Heist Movie Where It’s Just 20+ Different Heist Teams From Dozens Of Countries Trying To Schedule Their

AND I OOP-

protective bradley bradshaw. reblog if u agree

i think if we’re going to have conversations about consent we should talk about how consenting to something doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to be a good experience, and having a bad experience doesn’t necessarily mean someone violated your consent. this can apply to a lot of situations but the two i’m thinking of right now are sex and transition.

you’re getting it on with someone. you enthusiastically consent to having sex with them. afterward, you feel a little weird about it. maybe even distressed. maybe they did something you didn’t enjoy and in the moment you just didn’t say anything. maybe you just realized after the fact that you were not in a good headspace for sex and now your mental health is declining. that doesn’t inherently mean the person you had sex with violated your consent. sometimes it just means you need to take a break from sex or work on communicating your needs or boundaries better during sex.

and with transition, i feel like this is something that gets consistently overlooked but like. there will never be zero detransitioners. there will always be people who decide that actually transition wasn’t right for them. they could have had the best most thorough doctors in the world who did everything by the book and got full informed consent at every step. and some people are still going to decide they don’t like the changes and wish they hadn’t transitioned. that doesn’t mean that the doctors violated their consent, and that doesn’t mean that transition shouldn’t be available to anyone. it just means that we need to have more resources available for folks who detransition.

regret does not automatically mean someone did something wrong. regret is simply one possible result of having bodily autonomy, and i think we need to get more comfortable with that.

"Buck, wake up."

Gale whines softly and buries his face deeper into the pillow that he hugs with his arms.

"No, I don't want to."

It's such a perfect morning.

The sun gently warms his ankle, sticking out from the cocoon of the blanket, with its gentle morning rays and Gale is already on the verge of waking up, his feelings are gradually starting to return him to reality, but the veil of sleep has not yet fallen, his breathing is even and calm, as is his heartbeat, and he does not want to open his eyes and completely destroy the sleepy serenity.

He feels John's hand gently stroking his back. It is so big and warm, not heavy, but just a little bit weighty, giving a feeling of anchor, it gives him a feeling of calm, safety and home.

John's touches in the morning are usually not like this. They are persistent and greedy, he pokes his morning hard-on into his buttocks, and his hands shamelessly slip either into his underwear or under his T-shirt, persistently caressing his nipples, his lips kissing everything that gets in their way, be it Gale's face, his neck, hair, at the same time hotly whispering all sorts of lustful nonsense in his ears, just to quickly warm up sleepy Gale to a state where he will be ready to have sex.

But this morning John is not horny, he is gentle. "Well," Gale thinks, "and such mornings are supposed to be too." He feels so good now, he likes the way John's hand slowly strokes his shoulder blades, moves up and down his spine and gently rubs his ribs through his T-shirt.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," John presses himself closer to him.

"Nooo, it's too early for sex, I need another hour of sleep," Gale grumbles into the pillow and his words can hardly be heard. For some reason, he wiggles his butt from side to side like a big NO, as if he thinks that words are not enough and it needs to be clearly shown to John, that he does not want to leave the embrace of sleep.

He feels more than hears how John quietly laughs next to him, "You'll be late for work."

Gale growls in annoyance, "Then I will certainly not get up if it is for work and not for sex!"

He hugs the pillow even tighter and thinks how did they manage to achieve all this - a house, a shared bed and gentle caresses awakening you from sleep on a perfect morning? How did they overcome all the taboos and barriers on their way to be here and now? It was hellish work, almost harder than both returning alive from the war. From the realization of how much they overcame to have their tiny piece of happiness, his chest begins to hurt and as if feeling it, John hugs him and presses him to himself.

"Baby, you have to get up."

"No."

"You have so much work to do."

"That's not the right motivation at all, Bucky!" Gale chuckles.

"You have a lot of things to do," John's tone becomes more insistent.

Gale groans.

"Buck!" There's a strange, tense ringing in John's voice and Gale doesn't like it.

"Oh, God, dear, why are you yelling like that, I'm getting up..."

Gale opens his eyes and looks out the window. It's gloomy and cloudy outside and it's probably going to rain soon. He looks at the gray, heavy sky for a moment and blinks in confusion. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. How is this possible when just a few minutes ago he felt the warm rays of the sun on his skin?

Gale raises himself on his elbow, frowning. He no longer feels John's warm touch and he doesn't need to turn around to know that he is completely alone in this bed, like in this whole house.

John died many years ago.

===================

The ghosts of the past haunt Gale.

Inspired by these words

Could you maybe reblog this post if you think respecting trans peoples' names and identities is a basic right and not a political opinion?

No pressure. Just seeking some validation of my sentiment. Due to some. people

A gothic horror story where a gentleman from a good family gets haunted by something monstrous, which follows him around and keeps killing people around him at utter random, in cruel and horrifying ways. Specifically within circumstances where the protagonist has no alibi, and everything indicates that he committed the murders.

But the real horror is not that he would find himself accused of the murders, but that the people around him naturally assume that he did do it, but genuinely do not care, because the victims are never people that the society around him considers "important". The scullery maid of his household is found brutalised beyond recognition in a room where even the ceiling has been splattered with blood, and a constable of the local police brushes it off as a case of household discipline gone wrong, being horrifyingly casual with the assumption that the protagonist severely beat a girl in his service to death, and will dismiss it as an accident. The street urchin that the protagonist was seen talking with - wanting to help this poor little orphan - is found decapitated, severed head in the protagonist's fireplace. This, too, is calmly swept under the rug.

After every horrifying murder, the protagonist tries to seek help, to present the crime to authorities in hopes of getting some semblance of help, or at least clearing his own name of this, but every time it's brushed off. "These things do happen", he is reassured, like it's perfectly normal that a mansion of that size has a secret garden of unmarked graves in one shady corner.

The real horror is the ever-encompassing implication that this is perfectly normal.

I am fascinated by how, in the Bridgerton Extanded Universe, everyone is in a period drama EXCEPT the Bridgerton family, who is in a romantic comedy.

…I keep doing it lol

previously in this series: Ryan & Shane

queen charlotte's i will stand with you between the heavens and the earth. i will tell you where you are destroyed me and i will never recover.

Clement Gelly, “Graffiti, Through Grief and Discovery”, pub. Hazlitt [transcript in ALT]