Welp, this is it, A24 is now trying to copyright the backrooms. They’re taking down wallpaper designs from redbubble that were made ages before the film came out.
all the rights that come with marriage you should be able to have without marriage btw. you should be able to designate a person who can visit you in the hospital regardless of your relationship to that person.
Let's say I really wanted to reduce the number of children who die in car accidents. Car accidents are really bad, right? Nobody disagrees about that. And it would be much better for both the environment and the kids' health if they spent more time walking, or taking the bus. Perfectly reasonable. More cars off the road, safer roads, fewer kids getting hurt, healthier kids. A win-win!
Therefore, let's ban children from traveling by car and require all cars to have a scanner on the door that scans the government ID of everyone who gets in the car to make sure no kids are in there. After all, kids get hurt in car accidents all the time! We need to ban this right away!
hey so filming people without their consent is weird. you know that right? filming people you don't know and they aren't aware of what you're doing is creepy. posting strangers online is fucking weird. we're too comfortable with doing it now for shits and giggles, chasing some sort of viral hit instead of reckoning with the fact that you posted someone who did not consent to their body and face being publically used.
we're being pushed these Meta Glasses as if mass surveillance of strangers is fun and normal! it's weird!!! there are already reports that people are using these to film women without them knowing and sharing it to communities who get off on this shit. who else knows who people are filming. these glasses with cameras are not obvious and that is dangerous.
hello, im bentheduelist and i decided to introduce myself on tumblr.
i'm a professional saxophonist and composer specializing in fantasy music, jazz fusion, classical, and variety of other genres and blends. i'm currently interning with eric heberling, composer of the original elder scrolls series, working on orchestration for the wayward realms as well as a project for bethesda game studios. im composing music for an in progress indie called lantern of the laughless saint as well
my most recent project is Tamriel Reorchestrated, which includes orchestral rearrangements of daggerfall and other early elder scrolls music aiming to sound as if they were in later games such as morrowind, oblivion, or skyrim. i've also released Ancient Scrolls, a concept OST imagining what The Elder Scrolls VI might sound like if set in Hammerfell.
You can find the full album and individual tracks on my YouTube channel at youtube.com/@bentheduelist1 as well as all streaming platforms
If you're a game developer, or creator looking for music, feel free to reach out!
Now that everyone is discussing Nolan's Odyssey movie, I feel like it's a good time to let non-Italians know that the production dumped plastic props into the Italian sea. Weirdly enough I could not find any article in English about it but it's a fucking problem nonetheless.
I might translate this article later today. This one was the most complete one, even in Italian news it's not talked about that much.
Non è la prima volta che la produzione solleva un vespaio in Sicilia. A Lipari una squadra di sub sarebbe però già impegnata a bonificare i
They dumped plastic skeletons in environmentally protected areas, against the literal contracts they had to sign to get the permits to film in environmentally protected areas. Like they not only did a bad ecological thing that freaked out some divers, they literally broke environmental protection laws and their contract with the Italian government
please wear sunscreen!!! I've seen "fuck the beauty industrial complex" posts about complicated skincare regimens and am 100% with them except sometimes they mention sunscreen and no. no. absolutely not. sunscreen is a wonderful supportive friend who wants to keep you safe, and you should let her do it. throw out all your other cosmetics and skincare products if you want, but keep your sunscreen. and if you're not wearing sunscreen, start wearing it!!!! this is not about terror of aging, this is not about every tiny imperfection our fucked-up culture has made you feel insecure about, this is about protecting yourself from skin cancer. wear the damn sunscreen.
I miss when ads were a single click and then they’re gone. Now every ad has a minimum of three phases where you watch a video, exit the still frame of fake gameplay, and then exit the app download. That doesn’t even touch on the ones that forcibly take you to another app after opening a tab in safari without you ever touching the screen.
I hate advertising. I hate that you can’t do anything without companies jumping down your throat with mostly bullshit ads. I hate that billboards exist. I hate that every company unanimously decided to make their ads longer and longer. I hate that ad blockers try to charge you money and there are in app purchases to remove ads. I hate that my attention has become commodified. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.
Nocturnal being reduced to “big titty goth gf” over & over is kinda exhausting.
She’s Ur-Dra, the eldest spirit, likely the most powerful of the Daedric Princes, whose very nature is truly unknown, and could potentially be older than reality itself. Her artifacts can rewrite reality and unlock metaphysical barriers. She doesn’t ask for worship, only deals—FAIR deals, in contrast to Clavicus Vile or some of the more insidious Princes.
Like, yes, her visual depictions are very sultry, but that’s the least interesting thing about her
so i'm playing DA:2 and i'm very, very normal about sebastian vael (re: i'm absolutely losing my marbles over him) and i want to ramble about a scene i've been working on in one of my wips so. buckle up (with snippet from the scene under the cut :D)
in my mind this takes place sometime after the first part of his companion quest (the one with the desire demon). because sebastian, at least in this fic, is not only struggling with desires for power, for wealth, for control, but for hawke. and not marian--oh no, he's falling fast and hard for garrett hawke. he's repressing a lot, but none moreso than this. especially compared to my blue-leaning hawke, who has met him with a kindness and compassion that he's been starved for. he's hungry, sebastian, eager, but the chantry preaches control and self-sacrifice and that is what he will cling to.
because if he falls from grace, if he falls from the one family he has left, what will become of him?
it happens on a night when hawke invites him to stay. their adventuring ran late--the streets of kirkwall are dangerous on a good day, deadly at its worst. and it is hard to turn down hawke when he is so earnest--when there's a sadness in his eyes that sebastian recognizes when hawke off-handedly mentions how empty the estate is. how large it is. a tug at his heart when hawke meets his gaze and says, "there will always be room for you, should you wish to make use of it."
it always catches him off-guard, hawke's benevolence. the gentleness of his heart. hawke does not say much about the Maker; the templars and the chantry as a whole, yes, but never the Maker himself. Sometimes, in these moments, he thinks there is no one closer to the Maker's image. Patient, kind, selfless Hawke. Crafted in the Maker's image, with a steady hand and justice mete with wisdom. Slow to anger, quick to lend a helping hand...
Maker preserve him if he spends too long looking upon hawke's hands.
so, he spends the night, dining and conversing with hawke. under the full focus of his attention--a rarity, with how split hawke's attentions are these days. there is nothing like it. the way hawke makes him feel seen. the safety he exudes. the casual way he lays a hand atop his when their discussion delves into deeper, rougher waters. the furrow of his brow when he delves into a childhood anecdote that was, perhaps, not as humorous as he once thought. hawke looks at him like he is a precious thing--something to treasure, to covet, to protect. and he does not know what to do with those feelings.
so they simmer inside, and he prays to the Maker for guidance.
of course, the Maker would not pass up such an opportune time to test his strength of will. his dreams are warped by Desire. he is left aching, desperate; flushed and aroused, mind full of steady hands and kind words and hawke. he wakes to hips rocking against the mattress, the man's name upon his lips, and shame eating him away from the inside out. what kind of man is he, to take advantage of hawke's kindness in such a way? to warp his kindness, to pervert his gentleness?
so he rises, and kneels, and prays. prays and prays and prays. wills this Desire to leave. prays for strength. for guidance. for someone to show him the path to tread. grips his hands together until his knuckles run pale, until his throat is rubbed raw. a sign. a miracle. anything.
the door opens, a curiosity drawn by the light, by the murmurs of his desperation. hawke enters, and he realizes that this is the real test. "I thought you had finished your evening prayers?" a jest, light and soft. he dare not look at hawke, lest he fall further into temptations.
"i find that it is nights like these that i need the Maker's guidance more than ever."
hawke is quiet for a long moment, and then he asks, "may i sit with you, sebastian?"
Hawke hums, soft. "Would you be opposed to company?"
"You would want to stay?" He returns his gaze to Hawke, eyes wide. Meets Hawke's tawny eyes, gets drawn into the soft curl of his grin. When he nods, something sad creeping into his expression, he forces his voice to work again. "I would be honored to have your company, Hawke." A good test of temperance. Of patience. The object of his desire—the source of his sinful thoughts—here to see how he attempts to purge them from his being.
Hawke crosses the room. Barefoot, steps soft on the rug. "You can stay where you are," Hawke murmurs when he moves to stand. "Well, with one exception." Hawke walks past him to step towards the head of the bed, pulling one of the pillows off. "I won't hear anyone else complain of the ache in their knees. Up."
He rises, clumsy, heart thudding heavily against his rib cage. He wonders if Hawke can hear it. The pillow is not tossed at the spot he was kneeling at. Instead, Hawke places it down and then settles upon the edge of the bed. He pats the spot next to him in invitation, smiling softly. "Come kneel next to me, Sebastian."
Swallowing heavily, he makes his way to Hawke. He's sure he's an embarrassing sight, stiff and awkward. His limbs feel too gangly next to the hulking wall that is Hawke; there is something nice about it too, though. Being small compared to Hawke. A doe resting in the shade of an Oak tree, nestled comfortably in the roots. Hawke watches him, and it strikes him—as it always does in these inopportune moments—how handsome Hawke is.
His eyes are always the first thing he is drawn too. Copper colored in the golden hours of the evening; dark, almost rusted in the low firelight of the guest room. His brow is especially heavy, tonight. Dark and furrowed, though his countenance would not suggest that he is troubled. Concern, he thinks, marks Hawke's brow tonight, and it is enough to make him feel flayed open. Because concern on Hawke is raw and intense; it is all-consuming, a heavy woolen cloak placed over beaten, bloody shoulders. Soaking the ache, rubbing it raw, soft and scratching and leaving him with the urge to sink his fingers in to claw and find purchase. Blood under his nails, callouses catching on new scars. Bruises blossoming, painting his skin in technicolor. A canvas for Hawke to ruin or rectify at his whims.
Compassion colors every piece of Hawke tonight. Softens the normally broad, imposing shape of his shoulders. Brings them slack and relaxed, opening his chest. And Maker's Breath, his chest. Equally broad, but gentle in shape. Rounded pectorals and belly, hiding the muscle and power that the man has in spades. Covered in dark, coarse hair; an enticing trail from his naval all the way up his chest. He wonders how it would feel against his fingers; if it is soft, in the way that all other pieces of Hawke seems to be. A surprising contrast to the rough, rugged appearance of the man.
There's a cord of muscle in his neck that he wishes to feel against his teeth. To take it and feel it flex, watch as Hawke's jaw tilts back. Feel the scratch of his beard against his cheeks, his lips. Run fingers through his hair—ink black, mussed and thick. To brush it out of his eyes, to smooth it back from his temples so that he may gaze upon Hawke's face in full. To watch his face take on the soft demeanor he chooses in these quiet, intimate moments. To have it turned upon him—to watch his eyes darken, to be appraised like a piece of meat or a prized gem, whatever suits Hawke's fancy—and be worthy of getting to look at the Maker's finest creation close enough to see every divot and curve of his form.
And it is not just the physical beauty of Hawke that has bewitched him; it would almost be easier if it was. But he is gentle, and steadfast, and generous. He is kind, and patient, and warm. There is a heat that simmers within him. An anger—a sense of justice—but it is so well-tempered that it never teeters into the messy, ugly sin of wrath. He is a man of the people. He is a man for the people. A champion.
He has been thinking, lately, of the tales Anders has told about the Templars. He wonders if it would be so bad for Mages if all the Templars were like Hawke. If he were a Mage, he would not mind being kept by Hawke's hand. Stern it might be, it has shown time and time again that it favors the gentlest path. He could think of no man that would not be settled by Hawke's hand.
Ironic that his heart only beats faster, entire body stilling in fright, the second that Hawke offers his hand.
"Thank you," he says softly, grateful his voice does not tremble. It is thick, however, full of an emotion he is too afraid to place. He forces his hand to move slowly, hoping not to belie both his nerves and his eagerness. He wants, so very desperately, but he is terrified of Hawke learning the secret of his unrest. The source of his shame, and guilt. Of his desire. Worries that Hawke will somehow find the evidence despite the fact that he had thoroughly rinsed, stripped, and replaced the sheets upon the bed. Prays that Hawke cannot feel the residual heat, the smell of arousal and sin that surely clings to him like a second skin. He swallows heavily the second their fingers curl, nearly shuddering when Hawke turns their hands so that he may hold it better.
He is touched so rarely that each time feels like a gift. Let alone touched with bare hands. And hands like Hawke's—gentle and calloused, warm and careful—are even rarer. There's a noise that builds in his throat—a sob, he thinks, though he bites his lip hard enough to ache and keep it at bay. Heat pools in his stomach; traitorous, sinful, and he knows that he should pull away before he taints Hawke with his filth. That there not enough prayers in the entire Chant to absolve him of this.
But it is difficult to feel like that matters when Hawke smiles—mostly in his eyes, gaze heavy. But it is a smile, and it is only for him. His thumb sweeps across his knuckles. Once. Twice. On the third, he squeezes, and murmurs, "I am glad you are here, Sebastian."
Hawke spoils him. He is not worthy of this kindness, not when all he does is warp and twist it into a perversion. His breath hitches; perhaps he really will cry during is prayers tonight. He knows Hawke will not fault him. He may ask, in that caring way he does, when he tries to take another man's problems and turn them into a burden they both can carry. When he tries to fix the unfixable, because nothing is impossible when Hawke is involved. He may even try to wipe his tears, to gentle him and tell him that there is no fault—no sin—in what he is feeling.
And the worst part is, he thinks that is what he wants most of all.
To be told that he is absolved of this. That he has done enough. That the price has been paid, and he will not be damned. That he is not wrong, or wicked, or terrible. That the Maker will find it within His heart to forgive him. That this is not even an offense that requires forgiveness at all. He knows in his heart that it is not the case. That it is a greater sin to lie, and twist the words of the Maker. Knows that this is being kept in the book with a tally of all his sins, and when he is judged it will be amongst the things that result in his damnation.
"You flatter me, Hawke." He murmurs. "Truly, some days I feel as though I am stumbling through Kirkwall like a man blinded. I do not know what I would do without you. Every night I thank the Maker for placing you within my path."
Just as he prays each night that the Maker will purge the desire within his heart, so that he might somehow be able to live with both His divine blessing and Hawke. Because he thinks, damnably, that he cannot simply have one without the other. Greed and Envy ran through his veins even as a youth, festering into something wicked he thought was beaten out of him. But they snake in his stomach now, winding up to try and sink their teeth into Hawke.
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