Korta shook his head as he poured his own cup. "They craved more entertainment, that even the Gods of Entertainment couldnt give them. So gods before that incident used to do things that they'll claim they're not proud of... but to me it's clear a lot of them miss the lawless era."
December 27, 2025 at 11:24 AM
elarcis.fr
It couldn’t even generate Notre-dame right. Not that I care about it, but that was the damn one thing it was asked; to generate Notre-dame, and it created this absurd mish mash thing that looks nothing like a cathedral anyone would build.

And the landlords looked at it and went “neat!”
December 26, 2025 at 11:32 PM
dyre.bsky.social
We have 'cup' from #WealdandWen today, #WIPSnips... and some tea and an old friend someone doesn't remember.
“I am grateful for the offer,” Delgrij said, accepting the seat if not the mug, “but I did not come for tea.” “You came for passage off-Spine,” Nona dismissed, setting the glass on the hearth. “It’s the only reason anyone comes, willingly, and passage you will have... but you should still take the tea.” Delgrij’s brow knit and Nona groaned, “I have no reason to poison you, Namael. You are too precious to me, even if you don’t seem to remember.” The smile on her lips sat wan, the color of her eyes dull and weary and Delgrij nodded, taking the tea. Its taste was equal to its scent: spiced, sweet... familiar and his eyes widened. “So, you haven’t lost it all,” she said, smile wider, warmer. “What do you mean... and how do you know that brand?” he asked, shaking the nostalgic warmth as an itch began in his bark. The heat of the tea bloomed, spreading through heartwood and his eyes drooped with peculiar comfort. “Is it not yours?” she asked too quiet, too worried. Whispered, puffed more than spoken, he answered, “Not anymore.” “I have longed for this reunion,” she breathed, sipping tea and taking a breath and another before such dim eyes, “but while there remains a beat to share a cup of tea, we have lost the breath for reverie. My herd knows the songs of the Touched, even if the words themselves are strange to our ears, and that was no Touched making a fuss in my pavilion.” Nona groaned as she rose and clicked across the kitchen, to a clasped cabinet. “Much like that chaotic turn when you and your mate wandered into my old Rimlet, frightened and pulsing with new life”—returning to the hearth, she offered Delgrij a wooden statuette big enough to fill his palms—“your sprout caused too big a scene.” Turning the exquisitely carved statuette in his branches, Delgrij gaped.
December 24, 2025 at 3:21 PM
askaubry.com
Oof, this is not viable

I (36F) feel like I'm carrying our entire life while my partner (46M) grieves and avoids responsibility. I don't know what's fair anymore. I'm trying to figure out if my frustration is valid or if I'm being unfair because of everything my partner is going through. My partner has lost eight people this year, including his 5-year-old granddaughter. His grief is real and heavy, and I've tried to be supportive. But at the same time, I feel like I'm the only one keeping our life from collapsing. This year alone, we've been evicted once, almost evicted again in October, and now we're two months behind on rent. I'm the only one working consistently. He's had three jobs this year, but only stayed at each for anywhere from 3 months to 4 weeks. In total, I've seen about $800 from him all year. Meanwhile, my paychecks are gone before they even hit my account because of transportation needs and him constantly asking for money or things he "needs," then denying he ever asked. Now he's saying he's "never been in a relationship where money is shared" and that in his past relationships "no one counted what they spent." But I'm drowning. Bills don't care about grief or nostalgia for past relationships. I can't carry two adults alone. When I try to talk about it, he shuts down, gets defensive, or guilt-trips me for "adding pressure." I've communicated clearly and asked for specific changes. He agrees in the moment, but nothing changes. I'm starting to feel resentful, and then guilty for feeling resentful because I know he's hurting. But I'm hurting too. Has anyone been through something like this? How do you balance compassion for someone's grief with your own need for stability and partnership? YourRAResource 1h I (36F) feel like I'm carrying our entir... Let me back up and start by asking for more context; how long have you been together, and for all the time prior to this year and his 8 losses (that's A LOT - who?), how was he and your relationship? Reply 259 Mean Information489 OP 56m We've only been together for a year, but have known each other for 3 years. Vote ladywithacomb 52m So basically your entire relationship has been like this? Vote Mean_Information489 OP 50m The majority of it.
December 23, 2025 at 2:34 AM
alanzilberman.bsky.social
BREAKING: I obtained a 1945 letter written to director George Stevens and producer John Ford expressing concerns about Nazi Concentration Camps, the documentary film they plan to release.
Hi all, I’m writing with specific guidance on what I’d like for us to do to advance George Stevens’ Nazi Concentration Camps documentary. I know you’d all like to see this run as soon as possible; I feel the same way. But if we run the film as is, we’d be doing our viewers a disservice. 1. Many of our nation’s armed services, most notably United States Army Signal Corps, exposed the horrific conditions at Dauchau, Buchenwald, and others. Our film presents more of these powerful testimonies—and putting those accounts into the public record is valuable in and of itself. But if we’re going to run another story about a topic that has by now been much-covered we need to advance it. Among the ways to do so: does anyone in Nazi high command or anyone prominent who defended the use of the Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor now regret it in light of what these Jewish men and women endured? That’s a question I’d like to see asked and answered. 2. At present, we do not present the German argument for why it sent millions to the camps. What we have is Hitler’s soundbite claiming they are evildoers in Germany (enemies of the race-based state, etc.). But isn’t there much more to ask in light of the torture that we are revealing? Adolf Eichmann and Hermann Göring don’t tend to be shy. I realize we’ve wrote the Schutzstaffel spox, but we need to push much harder to get these principals on the record. 3. The data we present paints an incongruent picture. Of the 13 million victims of Nazis, we say nearly half are not Jews. In other words, more than half are real enemies of Germany. We should spend a beat explaining this. We then say that only 50,000 of them have been sentenced for violent homosexuality. But what about charged? My point is that we should include as much as we can possibly know and understand about these individuals. 4. Adolf Eichmann trip to Auschwitz. We report that he witnessed a mass execution, with no comment from him or his staff about what his goal on that trip was, or what else he saw there, or if he had or has concerns about the treatment of detainees like the ones in our piece. I also think that the ensuing analysis from Nuremberg Prosecutor Robert H. Jackson is odd. The pictures are alarming; we should include them. But what does his analysis add? 5. We need to do a better job of explaining the legal rationale by which the administration detained and deported these Jews to Dachau. It’s not as simple as Hitler invoking the Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor and being able to deport them immediately. And that isn’t the administration’s argument. The admin has argued in court that Jews are creating “racial defilement”—and we should explain this, with a voice arguing that Hitler is exceeding his authority under the relevant statute, and another arguing that he’s operating within the bounds of his authority. There’s a genuine debate here. If we cut down Adolf Eichmann analysis we’d have the time. My general view here is that we do our viewers the best service by presenting them with the full context they need to assess the story. In other words, I believe we need to do more reporting here. I am eager and available to help. I tracked down [prison] cell numbers for Eichmann and Göring and sent those along. Please let me know how I can support you.
December 23, 2025 at 1:46 PM
maccerullo.bsky.social
Asked Craig Breslow about the Red Sox making 10 trades this winter but not yet signing a free agent.

He says that hasn't been a deliberate decision or approach and they've engaged with free agents. They just haven't lined up with anyone yet.
December 23, 2025 at 1:37 AM
almandines.bsky.social
thank you for the share and for including writers 🥺 I'm fearne and I write ffxiv fic! lots of wolnpc and lately a decent amount of npc-centric stuff!

you can find me on ao3 here: archiveofourown.org/users/almand...

here are a few snips! 💜 (with links below)
For better or worse, G'raha Tia had been a historian. Of all things from the distant past, it was this to which the Exarch clung the tightest. Deep in the bowels of the Tower, the Ironworks had left him a library stocked full of every text they could find, from cookbooks to grimoires to schoolchildren's notepads, and from it he had carefully curated his own private collection: a single shelf of rare, esoteric, and mostly handwritten tomes preserving a history it would be his life's work to erase. He'd obsessively read every page that even so much as mentioned the Scions of the Seventh Dawn in passing, committing them to his mind so thoroughly he could still recite many from memory if asked. "Thancred Waters" was a name he knew only in ink. He was a ghost who haunted the margins—a handful of words in the dark and little more. This, the Exarch had long surmised, was by design. But no name on a page could be a suitable substitute for meeting a man in the flesh. No written account could have possibly prepared him for the volatility, nor for the instinct to hold his breath and brace himself in his presence, to dig in his heels and stand his ground. He'd been prepared for an Archon, an academic from his homeland, but instead he found callused hands and a shadowed sneer. The similarities between them ended at the Sharlayan marks on their necks, and the Exarch's had long been consumed by crystal. Cahciua’s bedroom had always been cluttered. An organized mess, she had called it the times Erenville asked her how she could ever hope to find anything she was looking for. Shelves of trinkets and overgrown potted plants obscured piles of loose paper wherever he had looked. He remembered the chaos spilling throughout the house, having to shove aside a stack of mail or a new package of seeds to make space on the dining room table to eat his meals; rarely having a place to sit because every chair held a new fern or ivy specimen. His own room had been sparse, entirely by choice. There, he could retreat from the chaos to a world that was clean and orderly—organized without the mess. In cleanliness there was harmony, a peaceful escape from his mother’s fondness for dissonance. Some decades ago, the Crystal Exarch had taken to standing before a mirror each morning and repeating to himself his own name. He did this as he raised his hood, restored his shadowy facial glamour, and prepared to step into the endless scorching daylight as someone else. It was, at first, an affirmation that even as he walked alone in an unknown world, he still had a name. Later, it became a desperate mantra—a rhythm burned into his mouth, lest he fall silent and forget it entirely. It was a name that did not belong among those who had come to see the Crystal Tower as a shining beacon of hope, for whom it would always provide. But the more the tower gave to those around him, the more of him it consumed. He could live with it taking his flesh, his aether, his very lifeblood, but he could not stomach the thought that it might one day consume all of who he was. Thus, he held tight to this small ritual, meaningless to anyone else, in hopes that he could keep his name of all things so tightly guarded that it would somehow remain his even as everything else slipped away. And so when it came time to share his name with another, it was a practiced sound, a familiar rhythm, worn into his teeth and tongue the way footsteps wore grooves into the stairs of an old family home. The last time Thancred prayed to the Twelve, he was in Ishgard. Even in the dingy shadows of the city's depths where he'd be hard-pressed to imagine the eyes of a god could reach, they'd cobbled together a tiny shrine to their Fury, built of ice-chipped stone and a broken, likely stolen statue. A handful of rusted and bent gil coins lay atop it, next to a stale loaf of bread that would have done a lot more to answer prayers were it kept in a Brume family's cupboard than offered to Halone. Desperation, more than devotion, drove him to his knees in the midnight snow with the fire of a middling whiskey still burning in his chest. He'd never paid much mind to Halone before, having always been stretched too thin between the Navigator and the Scholar. He'd belonged to both of them and neither, a soul adrift upon the waves. He'd had two homes but no roots to show for them, given a god the moment he'd been given a name. But Halone was here—well, insofar as he could imagine the prayers of the lowly could reach her ears when those who lived in luxury atop soaring spires had an advantage so much closer to her halls—and she would do. The prayer was an amorphous thing, an amalgam of thoughts and pretty words while he tried to force his silver tongue to dance around the truth. "Bring her back" felt rather profane when it really meant "Take her from Hydaelyn." None save himself, god or otherwise, would dare oppose the Mothercrystal—a thought proven correct when the only thing he heard in response to his silent plea was the crunch of unfamiliar footsteps on the snow. The stranger passed him by without a word. That was how it was in Ishgard—crowds enough that he could never find a moment to himself, but he was still never anything but alone. It wasn't worth it, he resolved as he stood and brushed soot and snow from his knees. If ever he were to whisper the name of another god, the Twelve would have no place upon his tongue.
December 25, 2025 at 9:05 AM
fleurseraph.bsky.social
hi, i’m mike. disabled adult writer who enjoys murder mystery, angst, and especially old man yaoi. i write for #identityv fandom primarily!
Joseph adjusts the lens of his camera, focusing on the scene before him despite the coppery tang of blood hanging in the air. From his vantage point, the composition is almost flawless; stark white of the victim’s Brooks Brothers suit against deep crimson pooling beneath him, the tragic sprawl of his limbs, dark hair frizzled. His once meticulously ironed suit is now wrinkled, and along his bare arms are defense wounds, indicating that there had been a struggle before the victim’s ultimate demise. What a shame, Joseph thinks as his camera lens zooms out, capturing the body in its small screen. The killer, in a frenzy, was so brutish—the wound in the victim’s chest lacks any form of artistry, zero patience. A mockery of true art. A cold, personal contempt rises in Joseph’s chest, an anger of a pursuit watching a vandalism display itself in place of an original work of art. The killer knows no passion, has no knowledge behind the tools that a master uses to perfect his piece, to breathe life into his muse. The victim, with his purplish-red livor mortis skin and bloodied luxury suit, was nothing more than a tragic attempt at beautifying something horrific. Beauty and gore do go together like a painter and easel, but not like this. It’s… shocking, really. “Good.” Joker’s focus shifts to Mike, who’s since nodded off, head lulling to the side. Joker reaches for Mike’s hand, holding it gently. “Good. I… I don’t want a repeat of last night. But I don’t want Luca to pity me—” “It’s not pity.” Norton’s rough voice comes from behind. He walks into the living room, seating himself on the armrest of Orpheus’s chair, just like he did last night. “Luca told me about the party as well. Well, ‘party’, when it’s just us getting together to watch a movie or two until we hit the sack.” Joker finds his smile again. “I suppose so. It'll be quieter, I think.” He squeezes Mike’s hand, and Mike stirs in his sleep. “I’m… happy.” He turns to meet Norton and Orpheus’s gazes. “Really happy that you’re all my friends.” Something akin to a smile forms on Norton’s lips. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. “I’m glad you’re here with us, Jokester.” “As am I,” Orpheus agrees. “I will confess, I still need to work on some of my own personal behaviors. But Joker, just remember: Your story matters.” He glances down to Joker’s scars, and there’s no judgment in his eyes. “You have your own narrative to tell.” “Thank you, Orpheus.” Joker grins shyly. Mike stirs again, this time his eyes flutter awake. “Good morning, USA,” he murmurs groggily, rubbing his eye with one hand. "You didn't hurt anyone," Joseph says quietly, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice. Andrew's face crumples with relief, but the anxiety doesn't leave. "I saw... there was fire, and the moon was crying, and I couldn't—" His breath hitches. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Frederick's expression shifts, the fear bleeding into something softer. He takes a tentative step forward, though his eyes still flick nervously toward Alva. "You're not wrong," he says gently, addressing Andrew. "Only... unmoored. Your elven blood calls to the Lune, but you've never answered. The magic has nowhere to root." "The Lune?" Andrew's voice is barely a whisper. "A crescent lake," Frederick explains, still keeping his distance from Alva, directing his words to Andrew and Joseph. "The heart of our people's magic. The source of the Lady's first song." He pauses, and something complicated crosses his face. "Only those of pure snow elf blood can perceive it. To others, it's... nothing. Empty air. But for you—" He looks at Andrew with deep sorrow. "Your human blood will cloud your vision. You'll see only what your fears show you." "Fire," the half-elf whispers. "I'll see fire." Frederick sits. Not because he wants to, but because his legs have apparently decided to stop cooperating. The barstool is cold beneath him, the counter slightly damp where Orpheus must have wiped it down recently. Orpheus sets a mug in front of him. Their eyes meet, and Frederick sees something he wasn't expecting: not anger, not frustration, but fear. Genuine fear, barely concealed beneath Orpheus's usual composure. "You scared me," Orpheus says quietly. "These past few days. The way you've been pulling away. I thought—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. What matters is you're here now, and you're going to explain." "Orpheus, I don't—" "Mike called me." The words cut through Frederick's deflection like a knife. "Yesterday, after COSI. He said you asked him about dreams. About soulmates. About what it felt like when he first realized Luca was—" Orpheus's voice catches. "Frederick. Are you dreaming?" It’s such a painfully casual question. Simple. Direct. Impossible to avoid. Frederick's hands tighten around the mug. The coffee sloshes slightly, threatening to spill. "Yes," he whispers. "I'm dreaming." "How long?" The sharpness has left Orpheus's voice, replaced by something softer. Somehow, that's worse. "How long have you been dreaming, Frederick? Without telling me?"
December 25, 2025 at 9:22 PM
tangledwilderness.bsky.social
Not that anyone asked, but here's one atheist Jewish anarchist's take on Christmas music:

There are 4 kinds.

1. It is Christmas (happy) (this is the worst kind)
2. It is Christmas (sad)
3. It is Christmas (prior to the mid 19th century) (this is the best kind)
4. Reindeer are goddamn bullies
December 20, 2025 at 6:01 PM
ahhcade.bsky.social
I might have already asked this before, but would anyone be interested in OC playlists for my boys? I finally feel like I have enough for Stephen’s that it’s not just Hana Vu on repeat lol
December 20, 2025 at 4:18 PM