#a beautiful rear can also endear

[coff33andb00ks]

LANDO + 36 AHHH 🤍

36: unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping

driver + number = drabble/short fic <3

Lando is clingy. Not in a bad way, it's actually endearing how much he craves physical touch. It doesn't matter what's going on, he needs to feel you. He's a hugger, a hand holder, an arm around your shoulder, head in your lap on movie night, thighs touching in the back seat, and though it can sometimes be annoying you love it. It's like he knows that each touch - the hand squeezes, every hug, each time he leans against you, all the big and little touches throughout the day - he knows that it heals the scared girl you keep locked inside you.

You love it, truly. But...

Lando's also hot. In the attractive sense yes of course, but also temperature wise. He's a furnace and still chooses to dress in hoodies and sweaters and jackets like he's freezing. You can handle it during the day - mainly because he can't cling to you and always has to do some work - but at night it's torture. Or it was. Until you finally told him you couldn't fully sleep in his arms all night or you'd roast alive. Since you'd told him at three in the morning, sweating and standing in front of the fan, he hadn't acted hurt or asked if you even loved him. He'd apologized and asked if he could at least hold you until you were almost asleep.

Compromise? In this economy? You'd agreed, and in the weeks since you've been able to sleep without worrying you'd be smothered by his heat.

He holds you and doesn't fight you when you wiggle away for your space. Sometimes you wake up to his leg over yours or his hand on your chest or his face in your neck but it's not hard to wriggle into a more comfortable position. And you make sure he gets plenty of cuddles and hugs when you're awake.

He's obviously tired as you get ready for bed and you know he's worn out. He doesn't talk about his occasional insomnia much but you know it's there, lurking and waiting for a time he needs as much rest as he can get before it rears its ugly head again. As you get into bed he sighs and reaches for you.

"Are we getting boring?" He mumbles the words against the back of your neck, his nose pressed in your hair.

"How do you mean?" you ask, grunting as his arms tighten around you, his body curling closer.

"S'posed to be putting my kids in you."

You roll your eyes. It's been his goal since you became official and he realized that his occasional fuckboy tendencies weren't going to scare you off. "It's fine baby, you can do it in the morning."

"M'just tired," he mumbles. "Still wanna fuck you though."

"I know. Go to sleep, you can do it later."

"K." He kisses your neck and wriggles closer. Until you think he wasn't joking the time he said he wished he could crawl under your skin and stay.

You read for a while, until his breathing evens and you feel him relax fully, his arm heavy over you. The heat is overwhelming and you carefully slide free, switching off the lamp while he rolls away with a sleepy groan. And you know for sure that he's exhausted because in the time it takes you to fall asleep he doesn't wiggle close again.

You dream about the kids he keeps saying he wants to put in you. Beautiful little babies with his eyes and messy hair that wreak havoc in the best way just like their dad. And in your dream you think to yourself that having his kids wouldn't be so bad...

When you awake he's still on the other side of the bed. His face is pushed into the pillow and despite the gentle snoring and sheet marks on his cheek he's still adorable to you. His arm is stretched towards you and as you become aware of your body you see his hand.

Clutching yours.

Fingers intertwined, thumb hooked over yours, his knuckles white. He's clinging to your hand like it's a lifeline and oh, you feel guilty for telling him you didn't want him holding you all night. You can tell his hand searched for yours - his arm is twisted in the sheet and yours is too And you wonder if he was able to even sleep properly until he was holding onto you, or if it had been a blind search in the night by both of you, because you know deep down your body craves his touch as much as he craves yours.

With your free hand you untangle the sheets and he stirs. And while he reaches for you with his other arm and pulls you close he's still asleep, still clutching your hand. You never want him to let go.

[nescaveckwriter]

Heyy! Can I request a Dean Winchester x reader with an established relationship where they have to deal with a case for which they have to dress up all nice, and reader usually wear baggy clothes or clothing that hides most of her body and for the first time, he sees reader in a tight fitting dress and he's just

😍 "shit, that's my woman?!"

And he's just over the moon even more for reader (if that's even possible)

😱💓🥰... Awww sweetheart this is such a cute idea, I just simply love it, also thanks for asking, I really do hope you like, this little drabble, I've written is what you had in mind💓 anywayz I hope you have an epic day, love ... 🐞💓🥰

A/N: I love receiving requests, so keep em coming 😅

Warnings: 18+Only, Some mention of violence, and intimacy, but nothing to much, light foul language. And Pure FLUFF 🥳😘💕

Pictures used: Pinterest

Copyright: Please do not copy, my work.

Words: 1189 😘

Lady in Red 💕

His husky voice lingers in the air, oh how I loved the sound of his voice, we have been together for a few years now, and somehow hearing him, looking at him, never got old. His green eyes caught mine, helding it captive, because I mean who wouldn't drown in those emerald green orbs, mouthing with his plum lips across the table, "I love you" as Sam discussed the plan with us. Mouthing back "I love you too Dean". Looking at each other as if we were the only people in the room.

"Really you two?" Sam looked at the two of them, "we need to focus, the two of you need to pose as a high end, couple, for this charity event, so I need both of you too listen" Dean and I looked a little guilty, but then Dean smirked "bite me" I chuckled a little, the way Sam's face has irritation written all over..

Sam looked at me, eyeing the oversized clothing I always wear, oh he didn't want to say it out loud but, I knew what he was thinking, how am I going to look the part?. I barely even wear makeup or do my hair, but like who would not want to be comfortable when you're fighting monsters and ghosts. I smile, "Don't worry boys, I'll dress the part" Dean gave me this surprised almost scolding look sounding sincere, "You are beautiful sweetheart, I don't care what you wear, your beautiful" he walked up to me, and without hesitation he pulled me into an endearing kiss, his hands resting on my hips, I heard Sam, mumbling "Oh! Give me a break" and walk out, leaving the two of us, I could feel the way Dean smiled, against my lips. After a few more seconds, we came up for air, sounding breathy ,"Babe you should stop terrorising your brother so much" he simply smirked "Not my fault Sammy is so easily annoyed" I laugh, starting to turn away from him, "I need to go and get ready for tonight's event, you too mister" he grabbed my wrist, "Come here sweetheart" he pulled me close to him, looking into my eyes, "you know I love you right, more than anything in this world?" I smiled, looking at this gorgeous man in front of me, his freckles, my damn weakness, "Mhmm you see I know that's not true" surprised he looks at me "what?" Chuckling a bit "what about baby?" Referencing the love for his Chevrolet Impala, standing in the garage, he burst into laughter "You are driving me crazy woman, now go get ready" giving me a playful slap on the rear. I walk away, smiling, my heart bursting with love and joy.

He smiles as he watches her walk away, wearing loose fitting jeans one of his t-shirts and some flannel, hair in a messy bun, it's true he didn't care what she wore, she's so beautiful for him, but he would be lying, if he said he wasn't curious what she'll look like all dressed up, for some reason that's beyond him, she always thinks she's not pretty, but oh how far that could be from the truth, he knows every single inch of her body, every little spot that makes her tickle, every Little sensitive part, that makes her moan in pleasure, he loves her, even more than his car, but he'll never admit it.

Checking himself in the mirror, mumbling "I hate these monkey suits" as he struggled with his bow tie. He walks around the bunker searching for Sam, of course he finds his little brother's nose buried in those damn books, "Sammy help a man out?" Sam looks up, "you can hunt some of the most dangerous creatures, but you can't fix a tie?" The glare Dean gives him shows he isn't happy at the remark, he gets up, helping his big brother fix the tie.

Sam's eyes widens, his mouth falls open, Dean looks at him "What's your problem?" Sam could barely utter a single word he was stunned to say the least, Dean followed his eyes and when Dean turned around, his breathing hitched, his heart rate went up, he slightly gasped for air, taking in the beauty before him, his eyes wandered over her. Her hair draped over her shoulders, her eyes glistening, her smile could light up the darkest of rooms, wearing a red tight fitting dress. The high cut slit in her dress, exposing her right leg, the crystal like heels, making her seem taller, her legs leaner, the low halter cut, just exposing enough of her collar bone, to leave something for the imagination.

Without saying a word, Dean gestured for her to turn, the back of the dress, totally exposed, just covered her lower back. He bit his lower lip, and with the back of his hand, hitting against Sam's chest, his voice sounding a bit more husky, "shit, that's my woman?!" She laughed and her voice rang, "Last time I checked, I was all yours"

All the way to the event Dean could barely keep his eyes on the road.

When he led her through the doors, his hand rested on the curve of her back, so many eyes were on her, and he slightly chuckled when she whispered "why are they all looking at me?" As if she doesn't know she's beautiful! So he just smiled, took her hand, and asked "do me the honour and dance with me?" She did a little playful dip, "the honour would be all mine" before he pulled her close, he gave her a once over. He never saw the highlights in your hair, that caught your eyes, or the dress you're wearing tonight, he pulls you close. Dancing cheek to cheek, the way she feels this close to him, her small hands on his shoulders, his calloused hands, in the small of her back, sending electric shocks through her spine, swaying with the music, maybe Dean's caught up in the moment, but there's a question weighing on him for months, but now, now it feels like the right moment, he's voice sounded deeper than normal as he whispered, hot air brushing against her neck "Sweetheart?"

Slightly breathy, "Yes?" He cleared his throat, "make me the happiest man alive, and be my wife?"

Her swaying body came to a stop , "A...are you asking me" he cut her off, pulled back looking in her eyes, "yes, will you marry me?" I couldn't believe it, he just asked me to be forever his, without further due, I planted a kiss on his plum lips, soft tears rolling down my cheeks, he smiled against her soft lips, "is that a yes?" I break the kiss, smiling widely, "yes a million times yes" he laughed, picked her up, gave a twirl, and placed her down, his fingers intertwined with hers. Giving me that signature smirk, "What do you, say Mrs Winchester let's go catch that shifter, then we celebrate with some pie and beer?" I laughed, nodding, as happy as can be, "lead the way Mr Winchester".

@k-slla @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cevansbaby-dove @cutedisneygrl @angelbabyyy99 @pia-bartolini

[icy-bluez]

Picture Perfect

Warnings: slightly suggestive, crack fic, fluff.

Characters: Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier

Synopsis: Weird / endearing pictures you have of them.

A/N: Icy has nothing to say cuz Icy currently has a smooth bren.

Rafayel

Man's got cake.

Nah, he's got a fucking bakery.

And you were extremely slightly jealous.

(Unless your thang be thanging too.)

You have definitely clicked pictures of his ass on multiple occasions, especially when he's wearing those fancy clothes of his, tight with swaying buttcheeks as he walks. And then you probably proceeded to spank it.

"Rafayel, I have a question." You ask while he was spacing out, sitting in front of a giant canvas full of beautiful hues of colours.

"...Yes?"

"If you fall on your butt do you bounce back up from the sheer plushness of the muscle on your rear en-"

Rafayel almost snaps his neck when he turns his face towards you with a loud dramatic, "Say what-!?"

Let's just say he got really flustered and you got to see for yourself if he really did bounce back up when he fell from the stool.

Besides that you also have a shit ton of pictures of him pouting or sulking because you're pretty sure he does the picture perfect pout better than you when he's just...well....sulking.

Xavier

Some...incredibly weird sleeping positions.

You were on your way out of Akso hospital one day and saw fur, fluffy and golden hanging out from the tree. You assumed it was a cat.

You reached up to grab it. The cat-human entity grunted.

You jumped away like a startled cat yourself, only to see sleepy blue eyes peek from under a lowered tree branch. Lo and behold, it was a wild Xavier. Snap, went the camera.

You definitely have pictures of his chest, like, how are they so huge and squish-able. You've also wanted to lick the sweat off his abs once in a while because he's just so damn muscular and glows like a goddamn glowstic- (concerned personnel are requested to not try this at home unless they are also in possession of a wild Xavier or similar-)

"Xavier. Shirt off." You ordered with a slightly unhinged expression on your face.

"W-whuh? Y/N?"

"Now."

"W-wait why-"

"Shut up and let me worship your knead-ables."

Don't pretend you did not relish in his moans after you were done with worshipping his body. It did not stop at his chest though, you definitely went lower.

PS: He fell asleep on his knees once, while he was hugging your legs and his head was on your lap. You clicked a picture and never let that one go.

Zayne

Zayne, pinching his nose bridge, sighing, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the couch. Before he could even register what was happening, he heard around fifty snaps of pictures being taken, going off from the side.

Zayne is just a very sexy man in general but you, as his girlfriend, obviously have weird/endearing pictures of him. Like the time he started gleefully laughing like a child. A giant cat was finally, finally being overly affectionate with him, licking his hands, neck and all over his face.

(Are we jealous? Yes we are!)

Zayne barely ever lets his guard down therefore little moments when he would fall asleep on your lap or just anywhere random in general after being thoroughly exhausted, you would take a picture.

You have definitely forced him into couple photoshoots with you. Asking him to put on cat ears with you, carry plushies on his shoulders, making hearts with your hands, drawing one half of a heart with a red lipstick on your cheek then smushing it against a reluctant Zayne's cheek to form the other half of the heart. That picture was now your lockscreen wallpaper.

Besides that, he had really broad shoulders and an impeccable stature. Not that you wouldn't peck it.

"Mm, can I?" You ask, seductively pulling his shirt open as you reapply your lipstick.

"Isn't this a bit too..."

"Is it a yes or a no?"

"...You can continue."

Now you also had a picture of Zayne flushed red and littered with lipstick marks all over his neck, cheeks, chest, abs, maybe lower. Definitely not because you were jealous of a cat.

Oh and he probably got his revenge as well.

ANTHOLOGY LIST

[madarasgirl]

I love your blog about madara 😭♥️, you could write about madara being a dad🧑‍🍼 i love imagining him being a dad😭🤰♥️

Thank you for the kind words! I love thinking about Madara as a dad too! He is so husband and dad-shaped. That’s why I waited so long to answer this ask, even though it’s one of my first ones! Because I love this ask and wanted to do it justice. I can only see Madara as a father in an AU where Konoha is actually democratic and fair towards the Uchiha. Since you didn’t specify what stage of life the child is in, I’m gonna write about how Madara might be throughout his child’s life. Warning: fluff ahead!

During pregnancy- Madara is going to be extremely protective and gentle with you. If you ever thought he was overboard before you were pregnant, he’s just extra now when you’re more vulnerable than ever. Even if he knows you’re a capable shinobi (or civilian), he won’t let any risk come to you and wants you to have the most relaxing pregnancy ever. He doesn’t even let you step on a chair to reach the higher cabinets! Sheesh. He’ll rub your swollen feet and take on more chores. When you worry about the possibility of your baby not developing into a model shinobi as expected of an Uchiha child, he scoffs at you. “We will love and raise our child no matter what. Do you think we burn our children just because they aren’t strong ninja?” He hates the idea of children as mere fodder or pawns in war. This is his precious baby for goodness sake!

Madara will often be by your side, to protect you, but also to spend time with you. He wants nothing more than for you to be happy and feel how much he loves you and the baby during these precious months. There is no way Madara will ever let you feel self-conscious about your appearance. To him, you’re more beautiful than ever (not only because he has a breeding kink, people. He actually finds your pregnant body stunning). He builds the baby’s crib and nursery with his own hands during this time.

Newborn- Madara is crazy protective. His baby is so tiny, fragile, and perfect. He’s terrified of hurting the newborn at first, but gets the hang of handling his baby very quickly. Madara is overjoyed from the birth of the Uchiha and proud of you for gifting him the greatest blessing of his life. Too much had gone wrong in his life and having both his child and wife emerge from the birth healthy seems unreal to him. He’s kind of obsessed with staring at his child and soaking in the cute baby sounds they make. He silently vows to do good by the child and protect them no matter what. You may think this traditional man might leave a lot of the child-rearing to the mom, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Madara is very involved with the care of the baby. It’s not like his desire for you to feel happy, loved, and cared for faltered since the birth. Of course he’ll help, especially knowing how tired you can be. He has to admit a newborn’s care requirements are quite demanding, and even more daunting than many missions.

Toddler- At this tender innocent age, when the child is more interactive, but still dependent on their parents, Madara melts with his child. We know Madara loves children, but also that they’re usually terrified of him. For one to not only be unafraid of him, but seek his company and even touch him? It’s enough to make him soft in the head.

Madara is protective (see a theme?) because he knows his young child has no means of defending themselves. It hurts, but he knows the shinobi world is harsh and strength is the only way for anyone to survive. He begins teaching his child basic skills like walking on water, perhaps through games. No techniques to fight yet. He wants to spare his child the harsh training he and his brothers endured from a horribly young age for even a few more years.

His child’s babbling speech is so endearing, but he isn’t the type to baby-talk. You make fun of him for talking like an old man to the child, but it’s what Madara does. Madara lets his child climb all over him, curl up in his lap, and reads to them while they play with his hair. He isn’t even upset when they yank. He just sits there to soak up the childish chattering and laughter. Expect this child to have exceptionally sophisticated speech patterns in the future!

Childhood- It’s time for proper ninja training. Madara will begin the long journey of passing everything he knows about battle onto his progeny. He’s a fair, but firm teacher and he isn’t cruel in his lessons. Battle tactics, basic jutsu, taijutsu, and weapon handling are in the books. His child is still very young and may not understand limits. Children can be harsh to each other and it’s Madara, a clan head who doesn’t enjoy beating up on the weak, who teaches his child compassion and the responsibility the strong have to protect those who depend on them. It’s a loving household they grow up in. Raised by you and Madara, the child grows into a strong, empathetic individual. Madara will feel like a failure if his child develops the Sharingan at any point in their life, even if he knew it was likely to happen.

Teenager- God help Madara and his kid. He raised them to be strong individuals, never expecting it to come back and bite him in the ass. They talk back using the same logic and sharp Uchiha roasts he instilled into them. It’s during these years his teenager pushes his boundaries to see how far they can go and they gain some independence through ninja missions, so Madara can’t keep as close an eye as he wants. He makes sure there are responsible adults watching over his child on missions, even if he can’t be there himself. He always worries about his child when they’re outside of the village, though he knows they are very powerful for their age.

Like other teens, his delinquent child can be dismissive of risk and hot-headed. It’s likely his child runs into a few of Madara’s many enemies at some point who try to leverage them against him. Regardless, Daddy probably showed up to save the day a few times when his child made reckless battle choices or bad decisions to rebel against his rules, decisions that could have costed them their life. Daddy Madara then dragged his child home to talk (and sometimes smack) some sense into them. He may be angry, but Madara was honestly scared stiff about losing his child.

If he has a daughter and she begins showing signs of interest in boys, Madara will seriously consider murder. Forget about the responsibility of protecting those who are weaker. “She will never date anyone,” he concluded, chakra flaring dangerously with distaste at the thought of any dirty boy who dared touch his baby girl.

Adulthood- Madara will remain a steadfast pillar of support and wisdom throughout his child’s life. He will always be the model his child looks up to. Madara is pretty easygoing, and would love nothing more than to spend carefree time together doing anything with you and your adult child. He cherishes every moment, knowing that shinobi can die at any time and it’s almost a miracle that his small family has survived until adulthood.

He will always love and support his baby. It doesn’t matter what painful situations and decisions being a shinobi will force his child into making, Madara will love them unconditionally no matter what, even if they ever end up on different sides of a conflict. That is what being family means.

[jaylaxies]

jaemin, ur hot bf who is lowkey obsessed with u 😔 i literally cannot stop thinking that very same convo we had IM SORRY 😭 like his friends often tease him about it. Like it’s a topic that’s constantly being brought up and there were a handful of too-on-the-nose comments about his so called ‘obsession’; how he looks at you a certain way, how there were evidences of him all over you (your jewelry, clothing, hell—even his perfume) and how often he’d talk about you too. Jaemin brushes them off with a laugh, claiming that he just loved you.

But Jaemin, as unassuming he was at most times, was also self-aware. Maybe he did look at you longer than what considered acceptable. You were beautiful. He likes watching you, taking in every expression you’d make with hungry eyes as though it would be the last time he’ll ever see you and pride rears it’s ugly head, knowing you were his and his alone. He wants to keep you to himself if he could, but he loved you too much to scare you off with the uglier, more sinister sides of him.

(BYEEE IDK WHERE I WENT WITH THIS I JUST NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT 😔)

please that convo haunts me in my dreams, you literally know how he came into my dream yesterday i can’t with jaemin </3

people say he’s obsessed with you and he admits that he is, that all boyfriends should be obsessed with their girlfriends, however, he doesn’t tell anyone the degree of obsession he’s talking about. he’d be present everywhere, saying how he loves to spend all his time with you, y’know how much he loves you and you find it endearing.

he’s wild in bed, making sure to mark your neck to let everyone know who you belong to, “say it, kitten, go on,” he urges you to repeat it while taking his cock deep inside your pussy, “i’m yours, jaemin,” you’d moan, that’s music to his ears.

he tries to control his sentiments and actions to make sure not to scare you off, however he doesn’t know how long he can keep this up, especially when he’s always jealous seeing you with others. maybe he wants to fuck you in front of that one guy who made you laugh in the morning, maybe he wants you to moan his name in front of the guy who was staring at you at the convenience store, but will he do it? 😋

[brighteyedbushybrowed]

hello! if it's not too much to ask, could you possibly write some headcanons for the papas with an s/o who loves to be outside no matter the season. like. they're just out there enjoying it. idk. whatever you want. have a good day/night and wishing you well!!

Hi!!! Love this request so much, I had great fun coming up with these headcanons <3 I myself am not an outdoorsy person unless it's autumn or late summer but hopefully you enjoy these !

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐨

This is something the two of you have in common

Even in his old age, the cold getting to him quicker in the winter, there is nowhere he'd rather be in the abbey than outside in the gardens

So the two of you spend a lot of time outdoors together whether it's working in the gardens, having a picnic, going on a stroll through the grounds, or just existing together

Primo makes sure that the two of you are well wrapped up if you're spending the day outside during the winter

He also got you matching umbrellas for if the two of you wanna sit outside and watch the rain during a thunderstorm

When it's especially cold and snowy out, his ghouls will bring you both flasks of hot chocolate to share

Summer nights are often spent laying on the grass and gazing up at the stars surrounded by blankets and pillows

If the two of you go on walks through the woods to the rear of the abbey, Primo will bring along his books about identifying wild plants and he'll teach you about them and how to identify what's poisonous and what isn't

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨

Very much an indoorsy person

However, Secondo loves that you prefer to be outdoors and spend so much time outside

It encourages him to actually leave his office and enjoy the outdoors a little more

Has had to drag you indoors during heavy rain and thunderstorms before now because he doesn't want you to catch a chill or get sick

Spoiler, you almost always catch a chill

It caused a lot of chaos and arguments with Imperator, but Secondo moved to a bedroom in the Papal quarters that has a balcony for you so that you get to wake up and bask in the sun outdoors first thing in the morning

Knows that if he can't find you in the abbey that he's bound to find you outside, which gives him the comfort of knowing you're safe

His favourite outdoors activity to do with you is in the summer and just lay in the sun with you (you're probably sunbathing whereas he just wants to lay there and be with you, quietly existing together)

𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐳𝐨

Thinks it's rather endearing that you take so much joy and enjoyment from simply being outside

Sometimes it's easy to forget that the simpler joys in life are the most wonderful and beautiful and fulfilling

So naturally Terzo is drawn to you because of this

He's such a romantic at heart that he literally tries to predict the weather outside so that your first kiss can be in the rain

He's like a lovesick puppy when he sees the pure joy and contentment on your face at getting to spend time outdoors

Will absolutely make snow angels with you no matter how cold or unbearable it might be

Romantic picnics under the stars or watching the sunset are a must

The two of you have fallen asleep cuddled up together under a tree more than once and woken up to one of the ghouls standing over you

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐚

Copia got sick really quick as a kid, so he spent a lot of his childhood in the infirmary, watching all the other abbey kids having fun outdoors from the window

So having someone in his life who loves to be outside as much as he does makes him incredibly happy

Has a photo album full of just pictures of the two of you doing various activities outdoors

He's similar to Secondo in that he is comforted by the fact that he knows where to find you because you spend so much time outdoors

Takes you wild blackberry picking in the abbey woods during the summer

He will also take you to pumpkin patches during the autumn as a way to bond and spend quality time together outdoors while also doing seasonal activities

You will probably have to nurse him back to health if he gets sick from getting soaked in the rain with you

This doesn't deter him from spending as much time with you outdoors as possible and he adores that you're such an outdoorsy person

𝐍𝐢𝐡𝐢𝐥

Nihil is not an outdoors man

Doesn't understand why you enjoy being outside so much during all manner of weather and temperatures

However he's not going to stop you or try to convince you to spend less time out there. He actually likes that you're different to him in those regards

Won't go out of his way to constantly be outdoors, but he will spend time outside of the abbey with you

Starts getting into cloud watching because of you

Will also go bird watching with you and sets aside one day a week where he will do an outdoorsy activity with you

Calls you his little songbird because you spend so much time outside in nature

You will have to really butter him up to get Nihil to go outdoors with you during the winter and snowy weather

[nh-art]

A beautiful rear can also endear

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Insatiable

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: ~3100 Tags: PWP, Top Hob, Bottom Dream, rimming, minor shapeshifting, anal fingering, anal sex, come eating (of a sort), let's call it reverse felching, creampie, multiple orgasms, no refractory periods in the Dreaming, a little bit of overstimulation, as a treat, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, Hob is Disgustingly Affectionate in bed, effusive endearments, pillow princess Dream, enthusiastic bottom Dream, yes he can be both, service top Hob Notes: This is the result of a bevy of Smut March prompts, to wit: deep, "Open up", licking, "On your knees", naked, kneeling, "Tell me what you want", harder. The phrase 'I want that twink obliterated' may have also wielded some influence on this.

Summary: Dream gets rimmed and railed within an inch of his life. That's it, that's the fic.

On AO3

Dream is drifting in the soft haze of Hob's attentions, face down in the enormous bed in his private chambers. His legs are splayed around Hob, whose hands are spreading him wide, and Hob's face is buried in between, the source of Dream's pleasure. His tongue is a thing of beauty, wet and warm, soft when he licks over Dream's hole, firm when he delves inside. He has been at it for quite some time, gently unfurling Dream's body with careful attention and Dream is lax, pleased, awash in the ebb and flow of arousal and the care Hob is giving him. He is half-hard, against the bedding beneath him, but it does not hold his focus.

It is bliss, to lie abed and be seen to thus, and Hob he knows is willing to indulge him endlessly here in the Dreaming. Still, however. There is. More, he would like. Eventually.

Long moments pass in this fashion, before the soft heat in his belly begins to grow restless. He sighs, rolls his hips, a languid push up as Hob's tongue slides in, and he lets out a soft breath of sound, fingers curling gently in the sheets. Hob hums in reply, sending new shivers of sensation into Dream's body and he shifts again, seeking more.

He is fully hard and rutting lightly between the sheets beneath him and the wet tongue behind when Hob finally withdraws, just enough to speak. "Alright, love?" He presses a soft open kiss to the crease of Dream's thigh, just beneath where his hand holds Dream open.

Dream groans, shivering at the absence of stimulation, working to bring speech back to the forefront of his consciousness. "Yes—" He squirms against the bedclothes, pushing back into the hold Hob has on him, seeking the heat of his mouth. Hob obliges, laving the flat of his tongue over the soft opening before him and dipping back inside, and Dream's breath catches in his throat. "I would have you. Deeper."

Hob chuckles, which is all manner of delightful with his face in its current situation, and Dream does not suppress the thrill that runs all through him. Hob pulls back again, hands as well this time, and pats Dream's flank gently. "Come on then, up on your knees."

Dream hurries to arrange himself accordingly, chest still on the bed, knees spread and rear in the air, presented like a trophy for Hob's attentions. It is an undignified position, to be certain; but here, like this, with Hob, his dignity is of little value.

"Sweet christ, you're beautiful," Hob breathes, tracing a fingertip around the wet rim of him, and Dream shivers. "Alright then. Open up."

Hob's broad hands settle on either cheek, squeezing gently, and then Hob's tongue is back upon him, within him, slurping obscenely and delving deeper. Dream arches into it, a long low sound of pleasure in his throat; Hob's hands move to his hips, tongue still buried within him, and then Hob is pulling him back in staccato little bursts matched by the stabbing of his tongue and Dream shudders. It is exquisite, sends heat singing sweetly through his body, and yet still he would have more.

"Hob," he groans, breathless, squirming backwards, needy, shameless, "Hob, Hob—aah—Hob—"

Hob pulls him back and plunges deep, as far as he can possibly reach, and Dream bites back a frustrated moan. It is good, it is gloriously warm and wet and good, but it is not enough.

"More," he demands helplessly, a hairsbreadth from begging, only let him be filled, let him have Hob as far inside him as he can get—

But Hob withdraws, as he must in order to speak, and Dream cannot stop the noise of loss that spills out of him.

"Sorry, love, the human tongue's only so long." Hob presses sweet kisses around his openness, a tiding tease. "Unless you're ready for—ohh, hang on—" There is a long suspended instant of silence, of aching emptiness, and then a delighted "Hah!" from Hob, and then—

And then Hob's tongue is circling his soft open rim again, licking into him, pressing inside and pushing deep, and deeper, yes, deeper—

Impossibly deeper, somehow, and Dream jolts as Hob's tongue curls with precision against the spot far within him that sets him alight. He cries out, gasping, turning his face into the sheets, hips pushing back for more. Hob's tongue squirms within him obligingly and Dream's knees slip a little wider apart. He can feel the sudden wetness at the head of his prick, knows it to be stringing down to the bedclothes, wishes desperately that Hob might touch him there as well, smear the slick of him all over his tip while that tongue works so inhumanly far inside him—

Hob has shown great affinity for shaping the Dreaming to his will, for the secrets of consciously crafting this realm while within it, and never has Dream appreciated it more than this moment. Hob's dream-tongue is wriggling within him, slick and wet and hot, thick, filling him deliciously and writhing against his prostate with deliberate abandon. Dream is gasping, thighs trembling, Hob's fingers digging into his hips a blessed anchor in the storm of pleasure overtaking him. He cannot think past the bright sear of it, can only cry out as it rises, bearing him up to the precipice. Hob's tongue surges within him and then he is there, tipping over the brink, trembling and spilling and suspended at the height of orgasm by Hob's masterful attentions. He lets out a sob when Hob finally relents and the orgasm subsides; Hob's marvelous tongue slithers wetly out of him and already Dream is aching for more.

"Hob," he croons, flexing his hips, "ahhh, Hob, my Hob..."

Hob grants him no quarter, no moment of rest and Dream is desperately grateful. There is no refractory period here, no need of any physical recovery; he will climax as many times as he pleases and Hob's tongue is positively serpentine by now, twined about his testicles and the base of his rigid length, curling up the shaft and beneath the head, lapping at his slit. He is leaking still, copiously, and Hob's tentacle-like dream-tongue is exquisite as it works him, collecting his spilling fluids like a sponge.

And then Hob's fingers touch his wet hole and Dream whines, dizzy with the writhing lapping attentions to his cock and hungry to be filled as well. His voice, when it escapes him, is raw. "Hob—!"

Hob hums, pleased, and sinks two fingers into Dream, crooked at precisely the right angle, thrusting deep and unhurried and Dream writhes, delirious. He's mindless in his pleasure, sobbing with it, clenching and clinging around Hob's relentless fingers, flexing into the coils of Hob's tongue and careening swiftly toward another peak.

It hits him like lightning, sharp and sweet and sudden, choking his voice in his throat as he seizes with it, trembling violently, and each lap of Hob's tongue to his spurting slit brings forth still more.

It is a long moment of this before Hob's tongue begins to unwind from about him; he can feel how it is heavy with his spend, dripping with it, and the thought nearly sets him off again. Then Hob's fingers inside him withdraw halfway and stretch apart, carefully holding him open and Hob's sodden tongue is slithering deftly in between, depositing Dream's own spend inside him. That does set him off again, a shivery aftershock of greedy sweetness racing along his prick, drawing forth still more, and the sound in his throat is startled and wanton.

Hob's tongue slides out of him, licks a wet path back to the tip of him and laps still more spend from him, returning again to where Hob holds him open and letting it dribble inside him as well. It is warm and wet, entirely welcome, and the lewd intimacy of it has stolen all thought from Dream save one—of Hob, sinking into him, and encountering what he now leaves behind—

"Hob," he groans, abject need swelling within him as Hob draws out completely and shifts behind him. There's a long agonizing instant of nothing and then Hob licks briefly at him again, tongue returned to its usual state.

"Fuck, you taste amazing," Hob breathes, kisses sweetly over his sopping hole. "What do you want next, love? My cock? My fingers? More of my tongue?"

"Your cock, give me your cock—" He is trembling for want of it, desperately craving Hob's hard silken length within him, filling him, dragging out and sliding home again and again. "I would have it, now, I would have you in me—"

"Oh, my sweeting, of course," Hob soothes, already rising into position behind him, and Dream shudders as Hob's length slides along the cleft of his body; he lifts his backside, pushes into it, shameless in his need. Hob's hands land heavy on his hips and then Hob is there, the bulbous head of him breaching Dream's opened body and sinking into the wet mess of saliva and Dream's own spend that Hob's tongue has left inside him.

A long wordless moan escapes him and he is shivering all over as Hob sheaths himself to the hilt, is clutching at the thick solid heat of Hob filling him to glorious fullness. He squirms, and then Hob is drawing out of him in a long slow glide and sinking back into him smoothly; there is a filthy wet sound as he bottoms out again and Dream whimpers. He is very nearly ready to take matters into his own hands, work himself backwards on Hob's rigid cock at the pace he would prefer, push Hob onto his back and ride him into sweet oblivion if need be. But he is foiled by Hob's implacable hold at his hips, and Hob is still fucking into him slowly—deliciously, maddeningly slowly—and Dream is shaking with how badly he wants more.

"Hob—"

It is meant to sound demanding, threatening; it sounds instead of desperation, of terrible aching need.

"My dearest," Hob breathes in reply, strained and ragged, pushing slowly into Dream again. "Tell me what you need, let me hear what you want—"

And Dream, whose care for dignity has long fled him this night, obeys. "Hob. Hob, my Hob, I beg of you. Give me more, I would have you. Faster. Harder. Deeper, give me your all, let me bear the full brunt of your ardor, only have me, please—"

The sound Hob makes is exquisite, hungry and breathless and he slams home, grinding hard against Dream's prostate, fingers digging into his hips. Dream chokes out a cry as he is jolted forward, scrabbling at the sheets as Hob draws back and slams into him again, pleasure flaring hotly throughout him to finally receive what he craves.

Hob sets into a punishing rhythm, hard and fast and deep and Dream can only cling to the bedding and push back for more, knees braced against the onslaught, anchored by the bruising grip at his hips. He will let the bruises rise, he thinks dizzily, will keep them awhile, delicious souvenirs of the use that Hob makes of him—

"Dream—ahh—Dream, my love—is this what you need, precious—" Hob is gasping, steadily pounding into him and Dream sobs in reply.

"Yes—yes—Hob, please—" His prick is swinging stiffly with every thrust, smearing slick all over his stomach, and orgasm is looming ripe in his belly once again. "Harder—"

Hob, impossibly, manages to hit harder and Dream cries out; Hob lands another sweet blow and another, another-another-another and Dream is spilling again, pushed over the precipice and tumbling helplessly down the slope beyond.

Hob, relentless, fucks him straight through it and Dream's cry goes choked and ragged as he convulses under the sheer force of unmitigated orgasm, the tidal rush of unflagging pleasure. There are over-stimulated tears welling in his eyes and saliva drooling from his gaping mouth, dampening the sheets beneath his face while the inferno of his pleasure roars through him, consuming him—and still he wants more, still he is yet to be sated.

"Ahh—ahh—Hob!—ahh—!" He's sobbing, voice punching out of him on every thrust, half-muffled in the bedclothes, hands clenched in the sheets and whole body rigid, quaking. His prick still bounces between his trembling thighs, ripe and leaking.

"Dream," Hob gasps, the piston of his hips going erratic. "Oh—fuck, Dream—oh—" Hob shoves in to the hilt and his grip on Dream's hips spasms and then he is spilling, pulsing hotly against Dream's battered prostate and flooding him with new warmth.

Dream keens, high and sharp, clenching tight around Hob again and again; he would milk him dry, if possible, keep them suspended in this instant for eternity.

Hob groans and shudders and jerks through his climax, hips stuttering abortively once, twice, again; Dream clutches desperately at his length as Hob empties himself and then, barely flagging at all, resumes his previous rhythm.

Dream, delirious with his pleasure, can only moan; there is a glorious mess within him now, spit and spend, his own and Hob's, and it is too much to be kept inside. It is forced out of him with each squelching thrust of Hob's cock, warm runnels spilling over his testicles, down the insides of his thighs, and the abject intimacy of it leaves Dream weak and shaking, impossibly aroused.

His knees splay gradually wider, the force of Hob's thrusts and his own trembling body bearing him down, down, until he is splayed on his face in the wet ruin of the sheets, hips barely tilted up. Hob moves with him, looms over his back and slides one arm beneath his chest, weight braced on his elbow that he might pull Dream close against him. He tangles his fingers with Dream's, prying them loose from the sheets by Dream's face, and Dream grips them ardently while Hob's parted lips travel up the back of his ear. Hob's other hand remains at his hip, holding tight while Hob hammers him into the bed, the sounds of their meeting loud and wet, accompanied by the grunts and gasps of Hob's exertion and the helpless noises spilling from Dream's throat. It is good, it is glorious, exquisite to be made love to thus, and Dream. Would still. Have. More.

"Hob," he manages, struggling once again to bring language to bear. "Touch. I want—touch me—" He summons the will to push his hips up just that little bit more against the weight of Hob above him, to brace his knees again, to make it clear where he wants Hob's touch.

"Oh, precious," Hob gasps, one of his favorite mid-coital endearments, and shifts accommodatingly. His hand at Dream's hip squeezes in a parting caress; he reaches beneath Dream, into the scant space reclaimed between the bed and Dream's groin, and his mouth touches down along the back of Dream's neck in an open panting kiss as he takes hold of Dream's prick. Dream sucks in a sharp breath that warbles out of him with Hob's next thrust, the slick glide of Hob's hand upon him, and then he is absolutely lost to the crashing sea of his want as it swells toward fulfillment, as Hob's rhythm falters and quickens and grows ever more urgent.

"Dream—oh, fuck—my perfect—beautiful—Dream, I—adore you—"

"Hob—Hob—Hob—" Dream is chanting his name on every thrust, spurred on by the praises falling upon him, mindless in the grip of their shared pleasure and trembling as it begins once more to overtake him.

"Dream—oh—oh!" Hob buries himself frantically again and again, stroking Dream in swift and perfect rhythm as they crest their peak together. He shoves in one last time and gasps, breathless, poised on the brink until swiftly he falls, and Dream falls with him, sobbing at the sharp and indescribable perfection of spilling in tandem with his love—of Hob pulsing inside him while lightning and honey race along his limbs and in his veins, Hob's stuttered moans sweet beneath his ear and Hob's hand clenched tight in his own.

When the tremors subside they are both still hard. Hob sits up and back, draws Dream up with him, until they both are on their knees. He keeps his cock inside Dream, lays Dream back against his chest; Dream hooks a languid arm behind his head, tips his own head back over Hob's shoulder and undulates in his lap, a slow writhe on his cock that has both of them panting. The mess of spend within him continues to leak out, much to his pleasure; it trickles down over Hob's groin, into the creases of his thighs, a slick warm intimacy between them.

"Dream, my love," Hob breathes, muffled into the side of Dream's neck where he's mouthing soft kisses. His hands roam Dream's chest, stomach, hips, mapping the slow ripples of his movement. "Do you need more, sweeting, dearheart, my precious dove?"

Dream considers for a moment, moving in an idle, mindless rhythm on Hob's magnificent length all the while. He could be satisfied, at this juncture, four orgasms richer than when they had started.

And yet.

Hob is still hard, and he himself is still wet and opened and filled, erect in turn, and the bliss of being split on Hob's cock is warm and bright in his belly, curling hotter with every languid roll of his hips.

"More," he decides, intoxicated by the slow rhythm between them, drunk on his own pleasure, and Hob's hands are moving immediately to stroke Dream's cock, cup his testicles. "I would have you—aaahh—take your pleasure of me, again, and again, and again—" He clenches his hand in Hob's hair, tugging lightly as Hob touches him sweetly, pleased with the breathy sound of approval Hob makes.

"Fuck you 'til you've had your fill, then. I can do that."

"I will never have my fill of you, Hob Gadling." He turns to drag his lips against the skin of Hob's neck, tilts back to find Hob's earlobe, takes it between his teeth and traces it with the tip of his tongue. Hob whines when he lets it go; Dream brushes his mouth across the shell of Hob's ear, pitches his voice to a murmur. "But I would have you. Fuck me, until you wake."

"As you wish," Hob breathes, kissing the side of his throat, fingers warm around his prick and chest warm against his back; Hob flexes up into him, ardent and tender, and Dream gives himself over completely.

===== Started: 3/5/23 Drafted: 4/22/23 Posted: 5/8/23

[txmehunting]

✧ bareleveling: trying to improve yourself without anyone else knowing about it, afraid that they'll think it's silly or grandiose or unnecessary, or that they'll end up calling too much attention to your efforts.

the scars have progressed.

you know that it is futile to believe they won't, what with how you abuse your tomes and speak in tongues that were never meant to sound in your voice. the gods hate the way it grates on their ears, and though they'd assumed that your lack in magical aptitude would wall you off, it simply made you more diligent in your studies.

you were blessed with the ability to read this language but not to ever use it; your family never touched the things, never had a generations-long history of divining or fortune-telling or shrine upkeep or what-have-you, no, not like the other people who take up the festal and the spirit scroll. none of you had magic prowess hidden in your blood, not like the studied mages of nohr with their staves and spellbooks. you were just one of many forgettable families, born to die without having done anything worth noting in the history books.

oh, not so, not for you. you do not enjoy the idea of living only to die, because what the hell is the point of even being born? you are someone who prefers to choose their own manner of movement---strolling to the beat of your own drum, as it were.

you always loved tomes. when the fateful merchant caravan passed through your town all those years ago, dropping a fire tome from the saddlepack of one of the rear riders, you felt as though they would not miss much if you were simply to take it. finder's keepers. the script was gibberish to your family but not to you; unsure as to how or why, poring over the words was as easy as breathing or eating. as time passed your collection grew, and you had a beautiful collection of the things before most children your age knew how to pen an intermediate magic circle. don't ask how.

but you never could use them like those less-than-intermediate-magic-circle-drawing children. not without consequences.

maybe the gods thought it funny: a child who could read tomes with the speed of a scholar but couldn't even use them without the skin peeling off their fingertips. a curse? maybe. all you know is that nature itself fights you on this. it wants you to fail, wants to lock you in a prison of resignation and just assume you'll roll over and take it.

you will not. you DO not. every day you attempt to tame the language of tomes, and every day they bite the hand that reads it. you were quickly known by jeering children and aghast adults as " dead hands " for the necrosis that grew like ivy on your fingers, through bare nailbeds, and over ruined knuckles. you have not had fingerprints since you were thirteen.

but improvement is strictly between you and the gods you seek to sneer at. you have always been a loner and you like it that way; there is no one to laud ridiculous compliments or advice when you practice by yourself, no one to foist their own opinions of improvement on you when you never asked.

( and no do-gooders begging you to stop hurting yourself for the sake of magic. gods, you can name a few who'd tried. )

before war, you simply went where no people followed. after capture, losing access to your tomes meant working on your recollection skills by scraping chalk and blood against stone walls.

and now, this morning upon waking, you blearily notice how far the scars have pulled over you. they have eaten past the flexure of your arms and catch on your elbows, though the nettlestinging in your bones tells you it won't be long before they take that surface, too. how long will it be until the wholes of your arms are taken, and what will the kickback consume next? you don't know, but it also doesn't matter to you.

if the magic that endears you so steals your skin, then you consider it an offering. if it melts your eyes, then your ears will guide you. if it rots your eardrums, then you will have faith in your memory and your mouth. if it takes your tongue and destroys you in and out,

then at least you can say you were a man who died for what he enjoyed. in secret, of course---the best grave is no grave at all, because who the hell would bother trying to remember you?

[loving-n0t-heyting]

Still making my way trudgily thru Vinland saga and thinking a bit about what makes it feel so much more authentic and admirable than a huge amount of similarly themed preachy pop media (artistic sermons about how violence is not the answer). The example in the forefront of my mind is the civil rights arc from the umbrella academy s02, which I was watching pre-breakup with my ex. The good place can fit this mould at times too

I think the fundamental answer is that a lot of competing preachy pacifist propaganda is really selling a sort of complacency and self-congratulation. The height of morality is a moderately intensified version of well-adjusted suburban existence—maybe one that’s more politically involved, maybe one where you don’t call the cops much/ever, maybe one where you’re a bit ahead of the curve on social inclusion and conscientious consumption. But, once you’ve purged it of some unfortunate socially backward residue, a saint looks basically smth like you, the dignified and well-reared middle class liberal

VS refuses to let you indulge this fantasy, vigorously. It repudiates the idea at every step. Some examples [spoilers]:

The heroes are men who have committed or negligently failed to resist inexcusable acts, repeatedly and at mass scale. Thus they cannot present pacifism as a promised means of resting assured of their moral superiority; indeed, especially the protagonist makes it clear that he cannot preside over violent judgment precisely bc he is conscious of his guilt

In one of the most beautiful animanga scenes I’ve ever read/watched, the work viciously attacks the values of family and personal loyalty. Particular “loves” like those between parent/child or husband/wife are not even love at all, they are mere prejudice and favouritism, no different from servile courtiers debasing themselves before a king while exploiting their social inferiors. This is, obviously, a bad fit for middle class morality

It refuses to condemn revolutionary violence in absolute terms. King Canute, reimagined as a femboy 11th cent Lenin of the north sea, is one of the vaunted few who can see beyond to a truly better world. The manga makes clear which route it prefers between egalitarian radical pacifism and ruthless strongman militarism, but it doesn’t let the better man (that is, vicariously, the audience) gloat about it and also makes clear that the latter is at least asking the right questions (a rare and laudable achievement)

The hero’s personal self-transformation is centrally, flauntingly undignified. His pride and dignity are the first things he is willing to toss aside for the sake of his dream of a better world. His pacifism doesn’t allow him to preserve his dignity and honour at all: it treats it instead as one of his first hindrances

It also manages to be so earnest and unsubtle to circle around from cringe to endearing. You can tell she’s really putting her whole heart into it, she really believes she needs to say what shes saying with it and won’t let artistic sophistication and discretion stand in the way of it

In conclusion pls read the manga it is very good :3

[0kowai-hito0]

A beautiful rear can also endear. ⚡️

[allcreatureswarehouse]

Nurtured Feathers: The Charm of Hand-Reared Birds

Birds have long been cherished for their captivating beauty and melodious songs. Among the various ways to acquire a feathered friend, hand-reared birds hold a special place in the hearts of avian enthusiasts. These unique companions, raised with human care and affection, bring an extra layer of connection and charm to the world of pet birds. In this article, we'll explore the captivating allure of hand-reared birds and the joys they bring to both novice and experienced bird owners.

The Bond of Early Interaction:

Hand-reared birds, often referred to as "hand-fed" or "hand-tamed," are birds that have been raised by humans from an early age, typically from the moment they hatch or shortly thereafter. This close interaction with their human caregivers during the critical early stages of development fosters a deep and unique bond between the bird and its owner.

Trust and Affection:

One of the most notable characteristics of hand-reared birds is their high level of trust and affection toward humans. These birds are comfortable being handled, touched, and even cuddled by their owners. This intimacy creates a delightful and rewarding companionship experience, as hand-reared birds often seek out human interaction and enjoy being part of the family.

Social and Interactive:

Hand-reared birds tend to be exceptionally social and interactive. They are more likely to engage in conversation, mimic human speech or sounds, and participate in various activities with their owners. This interaction can be both entertaining and emotionally fulfilling for bird enthusiasts, as it often feels like communicating with a feathered friend.

Easier Training and Behavioral Adaptability:

Due to their early exposure to human handling, hand-reared birds are generally more receptive to training and behavioral modification. They are more likely to learn tricks, follow basic commands, and adapt to household routines. This makes them an ideal choice for families and individuals who wish to engage actively with their pet bird.

Varied Species Availability:

Hand-reared birds are available in various species, from the popular African Grey parrot and cockatiel to the exotic macaw and conure species. This diversity allows bird lovers to choose a species that matches their lifestyle, preferences, and level of experience.

Responsibility and Commitment:

While hand-reared birds offer unparalleled companionship, they also require a strong commitment from their owners. Proper care, nutrition, and social interaction are essential for maintaining the well-being and happiness of these birds. Potential bird owners should be prepared to invest time and effort into nurturing their feathered companions.

Rescue and Adoption:

It's worth noting that many hand-reared birds are available for adoption through bird rescue organizations. These birds, often rehomed due to various reasons, still possess the social and interactive qualities that make hand-reared birds so endearing. Adopting a hand-reared bird not only provides a loving home to a bird in need but also offers the rewarding experience of building a unique bond.

In conclusion, hand-reared birds are more than just pets; they are cherished members of the family. Their trusting nature, social interactions, and unique personalities make them a delightful addition to any bird lover's life. For those who seek not just a pet but a companion with whom they can share moments of joy, laughter, and connection, hand-reared birds offer a special and rewarding relationship that is truly something to cherish.

[afinepiece]

Oooh, oooh, me, me!!! I want to listicle on this topic, too!

Renji. I, too, love writing from Renji's POV. When I got to jump into his head, he was always easy to pin down and his thoughts and musings are so pure and funny (both intentionally and unintentionally) to work through. This is probably because I relate to rough do-gooders as someone who came from not-a-whole-lot and wound up doing "pretty okay." Taking those jagged pieces and working them to their most Renji-est form is therapeutic. Love Renji. 10/10 character and so fun to write.

Byakuya. I say this because I write him a lot. I relate to his quietness, loyalty, and weirdness, a combination that can be sad, devastating, tragic and/or ridiculous, depending on the scene, making him fairly versatile as a character. Byakuya is also great for exploring the world of Seireitei and the politics, economics, and power scales of Soul Society. And I love politics in fantasies. Especially crapsack fantasy universes.

Rukia. Oh, beautiful, depressive Rukia! I relate to her depressive and her weird. She, like Byakuya, is very in her head as a character, a trait that I find endearing and familiar. She's also fun to write about because her actions are often her "words." I love characters whose actions speak for them. It allows for such fun nuance. I suppose all decent characters or characterizations include this aspect, but I feel it is a very important piece of her and Byakuya's characterization whenever I approach them, at least. However, unlike Byakuya, there is a little flightiness with Rukia. Or, perhaps better put: She's less confident, which makes sense given her "newness" to XYZ during the series proper. Her confidence surely grows throughout the series, but I always get the sense that she doesn't fully trust herself and that bothers her, which is an aspect that I also find endearing. Second-guessing yourself and expecting more from yourself than you reasonably should is the pathological Type-A behavior that I empathize with wholeheartedly.

Nanao. I love Nanao! She is one of my long-standing favorites, as is her captain. And writing from her perspective feels like me channeling my best, brightest, most sensible self. I am not a Nanao in real life, but it would be pretty rad if I were. Aspirational shit right there. What I like about her POV is that she has insight. Because she is a Bleach character, that insight isn't perfect, but it's a fighting manga. Imperfect insight is a feature, not a bug. Also, there's a dryness to her wit that is wonderful. Goals.

Ichigo. I haven't written much in Ichigo's perspective, but I have actually done it! And it was fun! For me, Ichigo has sort of this breathless, rearing-to-go quality about him. It's the age, I think. Being a teenager is... Such. A. Time. Especially, I imagine, if you are a supernaturally-gifted do-gooder like Ichigo. His drive to be and do before sensing or feeling or thinking is also such a fun change of pace from the moodier, depressive-positioned characters that I find myself drawn to exploring more often.

Not-Fully-Explored-in-Canon Bit Characters. I'll stick this here for the characters that are mostly "hard" to pin down because we see little to nothing about them on page or from their own POV. I'd lump my forays into writing POVs for Hisana, Ginrei, and Soujun into this bucket. It's hard to say I'm "writing" any of these characters as it feels much more like I'm "inventing" them. Ginrei could be a very strict disciplinarian or a fairly normal guy whose reputation as the Head of the House casts a long shadow. Soujun could be a poet or an axe murderer! (Like... a really pleasant axe murderer ... one who only axe-murders Bad Guys... for... y'know... fun. Soul Society Dexter, any takers? ) Similarly, Hisana could be a total petunia or a fierce wildflower. These characters are fun to develop because they are important to aspects of more important characters; however, it's hard to point to them as "characters" in their own right as they, themselves, are giant mystery boxes. But, hey! I think spinoffs centered on such characters tend to be more engaging/exciting than spinoffs with better fleshed-out supporting characters. Andor > Obi-Wan Kenobi, anyone?

Soifon. Tough! Very much like the character herself. I feel like trying to get through the veneer of her character plus all the fandom's and anime's weirdness about her made it hard to get a sense of her at first. But, she's tough, hard-working, and funny when you get down to it.

Ranking my Habitual POV Characters, from Easiest to Hardest to Write

Renji. Too easy, actually. He's a yapper. I love him, tho, he is my favorite narrator and I would never write anyone else if I could get away with it.

Byakuya. I hate this for me, too. He is a man of few words, but internally, he is also a giant yapper. Uses all the fun words you can't use irl or people will know you are autistic, like "repast" and "phantasmagorical".

Orihime. Also very fun to write! Sometimes insists on honorifics. A minor yapper.

Uryuu. Easy, but not exactly fun to write. I just gotta let my brain go into full-anxiety mode and ride the wave. It works, but, like. I write fanfiction so I don't have to listen to my brain's anxiety barf, please and thank you.

Rukia (present day). She would be a lot lower on this list if I didn't have a ton of practice and spend twenty hours a day thinking about her.

Ichigo. I don't write him very much because he's already got a whole manga about him, but he is fine and remarkably well-behaved as characters go. Also an internal yapper, worse than Orihime but not as bad as Renji.

Hinamori. The only problem with Hinamori is that she uses an entirely different naming scheme for everyone she knows than anyone else on this list and also often insists on honorifics.

Chad. Very pleasant to write, but much slower than other characters because he very carefully considers everything he wants to say before he says it, including his own internal narration. Says exactly what he means to say, no more, no less.

Kira. I am perfectly neutral on writing Kira-POV, I just think he's more fun from the outside looking in.

Have I ever written a Hitsugaya pov? I don't remember, but I feel like he should go here.

Inuzuri Rukia. What happens to Inuzuri Rukia is no one's business but her own. It is certainly not mine, the author.

Ikkaku. The problem is that I am a yapper, so every time I write Ikkaku having any sort of insight or introspection, I have to roll it back at least twice. His narration is just the thoughts that occur to him, completely in the moment, absent any sort of analysis. I could never. Doesn't use any of the fun words. Writing Kenpachi-dialogue is this, but even moreso, which is why I avoid him as much as reasonably possible.

(if you're a fanficcer and want to make your own list, please do!)

[b-n-a-o]

[angry-puppy]

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

What's that you say? You miss small cute cars with neat colouring schemes?

Well, good news - there are many ways you can still get a rainbow of cool colors in the world of modern day cars! And since there's no better time than pride month to demonstrate it (at least none better than when I actually saw those tags, and that ship sailed nine months ago) and I am the one who populated the #lgbt cars tag after all, here is a cool color sold today for each of the colors in the pride flag!

Our starting point is the color of passion, but not just in its shade: its creation drips passion, its process drips passion, and its brand is clearly passionate about it since it's every model's halo color [the shade a vehicle sports in most or all its promotional material and, often, press cars], and frankly they're clearly passionate about cars in general. So may I introduce you to Mazda's Soul Red. See, usually, you spray a panel with paint (that may or may not have had metal flakes mixed in for that extra 'metallic' shine) and then one or multiple coats of transparent protective paint, or "clear coat". Not here. This is, as far as I got it, a reflective layer of aluminium flakes, and then a semi-transparent paint layer, and then a translucent clear coat. This process requires maddening precision. They had to study paint artisans' stroke to make a new control system for the painter robots. And seeing this color in the flesh it is immediately clear why they bothered.

I'm not a big red guy (I'm a white guy and I'm average at best, at least if you mean height, but I digress) but this shade still amazes me a decade on. I remember I was out cross-country skiing -something you can tell Englishmen don't do because that's the most "we didn't pick a name" name I've ever seen- and the road up to the place muddied up every car, but still in the sea of mostly greyscale cars this Mazda shone across the lot so hard that even other red cars there felt not just a different shade but a different color, like grey to white.

But talking of different colors, let's move on to one - and do so in a way that is more befitting of the queer community. So here's some pointless infighting that will accomplish nothing and make things more unpleasant for everyone. SCREW YOU @twingotime, THE THIRD GENERATION TWINGO IS WAY MORE CUTE AND CHARMING AND ENDEARING THAN THE SECOND AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL COPE AND SEETHE AND BLOCK AND DNI. It's tiny! It's bubbly! It's quirky, what with its drift compatible rear engine and funky decals and tri/quadrilateral rim designs! And most importantly for us here, it's colorful inside and out, so that even when looking inside you can bask in the greatness of colors like this Jaune Mango!

And all other colors out there too since you can get it with a CANVAS ROOF!!! COME ON!!!

I feel like this picture perfectly highlights my point here. This to me was one of what I'd call 'vibe revivals' - where some models never leave the market, but lose their spirit update by update, until a new model decides to look back at the original and, however successfully, seeks to rekindle its flame.

And through this concept we can tackle the next color in an equally queer way, since it allows us to transition to a new ID. So here's the Volkswagen ID.BUZZ's gorgeous Lime Yellow.

Or rather, its Candy White / Lime Yellow two tone spec - you can also opt to get it in single color if, for example, ?????. As is evident the two-tone, like many of its traits, is inspired by the first generation of the Beetle-based Volkswagen Transporter van in front of it, whose boring direct successor is actually still being produced with our buzzyboi being a separate electric model sold alongside it. And that inspiration I appreciate a lot, because it doesn't just celebrate its forebearers or uphold their memory, but in doing so brings unto itself and reintroduces to the world the colorful beauty they had brought to their own time. After all, the goals of automotive revivals closely align with ours - looking at the wonderful feats of those before us and, within newfound abilities, limitations and hindsight, mirror their spirit and accomplishments in ourselves.

So the streak of 'vibe revivals' could be argued to continue, since there's no good reason to give the green's spot to any color but the Suzuki Jimny's halo shade. Well, except for its name being Kinetic Yellow. But I've already sneakily broken that taboo with the Twingo's orange (jaune is French for yellow), and also screw you, I want to highlight this.

Not just because I love the color, nor because I love the car too (this last form just like every other it took in its half century of evolution), but because I love why the car has that color. See, the reason I so vehemently despise modern SUVs is that they're nothing more than regular cars made bigger, heavier and less aerodynamic just for the sake of achieving the "pretending to be off-roadable" look that's all the rage. And the Jimny is so purpose-oriented its contrast with this useless trend chasing is downright comical, its halo color being perhaps the best example having been developed -and I swear I shit you not- to be extremely visible in the construction fields the Jimny was considered a likely pick for traversing. This thing is so utilitarian not even its color is just for looks!!!

And hell, what is more fitting for a pride flag than celebrating how what may seem like a superficial choice to be gratuitously flashy actually derives from minding the importance of visibility in creating safety?

Perhaps remembering that, for some, the reason for their beauty is not a lucky blessing or a simple choice, but years and years and years of effort put into figuring out how to get that radiance out of a situation that would have seemed to fundamentally lack the potential for it - and that often it is precisely that effort that makes their splendor so special. So here is the Lexus LC's Structural Blue.

The reason for its name is both simple and complicated: none of its components are blue. Like the Morpho butterfly it was inspired by (you know, those gorgeous blue ones), rather than because of a pigment that absorbs all non-blue light that hits it, the reason we see blue upon looking at it is a structure that creates interference within the light that hits it. This means all the luminous energy blue paint normally absorbs is reflected back as well, hence the light silver and bright red of the cars in the background getting utterly eclipsed by a relatively dark blue. So why don't all automakers do this? Well, mostly it took Lexus 15 years to figure out the 8-month-long production process, and every day that process produces enough paint for just two hundred cars. That may not seem so little, but you must for one remember that Toyota sells four Corollas a minute, and for two know that, when I say two hundred cars worth of paint a day, I am lying and it's just two. I don't feel the need to point out that this color makes Mazda's Soul Red seem trivial both to paint and to pay for. But goddamn, this thing is pretty.

Perhaps too pretty for some of you? I appreciate that this post may strike some as too sappily quaint for something that in their view may be most about unapologetic demands for rights and visibility and riotous rebellion to whoever may dare object. And yes, I believe that society must always head towards dialogue, because only understanding and empathizing can bring peace and harmony, and all that corny stuff... but I understand that some may never dialogue as long as they live, some may need to be coerced into dialogue, and even more simply some of us are sitting in the jaws of the beast and can't afford to try their hand at polite deescalation. And ultimately, a call needs to be loud to reach all those it should. And louder still for them all to listen. So the purple's dedicated to you lot.

A long long time ago, Dodge came out with the Challenger, a muscle car whose weight, handling and rear visibility gave submarine pilots déjà vu. It was sold with an "ought to be enough for anyone" 250 horsepower V6 (for reference, we were a couple years past Japan at least pretending every single car it made had less than 280) and a "fuck you, more power" 425hp V8. And then, a couple years later, Dodge went "fuck you, more power" and swapped the V8 for a bigger V8 that made 470hp. And then, a couple years later, Dodge went "fuck you, more power" and released a special edition called the Hellcat you were able to have make 500hp. How? Simple: by using the keyfob that told it not to make 707. Of course, the presence of a key that didn't do that resulted in a number of crashes so humongous that, in a couple of years, it finally made people at Dodge decide that it was time to stand up and do something. More specifically, saying "fuck you, more power" and making the 840hp Demon. Now, some would argue that having that much power is completely useless anywhere that isn't a dragstrip. However, that is not quite true, since American dragstrips forbid cars that run the quarter mile in under ten seconds, which this does, and don't have a full rollcage, which this, being a road car, doesn't. So it is actually useless anywhere that isn't or is a dragstrip. At which point, the engineers at Dodge went "Welp, that really is enough power now, eh". They then looked at each other silently for four straight years before erupting in the biggest laughing fit in American history and launching the 1025 fucking horsepower Demon 170 because fuck you.

In short, there's good arguments for calling the Challenger the most riotous car on sale today (its production ended in December but you can still order remaining stock). So really, it only follows that this color, arguable descendant of the "high impact colors" featured in muscle cars in the late 60s early 70s and brought back in the modern lineups, is called none other than Hellraisin. Yes indeed.

Happy final week of Pride, y'all!

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

twas a '98 polo green de ville. its so pretty bro

See? Shows what I know!

I went and checked, by the way, because that seemed exactly like the right car in the right period of time, and indeed, all De Villes made from 1996 were equipped with the Northstar V8.

I made roughly this face.

To make a long story short, someone at Cadillac saw the legendarily good LS V8 they freely had available as part of General Motors and thought "You know what we should do? Spend an absolute fortune to develop a V8 of our own that fulfills exactly the same purpose". And apparently the people sensible enough to run the place were all on vacation, because lo and behold, we got the Northstar V8, a Cadillac-only V8 that was supposed to tell the world that Cadillac is still bangin', babey! We're not just throwing GM parts together here, we're putting in effort and making something serious, something unique, something Cadillac! Something whose together-keeping threads just shear off after a while. Woo, Cadillac. You were so brave for this one.

But since I don't wanna be all negative, let me tell you about what "98 polo green" made me think about!

In 1996, the Volkswagen Polo was coming out with new colors! And they were like "Let's show the motor show audiences our new colors in a fun, captivating way!" and so they made a Polo out of pieces of all the new colors!

And then they got a FLOOD of dealers shouting WE WANT THIS NOW and they were like "Oh all these new colors are coming in-" and they were like NO we want THIS and they were like "Ah Sheiße" (fuck) and so they begrudgingly took a set of four cars of four different colors off the production line, swapped their body panels around to create the color combinations you see below, and kept repeating the process until they got one entire thousand of Polo "Harlekin"s.

Which vaporized off the lot before they could say "That ought to be enough" in German (and in German it's just 5 syllables so that's saying something), so they upped the production to around 3800 total, which were sold over two years without letting the customers pick the color combination they got.

They also did this to the Golf for the US market (now spelling it 'Harlequin'), but they only made 264 and some of them had to be un-harlequin'd by reshuffling the different colored parts back into four uniformly colored cars (and sometimes just straight up repainted) to be moved off the lot. And they say it's Germans who lack sense of humor.

But I know what you are wondering - or at least, what you will react to with "fuck that's actually a very good question" upon reading: what the fuck do these cars' documents say under "color"? The answer is actually pretty logical (these are German cars after all): the car was one single color when it rolled off the production line, and while they bolted parts of different colors onto it, that color remains in the non-replaceable elements like roof, sills, rear pillar, and all the inside parts like door seams, engine bay, underside and what have you - so that is the color the car legally is.

So yeah man there's your fun facts about the Cadillac De Ville.

Links in blue are posts of mine explaining the words in question - if you liked this post, you might like those!