#vraiment

[vhscorp]

Aimer vraiment, c'est laisser l'autre totalement libre de ses choix et de ses sentiments…

V. H. SCORP

[rollinginthedeep-swan]

Dites, je suis la seule a avoir l'impression de pas vraiment écrire de la même manière d'un personnage à un autre ?

[kelthoumrambles]

J'ai vraiment une estime assez lamentable de moi-même. il y a des jours où je vais me sentir belle mais ça ne dure généralement qu'une dizaine de minutes

[capripian-arts]

[ID: A digital drawing of a fat half-tiefling person with dark reddish-brown skin, short plum hair, and small pointy horns. They also have round silver glasses, bright orange eyes, and a stripe of pink markings across their face. They wear red and grey clothing as well as silver ring splints. They are drawn sitting in a wheelchair, smiling. To the right is a close-up drawing of their eye, as well as a bust shot of them smiling and holding up silver and black cards. Below that, three card designs are shown in detail: each has an abstract geometric design on it, and they are labeled below as fireball, fog cloud, and storm sphere. End ID]

Artfight ref for Vraiment, my wonderful epic wizard NPC :) Catch the speepaint here, and attack Vraiment on my artfight!

[skyefromthefuture]

@beemancer

[soniaheyim]

Tofu Mariné aux Agrumes et Noix de Pépino Salsa de Mangue et Coriandre

Tofu Mariné aux Agrumes et Noix de Pépino, Salsa de Mangue et Coriandre Laissez-vous tenter par cette recette originale qui allie le tofu ferme à une marinade acidulée aux agrumes et à une salsa de mangue vibrante. Une explosion de saveurs tropicales et d’une texture croquante qui ravira vos papilles ! Ingrédients **Pour le tofu:** 300g de tofu ferme 1 orange 1 citron 1 zeste de citron…

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Le Figaro di Oggi mercoledì, 05 marzo 2025

[vhscorp]

Dans ce monde où tout n’est qu’apparences et faux-semblants, on passe son temps à mentir et à se mentir tout en oubliant qui on est vraiment…

V. H. SCORP

[rollinginthedeep-swan]

J'ai capté pourquoi j'ai soudainement une phase créative avec des ombres marquées, ou des personnages plus contourés avec bords noirs : Le générique d'Arcane saison 2 a été comme une piqure de rappel d'un truc que je sais pourtant bien de base - et que j'adore - et que j'oublie parfois de conserver dans mes créations : Les ombres et la lumière sont d'une importance capitale.

Ça peut tout changer, apporter le petit truc qui manque.

[tearsofhecate]

Tumblr rejoint la team des réseaux sociaux / plateforme vendant les données de ses usagers au service d'IA (Intelligence Artificielle) afin d'entraîner les modèles de ces dernières. Faites attention à vos données et à votre travail 🙏

Traduction en français

1er billet :

" Ils sont déjà entrain de vendre des données à midjourney (IA génératrice d'image), et il est très probable que votre travail soit déjà utilisé pour entraîner leurs modèles parce-que vous devez vous DESINSCRIRE de ça, et non pas vous y inscrire. C'est vraiment minable de leur part de mettre ça en place sans l'annoncer."

2eme billet :

Quelques instructions pour quiconque ne sachant pas comment s'en désinscrire :

Connectez vous à Tumblr sur votre ordinateur, cette manipulation n'est pas disponible sur téléphone pour le moment

Cliquer sur " Compte "

Cliquer sur votre blogue

Allez dans " Paramètre du blog "

Allez dans " Visibilité "

Cliquez sur le bouton pour l'activé (qu'il soit en mode ON) et non pas en position OFF (sinon vous êtes toujours inscrit au partage de donnés avec des tiers)

Vous devez le faire pour chacun de vos blog, de façon individuel, il n'est pas possible de le faire pour tous les blogs d'un compte en une seule fois.

La manipulation en image, si jamais ça peut être plus parlant à certain.e.s :

2.

3.

4.

They are already selling data to midjourney, and it's very likely your work is already being used to train their models because you have to OPT OUT of this, not opt in. Very scummy of them to roll this out unannounced.

[soulthom]

Soit je vois un coloriage, soit ça n’existe pas. Mais ce qui est important c’est que voir un coloriage a directement comme effet de supprimer l’espace objectif. Ca n’existe pas parce que ça apparaît comme un coloriage alors que ça ne l’est pas. Il y a un paradoxe : une chose se voit par son inverse.

Ah les niveaux de gris ? Mais voyons le gris n’est qu’un choix, tout comme le blanc et le noir. Du coup point de forme. SI tout apparaissait en niveaux de « gris » (rouge, bleu, caca d’oie…) l’idée que ce n’est qu’un choix parmi d’autres n’apparaîtrait pas et l’illusion serait plus forte. Les couleurs trahissent le coloriage.

Alors est-ce que cela signifie que Lénine a tort dans Matérialisme Et Empiriocriticisme ? Oui et non : il a objectivement tort, mais raison en tant qu’être parmi la multitude. Pour faire vite il y a une vision dans laquelle je n´écris à personne et une autre dans laquelle si. Lénine prend le parti pris intégral de la fiction que « nous » prenons tous en tant qu’individus au sein d’une multitude sans forcément nous en apercevoir (l’idéalisme ne peut mener qu’au solipsisme (*), donc à la négation du politique même, il n’y a pas d’intermédiaire. On ne peut adopter le point de vue de la multitude et le nier à la fois). Il y a là une profondeur de vue qui au fond affirme qu’on ne peut pas réellement faire mieux que jouer le jeu des apparences dans tout ce qui concerne l’humanité, l’étendue (même si elle n’existe pas et que de plus le réalisme de la réalité est une farce évidente, pour qui observe un peu au moins). Ce parti pris de jouer le jeu ne permet néanmoins pas d’affirmer que la conscience (au sens de tout ce qui se passe) dérive du cerveau, car c’est faux d’une part et que cela n’ajoute rien de toute façon : ai-je besoin de croire que je tiens vraiment un volant et non un joystick dans un jeu vidéo ? Non. Je n’ai pas non plus besoin de postuler que le cerveau existe vraiment (pour « engendrer » quoi que ce soit), juste d’observer des corrélations.

A part ça le symbolique fonctionne malgré l’imaginarité du monde, pourquoi s’en priver ?

A Dada !

Rob Dechambre

(*) En fait il faut bien dire que la notion même de solipsisme, signifiant solitude, perd elle-même son sens si je ne peux considérer autrui et la « séparation » comme réels. Mais c’est réellement « rien ».

[juuuuunaaaaaooooo]

Hm, Beth sooooooooo you can do whatever you want but Ruby who just try to save her husband is bad…because??? Because the SS could find it…Hm…

[mndvx]

Every point in time has its alternatives. DOCTOR WHO — Season 13 / Season 40

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[plumede]

J’ai essayé la colo et un style un peu différent…C’est globalement une cata mais tout n’est pas si mal, je pense… ( j’ai honteusement abandonné le reste du dessin d’ailleurs.)

[soniaheyim]

Camoufler les cernes : astuces maquillage

Dites adieu aux cernes, bonjour à votre luminosité naturelle ! Fatiguée de ces cernes qui vous donnent un air fatigué? 🥱 On le sait, le rythme effréné de la vie moderne, le manque de sommeil et le stress peuvent laisser des traces visibles sur notre visage, notamment sous les yeux. Ces cernes foncées peuvent gâcher notre éclat naturel et nous donner un air fatigué, même après une bonne nuit de…