#this was mostly just caricature practice

[etchif]

luke skywalkerrrrr

[txttletale]

genuine question--would you mind clarifying why the use of trans lesbian is bad in reference to a trans person who is a lesbian? am i missing some context? i tried googling but i got mostly just a lot of vile garbage. nw if you're done talking about this topic, that is understandable. have a nice day (saluting emoji which i dont have but please imagine it here)

sure. 'trans lesbian' is, like, a compound word that means specifically 'a trans woman who is a lesbian', and not just 'someone who is trans and a lesbian', in the same way that idk a 'little finger' isn't just 'a finger that is small'. & obviously i am all for recognizing that labels are just labels, that words are not the things themselves, but 1. this is not, like, some weird backformation or super restrictive definition that people make up to mean arguments, it's how that word is used in common practice by queer orgs, media outlets, the UN, and 2. i think that there is context here that makes it pretty important to be extremely clear about who is and isn't a trans lesbian in this sense.

the context is that trans lesbians (ie, trans women, who are lesbians) are like at the center of the hurricane of transphobia across the world right now. ray blanchard, the fucking pioneer of modern pseudoscientific transmisogyny, specifically singles out the 'autogynophiles' (as opposed to the 'homosexual transsexuals, who are trans women attracted to men') as dangerous perverts. TERF's most hateful transmisogynistic caricatures and canards of trans women as dangerous sexual predators who are threat to Women's Spaces are implicitly about the Trans Lesbian. it's a term that sent the entire transphobia industrial complex into overdrive when it was used in some UN org's tweet:

these headlines are not about Trans people who are also Lesbians--both these articles are filled with all the usual bile about how trans women are really sexually predatory men who want to infilitrate womanhood. neither of the people writing these articles would like leslie feinberg for sure, but they also wouldn't think of hir as a Dangerous Predator Infilitrationg Women's Spaces. & so when the trans lesbian is the fucking like cultural boogeyman that politicians are determined to performatively target and punish, i think that using that language to describe people who aren't transfem is diluting our ability to talk about this kind of transmisogyny.

& i mean like, this is not just an abstract concern, right, because the instant that i initially took issue with was someone essentially saying 'wow, why do you think that people who obsess over SBB specifically and The 80s more generally as the end-all be-all of Queerness and Lesbianhood tend towards a transmisogynist view of thoes things when leslie feinberg is literally a trans lesbian.' like it is explictly and obviously a rhetorical sleight of hand which is why i treated that ask with the contempt it deserved.

[revelboo]

You're feeding my Starscream addiction 😂😂 but I love your writing! Good job and keep at it for as long as your able/want to!! 💕

Everything is Alright Pt 11

• You stare up at him as he shakes the data pad at you in threat. Like it’s a rolled up newspaper and you’re a naughty puppy. Not that he’s going to smack you with it. You’re familiar enough with him to know it’s all bluster. Even if you’re not sure if you want to laugh or if you should be insulted. In your defense, he’d left it on the desk with you. What had he expected? You’d gotten bored and he never bothered to tell you not to touch it. So it’s actually his fault. “You scribbled all over my reports? What is this? Is this supposed to be me?” He demands, wings stiffly up and practically vibrating in annoyance and offense. Oh, he’s insulted by your little caricatures.

• After being stuck with him this long, your arsenal of weapons is mostly playing dumb or catering to that ego of his. “Sorry, I wanted to capture your magnificence, but I’m not much of an artist,” you say shrugging weakly, doing your best innocent puppy eyes. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

• He’s silent, staring at the crude doodles, but his wings droop slightly. And you know he wants to be mad. Is probably wondering why the hell you drew him with shark teeth- absolutely for your amusement. But he just can’t deal with puppy eyes. Something you’re willing to milk if it gets you out of trouble. “Yes, well,” he mutters falteringly. “Don’t draw on my reports.”

• You’re staring up at him with those big eyes and it’s doing uncomfortable things to his spark. That look makes him want to scoop you up and hold you. Certainly makes it impossible to reprimand you. And the drawings aren’t that awful. Well. You’d tried anyway. Venting he reaches to use a servo to tip your chin up. Had you really meant this as a present for him? A gift? You grab onto his servo, smiling at him and it undoes him so quickly it’s frightening. He shouldn’t care about such a silly thing, but he runs his servo affectionately over your cheek. “I’ll see about requisitioning an old data pad for you to make your art on.” Because he wants you happy. Wants you to keep smiling for him and that need is almost frightening.

• When did keeping one little human happy become so important to him? And it is, because he’s not alone. That feeling is something he’ll do anything to protect. Anything.

Previous Next

[gleafer]

You've probably been asked this before-- but how did you learn to draw like that? It's incredible, your likenesses especially. Amazes me every time I check your page. I know the answer is probably mostly Time and then More Time, but is there anything in particular that you think helped? Timed sketches? A certain way of doing studies? Any book recommendations?

*Runs through wall a la Kool Aid Man to answer this question because HOLY HELL DO ARTISTS LIKE TALKING ABOUT THEMSELVES*

Ahem!

Well! The very best, yet worst, but really best thing I’ve ever done to get good at drawing facial expressions was to do three military tours…er…summer seasons at Great America as a caricature artist!

Nothing will give you the practice needed to up your skillset quite like drawing for 13 hours straight while being heckled by large groups of overly sugared, vicious teenagers for 12 weeks in sweltering summer heat.

YOU SUUUUUUCK! Became my battle cry instead of inner monologue of art student sadness.

Thick skin grew, as did my ability to draw likenesses and expressions. (Granted most of the expressions I drew were of boyfriend’s faces all stupidly sappy, ogling their girlfriend who were drawn extra sassy with obnoxious eyelashes. But that’s just how you do with caricatures.)

Anywho!

I’m not saying you have to go join a traveling circus of caricature artists to test your artist’s metal (though it wouldn’t hurt and you’ll have a bounty of bizarre stories for the grandkids when alls said and done!)

However, practicing everyday, while pushing comfort levels and being brave with your lines, will improve your art/illustrations.

And if you think having groups of teenagers making fun of your art, loudly hinting your fashion sense is severely lacking and “DID YOU EVEN ART SCHOOL??” while sticky, little kids swarm into your personal space to the point of almost crawling into your mouth as their parents wander off to the beer garden would actually help you, Great America is always hiring…

for fresh SOULS!

🎶just keep drawing! Just keep drawing!🎶-Dori, probably

[hey-august]

Word count: Just under 1k Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, mentions of masturbation, sex, and oral.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing.

Buggy who doodles all the time. Ugly little caricatures of people who piss him off. Goofy scribbles of bits that make him laugh. Potential skits. 

Buggy who scrawls on the margins of paper, the corner of napkins, anywhere he can relieve the itch in his hands.

Buggy who designs costumes for his crew. Colored pencils and oil pastels bring the flashy couture to life.

Buggy who carries a small sketchbook in his coat. Deckle edged paper wrapped in leather, perfect for practicing pencil sketches and graphite drawings as he observes the crew.

Buggy who doesn’t share the drawings in his sketchbook, though. Some had to learn the hard way not to look over his shoulder.

Buggy who realizes too late that you are overtaking his personal pages. What started as small forms to study pose and movement grew larger, capturing more of your essence.

Buggy who becomes obsessed with capturing the small details. How your nose crinkles when you laugh. The sneer in your lips when you’re pissed. The way you rake your fingers through your hair when you try to calm yourself.

Buggy who gets curious late one night. Curious and desperate.

Buggy who draws you from memory and fueled by his filthy imagination. The soft sound of pencil scraping along the paper is comforting.

Buggy who fills a page with you in compromising positions. The lewd expressions you might wear. What he thinks you’d look like split on his cock. Or mouth open, begging to have your face fucked. His hands gripping your plush thighs.

Buggy who fucks himself to the hand-drawn porn and cums all over the page.

Buggy who feels guilty and burns the soggy drawings, as best he can. It takes a few frustrating tries and he panics, even though no one is around.

Buggy who tries to ignore those feelings. Trying to draw anything except you. But everything looks like shit now. Proportions are off. He presses too hard when sketching, unable to erase the stark lines. Even his doodles lack life.

Buggy who gives in and scribbles you in the corner of his sketchbook before moving on to something else. And it works. His movements flow better. A weight is lifted off his chest.

Buggy who eventually caves to the nighttime muse once more. Filling another perverted page with the obscene images flooding his mind. This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire.

Buggy who revisits that page frequently. Adds to that page. Convinces himself that it’s okay, it’s not hurting anyone. In fact, it helps him by taking away other urges.

Buggy who eventually manages to misplace his sketchbook. He fucking lost it.

Buggy who doesn’t want to bring attention to his lost treasure. If he says it’s missing, some freaks might find it and look through the pages. They’ll realize what a pathetic loser he is.

Buggy who frantically retraces his footsteps, barking orders to keep everyone away from him. 

Buggy who finally finds it in the hallway just outside his room. The book must have fallen out of his pocket and laid mostly out of sight with the brown leather blending into the wooden floor.

Buggy who is relieved. It doesn’t look like the book had been touched or moved. Even the leather string is still wound around the sketchbook tightly.

Buggy who needs to get back to other duties after sloughing them off most of the day. He’s still on edge, reading into everyone’s interactions. No one acts differently, adding to the relief that no one knows about his perversions.

Buggy who doesn’t open the sketchbook until the end of a very long day. Who waits until he’s alone and in his room.

Buggy whose stomach lurches at the note peeking out of one of the pages. A page devoted to your smile. A note with your handwriting. “This is so impressive! I look so happy”

Buggy who slams the sketchbook shut and starts to pace around the room. Fuck. Did you find it first? Did you look through it? Why? What else did you see? What else did you see?

Buggy who freezes at the thought. Who stares at the awful book, as if it would pipe up and tell him in a fluttery voice.

Buggy who grabs the book and roughly throws it into a drawer, ready to lock up his feelings. Ready to deal with his unhealthy actions with more unhealthy actions.

Buggy who tries to go to bed but can’t sleep. He lays in bed surrounded by a carousel of thoughts. Of fear. And anxiety.

Buggy who sends over a hand to retrieve the damn book. He has to know. He’ll die if he doesn’t find out.

Buggy who can feel his hands shake with each heartbeat as he thumbs through the book, looking for more notes.

Buggy who feels both calmed and excited as he finds your commentary on a few more innocuous pages. Praises for his skill and appreciation for scenes he captured.

Buggy who finally flips to the page. That one.

Buggy who’s afraid to read the note you left there. But he does. “Want to collaborate one day?”

Buggy whose stomach and heart are in knots. 

Buggy who keeps reading. “I’d like to see what you look like too.”

Buggy who shows up at your door, panting and red faced. Sketchbook in hand.

Buggy who trails his fingers along your face as he fucks into you, commiting each detail to memory. The shape of your mouth with each moan. Your lust-filled eyes. The little teeth marks left after you bite your lips.

Buggy who can’t help but stare at your sex-tired body. Chest heaving. Glistening.

Buggy who still wants to taste you. To taste himself on you. Who uses his mouth and tongue to memorize more of your body.

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing and collaborating.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

A/N: Just want to highlight this line bc I love it "This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire."

[rel124c41]

NOW PLAYING ‘EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN’ BY GARY LEWIS & THE PLAYBOYS. floyd leech

The truest mark of a jester is not in his ability to make others laugh, but in his capacity to find humor in his own pain.

tags: unrequited love, hurt no comfort, character study, friendship, wishful thinking, angst, floyd is in his stańczyk era, complicated relationships

word count: 2,282

The game is in the first quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd does not know where to start his confession to you.

As he plays, he tries to come up with ideas of love confessions: a dance, a letter, a bite, or a gentle touch? Planning however puts a damper on the sweetness of what should be a romantic fantasy. Not that Floyd allows the turmoil to show, he plays perfectly. Each move of his is effortless, on the court and when playing with you.

He has been trying for a while to confess. Cowardness ties him up like seaweed.

If anyone were to rival Floyd’s energy, it would be you. You are eudaimonia incarnate. Flourishing with happiness and good spirit, you are a wonderful yet unexpected addition to Night Raven College. Where even Floyd falls into tepid moods of anger or sadness, you stay afloat. Somehow, someway, you are always happy.

Dribbling at practice, Crabby once joked that you were made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. Floyd yearns to know what a combination like that would taste on his tongue in a mating bite, sealing you two in marriage.

The Coral Sea is a triptych of shadow black, unwelcoming black, and cold black. You jump into his world, exploding with the color your soul carries. Through grimacing eyesight, he watches the gaiety of you bounce around even if it is blinding. You are the pinkest of pinks. You are the brightest orange that would rival sunkist shrimps. You are as yellow as the sun or a sky of stars, all consuming.

If shooting stars could fall into anyone’s eyes, they would fall into yours. Making little homes of fluctuating solar energy and the thumping glow of hydrogen and helium. The only eyes worthy of having stars in them.

He can feel the heat of those blazing stars on his neck as Sea Snake passes the basketball to him at midcourt line.

You sit in the bleachers with a handmade poster in your hands. To keep himself happy, Floyd deludes himself with the image of you making it alone. Without anyone handing you certain markers or glue for the glitter, you wrote WIN WIN WIN FLOYD in big, bubble letters for him and him alone. In his mind, you did not ask for the green colored pencil from anyone’s hand to shade in the caricature eel’s skin and you did not hyena-laugh when you accidentally got glitter on someone’s cheek or clothes.

The delusion of a reality where you only think about him 24/7 is sugar, spice, and everything nice. That is eudaimonia.

When Floyd scores twice in the first quarter with the aid of Sea Snake, you raise that poster up. Cheers from you are whole-hearted and never half-assed, you put everything into rallying encouragement you hope reaches and motivates Floyd.

You could frown and it would still motivate him.

When he scores for the third time, there are no vocal cheers shining down from the bleachers. Looking at the sea of unimportant guppies, he finds the reason your lips are silent. You are sharing a kiss with Jade, just two short pecks. Something you definitely initiated as Jade is timid with affection.

As he turns back to the court, Floyd imagines his confession would go like this:

“I love ya, Shrimpy.”

You laugh, almost falling off your seat, and say with a happy grin, “That’s a good one, Floyd. Tell another joke!”

The game is in the second quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd is a clownfish of an eel. Not entirely like Crabby or Sea Otter, but Floyd has been marked as a class clown enough. Loud and boisterous, he is a presence that fertilizes laughter and amusement with ease. Perhaps the amusement is only shared by him, Jade, and Azul mostly, but it is still a jester’s position he has fallen into.

Nothing he says is ever taken seriously unless his words are threats. Unlike Jade, whose words are always heeded and who is taken seriously as a plague.

Floyd can be serious too though! Him and Jade are cut from the same cloth. Why can’t you see the other side of him? Why can’t your bright star eyes comprehend him as something more than a joking jester?

For a while, Floyd was content in that position. Jingling bells, stomping around in oversized shoes, falling over himself to fish that melodious laughter out of your throat. And then one of Jade’s mushroom puns got you snort in the midst of stomach deep laughter. Since then, no matter how many more quarters he plays, Floyd knows he lost.

Pure laughter is pure love in many cultures. And he, trapped in that monk’s cowl and sea anglerfish bells costume, has failed to make you laugh in that same intensity.

As he dribbles and passes the basketball, blocks shots and runs across the court, Floyd unpurposely distracts himself with a vile memory:

A party in Ramshackle. Not as extravagant as Sea Otter’s but still entertaining. As always, Floyd was like a lamp for tiny moths to gather around. Despite his pendulum-ing emotions, his company is enjoyable.

One off stories and jokes were a jester’s speciality. Capturing the attention of your friends and his fellow second years, Floyd keeps the conversation light and draws laughs out of throats like the Sea Witch once did with the little mermaid’s voice. The corner of where he is in Ramshackle is usually the loudest, brimming with comedy. The kind that should have gotten you to come over and ask curious, “What’s so funny?”

Crabby would have dismissed you but Floyd would have reeled you right in. His little Shrimpy, snug under his protective arm, as he recounted another story.

You do not laugh.

You do not look.

You just do not care.

That fucking party in Ramshackle? You spent it giving Jade a tour around the place, showing him the garden you started in the backyard, and chatting with that magnetizing, permanent smile on your lips. Before you two even were dating.

Floyd knows he does not have your total attention. Your attention is always spread in too many directions in his opinion. But sometimes, he wants more than anything for just one period of twenty-four hours where all you think about is him.

You may hold a sign with his name on it but he is not your focus. Star eyes follow the basketball that bounces from player to player; you watch the game fully, but not him.

Who would ever want to see a crying clown?

The game is in the third quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

And Floyd finds himself benched.

Coach pulls him out of the game when five minutes are left in the second quarter. Coach worries about that rapidly declining mood of his in the second quarter. It is a volatile, gambling choice but the Coach thinks it is the correct one. Better to have him refuel and get back into the swing of the game. “Have a Gatorade and take a minute, Leech. No need to dig yourself down.” Floyd doesn’t want to drink his passion fruit Gatorade, he wants a different drink and he wants a peppermint to crush between his sharp teeth.

Elbows on knees and head in hands, Floyd watches the red clock go down number by number. Anger pulses off him like smoke. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Stupid fucking Coach. Stupid fucking game. Stupid fucking Gatorade. Forty-nine. Forty –

“Peppermint for your thoughts?”

Stupid fucking Coach, Floyd thinks a second time. As is per tradition, if Floyd ever finds himself on the bench, call in Shrimpy. A small little crustacean that can reverse whirlpools back to sailable water and can make even the hungriest shark swim in the opposite direction of blood.

“It's a penny for ya thoughts,” Floyd grumbles into his hand.

“Nah, I don’t think so!” Is it possible to hear a smile in a voice? Because it feels like you speak in smiles; he imagines an alien language made by grins, one where no words like bad moods or anger exist. “Can’t eat a penny, can you?”

You take a seat by him on the bench. The space is left wide open because no one ever wants to risk being so close to the eel-mer when he is explosive with rage. When you sit, your shoulders bump together and from hip to shin, you two press against one another.

“So, the doctor is in. Doc. Shrimpy.”

Even when you are handing him something, his world minimizes down to the sight of your star eyes. The crunch of a peppermint wrapper in his hand is infinitesimal to the scorch of nuclear fusion and fire.

Still, he pops it in and relishes in the calming breakage of candy in his razor sharp teeth, replying, “I don’t know, just pissed I missed that shot.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Liar. “I also saw you make two of the cleanest shots of the entire game in the first five minutes of the game.” Floyd hums instead of grumbling. It is the slightest, micro improvement but you still hammer on your past doctor-slash-therapist metaphor. “Say aaah for Doc. Shrimpy!”

This is the hardest part of being a clown. You do sweet, pseudo-romantic things with Floyd and never take it seriously. Everything between the two of you is shrouded under the blanket of comedy. There are zero feelings behind it. Even when you unknowingly partake in eel courtship (opening your mouth wide as you demonstrate your ‘aaah’), it is hollow and satire. And when you learn about his species’ courtship you will really only mean it with intent when you are with Jade.

“Aaah!”

Into his mouth, you pour a drink. His shoulders recoil at bit, premature disgust at the thought of tasting passion fruit which he is not in the mood to drink. Floyd is surprised when the drink starts to fizz in his mouth.

As he savors it, the carbonation and sourness a welcome burn in his throat, you smile and show him the drink you have on hand. “Shit’s good, right?” In front of him, you shake a monstrously bright pink and yellow can with the words Ghost on it. “Sour pink lemonade.”

You take the Ghost you just waterfall into Floyd’s mouth and down your own sip. Be careful, Shrimpy, Floyd thinks. Sharing food and drink is also a part of courtship.

“Gross, Shrimpy. You backwash?”

“Yeah, I did. How does loogie and lemonade taste?”

At that, Floyd snatches up the energy drink from your hands. He downs a much larger sip, going as far as to have some spill around the corner of his mouth. He takes the opportunity too to touch his lips on where yours once were.

Once he robs you of half your lemonade, Floyd brings his wrist to wipe his chin and grins wolfish, “My compliments to the chef! Think Azul’ll add it to the menu?”

You laugh just as Floyd was aiming for, all saccharine and lovely, and joke, “Oh my spit could make a fortune! I can see it now!”

“Shrimpy spit?”

“Oh my God, Shrimpy spit! It has alliteration!”

You two fall into each other, cackling and laughing at the stupidity. When your hair brushes his cheek, Floyd thinks of how easy it would be to find his lips falling to a place more forbidden than the metal rim of an energy drink can.

After you both stop laughing: “Ya gonna feed me some more, Shrimpy?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Mmm, how about this,” you grin, stretching out your sentences teasingly. “I have some takoyaki with your name up there on the bleachers. Jade and I made it yesterday. You can have the rest when you win this game!”

Your star eyes burn him. Floyd melts under their intensity.

The game is in the fourth quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Everybody loves a clown, so why don’t you?

Has he not been enough? Self-sacrificial to always keep you bright and laughing, giving you his own light, letting you bleed him dry until his skin is sandpaper and his bone rice. This constant fear that he should always try to keep you happy lies in his heart like a nematode worm.

His sugar, spice, and everything nice Shrimpy who does not belong to him.

Standing on the edge of the 3 point line, Floyd, despite his cowardice, sends out the last shot of the game.

The basketball glides across the rim like a ship caught in a whirlpool, once. Then a second time, it makes its circular route around the open mouth of victory, leaning capriciously. With a suicidal fall, the basketball falls to the right. It bounces double on the ground before rolling away out of Floyd’s reach. Over the white tape of the endline, the orange ball is now out of the court, signaling the end.

Though under typical circumstances that losing shot should usher him into despair, a smile grows on Floyd’s face. It is only broken when he starts to laugh, his own joy singular in the groans and moans of his teammates.

He turns towards the bleachers, knowing you are expecting a miserable frown; he waves happily at you when your worried eyes fall onto him. You are out of his court. But … eels mate for life which means … Floyd gets to keep you in his life, just a bit out of reach, as he dreams of your love, not knowin’ where to start.

The game ends in the fourth quarter. There are no minutes left.

[rapha-reads]

To those of you wondering (aka no one), I finished both The Vampire Armand and Merrick and I have a lot of thoughts and feels. I'm skipping Blood and Gold for now to go directly to Blackwood Farm (I'll read B&G later), but first I'm going to read something else, just to take a break.

TVA thoughts: man, Armand is messed up. And extremely compelling. But so messed up. As always, the theme of faith crisis, which seriously reaches new heights with these bitchy vampires, is not something I can fully immerse myself in, but it was fascinating to see his numerous metamorphosis. I liked how he bridges Western and Eastern Christianisme, especially through art. Now I'm thinking that if Rolin Jones makes him originally Muslim in the show, that could expand even more the conversation on how faith, and especially Abrahamic faith, has been in conversation for thousands of years and could be such a rich, diverse and spiritual, intellectual and artistic theme. I can already imagine some fascinating discussions comparing (not in a superior way but in a complementary way) coming from Muslim faith to Roman Catholic faith, the way book!Armand talks about the richness of his life in Kiev Rus despite the poverty and ascetism, and the richness of his life in Venecia despite the luxury and abundance.

As for Benamin and Sybille... I don't have much thoughts about them. Sybille is one of those female characters AR seemingly favors, not so much human as a nymph or a dryad, "perfectly splendid". And Benji is a caricature of an Arab child. Nuance? 401 not found.

Merrick thoughts: David for the love if everything, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Holy moly. I like David, I do, but damn the entire recollection of his history with Merrick was looooooong. I'm here to see Louis haunted by Claudia and haunting Lestat's coma, not how hard you're pining for the kid you practically raised! Also. ALSO. You're just going to leave that whole thing with the Olmec or possibly another more ancient Mesoamerican civilisation without ever giving us more? That was the most interesting part of it all! The vodoo history, the connection between Louisiana and Caribbean vodoo and old Native South-American religions! More about this, less about Merrick's perfect breasts, I am begging you. (It is at this point that the reader of this post realises OP is 100% definitely ace and more interested in books and witchcraft than breasts and whether a 70yo man can still get it up - also, hey, Anne Rice's vampires are practically asexual and their lust and pleasure is mostly derivated from blood, with some notable exceptions like Armand and Marius, and a love relationship between two vampires is then based on romantic love and blood sharing, so can I hear a hell yeah for some ace representation or are we still conflating eroticism with sex)

Another thing I kept thinking about throughout the book is how Louis is perceived by his fellow vampires. Since basically the second book, since we've lost his own POV, everybody who's ever said anything about him (so Lestat, Armand and David) have insisted on two points: how very weak and meek Louis is, and also how irresistible, beautiful and charming. Granted, I've known Louis first through his portrayal on the show (hi Jacob you're so fiiiiiiine), and then through his own narration in the first book, but I've never had the impression that he was weak. Beautiful and seductive, yes. Weak? I see a human man going through tragedies and still enduring, going through vampiric transformation and then suffering for decades the loss of his humanity, struggling with reconciliating both sides of himself, but mostly I see a vampire who rebuilt himself after losing everything without sacrificing his sense of self. I see Louis as very strong actually (up to the point where resilience breaks, because resilience cannot be sustained on a long term, but that's another debate). He knows who he is, and don't you know how hard that is? He doesn't cling to faith or pride. He knows he's doomed, he knows he's monstrous, he knows there's nothing he can do to change that, and instead of railing against his fate, he goes on about his undead life. He gets his books and he reads them, he surrounds himself with literature and what little comforts he thinks in his shattered self-esteem he deserves (his ragged sweaters and soft trousers); let's not lie to ourselves tho, Louis doesn't like himself, or more exactly he doesn't care about his corporeal body - what matters to him is his mind, and once again, this author is extremely ace and also very aro and very nonbinary, so Louis to me is very much ace and agender coded, though really not aro, because his love for Lestat (and sometimes his fondness, shall we say, for Armand) is the only thing that can rouse him up from his literary slumber.

...

Oh, man, I have a lot to say about Louis, for how little he appears in the books so far. Still have BF, BC and the PL trilogy to devour. So I guess you can say, for as much as Lestat is occupying my entire brain, very much like him, my favorite is Louis? Yeah, that tracks. Melancholy, quiet, dark-haired green-eyed monster with more humanity than humans, preferring his solitude and the company of books to anyone else, hopelessly and helplessly devoted to one person, expert in brooding and grieving, literature specialist, not very attached to his physical self. Yeah. I'm not surprised.

[shabbytigers]

so i know i'm not the first to mention something like this, but owell-

when i was in deutschland to learn deutsch, i found a way to progress at low effort:

select a movie you (think you'll) like, with sufficiently good dialogue

watch the movie in a language you understand easily

watch it again immediately after, but in deutsch and with the word-for-word subtitles

i did it with Ludwig (1973) (the full version) and gained like. a whole-ass month of progress. in a day. it's fucking ✨magic✨

(i also recommend listening to the swiss goth band Lacrimosa because: their songs are written in perfect and somewhat elaborate Hochdeutsch, the words are sung majoritarily in a decipherable way, the easily found translations into English are pretty good, it's more practical to listen to music than to watch movies while doing other things, and i fucking love them. (other music can also work ofc, just I know this enough to say the above confidently))

I do not doubt this advice.

You know how I’m obsessed with Wings of Desire / Der Himmel Über Berlin (1987), which is invariably ime shown in German with English subtitles? Given that the script is mostly somewhere between poetic and high, it’s wild how often having watched that movie a fair number of times actually helps me with my German. “Als das Kind, Kind war,” I mumble to myself as I deploy yet another subordinating conjunction, etc, etc.

You know what else has been stupidly helpful? Einstürzende Neubauten. Blixa’s enunciation is pellucid and I should really listen to more of the EN catalog more often.

Idk about Lacrimosa but I’ll certainly check them out. Probably yes beneficial to find another good movie in German I can do the thing with, too, only I am almost impossible to please wrt movies and tv (it net-drains my energy even watching stuff in English, tbh—it’s not a veg-out activity for me) so idk.

If a really great German movie comes out with reasonable enunciation and sound mixing—that is not mostly camera-shaking car crash and/or violence driven plots which tend to bore me witless since I am a caricature of an effete old metrosexual—could anyone who is reading this and happens to remember please alert me to go see it, thanks in advance!

[necromancer-mango]

[start image description: Two pages of face drawings focusing on eyes. The first page consists of a few front-facing faces, as well are various drawn eyes and eyeballs. The text reads: “A general rule of thumb people tend to use is the leave space between the eyes for another eye. This does work, but not a hard rule. Eyes can be spaced further apart, as well as closer.I usually draw the upper lid first, which I use to define the eye shape. Then, the lower lid. The eye is a ball, which the lids wrap around. An epicanthal fold covers the inner corner of the eye. What this means is the fold is very close to the upper lid. Sometimes the fold is not as close to the upper lid, in which case it may look like a double lid. It is still very close to the eye, which means if someone were to use liquid eyeliner (*cough* me) and open their eyes before letting it dry, it smears all over the upper lid since part of the skin tucks in. Just make sure you don't end up drawing eyes that veer into caricature. If stylized you can keep them very large, if they look like slits you are in dangerous territory. I have a habit of doing all my eyes in a very similar manner, I just change the top lid a little. I'm very bad at eyelashes considering mine are flat and curve down so they don't stick out, so trying to do them without much familiarity does not always turn out the best. As such, when I do eyelashes they are indicated by thickening the line at the top of the eye and flaring out at the corner. Lower lashes are nice in small amounts. Making eyes perfectly symmetrical requires practice mostly. They also do not have to look identical, just so long as they both fit on the face in the same area.” The second page consists of more front-facing faces, paired with a few heads turned at an angle. The text reads: “Sometimes  when I struggle with front faces, I will copy one eye, flip it on a separate layer, and then rotate it a bit so that it seems to match up. If I don't directly use the flipped eye, I'll draw over it. Drawing one eye and copy/flip it only works completely if the eyes are looking forward, otherwise you will have to adjust the iris. You also can't do this with an angled face. Rotating the head means adjusting how the eye is drawn.”/ end image description] A little more about drawing eyes, plus some things I do when I get stuck. If there is difficulty drawing eyes from the front, a good chunk of that is practice until you have the muscle memory to draw consistent eyes. I usually start from the inner eye and go out when doing the lids personally, and will draw lines on the face to orient the placement. try working on placing lines with confidence and be a little loose about it, for that will help you get more confident about your shapes. Also, they don’t have to be perfectly symmetrical! Most faces aren’t so as long as they look like they are the general same shape and somewhat aligned, then people won’t notice if they aren’t perfectly the same. You could also probably use a symmetry tool, but I have never tried doing that so I have nothing to really say on how effective that may be.

[middleearthpixie]

Something in the Night ~ Chapter Twenty-One

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.1k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo

@legolasbadass @lathalea @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically

@notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

@ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972

@glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms

@sazzlep @night-ace

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

The infirmary at night was a quiet and lonely place. Especially in the royal chambers, which were closed off from everyone else. Oh, the chambers themselves were lovely, well-lit, with comfortable beds and although she knew the dwarves prided themselves on their gem work, she still gaped at the beautiful stones inlaid in the labradorite walls. Nina wagered her room alone was worth more than the entirety of Esgaroth at its peak, and that gave her such pause. Erebor was built on the riches of the mountain, literally and figuratively, and it boggled her mind just how much wealth it truly held. She’d never seen so much wealth, and certainly not in so small a space.  

But to look at Thorin, one would never think him to be a king. Oh, like every other dwarf she’d ever seen (which, of course, wasn't many until recently, and even now, in the infirmary, they kept their distance from her and she from them) he favored jewelry, and adorned his fingers and hair, as they all did. But he wore no crown, nor any fancy robes. Instead, he dressed almost exactly as he had been dressed when he and his Company first arrived in Esgaroth. A most down-to-earth king, indeed.

Her only experience with any man of power was the Master of Esgaroth, who was practically a caricature in his love of what hie considered finery. Truth be told, he was one of the most physically repulsive men she’d ever seen, with his stringy, red combed-over hair and over-fed body stuffed into shirts and trousers that were at best a size too small. He flashed his wealth, mostly stolen by way of taxes on the denizens of Esgaroth, without shame and yet when one stood close to him, as she’d had the misfortune of doing once, it was apparent bathing was not a favorite activity. Not only that, but he tried to hide the smell of unwashed skin with perfumes that were cloying and sickening. He was, as Lenna once said, a poor man’s idea of a rich man, and that summed it up perfectly as far as Nina was concerned.

However, Thorin was not like that. In fact, he was as far from that description as possible. His dark hair shone when the light hit it, the silver streaks highlighting the glossy black curls, and when he passed by? She smiled into the darkness. He smelled of leather and earth and summer nights and she bit back a sigh now just remembering what it was like to be engulfed by them, engulfed by him. 

Narnerra had told her she could leave come the morning and while she was impatient to get home and assure Sigrid she was all right, Nina also did not want to leave. She knew that when she did, she would likely not lay eyes upon Thorin again. 

She didn't want to think about that. Now that he was no longer furious with her…

She frowned into the darkness. She didn't want to think about that, either. It was best if she didn’t.

The soft knock at the door gave her pause, for in her time in Erebor, aside from that first night, no one knocked on the door past suppertime. 

It had to be a mistake, so she ignored it.

Then it happened again. 

“Nina?”

Her heart leapt at Thorin’s whisper, her stomach fluttering as she kicked back the covers and rose from her bed to pad to the door. “Thorin?”

“Did I wake you?”

She tugged open the door. “No, but what are you doing here?”

He emerged from the darkness to step into her room. “Narnerra told me you were leaving come the morning and since I’ve a meeting in Esgaroth first thing, I will not have another chance to see you.”

“To see me?” She reached for her wrapper, draped across the foot of her bed and drew it on. “Does your girlfriend know you’re here?”

To his credit, Thorin blushed, which unnerved her to a certain degree. It was confirmation of his relationship with the beautiful dwarrowdam, and it was confirmation she dreaded hearing. Up until right now, she could fool herself into thinking that maybe—just maybe—she and Thorin were on the verge of something. 

But that blush changed everything.

OF course, it was silly, not to mention downright foolish, to assume he’d not have another woman in his life. Despite his protestations to the opposite, Thorin was strikingly handsome. And kind. And gentle. And everything any sane woman would want. She’d come so close to be the one he called his… so very close…

Don’t think about that.

“Nina,” he closed the door behind him, leaning back against it, “I had not expected to ever lay eyes upon you again. And I certainly expected to remain furious with you for the rest of my days.”

“So why are you here, then?”

“Because I needed to see you. Before you left.”

“Does she know you’re here? Because judging by how cold she was to me, I doubt she would be happy with you’re being here.”

“No,” he shook his head, “she doesn’t know. And she is not my girlfriend.”

“What is she, then?”

He sighed softly. “At one point, I thought to ask her for her hand.”

That confession was like a punch to the stomach and Nina was thankful for the low light, otherwise he’d see how she blanched. And it had to be terrible, for she actually felt the blood drain from her face. “I see.”

“At one point,” he repeated, stepping up to her. “But I am not so certain that is the case now.”

“Thorin, do not tell me what you think I wish to hear bec—”

“I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.” He caught her face in his hands, his palms warm and his thumbs gentle as they grazed along her cheekbones. “I told you how dwarves do not take lovemaking lightly, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Those thumbs moving along her cheeks made thinking clearly almost impossible for her. Her eyelids grew so heavy, her thought grew just as heavy, and sluggish and she just wished to lean into the gentle caresses. 

She forced her heavy eyelids to open and found him smiling down at her. A pleasant warmth came to her cheeks at the heat in his blue eyes. “Why do you stare at me like that?”

“Do you remember what abnâmul means?”

Nina swallowed hard. “I do. Beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, tilting her face to his. “So very beautiful, indeed.”

With that, he bent and as his lips touched hers, Nina melted against him, easing her arms about his waist, parting her lips to receive his kiss wholeheartedly. 

He bent her slightly back, his tongue slow and teasing as it caressed hers and for the first time since that wonderful night in Mirkwood, Nina’s spirits soared and happiness radiated through her.

She tightened her arms about him, her fingers curling into the rough fabric of his henley to tug it up from the waist of his trousers. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips brushed along the swath of skin she’d bared, and she smiled when he shivered against her. 

He broke the kiss, smiling as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Do that again,” he whispered, and his eyes closed as she did it again. 

His eyes slowly opened to meet her gaze once more. Her heart picked up its pace, trebled it as she managed to whisper, “Why are you here, Thorin?”

“Because I’ve missed you.”

“Missed me? Or missed this.” 

He straightened up then. “This?”

“Yes, this. The feelings. The pleasure. That.” She managed to pull free from him, and looked up. 

“Do you suggest I’m here only for that?”

“Are you?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Why?” She shook her head. “Well, for starters, you planned to ask another woman to marry you.”

“At one point.”

“Thorin.”

He drew in a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Yes, Nina. I had—at one point—thought to ask Elisin for her hand. But that was before. And now, I find I do not think a match between her and I would be a good one, for I am afraid my heart belongs to another.”

Nina’s pulse throbbed through her temples. “Thorin.”

“And although I had reason enough to be angry with her, this other woman has far more reason to hate me for the rest of her days.” He stepped closer to her.

She took another step backward. “How can you say I have your heart after everything that has happened?”

He moved toward her once more. “Because you have?”

A step back and she found herself flush against the wall, which was lumpy and rough from the gems running through the labradorite. “That isn’t possible.”

“Why?” He brought both hands up to press his palms against the stone on either side of her shoulders. “Who has decided this? Who do you think does my thinking for me?”

“Well, I—I don't think anyone else does your thinking for you, but remember… you are a king and I am a nobody.”

“So?” His eyes softened. “I am only recently a king and you are not a nobody.”

“Very well then, I am also not a dwarf.”

A hint of a smile played at his lips. “Nobody’s perfect, mesmel.”

“You are mad, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been mad.”

“Thorin.”

“I love you, Nina. Now, we can keep fighting about this, or you can just tell me you love me back and then we can make use of that very comfortable bed or the floor, or anywhere else in this room you’d like.”

“I don't even like you at the moment, dwarf. In fact, if I had my steel…”

“You would do nothing, just as the last time.” He leaned in then, and this time, when their lips met, he flattened against her. Not in a dominant way, trying to prove to her he could do whatever he wished to her if the mood struck, but more in a need to feel her against him sort of a way. 

At least, that was what she told herself. 

Because the truth was she needed to feel him that way. And when he pulled away and she met his heated gaze, she whispered, “You love me?”

He nodded slowly. “I love you.”

“But, I was going to collect on Azog’s bounty on you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I was going to.”

“But,” he brushed her lips with his, “you didn’t.”

“But—”

“But you didn’t,” he cut her off gently, and this time, he kissed her more deeply. He lowered his hands to catch hers, to lace his fingers with hers and brought them back up to press gently into the stone.

Her eyes closed slowly as the delicious sensations swirled through her, tilted her head back when he swept his lips down over her chin, along the side of her neck. He nuzzled her, whispering, “Maralmizi, Nina.”

Her head spun as the sensations grew stronger, tingling along her neck, through her belly, to slightly lower, where delicate knots of desire formed to tighten within her. “What does that mean…” she managed to whisper, her fingers tightening about his.

He kissed back up toward her ear, his lips brushing it as he replied, “I love you…”

“Mmmm….” She smiled, then bit down on her bottom lip as the tip of his tongue swept over a surprisingly sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. “I love you back, dwarf…”

His thumbs grazed hers, his lips swept down into the hollow of her throat. He trailed soft, teasing kisses down into the hollow of her throat once more, each one playful and tender at the same time. When he lifted his head again, it was to regard her with blazing blue eyes and his gaze never wavered as he reached for the lacings of her tunic. The leather laces gave easily, the cotton parting slightly, and heat swept through her as he let go of those laces to part the throat of her tunic even wider.

He held her gaze, sliding his hands down along her body, over the rise of her breasts, to the hem of her tunic, and then he swept up, whisking it over her head. His gaze burned hotter as it swept over her, and he murmured, “Abnâmul, mesmel…”

As he spoke, he traced the tip of his finger along the inner curve of her left breast. Fire whispered through her, gentle at first, but it grew stronger as he brushed inward, toward its crest. Her nipple beaded in anticipation of his touch, poking up through the thin muslin of her chemise. He brushed it, slowly circled it, and as the sensations rippled through her, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, but couldn't hold back her sigh. 

“Oh, amrâlimê,” he whispered, his voice husky and his eyes smoldering as they met hers, “I have missed you, you know…”

Despite her sluggish thoughts and that delicious heat swirling through her, Nina nodded slowly. “I’ve… oh, I’ve missed you as well…” 

The tingles grew sharper and steadier now as he swept lightly over her nipple, and it took every bit of will she possessed to not simply melt into a puddle. His smile spoke of promises she knew well, and her entire body trembled with anticipation of him. 

He leaned in to capture her lips in a soft kiss as as their lips met, no more words passed. His hand came fully over her breast, kneading and teasing until the heat threatened to devour her. Her back bowed, pressing her breast deeper into his palm, a breathless sigh bubbling to her lips at the sensations running riot through her now. Those knots in her lower belly returned, sweet and tight and dropping lower, where the dull ache of arousal bit into her. 

His lips caressed hers, and as she slipped her arms about his neck, he pressed firmly against her, then gently drew her away from the wall, turning to guide her back until the backs of her legs bumped her narrow bed. 

Thorin urged her down into the soft mattress, and as she sank into it, she smiled at the sight of him above her, dark hair tumbling forward almost as a curtain to keep out the rest of the world. He looked almost feral, his eyes blazing sapphire, filled with desire that mirrored her own, and those eyes devoured her as he caught the hem of her chemise to gently sweep up along her thighs. Heat burned through her as the linen skimmed up over her hips. She waited for him to sweep it over her head, but instead, he bent and pressed heated lips against her lower stomach, which sent fire arcing through her. 

Without thinking, she reached for him, shoving her fingers into his hair and as he moved lower, her fingers tightened. The tip of his tongue swept along her hipbone, following by a teasingly soft kiss. Those knots tightened further. 

Thorin crept higher now, feathering kisses up along her ribs, taking care around the bandage, pushing linen out of his way, until he found what he sought and his lips closed about her aching nipple. The tip of his tongue did a slow, almost lazy swirl about the taut bead, her back bowing of its own as fire tore through her now. 

“Thorin…” His name leaked through her clenched teeth, her fingers twisting tighter in his hair now as he oh-so-sensually tortured her. The ache between her thighs spread slowly through her, her legs parting of their own to let him settle between them. 

She couldn't hold back her sigh as he came firmly against her. She’d forgotten just how amazing he felt like this, how much she absolutely loved being surrounded by him, how the rest of the world simply fell away and left them in peace. She had missed him, had missed everything about him and as his lips claimed hers, she lost herself in his kiss. 

Still, they were in the infirmary and she had no doubt that any strange noises coming from the royal ward would bring Narnerra or one of her assistants running and the last thing Nina wanted was for anyone to burst in on them. 

The bed let out an ominous squeak as Thorin rolled onto his back, tugging her atop him as he did. He grinned even as she froze. “What’s the matter, mesmel?”

“What if someone hears?”

He reached up, catching a wayward curl to tuck back behind her ear. “No one will hear a low squeak. And even if they did, no one would come in here. This is reserved for my family.”

“Which is exactly why someone might, if they thought you were in here. They might think I’m killing you.”

“We both know you wouldn’t, though.”

“We do, yes. They, however do not.”

He trailed his fingertips along her back, which brought a shiver along her spine and had her catching her bottom lip between her teeth even as her eyelids grew heavy. She managed to keep them open, smiling at his murmured, “I’ll take my chances.”

The air stirred, skittering cold across her bare back. “Thorin?”

“What?”

“Why are you still dressed?”

His laughter rang out and when she clapped her hand over his mouth, it did little to dull the reverberation. Peeling her hand from his face, he replied, “You needn’t worry. You and I are the only ones down here this night. And as for your question…”

He gently eased out from beneath her and slid to the edge of the bed to stand. “I won’t be much longer.”

She bit back another sigh as he whisked his henley over his head. Without thinking, she also slid to the edge of the bed, then rose to stand before him. She drank in the sight of him, the flickering candlelight dancing along the swells of muscle along his arms, shoulders, and chest and without thinking, she laid her hand along the curious scars dotting the left side of his chest. “What are these?”

“Reminders to avoid being caught in the jaws of a warg.”

She looked up at him. “What?”

He nodded. “A warg grabbed hold of me, just outside of Goblintown, when I was making my way from the Shire to Erebor.”

She trailed her thumb along one of the nearly perfectly round divots in his swarthy skin. Some were barely visible through the black hair spread wide across his chest, but she could still make them out. Small. Round. White. “And how did you pull yourself from the jaws of a warg?”

“Master Baggins came to my aid.” He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he smiled as he laid his hand over hers. “The hobbit who made up the fourteenth member of our company. He came to my rescue with the smallest blade ever forged, but pried me free. It was only one of the times he saved my hide, the last one being after my confrontation with Azog.”

His voice grew so soft, she could barely hear him, and as she brushed her thumb along the tooth mark, she whispered, “You need not tell me if it troubles you to think about.”

“Perhaps some day I won’t mind regaling you with what happened. But there was nothing glorious in any of it. I was a mad king, and warmonger, and I cost many people dearly, as you well know.

“But,” he caught her beneath the chin with a finger, tilting her face to his, “I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you, mesmel. I give you my word.”

He didn't offer her a chance to respond, but bent to her and as their lips met, her questions died on her lips. They no longer mattered and would wait. All that mattered was his warm, bare skin against hers, his arms tightening about her waist, and his lips also warm against hers. 

Her hands went to the falls of his trousers, and a moment later, the heavy fabric pooled at his feet and with a soft laugh, he pulled away to remove his cumbersome boots and hose, then stepped from that puddle of fabric on the stone floor. 

Her mouth went dry and her belly came alive with a million butterflies as he caught her around the waist once more and lifted her easily. Her legs, of their own accord, wrapped about his waist, and when their lips met, it was like a match to dry kindling. One spark, and embers became flames. Flames became an inferno and within moments, he was pressing her down into the bed once more, pinning her beneath him, and when he slid inside her, she was ready and welcoming and melted around him. There was nothing gentle or tender as he drove into her, but pure need and desire fired his powerful thrusts and she clung to him, her thighs tight against his sides, her arms tight about his neck, her body tight about his. 

With swift precision, he brought them both to the edge of madness, every fiber in her body tensed and begging for relief. She pulsed about him, her fingernails biting into the warm skin of his back, and when it was his turn to tense, he crushed her against him, gave a powerful thrust, and shuddered as he came. Nina surrendered to the fiery bliss he sent spilling through her, her body tingling and trembling as his climax triggered hers and she savored every last pulse, every last shiver, every last knot coming undone at his touch. And when he sank against her, breathless, a fine film of sweat along his back, she smiled as she nuzzled him. “I’ve missed you, dwarf,” she whispered, her voice thready and airy as her heart raced and her head still spun madly from the force of their combined release.

He said nothing at first, a hot, husky laugh skimming the curve of her shoulder as he fought for breath. Then, he nuzzled her, and managed to whisper, “Amrâlimê…”

Her fingers slipped through his soft hair, traced along the braid at his left temple. “I don’t speak your language,” she murmured, trailing her fingertip along his cheek as he lifted his head once more. “Teach me?”

“Of course.” His eyes were sleepy, heavy-lidded and seductive without his even trying. “Amrâlimê means my love. And you are, Nina. You are my everything. My kurduwê, my amrâlimê, my mesmel.”

“Thorin…”

“My heart, my love, my jewel of all jewels.” His eyes glittered like perfectly cut sapphires. “And you know how dwarves regard jewels, so… you are my ghivashel, Nina. My treasure of all treasures.”

Nina swallowed hard as her throat tightened and unexpected tears stung her eyes. “I was so certain you would hate me for the rest of your days.”

He carefully eased off her to stretch out alongside her. “I admit,” he began softly, gathering her to curve against him, “at first, that was what I thought as well. But, the more I thought about it, the more time I spent with Elisin—and before you ask, I did nothing with her, not even a kiss—the more I realized I missed you, Nina.”

“Not even a kiss?”

He smiled. “Not even that. I love you, and you are my One. Once a dwarf finds his One, all other women cease to exist as far as he is concerned.”

“But isn’t your One supposed to be another dwarf?”

“Well, yes, but we both know things don’t always go as planned.”

She smiled as she curved against him, tucking her head against his chest, her fingers sweeping lightly along the black hair covering his belly. “I am so very sorry, Thorin. If I could do it over again, I would never have gone to Tarog. I never would have thought harming you would do anything other than make the world darker than it already is.”

“Let’s not speak of it any longer,” he whispered, then pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “We have much to make up for and plenty of time for doing so.”

With that, linens schwiffed softly as he eased over her once more and she lost herself in another magical kiss. 

[glendybluebird]

New DP 2024🥰 Self Portait

I've been practicing caricature, and I'm glad that I'm progressing well. This is what I actually look like in real life.

I've been trying to manage two pages on every platform I'm mostly active on. One is "artby_glendy," and the other is "glendy_bluebird." I really do like the username "arby_glendy," but I just realized there are a lot of people with the same name as me out there. And I don't want to use my last name in my usernames either. So I just decided to keep "Glendy_Bluebird" or "Glendy🐦". I decided to name my brainrot or fanart page "Glendy_Bluebird_2".

I grew up a perfectionist. I'm Asian, and I'm the eldest. I'm very keen on spotting "mistakes" in my crafts, which I guess was feeding my imposter syndrome problem that took out my joy in drawing. It got worse in 2023. I'm doing my best to practice getting over too much perfectionism right now, starting with doing a few drawing exercises or challenges such as this one. I'm experimenting with different art styles.

I really do hope I'll be able to post more after this. Though I am also quite preoccupied with school and work. Plus, lots of things have happened to me in that one year. Again, thank you so much for those who kept supporting me even though I've been mostly inactive these days for quite some time. I'm planning on offering you a gift, but I'm not sure when I'll be able to give it to you guys.

#artist #meettheartist #dp #artistoninsta #artistoninstagramm #animationstudent #artistsupport #dp2024 #art #bluebird

[pfctipper]

1, 10, and 12 for the violence ask!!

ahh ty for asking!

1 the character everyone gets wrong

i am picky about characterisation and do often find myself being like 'he would not say that' (although that is often bc it's easy for dialogue to end up super anachronistic. people just talked differently in the 1940s) but generally i like seeing different interpretations!

however anytime people draw leckie and web parallels i'm a bit like. hmm

also i think nix can veer off really quickly into a bit of a caricature. i really like @lewis-winters' meta on his drinking. it's not remotely comparable to the military but i went to an insanely high-pressure uni that was 50% private school kids and being alcohol-dependent was just. Normal. it wasn't even interesting enough to be joked about (the other less fun option was to develop an eating disorder)

to me there's something significant in that we only really see him through dick's eyes - he didn't speak to ambrose and doesn't feature much in any of the other men's books, and in the show he almost never interacts with people independently of dick (except the scenes with the german widow) so we don't necessarily get much of a sense of how he behaved around others. so i'm not convinced i quite pinned him down in uprooted and i think the show probably got him a bit 'wrong' too

10 worst part of fanon

oh this one is hard! i don't think there's too much fanon floating around? unless you count stuff the show invented, like web/lieb haha

i have Thoughts on how stanhope nixon gets portrayed in fics (bc he's only in his forties during wwii and also the product of the same environment as nix) but even for me that is seriously niche. blanche and ann sometimes seem to get pigeonholed as the 'sassy female sidekick' too

12 the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

lt peacock! mostly bc i just feel awful for him. we all know what web thought of him but he was trying his best and the scene where all the men are saying goodbye to him and he thinks they're being sincere breaks my heart. tab described him as a 'sincere and by the book officer but not a soldier' and i think it's a really stark reminder that at any other time in history he would probably just have gone and practiced law and not had to try to be a soldier

also the actor that played him has a great jawline

[coldshrugs]

longing's favorite season 🔹 prologue

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau rating: general - this is a simple introduction to the concept. later parts will be mature/explicit. word count: 925 additional entries: part 1 🔹 part 2 🔹 stable scene 🔹

Count Edmont De Fortemps has no cause to enter quietly, especially in his own home, yet he is quite good at it. Engrossed as she is in the most interesting part of this grand old house, Io doesn't hear him until a loose floorboard creaks under the weight of his bad leg.

She looks up from the shelf, "Edmont... Good evening. I was just admiring—"

"Yes, of course, Mistress Laithe, admiring..." He steps into the warm light cast by the fireplace; the red and black jewels decorating his coat take on a liquid sheen, like tiny droplets of blood suspended in time. It wouldn't surprise her if they fell to the floor with a splatter. "Exploiting. The difference is a matter of etiquette, is it not?"

What on earth? Io recoils slightly, shaken by his unfamiliar tone. "My lord?"

He waves a dismissive hand and settles heavily into an armchair by the hearth. "Come. Sit with me, then you may return to your admiring momentarily."

She follows him warily. The aura about him bears... not exactly a threat, but something malign. There is a game in process and she does not yet know the rules. With a satisfied smile, Edmont looks her over, sizing up posture and countenance as she sits across from him.

"My son is quite taken with you, Mistress Laithe. For now, in any case."

For now?

He continues. "Just two days past, he fairly begged me to sanction a union between you. He is an idealist—you are not free from his expectations, but if allowed, Haurchefant would live his life as a fairytale. On the other hand, I must be more practical, for the sake of my family and my country."

"Haurchefant wants to marry me?" Io whispers, looking from Edmont to the fire.

Haurchefant's attention has been plain since she stepped foot in Camp Dragonhead nearly a year ago. His warm welcome came with hungry eyes, and he proved an audacious flirt, in a charming sort of way. Charming enough to make a night in his chambers sound enticing once. While the interest and advances were not entirely one-sided and the time they've spent together has occasionally skirted the bounds of romance, Io feels his expectations weigh more heavily than hers can match. He's been a valuable friend and has shown her great kindness many times over. She owes him a great deal—her life and the lives of her friends most of all—but truth be told, they don't know each other very well...

With the Dragonsong War at its end and her name mostly cleared, she thought she might move on. But...

"That is his current whim, aye," Edmont sighs. "I was keen to deny it, of course. Heavens, the difficulty... You, a foreigner in these lands—Viera—with those markings on display, a bow on your back, and blood on your hands. I will hail you as a hero, of course, but I fail to picture you as a lady and wife. But perhaps... perhaps that is exactly what I need at this time."

Io stares into the flames as she listens to him. His hospitality seemed freely given but she cannot help but recall something he said moons ago: 'How quickly we forget the petty nature of men. I'd wager your friends are no more than pawns in another of my countrymen's games. Such is the way of things between the High Houses...'

House Fortemps is no different, she supposes.

Io's stomach turns. She dares to glance at him. The flickering light throws his features into a menacing caricature of the Edmont she's familiar with.

"At his side, and in residence at this estate, you could be the perfect example." He leans forward, looking at her through steepled fingers. "The less open-minded High Houses could learn to see the beauty in truly open borders. What do you think, my dear? You could help propel our fair city into its new age, complete with a life of comfort, free from grief, and you need do no more than you've already done: use my wealth, my resources, and entertain my son. What say you?"

"—daresay it was one of the more awkward sessions of my career. The bride sat beautifully while her soon-to-be husband fidgeted, though I hear he is an energetic man with a racing mind. They did converse during the sitting, as well-acquainted friends; his lordship is a veritable jester and his humor seemed to keep his lady at ease. I had been told they were a love match. Alas, I would liken the flame between them to a bedside candle instead of the roaring fire usually found in the betrothed... "

—Renowned portraitist Duremert, overheard while shopping in the Jeweled Crozier

"Preparations must be hastened, and leave the matter of gil to the Count. Unreasonable as his requests may be, surely we can provide yet another 'Wedding of the Season.' It does make one wonder just why the need for all this fuss and rush, but I digress."

—spied in a letter from Lisette Valentione

"His lordship has tasked me with a new mistress—the Warrior of Light herself! I want to hear all her stories! Although she's not a warrior anymore. She's a lady now, and I'm to look after her in the manor. I think she misses being out there. Can't say I blame her. If it were me, I wouldn't dream of giving up all those adventures to stay in this stuffy old house all day."

—Saulette, in service to House Fortemps, in a letter to her aunt

[minu-moni]

Both Kankri and Porrim are correct about gender roles in Alternian and Beforan society, but not on the way they probably think.

Easiest to address, let’s start with Porrim: she is indeed correct when she claims that women are oppressed in a way in Alternian and Beforan society. For example: Karkat calling the stuff Tavros likes “games for girls” on a derogatory way, Kankri being misogynistic to women, Doc Scratch being the real one in control of Alternia (him having an influence over HIC) etc.

Those are things that we actively see happen in Homestuck’s canon, they’re undeniable. We can’t turn a blind eye and pretend this isn’t a thing that happened. It literally is, just read the comic.

Meanwhile, Kankri is also right in that it doesn’t make sense for things to be like this. Alternian and Beforan society have no reason to have evolved in this way, considering male and female trolls serve the same purpose socially. So much so that, in canon, we don’t know what the difference between male and female trolls. Sure, female trolls have boobs but it’s never stated that trolls are mammals, while it was shown to us that they are born and grow up like insects, to the extent most people in fandom compare them to bees (they call their houses “hives”, there are drones that serve a reproductive role in their society, the Mothergrub functions similarly to a Queen bee, etc).

There was a point in fandom where people were theorizing that female trolls were actually biologically stronger than male trolls, specifically because Karkat calls LARP a “game for girls”, and we all know how deadly that game is. Also the fact that jadebloods are mostly females and are sent to take care of the caverns, which in practice means “your duty is killing unfit grubs”. Pretty brutal and nothing like human maternality (if you can even call what jadebloods do maternal)

So what’s the real issue? Why is their society like this? Well, I can’t say I know the truth, but I have an idea and it’s pretty simple:

Hussie did not plan troll society from the beginning and/or doesn’t know how to handle gender on a society where gender doesn’t play a big role.

By all means, troll society has no reason to be gendered the way it is. Female and male trolls serve the same purpose, only varying due to their blood, not their gender, and we don’t know anything about their history or worldbuilding to make a fair assumption that isn’t straight up made up.

It’s not really a perspective issue, but a writing issue. Hussie probably didn’t plan troll society all that much besides what little we see, and they sure as hell didn’t plan from the beginning to make 12 more trolls that were caricatures of tumblr users.

There’s multiple moments where characters are misogynistic for no reason and a few hundred pages later we learn that trolls care so little about gender that they don’t even have a concept of gay relationships, despite there not being gender prejudice in that regard. Meanwhile, at the same time, we have Feferi assuming Eridan was interested in a girl first and then later she suggested a boy and showed much more shock and intrigue on that possibility. It just doesn’t track!

For people who didn’t get the reasoning when people point out that Alternian and Beforan society have gender issues because of the way their biology works, now you have an explanation: poorly throughout worldbuilding, for which I can’t really fault Hussie for considering how insignificant it is on the long run.

So, how would a better gendered alien society with no gender influence look like worldbuilding wise? Well, I can’t really tell you a definitive answer since everyone is free to make their own version of it with a variety of possibilities. There isn’t a right or wrong to this question.

Now, if you would ask me how I’d write it, I’d tell you: I’d write it like Invader Zim’s Irken society.

On Irk, male and female irkens serve the same purpose regardless of gender. They all reproduce asexually (through means of the machine fuckery we see in flashbacks), serve the same roles, and societal positions are determined by another factor: height. Sound familiar?

It’s possible to explore gender oppression in a society like this regardless if the writer wants to, but it’s not a must. There’s plenty of space to write whatever variety of worldbuilding you want, and I think that’s pretty great!

Gender issues is a thing in Alternian and Beforan society as we see in canon, that’s undeniable, but now you know why it’s so weird that it’s a thing in a society where gender shouldn’t matter: poorly though-out worldbuilding.

[maskyartist]

Okay I’m making this it’s own post cause I’m fucking losing my mind, but mostly over one thing and that’s Roman Torchwick and how he’s characterized in this single moment

Now keep in mind I haven’t watched the full episode, nor have I gotten the chance to read Roman Holiday (a damn shame I know), but I don’t think I need to rn to ramble about this point cause it just hit me like a train.

CRWBY never forgot about Roman. They didn’t just kill him off and make Neo go solo.

They set this up from the start.

The fact that Neo is silent means we can never truly know what’s going on in her head. We don’t know her thoughts. We don’t know her feelings. All we knew was she was mad for Roman and went to get Cinder for it, then Ruby herself. But never the full extent of it all.

Neo’s muteness made US, the audience, almost forget about Roman to watch her perform as a side piece to a lot of the villains. Never truly forgetting, but assuming he wouldn’t be brought up again. The hat and scarf would be reminders but never would they actually mention Roman because they killed him off in such an unceremonious way.

So to actually see THIS

To see just how deep these two went, to get full in show confirmation that they were partners in every sense of the word (romantic or platonic take it how u will but I love some Gelato so this fed me well), only to have him SPEAK? It throws you off.

Not only is it confirmation that Roman was never forgotten, but it also proves one thing about Neo that I think is so important.

She had nothing beyond Roman. “One Thing” was right. She had Roman, and he was taken away from her. And for the rest of the series, through every adventure, every appearance, every moment she was and wasn’t on screen-

She was thinking of him. Remembering him. Keeping him in her thoughts.

I understand that Neo talking through Roman makes sense and that’s why he’s got the most speaking lines, but I do find it interesting that everyone else from the “dead people lineup” is so quiet. Such a caricature of themselves.

Neo never met them personally, she doesn’t even know Leo or Clover, and Penny, Pyrrha, Ironwood, and Ozpin are all based on Ruby’s own memories Wonderland is probably pulling from her. But even they’re barebones. The only ones who have speaking lines are Penny, Pyrrha, and Ozpin and they are extremely generic.

Meanwhile, Roman is fully fleshed out. A whole person. He has his attitude, his emotions, his reactions, Neo never forgot him. She never forgot his exact self.

She uses him as her mic because he was always her voice. He was the one who made things make sense.

The line “That’s what I offered her back on Remnant.” just proves how long Neo’s thought of him. Never forgetting their promises, never forgetting his words, never forgetting him.

How many nights did Neo stay up thinking of him? How many times did she create his illusion just to play pretend for a little longer?

Everyone forgot Roman. After his death, he practically never existed. Left everyone’s minds. He wasn’t important by that point because he wasn’t an immediate threat.

But Neo never forgot.

And somehow that’s more terrifying then I thought it would be… The idea of her constantly thinking about him, trying to keep him alive in her mind. It’s no longer just about Ruby killing Roman, it’s that she forgot. That’s what ticked Neo off even more, that Ruby didn’t even view what she did as important enough to remember.

“That’s what this is about?! You still blame me for What happened to Torchwick!”

As if to say “Really? That’s all this is? Just him?”

To her, it’s mockery. As if he wasn’t even worth her time when Roman meant everything to Neo. He was her whole world, judging by, once again-

“Always loved the idea of a place to run away from it all… Do whatever you want! I offered that to her back on Remnant.”

Roman took care of reality, while Neo was able to live in her fantasy world. He handled the world. She just had to live in it, perform for it, and enjoy whatever popped up next. He brought her the escape she’s always wanted. A world where no one could hurt her, no one could catch her… Just Roman and Neo. Partners in crime. In everything.

Roman was Neo’s whole world, her One Thing…and that was stolen from her.

She didn’t have the power to make that known before. But with Wonderland…she can do anything she wants.

[cityandking]

2, 26, 60, 75, 90 for minah, lira + vesper!

thanks dear! // 93 fun oc asks

2. What is their sexuality?

MINAH — bi LIRA — bi with a preference for men VESPER — demi/ace

26. Are they aware of their flaws?

MINAH — she's aware of some of them! she likes to pick at them when she can't sleep, like old scabs. (there are, I think, some flaws she's lived with so long she doesn't even register them anymore, and others she's buried so deep she's forgotten they're there) LIRA — she knows she's got 'em and knows they're making life harder for everyone, including herself, but she doesn't super care. there's a blight on. VESPER — is aware of more flaws than she actually has. she's internalized years of failing to be what other people want her to be in ways that have left her prone to undeserved self-recrimination

60. Describe the way they sleep. 

MINAH — in a perfect world: with a knife under her pillow, her back to a wall, and near a point of secondary egress. baring that: badly. she had nightmares before the joining and more after. she prefers being the big spoon (easier to make a quick exit) LIRA — sleep is about the only time she ever relaxes. she tends to sprawl and hold herself less tightly and look her age for once. she doesn't sleep well post-highever—too many nightmares VESPER — curled up tight to take up as little space as possible, unless she's perfectly comfortable and at ease in which case she'll unwind and stretch out. catlike, perhaps

75. If given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

MINAH — absolutely a doodler. nothing particularly polished, just something to do with her hands. probably caricatures of the party LIRA — she'd leave it for a long while but eventually start drawing. really nice sketch-style stuff, probably of alfie. she has some talent and it shows. VESPER — she's making to-do lists, notes to self, that sort of thing. maybe a few glyph or rune ideas in the margins, but mostly practical stuff to get out of her head and onto the page

90. Are they right or left handed?

MINAH — right handed LIRA — I think right handed? VESPER — right handed