#and footnotes

[nyancrimew]

i feel like one of the weirdest realizations you (or at least i) eventually have a few years into transitioning and being mostly around other trans people, is that moment where u notice that like ur brains mapping of like specific voices to specific genders is just kinda gone. like it rly is just all social constructs programmed into u by society, and living outside societies idea of gender just kinda melts that shit away, and it's not just voices, like other traditionally gendered attributes also suddenly don't matter anymore*

*except for myself of course, i am obviously totally failing at being a girl but everyone is doing it perfectly, dysphoria is so awesome lmao

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

Of the 19 hijackers who carried out the Sept 11 attacks:

15 were from Saudi Arabia (a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

2 were from the United Arab Emirates (also a powerful/oil-rich country the U.S. works hard to maintain diplomatic relations with)

1 was from Egypt, 1 from Lebanon.

None of the hijackers were from Iraq.

None of the Sept 11 hijackers were Iraqi.

None of the 9/11 hijackers were from Iraq.

[phatburd]

😘

[notbecauseofvictories]

I'm re-reading the Discworld series for reasons, and honestly the most relatable part of reading these as an adult is how many of the protagonists start out being tired, used to their little routine and vaguely disgruntled by the interruption of the Plot. Sam Vimes wants to lie drunk in a gutter and absolutely doesn't want to be arresting dragons. Rincewind is yanked into every situation he's ever encountered, though he'd much rather be lying in a gutter too. (Minus the alcohol. Plus regretting everything he's ever done said witnessed or even heard about fourth-hand in his whole life.) Granny Weatherwax is deeply suspicious of foreign parts and that includes the next town over; Nanny has leaned into the armor of "nothing ever happens to jolly grannies who terrorize their daughters-in-law and make Saucy Jokes"

Only the young people don't seem to have picked up on this---and that's fortunate, because someone has to run around making things happen, if only so Vimes and Granny and Rincewind have a reason to get up (complaining bitterly the whole time) and put it all to rights. Without Carrot, Margrat, Eric, etc. these characters don't have that reason; they're likely to stay in the metaphorical gutter and keep wondering where it all went wrong or why anything has to change.

............well, that's not quite true. You get the sense that Vetinari knows how much certain people hate the Plot. And as the person sitting behind the metaphorical lighting board of Ankh-Morpork, he takes no small pleasure in forcing the Plot-haters specifically to stand up, and say some lines.

[capnsoapy]

fun fact if your breasts¹ are somewhere between a 36C-36D² then they weight³ about the same as your brain⁴

if you're above a D-cup⁵ you've probably got more boob than brain⁶

1. Both breasts combined. 2. UK and US bras are the same at this cup size. 3. Sourced from this blog post; a different source was found but excluded as it didn't account for band size. If you have a better referenced source let me know. 4. An adult human brain weighs ~1.3kg (2.8lb). 5. A 36D cup, or sister size (40B, 38C, 34E, 32F, etc) 6. Both breasts combined. A single 36G/H cup breast is about brain-sized.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Page one of a post s2 Good Omens Comic I'm working on!

[astralnymphh]

18+ ellie likes your fingers curled up in her hair. prefers the softness to the roughness when she reclines back between your thighs and plows through her various books revolving space. annotating never came along so smoothly until you wedged yourself into the session, raveling fingers into her foxen hair in a massaging motion. “how long do i have to do this for?” you would ask in a low, curious mutter.

ellie would slowly crawl out of her depthened, quiet ecstasy; nudge an ear to you, and retaliate in a speculative breath in. “until the end of this section, babe. i'm almost done, just hold on.” always near ending in a damn chuckle.

but that never debunks the chance of your fingers ending up in the exact same knots when her head lands between your legs for a completely different reason. “fuck—fuck, right there, ellie.” she pines for the total overtaking of her pretty face: ends of days spent studying grew her need to simply do something on the entertaining tail of the downtime spectrum, which pulling off your panties and licking impulsive, quick-winded strokes through your folds as you roughhoused her head into changing spots fed that need. her tongue is hot against you, and sends stimulation through the roots of your body. up through your spine, where you arch your hips off the bed and have her smooth down with her palms, stilling you in place, so you can charter her more easily.

“mhmm,” she groans delightfully, quirking her brows when the tip of her tongue curls inside you perfectly. satiating her senses.

just sucks when she wakes up the next day to find every vital ounce of information gone from her head, and the scent and taste of your cunt in it's special place. she is a girlfriend-pleaser, after all.

ps: i do have an abby version in mind. that i will write about. finally!

[sun-snatcher]

If you're writing for dp3 then Hiraeth from your prompt list would work SO well since they're all stuck in the void! 🤲🏽😭 We need Gambit fics its a DROUGHT HELP

♧ ⎯ LUCK O’ THE DRAW !

summ. You find the Devil himself at the end of the world. Surprisingly, it isn’t the first time you have. It is, however, the first time it hurts. pairing. Void!Gambit x f!Anomaly!reader (established relationship. Kinda. Multiverse be funky like 'dat.) w.count. 1.8k a/n. Because Channing deserved that Gambit all those years ago, and I've come to (attempt to) deliver what the the people have asked. Masterlist here.

MOST PEOPLE MEET THE DEVIL at a crossroads, but you meet yours in— quite literally— the back end of fuckin’ nowhere.

It hurt more than it should.

Your heart practically stutters. 

“Remy.”  

Then he turns, and you wait for the flash of recognition in his eyes.

Nothing comes.

And then. And then.

Realisation— logic. The cold, hard truth: This isn’t your Remy LeBeau. Your Remy had died long before, in a Universe that was pruned and erased into nothingness by the TVA. Your Universe. The joke? That the Gambit before you is merely a variant amongst a million. The punchline? He looks exactly the same as the day you’d lost your own. 

“Well, this is awkward. You know off-shoot Hawkeye here?” Wade says, astonished, before his eyes widened. “Ah. Tragic exposition time for the readers, I see.”

Your mind is still reeling. It feels like someone’s just jammed a chisel straight into your gut. “I— Knew a version. Variant, I guess,” you manage to correct yourself, distracted by the skirting trenchcoat and the all too familiar sound of shuffling cards. 

Christ, it’s like he’d stepped right out of your memories.

Remy’s eyebrows shoot up as he studies you. Something in your chest pulls taut, threatening to snap as he speaks. “Apologies, mon ami. But as far as I remember, I ain’t never seen you before.”

“Ouch,” Wade winces, looking between you both. “What a classic trope! This is like, me talking to my past Mom in The Adam Project. Funnily enough, my Mom was you!” He snorts, pointing to Elektra. 

You ignore Wade and offer Remy a wan smile. “I figured. It’s okay.”

…It is obviously, in fact, not okay. 

You avoid him like a plague shortly after the entire commotion; it’s almost comical. Wade had managed to come up with a plan with the rest of the group, albeit a ramshackle, flimsy one, but you’ve hardly been able to pay attention through the bloodrush of shock rocketing in your head, anyway. 

Being around this Remy is stunningly stifling. 

The lilt of his accent, the sharpness in his smile; the flourishing of cards and the faint hum-drum of kinetic charge against his fingertips. 

You’ve seen it all before, once upon a time. You never thought any of it could ever bring you to this bad of a heel. 

It hadn’t taken long before you’d tried drowning yourself at the end of a bottle of brandy Logan had handed you that night. (The whiskey tames his mordance and makes him uncharacteristically civil. He’d said something along the lines of: Y’need this more than I do, bub; look like you’ve just seen a fuckin’ ghost. Shit, I guess you did, huh? )

“Mais la,” comes a huff. “Ain’t that mine?”

A frisson runs through your heart. 

“Sorry,” you say, barely glancing up from the barrel fire tucked outside the team’s hideout. You’re not quite sure you can handle meeting his gaze. “I know I should’ve asked.”

A playful hum. Remy settles on the log adjacent to yours. “S’alright. No harm done, chèr.”

It takes everything in you not to flinch at the endearment. If he’d noticed, well— he’s smart enough not to mention it. He’s curious and it stands to reason; afterall, he’s never quite seen someone look at him as weathered as the way you do. It’s as if the effort itself to do so would be unbearable.

“Y’kno’, I been told I’m easy on the eyes. Not for you, tho’, eh?” Remy shoots you an amicable smile. It’s charming, if a little compelling. “Guessin’ I made bad on you where y’from? You done been boudéin’ since y’first got here.” 

You let out a laugh. It’s the most brittle sound he’s ever heard come from someone. 

“No, no,” you shake your head. “It’s… You just make me a lil’ homesick, is all.”

Remy bristles with his deck of cards. A Charlier cut; a One-handed shuffle. It’s a mindless tic; your variant used to do the exact same with the exact same ease.

(Such a miracle, you remember thinking once, that there could be symmetries in the Multiverse. Now you learn, perhaps, it’s far more a curse. Either way, you can hear Remy’s doting voice in a distant memory, dimpling coyly at you: “S’just the luck o’ your draw, chèr.” )

You tamp down the memory before it could sink its jowls any deeper in you. 

“You’re curious,” you say.

He makes a noise of assent. Revolution cut; One-handed shuffle. Repeat.

“I ain’t gon’ axe if y’ain’t wanna answer.” 

It’s kind of him. 

You forgot he was like this.

Witty, yet gentlemanly. The way Remy always has been.

Underneath the blanket of the night, the crackle of the flames limn the planes of his face in flickering, hazy saffron. The look in his eyes is sincere as they meet your red-rimmed gaze. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him, and in this light no less: tall, cutting, strong.

Lively.

The last you’d seen Remy, he’d been drawn out and battered by the war. Not that he’d ever admit it; he always insisted on keeping up his sunny disposition despite the constant losing battles happening. (Sometimes you think you resent him for doing that; it’d felt like he’d taken the light of the world with him when—)

You thank your lucky stars the variant Remy doesn’t make a comment on how you must be staring so openly. It’s a feeble attempt to committing every detail to memory, you suppose, in case you don’t get the chance again.

“In my Universe, a war was waging against mutants.” Your nails tinker against the empty bottleneck of the flat whiskey you’d nursed, thinking of how to cut a bloodshed of a story short; to get your point across before you falter and lose your footing.

“There was a mission sanctioned, and during it— a decision had to be made at that moment. So… you chose. Easily.” Your brows pinch tight against your will. The molten burn returns to the back of your eyes. “You saved so many lives the day you died.” 

Something catches in your throat when you realise your mistake, find yourself amending instantly, “He. He died.”

(It had been swift. A small mercy, all things considered. There wasn’t even a need to check for a pulse when you finally managed to reach for him.)

You’re fidgeting, too, with something in your other hand. Remy catches sight of it only now: a card, sitting pinched between your ringed fingers. Nine of Hearts. Its edges are torn and creased across the face, singed an ashen black. 

A proverbial piece of Remy’s heart, carried to the end with you.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a cold rush over his body at the sight. 

“…I’m sorry, chèr,” he offers quietly, inadequate as it is. He hadn’t expected that. 

He can’t imagine how haunting it must be to look at someone you’d shared a lifetime with and be met with a complete stranger instead. 

A living, breathing, ghost.

That unbiddable feeling of longing had always seemed to accompany the sight of him; but now it’s different. Now, there’s a blistering, brutal pain to come with; All-encompassing grief, thick as molasses in your lungs, overturning itself like a phantom from wherever you thought you’d buried it a long time ago. 

The only way to smother it would be to reach out, to hold him like you had once before, and isn’t that an ironic inconvenience? 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” you tell him, sigh coming out as an awkward laugh. A breeze passes and you inhale deep to ground yourself. Press your eyes shut momentarily to will away useless tears. “It must be so weird to hear all of this from me about— well, you, technically.”

“Mais, can’t ‘ave all been a bad memory, tho’, right?”

Right. No. It hadn’t been. There’s something else too. An undercurrent. Beyond the grief, the deep ache in your marrows— you think it’s nostalgia. Hiraeth. More bittersweet than it is painful.

It’s… It’s watching mutant schoolkids teaching him UNO for the first time. It’s the bickering over the beignets for breakfast, or your feet on his lap at the couch in the lounge after dinners with the rest of the X-Men. Lazy banter. Conversations that go everywhere and nowhere.

“Yeah,” you agree, feeling something bloom in your chest you thought long lost. “You taught me everything about your home, too. Down South. Told me about the bayou, the cypress trees. Your Cajun, your ways. We used to play Bourré.”

Talk of home has him ducking into a laugh. Remy had been in the Void far longer than the rest (he figures, at least)— he’s very nearly lost most of his fragmented memories to time by now. “Did I? Oughta’ play a game or two wit’ you.”

You buckle at that. “Ah. You were always the better player.”

Then:

He makes the leap before he runs out of steam. “Was we…?”

His finger darts between the space you two share.

“Oh, no,” you override, sheepishly. “No, we, we were good friends and stayed good friends. I was—” Your breath scurries; a reconsideration. “I was glad with that. You had a Southern belle named Anna Marie. A powerful mutant called Rogue. You two were good for each other.”

You must have given yourself away somewhere, though, the way Remy is reading you with a pinned gaze. It’s the same, levelled look you’ve seen before— the kind he gets in a game of cards. 

Something discerning eclipses in his eyes.

He’d gotten the measure of you in an instant. 

“Gambit musta’ been blind blind not t’see you.”

Ah.

You smile. It’s windswept. Resigned. “Well. Doesn’t matter now, does it? My Gambit’s gone. No matter how much I wish I can see him again.”

Remy’s eyes dart to your hands.

“Y’kno’, chèr,” he begins, something spirited in his tone. “In the world of cards, each a’ these and they suits hold a meanin’.”

He flourishes his deck, hypnotisingly smooth with every elegant cut, fan and spring. Every shuffle cascades as smooth as liquid in the sleight of his hands.

“Some of my folks back in New Orleans I remember, they learned me to read ‘em. Now, outta the whole deck? What you got there; the Nine of Hearts is also called the Wish card.”

The small laugh that punches out of you is bell-like. “Really?” 

It’s warm. Bright. Musical to his ears. It washes over him, and he can’t help but hang on to the peal. He wanted to hear it again. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Remy clicks his tongue as he shoots you a sunny look. “Would never lie t’you, chèr.”

The cracks in your soul don’t disappear, but they surely lighten as you look gently at him. “Huh. Well, I guess I got my wish, didn’t I?” 

He chuckles. 

“Mais, I ain’t your Gambit but—” 

He leans. Reaches out behind your ear with an empty palm, playfully revealing a gilded card from seemingly thin air with a sharp flick of his wrist:

Another Nine of Hearts. His. He hands it over to you, by way of meaning—  I’m here, now.

New beginnings.

You take the card with a smile.

[thoodleoo]

the "reading the footnotes on a translation of pliny the elder's natural histories" experience

[luthienne]

Fady Joudah, from Footnotes in the Order of Disappearance; "Horses"

[Text ID: My heart's a doe's. A doe's made for running away.]

[dumplingsjinson]

List of “mix of random dialogue and non-dialogue, smut and non-smut” prompts

“I’m a mess because of you.” “You’re my mess.” “I’m… I’m your mess.” (FUCKING HELLO BITCH DO NOT- WLKFNFKLN I’ll get on my knees for you, my love—)

“That’s my baby girl/baby boy.” (Can he just— HEWOQKNFWKELNF) 

“You look so hot like that.”

“God, you turn me on so much.”

“Fuck, I’m gonna come—” Character B whimpers, hips bucking into Character A’s. “Mm, yeah? Then come for me,” Character A murmurs, stroking their fingers through Character B’s hair. (The noises he made as he came undone were SO FUCKING HOT BYE. those WHIMPERS?? FUCKING DELICIOUSSSSS LET ME HEAR MORE OF THEM, I BEG- ALSO WHO KNEW I HAD IT IN ME TO SAY THAT TO SOMEONE LMFAO, “then come for me” WQBHRELWJKNEWF BITCH. GET OUTTT-)

Those sweet little noises Character B tries so hard to suppress but is unable to as they come undone.

“I’m such a fucking wreck right now…”

“Imagine how good I’d feel inside of you.” (FUCKIFKSKSKKSKSKS WHEN HE SAID THAT AND I WAS LIKE LKENFKLEWNF-)

“I love you so much,” Character B murmurs, hugging Character A closer to them. (🥹🥹🥹 HE SAID IT HE SAID IT HE SAID ITTT 😭 He’s said it over text before but now it’s in person and I’m actually gonna WEEP EWKLNFWEEFN)

“I love you for you, and I’m going to continue to love you. I’ll always love and support you no matter what,” Character B reassures after Character A spills out their anxieties and worries to them about a situation they’ve been so, so scared to tell them about; scared of how Character B would react. (…I’m just going to say I love this man so much.) 

“When I first met you, I didn’t know you were like this,” Character A murmurs, slowly grinding their hips down against Character B’s. Character B grins up at them, hands wrapped around their thighs, squeezing gently. “Yeah, and I didn’t know I was like this, either. And I thought you were shy when I first met you... Now look at you, huh?” 

Character A not knowing how sensitive their breasts are until Character B pays full attention to them with their mouth. (…I WILL NOT SAY ANYTHING ELSE BUT FUCK YES—) 

Character A tearing up as they try to be vulnerable with Character B, and Character B reassuring them by telling them they can take their time and it’s okay if they can’t say it right now; that they can say it when they’re ready. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so enamoured by someone,” Character A murmurs, caressing Character B’s face. (I’M A POETIC SIMP, WHAT CAN I SAY—) 

“Fuck, why are you— Mmh— why are you doing this to me?”

“We can take things as slow as you want. I want you to be comfortable, and as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy.”  (PLEASE WJDJJS IM CRYING AHH, how’d I get someone so sweet sjkdms)

“We can rent a hotel somewhere… You can be as loud as you want then, hm?” (HE’S JUST FUCKING OUT HERE, YOUR HONOUR!!) 

“Fuck me,” Character A whimpers as Character B’s hips picks up with speed. “I could if you wanted me to,” Character B grunts. (SIR- FUCK OFF ISTFGGG)

Character B placing their hand on Character A’s thigh while they’re sitting down.

Character B wrapping their arm around Character A’s shoulders and pulling them closer to them, letting Character A rest their head on their shoulder.

Character B leaning in for a kiss and Character A shyly leaning in to give them a quick peck on the lips. 

“Whatever I do, I’ll always be adorable to you, won’t I? Even if I do the most heinous shit known to mankind—” “Yes. Yes, you’ll always be adorable to me.” 

“You sure you don’t wanna close the blinds? People outside could see us…” “Trust me, they won’t.” (this FUCKING GUY, but I guess he wasn’t wrong after I took a closer look at the blinds—) 

“You’re enjoying yourself up there, aren’t you?” Character B teases, watching through hooded lids as Character A rides them while clothed. “Does it look like I am?” Character A questions, breathless. 

“You just… You make me happy.” (YOU DO TOO, MY LOVE <333) 

“You’ve always been so caring and supportive of me so I don’t know why I doubted you… I’m sorry.” 

Character A being ticklish on their neck whenever Character B plants soft feather like kisses there, so Character B plants even more soft kisses there, turning Character A into a giggling mess. 

Kisses on the eyelids. (The softest shit EVER)

“Didn’t realise your objective was to get into my pants all this time,” Character B teases, and Character A rolls their eyes, a breathless laugh leaving them. “You know that’s not true. I think you’re the one who has the objective of getting into my pants,” Character A throws back. Character B shakes their head with a chuckle. “That’s not true.”

“How are we gonna manage being away from each other for a whole month?” Character A murmurs softly. “Mmmh, we’ll somehow manage,” Character B reassures, stroking their fingers through Character A’s hair.

“How are you going to manage without this for a whole month?” Character B questions as Character A grinds down on them. “I don’t think I fucking will is the thing,” Character A admits, unabashedly.

Character B moving Character A’s hair out of their face to plant gentle kisses on their face.

Character B laying their head on Character A’s stomach and Character A fondly saying to them, “You’re such a baby,” while carding their fingers through their hair.

Character B snuggling up next to Character A, post-orgasm. (SIRRRR- PEHFLKEWNELKWNF) 

Character A moaning Character B’s name and Character B losing their self-restraint over it. (Maybe I did it on purpose to turn him on—)  

[angelsdean]

SPIRIT OF THE WEST: The Major Motion Picture

It's a summer evening in the late 90s and you and your friends are looking for something to watch at the slumber party. You go into your local Video & Variety and happen upon the coming of age romance, Spirit of the West. Let's hope this doesn't awaken anything in you....

SUMMARY:

Dean grew up on a horse farm and can't imagine any other life. There are drawbacks to working for his father, but they're worth it if it means remaining with his beloved horses. Besides, between his broken arm and his lack of prospects, he hasn't got much else.

Something of an outsider, Dean always feels like there's something he's missing. But this tense summer brings back a figure from his past: years ago, a teenaged Cas worked for a season at the Winchester ranch. His return could change everything.

Reviewers rave: "If you ever wanted a 90s horse girl book, but starring a young Dean Winchester, this is your flick."

Spirit of the West is written and directed by Teen_Dean / @urne-buriall

▶️ PLAY Spirit of the West ⏪ REWIND with Spirit of the West Prequel by @foolondahill17 ⏩ WATCH IT AGAIN with SOTW Daily 🌟 BONUS FEATURES ✨ Director's Commentary 🎶 The Official Motion Picture Soundtrack

[metalmiez]

Another ineffable Viking Wives i created for @riathedreamer 🖤🤍

I‘m on my knees for femme Aziracrow in love🥹 They deserve so much more soft moments 😌

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And ofc I needed them to kiss 😂🥰

[hopeinthebox]

bts + reductress headlines pt.12

[bagdemagus]

In an otherwise terrible book, a perfect footnote.

[astralnymphh]

18+ servicetop!ellie who has a terrible obsession with stretching you with her fingers. horny and prying for some attention—your girlfriend is already one step ahead. you imagine how soaked you must appear as her hands prop you open, eyes staring softly down there. to be judged, percieved, and asked, “what got you like this?” in that breathy, honeyed voice, is a little tincture of humiliation; you feel yourself growing wetter, and wetter on the fingers that smooth the slick around. soiling the fabric. always accompanied by questions that guide her act. “hey, don't be embarassed to ask me,” sweetening the whole thing with laughter. “what do you want me to do?”

she swallows, throat bobbing as she peels your underwear up, taking your legs with her. they get littered in kisses, following the fabric. you fold them and reconstruct the splayed position she put you in, and she reaches for your hips, grasping the flesh of them in a promising, bruising hold.

those grips etch her excitement for this thing; trying to fill her palms with as much as possible as her tongue cleans your clit, getting all stupid when you give jerky directions that barely leave your lips. a finger slips into your wetness, and invites another when she earns the exact noise that praises her. “fuck,” you shudder, and your body wants to cocoon her.

“yeah?” her tongue folds out at the end of that word, licking a heady stroke. the position lets you see everything; she intends for you to see the shiny corners of her lips, messy with your juices, when she rises and feasts on your thigh, or flashes you a smirk. undeniably concentrated on leaving reminders. phantom, or physical. her brows quirk when she takes you in her mouth again, stretching you with a sneaky third. it takes everything in her not to ask if she can stretch you with something different—something thicker.

her heart pounds in between your legs. she goes insane defiling you this way, raw with her tongue, at your fucking messiest. no way her pleasantly freckled existence caused this; she thinks she looks rather dumb throughout the day. squinting in glasses, poking out her tongue piercing. so unable to concentrate on serious things. but, in bed, she totally can.

you feel her fingers curling against your walls, searching for bliss. a twitch rushes through you when she presses it, and treats you to a pumping of it, eyes bolting shut. “god, babe, m'gonna come.” you bite your lips, enrage the skin. she pulls away to question you, “wanna do it on my fingers?” watching you with an open mouth and eyes dilated with lust. you nod, and she releases a long-held curse, flicking her lashes down. her knuckles—ringed with arousal—push in an inch deeper, creating a squelch each time she pumps out and in and rolled her wrist in a practiced manner that finished you and pulled an immaculate moan out of you, a warm gush trickling down her palm. “fuck, that's it baby.” she throbs at the sight.

credit to the lovely @/ellieabbyy for the ellie picture. now time to write vice versa!