¯\_(ツ)_/¯

20s,woc,shellfish allergy, capricorn

[philcollinsenjoyer]

Thank you divorce for all you've done for music

[prettyboyhere]

sister post to this

[mothtowers]

steven universe fans sucked but none of yall get it. we were suffering, im so sorry we lashed out. it was the sigh of the opressed

[mothtowers]

they made us wait 5 months for an episode about how a character called mr smiley had a friend named mr frowny

[clytemnestraaa]

u all should reblog this and tell me what song you thought was the deepest shit ever at 11 years old lol. i’ll go first it was dear mister president by the dixie chicks and also what if god was one of us by joan osborne

[wizardsisananimal]

the procrastinator’s mind will invent distractions you’ve never conceived of in order to avoid tasks even a dog could do.

[fishingboatproceeds]

As I near 200,000 followers here at fishingboatproceeds, I just wanted to say Cock is one of my favorite tastes. Not only that, but balls smell amazing. It makes me go a little crazy on it to be honest. Like, I cannot get it far enough down my throat to be satisfied. I’m only satisfied when I feel those intense, powerful, salty, hot pumps of cum down my throat. When I sit back on my heels, look up at you with cum all over my mouth and slobber running down my neck, hair all fucked up and wipe my mouth with the back of my arm and ask you if I did a good job and you cannot even speak because I’ve drained all of your energy out the tip of your dick….. That’s when I’m satisfied.

[arkham]

this how we lost post editing and it was still worth it

[heritageposts]

date of origin: 2015

[arolust]

i'm like this bc my parents didn't give me the sex talk as a kid so i've just been guessing the whole time and i've come to the conclusion that it probably involves wearing a dog collar while someone is nice and/or mean to you

[madeofklay]

What I learned not to do in art school

[felipeiv]

[malibuklaus]

[galadriel1010]

Sometimes you get a brief glimpse into the American worldview and decide that you don't want to know.

[transcyberism]

I cannot stress enough that this meme is entirely literal. there's no reference or subtext you don't know. these are simply the objectively most popular works of art from each denomination.

[zoesupreme]

0-0 score in the world cup final for 86 entire minutes this sport is so unserious I'm sorry. y'all really watch this shit?

[zoesupreme]

they're fucking starving him

[eldrith]

spilt wine jacaerys velaryon

“commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to your husband's awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.” 

jacaerys velaryon x wife!reader words: 4.7k notes: jacaerys & reader are aged up to 23. i cut a scene from one of my ongoing fics today & decided to rewrite it for a standalone instead ! hope u enjoy this is severely unedited warnings: afab reader, married bickering, alcohol consumption, tbh porn with no plot but a lot of dialogue, vague timeline, fluff & romance. ONE gentle & good-natured smack to jace’s head. smut - oral (fem receiving), teasing, hair pulling, sliiiight sub!jace if you squint, he's really teasing, sort of spoiled reader but its bc hes is so in love. be warned this is mostly foreplay.

masterlist

“THEY ARE FOOLS.”  

The sound of your husband’s voice comes breathed over a wide-spread map, sent by raven from the Sea Snake and then poached in haste from the hands of a squire as you’d both left the council chambers. Now the parchment sits, spread over the large oak of your shared solar, pinned at one corner with a tallow candle and another with a bowl bearing the remnants of cherries. The hour of Eels approaches upon the high moon out your casements, though inside you are well-lit in torch and company alike. 

He has not yet troubled himself to remove his doublet, though he’s shed the heavier dressings of office in the spaces between your shared solar and bedchambers, left discarded across the back of a chair with a sigh. His hair, so often kept neat, has suffered the abuse of his own hands at least twice since since leaving the council chamber; you can see the furrows of it, dark and disordered, and there too lies ink, faint along the side of his palm where he’s already begun marking the map before you’ve even properly closed the door behind you. He does not look at you yet - no, he looks only down at King’s Landing, at the coastline along Massey’s Hook, at all the small failures of an evening he has clearly not finished refighting in his own head. Recalling the incessant irritations of the council, you endure the harrowing thought that his pricked stipulations from this evening might yet haunt you both for some hours to come.

Though, in the spoken words of your husband lives less a true anger and more some worn frustration after such a laborious handful of hours cooped within the war council chambers. “The lot of them.” 

You unclasp your own cloak, soothing your skirts as you cross towards your husband. In attempt at jest, you let your lip lift faintly. “You name your Queen a fool?” 

A glance over his shoulder coaxes you to relent the daring accusation, sighing as you lift your hands in placation.

“Never,” he still responds in kind to your needling, shaking his head faintly. “Only–” 

Though his frustration breaks in his words, and he only sighs. You only watch as he reaches for the cup at his elbow, finds it empty, and reaches instead for the flagon, pouring himself with rather more generosity than the hour calls for. Once near the brim, he pushes it toward you and, in your mild amusement, you smile into the lip of his cup. 

He watches you drink, and shakes his head faintly. “Lord Celtigar thought it madness, my mother thought it madness–” he huffs, turning to you sidelong, visage shrouded in golden candlelight. A gesture toward you, as he undoes the buckles of his sword belt and drops it upon the long table beside the map. “Did you note, too, how Lord Bar Emmon thought my proposition madness at such volume he nearly cracked his own voice?”  

You laugh before you mean to, wine halfway from your lips. It is a small relief, for you both - so scrupulously dutiful in matters of council and of war - to find some private wickedness reserved only for each other, behind doors no lords nor councilmen may follow you through. And, dramatic as he is prone to be when alone with you, your husband is not wrong to have taken his irritation from an evening so agonizingly wasted. 

“He does have a gift for it,” you concede, passing the cup to Jacaerys’ hand. You watch, in turn, as he drinks, and continue: “I counted three occasions upon which he mentioned the same counter.” A gesture of half-exasperated, half-helpless amusement from you, you lean your hip closer to the table to face your husband. “And each time it felt as though it were newly occurring to him. It truly astounds me, in a way.”  

Jace conjures the princely decency to appear mournful even as he smirks at your words. “Always about the tides, that one. He is very fond of the tides, have you noticed?” Your husband lifts the half-drunk cup of wine to glare at Lord Corlys’s map over its rim, and you must bite back a fond grin. 

“I’m nearly forced to suspect he has no other thoughts at all,” Jace huffs into the cup, “that his mind simply produces ‘the tides, my prince’ whenever pressed on any matter. It pertains to no matters, as it stands, though he proceeds as though only the waters along Massey’s Hook exist for consideration at all.” 

Your lips purse in amusement, biting along your grin only for a moment. 

“The tides, my prince,” you presently intone, pitching your voice low and pompous in rather unfair imitation.

Jacaerys nearly laughs outright, though it is smothered in some attempt to remain in his ire from council past. Your husband does not deceive you; his lips still waver faintly, his eyes still gleam and dance in the torchlight as they regard your imitation.

It is this which spurs you to press on, “I only consider, my prince, that Vhagar might not read the Maester’s almanacs–”  

“Don’t,” your husband interjects in amusement, grinning helplessly as he swallows his sip of wine, “don’t, or I’ll spit this across Corlys’s map.” 

“–and so cannot be expected to observe the tides in her own campaigns of war–” 

Jace laughs outright now. “Stop,” he insists, coughing faintly from his swallow of wine; and, delighted, he reaches across the edge of the table to cover your mouth with two ink-stained fingers. You promptly bite lightly in retaliation, though this only makes his smile widen. 

The Lord Celtigar fares little better a moment later, invoked and verbally torn between the two of you in the same breath; a provocation born of an endless habit of throat-clearing before every single sentence, you exchange poor imitations of the innocent man until the two of you are leaning towards each other across the table, half-drunk on wine and flushed with relief of duty. It is a rare thing, to be nowhere near a council chamber, with no one in the room requiring anything of either of you at all tonight. 

“Gods,” Jace murmurs at last, dragging a hand down his face, “You’re quite lucky I haven’t choked.” 

You soothe your dress, crossing to perch instead beside him rather than corner; And, the very moment you open your mouth to return the sentiment of relief, he speaks once more. 

“The tides, my prince,” he says again. 

It absurdly brings you both into laughter once more, wine-loosened and gilded in warm light, muffled by palms and chastened lips as though you both know it is foolish and hardly as amusing as it feels. Though it proves no matter besides, for you and your husband finish your cup of wine and fill it once more before the laughter fully ebbs. 

It is once the last sigh has bubbled past your lips that he reaches for you properly, cupping your jaw in his whole palm to kiss you. Your lips find his slow, warm; wine and spice upon the tongue, you lean further into his taste eagerly. A palm skates up your side, sliding back to gather you by waist against him.

“Far better company than the council,” you murmur against his mouth, not quite breaking the kiss to say it. A low hum rolls through his throat, echoing faintly between your mouths. 

“Immeasurably,” he agrees, the word half-lost between your lips. Faithfully Jacaerys kisses you, leaning wholly into your space as he keeps himself propped with a palm on the map below. He leans back only a breath then, lips pressed and parting. “Bar Emmon,” he says absurdly, still smiling into the kiss, “does not kiss half as well, I’d wager.” 

A sound of displeasure from you as you lean back; disturbed, faintly, at his eagerness to bring back up the man who pestered him so much all evening. “I should hope you’ll never discover for yourself,” you manage, laughing faintly even as his mouth finds yours again, swallowing any such attempts to speak further. 

A huff of laughter escapes him despite his mouth upon yours, and it’s in such a sound that chases off whatever glum irritation cast the council had left behind. And so you merely let him laugh, one hand fisting in the front of his doublet to keep him close, solid, yours in a way the council chamber rarely lets him be these days.

After a moment, he pulls away once more. “We should be studying the map,” Jace decides only a few moments later, an observation which causes a roll of your eyes. “The Lord Hand lent it to me with intention of regaining it soon.” 

Lips part, only the glossy string of your shared affection connecting you for a moment in the candlelight as you lean faintly against the table, sighing. “Might it wait just for a moment, my Prince?” you suggest. 

 “It cannot wait,” Jace says, though he certainly makes no move at all to leave you, forehead dropping to your skin instead. His lips brush along your neck as he continues, “the ink is barely dry, wife, and half of it is guesswork besides. Corlys marked the shoals from memory, he said in his raven, and memory seventy years old at that. If I do not commit it to my own hand soon–”

Perhaps it is impatience, or simply confusion as to why your husband has taken up cartographic studies with his grandfather in the midst of war; whatever it is, you only sigh, pressing yourself more firmly to the line of his own warm body, feeling his breath hitch faintly against your throat. 

“Commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to his awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.” 

And indeed, whatever protest he means to make next is lost entirely as you kiss him again; he, in what might be a surge of either affection or mild frustration, only pushes further into your warmth.

Though his enthusiasm proves too eager, for between the two of you and the oaken table and considerably more enthusiasm than sense, you overbalance together: his knee catches the chair, yours tangle ungracefully in your own skirts, and you tumble in a sudden sprawl backwards across the map itself, parchment crackling and ripping faintly beneath you. It is a faint clatter you hear before you smell the wine spilt over the edge of the table, though neither of you seem particularly rushed to right the fallen cup. 

He catches himself above you on one forearm, laughing outright once again, the sound of it rich, startled through your chamber. Your heart still – after all the moons wed to him – flips at the sound. 

“Oh,” you tut, shaking your head in faint tease, “And now you’ve just certainly ruined Corlys’ map,” you inform him gravely, one hand still fisted in his doublet, refusing to let him retreat even the small distance his laughter has suddenly put between your mouths. He hums in agreement, though seemingly entirely unrepentant as he glances down to where your shoulder has scuffed clean through some careful notation of the Gullet’s currents. He purses his lips. “I suppose the council will have my head.”

A huff from your lips, tipping your head. “Well, after Aegon and Aemond’s, I imagine there will be little room left on the pike for a head like yours.” 

Laugh spills regretfully from full-kissed lips above you. He is wholly pressed against you now, slotted rather wonderfully between your thighs as you lay upon the table, caged by arm and breath. You lips your chin only faintly, just to bump your nose against his own. 

“A comforting thought,” his nose brushes yours, dimple deep now, all the solemnity of an hour ago nowhere to be found in him. 

You, fought and lost against your own battle of grin, only shake your head. “I suppose you may keep your own in the meantime, then.” 

A palm snakes beneath your tresses to cup your head, turning you in kind until he has clear access to the junction of your throat and clavicle. “Generous of you,” he muses dryly, a dimpled grin flashing as leans, shifting closer into you to stir a hitch of excitement through your breast. “And here I thought you were planning to sow my name in disgrace for my impropriety laying you upon this map.” 

“Your impropriety,” you scoff in echo, though the word catches somewhere breathless in your throat as his mouth finds the soft skin below your ear. “That itself is rather the whole trouble tonight, seeing as it was you who kissed me first, you who could not be persuaded to leave off Corlys’s precious shoals for even a moment, you who cannot forgive Lord Bar Emmon for his blunder, and you who has now ruined the very map you are so determined to defend–” 

Your words, though breathed out quickly, are lost scarce to a shiver of pleasure; for Jace has latched himself upon the tender sensitivity of your throat, and only smiles against the goosepimples rising beneath his tongue. Still, you do not give up, even as teeth scrape along your pulse gently. “So I suppose you’ll–” a breathy sigh, “have to forgive me if I find it difficult to accept the blame for your own temper. It was merely distracting.” 

A hum presses along your chest, dragging a fiercely hungry heat through your very core. His lips brush over the neckline of your dress before lifting his chin.

“Was it?” He does not sound remotely remorseful, and indeed his amber eyes melt into the candlelight with mirth. “I shall have to remember that, then, for the next council you find too tedious to bear–” 

You lean back, exasperated by half in his mention of council once more. 

“Jace.” 

He beams; a beautiful man, your husband, and you cannot curb the smile you helplessly give in return. His lips part in echoed tease of your impatience. 

“Wife.” 

You shove at his shoulder, only half in earnest, and he lets himself be shoved, rolling half onto his elbow beside you amidst the ruin of parchment and spilled wine, both of you grinning now. It is when his mouth finds the junction of your throat once more that the hunger comes back thrice as strong, and you pull him right above you once more even as you glance at the ruined map beneath your sprawled figure, the creeping stains of spilt wine. 

“We ought to resolve this mess, I suppose,” you sigh, hoping he will indeed ignore your words and continue the path he makes with his lips now across your chest. 

And, it seems, your Prince has a mind to ignore your orders this eve - for he merely continues his own line of thought as though you'd been discussing it all along. “I’m only saying,” he begins, apropos of certainly nothing as he lifts his head enough to look faintly wounded – unconvincing as it is, given the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth – “A word from you, and he might have folded twice as fast.” 

Your head falls back in exasperation, even as his teeth nip at the soft skin of your neck. Back again he’s circled, to the man in the council – as though there lies no other pressing matters he might attend to at present. 

“You are meant to be resolving the mess,” you remind him, gesturing at the ruined parchment beneath you both, though your hand finds its way to the back of his neck regardless, pressing him instead closer to where your breasts rise and fall through your dress. His mouth follows willingly, nosing along the neckline to press his lips against your beating skin. 

“I am resolving many things at once,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself, and returns his attention to your body once more as though the council chamber has not just risen between you a third time this hour. He huffs only faintly, the breath of which sends a shiver across the valley of your breasts. He begins to speak again: “You might resolve my grievance while you’re at it–” 

Your groan of impatience and disbelief ricochets through the solar, though it is drowned by your husband’s incessant prattling even as his tongue dips across the flush of your breasts, pulling at the hem of your dress to reveal more sweet skin to his blabbering lips, “–It would only take a word: ‘Jace was right, and Lord Bar Emmon a tedious old fool, and I shall say so plainly next time for all to hear.’”  

With fingers threading through thickened dark curls, you let out a flighty laugh, the desire molten through you despite the unfavorable topic he cannot seem to let go. “You want me to rehearse a speech whilst you ravish me?” You murmur. 

That cursed mouth curves against your skin. “I want my wife’s loyalty declared before the whole council,” he leans back only a breath, enough to slip the shoulder from your gown, sliding it gently over your skin to reveal your breasts. Though you nearly gasp at the chill of air, any such discomforts are remedied as his breath fans across such tender skin, lips trailing as he pleases. You sigh softly, fingers tightening within his hair.

Helpless to his charming idiocy, you laugh, tugging gently upon his hair until he lifts his head to look at you properly, mock-solemn amber eyes meeting yours in the candlelight.

“You are dreadfully greedy tonight, husband,” you receive his eager kiss between your words, well aware of how his eyes hook and remain only on the sweet form of your lips as you speak, “for a man who won an argument twice in council over without any help from me at all. You’ve been brooding as though you lost it wholly.” 

A pout, one which you can only help to lean forward and kiss; you catch his lower lip between your teeth and drag back, unhurried, until whatever else he meant to say dissolves into a rough, startled groan. He grins around his words, dipping his head once more to nip along the soft of your flesh. 

“Well, please forgive me for preferring when you fight at my side. It is far preferable to being left on my own.” 

He does not witness the roll of your eyes; though, all the same, for he has endeavored to slowly drag your skirts in a bunch upon your thigh with his palm, slow enough to drive you mad but pressing enough for you to understand his intentions. A tantalizing thing, even as you scoff. 

“I was at your side,” you insist, and a soft gasp escapes you as one palm rises from your neck to instead palm along the curve of your breast, a soft thing despite how his teeth catch at your skin. “Though it seems I’ve wounded your pride, seeing as you’ve returned from council only to complain further, even with your wife so willingly beneath you.” 

He hums something rather insolent and you only smile, far too indulgent as your hand slides to grip his shoulder and hold on to the warmth there. A sigh leaves your lungs as you purse your lips, “So I suppose I must make it up to you in some way or another.” 

A slow grown grin, then, pressed into soft skin beneath your ear; and whatever further words you intend to further dole him scatter from your tongue as he hums low. 

“Attend your husband, then,” he whispers, his palm coursing finally from your lifted skirts to the warm flesh of your upper thigh, coaxing your knee to hitch along his hips, “He has endured a rather trying council, and a map now ruined besides, and he would have–” 

“He would have,” you cut in, hand sliding from the breadth of his shoulder to fist gently in his hair once more, drawing his face back to yours before he can talk himself further into mischief, “rather less of his own voice, and rather more attention paid to his wife. Yes?”  

A hum so near to a moan comes from kiss-bitten lips, warm against your mouth. He nods faintly in some eagerness, biting his lip only faintly as his eyes dance between your own. “As my lady wife commands,” he absconces. 

And at last, he holds his tongue of words and endeavors instead – as all good husbands must learn to do – to use it in far more pleasurable ways. 

It is mere moments in which his palms grasp at your hips; with a gentle enough tug, he brings you nearest the edge of your table, bare from his hitching of your skirts and dragging of your neckline. A gasp from you, not scandalized as much as jesting at his sudden eagerness, coaxes a small glint of amusement in your husband’s amber gaze. It remains there, flickering in his love and hunger alike for you, as he sinks to his knees right there upon the stone floor. 

And, though you’d prefer not to allow such weaknesses, still you let yourself sigh a shaky, flighty thing as the sensation of his lips drag teasing, horribly slow kisses along the inner plush of your thighs. 

“Jace,” you sigh, a half-plead half-scold as his eyes glint up at you, the flash of a dark-dragoned signet ring upon his finger disappearing as he bunches your skirts further above your hips. And then he has the gall, it appears, to shush you; a placating thing, a rush of air upon shivered skin. “Shh,” he murmurs into the sweetness of your thigh, and you cannot attempt to feign resentment for the action as it conjures a rush of arousal further through you.  

Gathered upon your elbows, you’re helpless to watch as those dark curls glisten in candlelight, wax weeping round your stuttering breaths, the scent of wine heady in the evening air and humming with a terrible anticipation. Cruel, your husband can be, in his teasing. So very cruel indeed. 

It is through the anticipation and silence in which you crack. 

“Jacaerys–” 

You let out a sharp moan instead at the taper of his name, whatever command you had dying on your tongue; for his lips have pressed soundly upon your womanhood, roving a shiver of pleasure through your very core. A canting tilt of your hips arches your spine in surprise, a warm rush of pleasure flooding your whole being. 

And he, the horrible man, dares smile against you. 

It is with little remaining control that your hand rises to grip through his curled tresses; a trembling thing as his own large palms move to lift your thighs until he is settled firmly between them, humming to himself as your heels come to rest over broadened shoulders. Brushing away strayed curls, you gaze upon your love with some mix of awe and worship as he laves against you, tongue gathering your desire and letting out a low moan of his own at your taste. 

Your own breath leaves your lips in gasps; sharp at first, though his ministrations cease suddenly as your husband lifts his chin slightly. A loss of pleasure shutters through your chest and you loosen your grip upon his hair, glancing down at him in half-lidded confusion. 

“You've a beauty mark just here,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, tracing it slow with his mouth. “I don't believe I've properly admired before.”

You love him, with your whole soul and being; and yet you might scream; A horrible tease he is, indeed speaking far too much for the promises he’d made to you not moments ago. “You’ve admired it a hundred times,” you get out impatiently, breathless as you are – for he has begun to trail his path of kisses directly to your core once more. A hum from him, as one palm grasps wholly round your thigh to spread you further for him to admire. A shameless thing, perhaps, though the heat of it spreads pleasure along your chest just as warmth kisses your cheeks in droves. 

“And I intend to admire it a hundred more, my love,” he murmurs into you at length, rendering you straddled upon that terrible line between pleasure and tease. “Some things bear repeating,” he then decides. And it is as though you see the thought cross his mind through his eyes; though before you can tell him to cease it before it comes past his lips, a soft laugh, half-muffled against your heat, startles you. 

“Unlike Lord Bar Emmon’s arguments,” he mutters then, the irritation of which boils suddenly beneath your skin, coaxing your eyes wide with disbelief as he dares continue. “–Which improve with exactly no amount of repetition–” 

Your palm smacks lightly across the back of his head, disturbing the gloss of curls at rest between your thighs. 

"Jace." You catch a fistful of his hair this time, not ungently, tipping his face properly up to yours. "Cease speaking, entirely, I–I mean it.” 

And perhaps it would have come strong from your lips, if not for the shakiness, that trembling desire he’s seemed to coax within you despite his teasing. “Entirely,” he repeats, testing the word as though it truly offends him. You huff out an impatient sigh, well aware of both your impatience and your insatiable desire for your husband at present; though too, you are well aware of your Jacaerys’ predisposition to spoiling you in all aspects of your marriage – and he, quite often, finds it a true struggle to say no to you. He goads you, you know this. WIthin such a handsome visage lies a glint of amusement he gains at your slow torture. “That seems a rather severe–” 

“Jacaerys,” you all but whimper, and that does it; something in the word dissolves whatever torturous, inopportune argument he’d been building, and the grin that spreads over his face is helpless now, boyish, all pretense of debate abandoned.

“Alright, yes, mercy. I’ll yield to my pretty wife.” His lips brush against your aching desire, shoulders shaking with amusement. “How horrible,” he then dares utter, as though speaking to himself. “The Prince of Dragonstone, brought low by his own wife, in his own solar, over a map–” 

You make to sit up, cheeks hot with the hazy mixture of desire, pleasure, and sheer irritation. “Speak once more about that map, and I swear to you I will leave this chamber.” 

At this, he goes rather properly still between your thighs, the teasing drained out of him all at once; and for a few breaths, neither of you moves at all. Candlelight licks along the ruined parchment beneath you both, and the scent of wine is strong enough within the chamber that you imagine it’s breached the edges of the map, too – blooming ruby along the rivers and coasts etched with ink, spreading its tendrils closer as though it, too, wishes to touch the man between your thighs. The torchlight catches its own gold warmth along the line of his jaw, and his eyes are amber gone dark and steady; they flick, searching your face as though to be certain the threat is only half meant. It is, of course. 

Still, in the heavy breaths between you, neither you nor Jace look away; a shared thing so deep there are no words, an understanding perhaps only known between two people who have shared a bed and a war and worlds worth of trust between them and know each other too well now to need explaining. 

A smile blooms, first across full lips, glistening with desire; then along carved cheekbone, spreading to warm his eyes until the whole chamber feels, for a moment, infinitely warm and gentle. Your own smile creeps along your visage, just as easy as dusk chases sun. 

You could not love him more, you think. 

“Not another word,” he swears to you then, earnest enough as he is cheeky; he's already smiling against your skin, mouth finding the soft of your thigh in silent apology, one hand splaying warm along your stomach to ease you down again, unhurried and certain as only he could ever be with your body. A warmth spreads through you, that familiar affection that pricks along your cheeks and flutters your heart.

And then, after far too much anticipation, a slow press of his lips; your sigh soothes along the breath of the torches as his fingers gently press into the thick of your thighs, soothing the tense of your muscles. Eyelashes flutter as his tongue laves slowly upon your heat, nudging your bundle of nerves enough to have you keening, whispering his name into the quiet of the chamber. Indeed, you begin quite immediately to quiver at the sensation; A shuttering breath of pleasure exhales from your lips, brows stitching together with a thread of sweet ecstasy. Though after only a few more moments, his lips whisper once more against you. “I’ll be the very picture of silence, I swear it, my love.” 

And he is not, quite, what he promises to be; a murmur here, a low hum of arousal there, some fresh and foolish endearment breathed against your skin every time he thinks you've forgotten to scold him for it – but he is close enough, with his mouth upon you and his hands finding each breath of your body they’ve long since memorized, that you let it go entirely.

[maisy1111]

me staring at the search bar trying to decide which fictional man I’ll read about tonight:

[ryan-sometimes]

I love how Zohran Mamdani is wearing a suit everywhere. And if he has anything else he puts it ON TOP of the suit. A basketball jersey. A high-vis vest. All worn over the suit. He’s like the mayor character in a cartoon who’s always dressed as The Mayor. If I didn’t know who he was and he biked past me in NYC I’d be like holy shit was that the mayor

[mankillercalledbunny]

Not to bring the serious to a very fun post, but this reaction is exactly what Mamdani is working for with his image, because in a very real way the most effective way for him to be The Mayor is if he looks like The Mayor.

This is a man who is VIOLENTLY aware that when it comes to conservatives, he is a Muslim first, a Brown Man second, an Immigrant third, a Socialist fourth, and a human a very distant fifth, if considered at all. He was also a young adult during the Obama Years and will have seen Republicans rip Obama to shreds for wearing a tan suit instead of a dark one and use literally ANY excuse they could to try and degrade his image.

Despite the fact that a mayor who wears a T-shirt and jeans might "seem more approachable" in the eyes of the average American, Zohran Mamdani knows that someone with his profile fundamentally cannot get away with that the way his White colleagues can. He has instead put in the effort to look professional and BE approachable, because not only does it make it easier for him to reach and represent his constituents, it forces everyone, including both his opponents and establishment Democrats, to engage with the work he is doing instead of judging his image. The fact that he is always seen in a suit and is recognisably The Mayor is, while also something he has fun with, a deliberate choice to ensure he is as inarguably A Professional Politician To Be Taken Seriously. The added humour of e.g. the hi-vis is a bonus, only achievable because he works so hard to Look Like The Mayor.

[mankillercalledbunny]

Adding these tags from @haunted-stranger-garden bc they illustrate this brilliantly

[inksandpensblog]

I feel like Apothecary Diaries is exemplary proof that writing quality depends not on which tropes are used, but on how they're used. The yeast of that story ferments on one of the most maligned and frustrating tropes in existence, and yet it's executed so well that the bread is delicious with a nice firm crust.

MaoMao and Jinshi are both intelligent in a lot of ways, including deductive reasoning. So one might expect their repeated misunderstandings or continued blindness toward certain revelations to feel contrived. But they never do, in part because of how brilliantly their characterization was established.

From the first installment, Maomao ponders how "knowing too much" could get her into trouble.

At first her main concern is her own literacy. The ability to read is not a skill most young women of her station possess, and would doubtlessly draw attention. Attention threatens her ability to lay low and wait out her service contract. So she keeps this skill hidden.

And indeed, her concerns are validated by the narrative, because she catches the attention of Jinshi and Gyokuyou—two of the highest authority figures of the rear palace—immediately upon employing her literacy in her effort to warn the concubines of the poisonous effects of the makeup.

This instantly alters the course of her life, a consequence that at first seems positive; after all, personal attendant to a concubine is certainly several steps above the average palace launderess. But these elevated steps bring more attention onto her, and it isn't long at all before the emperor himself is ordering her to perform medical miracles.

Knowledge is power. And as Maomao explains to Jinshi: it's not always about what someone will do with power; it's about what they can do.

So Maomao uses the powerlessness of her station as a shield, and hides behind it by pretending not to know things.

And the way she does this is interesting, in part because she is so good at deduction. Often it comes down to her simply choosing not to pursue a line of thinking, forcefully redirecting her attention elsewhere the moment she realizes that certain lines may connect to form a bigger picture than someone of her station should see.

Maomao is an apothecary. Effectively, throughout the story, she's an herbalist, pharmacist, chemist, physician, dietician, and forensic detective.

At the same time, her primary survival mechanism is avoidance. And this is established very early in her characterization, even before her actual titular passion.

When Maomao, solver of mysterious deaths, worker of medical miracles, foiler of assassination plots, repeatedly fails to connect the increasingly-obvious dots pointing to Jinshi's true identity, it doesn't feel contrived at all; because by the time those dots begin to come to light, the story has already established that it's firmly in-character for Maomao to simply refuse to pick up the pencil if she already knows what picture those dots will form. As long as she doesn't draw those connections herself, she can remain safe in denial.

And that's how Apothecary Diaries turned one of my least-favorite tropes into one of the most compelling parts of its story.

[inksandpensblog]

#she knows. of COURSE she knows shed be stupid not to at this point#but she refuses to think about it the same way she refuses to think about her bio father unless shes forced to#because its not even about what knowing would mean for her position#she thinks and DOES all sorts of stuff she probably shouldnt! she may be pragmatic but shes also nosy as hell#its about what it means for HER#if she considers jinshis actual position she'll have to more closely examine jinshis place in her life#and what she wants it to be#and thats not something she wants to do at all. they have a good thing going. she doesnt want to ruin it by examining it too closely#she'll hyperanalyze everything around her until the cows come home but she'll die before she acknowledges she has feelings

[transsexualpuffin]

i genuinely don’t know how to explain to some of you that the USA isn’t the Source Of All Evil in the world in a way that you’d actually understand it

[transsexualpuffin]

things you can say about the USA:

it’s run by a fascist

it’s been trending further right for years

it needs serious reform

things you can’t say about the USA:

it’s unique in any of the above mentioned issues

it’s the most right wing or conservative place on earth

it’s Uniquely Evil

[transsexualpuffin]

there are places where honor killings are legal and queer people get the death penalty and you can’t sell property to people of a certain ethnicity and virtually everyone is part of a singular religion. the supreme court just upheld birthright citizenship, something most countries don’t even have.

please understand that the rightward trend in US politics is alarming but mischaracterizing the US as the Worst Place On Earth is just fucking dumb as shit!

[yenvengerberg]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE Season 1, Episode 4 | Season 3, Episode 5

[cassandrva]

love between vampires can be one thing, or it can be countless things. however you want me, i can be that for you. you said you want me to be present as your maker? i can be a maker for you. i want to be your maker. disregard the last 500 years in which i was repulsed by the idea. i don't have any complicated feelings about that at all. you said you want cool vampire powers even though you're a three year old fledgling? i can help you become a daywalker, a skill that apparently takes centuries to develop. you're an investigative journalist, don't you want a scandal on lestat? i can give you a scandal. i want to help you finish that job. lestat fucks his mom. isn't that good? aren't i useful? aren't i worth keeping around?