#STREAM ON YOUR BOATS

[lokisasylum]

Winning the IDGAF war 💅

[pankomako]

lowkey how it be

[danwhobrowses]

Okay so this'll be the last post I make regarding Critical Role until c3e119 airs since while the antipathy and, for lack of a better word, deflation revolving around 118 has been a little disheartening, I do want to throw a few things that continue to bounce off the inside of my head out there before we get to the next episode;

I don't think it's needed (as someone who very much wants them all to survive - including ones I like less than others - and be able to continue figuring themselves out) for BH to die or be betrayed or be subject to additional punishment to justify what's happening. This fight IS their punishment, their consequence, their Finding Out after Fucking Around

Also, if the gods refuse to help BH - if asked - it proves Ludinus right. Refusing aid would indicate that they really are picking favourites out of self interest, plus the taking on Predathos option was only proposed to BH by one of their own, so it'd be double scummy

Campaign 3 has still had some great, funny and heartbreaking moments that we shouldn't forget about just because these current events are fresh, plus C1 and 2 weren't perfect - worth reminding that too

Honestly, if FCG were alive the same thing would've happened anyway; Matt would've made the coin flip be indecisive so the cast could make the choice and Imogen would've chosen the same way

While we definitely could've built to this better, this fight will provide the floor for BH to confront a key character motivation; be it preventing the overtaking and corrupting influence of a malicious or feral psyche, having to decide whether to trust that their ally can overcome it or follow through with what a superior entrusted them to do as a countermeasure, or simply trying to protect and prevent another friend from dying - which, alongside the likely map change and expected unique minis, is actually kinda exciting

Just, let's go into 119 with an open mind, okay? They have to earn it for sure but it's not over until it's over.

[svtskneecaps]

so what i'm putting together from osmosis and the wonderful livebloggers and the incredible arkanis english updates account is something like this

Prefeito Jota: Hello, I'd like to hire you to investigate what happened in my city/island(?)!

Bagi, who was previously "invited" to a mysterious island/city by its elected official, subsequently trapped on the mysterious island/city, investigated the deep mysterious history of the island/city, came to no conclusions, found her brother after years of searching, was separated once again from her brother, gained and lost an adopted daughter (possibly to being kidnapped by the island government, which was evil), gained and lost a demon fiancée (possibly to being dragged back to hell, so there's no way to find her), gained and lost a close demon friend to dubious circumstance (did he die for his children? is he with skeppy in the gas station?), and has had an unknown amount of time to process and/or suppress all of this: Sure! :D

[kirbytripledeluxe]

do they know im the person thats been sorting all of failboats kirby videos for the past year for public convenience

[hauntingblue]

Jaya time

I love these moments of nearly cosmic horror when they encounter inexplicable things (at first) they are so intriguing

Is strawhat here?! *Megan thee stallion saying AAH 😜*

This cover just goes hard... Get it chopper

[ladykissingfish]

Been having a really, scarily bad week mental-health wise and. I don’t know. But I keep it to myself because anytime I so much as breathe anything about what I think or feel all I’m hit with is a bunch of right-sounding generic “advice” that isn’t helpful or is something I’ve already done/tried. “Hang in there!” isn’t helpful when most days I just want to hang myself. 

I got up and walked to the park before the sun came up and sat on the bleachers and just. Thought. About some stuff. Really hard.

I cried and then I stopped and then I cried more and then I came back home.

Dunno if I’m just giving up at this point or what. Writing out little chatposts distracts for about 5 minutes and then it’s right back to the swamp in my brain.

Is it okay to just feel what I feel, and have that be enough? Not to be told everyone and their mom’s opinion on how to fix things, but just to be HEARD, just to be VALIDATED that my feelings are legitimate and real?

Does that make sense?

I’m just. 

I’m lonely and I’m sad about the event that happened in October and I wish I was over it but I’m not and I feel helpless and lost and like. 

I texted my mom my sister my brother my aunt two cousins and everyone is busy. So I’m just gonna go to sleep I guess? 4pm but I can’t be conscious anymore. Dreams might be kinder.

[candied-cae]

I’m gonna be so real, babes, when I saw that storm looking so ROUGH at the end of episode 2, I was real worried The Revenge was going to capsize and completely break to splinters and just sink to the bottom of the ocean. And I was DEVASTATED!

I was legitimately about to cry for that big ol’ boat bc she’s home and she's a part of their journey, and she can’t rest until her captains have been reunited! She deserves to see it happen on her deck, or so help me-

[quidcrusheu]

First EQC, first Quidcrush, because I'd take a cruise on the Danube with #35 of the Direwolves

.

[kuwdora]

[fic]: Acquired Taste (Jaskier/Roche)

Acquired Taste Jaskier/Vernon Roche Mature 661 words no kissing but implied blow jobs and sex shenanigans. written for @sassaffrassa and zemyr, us three rowing a very tiny boat, lol. a bard and a spy with no feelings whatsoever.

Roche is drifting in a postcoital fugue when a weight on his chest rouses him. He cracks open an eye. Jaskier is balancing a flask on his chest, careful not to let it topple with the rise and fall of Roche’s breath.

“Don’t know what it is about you—but you give off a grumpy aura of someone who can appreciate the finer things in life—but only if you can do it in secret,” Jaskier says. He lets the flask fall onto Roche’s chest. The casualness of the observation would have confounded Roche if he hadn’t already had the life sucked out of him by his cock.

Jaskier taps the flask rhythmically and repeats the the gesture on Roche’s hip.

He exhales smoothly and lifts his head. Picks up the flask. It’s silver and embossed with the head of a stag, and the corner of the flask has a sizable dent, almost like it had been stepped on by a horse or survived a wagon wheel.

“Your time is better spent trying to read other people,” Roche says. Jaskier flops onto his back and chuckles, adjusting the thin chain around his neck.

“Go on, try it,” he says, flapping a hand languidly at Roche.

He opens the flask when he sits up, taking a brief whiff—it smells like some kind of blended spirits. “It’s not poisonous. And if it is, I promise you’ll have enough time to stab me before I can find my boots. Or my trousers,” Jaskier says dismissively.

Roche takes a drink and pauses. It’s a bourbon—a sweet apple that was almost too deep and rich, but tempered by an intense spiciness. It singes his lips and leaves his tongue raw. He sits with the taste and sighs.

“Told you,” Jaskier says, light and playful.

Roche takes a longer pull from the flask, the alcohol warming him pleasantly. It was good. He offers the drink back to Jaskier. “Tastes expensive.”

Jaskier pushes himself to his elbows, taking a long slow drink, and he licks his lips. “The type of apple they used in this doesn’t even exist anymore—the orchards where it grew was hit by a blight and something about the way it affected the seeds meant they couldn’t grow more—or so they said. So it’s as rare as you can get in Redania. A bottle of this goes for—” Jaskier takes another, longer sip, closing his eyes and smiling into the burn of alcohol. “More than what I earned playing at court for two years.”

“Do you always carry around stupidly expensive alcohol with you?” Roche asks when Jaskier passes the flask back to him. Jaskier taps Roche’s fingers several times. There’s enough light from the lanterns for Roche to see too-blue eyes staring at him with a cavalier want and humor even though they’d already gotten off once that night.

He’s had expensive alcohol before, rare vintages offered to him as gifts while he was at Foltest’s court. Roche has also liberated some rather expensive alcohol from bandits or errant knights of the Eternal Flame. Shared bottles with his men before. But right now Roche’s gut burns. From the bourbon. He takes another long drink. Nothing about the mouthy bard should leave Roche feeling this warm.

“There’s something about a little decadence that tastes even better after a romp in camp,” Jaskier says brightly and kisses Roche’s shoulder. “You like it.”

“It’s fine,” Roche says, focusing on the embossed stag on the flask instead of Jaskier’s smile.

“That’s not what your face said,” Jaskier hums pleasantly.

Roche has little time to digest the sentimental sweep of Jaskier’s hand along his thigh when he feels Jaskier’s chin on his shoulder. The handsy, clinginess of the bard should be a problem. Will be a problem. In the small confines of the tent Roche finds himself relaxing. Just a little.

It’s a problem that Roche can deal with after the postcoital haze burns away.

also on ao3

[spock-adoodledoo]

on any given day my thoughts on three body range from this shit is so ridiculous no way all these things just keep happening one after the other to oh man what if i went crazy over this kind of mindblowing sci fi

[toyota-supra]

hey. good luck with everything, okay? [cutting the rope connecting your boat to the dock] just good luck. [starts pushing your boat further towards the stream] just have a good luck out there

[pankomako]

sometimes i think about interactions boat and i have had and things he's said to/about me over the years and it makes me feel as though i must occupy some little space in his heart. like i live in his mind rent-free the way he does for me, although not nearly to the same extent lmao.

speak of the goddamn devil i just got a steam notification he's playing tf2

anyway i never thought i'd have that kind of effect on a person, much less my favorite content creator. but it sure appears to be that way, and idk. it makes me feel special. warms my heart n all that :)

[dreamineuphoria]

Life is but a dream

[zooophagous]

So why do you hate the advertising industry?

Hokay so.

Let me preface this with some personal history. It's not relevant to the sins of the advertising industry perse but it illustrates how I started to grow to hate it.

I wanted to be a veterinarian growing up, but to be a vet you basically have to be good enough to get into medical school. I do not have the math chops or discipline to make it in medical school. I went into art instead, and in a desperate attempt to find some commercial viability that didn't involve moving to California, I went into graphic design.

I've been a graphic designer for about seven or eight years now and I've worn a lot of hats. One of them was working in a print shop. Now, the print shop had a lot of corporate customers who had various ad campaigns. One of them was Gate City Bank, which had a bigass stack of postcards ordered every couple months to mail to their customers.

Now, paper comes from Dakota Paper, and they make their paper the usual way. Somewhere far, far from our treeless plain there is a forest of tall trees. These trees are cut down and put on big fossil fuel burning trucks and hauled to a paper mill that turns them into pulp while spewing the most fowl odors imaginable over the neighboring town and loads the pulp up with bleach to give it a nice white color.

Then the paper is put on yet another big truck and hauled off to the local paper depot, then put on another big truck and delivered to my print shop, where I turned the paper into postcards telling people to go even deeper into debt to buy a boat because it's almost summer. The inks used are a type of nasty heat sensitive plastic that is melted to the surface of the paper with heat. Then the postcards are put on yet ANOTHER truck and sent to the bank, which puts them on ANOTHER truck and finally into the hands of their customers, who open their mail and take one look at the post card and immediately discard it.

Heaps and heaps and literal hundreds of pounds of literal garbage created at the whim of the marketing team several times a year. And thats just one bank in one city.

I came to realize very quickly that graphic design was the delicate art of turning trees into junk mail.

And wouldn't you know it there are a TON of companies that basically only do junk mail. Many of them operate under the guise of a "charity," sending you pictures of suffering children or animals and begging for handouts and when they get those handouts the executives take a nice fat cut, give some small token amount to whatever cause they pay lip service to, and then put the rest of the cash right back into making more mailers. "Direct mail marketing" they call it.

Oh but maybe it's not so bad, you can advertise online after all. Now that there's decent ad blocker out there and better anti-virus ads usually don't destroy your computer anymore just by existing.

Except now when I search for the exact business I want on Google it's buried under three or four different "promoted search items" tricking me into clicking on them only to shoot themselves in the foot because I searched for the specific result I wanted for a reason and couldn't use those other websites even if I felt like it.

And now we have advertising on YouTube and on every streaming service, forcing more and more eyes onto the ad for the brand new Buick Envision that parks itself because you're too stupid to do it on your own.

Oh thats ok maybe I'll get Spotify premium and go ad free and listen to some podcasts- SIKE we have the hosts of your show doing the song and dance now. Are you depressed and paranoid from listening to my true crime podcast about murdered and mutilated teenagers? That's ok, my sponsor Better Help can keep you sane enough to stay alive and spend more money.

It's gotten so terrible that now you have content farms, huge hubs of shell companies that crank out video after video to get more and more precious clicks. Which if the videos were innocuous maybe that wouldn't be so awful except now you have cooking hacks that can actually burn your house down and craft hacks that can electrocute you being flung into your eyes at the speed of mach fuck so some slimy internet clickbait jockey doesn't need to get a real job.

It of course goes without saying that animals are also relentlessly exploited by clickbait companies that will put them in compromising situations on purpose to create a fake fishing hack video or even just straight up killing them for sport by feeding small animals to a pufferfish that rips them apart for the camera.

And all of this, ALL of this doesn't even touch how adveritising is the death of art in general. Queer topics, any kind of interesting art, any kind of sex or substance use topics are scrubbed clean and hidden at the behest of advertisers.

Sex education, a nude statue, topics such as racism or sexism or bigotry in general have tags purged or hidden from search, even life saving information about SDTs or drug use, because if someone saw that and complained then Verizon might sell fewer tablets and we can't fucking have that.

Conservative talking heads often bitch and moan that they're being censored on social media. The stupid part is, they're right! They are being censored! But it's not by a woke mob, it's by ATT and Coca Cola not wanting their adspace sharing screen time with their stupid fucking opinions.

However, they won't ever figure that out, because the talking heads they get their marching orders from like Tucker and Jones ALSO rely on the sweet milk flowing from the sponsorship teat and they aren't about to turn on their meal ticket so they have to come up with even stupider shit to say for the train to continue rolling.

I managed to rant this far without even getting into the ads I see for the beauty industry. The other day a botox ad described wrinkles as "moderate to severe crows feet" as if wrinkles are a symptom of a fucking serious disease! Like having a flaw in your skin is a medical problem that you need thousands of dollars of literal botulism toxin to fix! I was incandescent with anger.

Advertising is a polluting, censoring, anti educational and anti art industry at it's very core. It destroys human connections, suppresses human thought and makes us hate our own bodies. It ads no value, actively detracts from value, and serves no real purpose and I believe it should be almost if not entirely banned.

[donatellawritings]

What about instead of rage giving the reader the silent treatment let’s switch the roles and instead the reader gives rage the silent treatmentt plsss

you were being a chatty little princess. you couldn’t help how excited and giddy you were today — the sun was shining bright, the sky a pretty baby blue, the air smelled fresh and sweet, everything just seemed to have been going picture perfect for you. so, when rafe brought you along with him to the country club to catch up with kelce and topper, you were all smiles, to the point where your cherub cheeks and glossy lips ached from being so stretched. you sat prettily on rafe’s lap, even more bubbly than usual thanks to the pomegranate martini you’d been sipping on.

rafe’s hand mindlessly tapped against the side of your thigh as he spoke to topper about this new boat that he’d been eyeing, causing your doe eyes to widen as your lips parted, “oh my god, topper it’s so pretty and i told rafe that he should-” you cut in, oblivious to this being your fourth time interrupting rafe while he spoke to the guys. it wasn’t until rafe had finally corrected you that you realized your silly mistake.

“hey, y’gonna let me finish talkin’ to top, or are y’gonna keep on interrupting me?” rafe scolded, his voice cold and stern as he lightly grabbed your jaw, his bright blue eyes hanging low as he sent you a chilling warning look. a soft exhale left your nose as your eyes glazed over with threatening tears, with an obedient nod. now returning his attention to topper, rafe cleared his throat before continuing, “so, yeah m’probably gonna have it by next week — just waiting on my guy to have it all dolled up for me,” rafe sighed, ignoring the slight pang in his chest as you fiddled with your fingers and kept your gaze trained on your feet.

he could tell that you were trying your very best, not to cry.

you remained silent for the remainder of the day, only allowing yourself to extend a forced courteous smile to topper and kelce, once rafe decided it was time to go home. he didn’t miss the way you simply nodded or shook your head whenever the server asked you a question, or how you quickly wiped your eyes before a stream of tears could flow door your cheeks. could rafe do without your constant interjections? yes, but he had to admit that the conversation just wasn’t as engaging without your light and airy commentary.

so, rafe decided that he’d play all of your favorite songs, once you were comfortably seated in your passenger seat with your seatbelt fastened, his pink lips running dry as you remained blank of any emotion. reaching over the center console, rafe laying his hand right above your knee, squeezing the plush skin of your thigh, to get you to look at him, “hey, mama — y’doing okay?” he questions, quickly glancing over to you as you wordlessly nodded, your dolly eyes fluttering closed as rafe sighed in defeat, before bringing his hand back to the steering wheel. he had to admit that watching you leaning your head against the window to fall asleep, instead of his shoulder, stung him a little.

what gnawed at rafe the most, was that you weren’t being quiet as a punishment, you genuinely believed that rafe wanted you to stop talking, to the point where even he couldn’t get you to say a word to him. it’d been about four hours and he missed hearing you, he missed the way his name fell off of your tongue, the way your accent peaked with certain words, how you’d console him in spanish, but mostly, he missed hearing you call him ‘papi’.

it didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, thanks to the two cocktails you’d drank earlier, leaving rafe overtly excited to take the chance to get you in his arms, the moment he parked his car, rushing to the passenger side as he scooped you into his arms, his forearm resting underneath the soft curve of your ass, while his free hand gently slid over your waist. a low whine left your swollen lips as you kept your head leaned against rafe’s shoulder, sighing sleepily as you allowed your boyfriend to carry you inside of tannyhill.

pressing a kiss to your cheek, rafe was quick to take a seat on the couch with you on his lap, he needed this silence to end, before he flipped the fuck out, “i don’t like that y’not talking to me, mama — m’about to lose my mind, not hearing my pretty girl,” rafe coos sweetly into your ear, pressing another kiss to your cheek as you sigh, leaning your head closer into his shoulder. “y’not in trouble, baby, i just wanted to finish talking to topper and i know you’re excited about the boat,” rafe squeezed your waist, beckoning for you to look at him — he needed to make sure that you knew that he still saw you as his sweet girl.

compliantly, you lifted your head, your sleepy doe eyes bright as met rafe’s unwavering gaze, a small huff leaving you as you parted your now barely-glossed lips, “i just didn’t want to annoy you, papi —” you began, rafe’s eyes softening as your sweet voice ran like warm honey in his ears. you innocently shifted yourself on his lap, your swollen lips just aching to be kissed by rafe’s, “i know i was just being too excited,” you sighed, ending your small ramble as rafe simply stared at you blankly, licking over his lips as he shamelessly ogled yours.

the second you cocked your head to the side in confusion, rafe’s mouth was on yours, enveloping you in a disgustingly sloppy, but needy kiss. a throaty moan left rafe’s throat as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, securely holding your face against his as he messily licked into your mouth, spit smearing across your chin as you struggled to catch your breath, “papi, wait — i can’t breathe,” you giggled, your words instantly swallowed by rafe’s mouth as his tongue mushed slush against yours, the two of you whimpering with greed as rafe leaned forward, with you still clinging onto his lap, his shiny, spit-covered lips trailing down to your prettily pushed-up breasts.

“missed hearing y’fuckin’ voice, mama,” rafe mumbled, his voice broken and hoarse as you smiled cheesily, beaming with the fact that rafe missed you.