#but i simply cannot just see this and do nothing

[bunny-jpeg]

belonging

lewis hamilton

tags: smut/pwp, curvy!reader, dirty talk, (slight) jealousy, doggy style, established relationship, big chest & wide hips, praise, fashion & clothing

a/n: lewis hamilton is so pretty what the fuck

you weren't the most fashionable person. despite your degree in design and your eye for it, you got pleasure in dressing others up. and lewis could understand that, but still tried to help you experiment a little more with style.

"you make everyone look good, love. time you look good as well." he chuckled before he kissed you on the lips.

"i'm not a barbie doll, honey." you giggled when he tried to egg you on to try one more outfit.

"no, of course not! the blond piece of plastic cannot compare to you." he leaned in to kiss you on the lips. you leaned in to him and he held your rounded face for a moment, "one more, and then we can go home." and while he was a guiding hand, nothing could prepare him for the outfit you chose while he was testing with ferrari.

it was nothing over the top. but simplicity sometimes meant good. and with the dress that stopped at your mid-thigh in a dazzling lilac colour and made of a fabric that held to your curves perfectly. especially your breasts, which made lewis do a double take.

his often tired lover who spent so many hours in your little 'workshop', dressed in over sized t-shirts and bigger hoodies, to see something so close to your body made him tense up for a moment. his dark eyes held shock as he admired you.

you looked around for a moment before you took off your dark sunglasses and tapped the arm of them against your soft full bottom lip. your gaze darted around to see is you could spot your partner. when you did see him, you weren't paying any attention to the couple of lingering stares at you. you waved at lewis and quickly went over to him. he could feel the pounding in your chest before he went met you with open arms.

he felt his heartbeat skin when he got armfuls of you. you looked into his eyes and smiled before you kissed him. your kiss tasted like artificial peach and he loved it.

what he didn't like was how a few engineers and assistants took a good look at you. lewis wrapped an arm around your middle to hold you closer. he simply flashed you a winner's smile and asked, "where did you get this?"

you leaned back a little and replied, "well, i took some advice from you and put it together with some fabric i had leftover. the one from the other dress i made for that client. i thought the colour was nice."

"well, it looks amazing on you." he said with total and utter affection for you. he then caught a glimpse of a worker, but their gaze was taken from you when lewis caught them. lewis looked back to you and kissed you on the lips, "go get seated, we're going to start soon." except part of him wished you had a neon sign that said,

"my boyfriend is sir lewis hamilton, do not touch!"

lewis was not possessive by any means! he trusted and loved you, there was no need more something petty like possession. he just didn't like you being mentally undressed by others. you kissed him once more before he watched you walk off to where you needed to go for the practice. he clenched his hands in his red gloves for a moment and got it together. it was time to drive.

it felt like days had passed by the time he got another grasp of you. and somehow after only about three hours of testing, you had became more beautiful. when you kissed him, you simply lit up. and in turn you lit him up. and that light shined through an excellent training. it lasted until you both got back to the rented apartment for the visit.

once in private, your beloved lewis was more vocal along with his hands on your hips as he pressed against you. his kisses grew needy, he yearned for his lovely lady's perfect body.

he caught your gaze on him, doing more than just observing as you licked your lips. he said to you softly, "like what you see, gorgeous?" then started to take off his t-shirt.

"you worry about people staring at me, meanwhile you look like the finest statue the greeks could ever make!" lewis laughed and you continued, "fuck, you look better than that. you look perfect." you reached out for him and you two kissed once more.

you were soon chest to chest as he admired you, "and you look beautiful as well. make anyone jealous." he chuckled lightly, "beautiful and smart. perfect."

your placed a hand on his chest before he turned with you in his arms and led you towards the bedroom. you got up onto the bed once you were close enough and lewis only crowded your space. his hands on the fabric of your dress, but he yearned for what was underneath.

"i want you." he said with total conviction. he laid you out on the bed and touched you with careful hands. he felt his pulse pick up, "i want all of ferrari to know you are mine. the woman who keeps this engine running." his cock twitched in his pants as he undid his belt slowly.

you helped him out of his clothes and soon after you were both naked. your pretty dress thrown over top of his blue jeans. you pressed against him and the kisses intensified. you moaned against his lips and felt the shudder of want through you. it only grew in heat when lewis got you onto your stomach with your hips raised to meet his hard cock. you let out a small noise from the anticipation of sex with him.

"all to myself. you know i love you deeply. i trust you, but knowing i can have you and none of those engineers can does get me going. especially when you look so good on the track. i can't get enough of you. you have no idea what you've done to me." his words grew the heat between you two as he rubbed his hard cock up against your behind, "i love you."

"and i love you, honey." you said before you moaned. there was a moment of tension then you relaxed to accept all of him. you let out another sweet moan that made lewis feel pleasure rush through him as he started to move again you.

he leaned up against you as he rutted up against you. the angle let him hit all the right spots. he could feel the pleasure on the tip of his tongue like unspoken words. "look at you." he said softly as he moved. the movements plus his hands on your wider hips, the flesh of your ass bounced with each thrust. he loved it, he loved you. remnants of your perfume clouded his head as he kissed your shoulder, "as much as i'd love a million photos in every angle of you. i guess i'll just have to take mental ones."

you squirmed, "i didn't know that you liked it all that much. i just put it together, i would've put more time into it if i had known" you moaned into the pillow you held on tightly to and arched your back a little more.

"i love it. you look stunning." he let out a small goran as his pace quickened. you were well aware of your curves and to hear them so thoroughly praised made your cheeks hot.

you replied, "maybe i should make another dress. let you pick out the fabric, i think i'd make the back dip a little bit more." you grew warmer, "it'll let you touch my skin when you hold my back."

"i'd love that. i want to watch you work, you always get these lines right between your eyebrows. it's sweet." he laughed as his hips worked against your ass. the movements continued, his breathing was heavy from the exertion of his thrusts. the pleasure was a comfortable warmth in his body. it was a steady pounding of his heart while sweat dampened his tattooed back.

he loved you, the feeling of you. his words were filthy as he said to you, "from the moment i saw you, i knew we'd be together for a long time. you are mine and i am yours." he exhaled deeply, "have never tasted, felt, loved, fucked anyone quite like you. being with you is everything i crave. it doesn't hurt that others are jealous of what i have by my side. you." his words were like honey on his soul as you felt the pleasure course through your body. aided by his words.

the temperature rose and you could feel the burn of heat high on your cheeks while lewis continued his rough movements against you. he leaned over you, his core tightened as pleasure built up in his sweaty body. he wanted to make you feel what he saw every day. the most beautiful in the world.

you held on tightly and let the feeling wash over you. you loved the feeling even as your thighs quivered, your heart was racing and your head felt a rush. even after all the times you were intimate, it felt better each time. it was an experience that built every time you were intimate.

"lewis." you moaned. your hips shifted and you swore into the covers. you licked the dryness away from your lips after your gloss stained the pillowcase.

lewis was encouraged by your airy moans. his movements were quick, his broad hands on your plush hips. you felt amazing, your cunt took him perfectly as he moved at a steady yet quick pace. he couldn't help himself, you simply felt too amazing.

there was a softness to you that only turned him on further. curves that made him excited, breasts that made his throat dry, soft cheeks that made his cock twitch in his pants with a want to finish across them. the want he had for you was undeniable!

"fuck, honey." you moaned loudly. your toes curled as the pleasure started to reach its peak. you shakily exhaled.

"next time, i want to look at you while you finish. i want to see that beautiful face as i ruin you." and you came from his erotic words.

"yes, yes! fuck!" you near yelled as the fire of lust reached its peak and you came around his cock. which in turn made him pick up the pace to reach his own climax. lewis moaned a little louder and he gave it a few more thrusts before he finished inside of you with a tension in his body. he continued to work your body through his orgasm and enjoyed the feeling of you around his length.

his head swam as he slowed to a stop, and he panted heavily. he leaned in to kiss you on the back, he said softly, "i love you."

"and i love you." he replied before you both laid out in the bed. the two of you kissed once more, you held his face and felt his affection warm you while on top of the covers.

eventually he pulled away, hi brown eyes gazed into yours. his breathing heavy as he asked, "can i have a little bit if input when you make another drss for yourself. there are some things i'd love to see you in."

"of course. but only if it can have pockets too." you poked him on the chest, "i need pockets." your smiled was small, blissed out around the edges.

"of course, beautiful. of course." <3

[szhmidty]

I can never really get over how much of the resentment towards modern art is based purely on some group of art nerds liking art you hate and disliking/dismissing art you like, and being strident about it.

With architecture, I kinda get it. You are forced, in some sense, to engage with architecture. It's funny to me that there seems to be widespread ignorance about the fact that large bricks of steel, glass, and concrete keeping getting made for economic reasons rather than artistic ones, but the distaste and frustration for it makes sense.

You just don't have to go to an art gallery full of modern art, though. Duchamp's fountain is not hiding in your closet ready to jump you.

"But szhmidty, all these hoity-toity art critics say that bullshit, degenerate modern art is supremely important, some of them even insult your intelligence or proclaim you ignorant for not liking a painting with 3 stripes or a "sculpture" that's just a lamp with a barbie doll shoved in the bulb socket."

So? Why do you care? Why do you worry about their opinion? They don't matter! They don't determine the direction of commercial art, and their relevance outside their narrow field is negligible. They don't matter, or they wouldn't if you'd just get over your seething hatred.

Why do you care if this person called you a baby for your art taste? In what way does it affect you? Why does it make you so angry? I truly do not get it.

At a certain point, I need you to realize that you're trolling yourself.

==========

You know what art I "love"? Christian art. Well, the stuff that's well crafted and coherent enough to be somewhat entertaining on it's own merits.

I didn't bother watching God's Not Dead 2 though 46 or whatever, but I thoroughly enjoyed watching the first one. That movie evinces a level of contempt for me, me as a person, me as someone who thinks like I do, in a really pure, unadulterated way.

The studio, actors, and champions of God's Note Dead deeply hate me and everyone like me.

But for the life of me I cannot muster resentment towards that film that comes within an order of magnitude of the resentment towards modern art and it's defenders.

There is, I guess, the unpleasant fact that I share a world with millions of people like that, that such people ultimately decide national policies. I would prefer that not be the case.

But on a personal level I just don't value or care about their opinions enough to be insulted by them. It's like being insulted by a toddler. I would genuinely be more upset if a friend's kid called me a butt-face in anger. At least I want the kid to like me.

==========

I have a similar dynamic with "subs only" anime fans. You have specific cases where the dub is more of an adaptation of the original, where there are strong differences between the sub and the dub, and for those I'll grant that the sub is probably better.*

I'd originally written up a paragraph on subs vs dubs here, but actually it just doesn't matter. I basically never watch a sub unless the dub is genuinely horrible, or the story is wildly different because the dub got censored for american audiences or whatever, or if a dub literally doesn't exist.

There's a large contingent of anime fans who feel contempt for me as someone who defaults to watching dubs. They will openly mock and belittle dubs preferers.

And like. I just can't care. Outside of a personal enjoyment in having arguments and yelling about things I do and don't like, I simply feel nothing when I see contemptuous comments from subs preferers.

*The exception is Ghost Stories. Anyone who recommends the sub over the dub isn't merely a disciple of the holy art of subtitles, they're just delusional. Or they hate the very specific brand of humour that the Ghost Story dub is going for, but if I'm being honest I would not believe the average crunchy roll subscriber if they claimed to dislike it. I've seen what makes them cheer.

==========

There's something of an irony to writing 10 paragraphs dedicated to people who insult me only for me to end each section with "I don't care." Like why would I write so much if I didn't care?

Mostly I'm just trying to look for cases where I might be on the other side of this issue, the side of the insulted, belittled, and demeaned, to put myself in the hot seat, as it were.

You can believe me when I say "I don't care" or not, I don't care.

[rafeysbangs]

°🂶 ༘˚↷rafe is always just out of reach

warnings ; not proofread sorta... , simply just angst, sortof almost a mention of fwb? ish?, interpret this how you will as to yours & rafe's relationship !

notes ; HI !! i'm so happy to be back. srry this is straight up angst. but i hope you enjoy. can you tell uni is strangling me lol ( this was actually sitting in the drafts.. waiting... oops )

rafe cameron is an enigma you can’t quite solve. a puzzle with missing pieces, a shoreline that recedes every time you step forward. you think you have him—hands grasping the edge of something real—only for him to slip through like sand through parted fingers.

you watch him from the passenger seat, the engine humming beneath the weight of silence. his knuckles are tight against the steering wheel, pale from pressure. he’s always holding on too hard, to everything, to nothing. a boy who doesn’t know how to let go without breaking something in the process.

"you’re quiet," you say, just to fill the space. to remind him you’re still here.

his jaw flexes, a brief movement, barely anything at all. then a chuckle, low and humourless. "that’s a first."

it’s a dance, this thing between you—if you can even call it that. he keeps his distance, but it’s not apathy. it’s something else. something tangled up in the way his hands tighten around whatever’s in his grasp, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long when he thinks you won’t notice.

you do notice. you always do.

you see it now, in the way he shifts gears with more force than necessary. in the way his hands tremble when he runs them through his hair. in the way he looks at you, like he wants to say something but won’t, like it’s locked behind his teeth, rusted shut with years of unsaid things.

and you—what are you to him? a distraction? a reminder? a tether to something softer, something he doesn’t think he deserves?

"you don’t have to do that," you say, softer this time.

he glances at you, brow furrowed. "do what?"

"pretend like you don’t care."

his lips part, but no words come out. just a sharp inhale, a slow exhale. and then he laughs again—quieter, this time. almost bitter.

"maybe i don’t."

but he does. you know he does. it’s in the way he says your name, in the way he always finds you first in a crowded room, in the way his fingers brush against yours but never stay long enough. it’s in the way he pulls away just before he gets too close, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

rafe cameron is a hurricane dressed as a boy. all storm and sharp edges, all lightning that never quite touches the ground. people talk about him like he’s reckless, like he’s all impulse and violence, but you know better. you see what they don’t—the hesitation, the flicker of something softer just beneath the surface. you see the way he clenches his jaw when he’s trying not to feel. the way he swallows words before they can make it past his lips. the way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking.

he is not empty, not hollow like he wants the world to believe. he is full of things he will never say, full of rage and grief and longing. full of a love he will never let himself hold.

and you—maybe you are just another thing he cannot let himself have.

you could reach for him, could close the space between you, could press your palm against the warmth of his arm and wait for him to lean in instead of pull away. but you already know how this ends.

he’ll let you get close. close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

and then he’ll slip away—just like always.

( no taglist bcs its wayyy to old um i'll be redoing that too so look out for a post - sorry guys ! )

[nalyra-dreaming]

It's so frustrating trying to have a conversation about Louis' narration. The last time I tried, someone accused me of being 'ship-brained' because they believe Loustat has nothing romantic about it and that there's no tenderness between them.I simply pointed out,as neutrally as possible,that we can’t fully trust what Louis has said about their relationship so far because he’s altered a lot of details,and that Armand is also a suspicious figure in Louis’ memories of Lestat. That’s it.But immediately, I got attacked for calling Louis an unreliable narrator and for trying to demonize Armand. Which is insane, because I never said Louis was completely unreliable, just that when it comes to his relationship with Lestat, things are complicated, and we can’t take his words at face value when assessing their love.It’s exhausting. You can’t have a nuanced discussion anywhere without people jumping down your throat.I have never said Loustat had a perfect marriage or was a perfect couple,just that things are more nuanced that what Louis narrated,I'm not waiting for Lestat to be the only truth and if i understand Rolin doesn't want another revisit and s3 will be modte likely Lestat' background + maybe some plot in modern story,I never believed that he would refute everything and Louis is a liar Iand Armand a big bad moustache curling villain.😮‍💨

I'm accepting to be wrong and we can discuss anything without being always at each other throat

*sighs*

You know, the fact that people cannot see what a disservice they do Louis by making him into this one-dimensional, flat caricature of himself by removing all the problematic bits.... And I call that "problematic" - because JACOB called him/them monsters, and that it's good that they can be problematic...

And so I sat down, and listed a few things JACOB said - with sources!

Louis does lie (he literally says “not everything Louis says is a lie“ in this video)

Louis is problematic

Louis was very repressed

Louis is a snob

Louis has many guises (and Jacob looks forward to s3, TVL!)

Louis is the problem (I saw the tweet (here is one referring to the Taylor Swift song), but it's referred to in this comment as well, as well as other things, too)

Louis knows deep down some things are not true

Louis presents Lestat as a monster bc he‘s angry

The way some people want to remove eeeeeeeeverything that makes Louis in the slightest bit problematic or even an active participant of his own story, and thereby reduce him to this victim only ... this shell is beyond me. I get where it comes from(!), namely from bad stereotypes and racist inflections that have unfortunately been employed again and again at other points - but heaven help, this show is NOT that, and JACOB has already stated all these already - and this need to scream anyone down who dares to point these out is preventing any possibility of real discussion in this fandom - and honestly, THAT is actually the true shame.

Also, re Loustat - ALSO Jacob:

"They are in a romantic relationship in the books. They’re married by the end. Maybe Anne Rice didn’t fully know what their relationship was at first – the style is very different in the first book. Lestat is this kind of goblin monster torturing Louis. But when you look back with the context from further books, you see this man was just very repressed and so hurt by what happened between him and Lestat that he couldn’t acknowledge him as his lover, as his partner, as his great love. But by the second book, they’re absolutely a couple. And because we’re adapting the whole of The Vampire Chronicles and taking things from later books and repurposing them, the idea of telling this story and them not being a couple… well, there’s no show! Their love story, as messed up as it is, is the heart of it."

And:

"Well, scenes from a divorce is probably Armand, and then scenes from a marriage feels more fitting to Louis and Lestat."

What else is there to say....

Our cast gets their characters. Jacob gets Louis.

Now if only the fandom could accept that, too...

[honourablejester]

Honestly, this (the crafting, modifying and inventing rules) is one of the most exciting parts of BitD so far for me. The rituals were what first sparked for me, because the idea that I can just invent spooky magic rituals for my character is delightful, but the gadgets and alchemicals are also delightful. Both Whisper and Leech were the playbooks that first called to me, and this kind of thing is very much part of why.

Vague gadget ideas I’ve been dabbling with:

The obvious, goggles that let you see into the ghost field. No self-respecting Leech is going to leave that the preserve of Whispers and their spooky masks! There is nothing magic has wrought that science cannot equal! Potential details: will highlight ghosts in red if they’re feral?

On a similar theme of goggles, goggles that give you something like Dishonored’s Dark Vision power, the ability to see the presence of living people through walls (it works by sensing Plasm, obviously), basically giving you a sort of life-focused x-ray vision.

A palm-mounted device like a shock buzzer that acts as something of an inversion of the Lurk’s ‘Ghostly Veil’ ability: it temporarily forcefully shunts someone else into the ghost field, rendering them insubstantial, for those moments when you need someone to let go of you right now or you desperately need to not be fighting them. Might have unfortunate effects on the victim, which will undoubtedly invoke long-term consequences.

Higher level, but if we’re thinking weapons and we’re already in the realm of lightning, gaslamp fantasy, demon-slash-lifeforce powered weaponry … I mean, is it too much to ask for a death ray? Some sort of hideous little thing that forcefully rends someone’s ghost from their still-living body, or drains them of Plasm (and stores it as power, because then we could have a self-powering hand-held murder machine). How does that interact with the spirit bells of the crematorium? (This one’s obviously going to be a long clock and several interim stages to develop).

… I promise I’m not looking at the Leech playbook purely to play a monstrous Victorian-esque mad scientist? Honest, yer honour. But. Well. A life of crime probably would be necessary to fund and advance my research? And in my defence, the first thing the book itself suggests trying to invent is a flamethrower, so I don’t think a death ray is all that out of left field?

I do think fiction is the answer here, alongside building on things suggested or built from other abilities/items in Blades itself. What Dishonored power to you want to replicate? What crackpot silver age of comics device do you want to cobble together and power by demon blood in your semi-flooded underground lair (that you must perforce share with the rest of your crew, do try not to blow us all up or summon some sort of horrific demon on top of us, darling)? Do you want to rip off Stephen Strange and make an arcane amulet that allows you to rewind time a few seconds? How would you feel about a death ray?

This is a steampunk fantasy setting where electricity exists and is literally powered by demon blood, where ghosts can be captured in bottles and sold on the black market, and the light from the shattered sun has been replaced by fish bioengineered with life energy until they glow bright enough to grow plants. Go nuts. Play with life, death, lightning, magic, machinery, biology! Frankenstein your way to a hideous future funded and inspired by your life of crime!

(Or, you know. Be a little bit more practical and focus on simpler things like glass cutters and breaching charges and sonic grenades that can confuse and delay the deathseeker crows. Or a contact vapor that instantly erases the last, say, 30 seconds or so of someone’s memory. Or a watered-down version of Drift Oil that instead of making you float for an hour simply makes you lighter and more agile, as if you were operating in moon gravity. It takes all kinds, you know).

But yes, I do understand the difficulty. When I was homebrewing a class for Heart: The City Beneath, a similar fiction-focused ttrpg, I found myself trying to nail down the concrete limits of various abilities as if they were for a more mechanical system, before realising that Heart does not work like that. You can just say ‘if you succeed your roll, this ability turns you invisible until you’re out of the current situation’. It’s a genuine shift of mindset. You have to pull back out of stats and bonuses and durations and ranges, and just go ‘this lets you do [cool thing], tell me what that looks like in this situation’.

Have to say, one of the biggest hurdles in introducing one of my usual gaming groups to a system like Blades in the Dark is the idea that items don't have defined stats and are instead props to twist the fiction in interesting ways. It often feels like I'm using therapy speak on a very literally minded engineer.

Player: Alright, I've spent some downtime crafting, what can I make? Me: What would you like to make : ) ? Player: Like, is there a list? Me: Nope : ) , you're limited by your imagination and what we agree would be best for the story. Player: Well are there suggested guidelines for what an appropriate item would be? What Bonuses It can give me? Me: Items don't really give bonuses : ) , now how about you tell me what emotions finishing this project stirs in your character? Player: What was even the point of this? Also stop saying ": )" I don't know how you're doing that with your mouth.

Honestly it's a fascinating study in what assumptions ttrpgs make about the people playing them: Namely that a prospective BitD player has some personal skill or desire to act as a storyteller, and doesn't put much emphasis on the nitty-gritty of the rules.

[puppysuke]

daisuke as a dad hc!

this is very self indulgent of me i fear. i want to have kids so bad its not funny. um! anyway, my day was very shit so. i needed something to feel better and somehow daisuke as a dad is what my brain decided would be comfort. continue reading below the cut ! art by dressup4life on pinterest i think, but i am unsure! these are all sfw and NOT on tulpar. if it happens after those events or a totally different au is up to you :) all are sfw.

🌺 --- total girl dad. i said it! you cannot convince me this man is not a girl dad. like, he's good with boys too, but tooootally a girl dad. 🌺 --- dress up ! stickers ! make up ! will let his kids do whatever they want to him in that aspect. ~ "dad, dad!" daisuke turns around from what he was doing-fixing the breaks of your car-, with grease smeared on his face. he smiled and stood up, rubbing his hands on his pants to get rid of the grease. he glances at swansea who had come over to give him a hand before turning to his kid and crouching down once more to be at eye level with his kid. "what's up, kiddo? wanted to help your awesome dad and uncle swansea fix the car?" he asks, reaching forward and pinching their cheek. his kid shakes his head and pouts. "no, dad, i wanna play dress up! lets play dress up!" daisuke smiles a little before hearing swansea snicker. he looked back at swansea and shoots a short glare.

needless to say, after that interaction, he was working on the car in a halloween princess dress with horribly done makeup, getting teased and made fun of playfully the whole time by swansea. (oof that healed a little part of me...) 🌺 --- daisuke never wants to push his kids into something they don't want. assuming you want to imaging this after the events of mouthwashing, he knows what its like to be pushed into something he doesn't want. be it a job they don't want when they're older, sports, or even a meal they don't like.

🌺 --- he is so worried about not doing a good job. he really wants to be a good dad, but sometimes he gets scared he's not doing a good job. he wants nothing more than to be a good parent, but sometimes he just comes to you with stress on being a bad dad. 🌺 --- he is the good cop. actually, he's in the criminals! you tell the kids no ice cream before dinner? you find daisuke eating ice cream with the kids. you tell the kids to eat their veggies? daisuke takes a good half of the veggies for himself instead. you tell daisuke to be more firm with the kids? he tries! but simply cannot resist those big eyes looking at him like the devil on his shoulder. 🌺 --- when you get insecure over strech marks or weight gain, you don't even have to tell daisuke. he can figure it out on his own in seconds of being by you. he is quick to reassure you and make sure you know he still finds you to be attractive. 🌺 --- for my trans masc readers, he constantly reassures you as a man! to him, your gender doesn't matter, even if you gave birth to his kids, he sees you as a man. you're his husband (or boyfriend) no matter what your body does and he makes sure to teach the kids about your gender when it comes time to! 🌺 --- as soon as he has one kid, he wants another. he is practically begging to have another kid after you're recovered and you're both ready physically and mentally. if you tell him no, he won't pressure you into it, but he will be a little disappointing. he will try not to show disappointment though! he already has one little angel, he is content.

🌺 --- when you first have a baby, he is gentle as ever with you and a great help! he's very active in taking care of both the baby and you! the baby needs to be changed into a clean diaper? he's on it! you need to take a bath? he's already running the water and ready to take the baby off your hands!

🌺 --- he is PROTECTIVE. like he doesn't even let his parents hold the baby at first. he wants only you and him to hold the baby, take care of the baby and everything like that.

🌺 --- he learns to cook. look, hear me out on this. he knows you're stressed about feeding the kids good meals, not just the instant ramen and take out you two had been living on, so he learns to cook throughout your pregnancies and before the baby can eat solid food!

🌺 --- he slows down and becomes a real family man. instead of wanting to go get a drink with friends, he'd rather be playing something with the kids. instead of gaming all night with people, he spends time with you after the kids are asleep. instead of reading comics, he talks to swansea for advice about things.

🌺 --- he ADORES you to no end after you have kids. like, he thought you were the most stunning person on earth but damn. you had a certain glow about you, and he definitely appreciated the extra weight you put on! ------- if you likes this and have anything you'd like me to write from this fandom, or any other fandoms listen in my intro post, my requests are open! just ask me in my inbox and i'll write / make hc for you <3 thank you for reading!

[doyouknowthisbook-poll]

Do you know which book this is from?

Please reblog the polls, but KEEP IT SPOILER-FREE to make people read the excerpt with an open mind 💖📚 Title and author will be revealed after the poll's conclusion.

Note: this excerpt is too long for Tumblr’s alt text character limit, so for this poll, the alt text is below the read more.

When we reached the camp, we set about replacing obsolete or damaged equipment with what we had brought and putting up our own tents. We would rebuild the sheds later, once we were sure that Area X had not affected us. The members of the last expedition had eventually drifted off, one by one. Over time, they had returned to their families, so strictly speaking they did not vanish. They simply disappeared from Area X and, by unknown means, reappeared back in the world beyond the border. They could not relate the specifics of that journey. This transference had taken place across a period of eighteen months, and it was not something that had been experienced by prior expeditions. But other phenomena could also result in “premature dissolution of expeditions,” as our superiors put it, so we needed to test our stamina for that place.

We also needed to acclimate ourselves to the environment. In the forest near base camp one might encounter black bears or coyotes. You might hear a sudden croak and watch a night heron startle from a tree branch and, distracted, step on a poisonous snake, of which there were at least six varieties. Bogs and streams hid huge aquatic reptiles, and so we were careful not to wade too deep to collect our water samples. Still, these aspects of the ecosystem did not really concern any of us. Other elements had the ability to unsettle, however. Long ago, towns had existed here, and we encountered eerie signs of human habitation: rotting cabins with sunken, red-tinged roofs, rusted wagon-wheel spokes half-buried in the dirt, and the barely seen outlines of what used to be enclosures for livestock, now mere ornament for layers of pine-needle loam.

Far worse, though, was a low, powerful moaning at dusk. The wind off the sea and the odd interior stillness dulled our ability to gauge direction, so that the sound seemed to infiltrate the black water that soaked the cypress trees. This water was so dark we could see our faces in it, and it never stirred, set like glass, reflecting the beards of gray moss that smothered the cypress trees. If you looked out through these areas, toward the ocean, all you saw was the black water, the gray of the cypress trunks, and the constant, motionless rain of moss flowing down. All you heard was the low moaning. The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you.

As noted, we found the tower in a place just before the forest became waterlogged and then turned to salt marsh. This occurred on our fourth day after reaching base camp, by which time we had almost gotten our bearings. We did not expect to find anything there, based on both the maps that we brought with us and the water-stained, pine-dust-smeared documents our predecessors had left behind. But there it was, surrounded by a fringe of scrub grass, half-hidden by fallen moss off to the left of the trail: a circular block of some grayish stone seeming to mix cement and ground-up seashells. It measured roughly sixty feet in diameter, this circular block, and was raised from ground level by about eight inches. Nothing had been etched into or written on its surface that could in any way reveal its purpose or the identity of its makers. Starting at due north, a rectangular opening set into the surface of the block revealed stairs spiraling down into darkness. The entrance was obscured by the webs of banana spiders and debris from storms, but a cool draft came from below.

At first, only I saw it as a tower. I don’t know why the word tower came to me, given that it tunneled into the ground. I could as easily have considered it a bunker or a submerged building. Yet as soon as I saw the staircase, I remembered the lighthouse on the coast and had a sudden vision of the last expedition drifting off, one by one, and sometime thereafter the ground shifting in a uniform and preplanned way to leave the lighthouse standing where it had always been but depositing this underground part of it inland. I saw this in vast and intricate detail as we all stood there, and, looking back, I mark it as the first irrational thought I had once we had reached our destination.

[mercysought]

Orla Mercar (Rook), Inquisitor Asharen Lavellan and Magister Maxima Aurum discuss what to do about Fen'harel now that they have an opening towards Elgar'nan previous drabble

Asharen knew the room was warm, but she felt herself burning while standing there. Morrigan to one side, Émilie to another. Rook and some of her companions pouring over the maps of the city. The copy of the dagger at her hip alongside the real one. To her center and front Magister Aurum stood by the fire, to the left of Dorian and Magister Tilani who spoke in quiet whispers.

Magister Aurum, the only person so far that had made their way from the Archon's palace, seemingly having survived something that had lead all within this room believe any attending magister had died in Elgar'nan's attack. It seemed that it too more than an ancient elvhen God to kill one such as Maxima.

It was her that the Inquisitor followed most closely. The bandages around her wrists and arms growing darker with each passing moment that they spoke. It was not her place, but it was clear that the woman was pushing the luck that had been graced to her upon her survival.

A clicking of the tongue. Maxima Aurum turns from her colleagues and looks squarely at the table, taking a step forward until she is against the surface.

   "After everything he has done, I cannot believe we are seriously discussing giving him a potential out." the Magister's voice is loud, louder than one would expect and firmer too, given the woman's injuries. Her face drowned in the darkness as she cut against the flames of the fireplace opposite to where Asharen stood. Quiet, carefully taking notes from time to time, trying to keep her hands and her mind busy to keep the panic and the want to speak out of feeling than her mind with firmer arguments from spilling from her mouth.

But the Magister looked at her, directly, unflinchingly. And Asharen could nothing but stare directly back. Her tone and eyes hold nothing but pure accusation and indignation "To meet him with mercy?"

Her face had started bruising. Her clother simpler, far simpler than she had ever seen anything Maxima Aurum wear. The deep purple and reds on her face, the swelling, the unbrushed hair - for a figure that had been larger than life any time Asharen had seen her, she now looked as she truly was: as fragile and frail as any other person within those same walls. For all the glitter and gold, she bled just the same as the red of them.

Asharen pauses. Placing the quill down. Her light eyes stare back at the Magister's, darker now due to the shadows that sink deeper into her face.

   "To meet him with an open mind." the Inquisitor corrects, her tone kept even.

The Inquisitor had, as she would continue to do, brought up the hope that they would not need to trick Solas. And that tying him and his life to keep the Veil up would not be necessary. She hadn't had an answer when asked what other solution could they hope to have. That was what occupied her mind the most now. The swiftly growing panic alongside bile in her stomach.

   "He aided multiple groups of wounded into the saf—" she hears Emmrich's voice raise softly. The Inquisitor doesn't look towards him, however, keeping her eyes on the Magister as she saw her expression twist.

   "I care not for the mortal conscious or redemption of a would be God that only cares for the people he harms when he is arms deep in their blood!" the magister snaps, pushing herself up, straightening her shoulders with a sneer. Barely giving Emmrich a glance, the human pushes herself off the table, slowly circling around slowly. Bare and dry lips taught into a thin line as bruised hands raised to her forehead.

   "Killing him will not fix this." she repeats the same thing she had said to Orla and sees the same flash of anger flash before the Magister's eyes. The truth was simple and cruel, but it was still worth saying. The Inquisitor simply followed the woman with her eyes; however, she felt her knuckles growing colder, the hold upon the quill tighter "Binding his life force to the Veil as it has been discussed will not fix it either."

And with this, she turns to give a significant look to Rook. The Inquisitor holds the gaze, her own lips growing into a thin line that she tries hard to suppress alongside the sadness that pools in the back of her eyes, in the tightening of her throat. It would not fix it, but it could end up being the kindest of the options.

It is cruelty but using a different name. And she knew this. She understood the aspects of it likely better than anyone in that room. But what could she do?

Is this something that I could do? Her eyes fall on the dagger, the real one, for but a second. The terrible thought dawning on her mind like a terrible sunrise. Her eyes fall back down to her own brass hand, resting atop the table. Was it necessary the blood of an evanuris, or adjacent, to bind one's life form to the Veil?

And, if so, could the Well mimic the necessary ingredients and strength well enough? Would she be enough?

   "And therefore all is forgiven?!" Magister's Aurum's hoarse voice brings her back to the conversation at the table. The magister's face twists beyond just the swelling and bruising. Finally, she turns to the Inquisitor after glaring at Orla from across the table. Leaning into the wooden surface and maps, "I do not want your Fen'harel dead, Inquisitor."

The magister inhales sharply, painfully, it tenses her body as she keeps talking.

   "I want him to be judged for the harm he has done," she keeps talking, but Asharen's eyebrow arches, her lips tightening "the destruction he has wrought upon us all."

Her eyes meet the Magister's, expression slowly shifting, brows furrowing. That was not happening as long as she lived. He needed to restore what was lost, yes, aid in whatever capacity, but not in Tevinter chains.

Émilie softly moves forward, her hand over the pommel of the thin blade and eyes darkening, landing on the Magister. Rook's steps are not audible, not until she steps fully between the Inquisitor and the Magister at the corner of the table they all stood in.

   "We have a plan. Magister." Orla's heavy accent echoes across the silent and tense room. The Inquisitor can only see the back of her head, the dark hair pooling at her shoulder. Magister Aurum's eyes remain on the Inquisitor, only after her title is called her dark eyes motion to stare down Rook. Asharen keeps her lips tightly shut, the thin outline of the quill's spine snapped in the closed palm of her flesh hand. Orla continues with a firm tone "Whatever you say isn't going to change it. The Inquisitor has said her piece."

Maxima's brows arch. Her mouth hangs open in a twisted, angry smile for a second. A scoff, pained in nature, is dragged out of her mouth.

   "And you—" she turns on her heels, Maxima's voice is kept low accusingly glaring at the two other magisters in the back of the room. Dorian and Maevaris who look at her "— you both agree to this?" she sneers, not waiting for the answer, instead just shaking her head, pushing herself off the table "Un-fucking-belivable!"

And with it, she walks with intent and with the vigor of someone that shouldn't be bedridden out of the door towards where the rest of the injured and dying were. From the outside, she could hear her voice still. Calling for whatever templars were still in the city to form a perimeter outside of the Archon's palace. To get and organize more beds. Her voice cutting through the crowd as she moved beyond the corridor.

Asharen's eyes only move from the door when she feels a warm hand on her shoulder. Dorian looks at her with a worry that makes her stomach drop. It made her feel small, and the shadow that fatigue held over her mind and body grow "I will handle this."

He says simply and then he too is gone with Maevaris in turn. Émilie watches them go and only then does she move once more to Asharen's side, quietly watching the shadows dance from the corridor as more and more people hurried.

   "Her father was a cunt," Orla cuts into her vision, her gloved hand motioning to the Inquisitor's flesh one. With her palm up, she asks the Inquisitor to lift it. When she does, Rook takes the broken quill from her hand placing it back on the table without so much of an acknowledgement of the act "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the cunt tree."

Orla gives the Inquisitor a small smile, meant to give her assurance, perhaps, and yet the Inquisitor felt nothing but a growing sense of dread. A small smile is still given, though her mind is far away and her eyes motion once more to the corridor that would lead them out into the destroyed city. Orla follows her eyes and gives a small sigh "Some fucks really just have nine lives."

[e-the-village-cryptid]

Bix. I truly don't know how to start talking about all the things I love about Bix. I've been sitting here just staring out the window for ten minutes now. I relate to her so deeply and augh it is difficult to express all the things I love about her character but I will try.

The first thing I noticed about Bix is the way she carries herself. She shrinks from nothing and holds her chin high, but in a way that feels more like armor than natural confidence. She's always tense. She's always looking around, taking in her surroundings, listening and watching and on alert. She tries not to let herself feel any strong emotions. She smiles at her friends and neighbors, but the expression is quick to drop away. She has a strong temper, but she reins it back quickly so we only see glimpses of it— a moment where she advances on Timm, eyes blazing, or punches the wall after unsuccessful hours spent hanging off the ladder in the radio tower. She shoves despair down too, casting about instead for a solution, or a distraction, or anything to keep her moving.

Because Bix is always, always on the move. She has a salyard to run and a smuggling operation to manage and a community to look out for. She works hard and walks fast, but still finds the time to see Maarva and look after her health. And if there's half a chance that her actions could fix something, she absolutely can't stand still. A soldier's turned back, a radio signal, a gap in the crowd— and she's off and running whether she really believes she stands a chance or not. She knows she can't fix everything, but she tries, she always tries, because there's no giving up when it comes to protecting the people she loves.

And there's so few of those people left. Her parents died young, leaving her with a salyard to run all on her own by her early 20s. Maarva has been something of a mentor figure to her, but by the time we meet her, Maarva's health is failing, too. She found a friend in Cassian when they were children, but he's rarely around these days, and when he is, she can't depend on him. The Paaks note they haven't seen her around much, and though she waves at her neighbors as she passes by, she doesn't stop to chat. She starts dating Timm even though she doesn't really love him and she knows it, just for some grasp at connection and a semblance of a normal life, some kind of stability and constancy. And then he's gone too, murdered right in front of her, and she blames herself, and Salman is tortured and killed, and she blames herself, and Maarva dies when she wasn't there to care for her, and if Bix felt alone and afraid of vulnerability at the beginning of the season, I don't know how to describe how she must be feeling now. She tries, she tries so hard to do the right thing, to be loyal and dependable and to use all her skills and smarts to wrangle the pieces of her life back together, only to watch it all crumble before her at the hands of the Empire, then to feel her own body and mind subjected to the same fate.

And yet, she still doesn't stop. She stares down the threat of torture rather than willingly betray Cassian or Luthen. She survives. Even in the haze of pain and broken reality, she pulls together what scraps of awareness she can to observe, to keep one eye on the camera that watches her, to cast about for an anchor in this place. And when she hears the beat of a far-off drum, strands of familiar music on the breeze, she pulls herself to the window, clawing hand over hand with whatever strength she has left, drawing her face into the light to join the music and the chant, to let the song of her community reach her, even here.

Bix clings fiercely to what she loves. In other people, in her community, in herself. It's not easy for her to allow herself to express it, but her actions speak far louder than her words. No matter what, Bix holds onto a hope that simply cannot be killed. It's not an optimistic type of hope, not joyful, certainly not naive. Most of all, it's not passive— it's not the kind of hope that sits back and believes things will get better. Bix's hope is the fierce, dogged, stubborn kind, the kind that says "Maybe things could get better, maybe they can't, but if I don't try, I'll never know." It's the kind that believes there's always something out there that's worth fighting for. She never stops forging ahead, whatever the circumstance, whatever has happened to her, whatever she's feeling, whatever the odds. And I love her so, so much for that.

Character Appreciation Friday - Bix Caleen

Name: Bix Caleen Played by: Adria Arjona Appearances: Kassa, That Would Be Me, Reckoning, Announcement, Narkina 5, Nobody's Listening!, Daughter of Ferrix, Rix Road

Happy Friday gang! Today we get to appreciate a businesswoman, a rebel, a friend, a true daughter of Ferrix. Bix is a smart and capable character who deserved better than what the Empire brought her, and I know we're all excited to see her fight for it soon.

Tell me what you love and appreciate about Bix in a reblog, comment, or ask!

Next week: B2EMO

[lololollywrites]

OH. MY. GOD. Do NOT buy anything from limitlesswalls.com. It’s an “art” website. I was looking to fill some empty space on my wall, and since I lived in Vietnam for two years I thought some artwork inspired by the scenery or culture would be nice. 

I was already jaded because a few of the cityscape images I’d found on this particular website (I’d first searched for NYC, where I live now) were labeled “AI-generated”, and I will never, ever purchase something produced by AI. It’s sad - I’ve never before come across AI content on a website that claims to offer professional artwork and photographs. I was just about to click away when, on a whim, I decided to enter “Vietnam” as the search term and “illustrations�� to see if any actual artists would be represented.

LOOK AT THIS SHIT. Napalm Girl??? This is a Sims-style, surely AI-generated, fucking insulting mockery of the original photograph from the Vietnam War depicting a very real, very traumatized little girl whose clothes had been burned away during a brutal napalm attack. She added a human face to the as-then-unknown “enemy”, surviving the ordeal and eventually becoming a UNESCO Goodwill ambassador. Her name is Phan Thi Kim Phúc, and she now lives in Canada. She’s only 60. This was NOT a long time ago.

AND THIS WEBSITE IS TRYING TO SELL THIS MONSTROSITY FOR PROFIT. I don’t imagine anyone ever buying it, obviously, but I am just so confused and horrified. The other AI “artwork” was at least visually appealing; my complaint was on principle alone. BUT THIS??? Is this website not run by humans? Even if it’s automatically adding results, who the fuck originally inputted this prompt to the image generator?? WHAT THE FUCK??

Excuse my outrage. I am not Vietnamese. I do not want to come across as one of those annoying Americans who goes on one trip and acts as though they know everything there is to know about that country. I don’t. Not at all. I’d LOVE for people from Vietnam to add their own input. I sincerely hope I’m not overreacting. I lived in Hanoi from 2019-2021, the former enemy of South Vietnam and of the United States. I’m going back next month because I made so many Vietnamese (and foreigner) friends and desperately miss almost everything about it. I went to the War Museum both there and in Saigon/HCM City and sat with war veterans from both sides who were visiting on a routine pilgrimage, some of whom explained the horrifying photos on the wall to me. Actual photographs, of course; not grotesque parodies.

At various points during the two years I spent in Hanoi and my various trips around the country, I spoke with Vietnamese survivors of the War. I cried over lunch as a tour guide in Hội An told me how he lost his aunt and uncle, lived below ground to escape bombings as a child, and how his son was born with cerebral palsy as a result of the lingering effects of Agent Orange. He smiled at me and said he was grateful that Vietnamese people and Americans could be friends now. He thanked me for coming on his tour. It was the Summer of 2020, during Covid, so the borders were closed; the only tourists were teachers and Vietnamese citizens, and he desperately missed sharing his culture. It had been two months since there’d been a visitor. It was just me and him that day. We still message on Instagram. It’s worth noting that I stayed in Vietnam during Covid because it was much, much safer there than it was back in the U.S. People cared about the safety of the larger community, so they therefore followed mask mandates and lockdown orders. Meaning lockdown was much, much shorter and was much more effective. Who knew? Anyway.

I once hugged a woman, the owner of one of the many hostels I stayed in on vacation, who spent a large portion of her childhood living in caves in Ha Long Bay; caves were the only safe place she and her family could retreat from airstrikes. She lost her father and uncles during the War. I did my best to educate myself and to apologize for the horrible influence of my country’s leaders at the time, despite her assurance that she and everyone else she knew saw the War as a government issue and not one to do with the people. I constantly wrestled with my right to be in Vietnam at all, let alone to teach at the school that employed me. I asked my students to teach me as much as I taught them. I came back home to the United States and did my best to discuss the truth about Vietnam at every turn; to dispel every stereotype American friends and family members may have had - because that’s the least I could do. I’ve done the same for China and Indonesia, where I also spent two years in total, but Vietnam holds an even more special place in my heart.

So seeing this has angered me so much. Not just for Phan Thi Kim Phúc and all other victims and survivors of the Vietnam War, but for real HUMAN artists and photographers. If this is part of the early impact of AI, I want absolutely nothing to do with it.

[novelconcepts]

In watching more interviews with Liv about Van and the escalation of Van's pragmatism to such dark degrees, I find myself genuinely baffled that anyone could ever think Van the bad guy. I mean, I'm perplexed at finding ANY of these girls The Bad Guy. The bad guy is the situation. It's being lost. It's freezing. It's starving. It's being scraped down to the barest bone of being alive. They make choices that might be snippy, or cruel, or hard-headed, sure--Shauna refusing to just hash it out with Jackie; Jackie being too stubborn to come inside; Taissa refusing to discuss her situation plainly; etc--but by the time we reach the end of season 2, it doesn't even matter. Petty bullshit doesn't matter. Jealousy doesn't matter. Those things are still going to be present and complicated, because--for all their choices, for all the distancing they're trying to do--these kids ARE still human beings. But it isn't the point.

The point is survival. Plain, simple, straightforward. Van's pragmatism is survival. It is the difference between living another day with blood on your teeth or dying pretty. It is the difference between fighting forward through the fire and the snow and the hell of it all, and laying down to die. Van knowing, in watching the ritual violence of Shauna beating Lottie nearly the death, that they will be killing and eating one another soon. Van coming up with the cards for the hunt. Van not blinking when the moment comes, Van choosing a weapon that doubles as a tool to bring the body back, Van refusing to apologize for staying alive--it's not evil. It's not Bad Guy behavior. It's purely about survival, because there is nothing else left to her--or to any of them. They can play the pretty little Sweet Angel Girl game and die, or they can get dirty, bloody, horrific and fight. Van chooses the fight. Van chooses to fight for herself, for her lover, for her team, even knowing not everyone is going to make it out...because the alternate path there is that no one makes it out. Van knew the baby wouldn't live. Van knows the rest of them won't, either. Not unless they start making the hard choices.

And, honestly, the fact that Van sees this narrative coming. Comes up with this plan. Brings out the cards. To me, that is the opposite of Bad Behavior. That is as close to justice as anyone can find in the wilderness. If someone else came up with an idea, maybe it would have come down to voting--but that would have had such a human element to it, with bitterness or hostility or whatever ultimately petty shit always comes of humans selecting who to Other. The cards don't leave room for that. It isn't fair, because the situation isn't fair, because Man vs. Nature isn't fair, but it's as close to a just system as they could possibly find. It's the kindest solution to an unwinnable game. Not to bring it back to American Gods again, but all I can think is "it's easy, there's a trick to it: you do it, or you die." Van gave them that.

[thevioletcaptain]

if you as a fic reader ever become possessed by the urge to do a popularity bracket with the fics other people wrote and shared for fun and for free, consider:

don't ❤️ 

[gayedmundo]

i'm sorry but if you have the audacity to say you just started watching 9-1-1 because you saw buck and tommy got together and then tell buddie shippers that we're delusional and are just seeing things and insist upon eddie's heterosexuality then i will not be kind to you.

[spideysatan]

i simply started blocking (almost) every diehard kanthony fan on twitter

[nexus-nebulae]

love watching weather science videos but like. why am i 1000x more interested in tornadoes over hurricanes. they're both spinning air

[phe-purple-parade]

Once again I am imploring y'all to ask whether someone dances lead or follow before asking them to dance