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In light of recent events, I have begun submitting bug reports when I see mature content labels applied inappropriately to posts, especially if an appeal has been rejected.
for what it's worth: after a few months of submitting help tickets as 'feedback' when i saw a post inappropriately flagged as mature, i tried following this suggestion instead. today i got my first-ever response from tumblr support on this issue, letting me know that a post i'd submitted a ticket before has had its mature content flag removed.
Billionaire crypto-executive Rutash controls everything—his monopoly, his image, his life. But when meticulous, fascinating, female FCA accountant Biano is called in to audit his sprawling fortune, he discovers a ferengi who he cannot afford… or so she thinks.
Rutash is used to people falling in line, but Biano’s sharp mind and strange independence ignite a dangerous curiosity in him. He starts testing her limits with subtle bribes—illicit luxury clothes, secret allowances, whispered promises of indulgence—but each offer is a challenge, a dare. With every temptation, the game intensifies: will she uphold her integrity, or will she raise the stakes even higher?
As the audit dives deeper, the lines between money and desire blur. Every ledger, every transaction, every bribe becomes a pulse-quickening act of dominance and submission. Biano finds herself drawn to Rutash’s wealth, his power, and the intoxicating control he wields—learning that sometimes pleasure comes at a price, and sometimes the cost is more than she ever hoped.
In a world ruled by profit, bribery is seduction, and temptation is irresistible. The ultimate question looms: who truly controls whom, and what will they sacrifice when lust and power collide?
Featured here from Girls Monthly, both the original illustration and the publication cover with ads.
Today at work, I had a client who came in after being absent for 10 days.
To start off, I work at a methadone clinic. This client was twenty years old. He lived with his father.
He'd been absent because his father had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he didn't quit methadone, he'd be out on his ass. His father wanted him to do NA exclusively, because he didn't want him "addicted to methadone."
This client had a longstanding severe opioid use disorder. He had been clean and sober for three months. He'd gotten a job.
When he'd tried to quit methadone to appease his father, he'd relapsed on fentanyl. He lost the job because he used at work. He'd lost his sobriety. He had kept his housing at the expense of just about everything else in his life.
Now he was back at the clinic, in secret, risking his housing to get some stability back in his life.
I wish there wasn't so much misinformation about methadone. Scientifically it's one of the most effective options for treating opioid use disorder, but because you do take a medication (and there's the idea that you weren't born needing opioids so you should just be able to stop without help or medical assistance), there's a lot of stigma. And it's really bad for people who might have benefited from a methadone program but didn't try because of attitudes like this.
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Holy shit I assume everyone is doing an up and down jiggle and maybe a side to side jiggle but if you jiggle your phone forward and backwards he jiggles in and out, too
[image description: picture of a chubby rat on a black background with a black and white checkered edge around the image. The text reads "gently shake the screen. make the boy boogie." If you shake the screen, there is an optical illusion that makes the rat jiggle. /end id.]
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Pogroms all over the UK. Second day of rioting, knocking down doors and outburnings in the six counties. Simultaneous fascist protest in 40+ cities and towns. Running street fighting all over Glasgow between fascists and young Muslim lads protecting their own communities.
It's going to be a long, hot, summer here in the UK, and it's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets any better.
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julian comes back from internment camp 371 speaking nearly fluent klingon. mainly because the only way to pass the time during the long, lonely nights is to ask martok to tell him traditional klingon stories and martok insists that julian turns the UT off to preserve the nuance.
garak tells himself that this is Fine, even though julian hasn’t bothered to learn kardasi. in the five years they’ve known each other. even though julian and martok are laughing and joking together in the runabout back. it’s good to know more languages, of course. what is not Fine is julian insisting from that point on that they only read klingon stories for their book club. ”they’re so engaging”, julian says. ”so romantic and muti-facetted! so much better that that last play you forced on me-”
and this is where garak decides that sto’vo’kor might be a good place for general martok to go, actually
This man has his own agenda when it comes to people like us. He’s more likely to recruit you… Garak and Bashir, on Starbase 375. Set during 'Favor the Bold'.
Cold Heaven
Starbase 375, 2372
They were in the turbolift together, just the two of them, heading up to the observation deck. Bashir, falling back loose-limbed against the wall, said, “Bit much, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant Tunok.”
“Oh,” said Garak. “Him. Yes. What did you say to get him to go away?”
“I said I’d be with you the whole time. And that I’d let them know when I’d delivered you back in your quarters.”
“I’ve slipped my collar at last. Shall we seize a runabout and make our bid for freedom?”
“Not today,” said Bashir.
The lift stopped, the doors opened, and they came out onto the observation deck.
“Nice view,” said Bashir. “If you like watching ships come and go.”
Garak hadn’t, in fact, liked watching the only thing left to care about fly off into peril, but he’d come and watched anyway. “This way.”
“Where are you taking me now?”
“You’ll see.”
Early on during this period of confinement to Starbase 375, Garak had found himself staring at the reflections on the windows of the observation deck and thinking, idly, with some small part of his frenetically overactive brain, that something didn’t quite compute. It hadn’t been easy catching Tunok looking the other way, but Garak was a patient man, not to mention conniving, and that was how he’d learned that, through some error of construction, there was a piece of wall jutting out which, when combined with the curve of the station, created a small dead space into which he could slip and be entirely concealed.
Garak had been surprised and rather pleased about this. His impression of the Federation in general and Starfleet in particular had always been that everything was a perfect fit. It had been comforting to discover that sometimes they didn’t get the measurements right either. As he led Bashir over, he explained all this to the doctor, and found, to his delight, that it still lay within his power to make Julian Bashir laugh.
The space wasn’t particularly large, but they could sit on the floor together, side-by-side, quite comfortably and look out into the darkness.
“This actually worked?” said Bashir.
“Incredibly, yes.”
“Tunok must have done his nut.”
“Oh, I only did it once or twice,” said Garak. Three times, to be precise, but who was counting? Apart from Tunok. Who didn’t count.
“Took pity on him, did you?”
“Doctor, I thought you knew by now that there’s no pity in me.”
“Hmm.”
In fact, Garak had stopped amusing himself this way because he’d been afraid. Afraid that if he misbehaved too much they might decide he was far too much trouble after all and pass him up the line. Pack him off to Earth, perhaps, or worse. A shame, really, since the peace and quiet – and the simple fact of knowing he was not under direct observation – had been helpful. He had no intention of saying any of this to Bashir.
Garak sat with his hands resting on his knees. Bashir leaned his back against the wall, folded his arms, and said, “What was that about earlier?”
“What?”
“All that guff about people putting gadgets in your brain.”
“It’s… happened before, Julian.”
“Yes. When you were in the Order.”
“Meaning…?”
“This is Starfleet we’re talking about—”
“You don’t think Starfleet would cross a line like that?” Garak felt a familiar sinking feeling. He hadn’t been able to get Sisko to listen, not really, and he’d been hoping for more from Bashir.
The younger man sighed. “You know, Garak, I’m absolutely knackered. So, for one night only, how about we cut to the chase and you tell me what’s really worrying you?”
Garak looked at the stars. The stars, which had – until quite recently – been completely unfamiliar, glinted back, but, as usual, gave no helpful insight. “Two men arrived,” he said. “They wanted to take me away with them.”
“Take you away? Where?”
“I don’t know, doctor.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know that either.”
There was a pause as Bashir digested this. “What’s your best guess?”
Garak, in turn, gave some thought as to how he should answer. Bashir already had some questions about his state of mind. He didn’t want him dismissing his worries out of hand. “If I said…”
“Go on.”
“If I said that I thought they were from a clandestine intelligence organisation operating within your government about which even Captain Sisko seems unaware, what would you say?”
“I’d say…” said Bashir, after a moment or two, “that I need to give that scenario some consideration.”
“Yes?”
“I mean, some careful consideration.” Bashir rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Have you been all right here on your own?”
Ah, so first they must indeed establish the current extent of his paranoia. Good luck with that, doctor. I’m increasingly unable to judge. “I’ve not been on my own,” Garak pointed out. “I’ve had a lengthy conversation every day with Lieutenant Commander Blok.”
“I’m not talking about your interrogator, Garak.”
“Oh, so I am being interrogated? And everyone was quite insistent earlier that it was a debriefing—”
“Garak—”
“I’ve also had the company of the relentlessly attentive Lieutenant Tunok.”
“Well, he’s not turned up dead yet, so you must be getting something out of the relationship.”
“He doesn’t read, he doesn’t listen to music, he’s not interested in politics, and his conversational skills appear to have atrophied before he learned to speak. We’ve had a marvellous time together. I imagine he admires me as much as I admire him.”
“Yes, you sound like peas in a pod. You still haven’t answer my question.”
“I know.”
“Have you been all right here on your own?”
Well, really, what did Bashir think? He’d been cold, alone, afraid, and under constant supervision. He’d spent a large portion of each day in an interrogation room. There was practically nothing available that he liked to eat or drink, nor had he found any books or music on file that were familiar. His wider computer access was severely restricted, and they were cagey about talking to him about the progress of the war. He’d thought about asking if there was any sewing around the place that needed doing, but he didn’t want to sound like he’d gone mad. Which he hadn’t. He was fairly sure he hadn’t.
“I’ve been fine,” he lied.
Bashir gave him a look. What was that word the Chief sometimes used? Oh yes. Bollocks. “Oh well,” said the doctor, dryly. “Could be worse.”
Garak nearly laughed. “You know, doctor, I’ve stopped saying that to myself.”
“Oh yes?”
“Every time I do, things take a turn for the worse.”
“Huh,” said Bashir. “Maybe that thing Starfleet’s put in your head has given you the power to alter reality with your thoughts. You should start saying, ‘Could be better’. See where that takes us.”
“If only that were true. Can we change the subject?”
“Sorry.”
They sat and stared at nothing. Garak focused on his breathing.
“You know,” said Bashir, “I would’ve assumed this space would be too tight for you.”
This wasn’t, Garak thought, a little impatiently, changing the subject. “Sometimes, doctor, it seems to me it would help enormously if the whole world disappeared, or at least shrank to something more manageable.”
“Ah,” said Bashir, nodding wisely. “A paradox.”
“Life’s never straightforward, is it?”
“No,” agreed Bashir. They sat quietly until Garak’s breathing steadied, and then the doctor said, “Did I ever tell you about the time I did a runner?”
“You did what?”
“Two days after I found out what my parents did to me. I ran away from home.”
Oh, thought Garak, he does understand… And he felt in that moment that he had never loved this man more.
“I didn’t get very far. I wasn’t really making an effort. I just… didn’t want to be around them. So I ambled off one evening. Hadn’t packed anything. Thought I’d see how far I got. I was only gone a day, if that. My dad found me walking down the road. Gave me the bollocking of my life. What did you think you were doing. Imagine if we’d had to call the authorities, that kind of thing. Heaven forbid we attracted the wrong kind of attention. Anyway. I didn’t do that again.”
“Until you joined Starfleet, you mean.”
Bashir turned his head to look at him. “Yes.” He seemed to sound pleased. To be understood, Garak assumed. Or hoped. “Until then.”
I knew I could trust you, thought Garak.
“Are you coming with us?” said Bashir.
“What?”
“When we set off for DS9. I’m assuming you want to come along?”
“Yes. Well. I hope so. I asked the captain if I could.”
“Want me to have a word?”
Garak thought about that. “No,” he said. He’d rather know where he stood with Sisko on his own terms.
“Mm, well, try not to worry either way. Because I’m not leaving you here.”
On your own.
“I believe you, you know,” said Bashir.
“What?”
“I believe you.”
People didn’t say that very often to Garak. But other people didn’t matter. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”
“After careful consideration,” said Bashir.
A whole five minutes, thought Garak. No, this was the most he’d ever loved this man.
They leaned against each comfortably. Garak, warmed, let his mind wander. What would he do, he wondered, if those people ever tried to come at him through Bashir? He didn’t have to think long or hard for the answer. He’d kill them, of course, with his bare hands… Would they try that? Would they harm him? Or, worse, would they try to recruit him to their cause? Bashir would make a good agent. Not that stupid holosuite game. Everything else. The intelligence, the quick thinking, the nerve, the practiced concealment, the ability to live life between the lines… Yes, they’d probably try to recruit him. Wasn’t that what Garak had intended, back at the start of all of this? Good luck with that, he told his shadow colleagues. This man has his own agenda when it comes to people like us. He’s more likely to recruit you…
Garak closed his eyes. Put his head against the young man’s shoulder. Felt Bashir’s hand upon his arm. He tried to pretend that they were sitting under the sun on the vast empty shores of the southern continent, but some reason he couldn’t summon up the image as easily as he might have done in the past. All that came to mind was his quarters on DS9. The rest, it seemed, was slipping away, like a dream that could not withstand the harsh light of morning.
I don’t know about you, Julian, he thought, but I’m long past ready to go home.
Wherever that was these days.
~~~
The Cold Heaven by WB Yeats.
10th June 2026
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