#from the desk of anachron

[anachronic-cobra]

Being on Tumblr from ten years ago until now and seeing how it's aged is so funny. When I first got here everything was like "haha lol so random, superwholock, taquitos, tumblr university!" but today I just scrolled past three different memes about tax season

#from the desk of anachron

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger

Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever. Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy. Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969

*

Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.

The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and  stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.

The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.

I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.

My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.

Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.

"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.

"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.

I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."

Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.

“I can take it from here, Hector.”

As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.

But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.

I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.

I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.

As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.

My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?

"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.

With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.

*

The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.

I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.

But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.

I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.

I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.

The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.

But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.

Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.

"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.

I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!

His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here." 

I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.  

To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"

My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"

"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.

Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain. 

How did he know...?

Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.

I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?

"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"

I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.

"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.

I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."

Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.

"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."

Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."

I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.

"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?

More importantly, why had I liked it so much?

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.

But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...

I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #songbird #elvis fans

[fayes-fics]

Sonnet #29

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: Your husband Benedict and you have a late night tryst in the billiards room of Bridgerton House.

warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, vaginal sex, oral sex (m to f), fingering, d/s dynamics, possessive/dirty talk, light bondage, drinking, dangerous use of Shakespeare, Anthony’s gonna need to rebaize that billiards table.

word count: 3.6k

author note: Not betaed. I haven’t written anything in years and this may be riddled with anachronisms, sorry. It also turned out less explicit and more romantic than I thought it would *shrugs*. The swaggering, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking Benedict from Anthony’s stag night, is the inspiration for this fic. Especially that cravat. The title of ‘my lord’ used here is part of their d/s play.

Benedict Bridgerton is missing. It has to be after 1 AM, probably later. You’ve woken to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Throwing on a robe and lighting a candle, you head down the backstairs of Bridgerton House. Keen not to disturb anyone but eager to find your errant husband. You’re visiting his family for the week, and tonight the brothers were celebrating their reunion.

You round a corner into the main hallway, then stop short. A drunken Colin is staggering slowly up the grand staircase, falling back almost as many steps as he advances. You bite back a giggle as he eventually stumbles onto his hands and knees, crawling the remainder of the steps. It must’ve been one hell of a Bridgerton boys' night.

Passing Anthony’s study, you’re surprised to see the door wide open. A quick peek reveals the Viscount passed out, head down on his desk. Light snores puffing condensation onto an empty tumbler in front of his nose, his hand still loosely wrapped around it - another casualty of the night's celebrations.

Still no sign of the one brother you are seeking. 

You slip silently down the hallway and into the billiards room you know they had been carousing in. The room is quiet, dimly lit by only a handful of candles. There is a lingering scent of cigars and expensive alcohol. Billiard cues lean haphazardly against disarranged chairs. Quite a party, it would appear.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice makes you gasp.

Benedict.

You hadn’t seen him in the shadows. He leans forward in a chair, the low candlelight now catching his face, a bemused expression tugging at his handsome features. He looks alluring with his sleeves rolled up, a glass held casually in one large hand.

“The bed is cold without you, darling husband”, you chide affectionately, snuffing out your candle and placing it aside.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I was about to come up. Can you believe my brothers don’t have the stamina to celebrate properly?“ he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Care to join me for a nightcap?” He adds, nodding at the decanter on the side table next to him. 

Without waiting for an answer, Benedict pours a glass for you and tops up his own. He knows you enjoy a quality whiskey when it’s on offer. And the Bridgertons always have excellent whiskey. 

He holds out the glass expectantly, beckoning you over. You move forward and take the drink, straddling his legs and lowering yourself onto his knees with a gentle smile. Benedict responds with his crooked smile, which always catches your breath. His free hand rests lightly on your robe-covered thigh as you take a sip. Smokey, almost caramel notes glide over your tongue. Oh yes, this is the good stuff. You can’t help the hum of satisfaction at the taste.

He raises his eyebrow before taking a slow, deliberate draw himself. He’s slightly inebriated but only enough to be playful. You wonder how he has held his liquor so much better than his brothers. Surely some strategy. You finish your drink lazily, feeling content just perched in his lap.

“We have never spent time here alone”, he rumbles quietly, glancing at the door. His hand becomes a firmer touch. From the slight glint in his eye, you can tell that his thoughts are turning intimate. It’s still surprising that just a few suggestive words have you wanting him. The feeling is so sharp and sudden. 

“Indeed we have not”, you murmur, leaning to place your empty glass aside and take his glass to do the same. Your mind flashes an image of you stripping bare for him in this very room. It’s the catalyst to push further into his lap and grab his face, locking your lips onto his. He tastes like cigars and the smoky sweetness of the drink - a delicious combination. You can’t help but deepen the kiss, running your tongue into his mouth and swallowing his slight groan. His hands move to grip your hips and pull you closer.

“Remind me to buy a whole case of this whiskey”, he smirks, trailing his lips down the side of your neck. You reach up into his hair and tug gently; it never fails to make him a little rougher in his ministrations.

“Clearly, I have been neglectful this evening”, he mutters against your collarbone using a slight edge of teeth. Oh yes.

“Please”, you whisper hotly, bringing his face back to yours for a bruising kiss. You hope he can read what you’re asking for.

His hands move, and you feel his thighs flex as he stands. You wrap your legs around him as he carries you a few steps across the room. It seems like no effort for him; the power in his athletic body never fails to impress you.

“Please, what?” He teases as he gently sets you down on the end of the billiards table.

“Talk to me”, you demure, not meeting his eye. Your hands move to release the buttons on his waistcoat. 

Benedict lets out a chuckle. “I rather think I’ve said more than you tonight”, his fingers gently tugging the ties of your robe.

“No, I mean… talk to me…. the way you did last week” you feel your cheeks burn as you finally dare to look him in the eye. You see them grow darker, and his nostrils flare. Now he’s catching on. He yanks off the waistcoat you have unbuttoned, then cups your face with both his hands.

“Oh, what did I do to deserve you?” He wonders with a hint of awe, giving you a brief gentle kiss. 

Before his whole demeanour changes. 

You feel a ripple of excitement in your belly as he sweeps a thumb up to your lips. His grip on your jaw becomes a little tighter.

“Tell me,” he drawls, “just how lonely were you up in that bed, wife?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Did you touch yourself?” 

You shake your head as best you can, with his hands around your face.

“Good girl” He looms closer, and you have to brace your hands onto the smooth felt of the billiards table behind you. 

“Although, clearly not that good”, he tuts, “coming to me so wantonly. And in my brother's house. Anyone could walk in right now. There’s no lock on that door. Is that what you want? To have my brothers watch as I take you right here?” You whimper at the images he concocts.

His thumb hooks into your mouth, and instinctively you pulse your tongue against it. He growls as you catch it gently with your teeth. He releases his grip and takes a half step back.

“Show me yourself. All of you,” he commands.

This. This is why you crave him so much. He can intuit your deepest desires. 

You scramble off the table and quickly wrestle off your robe and nightgown, letting them fall to the floor. You love the sharp intake of breath he takes as you obey. He drops his eyes covetously to take in the sight of you completely nude before him, flexing his fingers. The sinful gaze has you throbbing already. 

“Get back up on the table” his words are a harsh staccato. You do as ordered, sitting in the same position as before, perching on the raised edge of the billiards table. He pulls your knees up and apart, stepping between your legs. His kiss is urgent and deep, his tongue pushing and rolling into your mouth. One of his hands is in your hair, guiding your head to angles he wants. The other kneads at your breasts, snagging your nipples between his fingers. It’s possessive; the excitement buzzes right down into your core.

He grabs both your wrists, running his nose over your pulse points before bringing them together in front of you like you’re in prayer. “Hold right there, don’t move.”

You watch as he pulls roughly on the knot of his cravat. He hastily unwinds the material until it slips away from his neck — the golden silk glinting in the low light. You gasp as he loops the long strip of fabric around your wrists. Loose at first, then pulls tighter as he ties the ends in a bow. The material is soft but unyielding. 

This is something new. You peek up at his expression; there is a hunger but also a questioning vulnerability.

“My lord“, you exhale. It’s your permission for his silent request to continue.

“You are so perfect”, he groans, diving in for another hard kiss before pulling your tied hands above your head. He lowers you gently until your shoulder blades are resting against the green felt of Anthony’s billiards table. If only he knew what his younger brother was doing right now.

“Stay there. Do not move until I allow it; keep your arms above your head”, Benedict warns.

He hovers over your prone body. The material of his britches brushing lightly against your open thighs is the only contact you have. You squirm, needing him to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. Instead, he uses his words.

“Look at you, Mrs Bridgerton. I can see how desperate you are for me to touch you.” He inhales deeply, “I can smell your need for me. This is how I want you. Always.” His voice seems impossibly low.

“Benedict…” you pant. 

“I want to keep you like this for hours. Naked, at my mercy. Bound in my silks. My muse, my masterpiece.” His speech ghosts air over your skin; this is a special kind of torture.

Finally, he leans down the last few inches separating you and captures your right nipple between his teeth. Your cry is guttural, and he holds your hip bones down harshly as you try to cant up, seeking friction. He soothes the bite with his tongue. He attacks your other nipple with the same fervency. You are so aroused there’s an ache tugging like a hook deep inside. 

“Please, please, fuck me, please,” you chant, knowing that crude word he taught you will rile him. You need him now.

He groans at your curse but says nothing in response. He drags his mouth slowly and sinfully over your rib cage and stomach. Pausing to swirl his tongue around your belly button, he continues down. You hear his knees sink to the floor as his nose trails into your pubic hair. He breathes deep, animalistic, and so so wanted. He drops lower and licks a sharp line through your folds. You cry out, closing your eyes and tilting your head back to bite at the binding on your wrists. 

“Don’t,” he growls. You snap your head back, looking down your body to his face between your thighs. “Don’t you dare look away,” he lightly bites the meat of your thigh, “watch me do this.”

He hauls your legs over his shoulders. One strong arm wraps around your left hip, his hand resting low on your belly. He holds your gaze fiercely as he swirls his tongue slowly around your clit and then applies gentle suction with his whole mouth. By god, he is so good at this. He languidly takes his time, running his tongue all over, varying pressure, pulses, kisses and even little nips against your heated flesh. He never lets you break eye contact. If you try, he stops, and you whine for more. He sucks hard and takes you to the edge, then backs off to gentle kisses, not letting you over. Your whole body burns with anticipation.

“Have mercy,” you breathe.

Two of his long artistic fingers plunge into you. You cry out at the invasion, clenching down on them. He quickly locates that spot which makes you lose all sense. He rapidly strokes, his other hand bearing pressure on the same area from the outside, curled around your public bone. He glows with primal satisfaction as you scream open-mouthed with every stroke.

“Yes, my love, scream for me” his voice is ragged and muffled against your skin “you are so beautiful like this. Wake the whole house; I don’t care. My good girl, mine .” 

He runs his teeth against your clit, and it sends you over the edge, calling his name. He holds your hips firmly open as your body spasms, his strength fighting against your bodily urge to close your legs and curl up against the convulsions. He gently kisses your overheated soaked folds as you slowly come down.  

Benedict stands up smugly, peeling down his braces, watching your body shiver with mini aftershocks, admiring the whimpering soaked mess he has made of you. He quickly removes his shirt while rounding the other end of the furniture. Just as you come back to yourself, strong hands grab under your shoulders. You gasp loudly as he hauls you bodily to the centre of the billiards table. He can be so strong and overpowering when he wants to be. He leans down and kisses you softly to calm your surprise, stopping to marvel at the view down your body, sprawled naked across the green felt, your hands still bound above your head. 

Wanting nothing more than to wrap yourself around his body, you stay lying obediently, just as he had ordered you to. Your eyes track his movement as he stalks back around the table, admiring the flex of his now shirtless torso. It's probably considered scandalous for a lady of good society to be so enamoured with their husband’s body, but you revel in it. He is a beautiful man you have coveted since the day you first saw him. Whenever you have no social commitments to fulfil, at your sanctuary out in the country, your home, you will spend hours wrapped naked around each other, just luxuriating in the pursuit of sensual pleasures and mutual satisfaction. Those are your favourite days. 

A hand encircles your ankle, shaking you from your brief reverie. 

“I hope you were thinking of me,” he smiles indulgently, the sweet husband breaking past the dominating mask you love that he wears for you sometimes, like tonight.

“Always,” you reply, as easy and truthful as breathing.

After a shared moment, his expression turns sinful as he starts to flick open the buttons of his britches one-handed. You watch covetously, wishing you had permission to get up, to use your hands. To reach out and touch him, help him disrobe. 

“I want to touch you”, you whisper plaintively, voicing your thoughts as you watch.

“I know you do, my love”, he smirks, “but not tonight. Tonight you do as I say. You watch me.” You moan as he drops that last piece of clothing from his body. His cock is so perfect and beautiful, standing proud against his body. You want nothing more than to fall on your knees before him and take him into your mouth. He knows he is denying you one of your favourite things by making you lay passively waiting for him. He effortlessly mounts the billiards table, stalking slowly over you on all fours, like a big cat rounds on its prey.

“If only the world could see you now,” he purrs, “my demure wife begging to touch me. You are doing so well, my good girl, not moving those hands, even though I know how much you burn to,” he teases hotly, making sure you look down and watch as he grabs and strokes his hard cock to prove his point. Your breath is so uneven now you can barely make a sound except a pitiful whine. He bows down and kisses your breasts, running his tongue up to your throat, softly biting your earlobe. 

“Please, please….” for what seems like the hundredth time, he has you pleading.

Slowly he lowers his body onto yours. The feeling of his weight, the woodsy masculine scent, all his heated skin finally upon yours overwhelms. Your hands itch to move, grab, hold him in place, but you fight it and obey.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in your submission? It’s like poetry.” he breathes into your neck.

He reaches down to push your legs wider apart. You press your hips and breasts up hard against him, chasing all the touch you can. You feel him nudging at you and almost want to weep in relief. The moment he pushes into your body is everything—the solid weight stretching you, curling your toes. You let out a long keening sound, shutting your eyes to concentrate on the heavy sensation.

“Look at me”, he orders as he inches in further. Your eyes flutter open to meet his. They are blown wide with lust and devotion. One hand cups your jaw.

“Haply I think on thee…” his voice cadence changes; it’s a gentle lilting sound. His eyes don't leave yours as he bottoms out inside you. 

“…and then my state, like to the lark at break of day….” he slowly withdraws almost all the way. You realise faintly he is reciting actual poetry. A sonnet….? 

“From sullen earth sings hymns…,” His beautiful words settle over you, sinking into your thoughts, heightening every feeling. He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as you feel every inch of him slowly push back into you, dragging along all the right spots.

“At heaven’s gate….” he slowly increases the pace and strength of his thrusts, peppering your face with kisses. You moan threadily, pushing your body up against his, kissing wherever you can, twisting your hands against their binding, snagging in your hair.

“Oh god, Benedict”, it’s a plea for more, everything. The hand on your jaw moves, and he traces your lips with his thumb. As he looks down on you, a sheen forming on his brow, you fiercely wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking hard on the fleshy pad. He growls and thrusts into you harder, deeper. You feel yourself climbing as he hits that spot repeatedly, the one that makes you feel electric, a live wire of pure lust. You desperately want to grab his hips, impale him so deep he can't leave your body. 

“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings….” His voice is wavering now. He hooks both arms under your shoulders and rests his forehead on yours, never breaking eye contact as you both pants heavily into each other's open mouths. He’s taking you so hard, hitting that place where it hurts so good with every stroke. You beg for more, wanting to feel this ache lingering tomorrow, a physical reminder of this, of him, you will carry secretly. 

“That then I scorn to change my state with kings.” His voice breaks into a long groan as he finishes his sonnet. Without stopping his movements, he reaches one hand up and, with an expert tug, releases the knot binding your wrists. You sob a relief and instantly move, wrapping your arms tight around him, clinging to him, digging your nails into his back muscles, cresting your legs high around his hips. Your desire coiled tight.

“Please, my love,” he implores needily, “please come for me; I need to feel it.” The brash character he played for you earlier slipping away; it's just Benedict. Your husband, the love of your life. He moves one hand down to your clit and rubs tight circles. You know you are crying out loudly now, uncaring of anyone overhearing you. 

Your orgasm hits you hard like a blinding light, fracturing and reassembling. Liquid hot and throbbing everywhere, from the static on the back of your head, through the fingers you are scraping over your husband's back, to the waves of wet warmth where you pulsate with a vice grip around his cock. You hear Benedict roar your name, losing all sense of finesse in his movements, and in your heightened state, you hiss encouragements, a litany of things you would never admit to saying, sucking the fingers he had between your legs. He snaps, stilling suddenly, his slack mouth hooked onto your chin. The feeling of him coming is visceral. He curls his body in and around you, still pulsing hard inside you, its warmth spreading.

“Fuckkk, I love you”, he curses, panting hard, not wanting to pull out.

“I fucking love you too,” you counter lightheartedly, revelling in the use of taboo vulgarities, still intoxicated by your high. You bask in his responding laughter, feeling it inside too as he slowly pulls out of your body. He plants a kiss on your forehead, still chuckling deeply.

You lay limbs tangled for more than a few minutes, getting your breath back and enjoying the afterglow. Gently Benedict helps you climb off the billiards table and assists you into your nightgown and robe. Unseen by him, you pocket his cravat, your souvenir. He pulls up his britches, looping the braces over his shoulders, barechested, grabbing the rest of his clothing and bundling them over his arm. He grabs your hand, gives it a tender kiss and guides you out of the room into the hallway.

Straight into the path of Anthony. Arms crossed, looking foreboding and much soberer than last time you saw him. However, there is an intense blush on his cheeks. He scowls at Benedict, but he won't look you in the eye.

“Brother, I suggest next time you feel the need to exercise your… spousal duties, kindly consider exactly where the secret door from my office leads to”, he hisses. “And check it’s actually closed.” 

tagged by request: @mothdruid @foreverlonginguniverse

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #Benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #Benedict bridgerton imagine #Benedict bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton #1k notes omg you guys! #1k notes #2k notes #2k notes holy crap you guys! #THANK YOU

[jpitha]

Between the Black and Grey 33

First / Previous / Next

Gord... floats.

He lays on his back in the pool, staring up at the window. Beyond is the deep blue-black of space, with the interior lights of the room blocking all except the brightest stars.

Suddenly, he flips into the water, pushes off the wall and swims laps. Three, then Five, then Ten. Back and forth, back and forth. When he can swim no more, he rolls back onto his back and floats.

He does this two or three more times, and a woman enters the pool room. She's very tall, over two meters, with long silver-white hair and an imperious expression. Her lips purse and she crosses her arms. "Gord you are going to rust if you don't get out."

Gord's eyes flick to her, and he turns his head. "Don't be racist, Chloe."

Chloe harrumphs. "You've been swimming for more than an hour Gord. It's time to come back to the world of the living."

Gord stands. The shallow side pool is only a meter and a half deep, he's in the water up to his head. "Chloe, you can't have come all the way down here to just to bother me into getting back to work. What's wrong?"

Chloe snaps her ankles together and dives into the deep end of the pool. Her form is tight, controlled. When she enters the water there is barely a splash and she dolphin kicks up to him. She surfaces behind him and puts her arms around his chest tightly. Her head rests on his shoulder. "Please Gord. Come out."

Gord turns around and returns the hug. Chloe doesn't seem bothered by her wet clothes. "Fine."

They both climb out of the pool and Gord throws Chloe a towel. She peels off her sopping wet dress and dries off. She wraps up in the towel and grabs another for her long hair.

In the locker room, they get dressed. Chloe's locker has a change of clothes in it already. When Gord sees this, he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Gord makes his way up to his office. As he passes people in the hall, he greets them and makes conversation. The more people he talks to, the more agitated Chloe seems. There aren't too many of them yet, but more than Gord has seen in centuries. It's important to him to say hello and ask after them.

Finally, they enter Gord's office. Chloe rolls her eyes. His office is an anachronism, just like him. In the center is a large desk, made of real wood. She has always wondered where he got it. Soon after they arrived and he started up his operation it appeared one day. The rest of the office is done up in muted tans and browns. A carpet quiets their footsteps, the walls are colored in an innocuous tan color, like a pale beach sand. The lighting overhead is muted and diffused, and there is a lamp on his desk. In the corner is a coffee machine.

Gord walks over and makes a cup of coffee. As it hisses and bubbles Chloe grows more impatient. He takes his time. Once it has finished, he pours it into an old battered mug and carries it to his desk.

As he sits at his desk a small grunt escapes his mouth. He takes a sip of the steaming brew and nodding to himself, puts it down on a coaster. He takes the pad and glances at it, while Chloe sits at one of the comfortable seats on the other side. She waits while he looks at his pad. He continues to look while Chloe tries to find something to do with her hands. She puts them together on her lap, then takes them off and grips the arm rests. She shakes the damp hair off her shoulder. Her leg twitches. There's an antique mechanical clock on the wall in the office. Every time Chloe sees it she shakes her head. It's always running but never at the correct time. As she sits and waits for Gord, the ticking grows louder, and louder, and louder. It feels like it's ticking on her skull.

A small smile escapes Gord's lips.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you, Gord." Chloe says testily.

"You were always so easy to wind up Chloe. Good to see time hasn't changed that." He looks up from his pad. "I'm also waiting for Spyglass to arrive. She pinged me while we were walking up to my office."

Just then, there's a knock - a real, knuckles upon the door knock - and the door slides open. A woman enters, shorter than Gord, much shorter than Chloe. Her dark hair is tightly curled naturally on her head, and she's wearing the inner suit from a spacesuit, form fitting and leaving nothing to the imagination. Chloe's stare could melt tungsten, but the woman doesn't seem to care. "Hey Gord, hey Chloe. Sorry if I kept you waiting!" She takes the seat next to Chloe without waiting to be invited to sit.

"Gord puts the pad down. "Hey there Spyglass. How's the body?"

She smiles and shakes her shoulders and it jiggles - just a little bit. Chloe rolls her eyes again. "It works great Gord. I'm just distracting enough that people don't look too hard, but not so distracting that I'm attracting too much of the wrong attention. That's actually why I came back, I have news from Sol."

"Oh? Something too important to send in a beacon?"

Spy shrugs. "That and I got sick of all the BIs. I need some time off."

Gord smiles and leans back in his chair. It squeaks slightly. "Well then, give us a debrief and you can have a few days off."

Spy nods and unfolds her own Pad. "So rumor on the Floating Cities is that the Empress doesn't have her powers anymore."

Gord's relaxed posture falls away. He leans forward. "Her powers are what?"

"Gone" Spy's eyes flick up to meet his. "No official word of course, and everything coming out of the Floating Cities is that everything is fine, but there is talk."

Chloe nods to herself. "Sounds like it's time to attack. We should prepare immediately."

Spy looks at Chloe, and then at Gord. He makes a face at Chloe, but doesn't reply. Spy continues. "Anyway. Word has been swirling around for a little less than a month before I left. If it's true, it's just happened. They're trying to keep it as quiet as they can, but she has attendants, and they talk." Spyglass winks. "Especially when properly motivated."

Chloe makes a horrified face.

"Pillow talk has been a source of intel for millennia Chloe, you know that. You think you're above the humans and all of their biological impulses, but it's still a valid source, and has provided us some of our most valuable insights." Spyglass shrugs. "Plus, it's fun."

Gord leans back in his seat. "We need people of all kinds, Chloe. Spyglass's up front infiltration as well as your behind the scenes management. We're more than three people now. We have to cover all our bases. That said-" Gord flips through his pad. "-We are still fewer than five hundred Chloe. We're in no shape to retaliate. We have to be more subtle. Spy, do we know why the Empress lost her powers? I know the Nanites are fickle."

"No insight into that yet Gord. I've put feelers out, but the galaxy is a big place. Speaking of that, turn to the other report I sent." Gord, Chloe and Spy all look at their pads. "The pirate Hemmi Navarren has started operating again. Looks like the coup against him was overturned. The Heap has moved twice in the last month, and we're getting reports from Imperial vessels that they're being targeted."

"So?" Chloe scoffs. "What do we care about one K'laxi pirate?"

Spyglass turns to Chloe. "What is with this attitude Chloe? We're all on the same team and we're all moving in concert towards the same goal. I don't need you scoffing and rolling your eyes - yes I can see that - at everything I say. We care because Hemmi seems to be attacking Imperial ships nearly exclusively and because of his daughter."

Chloe opens her mouth to reply and then stops. Her expression softens and she tries again. "I apologize Spyglass. I was in a mood from something earlier and I let that color our interaction. I will do better in the future. Why is Hemmi's daughter important? I thought the K'laxi didn't think of their progeny that way?"

"Thank you Chloe, I accept your apology. We all have bad days. As for his kids, Hemmi is different, apparently. He doesn't mind who the mother is, but he has paternity tests done on all the kits and gives special attention to 'his.' Zherun Navarren is his oldest and current most likely person to take over his organization."

Gord puts the pad down. "That's all good intel Spy, but I think I have to agree with Chloe here. Why do we care about one mid-tier K'laxi pirate and his daughter?"

"Because of who Zherun is currently with. She's been seen as the one of the commanders of a new mercenary group." She grins wickedly. "A group that's headed by Fenchurch Whitehorse."

"Hah!" Gord slaps the top of his desk. The sharp noise causes Chloe to jump in her chair. "Fen! I knew she'd turn out all right. She's got her own ship?"

Spy nods. "Yes, a former Imperial frigate. It's legally registered in her name, and we can't seem to figure out how she got it. It passes all cursory and even most in-depth checks of ownership."

Gord whistles low. "Nice work Fen. I'll have to ask her how she got it one day. Any other news about Fen?"

"She's running with a small group. Her, Zherun, an AI an a few other K'laxi. They're sticking to small jobs, trying to build networks."

Chloe's head snaps to Spy. "Who is the AI?"

"It's Northern Lights." Spy looks up at Gord.

Gord isn't looking at them. He was staring off into nothing. "Northern Lights is still alive. Holy Shit. It's been..." He blinks and looks at them both. "Sorry, I haven't heard from Northern since before the purge and I was sure she was gone. To find out she's not only alive, but active in this day and age? Shit. We have to find them. I want to say hi to Fen, but I really want to talk to Northern. Where are they?"

"As of a week ago they were on their way to Picaresque. They're probably still there."

Gord stands. "Come on Spy, Chloe. Let's go visit a friend."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

[rosewaterandivy]

c'mon barbie, let's go party

summary: steve harrington learns to embrace his kenergy with a little help from his friends.

a/n: in honor of barbenheimer today, please enjoy steve's newfound kenergy in the kids aren't alright cinematic universe. that being said, you can absolutely read this as a stand alone too! i'm seeing barbie later tonight, so mentions of the plot are vague and culled from the teasers and trailers - any and all mistakes are my own! feel free to yell at me in about this in my ask box et al. i'm at the tattoo shop for the foreseeable future and need some enrichment in my enclosure. Reblogs, feedback, and likes are appreciated - reposting is not. Enjoy! 💜

p.s. sneaky peak at eddie and his gf from my upcoming series notes on a scene 👀

steve had it all planned out - made the appointment himself and triple-checked that your schedule was clear for the day. circled it on the communal calendar in the kitchen double-feature: barbenheimer.

the group chat had been made aware and eddie's girlfriend, inexplicably known as princess, had taken it upon herself to buy tickets for the gang, therefore dictating the order in which the films would be seen (film teachers, am i right?). oppenheimer first, which steve would suffer through - historical films were always difficult for him to get through due to the anachronisms, and ending with the pièce de résistance: barbie.

you were swamped with grad school classes (having applied over the spring and started your courses this past summer) and steve wanted to treat you to something nice and relaxing. and a trip to the nail salon would have been just the thing, if not for eddie & princess crashing it.

luckily, you didn't seem to mind and were happily ensconced in your chair waiting on your nail tech. you'd brought your own color, because you're picky like that, and let steve, and then eddie and his girlfriend (out of necessity), sort through your collection too.

he'd settled on something called a midsummer's dream from that one brand you liked (there seemed to be a package from them every few weeks or so), thinking it would compliment your choice of arcade monster quite nicely; a little sweet and a little sour.

"manicure and pedicure?" the woman at the front desk had asked. steve clarified that the mani/pedi would be for the ladies, while eddie and himself would just get the pedicures. though the chipped black polish on ed's nails was becoming unsightly.

but despite doing so, steve somehow found himself moved from the pedi bath over to a nail table and seated right next to you. you looked up from your reading (Prisoners of Geography by Tim Marshall, steve's suggestion) and quirked a brow. "whatcha doin'?"

"sitting here, i guess."

you smirk, "sure thing, babe," and go back to your book.

so when a well-meaning woman grabs his hand and places it in a bowl of water while asking about his color choice, he doesn't know how to respond. he could've sworn he just said a pedicure for him and eds, but when he looks down the row and finds eddie in rapt conversation with his nail tech about god knows what as she removes his chipped black polish, he's no longer quite as sure.

"psst."

he looks over to you, seeing an ill-attempt to repress your laughter. "you don't have to get a polish if you don't want to." and it's sweet, you're sweet for thinking of him and his comfort when this was supposed to be all about you and yours.

steve shrugs, "might as well at this point," and hands her the bottle of pinky-blue iridescent polish.

you tuck your chin toward your chest with a grin, teeth flashing bright against the pink of your lips. "a very nice use of kenergy, steve. gosling would be proud."

💅💅💅

your nails flash green-gold in the sun, a nice contrast against the magenta base polish. you’re sipping from a s’mores milkshake from the ice cream parlor after the nail appointment, eddie having spied it a few stores down.

("it's too hot to argue, harrington," eddie groused, but not before grabbing steve's hands to examine his manicure. "dude, that color is sick on you!")

“s’nice color honey,” steve says, pausing to drink from the milkshake when you passed it over to him. the cool blend of chocolate and marshmallows with graham cracker chunks hits his tongue as you send a deilvish wink his way.

“thanks baby,” your tongue glides against the full of your bottom lip, collecting a bit of chocolate. checking to see that eddie and princess are out of earshot, you pull him in by the belt loops.

“think they’ll look as nice wrapped around your cock later?” you rasp, voice dropping to a low whisper.

steve shudders at the husky sound of your voice and nearly chokes on the milkshake in response, flustered and blushing. your laughter rings out in the afternoon heat, as bright as the sun shining above.

you kiss him for good measure, lips cool and sweet, before catching up to eddie and his girlfriend a few paces ahead. and all steve can do is watch after you, struck dumb by his girl with her quick tongue and wicked words.

he gets it later that evening seeing barbie when they say: “she’s barbie, and he’s just ken.”

you did not tell a lie when you said to princess all those months ago, that ken would end up being steve’s ‘literally me’ character. truthfully, he’s just glad to end up with his dreamgirl.

and yeah, your nails looked just as pretty later that night. as did his when you fell apart on his fingers. a flash of blue in the dim light when his hands dug into the soft flesh of your hips— you coming with a ragged cry on his cock, face buried against the pillows of your bed.

steve may be “just ken” but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. not when he’s got a barbie like you.

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the kids aren’t alright rosewaterandivy #steve harrington smut

[petermorwood]

“E” or “O”...?

A comment in the “It Was Sugar!” post wondered if "castor" with an "O" was the American spelling for caster sugar, or a typo.

It’s a typo, but one with an interesting history.

*****

“CastOr” is the spelling when referring to castor oil (pressed from castor beans) and, even older, a hat made from felted beaver fur (Castor canadiensis).

Fans of historical fiction might occasionally read that a character “doffed their castor” - meaning, raised or removed their hat in a token of good manners to ladies or respect to superiors.

"CastEr" is the spelling for a container (or its contents) for strewing, sprinkling or throwing, as in "cast aside" or “cast a shadow”.

In homophones (same-sounding words) such as sow / sew, rein / rain, peal / peel, breach / breech etc., just one letter gives the different meaning.

Words like “cast”, however, depend on context - cast a spell, cast a bell, cast a role, arm in a cast, cast in an eye, cast of the show...

English is like that.

*****

Besides sugar casters for sprinkling sugar, there were “sand casters” of wood, ceramic or metal, which contained the powder used to blot ink before or instead of blotting-paper.

This powder might be fine sand or ground sandarac resin (two reasons for “sand caster”) but also ground cuttlefish bone, or ground pumice which was called “pounce” - the French for pumice stone is “pierre ponce” - in which case the container was called a “pounce pot”.

Blotting a letter with sand or pounce may even be the origin of the phrase “done and dusted”, meaning “job all done”, though that might just derive from a room or house completely cleaned, so YMMV.

Its use is often seen in historical films, though they often get the end of the action wrong by showing writers blowing or shaking the powder off onto the floor.

In fact blotting powder was re-usable, and was poured off the paper back into the pot, whose top was often funnel-shaped to make that easier.

Using sand or pounce continued until fairly recently: here’s a silver writing set - inkstand with matching inkwell and pounce pot / sander - hallmarked 1908.

Fountain-pens were already in use (mass-produced since 1880) though prone to leakage until that problem was fixed in, surprise,1908, so it’s not surprising that this handsome set relied on dip pens. Also, it was probably on the desk of An Important Person who had to write little more than signatures.

The pounce pot is a curious anachronism; I’ve read one source suggesting pounce and sand continued in use because they was cheap, but penny-pinching doesn’t seem an issue here.

Maybe used blotting-paper was considered unsightly, whether as a sheet or mounted on one of those rocker-blotters still used occasionally when signing treaties.

Or maybe pounce was considered more secure; if blotting-paper picks up a good reverse impression of the writing, it can be mirror-read; there’s no way to mirror-read anything from powder.

Writer Note; a fantasy story could mention a spell which makes the pounce or sand reassemble itself as the words it blotted, so re-use is done for more than mere economy. Each time pounce is poured back into the pot it gets a thorough shaking, that world’s version of a micro-cut paper shredder or multi-pass disc wipe.

This was originally about spelling variations, so yet again I seem to have wandered a bit off-topic

I do like the silver desk-set, though.

#social history #sand caster #pounce pot #writing instruments #fun with english #homophones #same sound different spelling different meaning

[twig-tea]

Absolute Zero ep. 1 First Thoughts

Absolute Zero already has me in a chokehold. This is everything I want from New Siwaj. It's beautiful, it's sad, it's cinematic, the background music is orchestral. People have visible real skin texture, and different skin tones. There is so much good, subtle physical acting (not every reaction is in the face), something New excels at bringing out in his actors.

There is SO MUCH NOSTALGIA! I am drowning in the aesthetics. And I love that two of our characters, the cinephiles, are clearly also quietly obsessed with retro things for their own reasons--the DVD/VCD rental store owner who has a gramophone and cassette deck in 2008 and was still renting DVDs through 2018, and Soon, who carries around a walkman and a flip phone in 2008, past when mp3 players and smart phones were a thing, renting rather than pirating DVDs, and watching films projected from real film on a reel [also was that an old school tape-based voicemail machine on his desk?]. Anachronism is established so early in this show, so quietly but thoroughly. I wonder how many younger audience members would even know that these things are anachronistic (I know it's not just cultural differences because Remember Me confirmed Thailand had smartphones by ~2005). I know we've already established that Soon is stuck in the past because he misses his recently deceased parents, but I am curious about how else these anachronisms are going to interplay with time travel as a theme.

I am also trying so hard not to reminisce, but I had a corner store that I passed on the way home from school and so would stop in all the time and rent VHS tapes from and the old guy who ran it knew me and would say hi and point out new things I would like and would make fun of me for renting the same thing over and over and would give me free gum from the gumball machine at the counter....it was even smaller than the one in the series and it was such a comfort and man I miss it!

And the time pieces! The hourglass, the old school analog alarm clock, the cigarettes which indicate the mystery neighbor [Soon from the future] has been on the balcony awhile, the ticket stubs to indicate the amount of time Ongsah missed Soon, the lack of anything on Soon's wrist (contrasted with the watch on Ongsah's--this might be a stretch but I'm thinking about it), even the stars as old timepieces (this is definitely a stretch).

And the grief this episode! So much and so quiet. We have Soon so overwhelmed he looks like he's choking on his grief at his parents' grave, as well as his general constant air of sadness [Mix improved so much since What the Duck and UWMA!]; Ongsah crying silently at the water for reasons we don't yet know; the DVD/VCD rental place's daughter grieving her father, and Soon also grieving him, and then the preview for the next ep so we know more pain is coming. I really appreciate how different each of these circumstances and depictions of grief have been so far, and it's something I'll be thinking about as the show goes on too (because I'm sure there will be more!).

Anyway. I am really excited that the first episode lived up to my expectations!

@bengiyo you asked to be tagged 💕 Anyone else talking about this show, feel free to tag me too!

#absolute zero the series #bl meta #typed so i can stop thinking it #this show is already so good #don't let me down new siwaj

[piercedpressure]

(sits down across from you) ofc i need to know literally everything about king's gambit.

SLAMS HANDS DOWN ON MY FUCKING DESK!!! OK!!!!!

king's gambit is a quest campaign i gm for my friends :3 the basic gist of the story is that in this country called katinia, a nationwide hunt takes place. the target is the king, and the prize is the throne and the haunted house that keeps it, the Last House. the current monarch, King Halina, has steered the country through war, famine, and civil unrest for 99 years -- and with the very recent announcement of her pregnancy, it seems that she shows no intention of abdicating the throne any time soon.

however, just 73 days before the tournament begins, a deadly earthquake rocks the capital to its core. when its revealed that the epicenter sat in the belly of the Last House, it sets off a chain of events that not only highlight how deep the rot goes, but also leads to the inevitable fall of the House.

and it all falls into the hands of a duty-bound mother and knight, an addict squire bound for sainthood, a handmaiden dragging herself through a suicide mission, and a gardener that tends to the roots of the House.

tragedy. horror. anticolonialism. a fucked up tree that eats everyone you love and hate and dont know. crazy political machinations. nasty transgender gay sex. the fight for a better world. fucked up house that echoes the grief of those who bled for it. ever-changing political landscape. archaeology. anachronism. its got it all baby!

#ori-ohs-and-shame #king's gambit #please do ask more about kg! its been my baby for ~2 years now and im so happy with how its been developing #neverending shoutout to my bestie chrome for developing the schemes and world with me #a fucking trooper for sticking with me through a week of nonstop infodumping just to catch him up #(the players just got through the earthquake.)

[charlie-lynchs]

Well, that hurts like a b***h

Sara Lance x daughter reader

POV: The legends have a mission and Charlie has to save the day, but gets hurt while doing that. It’s 2018.

Warnings ⚠️: blood, weapons, swearing

“Mom I can handle myself.” Charlie said walking behind her mother. “We talked about this now too often. You’re a kid, my kid and I said no.” Sara said not even turning around. “I am 17 years old, Mom. I’m not Child anymore.” She said. They now arrived at the bridge. “Physically yes. Do I have to remind you that you’re born 2007, that makes you 10.” Sara said.

Oliver and Sara went onto the Queens Gambit to hide the pregnancy from everyone. Sara gave birth to her on the ship of the bad guys. When she “died” a second time, Oliver was left with Charlie on the island. Then she got sick and Oliver panicked so he gave her the Mirakuru. Which lead her to the grow to a 8 year old girl in 2008. Now in 2018 she still looks like 17, but is 11 years old. With the Mirakuru she got strong and clever, Nate likes to call her ‘Big Brain’.

“Oh really you play that card, again? But isn’t the Mirakuru an argument for me going to a mission? I’m stronger and harder to kill.” she said annoyed. “That makes not a better case for you. You are not going onto mission. Unterstand?” Sara said starting to point with her finger. Before Charlie could answer Gideon interrupts. “Captain Lance, there is an anachronism.” she announces. “Gather the team. This conversation is not over” Sara said walking to the round board in the middle.

It didn’t take long until everyone was gathered around. “What to we got?” Ray asked standing next to Sara. “There has been a Zombie attack in 1973.” Gideon explained. “Okay, Zari you stay here. Everyone else suit up, we have mission.” Sara said. Charlie sits in the background on one of the chairs. She was really pissed at her mom, pissed that she still treats her like a child even tough she’s been through more then most grown ups. She made her way to her room while Zari moves the Waverider to the right time and place. After Zari did her job and legends are just observing, she made her way to Charlie. She knocks on the door.

“Can I come in?” she asked and door opens. “You do know she just wants to protect you?” She said sitting down on her desk chair. “Since when do you agree with her?” Charlie said looking up to her. “Since I know that you should worship every minute you have with your family.” Zari said. “She lost so much. She doesn’t want to lose you too.” she said. “I know, but I’m not a kid and I’ve been through worse stuff.” she said groaning. “She would understand if you finally explain what happened to you on the island when you were alone.” Zari said. Charlie just looked at her. Zari and Felicity are the only people on earth knowing what happened in that one and a half year where Charlie was alone on the island. “I can’t. I’m not telling her to protect her.” Charlie said. “But don’t you think she will feel betrayed when you tell her?” Zari said looking at her. There is a silence after that. Suddenly Charlie jumps up. “Betray! Zari you’re a genius!“ she said running to the bridge.

Zari took after her. “Why am I a genius?” she asked when they arrived. “Well I asked myself. How the hell did freaking zombies get into 1973?” Charlie explaining while typing something. “And why did they target a small supermarket, instead of the peace event right next to it?” Charlie said. “Right! Normally they would target the place with the most people.” Zari said. “But what if someone wanted them there, to lure the legends there. Someone who felt betrayed and wants revenge but still has a heart not to hurt hundred of people.” she kept going. “Someone like Jane Bloom.” Charlie said letting the image show on the screen. “Ex-Worker at the Bureau. But got fired after she had something against us.” Charlie said. “So she is angry.” Zari said and Charlie just nods. “Sara we’ve got some news.” Zari said, but there was no answer. Zari and Charlie just looked at each other. “Coms are down.” Charlie said. She types something more. “Fuck.” she said running towards the entrance. “Charlie? Where are you going?” Zari asked running after her. “To them. She is especially pissed at mom. She wants her dead. We can’t warn them. So I go there and warn them.” She said taking her arrows and bow. “Ok but I come with you.” Zari said. “No you stay here be my eyes and ears. We go on my private channel so she can’t stop that to. My mom is not going to die today!” Charlie walking out.

Charlie made her way through the city. Now and then she found a zombie on her way and killed it with a perfect shot arrow in the head. When she arrived at the scene she stayed in the background watching the Legends fight the zombies. “Zari you there?” Charlie whispered. “Yeah Baby Lance. You see here?” Zari asked through the coms. “Not yet.” Charlie said still watching everyone closely. Then she sees Sara being busy fighting a zombie and Jane coming from behind with a sword like weapon. Without thinking twice Charlie jumped between the two. The sword stabbing through her stomach. She fell to the ground. By now Sara noticed and knocked Jane out. After that she immediately runs to Charlie. “Charlie! Oh god.” Sara exclaimed while laying Charlies head on her lap. Ray already trying to stop the bleeding. “Why did you that?” Sara said stroking her hair. “It couldn’t be you.” Charlie just said slowly closing her eyes. “Charlie! Baby stay with me. Open your eyes come on.” were the last words she heard.

Sara run to the waverider. Her dying daughter in her arms. When she walked in Zari run by. “What happened?” she said after seeing Charlie. No one answers, all to focused on her. Sara makes her way to the medby. “Gideon! Tell me what going on.” Sara yelled placing her daughter on the chair and putting the bracelet on her wrist. “It seems like the sword was able to hurt organs of Ms. Lance. If I am able to repair that, I have to put her into a coma.” Gideon explained. “Chance of survival?” Sara asked even though she doesn’t want to her the answer. “15%, Captain Lance”. Sara didn’t know how the act or respond. She goes and takes Charlies hand. “Come back to me Sweetheart.” Sara says while pushing hair out of her daughters face. “She is strong, Sara” Nate says standing behind her. “Can you call Oliver and Felicity? Tell them what happened.” she said not looking at him. Nate walked away and does as he is told.

Gideon was able to repair the organs of Charlie but had to put her into a coma. And like she said, the chance that Charlie wakes up is low. Hours turned into Days and days into weeks.

For 4 weeks Charlie was now in the coma. They changed the chair in the medbay into a hospital bed, also big enough so Sara can stay the nights there. Oliver and Felicity came and visit. Right now Sara was sitting on a chair next to Charlie watching her closely. At the same time the team sits at bridge. Everyone was still down and it’s like with Charlie the good spirit of the ship went into a coma. “It’s weird seeing Sara like that.” Zari exclaimed. “Well she usually doesn’t show emotions to often, but when it comes to Charlie she is always softer.” Ray said sitting down. Suddenly there was a ring and Ava Sharpe tried calling via video. “We can’t press her away forever.” Nate said standing up and accepting the call. “Mr. Heywood. I would like to talk to your captain.” she said without a hint of emotions. “I’m sorry, but Captain Lance is not available at the moment.” Ray says now standing next to his best friend. “You have been reclining my calls for week and stop working. It’s time to start working again.” she said. “We have our reasons and they are non of your business.” Zari said this time. “Is it because of Ms. Lance?” She asked and everyone looked surprised. “I know everything. And it has to be said. She is just another human being. Let it go and get your asses up and work. Now I would like to talk to your captain.” she said. This time Mick stands up. “If you talk one more word about Charlie I will burn down your whole office.” he growls and hangs up the call. Everybody looks at Mick, confused on how protective he got. In the medbay Sara fell asleep in the chair next to Charlie.

Pain is the first thing that Charlie feels when she opens her eyes. Her hands go immediately to her stomach where no longer a sword was in, but a bandage wrapped around. She looks around and realises she is in the medbay, she also sees her mother next to her. “Ms. Lance. It’s is good to see you’re awake.” Gideon says. Because of the noice Sara jolts up thinking something bad is happening. “Careful we don’t want you to fall.” Sara turns around from where the voice came from and sees her daughter awake in the bed. Sara hugs her immediately holding her like she is going to lose her any moment. “How are you feeling?” She asked looking at her. “Good. Well, this hurts like a b***h.” Charlie points at her stomach. Everyone was relieved to see her awake. Her dad also came to visit.

Over the next few days it came out that she only survived because of the Mirakuru in her blood. Recovery was still hard but she had the Legends and her mom by her side always.

Right now she was laying on her own bed watching a movie. There was a knock on her door, with a press of button the door opens and her mom stands there with a plate of food. “Thanks but I’m not hungry.” she says and looks back at the TV. “But you haven’t ate your breakfast or lunch. You gotta eat something, baby.” Sara said placing the plate on the nightstand and runs her hand through Charlies hair. She sits down on the desk chair, next to the bed. It had been standing there since Charlie slept in her own bed again and Sara was there until she fell asleep. Sara takes the remote and pauses the movie. “Hey! I was watching that.” Charlie says looking at her mother. “We have to finish our conversation.” Sara said looking at her with a face Charlie couldn’t interpret. “No we don’t. I understood what you had to say and I won’t bother you again.” she said taking the plate starting to eat trying to get out of the conversation. “You didn’t bother. While you were in that coma I had a lot of time to think. About everything. You’re not a child anymore and you’re more clever than me for sure. You proved that. Connecting the dots between Jane and the attack. It was brilliant. So I decided to let you come onto missions. Little ones in the beginning” Sara said. Charlie smiled and jumped up hugging her. It was not the most clever decision given her wound. “Careful we don’t want you to tear your stitches again.” Sara said but with a smile on her face. She helps Charlie sitting down again. “And don’t forget small ones. I choose, no complaints.” Charlie just nods on that comment. Sara laid down with her daughter and the movie continued. Sara didn’t plan on staying the night in Charlies room but she fell asleep on her chest and Sara didn’t want to wake her up. After Charlie healed completely she went on her first official mission and solved it like a real legend.

The End

#sara lance #legends of tomorrow #sara lance x daughter!reader

[waywardrose-archive]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 4

stranger things | eddie munson x reader | rated e | 3.6k

spotify playlist | for @punk-in-docs​​​​

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, series-typical horror,  period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, fantasizing, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until  his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which  flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Apologies for the wait. As always, life finds a way to prevent me from writing. 😫 (I swear, we are army-crawling closer to the smut.) Thank you once again for the likes, reblogs, and comments! 🖤 Check the #em tagd tag ⬇️ for previous chapters.

-

4

The line rang and rang. You paced by your bedroom desk. The new phone cord restricted your range to three steps in any direction. Pulling out a notepad, you wrote ‘longer phone cord.’

“Dammit, Eddie.”

The line clicked as someone answered on the other end. You straighten, hoping it wasn’t his uncle with bad news.

“Hello?”

Eddie.

“This is the second time I’ve called, butthead. Where were you?”

With a smile in his voice, he said, “I stopped to take a leak.”

“You scared the shit outta me.”

“My apologies, milady.”

“Don’t ‘milady’ me, sir. I thought you were dying in a ditch.”

“Nah, just peeing in one.”

You laughed despite your fading worry and sat in the desk chair, bending to unlace your Docs.

“You don’t deserve my mixtape now.”

“I don’t? Don’t you want to civilize me?”

“My music’s hardly for the civilized.”

He hummed, and it almost sounded like a purr. You froze, and your stomach swooped. You imagined him making that noise as you smoothed back his unruly hair to suck on his neck.

The tinny scratch of a lighter and the crackle of burning tobacco filled the silence. You wanted a cigarette, too, but it wouldn’t help.

“You’ve spoiled me,” he said. “My cigs taste like shit now.”

“Then buy better cigs.”

“Or I can keep bumming from you.”

“That’ll cost you.”

“Yeah? What’s the toll?”

You wanted to say kisses. Make-out sessions. Orgasms. But what if he laughed? Blew it off? Made a joke of it? Then you’d have to roll with it and laugh and say you were only kidding. No, of course, I wouldn’t extort affection from you!

You hummed in thought. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“You’re making me worried over here.”

“Serves you right.”

“Were you really that worried?”

“Yes!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really had to go.”

You sighed, the endearment softening your resolve. “I believe you. It’s just this town. It feels...”

You shrugged a shoulder.

“Yeah, I know,” said Eddie. “But I’m fine. Just hungry.”

“Well, eat something.”

“But I’m talking to you.”

“Then I’ll let you go.”

“No. No, don’t...” A faucet gurgled, then silenced. “I’ll drink some water.”

It was quiet as he drank.

“Eddie?” you asked.

“Yeah?”

“Did you have a good time at the party?”

“Meh.” He exhaled. “It got better when you showed up.”

You dipped your head to ease the sudden tightness in your throat and coughed. It barely worked.

Your voice was raspy as you said, “Yeah, same here.”

The party had been a typical house party: couples dry-humping to pop music, jocks posing, a girl crying in the bathroom, someone highjacking the stereo, and hormones clouding every square inch. The only thing different had been Eddie. You could’ve sat on that glider bench with him for the rest of the night.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, throat’s dry.”

“Maybe I should be the one letting you go.”

You grinned and said, “I’ll manage.”

-

You’d given him the promised mixtape before class started, telling him you had enough leftover songs to make a second. Maybe even a third. However, if he didn’t like this first one — and you said it was totally cool if he didn’t — you wouldn’t subject him to more. He’d read the track listing and recognized one band out of fifteen.

He hadn’t wanted to look ignorant, but he was impressed. He’d nodded, thanked you, and pocketed the tape.

No one in Hawkins had this kind of unusual taste, he thought as he opened and closed the empty cassette case. The plastic click was nice. So were you.

You were also special — and weird. He liked weird. He liked you. He liked your smile, your lips. Fuck, your lips. He wanted to kiss you all the time, kiss you until it hurt. He felt constipated in his brain with how much he wanted to kiss you.

He couldn’t concentrate on writing a decent continuation of the campaign for Hellfire. Sitting next to you during O’Donnell’s was the best and the worst. He didn’t have to wonder what you were up to, because you were right there. But you were right there, and he wanted to talk to you — or crawl under your desk. He wanted to learn everything about you. But then you would ask him about him, and he didn’t want you discovering how much he’d failed at, how many milestones he’d missed.

You didn’t know he lived in a run-down trailer park. No matter how many drugs he pushed, he couldn’t get him and Wayne out. Something always went wrong with one of their vehicles. Or the roof leaked, or a pipe cracked from a hard winter’s freeze. Sometimes Wayne’s hours were cut at the plant because the union had been busted years ago and his bosses were assholes. A belt broke in the washing machine, and they’d had to haul soapy clothes to the laundromat. Then that one time when the microwave started flickering and smoking as if possessed by the ghosts of TV dinners past.

That might’ve been his fault.

And fuck lettuce. He’d never buy another stupid head of lettuce again.

Still, it was always something.

And you didn’t know any of it. Eddie didn’t want you knowing any of it.

You were definitely too good for him. The thought of you settling for him made him queasy. Sure, he’d leave Hawkins after graduation, but he realized he wouldn’t make it far. Maybe Indianapolis or Columbus. If he were lucky, Chicago — where he could maybe find work as a studio musician.

In an ideal world, he would lead Corroded Coffin to Los Angeles, where they’d play gigs and be discovered by a record label. Maybe after that he could find a partner and have a deeper connection than some eye-fucking during a concert, followed by a quickie in some backseat.

Granted, he’d only done that once, but he wanted more. He thought about you wanting more. Did you feel the same? Chicks were supposed to want the whole shebang. He liked the thought of you wanting that from him. It still made him queasy, but maybe...

Maybe he could earn it and make you proud.

The phone rang in the kitchen, jolting him from his thoughts. He nearly fell off the corner of his bed where he’d been sitting and staring at the silent boombox. Like a nutcase. He was thankful Wayne had already left for work.

He stumbled over his feet — and a few things on the floor — as he left his room. He righted himself in the hall and answered the phone in the middle of the third ring.

“Hey, did you listen to the tape yet?” you asked.

He was immediately on high alert. He hadn’t expected you to call after checking on him Saturday night.

“Yeah, some of it,” he said. “Popped it in the van after Hellfire Club—”

“Hellfire? Like the English group of devil worshippers?”

“No.” He scratched the back of his head. “I mean, I named it in honor of them, but no.”

“Then what’s Hellfire Club?”

He feigned a serious tone as he said, “An exclusive club for persons of quality.”

You sounded less than impressed when you asked, “So, just guys, then?”

“No, ‘persons.’ Anyone cool.”

“But what is it?”

With a shrug, he said, “A bunch of nerds that play Dungeons and Dragons.”

You laughed, making him feel electrified. He didn’t care if you laughed at his expense. He got you to laugh, and that was what mattered.

“One of my old friend’s boyfriend played D and D,” you said with a smile in your voice. “He had a huge collection of sourcebooks and stuff.”

He sat at the kitchenette, not believing his ears. You’ve read Lord of the Rings, knew D&D, had cool taste in music, and were gorgeous. According to the Munson Doctrine, ladies like you were out of his league.

“You ever play?” he asked.

“No, but I paged through his Dungeon Master’s Guide while they made out in the living room.”

“That’s like the Bible for DMs.”

“Figured as much.”

He said, “I’m the DM for Hellfire.”

“Of course you are.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”

“You seem like a leader, is what I’m saying.”

“A compliment, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“A shepherd for the lost sheep at Hawkins.”

“Is that what you do?” you asked in a teasing tone. “Tell stories for little lambs?”

He hummed in amusement. “Unfortunately, going to class impedes that second calling.”

-

You opened the latest issue of Propaganda to finally read the interview with The Sisters of Mercy. A list of upcoming tour dates ended the article. You frowned because they were playing two shows in New York this coming weekend, but you didn’t live there anymore. You lived in stupid Indiana now.

But then you saw they were playing Chicago on Halloween.

You snuggled into the mound of pillows on your bed as you thought. Halloween was on a Friday this year. Chicago was less than three hours away. Your parents were leaving that morning for some business conference in Cincinnati. They’d be gone until Monday night.

If you posed as Mom and called yourself out of school, you could be in Chicago just in time for lunch.

You glanced at your phone. Eddie might want to go with you. He’d said he liked both cuts from the Sisters you’d put on the mixtape. However, Halloween was a party night. He’d probably be busy dealing. Or maybe Corroded Coffin would have a show — where he’d be all sweaty and beautiful again.

Still. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, though, would it?

It was Wednesday, and after ten, so he should be home. If not, you’d ask him before class tomorrow.

You went to the phone, hesitating with your palm on the handset.

Did you want to be alone, far from home, with a guy you’d met a month and a half ago?

Eddie wasn’t a creep, though. He was a good guy. He didn’t seem the type to force himself on anyone, either. He wasn’t aggressive. Sometimes he was loud or boisterous, which wasn’t a bad thing. It was a fun thing, an Eddie thing. It made you wonder how he’d be during sex. The sole guy you’d done it with had been silent, only coming with a sharp inhale.

Instinct told you Eddie would be vocal, which made you hot all over. Maybe you’d never find out either way, but you’d like his company on Halloween. It was just a road-trip and a concert.

You picked up the handset and dialed his number. It didn’t ring long until he answered.

“Hey,” you said.

He answered with a drawn out ‘hey.’

You laughed, realizing Eddie was high. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothin’ much, baby. What’re you doing?”

“Calling to ask you something?”

“Is it something illegal? Do you need help burying a body? Are we pouring you a new patio?”

You laughed again. “No!”

“Pfft! No fun.”

“Well, it might be. If you say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Ha! That was easy.”

“What did I agree to?”

“Coming to Chicago with me on Halloween.”

“Why’re we going to Chicago?”

“To see The Sisters of Mercy play.”

“As one does.”

“Yep, as one does.” You twisted the phone cord around your finger. “So, do you want to come with me?”

He hummed. “Halloween’s a Friday.”

“Yeah, I’m going to skip.”

“And drive back that night?”

You hadn’t thought that far ahead. If you did the long drive up, went to the concert, and drove back that night, you wouldn’t be home until almost dawn. That was a long day — even for you.

You said, “I guess we could get a room for the night? There’s got to be something nearby.”

He hesitated, and your heart sank. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable with you like that. He’d only met you last month. He didn’t know you weren’t a psycho. Plenty of people kept their distance because of how you dressed. It usually worked in your favor, but perhaps not this time.

Then again, it was short notice for a road-trip, concert tickets, and a night in a hotel. He may not have the money, which wasn’t a big deal.

Or maybe he had the money, but he just didn’t want to do all that with you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “If you don’t want to, it’s cool.”

“No, it’s...”

“If it’s gas money, I’ll drive, no problem. The tickets won’t be super expensive. And my mom will give me food-slash-emergency money before they leave. I can use it to pay for the room.”

“Leave?”

“Oh, yeah— Heh! Forgot to mention: my parents are going out of town that weekend.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“But still, if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

“I...”

“Please? It’ll be fun, I promise. We can do whatever we want! Anything you want.”

-

His gut tightened at your promise. Anything he wanted. He wanted a lot of things. His dick jerked against the zipper of his jeans. He definitely wanted to be alone with you, go on a road-trip with you, get crazy at a concert with you. He wanted to kiss you and touch your tits and feel your legs around his hips and and and—

Shit, he was too high for this.

He dragged a hand over his face, wishing suddenly it was your ass. He wanted to rub his face all over it, make it wobble against his cheeks. He liked your ass.

He liked your mixtape, too. All of it, actually. The Sisters of Mercy were on there — that he remembered.

It wouldn’t matter if he missed a day of school. The flock would survive one day without him. Hellfire wouldn’t be meeting that night, anyway, because the freshmen wanted to go trick-or-treating.

“Eddie?” you asked.

Fuck it.

This is the story of how a Munson had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected.

He said, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

You squealed in delight, giving him a new kind of head-rush. It was like weed plus whiskey, sprinkled with Doritos and nacho cheese with extra jalapenos. He leaned more on the counter as he laughed. He didn’t know what he laughed at, but his laughter relieved a tension no drug could soothe.

It was all so simple. He’d been overthinking, examining each interaction with you from every angle. But it was simple. He needed to concentrate on the good shit. You trusted him and invited him on an adventure. You wanted to share something with him. On Halloween of all days, which must be a high holy day for goths.

And he was going to treat you so good, you wouldn’t know what to do.

The smile was so bright in your voice when you said his name again. Like sparklers on the Fourth of July. He wanted you to say his name like that every day.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replied.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll plan then.”

He grinned. He knew it was goofy. Wayne would’ve seen right through him, if he were home.

“Good idea.”

“Well... Good night.”

“Good night, milady,” he said softly, placing the handset in its cradle and trailing his fingers down it.

.

It took days to persuade Wayne to call him out of school on Halloween. Eddie didn’t really need to do it — he was nineteen, for fuck’s sake, and could call himself out — but he didn’t want to lie to Wayne. He lied enough as it was.

Wayne asked for every detail: who he was traveling with, whose car, which band, what hotel. And what about meals, huh? Wayne didn’t expect him to live on cold Pop-Tarts for forty-eight hours — though Eddie could totally do that.

When he told Wayne he was going with you, Wayne grunted and took a long pull from his cigarette.

Eddie tried to play it casual. He kept his eyes on the TV, watching the commercials during Designing Women. Wayne did the same before grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray by his recliner.

“You like this girl?” Wayne asked.

“Yeah, I guess. She’s cool,” he said, recrossing his ankles.

Wayne was silent for too long. He glanced over to find Wayne observing him.

“Edward,” he said, tone serious. “Do you like this girl?”

He took a deep breath and rubbed a hand on the thigh of his jeans.

“Yeah, I do.”

Jesus, he really did. And he hadn’t even kissed you. Maybe he could roll for constitution in Chicago. Because he hadn’t skill checked at all during Jimmy Kirk’s party. He didn’t know why he was thinking in D&D terms. He needed to focus on the present conversation.

“—parents know you’re goin’ with her?”

It took him a second to fill in the blanks.

“Um, yeah? I think so?”

Wayne grunted again. “And how old is she?”

“Seventeen? Eighteen? She’s a senior.”

Wayne nodded.

“Alright, but you keep your wits about you, hear? Thinkin’ cap.”

He agreed by pantomiming putting on a hat.

“No funny business, either,” Wayne said. “We don’t need no miniature Munsons runnin’ around in nine months.”

His face burned. He looked to the ceiling, lips curled between his teeth. He wasn’t up to bat with you, let alone getting to any bases. Knocking you up hardly seemed a possibility. He liked the activity that led to babies, naturally, but no babies just yet.

“Jesus Christ, Wayne.”

“Well, somebody had to say it!”

Wayne laughed, then coughed, then continued laughing.

“And you elected yourself as spokesman?” Eddie asked.

“Damn straight, kiddo, you’re my blood.”

They shared a grin before Wayne tacked on: “Now get me another beer.”

.

On the Wednesday before Halloween, he suggested meeting around nine on Friday at the park by the community pool. It should still be open. You replied you could pick him up at his place, but he thought fast to say it wasn’t a big deal. Wayne wouldn’t mind dropping him there after work.

“I thought he worked second shift?” you asked.

“He does, but sometimes third, too.” He shrugged. “It’s more money.”

You nodded.

“Of course,” you said, but didn’t sound convinced.

Eddie knew not to say any more. Lies, even white ones, had to be kept simple. It wasn’t as if Wayne didn’t occasionally work third shift.

He’d have to talk Wayne into waking early to drive him when he got home after school.

.

Thursday night, he unearthed Wayne’s old army duffle from the floor of his closet. He shook it out and gave it a sniff. It smelled like old canvas. He left it to air out as he rolled joints. You seemed cool with weed. He riffled through the lunchbox, finding little bottles of molly and k, and leftover tabs of acid.

He couldn’t leave that for anyone to find.

He kicked the lunchbox under his bed and folded all the bottles and baggies in a pair of acid-wash jeans. If you didn’t want any, they were safe. If you did, he had an assortment of goodies.

Staring at the lone pair of jeans next to the duffle had him spiraling. He wasn’t going to a heavy metal concert. He was going to a goth concert. He wasn’t goth. He didn’t know what goths wore to concerts. He assumed leather pants and ruffly shirts, neither of which he kept in his vast repertoire of sumptuous attire.

In hindsight, he should’ve thought about this when you’d first invited him. It hadn’t dawned on him until the night before his usual threads wouldn’t do.

Goddammit, he did this kind of shit all the time.

Okay, he thought. Okay, okay, okay. If he wouldn’t fit in, he at least didn’t want to embarrass you... Plain wasn’t embarrassing. Plain was good. He had plain stuff.

Dark t-shirt, check. Dark henley, check. Dark jeans, check. Leather boots, double check. Leather jacket — waiting by the back door — big check. Socks and underwear, check. Toiletries, check and check.

He didn’t know how many checks that had been, but figured it was plenty.

.

Friday found him scrambling for extra money and music. There hadn't been enough checks last night. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly forgotten two essential elements. Actually, yes, he could.

Wayne gave him a twenty as Eddie stuffed bills from the Get (the fuck) Out of Hawkins Fund in his wallet. He looked at the twenty and back to Wayne, but Wayne only shrugged. It wasn’t an endorsement, per se, yet it felt like one. It was a lot of money, too. That was two tanks of gas — with extra for a Slim Jim or whatever.

The ride to the park was quiet without the radio on. He would usually want music, but this wasn’t his ride. He tried not to bounce his knee as he hoped they weren’t too late. It was only five after.

You were already in the parking lot, though, leaning a hip against your car. You didn’t appear pissed as you straightened when Wayne stopped nearby. Honestly, you looked beautiful in the golden light streaming through the autumnal trees. You lifted the black sunglasses off your face to give him a radiant smile.

His gut clenched even as he smiled back. He was screwed.

Wayne nudged his thigh. He turned to find Wayne — his uncle, the man who took him in over a decade ago, whom he probably disappointed on a weekly basis — offering a small box of condoms.

“Jesus H. Christ, Wayne,” he whisper-screamed, snatching the box from Wayne.

Wayne smirked as Eddie hid the box deep in the duffle.

“She’s pretty,” Wayne said. “So keep your wits about you.”

“I will, promise.”

Wayne nodded, saying, “Good.” He pointed with his chin. “Best get goin’ then.”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #reader insert #em tagd #waywardrose writes

[anachronic-cobra]

Love that while online fandom in general is having a weird meltdown about the morality of enjoying anything darker than sanitized fluff in fiction, the Danny Phantom fandom is still sitting in the corner 16 years after the show ended with a blankie and cocoa and their 10,000th deep-fanon supertorture cannibalism vivisection psychological horror fic

#from the desk of anachron #danny phantom #my favorite fandom honestly those are some good fics too

[ml-nolan]

Last 10 Fics Tag Game

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics posted to AO3. (Sort by date posted.) If you have fewer than ten, post what you have. 

Tagged by @beatnikfreakiswriting, thank you!

all my fics are here

1. Music When You Speak (Sandman, Dream/Hob, multi-chapter rockstar and record store AU WIP)

Dream sits hunched on a bench in the boutique hotel courtyard, an open packet of stale oyster crackers in his hand from the shitty Barstow diner where they'd eaten lunch yesterday.

2. (Not) Spellbound (Sandman, Dream/Hob, smutty one-shot)

Dream is giving him that look again, the one he gives when he’s trying to intimidate Hob but is in absolutely no position to do so.

3. On Sex Dreams and Anachronisms by Hob Gadling, PhD (Sandman, Dream/Hob, smutty one-shot)

The first time Dream materializes in one of Hob’s dreams, he is greeted with a mouthful of cock.

4. Just an Animal Looking for a Home (The Magnus Archives, Tim Stoker/Gerry Keay, multi-chapter bookshop AU WIP)

Gerry Delano-Stoker is crammed into the back office of Pinhole, about a thousand tabs open on his laptop and a thick stack of papers sitting on the desk beside him.

5. The Gilded Cup (Sandman, Dream/Hob, multi-chapter coffee shop AU)

Hob Gadling always finds an excellent reason to get out of bed in the morning.

6. Invoke Me Under My Stars (Sandman, Dream/Hob, smutty one-shot, coffee shop AU)

Around the desperate haze of want in his brain, all Dream can think is his hands are too firm around Hob’s arms.

7. Color in Your Cheeks (Malevolent, John/Arthur or John & Arthur, fluffy one-shot)

Arthur, pull over! John says urgently.

8. Above and Beyond (The Magnus Archives, Tim Stoker/Gerry Keay, smutty one-shot, bookshop AU)

It's nine on a Tuesday night, and Tim has come to terms with the fact that Gerry isn't coming over. 

9. I'll Sing a Song Beside You (The Magnus Archives, Gerry Keay & Jonathan Sims, multi-chapter one-shots, no-powers AU)

For the first time ever, there was someone else sitting against the wall when Jon got there.

10. More Than Enough (The Magnus Archives, Tim Stoker/Gerry Keay/Sasha James, smutty one-shot, bookshop AU)

Tim always loved his birthday. 

If ya want/haven't already, plz hop in on this: @academicblorbo @chaosheadspace @cuubism @valeriianz

#dreamling #dream x hob #rockstar au #tag game #fanfic wips #fanfic first lines

[ofgentleresolve-a]

@jeoseungsaja​​ sent in:

Hello I mentioned I was going to send more unprompted asks aND I'LL BE SENDING ANOTHER ONE RIGHT HERE WUIEHDIHD (I hope this is okay but pls feel free to ignore if it's not fitting or something of the sort!):

A thud resonates through; the sound of files harshly cascading down wooden desk, a desk which had to suffer the consequences of Hyuk's despair just a few days ago, when tears stained his face and hand slammed surface until becoming red with numbing ache.

You wouldn't guess he had a breakdown days prior just by staring at his stoic countenance, at those features that fight to stay composed and dry as he slides the files toward the end of the desk; toward the Black Knight.

So many words about their last meeting still unnerve him. It's like he knows, and how? Pigeon carrier. Solving a puzzle. Maybe he's overthinking this time around, unconsciously finding Patrick everywhere (no matter where he goes, a lot of things remind him of his best friend).

Speaking of unnerving, he also remembers the quiet wincing. And he remembers getting hit by a wave of worry. Why should he worry? Why should he care? His jaw clenches. He swore to himself he wouldn't care for anyone else.

"The files you wanted." He sourly addresses; files a little frayed and decayed due to the hands of time. There are new pages too; freshly printed ones that Jae-Hwan added inside. They were the one who got these files for Hyuk; the files of the disappearance of Shin Seonghun and Shin Chaeryeong. It didn't need a lot of budging...as much as he dislikes to admit it, Jae-Hwan is always willing to help (he had to hide the fact that the Black Knight requested them, otherwise, he's sure, they would've insisted on handing them themselves).

However, before the vigilante can take them, a palm grabs them and takes them back to the detective. "Why are these important?" Eyes narrow. "Why do you need these?" The Black Knight didn't expect Hyuk to give in so easily, did he? || a tale from long ago ( ft. unprompted )

If the Black Knight FLINCHES, he only hopes that the detective doesn’t notice. Loud noises- he’s learned anything from the course of five years and counting, nothing good ever comes out of sudden noises. Or surprises in general. But he can’t be that obvious, can he?

So perhaps as the mild literature professor, they know him to be jumpy, nervous despite a mellow demeanor. But the Black Knight isn’t any of that. Decisive, calm, and meticulous, they consider him. A far cry from the Shin Myungdae, the literature professor. They wouldn’t think to connect the two.

( Little do they realize, even a worm will turn. But between the Black Knight and Shin Myungdae, who is Patrick supposed to be? He certainly doesn’t feel like himself in either part. He wonders if Hyuk would know the answer. )

He glances at the leg of the desk. There are new skid marks on the floor, making a lattice with the older ones from their reunion first meeting. Behind the tall neck of his coat, Patrick frowns, watching his dear friend closely. Something happened in the last few days. His expression is even more sour and pinched than usual like he’s trying to cover up whatever is threatening to spill out. Did ANACHRON or even ARGOS do something? Did he receive bad news? The questions keep popping up like bubbles in simmering water and- Patrick bites the inside of his cheek.

That’s right, he’s not supposed to care. Slipping into the seat across, he grips the hilt of his sword tighter, not trusting himself to speak even when the files get slid across towards him.

He glances at the top. Just as he suspected; the sound made might have resounded throughout the room ( although that might also just be because the walls aren’t soundproof- Hyuk really didn’t pay much for this place, did he? ), but the files look more on the…thinner side. After all, their kidnapping was conducted by professionals- experts in the field who made sure the trail of evidence DISAPPEARED sooner rather than later. Or perhaps the police didn’t bother to look much into the case, considering that there wasn’t any family advocating for a search party. Just a seven-year-old boy and his younger sibling shoved into the foster care system.

Either way, it doesn’t surprise him that the police wouldn’t have many paper files on an unsolved case from thirty years ago. There wasn’t much to glean off of the digital records anyways. Still, he takes note of the newer sheets of paper sticking out between the yellowed pages. So there might be something NEW to gain from this after all.

Still. He waits, watching the files. There’s no way it would be this easy to get this information, especially not from Hyuk-

And right Patrick is. The files are snatched back before Patrick can even skim the top folder. Typical of Hyuk. Impatient for an answer. Even more impatient to wait for one.

The Black Knight scoffs, legs crossing as he leans back. It feels unnatural, how he wants to take back that scoff, the cocky attitude. He shouldn’t be telling his dear friend this. He shouldn’t be seeing him, let alone going ahead with this partnership. The less Hyuk knows, the better; actually, it would probably be even safer if the Black Knight let Hyuk stay STUCK behind that wall.

“And you said you knew everything there was to know about him. But I suppose even the closest of friends keep secrets from one another, no?” In other words, you didn’t know him nearly as well as you thought you did. “If you exclude the fact they were both kidnapped by ANACHRON or the fact one was a researcher in the field of time travel, they’re no one special. Of course, there wouldn’t be much effort put into finding them at the time. They didn’t have much family who cared.”

The Black Knight shakes his head. “Well, save for their children, but I highly doubt the police would listen to a seven-year-old’s pleading. Let alone a four-year-old. One disappeared off the map a year later. And other, well, he was lucky for the time being- another family took him in and gave him a new name.” Patrick peers up at his dear friend. The moonlight is rising, tonight. A pair of dark brown eyes watch Hyuk, carefully. He’ll have to find a way to steal those folders out of his dear friend‘s hands soon.

“I think you would know THAT ONE’S NAME, better than anyone else.”

#jeoseungsaja #jeoseungsaja ( ft. lee hyuk ) #i having made you “a liar” would turn your lies into truths ( ft. patrick & hyuk || black knight verse ) #( verse: a knight is never without their sword. ) #patrick....c'mon give him a break #YOU DIDN'T KNOW THIS FOR THE LONGEST TIME EITHER :'D #also not patrick hoping hyuk didn't pick up on the flinching....why do i have feeling hyuk most definitely did.... #unless you hc that he didn't tho of course! #but aside from the usual pain ( not me SOBBIN' OVER THE LAST ONE HOW HYUK IS TRYING TO KEEP IT TOGETHER FROM HIS RECENT BREAKDOWN #😭😭😭 ) #pls have the black knight ( patrick ) being a smug piece of shit jskdflsjdlfkj #even if he low key hates it #i really wanted to use that gif at least once in this verse #so.....thanks for giving the opportunity alex JKFLSJDFLKJ :'D #also pls insert *fight for those folders bc i can't imagine hyuk giving up those folders after he realizes a part of patrick's past is #in those files....* unless you think otherwise correct me if i'm reading hyuk wrong here!! #but alex I HOPE?? THIS WORKS?? THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING THIS IN!! #absolutely had a wonderful time writing this out even if detective sourface is having a bad time(tm) 😭 #THANKS AGAIN FOR HYURICK AND ALL OUR WONDERFUL DYNAMICS #care u lots and have a wonderful day alex!! and if i should change anything lmk!! <3 #under the same sky ( queue. ) #that would truly be wonderful ( answered. ) #( answered: patrick. )

[jhsharman]

Uncle Steven?

The arbitrary decision making keeps "death sentence" regarding the prospects of a boxing match with Reggie but --

switches "kill" to "hurts". An anachronism for sure, high school boxing -- as too any PE instruction. Then too, escaped gorillas aren't happening much these days either.

Kids today don't know from Gene Autry.

Uncle Steven?

So, the problem comes in that they ret-conned Jughead as Bingo Wilkin's cousin, meaning they both share an uncle Herman. And now they share an Uncle Steven. The would-be inventor of a handful of 1950s Jughead comic book stories who'd get sent to an insane asylum here and there. See a reference to such here.

Curious, though, this allusion to prison made instead.

So. Uncle Herman / Steven thinks he turned Jughead into a gorilla. And -- intoxication not allowed in Archie Comics this century?

Send the call.

Yes. The inmates are running the asylum. Curious both ways, in that the revision -- I guess -- just hints at a desire for wacky stuff around the desk. The propeller beanie makes all the difference. And, revised, the story ends. Not wanting to show the offensive to psychiatric ailments classics.

#Archie Comics #Jughead #Reggie Mantle #Archie Andrews #Boxing #High school boxing #escaped gorilla #Uncle Herman #Uncle Steven #psychiatric ward #Sanitorium #Propeller beanies #Samm Schwartz #1960 #Death sentence #Gene Autry

[sarking]

WIP Amnesty #3

This one is much, much more Hamilton than AmRev, but I'm still bringing in some non-musical folks because we're once again at Valley Forge.

Tags: Canon Era, Gleeful Anachronisms

Historical notes!: Despite a Congressional ban on theatre, there were at least two theatrical productions in Valley Forge during the spring of '78. The May performance of Cato, documented by Lt. Col. Bradford, has been the subject of much mythologizing, but this story is set closer to the April performance of an unspecified play mentioned in Ensign George Ewing's journal. 

For this story, I've partially bought into two of the myths created around that Cato performance: first, that Washington arranged for the productions to take place; second, that officers and common soldiers alike made up the audience. I offer no excuse other than: dude, c'mon, this is Hamilton fic.

----

It has been nearly a week since Laurens, pulled from his normal duties for a special assignment from General Washington, last graced the front room with his presence. 

Laurens will not show him the script. He begs, he threatens, and when neither of those succeeds, he stomps his foot and asks, "Why?"

"The general has asked for your revisions to the drill manual, not to the script of his favorite play." Laurens nods at the papers on Hamilton's desk even as he holds his script pages tight to his chest.

"Cato?" Hamilton says. "You are performing Cato and I was not invited to take part in this endeavor?"

"It is not Cato," Laurens says, with an air that suggests he knows the mystery will drive Hamilton mad. "It is a comedy. And you will be taking part—you will serve as theatre critic, as the intimate venue will not allow for a large audience."

"Critic," Hamilton says distastefully. "I will say you suck."

Laurens laughs.

Hamilton plucks a quill from its ink pot and waves it through the air as he composes a review. "General Washington's Strolling Players put forth a calamitous free production Thursday night that was not worth the price of admission. Thespian neophyte John Laurens, in a piss-poor attempt to embody the archetypal rake—"

Laurens makes a sound like a buzzer. "Lafayette is the rake."

Hamilton considers their roguish friend, with his dazzling smile and irresistible charm. "Yeah, fair." He drops into his chair. "How long must I wait for opening night?"

"I fear it's a long way off." Laurens looks to the longcase clock that stands proudly by the window. "Nearly twenty hours hence."

Hamilton pouts. "As the encampment's leading theatre critic, am I not entitled to a preview?" 

Laurens sits on the corner of Hamilton's desk. "You are entitled to a front-row seat, among le beau monde. Is that not enough?"

Hamilton taps a finger against the knuckles of the hand Laurens rests on the desk. "I see where it is I stand. Tell me, as consolation, might I at least share the bed of the cuckold?"

"Perhaps," Laurens says, hooking his index finger around Hamilton's. "However, you would need to seek the consent of Captain Walker himself. And, I suspect, of Baron Steuben." 

Hamilton can not help the grin that spreads across his face at the salacious gossip. "You jest." 

"I do nothing of the sort." Laurens slides off the desk and kisses the back of Hamilton's hand. "This neophyte must retire. Should the critic follow, he may find certain favors bestowed upon him in hopes of procuring a favorable review."   

-

Hamilton arrives at the bakehouse-turned-theatre moments before the performance is to begin. The last of the house candles have been extinguished, and only the glow emanating from the stage enables him to find his promised seat at the general's side.

The eldest of the camp fifers draws back the makeshift curtain as Hamilton tucks himself into the scant inches allotted him on the bench. He murmurs an apology to the general, for which he receives not forgiveness, but the stern look the general often employs to order him silent.

Hamilton clamps his mouth shut and looks to the stage.

The casting is exquisite. Walker is himself a charming, handsome man, and were the play of another genre, his naval officer would be the perfect hero. 

Alas, Lafayette dazzles as the rogue, his easy charm transforming the rake from immoral to simply mischievous, and making Walker appear almost dour in contrast.

Hamilton hazards a glance down the row and finds Baron Steuben enraptured despite his limited English. Hamilton huffs a quiet laugh; later, he will have to share this observation with Laurens.

Once the men have set the scene, the dark-haired heroine flits onto the stage, prompting an outburst of wolf-whistles and lewd remarks from the soldiers seated in the gallery. 

Hamilton cannot fault them; indeed, he would join them were he not seated beside the general. The low cut of her dress would be indecent on a more amply endowed woman; with her slight breasts, it is merely provocative. Dark curls frame her face, softening features that are pretty enough, though far from delicate, and close as he is to the stage, Hamilton can see the freckles dusting her cheeks and nose.

Laurens. The heroine is Laurens.

He loses the plot of the play then and there. His Laurens is a vision, and little else matters, though he feels jealousy flare hot in his chest when Lafayette's rogue kisses Laurens to peels of laughter from the audience.

The play ends as all comedies ought, with Lafayette winning Laurens' affections.

-

The generals and their wives repair to the dining hut to partake of Madeira and brandy after the show, but Hamilton is swept along to the raucous after-party at the home where Lafayette is quartered.

The night air is a welcome relief from the cramped bakehouse, but it is not long before Hamilton is glad of his coat. It is nothing like the harsh nights of February, but the temperature is bracing enough. Beside him, Laurens rubs his arms through the sleeves of his gown, though he violently shrugs off [name]'s attempt to cover his shoulders with his coat. 

As they traipse along the path, one of the stagehands produces a bottle of kill-devil from his haversack. "To opening night!" he toasts, and their merry troupe responds with cheers and affirmation as he takes a swig.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve before passing the bottle on. 

Laurens, having traded his high-heeled shoes for his riding boots, has his hands full, hitching up his skirts so they do not drag through the dirt, so Hamilton puts the bottle to his painted lips to allow him to tip his head back and drink. A few drops dribble down his chin; Hamilton can taste the sweet lipstick encircling the rim when he drinks. 

-

Laurens is all too happy to be twirled gaily from partner to partner, and he laughs delightedly when he is spun into the arms of an unsuspecting Lafayette. 

All of Lafayette's graceful agility is reserved for battle; on a dance floor, the marquis de La Fayette is further ennobled as the duke of limbs, but his fluster evokes no pity from Laurens, who pushes up indecorously close.

"Aide-moi," Lafayette mouths over Laurens' shoulder, and Hamilton is quick to abandon his drink. He is not, however, entirely merciful–the duke is, after all, his friend. Hamilton settles his hands on Laurens' corseted waist and angles his hips forward, pressing him closer to Lafayette. 

Laurens, taking notice of Hamilton's presence, turns in his arms. If his dancing fell short of propriety with Lafayette, it now rushes headlong into lewdness. Though his skirts may soften the familiar thrust and grind of his hips, Hamilton's cock still stiffens as though they are rutting against each other, naked in the dark.

-

#wip amnesty #notfic #in the spirit of no fucks given november

[anachronic-cobra]

The Goncharov meme has exposed several really interesting things:

1) It highlights tumblr as actual social media based in community effort rather than status

2) It shows what tumblr as a whole values in media (in particular, queer representation, strong relationships between characters, emotional catharsis, and dichotomy of themes such as spending one's life building a legacy versus just living life)

3) Tumblr humor is based primarily in improv "yes and-ing" and commitment to the bit, and people will put 200% effort into pushing the bit even further if the bit keeps being fun

4) More than anything, people want to entertain each other, and being in a community that values entertaining others leads to incredible collaborative works of creativity that don't even feel like work to make

#from the desk of anachron #goncharov