#it's not coherent but it's not meant to be

[theblockedtomb]

Has anyone here read Soul Music, by Terry Pratchett? (Or any other discworld tbh) It's a little difference as they're more explicitly comedic fantasy, and the parody nature of the world is explicit from the get-go, but it's still very much a fantasy world. There are dragons and wizards and triumphs and losses, and commentary on every aspect of society you can imagine. There's also the wizard with "Born to Rune" on his jacket, a band called We're Certainly Dwarves (a joke on They Might be Giants that took me years to get) a deaf leopard getting involved in the music industry somehow or other, and probably several dozen other pop-culture puns I missed

Hell, "Character says a line that barely makes sense even to them but is a reference readers laugh at" is really common in discworld books!

You could certainly argue that those references are less niche and more fitting, but honestly they're still a sharp reminder that this book is in conversation with the real world. It's a response to several aspects and themes of real culture that the author found interesting. Likewise, Tamsyn is writing about the real world, imagining if the last vestiges of Earth culture were preserved in a time close to now, by people (one person?) like us. Who care about streaming, and the imminent apocalypse, like we all do.

It always baffles me how Tamsyn Muir writes the locked tomb series as if it's a fanfic. It's such a weird feeling, but I don't in any way mean it as an insult.

When you're reading tlt series there's always this presence of the author that you don't often get on other published books. Like, she'll make in jokes and references as if she's part of the fandom. Right when you're getting immersed in the world she'll pull out a "That's what she said" or "Jail for mother!" and suddenly you remmember that this is a book, with an author, an author really fond of puns and internet memes.

Tamsyn Muir writes like she's writting fanfiction to a small, nieche fandom where all the authors all kinda know eachother, and they've already deviated from canon so much that the stories are their own thing now.

It used to bother me a lot on my first read but now I'm just fascinated by it. It feels like you're reading a work made by a peer. A peer who is really good at writting, but a peer no less.

Maybe it's just that I grew up and have written some stuff myself, and now I can see things I couldn't before. But idk, it just really interests me the way Tamsyn just fucking writes shit like she's just trying to amuse herself or her friends. I came to respect it a lot.

I'm not as good of a writter so there's no conclusion to this really. Just postulating to the void like I'm Palamedes Sextus.

[mapis-putellas]

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x reader

Words: 2897

Warnings: body image issues. Quite detailed too, so be careful and look out for yourselves.

Summary: After you tear your acl, your mental health takes quite a severe hit. [Requested]

Notes: one more draft to go after this, then we is done for a little while

It was no secret that Alexia was the epitome of fitness. Every muscle seemed to have its place on her body, sculpted from years of dedication on the field and in the gym. She was renowned for her strength and endurance, and her intense daily workouts left her with abs sharp enough to carve ice. Her legs were powerful, capable of sprinting up and down the pitch for ninety minutes straight, and when she wrapped them around you, every single coherent though you had immediately leaves your mind. It was impossible not to admire her—no, to adore her for it. She didn't just look incredible; she carried herself with a natural grace, a quiet confidence that made her strength seem even more alluring.

She was up before the crack of dawn every morning, lacing up her trainers and stretching quietly in the hallway while you mumbled sleepy protests from bed. And she'd just smile, soft and affectionate, bending down to press a kiss to your forehead before heading out. Sometimes, she'd even sneak a second workout into her day, returning to the gym after training if she was feeling restless. It was her way of clearing her mind, finding her center amidst the stresses of her intense schedule. Her body was her temple, her mind, a fortress—and she was diligent in caring for both.

You were in good shape, too, of course. It was a necessity as a professional footballer, but you didn't feel the same love for exercise as Alexia did. To her, fitness was a passion; to you, it was a means to an end. You'd lace up for runs, lift weights, and do the drills, but it was all about maintaining strength for the game, not about striving for the chiseled perfection that Alexia seemed to attain effortlessly. You had some definition—your muscles were toned in places, and you were proud of the fitness you had. But you didn't have a six-pack, or the rock-hard thighs and sculpted arms that Alexia did. There was softness to your body, a gentle curve that felt miles away from the physique she held herself to.

You'd grown to accept that, too. Sure, some days, you'd catch a glimpse of Alexia in her workout gear, fresh from a morning session, muscles rippling under her taut skin, and you'd feel a pang of envy. But it wasn't enough to change how you viewed yourself. You might not have the carved-out, intensely toned build that she had, but your body was yours, and that was enough. You nourished it, rested it, treated it well. Alexia adored you for who you were, and she'd always made it abundantly clear that you didn't need to change a thing. So, you held onto that, content in the comfort of her steady admiration and your own quiet acceptance.

And then it happened.

*

Tearing your ACL was more than a setback. It was a wrench thrown into everything you knew about yourself, your career, and your confidence. The physical pain was intense, yes, but the mental toll? That was a different beast altogether. The moment the diagnosis came, you were handed a new path, one that demanded you start over, essentially relearning how to walk, run, and move in ways that had once come effortlessly.

Your recovery plan was strict. "Get stronger," the physical therapist had told you. "Anything you can do to support that knee." The aim was to build strength before agility, to make sure that when you eventually stepped back onto the field, your knee would hold up. And to build that strength, you needed more muscle.

So you followed the program. A different nutrition plan meant eating more, much more than you were used to. It was a meticulous routine of high-protein meals and heavier weights, adjusting your body to a new rhythm. The change in your body was immediate and striking. Muscle mass took time, but the weight gain didn't wait for anyone. It wasn't just muscle; some of it was fat, too. Your once lean and toned frame grew softer, more solid, and the athletic lines you'd been so familiar with blurred into something different. Every time you caught yourself in the mirror, the difference seemed glaring.

You tried to remind yourself that it was part of the plan, and in some ways, it was working. The muscle you gained gave you the stability you needed in your knee, and as you got stronger, so did your confidence in moving. But it was a far cry from what you were used to, and the internet, naturally, had a field day with it. Photos started surfacing, snapshots of you out and about or in training, and the comments came fast and merciless. Every little flaw was picked apart: a fold in your chin, the curve of your waist, the size of your thighs. Strangers felt entitled to judge you, to dissect every inch of your body in ways that left you reeling.

It got to you. How could it not? The comments slipped into your thoughts, lingering like a shadow every time you ate, trained, or even looked at yourself in the mirror. Even the smallest gestures became tainted by this newfound self-consciousness. In the shower, you'd notice the places that felt softer. In the gym, you'd feel acutely aware of the way your body didn't look like it used to. And it followed you home, creeping into the space you shared with Alexia, a place that had once felt like a sanctuary.

Alexia, in her usual affectionate way, was none the wiser. She treated you exactly the same, her hands roaming freely over your body with the same warmth and adoration she'd always shown. But every time she touched your waist, your stomach, or the soft flesh of your thighs, you'd feel a pang, a quiet discomfort that you tried desperately to ignore. You told yourself it was silly, that she hadn't even noticed the change. But each time her hands grazed over the parts of you that felt different, the ones the internet was so quick to call out, you couldn't help but brace, almost flinch.

When Alexia would lie beside you on the sofa, her head resting on your thighs, the weight of her presence suddenly felt heavy, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. You'd struggle to enjoy the moment, fighting the urge to shift away, to hide. Or when she'd wrap her arms around you from behind, resting her head against your shoulder, and you'd feel her fingers press softly into your stomach, all you could think of was whether she felt the difference. If she noticed the extra softness there.

Then, there were the times she wanted to be closer, when her hands wandered a bit further, her gaze lingering with the kind of adoration that used to set you at ease. But now, each brush of her fingertips over your skin, every glance that she stole felt like a magnifying glass on every insecurity you'd grown to harbor. It was as if the comments you'd read online were imprinted on you, and every time Alexia's touch lingered, they echoed in your mind.

You tried to bury it, to keep your discomfort hidden beneath the surface. Alexia never let on that she'd noticed anything different; if she did, she was remarkably patient, waiting for you to open up. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit the insecurity gnawing at you. She didn't seem to mind, so why should you make her aware of something that, to her, didn't exist? So, you hid it, smiled through the lingering self-doubt, and tried to keep up appearances.

But it was exhausting, living in constant vigilance, battling an inner voice that refused to quiet. And as much as you wanted to shake it, to silence the nagging insecurities, they lingered, shadowing your every thought.

*

Alexia's gaze was intense as she leaned over you, her body pressed to yours, the warm weight of her presence grounding you in place as her lips moved insistently against yours. It was a familiar rhythm, one you usually found yourself melting into. Normally, her touch—firm yet gentle—would have had you feeling nothing but desire, lost in the anticipation that only she could draw out in you. But tonight, you found yourself bracing against her, your mind elsewhere as self-doubt seeped into every crevice of your thoughts.

In the months since your injury, your body had changed. The rehab program had brought new strength, but also unexpected curves. You felt softer than before, and no amount of repetition to yourself that it was necessary, even healthy, could shake the unease when you looked in the mirror. Stretch marks that had once been barely visible now mapped their way along your thighs and hips, undeniable reminders of the ways your body had adjusted, healed, and grown. But rather than pride, you felt exposed, vulnerable, as though these visible changes were flaws rather than symbols of resilience.

Alexia's hands moved purposefully down your sides, her fingertips grazing the hem of your shirt. The familiar touch that once filled you with security now left you tense. She had been so patient, so understanding, never pressing you to go further. You hadn't made love since before the surgery. First, it was because you couldn't physically handle it. Then, as you started healing, there was always some excuse. You'd kept her at arm's length, letting yourself be the one in control, making sure her attention stayed solely on her own pleasure. You'd hoped it would distract her, keep her from noticing the hesitation that lingered in your own movements.

But tonight, Alexia's determination to close the distance between you was clear. Her hands, more insistent than before, slid up the curve of your waist, drawing you closer, pulling you back into the intimacy you'd once shared without question. The air felt heavy with the unspoken, and you felt the edges of your own defenses starting to fray, your discomfort edging into something you couldn't suppress.

When she tugged at your waistband, her intention was unmistakable, and your body instinctively pulled back as your voice rose, pleading, "Stop." It was barely more than a whisper, but the tremor in your tone cut through the haze between you, and Alexia stilled immediately. Her hands halted as she pulled back, her gaze filled with a mixture of concern and yearning. Her breathing was still ragged as she leaned back, moving to her knees, studying you with furrowed brows. The way she looked at you, raw and concerned, was almost too much, the shame twisting inside you like a vice. She asked gently what was wrong, her voice softened, but the words sat heavy in the air.

Your hands flew to your face, covering your eyes in an effort to hide the turmoil, but you felt her move closer, her presence warm and unwavering. Her hands reached for you, wrapping around your shoulders as she drew you to her chest, her bare leg slipping behind your back as she cradled you against her. One of her arms slipped under your legs, tugging you sideways so that you were cocooned in her embrace, sheltered and safe.

The tears you had been holding back spilled over, and you stifled your sobs against your palms, feeling Alexia's gentle sway as she rocked you. Her hand stroked up and down your back, a steady rhythm that eased some of the tension from your body. You clung to her, desperate for the comfort her touch provided, feeling your breath catch as you tried to force yourself to calm down.

There, in her arms, you knew that hiding wasn't an option anymore.

"What's wrong, amor?" her voice was so tender that the words you'd been holding back spilled out before you could stop them. Choking on each syllable, you told her everything��how much you hated the way you looked, how every curve felt wrong, how the stretch marks on your thighs and hips felt like a betrayal. You admitted that fueling your body had become a battle, that you'd started skipping meals, working out to the point of straining your knee, forcing yourself to push through the ache just to feel worthy.

"I spend so much time," you said, your voice breaking, "just standing in front of the mirror, analysing everything. Picking myself apart until I can't stand it anymore. I can't even..." Your voice faltered, thick with tears. "I can't even look at myself."

Alexia's hold on you tightened, her fingers digging slightly into your back, as if to keep you grounded. Her eyes never left your face, absorbing every raw word, her own eyes brimming with pain, reflecting the hurt you'd been carrying.

"I didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't want you to look at me without clothes because... if I hate what I see, then... then surely you would too." The admission slipped out, a final, aching confession. "Maybe if you just waited... if you could just hold on a little while longer, I'll be back to how I was before. And then... then it'd be okay."

But before you could finish, Alexia cut you off, her voice firmer than you'd ever heard it, startling you with the sharpness of her words. "Don't you dare say that," she whispered, her tone fierce with a hurt that mirrored your own. You flinched, and she immediately softened, her fingers brushing your cheek as she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'm sorry, amor. I didn't mean to scare you. But you're wrong," she said, her voice still laced with intensity. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze, her brown eyes holding you captive. "Please, just listen."

As she adjusted you slightly in her lap, holding you close, she wrapped her arms around you, drawing you into the comforting circle of her warmth. You nodded, still sniffling, your fingers curled into her shirt as you leaned into her touch.

"You are beautiful," she said firmly. "Siempre. Every day. Every moment." You opened your mouth to protest, but she pressed a finger to your lips, silencing you before you could interrupt. Her gaze softened, her thumb brushing away the remnants of your tears as she continued.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see someone strong, even when you don't feel it." Her hands slid down your arms, squeezing gently. "These arms? They hold me, support me, even when you're feeling like this. And your legs? I know you think they're different now, but to me, they're perfect." She moved her hand down to rest on your thigh, tracing small circles with her thumb. "Do you remember the times I've rested my head here, just because it's where I feel safe?"

You bit your lip, feeling your resolve waver as her words seeped into the cracks of your defenses.

"And your stretch marks?" She leaned down, her lips brushing over your thigh, a gentle kiss that made you shiver. "They're proof of what you've been through. Proof that your body is fighting, that you're healing. They're beautiful to me. You are beautiful to me."

Still, the doubts clawed at you, whispers of insecurity that wouldn't quiet. She saw the uncertainty in your eyes and, as if reading your thoughts, she brought her hand up to cup your face, her gaze locked with yours.

"Please, amor," she murmured, her voice almost a plea. "Let me show you."

You could barely bring yourself to nod.

With that, she kissed you, her lips moving slowly, reverently. Her hands cupped your face, her fingers tracing the lines of your jaw, holding you as though you were something precious. And with each kiss, each soft murmur of adoration, you felt a little bit of the weight start to lift.

She coaxed you to lie back, settling you against the pillows, her hand trailing down to link with yours, her fingers warm and grounding. As she leaned over you, her lips found your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses that sent warmth spreading through you. Her lips traced every inch of exposed skin, reverent, tender, making you feel seen in a way you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in so long.

“I love this," she murmured, her fingers tracing over your hips, the slight curve of your waist. "Every part of you is beautiful to me."

She kissed the stretch marks on your thighs, her lips brushing over them with a tenderness that brought fresh tears to your eyes.

Her hands remained steady, her fingers tracing over your body as if memorising every curve, every line. She didn't rush, allowing you to sink into the feeling of her touch, to let yourself be held, to let yourself be loved without hesitation or restraint. She murmured soft affirmations, telling you how much she adored you, how lucky she felt to have you, her words anchoring you to the here and now.

And somewhere in the midst of her gentle worship, you found yourself relaxing, the tension in your body easing as her love wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You felt her hands against your sides, her lips pressing tender kisses to your skin, and for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel beautiful.

As she continued, her lips pressing gentle, adoring kisses over every inch of your body, you knew that healing wouldn't be immediate, that learning to love yourself again would take time. But with Alexia by your side, holding you, loving you, showing you the beauty she saw in you, you felt a glimmer of hope that one day, you might see it too.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @codiemarin @girlgenius1111 @silentwolfsstuff @simp4panos @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[whorelaud]

fwb!rafe not realizing how beautiful you are until now, the apprehension making him nothing but crave you more; take you right then and there, even if it meant doing it in the middle of the library  warnings very suggestive

Rafe’s eyes fixed on you within the flutter of his eyelashes, gaze burning through your flesh. The boy’s face buried in his arms that were plopped on the table, invading your space as his elbow slightly brushed your forearm. The gesture was subtle, barely even there, yet, it didn’t fail to knock a breathless sigh out of your chest, instantly growing flustered to the closure of his touch. 

Knowing Rafe, this was quite rare, besides the sleepless nights you spent together, the boy offered little to no comfort, protecting the line you both chose not to cross when this whole ‘sleeping together’ thing started. It began with tutoring lessons that ended with passionate makeout sessions, eventually developing into something more, with your clothes tossed on the floor while he fucked you senseless into your bed, until you no longer could coherent words out. 

However, that instantly oscillated, with your heart skipping a beat everytime he offered to stay, justifying his words with a ‘I’m too tired to leave,’ leading to you both cuddled up on your bed, forgetting that this was nothing more than a fling, a college hookup that you’ll grow to regret. That wasn’t the only thing, though, he started having lunch with you, waiting for you lectures to finish, choosing to spend his precious time rotting in your dorm room instead of going out to parties. 

And that, it really stirred up your emotions, creating all sorts of confusing feelings for you. Therefore, it was no surprise that you felt nervous under his gaze, as he admired you with every ounce of endearment, while he waited for you to finish the presentation you were working on. 

“You’re so pretty,” Rafe suddenly blurted out, causing you to come to a halt, all while processing what he said, afraid you heard him wrong. 

“What?” You shot back through a breath, anxiously batting your eyelashes at him. Rafe stifled out a laugh, amused by how flustered you grew due to his words.

“I said,” he started, gaze trailing down to your hand, as his fingers toyed with the rings hugging your digits. “You’re pretty.”

“Shut up.” You grumbled, avoiding his gaze, and focusing your attention on the laptop in front of you, now long forgotten on the table. 

“You know,” he adjusted his position, face now nere inches away from yours. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lips slightly hovering just beneath it, the fraction breaking goosebumps throughout your body. “Was’ so focused on fuckin’ you,” he whispered, “n’ making you feel good,” he then paused, his breath fanning over the sliver of your skin. “That I never realized how beautiful you are.” 

You tensed under his touch, almost yelping when his lips ghosted over your ear, placing a chaste kiss to it. You glimpsed in his direction, blinking far too many times for your liking. Rafe’s lips tugged into a sly smirk, satisfied by the reaction he got out of you. 

“What are you doing?” You muttered under your breath, stepping back to catch your breath, merely for Rafe to follow in your lead, invading your personal space, once again. “We’re in the library, idiot.” 

“What, I’m jus’ appreciating your beauty, baby.” He darted his tongue out to wet his lips, sneaking an arm around your waist, the gesture barely visible to the little people surrounding you. “Am I not allowed to do that now?”

“By telling me that you barely acknowledge me when you fuck me?” You boldy shot back, feeling pride bubble through your chest when Rafe rolled his eyes, entertained by your teasing. “What am I supposed to say to that?” 

“Well,” he poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, placing an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “You’re supposed to be polite,” and another peck, “and say thank you.” 

“Not here,” you warned, suppressing the smile forming on your lips. 

‘I’ll be quick,” he hushed out, hand landing around the plump of your thigh, before he squeezed the flesh, trailing his fingers just beneath the hem of your skirt. Your eyes shifted down to his hand, swallowing around your dry throat, tempted by his risky offer. “C’mon, sweetheart, let me make you feel good.” 

His calloused fingers came to a halt around your inner thigh, digits tracing over your clothed cunt, causing in inaudible gasp to bubble out of your throat. You ceased the distance around his arm, forcing the latter into a fit of proximity, wanting nothing but to take you right then and there. 

“Fuck, you’re a mess; so wet for me, n’ I haven’t even done anythin’.” He whispered, smothering a moan out of you. “Wanna press you to the wall, n’ fuck you right then n’ there.” 

That sent you spiraling, as you jolted from your seat, leading Rafe within a close distance separating you, the boy instantly connecting your lips with his as soon as you approached a somewhat narrowed corner, one blocking the stifling moans he fucked out of you.

That alone was enough to make you realize that you liked him, more than yesterday, and less than tomorrow. 

[carmyberzattosjournal]

S2 Entry 1: Want More?

Photo credit: Pinterest

Summary: Carmy needs to make his girlfriend (who he calls Darling) feel good after she has a grueling day at work. (1043 Words) SMUT.

Warnings: Swearing, comfort, fem reader/lass who is a trauma surgeon, she/her pronouns, p in v sex, finger sucking, dword use, Soft Dom!Carmy.

Notes: Thank you for reading and sharing! This is a work in CB Journals Season 2 and will be tagged with #cb journals s2.

Sideblog for commentary and social stuff: @m-z-shoroi

Prompt: Snowstorm

I remember a conversation happening at Noma that went a little something like this: what is your favorite time and place to have sex?

I, of course, didn’t participate, being a socially terrified barely-adult who had no experiences (yet) and also too focused on my prep to hold a conversation—though the being focused part held more weight in my decision not to speak up because, and I hope I’ve established this, my connection to food is catastrophic. Talking divides attention. Humans are not built to multi-task; at best, we can flip back and forth between a few tasks in rapid succession, but if you wanted to get good at something—and I mean really good at something; knock people on their ass, smoke those motherfuckers for daring to challenge you—you need to cut out all the noise, bury all the bullshit, and put yourself to work.

So, yeah, I didn’t participate. I don’t even remember what the rest of the conversation was, I’ll be honest, because I tuned it out the moment I heard the question. But it’s been haunting me as of late. Not because I wanted to know what all the other chefs were talking about, but because I might have accidentally found the answer for myself.

Late November, about 10 pm or something. Wind howling against the windows, ice pelting the glass, no car horns, no trains, no people yapping or yelling outside, no noisy neighbors. This soft, gentle quiet that permeated the bone-crushing cold that was my apartment bedroom minus one radiator.

Because landlords are fucking demons.

The only other sounds are of us, of her moans, these saccharine, high-pitched, breathy noises that tumble from her mouth in a dulcet melody, the creaking of the bed, of the ragged breaths I’m dragging past my throat. Her hands are still cold as they rest limp against my abdomen but are warmer than they were when she first tangled them in my hair. She’s helpless, powerless, vulnerable; has forfeited her entire being to me. I’m cold, I’m tired, I’m mentally drained; do what you want to me, Carmy.

Do what I want? What I want is for you to feel like you’re in heaven, my love. I want to hear you whine in my ear about how good it feels, how full you are, how you don’t want me to stop. I want you to arch your back just. Like. That. And flutter around me with another mind-numbing orgasm, babble my name like it’s a prayer.

“Is that good, pretty girl?” I murmured in her ear. “Want more?”

I already knew the answer.

Didn’t mean hearing it wasn’t spine-tingling.

“Please, Carmy.” She weakly hiked her leg higher up my side.

“Please, what, princess?”

Did I understand what she meant? Yes. Even without her saying it, her leg tightening around me, the shadow of her larynx as she swallowed and fought for words, it told me everything I needed to know. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy making a mess of her. I love listening to her stumble over and give up on her words because she feels too good to corral them into a coherent sentence. Makes me feel powerful. In control. Fuck, I needed to feel like I was in control because everything else in my life was spiraling out of control.

“M-more… Harder…”

I hooked my hand under her knee and brought it up, fucking her even deeper. She arched her spine, threw her head back, swore.

“Like that?”

“Yes! Yes, fuck, yes, just like that… Don’t stop…”

 She dragged her fingernails up my torso, dug them into my chest. She was so tight, so hot, so slick; I was fucking delirious. The only thing more important to me than my high was hers. I needed to hear her fall apart again. Come on, princess, show me how pretty you are when you come apart.

“Gimme another one, huh, pretty girl?”

Her coherence went two orgasms ago. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck… yes, sir… fuck, that’s so good… Please… please…” She didn’t even know what she was begging for at that point. It was just babbling. Her beautiful, complex, multi-faceted mind, forever going 7 directions at once, synthesizing information from everything and everyone, solving life’s most complex problems—off. Quiet. Empty Like the city outside, buried under 12 inches of snow. And the night was still young.

“Daddy, please…”

Daddy?

“Please, what, princess?”

She called me daddy?

“W-wanna cum…”

Fuck, I could get used to being called that.

I brought my hand down between us and rubbed her clit. She arched her back and whined my name. That’s it, pretty girl. That’s really fucking good, isn’t it? That’s exactly what my baby girl needed after such a rough day at work, huh? Needed Daddy’s dick filling you up and making you forget everything you were so stressed about.

She clamped a hand around my wrist, the one that was holding her leg, and dragged it up so she could close her lips around my thumb. She sucked, pressing her tongue against the pad, and despite my dulled sensations, it was fucking disastrous how fucking good that felt. It was a stunning sight—her eyes closed, cheeks reddened, sweaty hair sticking to her forehead, her plush lips around my thumb because she just needed a sensation in her mouth.

I could burn it into my memory if it wasn’t for how fucking close to coming apart I was. I didn’t have words. The heat in the pit of my stomach roared into an inferno, sent a wave of blistering warmth up my abdomen and my chest. Fuck, she was going to ruin me by being like this, and I wanted every bit of it. Please, keep being so needy. Please, call me Daddy again, beg me for more, whine my name, lose your words, suck on my thumb because all other sensibilities have escaped. You know I am for you; I want you to feel so good that you can’t think anymore. I need you to feel so good that you can barely breathe.

She pried her eyes open to meet mine.

“Go ahead, pretty girl,” I whispered.

Late evening. Middle of a snowstorm. That’s my answer.

Tags: @jess248 @catharticconsolation @persymons @morgthemagpie @glitch0o0 @nox-is-thename @forgechildofheph @leminjelly @fridavacado @lumoslemon @cyarskj1899 @carmenberzattosgf

[wolfeyedwitch]

😆😆😆 same!

I had surgery last week and going into it, I was taking as many mental notes as I could. Like how the IV felt going in, how the hospital smelled and sounded, just absolutely everything. I remember thinking "oh I don't know if I'm going to remember this part" as I was wheeled into the OR and transferred to the operating table.

I do remember! I remember the anesthesia tech saying "so this will smell like a beach ball, just breathe deeply and think about a beach vacation" before putting a mask over my face. I remember them saying "and this is the medication that will actually put you to sleep" before injecting it into the IV. It felt really strange going into my bloodstream, very warm and prickly but in a pleasant kind of way?

And then I was in the recovery room. Good times!

I think whump writing has changed my brain chemistry. I almost passed out today and my biggest thought was "take notes about how this feels, it will make for good details in writing!"

[arachne4]

"if you have any ideas for oneshots for him, leave some in my inbox"

Wesker cannot help the way his attentions draw to you in his weakest hours. It is as if you are a virus yourself, worming your way into his mind and nestling deep in his mind, refusing to give it up when he needs it most.

He shouldn't be thinking about you when he's examining a viable sample through an electron microscope. He shouldn't think of you when he practices crescent kicking a dummy, showing off to a choir of no one. He shouldn't let you slip into mind when he lays down at night, alone, letting the idea of you telling him how strong he is and how much you admire his work lull him.

God, the last one... he bathed in it in his brisk morning showers, he chased it when the compliments of others flitted past him, he bucked into it when he just couldn't help himself anymore.

It was always you in his mind, telling him what an amazing person he was. He'd hiss and whine and bite his lip thinking about it, twist and swivel under the weight of his projection of your affections crooned in his ears.

But it gets even worse when he approaches the time for PG67A/W...

fein I'm really pissed off I didn't see this sooner

Weskers love while passionate is almost sickening. Even when he's... Mostly normal it's disgusting, at least to him, how he cherishes you so. He really shouldn't think about you so much, he really shouldn't think about you at all. It's almost parasitic the way he clings onto you, or an idea of you. Whatever it is it's enough for a while. The simple thought of you. Till he sees you again and realizes it's not enough. A meer though will never be enough when it comes to him.

He's charming at first, it's almost criminal the way he lures you in. But he's never cared about the law. He can't help it, how blindly you listen. How you trust him wholly. Now his thoughts of you are truly horrible. About how you're so naive, you need him to survive. It's appalling you've made it this far up in the umbrella ranks, while still being as sweet. That's why he must protect you.

It's normal for him to think this way, that everyone is out to get you. With uroboros flowing through his veins he will be able to ensure your protection, no matter how scared shy you act around him. It's more than a parasite, it's gotten control of its host now. Everything he does is for you, he lives and breathes for you. His heart beats for you. The world he shall fix solely for you. When he said he'd give you the world on a silver platter he meant it literally.

I hope this reads coherently 😼😼👍👍🗣️🗣️

[ravnervn]

Okay fuck it. I need to exorcise this from my brain. This has haunted me for 2 or 3 years since I saw this film by chance, so I am going to, as best I recall, recap the plot. And then at the end I will say what it is so you can understand why it haunts me. I will say off the bat that you might read this ramble and go "huh this sounds good actually" and it is not. It is not a good movie.

So the film is framed as a story being told to someone -- we're not quite sure whether it's meant to be taken literally or allegorically but the ending and some other details IMPLY it's actually true.

So there's our narrator, who is an average mortal guy living a happy life. And then there's our second protagonist and actual main character, a celestial bureaucrat whose order's numbers are drawn entirely from those who have been denied a chance at a normal happy life. Whilst they can forsake their status to become mortal, as far as the bureaucrat and his peers are concerned, they are happy and performing a valuable service to reality. Our MC has been sent to Earth to investigate a threat to his organisation, and to do so he has infiltrated the narrator's life, seemingly metaphysically convincing everyone that he is the narrator's brother -- except the narrator, who sees through him and ends up convinced to help our MC as it's mutually beneficial; once the mission is done, the narrator's life returns to normal and the MC returns to his role.

So what's happening is that a rival organisation to the MC's has started up and is diverting... Okay so you can see the obvious parallels here and "worship" would fit, but I'll use the film's term of "love" because it's thematically coherent. Anyway, this organisation has a big scheme they're going to hatch to divert all love away from the Rightful Celestial Bureaucracy, and it's up to our protagonists to stop them.

See, the thing going on here is that love is finite. If someone only has one thing to love, they'll love it wholly, but if they have two things to love, that divides the love in two and so on. If they find something they love more than the original object of affection, it could fully supplant it, and that's the crux of the villain's plan.

Because the villain is a fallen celestial bureaucrat who lost his ability to hold onto his celestial form and was forced to become mortal. His plan for revenge is to supplant the love people have for his former order with love for a false idol, thus destroying the whole celestial bureaucracy. The fact this is considered a legitimate and real threat by the celestial bureaucracy implies that this is, metaphysically, how this works. Even if we take this story allegorically, the allegory still has the basis "love is a finite resource and you learn to make do".

Obviously our heroes defeat him, and obviously during this time they've genuinely bonded and decided that maybe having this guy as a brother/maybe having a loving family as a mortal is okay actually. So our celestial bureaucrat becomes a mortal and this whole story becomes just a funny whimsical reframing of the brothers' childhood.

Yes, childhood. Because here is where I unbury the lede and reveal that the villain is the CEO of PuppyCorp, whose plan is to give everyone a free puppy so that they'll love babies less, because the celestial bureaucracy is BabyCorp.

The movie I have just described to you is Boss Baby. I am being deadly fucking serious.

[cosmic--marmalade]

Oh oh the most self indulgent Horny Dustin bullshit, my love of historical bullshit makes me sound insane I am so sorry under the cut

Like a mini continuation from the tags off that last post:

Maybe he IS a mountain man stranger at the ball, maybe he IS looking for a little wife, the company would be nice. Help would be better. I am not shy to the idea of either.

Maybe through shenanigans we get married, he takes me up to his cabin. It's a well kept thing, warm and clean, and I don't mind how really truly alone we are out here. He's been giving me kisses all the way home, sweet, near chaste stoops of the head to reach me.

Though alone, outside we pretend to have some propriety, but when he lifts me through the doorway it dissolves. Simply carries me to the bedroom, no discussion needed, we're both too giddy with the thought of it. Exchanging kisses that last longer, start to lack a certain containedness that desperation from not touching another person has, than any of our others. The bed is soft, well made, new maybe? Or recently redone. I shed my outer layers quickly, matched only in speed by Dustin also stripping. He gets about as far as throwing his suspenders off before I'm pulling him back on me. See, the best part of dresses from the 19th century back? No pants, no underwear, just skirts. He wouldn't need to bother with whatever my stays/corset situation would be yet- easy access🥰

Kissing him, in his little cabin (with warm quilts under my back), and his hands on me like he wants to be careful (like he chose me so he needs to take care of me to keep me), is so easy. Running hot the way the top of a woodstove does, warm, woodsy, tactile in a way that makes my mouth go sweeter (my thighs spread wider.) His hands run along my legs as iron brands, rough and warm. It's intoxicating the way he's touching me, so much so that I almost don't notice him pressing his cock into me💖 I feel him bottom out though- I'm eye flutteringly full, and breathing slowly to adjust. He leans down to kiss me, mouthing along my neck to my lips.

I'm easy, I'm so so easy, meaning when he actually starts to fuck me I feel as if I might fall apart. I cling close, unable to control all the little noises that come out of me, his cock pushing a space into me that feels like only he might ever fit. We exchange quiet pleas and praise as we fuck, breathless and heady, till I beg him to take me out of my stays/corset. Fucked fingers fumble the laces and the closures but removal doesn't take long, not when I have his help. I'm down to my last two petticoats and chemise, they go quick while I finally get him to take off his last layers too.

Skin on skin for all the rest of the afternoon, into the evening, we take a night time dinner after he's [redacted] me for like the [redacted] time. Cozy, naked, and sated in bed while we eat stew, he even sets a pot of water on the fire so we can take a hot bath later.

I get to wear one of his big flannels since we didn't unpack yet, he puts on my discarded bonnet ("It's only fair, besides don't I look so pretty?" He bats his eyelashes and pulls a stupid face to make me laugh, it works and all I can think is 'Yes you are pretty, haven't you figured that part out yet?'). I have no illusions of an easy life, I have no expectations beyond surviving in care, but I look at him laughing... It's easier to kiss him than to think. It's easier when I have hope that our future together will be lighter than our pasts.

Hnnnnnnnggggg anyways moral of the story is

[in-a-trans-like-state]

I've just reread winters gift and in his cameo Peter says they dealt with a small malignancy in Kew Gardens, so I think I'm wrong,though I guess there could have been more than one incident at Kew, OR Gussie's spell somehow created a malignancy which unless a 3rd party twisted it somehow doesn't seem to line up with what we know about malignancies or Gussie

also i only know this because i listened to the audiobook yesterday (for the 3rd time this month..) I'm pretty sure the first reference to skytower is in Moon over Soho when Peter says he ran into tower block 30 seconds before it was due to be demolished (and it still wasnt as stupid as kissing Simone)

but yeah apart from very small things - e.g. Peter is called a PC and a DC in moon over soho (and we know he becomes a DC much later), and he says Dr Framline had his face fall off when it was actually the cycle courier, and that the term malignancy didn't turn up till October Man (as far as I remember) but its now being used by Peter with no explanation of how he learnt the term despite it not even being suggested as a possibility during the Punch so it feels like a retcon though its only noticeable if you are on your 3rd go through in a month. THOUGH Peter does keep mentioning having to go back and add in some mistakes to his reports to make them look more authentic, as members of the public always misremember things so thats a decent watsonian explanation (I don't think it was on purpose though)

my point though was that BA is great at foreshadowing and intra-referencing. The first 3 books where published within a year or two so I think he probably had the arc pinned down for the first 4 books, if not all the way up to Lies Sleeping, and I think he also somewhat plots out side stories that go in the comics and novellas as he goes along because throw away lines have a tendency to become fully fleshed out stories. Though theres some weirdness going on with Body Work (comic 1) because I could swear Peter and Guleed aren't meant to have meet before in it and then in the Hanging Tree (i think) when Guleed reintroduced start Peter mentions them bonding over the events of Body Work and not that they've been working together since Moon over Soho. I'd have to double check that though and see what the publication dates of the comics are.

Theres definitely quite a bit of planning going on, but I think his "chekhov's garden shed" approach also means he can just go back and flesh out throw way lines. I do kinda wish he'd go back and dig out some of the things he left hanging in the first book though, like who did the portraits in the coach house and whats up with Nightingales eyes. I think I found another tiny inconsistency in that its implied that Nightingale's eyes go grey when he starts ageing backwards (because they are blue in the portrait) BUT im pretty sure Gussie describes him having grey eyes in 1926 so either BA forgot or he has blue-grey eyes and it depends on the light.

ive recently relistened to all the RoL books TWICE and caught up on the comics and novellas

I know most of the comics suck but I have to say I do like Monday, Monday. Nightingale and Molly end up looking after the twins! (who look like they are about 3 years not 3 months but whatever) They have bee onesies! There are flashbacks to Nightingale's school days but I thought it fitted in quite well and worked with what he says in Amongst our Weapons. The story was fun and either i've been desensitised to the art or its vastly improved (i do not remember being revoluted by any of the panels at the minimum)

More or less binging all the books and comics did make me notice how often they reference each other thought the chronology vs publication order is wacky. One thing that is repeatably brought up though it Kew Gardens which is not specified in anything and iirc Peter mentions the incident in book 2, and by the later books he says he's talked to a tree. So big mystery that I half think is just a running gag and won't be answered. BUT in Masquerades of Spring, Gussie says he enchanted a tree in Kew Gardens to sing but that it would only be noticed by other practitioner. SO I think Peter rang into Gussie's tree, somehow activated it and knowing Peter he probably set it on fire.

[voiice-of-the-soul]

It irritates me alot when people say that making medic more compassionate is ''missing the point of his character'' when he is literally shown to be in the comics.... did you miss the part where he showed concern for both sniper and miss pauling's well being in comic 5 and 6.

His actions are a combination of genuine attachment + clinical interest and these things do not cancel out one another. He is always pushing boundaries and going against the grain and i think this is what led to him losing his license in the first place. He felt stifled by the rules imposed on him.

He is shown to be extremely passionate so it makes sense that he would use his endless fascination with medicine as a way to show his affection. He loves his friends so he will find a way to make them borderline indestructible. Malpractice is his love language.

[originalartblog]

HOW THE TURNTABLES

[dynamitekansai]

"No, Sami, you wouldn't understand... 'cause you're not family, uce."

[rainyinautumn]

alright with wild life ep. 4 coming out soon it's time for me to start talking winner predictions. in order to understand my bet, let's first understand why past winners won—and, for bonus effect, why another player who I think really had a shot ultimately lost.

GRIAN. The traffic crown typically falls on the head of whichever player is most able to bend and break the rules to their advantage. 3rd Life, as the archetypal Life Series with the fewest rules to manipulate, was won by the man who understood (and broke) them best—their inventor. Throughout the series, I think Impulse demonstrated a similar cunning and could have been able to pull off a win. His error was failing to establish trust with his allies in a series that was defined by its faction loyalty.

SCOTT. With the introduction of the Boogeyman, Last Life demanded a winner with a level head. With favorable relationships paving the path to regaining lives, there was very little wiggle room for more aggressive, risk-taking players, making this season favor players with high survivability. Continuing the trend of rule breakers, Scott was the only player to weigh the odds and refuse to act on the Boogeyman curse—which ultimately paid off for him. Similarly calculating and loyal is Etho, who lost this win by aligning himself with a volatile group that failed to lend him the stability Scott had throughout the series.

PEARL. It was so, so much easier to die in Double Life than any other series, and so its winner was the player who proved to be able to survive without a soulmate at all. The thing about Life Series gimmicks is that they are always, always the thing that kills you—as such, refusing to engage with them as intended elevates one's chances of victory. Such is the case with Pearl. Cleo also failed to engage with the Double Life mechanic as intended, but lost (ironically) due to her ability to forgive and the endgame belief that aligning with her soulmate was the wisest move.

MARTYN. Limited Life introduced the ability to live longer by killing, and as such encouraged players to pursue maximal violence with minimal risk through traps (namely, falling TNT minecarts). If playing by these rules led to a win, the victor would have been crowned on Skynet. Instead, Martyn broke the season-long strategy and a few series expectations along the way to opt for an absolutely brutal PvP win, which he pulled off by being the only one crazy enough to try. A good few other risk takers had a solid shot of winning this season—namely Joel. Unlike Martyn, however, Joel was unwilling to gamble with the permanent death of his teammates, and this soft spot led to his demise.

SCAR. On the surface level, Secret Life's gimmick asked its contestants to be good at the game—to be good at keeping their mouths shut, good at following directions, and good at reading other players. The kicker with all of the tasks, however, is that the gimmick is the thing that kills you, and what the tasks actually asked was for players to be bad at the game in one way or another. This made earnest attempts at success by far the most risky path forward (especially once yellow names started being able to guess tasks), and as such, Scar's continually baffling behavior worked in his favor. Similarly incomprehensible, Skizz's playstyle lent itself well to this series—however, he was simply too likable. The secretive nature of the tasks in this season brewed a hostile atmosphere in which trustworthiness made one a threat, and the Heart Foundation painted a target on him that he was unable to shed.

So. Who do I think is winning (and almost winning) Wild Life?

GEM. Of all the players in the Snailpocalypse, Gem was the only one to doggedly refuse to fear and avoid her snail. Wild Life is designed to breed uncertainty and chaos in its players, and her refusal to give in to this makes her a good contender for the crown. However, other players have begun to notice this, which could place her in hot water. My second winner pick is BigB—although more willing to engage with the wildcards, BigB has always thrived in the strange and peculiar, making him less outright afraid of them and putting him in position to potentially rise above them down the line.

[carbonbasedmatter]

there's sadly not a lot of content of them together but troy and annie's friendship is so important to me. I feel like we don't talk about them enough outside of general trobedison. they're two people who liked the idea of each other at some point for kind of superficial reasons but grew to appreciate each other as their own people and not just this goal of someone to "pull" the more they got to know each other. honestly glad that the writers dropped the ship cus it's so much better than it would've been if it was romantic. instead we got this cool thing where they both kind of helped each other grow into themselves and cope with changes.

the talk they had at the end of mixology certification reflecting on everything that happened after annie's sudden crisis about what she wanted to do with her life was so sweet.

ANNIE: ... I did it because I didn't wanna be me. I did it because i'm not sure who I am. Admit it- we went to school together for four years, and you didn't even know me.

TROY: Yeah, but I know you now, You're Annie...You like puzzles and little monsters on your pencil and some guy named Mark Ruffalo. You're a fierce competitor and a sore loser and you expect everybody to be better than who they are and you expect yourself to be better than everyone. Which is cool.

This was the episode where Troy realized that becoming an adult isn't this big, dramatic change and the people he looked up to were just as confused and imperfect as he was. He decides on his own that the grown up thing to do is to get everyone home safely rather than drinking. Here he's the one reassuring Annie, telling her how she does still have time to explore the world on her own terms, not knowing her well back then was his own loss.

I really like that about their dynamic how Troy kind of helps Annie realize she can just...relax and be herself without being judged, seeing her high school crush that she always wanted to impress casually building pillow forts and speaking in only movie references with his best friend. We don't see any immediate drastic changes in her that it seems unnatural but she's definitely more comfortable weird in her own way after moving into 303 (For ex her making Abed film missing lover clips for her)

I love how much they both care about abed too...in different ways. troy matches his weirdness, giving him an escape from what the rest of world thinks while annie shows him he CAN leave the world of simulations and scenarios, being different from someone but still having them respect you as a friend and build a close relationship with them letting him connect with the world. But they actually care about him letting him show a vulnerable side that he doesn't with a lot of the other members of the study group.

I also think the gay himbo+ smart but insane lesbian dynamic is v funny yea

anyways here are some silly photos that'll hopefully help get my point across

[sun-marie]

LRB but I'm replaying BG3 and Gale being on the knife's edge of Wholesome/"Dirty" is what makes him soo interesting to me. Like this is a man who, in two different versions of the same scene, can either sweetly and gently make love to your tav in a typical setting which transitions to a tasteful fade-to-black, or brings your tav's spirit along for a transcendent experience where he literally duplicates part of himself so he can have more parts to touch their parts in some crazy astral-soup sky world. And both are treated like valid expressions of his love!! Like the range they allowed him to express, he's not one or the other, he's both

[mohntilyet]

I want you to know you’ve indoctrinated both my friend and I into your path of thinking when it comes to Illario and the Envy demon.

I raise you this, since Illario isn’t even a mage before the Ossuary, consider the fact that Zara convinces Illario into also harboring Envy (like Spite, since Lucanis says he just ate something and he was stuck with Spite after that. Like she tells Illario he needs that dawg in him to become first talon, a double edged knife there (you aren’t good enough on your own you need that dawg in you aahhhh)). That would add a level onto why he kills her, Lucanis taking a crack at Illario and asking if he’s is good enough (I would’ve crashed out too tbh), and the lines in at the party with a romanced Rook (since that man also doesn’t have a healthy love life)

Envy is also twisted form of admiration/generosity/contentment, like how Spite was a spirit of determination, and the freak out Lucanis would have over his little brother’s admiration for him (an admiration he would NEVER admit to his big brothers face) becoming so twisted (by the same person!) that it’s also destroying him from the inside out.

Also Spite and Envy shenanigans would’ve been so fucking funny

YEAH!!!!!! i have been rotating this around in my mind and had the idea of that admiration v. envy thing for illario, especially if we're thinking about wigmaker's job where they cover for each others weaknesses. like a week ago i googled what the corresponding virtue for envy was and it was kindness and i was like yeahhhhh illario does not have that. we're going to have to go with something else. and i was thinking of admiration so this ask kind of made me cheer <3 thank god i am making some sense and someone else agrees because at any point i'm checking myself going 'actually would he do that'

i think they both have some level of 'i wish i could do that like them' but illario's is negatively tinged because their fuck ass grandma is right there saying all that too . like regardless of how great i think my brother is, there is no fucking way his accomplishments don't start looking twisted and unfair if my only parental figure obviously likes him more than me

i also like the idea of in some world where illario is less of a traitor and didn't set lucanis up (i have a rewrite powerpoint going on for my friends. so this part makes perfect sense to me but maybe not as much to you. i'm so sorry), and they both get kidnapped and possessed, spite-envy are the ones with serious beef vs. their unwitting hosts, who would actually prefer not to kill each other.

this messy au i have assumes a very fraught house dellamorte, trying to defend treviso while the crows splinter and follow either son. caterina refuses to let lucanis give up power and names him first talon, while illario has consolidated power in the year lucanis was gone and has several other loyal houses pledging to him instead. spite and envy exacerbate this situation, spite refusing to give up power + envy coveting it. this hypothetical plotline ends with uniting the crows under a single first talon (welcome back bhelen v harrowmont), and reaching an agreement with the others to work together. crow-on-crow violence you cannot be solved but you CAN reach a momentary tense agreement to protect antiva and the world <3