#blessed emoji

[shirecorn]

🐛 BUG your friends with silly, sad, and sniffering arthropod emojis

30 bugs + variants for every emotion in the invertebrate spectrum

[netheris]

Sooooo I got bored and made some Blursed Emoji gifs, enjoy! (2nd time I have added with even MORE!)

[happyheidi]

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ. February will bring blessings.

ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

[salamispots]

hmmm probs won't go with this style but we'll see

[slutforpringles]

Daniel Ricciardo with a fan in Perth | December 2024

[lazycranberrydoodles]

xie lian texts like a grandpa … i imagine pre confession their texts would be a graveyard of hua cheng’s failed attempts at flirting

xie lian's profile picture is from the manhua by starember / follow for more of hua cheng Ls

[mblue-art]

hhappy pocky day 11/11!! here's some self-indulgence ft oreo man///

[hoosbandewan]

Ewan Mitchell + capivaras

[ef-1]

f1 drivers are uniquely zesty you can't change my mind bc the pinterest girls are asking if Daniel is *ACTUALLY* Josh Allen's boyfriend and you can't even blame them because???

[live-emotion]

The ‘Relax Time ~A Special Moment~’ box event has been announced. The event will begin on the 16th of February at 12:00 JST and feature a Ren UR and Ai SR.

[blumery]

I don't know how to explain this one gang

[netheris]

you make some relatable emoji gifs 😎👍

Thank you so much💕

Here's an unreleased one I had been planning to add, but Tumblr only allowed 10 gifs per post

Feel free to use it too!

[happyheidi]

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ. December will bring blessings.

ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

[fortune-maiden]

FX Week Day 6: Temple

Day 6 of @fxweek :D

This is actually the very last drabble I wrote chronologically (assuming I don't write any more lol)

In Feng Xin’s humble opinion, it wasn’t fair that the things he should have been smug about were the things he hated the most. “Thank goodness for the Ju Yang temple. There’s always one of those around when we need ‘em,” Mu Qing cackled, leading them to their lodgings for the night. Of course he had a temple in this area – why wouldn’t there be a temple to the fucking fertility god in the middle of someone else’s fucking territory and – “Wait.” Feng Xin suddenly realized something. “Why do you always know where my temples are?” Mu Qing went silent.

[2demondogs]

Would you ever consider writing Dutch as a trans man in a Vandermatthews fic? I love your work and trans Dutch is very close to my heart :)

Thank you <3 And absolutely!! I assume this was ur request but if you have a specific one and were just checking w/ this ask (I'm painfully autistic I'm so sorry lol), I will write more when my requests open again :D Shouldn't be too long, I only have 2 more requests to finish.

Sorry this is kinda moody I was feeling some type'a way myself... *insert cigarette emoji*

Words: 1.6k Tags: FTM Dutch, young VanDerMatthews, hurt/comfort, gender dysphoria I'mma be fr my man is in the trenches, talk of binding, face-shaving,

He still changes before Hosea wakes, or after he's left the tent. Convincing him to sleep without the binding wrapped around his chest, now and then, was a Herculean task — until Hosea said he likes laying on him, and Dutch couldn't argue with how it made him despise himself a little less — so this one must be Sisyphean. Love can nudge odd things in new directions.

Not that he's ever asked him to go without it. Hosea isn't a fool, as much as he is self-indulgent. The only inkling of the question he gets is calloused fingertips on his bare back below the beige bandages this morning, tracing the indent of his spine. He's turned away, legs crossed as he dresses.

"Can't be good for your ribs, wrappin' so tight." His voice is nasally, thick with sleep. He must've woken him up shuffling around for his shirt, rolled up with the rest of today's clothes in a pair of jeans.

Dutch turns to glance over his shoulder. He looks good, the sharp shadows of morning along his face softened by the canvas tent overhead. The golden cast of it as the sun breaks through the darkness does him well, makes his wheat hair look as blond as those maidens in paintings. Angelic, disregarding that there's dried drool on his chin from snoring his heart out all night long— same as always. He's started falling asleep too quickly to kick him and make him turn on his side.

"Can't be," he agrees, turns to tie a knot over his chest, tucking it into the cradle of his sternum.

Hosea makes a soft noise, shifts closer. His arm slings around his middle, warm where it was trapped under his body as they slept. Curled up, anymore, like two stray cats. The weather is turning cold off the tail-end of summer, and the heat off Hosea is a welcome one as the air starts to nip at his skin. Then, his hair tickles his hips above where his half-undone union suit is pooled, nose pressing in after. Stubble scratches him.

He doesn't like to linger like this, feels naked in a way that he cannot describe. Still, he reaches behind him to lay a hand on Hosea's head, fingers scrunching in the straight strands. It earns another warm noise, and he settles his forehead to Dutch's hip.

"Gon' freeze me out," he says, twisting to look at him. It's hard to turn back like this, and he catches only a few glances of him looking as pleased as he's ever been.

"I ain't stoppin' you from nothin'." He draws away, anyways. Sleep has his lids set low once he's sat up, meeting Dutch's eyes. "Can't I love on you?"

Dutch turns before he lets himself smile. "Absolutely not," he replies.

There are many times where Dutch feels confliction deep enough it makes him want to withdraw. Physically, emotionally. He almost cannot handle this, either, wants badly to curl in on himself the same way that he had the first time Hosea touched his hand, recoiling as if embracing him would be the same as willingly stepping into an Iron Maiden.

But his fingers are not spiked where they hold his jaw. Tender as they can be, for working hands. The straight razor glides easily over his cheeks, because he doesn't have anything beyond peach fuzz to slice off. Hair grows from that beauty mark of his, but slow. Even his upper lip, untouched since he left his mother's house six years ago, has little to show for it. Hosea tells him his hair is dark and that his mustache shows in the light, but it doesn't make him feel much better.

Some days, it does, when he can appreciate the thick, dark hair growing on his arms and legs and belly and it all soothes some of the aching. Others, he thinks he ought to find a way to stuff his pores with the hair off his head for all the luck he's having with waiting. Without a word, Hosea doesn't touch his upper lip.

It's an odd feeling, cool shaving cream on his face, and a relief when it comes off with each swipe, blade cleaned on a cloth sat on the man's knee. They're open-legged over a log, facing one another, and he's talking, knees brushing his for something to do with the excess energy of focusing. Dutch is too stuck inside of his own mind to listen to what he's saying about the angle of the razor or how to keep one tidy.

Even the sound of the river they've camped out by is dulled by the case settled over his head. It was loud at first when he closed his eyes, tree branches rustling as dead leaves floated downstream. The air still feels as cold. Hosea apologized for a nick on his jaw when he shivered and caught him off guard. That had felt good, at least.

His hands tremble, anyways, doing fine work like this. Always says he's got the shakes thanks to his shit-heeled father, that ominous way folk refer to mystery ill-traits no one really understands but that seem to flow down the bloodline from one to the next. Dutch said it was better than his daddy being dead, and then he told him he was. He felt a little bad until he laughed about it. That was all a long time ago, Hosea had said, and Dutch thinks the same about that moment between them despite how often he recalls it when he sees his fingers shudder.

The clean side of the cloth, folded with the wiped-marks tucked inside, is a relief when Hosea hands it to him and he holds it over his jaw before wiping it off. It's irritated, complains about being abraised by the cloth again. Just a scrap from an old shirt that was torn while they were out hunting; Dutch recognizes the tartan print. The skin feels scraped raw in places where the man was heavy-handed.

He can't be angry. He's only ever been jealous of the razor nicks along Hosea's face and throat, and now he's got his own.

The conflict finds him again. When he looks at him, Hosea has that sturdy expression he takes on whenever he can tell Dutch is— upset?

He isn't sure if he's upset.

"Steam's comin' out your ears, man," he says, and Dutch knows what's coming before it does. "What're you thinkin'?"

He folds the scrap fabric, takes to fingering at the strange smoothness on his face and the stinging cut that he traces a fingernail over. The difference is minute, but noticeable with all the time he spends anxiously rubbing his jaw.

It's difficult to say while looking at Hosea, but it's just as hard with Hosea looking at him and that much isn't going to change, so he braves the eye contact as he gives shape to the feeling he can't ignore.

"Why're we playin' pretend?" His voice comes out thicker sounding than he meant it, cracking over it wrong and seeming too emotional. He clears his throat. "I ain't—"

"Dunno what you mean, Dutch," Hosea stops him. He takes the cloth to polish his straight razor off before flicking it shut. Glances up at him, and then back to where he's rubbing a fingerprint off the metallic case of the blade. "Man oughtta know how to shave his face."

How to respond escapes him. He fights the urge to be alone. There is no point in it around him. It comes onto him hard on days like these, and he reaches out for Hosea's knee to tether himself to something, to make a reason that he cannot scurry away from the man when he's only being kind.

Only is not it, but Dutch doesn't want to contemplate that on top of what's already running through his mind. Things like if he likes that Hosea says he is a man so easily, and why it stings at times that things seem so simple to him; if he wants Hosea to wish he were different, or if he feels good that Hosea likes him how he is.

Nothing's ever felt simple to Dutch. He isn't sure if it's loathing or jealousy or hurt that makes him chafe against the unquestioning sweetness Hosea has on him. He finds it so easy, it's almost grotesque.

Hosea says that Dutch hates himself, which isn't true. He finds himself quite a good character and usually very right about things, which is what matters most. His face doesn't hurt his self-image either, even if it's a little soft in the cheeks, some men don't grow out of it until their thirties— no, it isn't hatred at all. It's discomfort, some feeling of wrong that doesn't go away until he forgets himself or until, apparently, Hosea says his chest is comfortable to lay on.

Hosea tucks his razor into his jeans pocket to free his hand, placing it over his. He rolls one of his rings around, and the pinch of the webbing of his finger makes him grunt, coming back to his body from wherever he'd gone.

The man is leaning in, some, angling to look up at him with a faux doe-like look in his eyes. They're so soft it makes Dutch sick; he exhales and turns the unwitting smile down to their hands even before he starts sweet-talking.

"Look real handsome," Hosea says, voice soft.

Goddamn him. He's perfected that conman's swagger, and he rarely turns it on Dutch— they both know it's as fake as can be, because they both know how to draw their brows just right, how to look weak and smitten.

"Old fool," Dutch replies. Sometimes things are simple enough, and it soothes the ache to hear the word.

[canine-witch]

I really wanted to do readings every day, but I was told people just needed a blessing today. It might be a rough day. Just stay focused on your goals, and you will get through it.

From dawn til nightfall I send you strength today. I pray your feet step firmly upon the ground, and your body moves forward, no matter how slow. I pray you rest tonight, that your sleep is healing and calm. I pray for your successes today, for good fortune in the midst of chaos.

As I Say It, So Mote It Shall Be. As Above, So Below.

Blessings upon you today.

🍃💡⭐️💡🍃