#Hard Luxe

[rinhaler]

@saturnsatnin HAS STOLEN MY WORK

So I wrote this fic for a collab back in early November and this person has decided to steal not only the entire thing, but my requests and drabbles too. I haven’t had a proper look but I am SHAKING with anger. The only thing they changed is the characters involved. I’m not sure if they’ve stolen anyone else’s work, but you know people like this are too lazy and in creative to write their own stuff so please make sure to see if anything of yours has been stolen.

I am FUMING I have no idea what to do in this situation.

[ruushes]

there are so many creative ways to approach any given situation in bg3 and i remain staunchly ignorant of all of them and do the most obvious thing possible every time. i got an achievement for beating grym without using the forge hammer and was like oh that would've been really clever, wish i'd thought of that instead of standing around it in a circle beating it with clubs until it died

[franken-loser]

Henry Frankenstein au is BACK (sorta)

[yannafemcel]

sydney sweeney could play the joker and joaquin phoenix could play cassie.

[toastershark]

Cog and Lux!!

They’re both stupid

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“I n-need help.” Rain-soaked clothes cling to his body where he shivers on the doorstep.

Just inside the doorway stands Emory, blocking the warm yellow glow of the Christmas tree with his body. His eyes widen but he stays tucked between the door and the frame. “Lux.” He wants to crouch down, scoop him up, carry him in. But there is something dangerous inside: a wonderstruck little girl fawning over all her presents in pretty paper and bows. A little girl who has no idea that anyone ever gets hurt, and who thinks her dad is away on a trip to pick up the best present of all for her.

“It’s Christmas morning,” Emory adds finally, face twisted with distress. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t bring Lux inside, Penny can’t see him like this. But it’s so cold outside, and Lux looks like he’s in so much pain.

“...Need help,” Repeats the miserable warlock. “Just… g-get me to, to the side of the house, to hide. And then - and then - I can h-heal. I just…”

“You’re scared. Okay. Yeah, okay.” Swallowing his fear of ruining their daughter’s magical morning, Emory steps out into the rain. A chill runs down his spine when descending the two steps to the pathway reveals the bad angle of Lux’s leg. In a practiced motion he kneels and gathers his husband up into a better shape to guide him to his feet. Lux isn’t so thin anymore; he finally has enough muscle and dad-pudge to make his shoulders bigger and add some weight to him.

Besides, unfortunately, Emory knows that Lux can limp along on a broken leg without screaming.

The puddles complain with feeble splashes at being disturbed by dragging feet. The bricks on the side of the house catch them as Lux and Emory half-collapse together. The rough stone catches Emory’s knuckles and scores scrapes across the skin there as he protects Lux’s head without a second thought. They’ve fallen together enough times for him to see that coming.

The collision with the wall and muddy ground is finally enough to punch a sound out of Lux. It strikes Emory as horrifying that he was hesitant to come out and help when he hears that whimper. It sounds so different from how Lux’s sounds used to, like he was using a voice back in his twenties that the Hunter would be more entertained by. Letting his voice go high and cracked. Now, his voice is deeper, and that makes the soft, broken sound worse. Lux doesn’t sound like someone who makes pitiful sounds anymore.

“What happened, honey?” Emory asks softly as he checks on those shoulders first. The right one is just tense, the left one being touched makes Lux snap his head back against the bricks. He doesn’t scream, but it’s obvious that he needs to. Rain splatters across rapidly paling cheeks, droplets catching in his short beard that was just scruff a few days ago.

“Him. Just - a popped shoulder, uh, busted ribs, leg needs… you know.”

It looks exhausting for Lux to speak. A soft hand wrapped in band-aids cups his cheek as Emory leans in to tip his head down, their foreheads touching and the world seeming to close in comfortably around them. “Do you want to heal up, come in, get changed? She’ll be so happy to see you.”

It was supposed to be reassuring, but Emory can tell it came off as dismissive instead. Lux keeps his eyes closed and frowns deeper like he does when he’s holding back tears. “Yeah, I just… need a minute?” His voice cracks at the end. “Because I f-felt small again and I don’t feel like a dad right now.”

Their daughter inside the house, waiting on jumpy legs to finally get to open presents, weighs on Emory’s mind urgently like a stove left lit. But the Lux trying not to weep right in front of him is a concern more of the world-endingly devastating variety. Seeing Lux needing to cry always chokes him up, too, and it takes deliberate effort not to crack right now. “Okay, Curls. Take a minute. You’re home. Let’s get this shoulder healed first, what do you think? Make it hurt less so you can breathe.”

Lux’s staggered gasps stop for a second, and then comes a tense chuckle at the realization that he was struggling to get enough air around the agony. “You think, you th-think, fuck…” The curse comes in a practiced whisper to protect little ears. “Stupid, the stupid stuttering, I didn’t miss that.”

“It still happens when you’re stressed, sometimes.”

“Well I hate it a lot, a lot more when it’s because of him.”

Emory hums, whipping back tangled sopping hair that looks straight right now, but will be fluffy and curly once it’s dried out. “Just breathe and think of bed. The black blanket and the pillows. You can use your magic, it’s safe and we’ll be warm soon.”

A shuddery sigh comes at the guiding reassurances. With the deliberate calm and focus that comes, Lux allows blue-white light to blossom in his palms. His eyes blink open to squint toward the street, because as protected by the side of the house and the fence as they are, someone could drive by and see, and then…

“It’s safe,” Emory reminds, his hand on Lux’s cheek guiding him away from looking compulsively for danger. “Fix that shoulder. We have a few more minutes before she tears the presents to shreds, I think.”

That startles a laugh out of Lux, but at the same time his magic flares and dies out, his brows drawing up in upset. “He - he, Em, he tried to use - he tried to use her. Against me.” It’s all a whisper, a hoarse confession. Emory draws back in instant protective worry as he listens hard. Lux presses a hand to the ground and digs his fingers into the mud. “He made an illusion, a, he used magic on a box so when I opened it, I’d - her earrings were in there. I thought they were. I told him - I told him, I made sure he knew not to, not to ever come here, or even - he knows not to. Not to go near her.”

“We have to kill him. Get someone to. Move, we’ll have to move…”

“Em.” Lux looks like he wants to scream again, but more from emotion than pain this time. He remains quiet and weak against the wall. “There’s nothing else to do. He’s not coming close. I just - don’t try to - I don’t need…” Every raindrop that crashes into him is an assault on his senses. He can’t stand this kind of pain anymore, not when he has things to do. A family to pay attention to. When he was twenty it was fine to spend days curled up whining and crying, sleeping, wallowing. Now it feels like a waste of time to even explain what happened to Emory. “I made him sorry. Scared him. He erased my, made it so I couldn’t…”

It’s just a fact that the Hunter erased his memory of opening that gift, and that Lux found the mind magic in his own head and tore it apart to remember. Mentioning the assault on his mind is still hard, though, and he chokes on it.

“...Just. He knows not to, and I got out. I’m just s-, I’m - yeah. Scared. God, I miss being an annoying crying kid and Anders bullying me into taking a break.” A self-interrupting, chaotic sob-sigh, and he sinks further toward the ground. Impatiently he lifts a hand, summons that magic back to his palm, and heals the dislocated shoulder. He takes the joint thunking back into its socket like a punch to the gut instead of bone grinding on bone and nerves twisting unbearably. “Fuck,” He whispers again, as if mentioning Anders makes it impossible not to curse.

“Sorry.” Emory crouches close again, taking the liberty to adjust Lux’s broken leg so it’s closer to the core of his body. Lux is pale as a ghost but doesn’t complain, as he can finally reach the limb with his magic and pour some light into it. “Sorry, Curls. I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you… you can keep her safe.”

The warlock hums in agreement, then squeezes his eyes shut and raises his free hand to bite down on the side of it. Shaky breaths hiss out around the bite as his leg straightens and mends itself.

“H-hard to, to numb at the, same time,” He pants as Emory brushes his hair back.

“I know, honey. Come on, gotta get up.”

The puddle that they passed through earlier sloshes back out of the divot in the yard as they trudge through, and the front door opens with a squeak of complaint.

There is a tremendous racket of clinking glass, crumpling paper, and what sounds suspiciously like a pine tree knocking back against a wall. Penny comes running out into the hall with pine needles in her hair and a cloth snowflake ornament trapped in her sleeve. Her eyes go huge and round when she sees both of her dads, not just the one who stepped outside.

“Dad needs a break,” Emory says with quick, practiced ease before she can run in and hug Lux. “He fell down in the rain coming home! Isn’t that silly?”

“Daaaaaad,” Penelope complains and rolls her eyes, sending her whole head lolling back and her arms flapping once at her sides with the exaggerated gesture. “Ew.”

Lux tips his head down to see the mud they tracked in, and the growing puddle beneath them. “Ew,” He agrees, and smiles. It’s so warm in here, he almost wants to just sink to the floor and sprawl across it. “I’m gonna go take a shower get on my Christmas jammies. Then presents?”

The little girl stands still, suddenly, and clearly has a miniature crisis. “Yeah, uh - uh, Papa, you can, you can help, you can go help.”

Emory tips his head. “I don’t think Dad needs help with-”

Off she goes, unleashing a tornado in the living room to try to clean up and hide the evidence of her sneaky present opening.

[lindonwald]

since we’re on the topic of lux it seems like a good time to finally post this haha

[caesurables]

“….you’re punishing me, right?”

[stardial]

so many secret lux lore posts in my drafts that i keep not posting because i need to get my thoughts out SOMEWHERE but i’m embarrassed and the 3 ppl i currently want to scream to abt lux are either all busy or have already heard me SAY THIS STUFF

[kras-art-archive]

Late night doodles because. Holy fuck Fan Foction, I didn’t need to realize I’m so lonely today :‘(

(Fanfiction was lmk soulmates so… L Bozo)

[rinhaler]

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDD THE BLLK SEASON TWO TRAILER THERE'S SO MUCH RIN AND RYUSEI I'M SO HAPPY THEY LOOK SO GOOD

[luxiapoof42]

One of the things about Sumire that Atlus should've done was change her phantom thief outfit when she had her true Awakening. Like. Yes, Sumire's whole character arc and confidant ranks 6-10 are about her trying to find/regain her identity as Sumire Yoshizawa when she's been (unintentionally) masquerading as Kasumi for like 1-2 years, and that's fine (except for the fact that it's horribly integrated into the story up until the third semester, and even in the third semester she takes a backseat to Maruki's character development). But her Violet fit only makes sense while she thinks she's Kasumi because she's pretending to be someone else and will continue to pretend to be other people instead of embracing herself for who she is. When she awakened for realsies in Maruki's palace, she should've gotten a completely new and unique fit to show that she's coming into herself and accepting her identity as her own. Akechi got a sick costume change when he decided to show the thieves who he really was. Why can't Sumire get the same treatment??

Anyway, Atlus should hire me

[delreyisgod]

[anotherrosesthatfell]

In cross crime list, what the hell he accused Hope for?

Oh yeah about that- Ahem

Error and Hope used to be acquaintance. In what I mean Error did mentioned Hope burned down the abandoned aus-

Anyway so Hope and Error meet again but not in good way. Hope notice Error is stalking Ink so they threatened Error to stay away. Error then provoked Hope by mentioning the past which Hope not proud of it.

They ended up fighting and oh wow they were in the positive side of doodle sphere. So Hope accidentally burned the positive aus which cause Dream to get sick while Ink having a mental breakdown because of the aus lost.

Before Hope can explain themselves, Cross already there to interfere and accused for Hope doing it on purpose with Error.

Ink believe in Cross immediately because he mentioned Error (plus she is still traumatized bc of Error so-) meanwhile with Dream being sick and had to choose between believing his best friend or lover- He chose to believe in Cross.

Swap didn't get to defend Hope because he was sent to battle with Corrupted Nightmare became of Cross manipulation.

So that's how Hope was accused and quit from the team because of the harsh treatment they got from the survivors of aus-

[doueverwonder]

I can't help but wonder how countries without family feel.

hey man, i don't remember if this was in reference to something or just a random thought but not good,,,

Feliks and Kiku rn are the only two i have who had human families that are obviously not around, nor would either know where to even start looking for their decedents and while thousands of years have passed and you learn to cope and find family in your friends they're both still just,,,

Feliks is jealous of Raivis and Tolys having each other, same with Erzsí, Kalev and Timo and fuck it he's even jealous of Katya, Ivan, and Natalya. Because they may not get along but they still technically have each other. and he doesn't remember his parents, and he barely remembers his siblings and Erzsébet will offhandedly mention her father and he would kill to be able to remember anything about his. and he would kill to be able to hug his youngest sister, the one he remembers the best, and she lived a long life and she made it to 80 while he was still just six.

and Kiku has spent far longer truly alone and he's learned not to think about it too hard. 3000 years wipe away parents, siblings, any family he might have had. But gosh sometimes is it hard to ignore it when ancestor worship is (was?) such a big thing, and he would have spurts where he would just lock himself in his house to not have to think about it, because what does he know of his family? They were human. They were human, and he's not. and now he's alone.

[diariesofaprimadonna]

amidst the controversy over the new marilyn monroe biopic, i think it’s especially important for one particular conversation to take place, and that’s a conversation about the fetishisation of female suffering. it’s not just fictional women, written by both men and women alike, who endure this treatment; no, this is a paradigm which transcends such boundaries. think female celebrities like lana del rey and amy winehouse. think even of the entire esoteric aesthetic that is the ‘coquette girl’. it’s celebrated, in a way, when it is a women who’s having some sort of breakdown as opposed to a man. when a man cries, it is a moment of deep and somber reflection. it’s him letting his walls down and bemoaning the tragic reality of life. he is admired and respected for his vulnerability, and simultaneously he invokes a physical reaction of empathetic guilt in those around him. yet, such a feat is starkly juxtaposed against the feedback a woman receives when she cries. when a woman cries, too often she is annoying and overdramatic and a downer. and if that’s not the immediate reaction, then instead she is beautiful and perhaps even hot, and oh, if there’s anyone who could fix her then it’s him. women may stand in solidarity with one another whilst they break down into tears, but when a man attempts to console a miserable woman his attempts tend to be much less effective. he could never understand the extent of her pain, for starters, could never understand the foundations of ingrained patriarchal structures that infiltrate every facet of the life she tries to cultivate for herself. a feigned, performative comment offering infinitesimal comfort will be proffered, perhaps, but when that doesn’t work he may resort to the ‘at least you look pretty when you cry’. it’s a question, or if he’s especially confident then it’s an exclamation. for, at the end of the day, what is it to be a woman if not a performance? to adorn one’s self with makeup and jewelry and beautiful clothes, and parade for the benefit of man? margaret atwood once said, “you are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. you are your own voyeur”. in the eyes of the patriarchy that underpins our society, in simple words, women work to please the men. and female suffering straddles that fine, fine line between adhering to patriarchal norms and subverting them. women show, on a physical level, that they are rendered unhappy by their position in society. unhappy equates to less than happy, which equates to the inferiority they are meant to embody. simultaneously, they gain autonomy distinct from patriarchal confines. so naturally, they are fetishised. they are ‘different’ without being ‘other’. humans love something that fits their into the category of conventional beauty, but only just. it’s why we have trends; why every few years (or less, nowadays, with the rise of information overload and such) pants most prominently popular in fashion begin to morph in appearance (leggings to skinny jeans to wide leg jeans to flare jeans to cargo pants to parachute pants, and who knows what will come next). so, the woman slumps on her bed, crying mascara tears even though he just knows she’s not wearing any makeup at all. she cries, and he smiles in perfectly perverted pleasure. oh, but, let me clarify: her suffering is only beautiful so long as she is. it is beautiful if she is thin, if she is blond, if she has clear skin or long legs or a flat stomach. a lot of the time, it’s conditional on her being white as well— but that’s an issue of its own, and one that i’m not the right person to elaborate on. because, to rehash, she must only just straddle the line between conformity and subversion. i could write a dissertation on this topic, truthfully, but my aim is to open a discussion rather than attempt to answer every question on the table. at the end of the day, i believe we need to be made much more aware of the fetishisation of female suffering. malala yousafzai said that education could change the world, and so i hope in this case awareness could end some of this injustice.