#Tumbler cricket

[apnahichutiyapfelahuahai]

1st test match ki team dekhi india ki dekh k to fatt gii fir Australia ki dekhi to fatt k 4 ho gii bc aisa lg rha h ye saale kachha chaba jayege but dekhte h mza to aayega agr phla session acha gya toh!!

[manisha999]

श्रीमद्भगवद्गीता के अनुसार ॐ नमः शिवाय मंत्र से मोक्ष नहीं हो सकता।

तो अवश्य जानें वह कौन सा मंत्र है जिससे मोक्ष मिल सकता है।

#MysteryOfGodShiva

पढ़ें पुस्तक "ज्ञान - गगा"

[anilbhamu]

Players Who Played Most Matches For A Single Franchise In IPL

आईपीएल भारतीय क्रिकेट के सबसे लोकप्रिय टूर्नामेंट में से एक है, जो दुनिया भर के क्रिकेट खिलाड़ियों को एक साथ एकत्रित करता है। आईपीएल के शुरू होने के बाद से कुछ खिलाड़ियों ने एक ही फ्रेंचाइज़ के लिए सबसे ज्यादा मैच खेले हैं। इस लेख में, हम आपको उन खिलाड़ियों की सूची देंगे जिन्होंने एक ही फ्रेंचाइज़ के लिए सबसे अधिक मैच खेले हैं।

For More Information Click here:-

https://www.anilbhamu.com/2023/04/players-who-played-most-matches-for.html

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 13

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Ew, Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The taxi lets you out just outside the darkened estate. Your heart lurches as you stand on the curb, the car slowly rolling away as you stand in a cone of light beneath a street pole. You stare up at the ominous facade with its cavernous windows.

You want to believe it was just a faulty wire or some anomaly but you have to be sure of it. The gate is locked, just as you were certain you left it. You key in the code and shut yourself in. The hedges and looming trees lendthe property an unearthly feel as you creep along, aided only by slivers of moonlight.

You stop and look down at the phone clutched in your hand. You search for the flashlight app and shine it ahead of you. By habit, you go around the back, even as the chirp of crickets and hum of the night adds to your foreboding.

The beep of each digit pressed into the keypad pierces the night. The electronic chime is unceremonious is the nocturnal din. Inside, there is a haze of light from just down the hallway. Did you leave it on or did someone else?

You turn off the light on the phone and drag up the call app instead. Just in case you need to call for help. You proceed without flipping any switches, careful not to make a noise as you advance. You reach the entryway and turn to face the glow emitting from the broad archway.

You hold your breath as dread bubbles up to your throat. You stop short as the clink of a glass cracks the silence. Mr. Laufeyson’s back is to you as he sets down the short tumbler, a stray droplet clinging to the brim. He rescinds his arm and wipes his mouth with his cuff.

You could sigh. It’s okay. He’s only come home early. It’s not some sinister intruder or covetous criminal. It is only him.

You could go and he’d never know of your foolish panic. You lean back on your heel as you tuck away your phone. He strides to the tall glass cabinet and presses the door so it releases. He pushes it open and drags out one of the dark bottles. You sidle backwards, stretching an arm out to feel around you.

“What are you doing here?” He sneers and stops you in your tracks.

You gulp and blink. Speechless. Caught.

“Yes, you,” he turns and uncaps the round-shouldered bottle.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I…” you sputter and step out of the shadows, “the alarm.”

He fills the glass and clunks the bottle down heavily, resting the cap on top but not sealing it. He swipes up the tumbler and brings it before his mouth. His green eyes sparkle like emeralds in the low light of a single lamp.

“And you came oh so quickly,” he scoffs.

You rub your lips together, uncertain what to say. He seems unhappy. His early return is likely for unpleasant reasons.

He swigs and strides, his free hand patting his thigh in agitation as he paces. He spins and retraces his steps, mouthing to himself. You peer down the hall and back at him. You feel you’ve walked in on a very private moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I’ll go,” you say.

“Hm, you do not want to stay?” He challenges as he halts and faces you, his sole scuffing sharply, “I’m certain this place is preferable to whatever sty you reside in.”

“I only came to make sure all is well–”

“And why wouldn’t it be?” He pauses to toss back the last of his drink, liquor by the looks of it. “Were you neglectful in your duties, mm? Shall I take inventory?”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I was only… nevermind,” you shrug.

“Bah,” he waves you off and twists on his feet, once more strutting away. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he goes to stand by the mantel, tilting his head as he gazes along the ornaments. Just where the camera hides. “While you’re here, pour me another drink.”

You chew your lip and wring your hands as you come forward. You break the threshold of the den and near the round table beside the armchair. You peek at him as he toys with the globe, flicking it around with one finger.

“Do take your time,” he hisses.

You grab the bottle and lift the cap. You tip it carefully but still hit it against the top of the glass. The liquid glugs out and the scent rises to tinge your nostrils. You set the bottle down and take the glass, wondering how anyone can stomach it.

You go to him as he leans a hand on the mantel, his other on his hip as he huffs. He shakes his head at some irksome thought. You stand nearby but don’t dare disturb him. He frightens you as he turns and snatches the glass.

“You know,” he begins, stopping himself to drain half the glass, “the last thing I need to worry about is this place. I hired you for just that and I find you looking at me as if this house should be aflame.”

You look down and take a step back. He clucks and pivots, stomping around the sofa. You stay as you are, rigid and uneasy. The anger roils off of him and you are the only one there to hear it.

“My father… of course, couldn’t be happy for my visit. No, never is. I swear he must’ve despised my very birth,” he snarls, “but my brother, oh, he can do no wrong.”

He empties the last of the glass as you peer over your shoulder. He grips the glass tight and bares his teeth at it. His eyes are drawn to yours as if he can sense them.

“You’re still here,” he growls.

“Mr. Laufeyson, sorry, I–” you hurry around the other side of the sofa towards the door, “I was only–”

“No, no,” he stops you as he waves his palm, “another.”

He presents the glass in his other hand. You stare at it. There’s a cloudy tint in his eyes. As you approach, you hear him exhale. You take the glass and his fingers brush yours clumsily as he drops his arm. 

You look at the empty tumbler and back to him. You don’t know how much he’s had or how much more he should. You don’t drink but you suppose he wouldn’t need more than a few glasses.

“Are you sure you should–”

“Are you questioning me?” He snips.

“No, Mr. Laufeyson, I only… it’s late and you’ve been traveling–”

“Don’t tell me what’s good for me,” he raises a finger to point in your face, “left alone for one day and you presume a bit much.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, not at all,” you swallow, “I will get you more–”

“No,” he grabs you before you can retreat, his hands on your shoulders, “why…”

His word dangles between you as his question remains unasked. Terror courses through you as he grips your shoulders tight, the size and strength of his hands locking you in place. You bat your lashes as you stare up at him. The liquor clings to his breath as it fans over you.

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you squeak.

He holds on to you, almost trembling. He steps closer as he draws you in. He is almost hypnotised as he glares down at you. His hands slip away only to grasp the bulk of your hood instead, bunching it in his fists. He leans, teetering on his feet, looming over you.

You are trapped in your own shock. You cannot pull away, you can’t push him off, you can’t move. You’re horrified as you wonder what he’s thinking. As you fear what he might do next.

He is drunk, that isn’t a question, but is he dangerous?

“The light plays tricks on me,” he whispers before he lets you go, swaying as he turns and finds his way to the sofa. He flops down, leaning against the backrest. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “You are correct, I am drunk.” He takes a breath and blows out with a groan, his lashes flicking open suddenly as he sits up, “go.”

You nod and put the glass beside the bottle. You march back to the archway and stop, glancing back at Mr. Laufeyson as he drops his head and cradles it in his hands. He looks almost pathetic as he slouches forward. 

“I said leave me,” he snaps without looking up, “now!”

🧹

The night is short and fruitless. Your sleep is splintered with anxiety and the morning sees you twitchy and uneasy. As you get ready to leave, you wonder if you should even bother. That rotten feeling in your gut assures you you’ll meet no different than the previous night.

Yet, Mr. Laufeyson hadn’t fired you. He only told you to leave and you can’t afford to give up, though for the first time, you're considering it. As Leslie gets your father’s coffee ready, you’re reminded that you can’t. No, he needs you, he is only too stubborn to admit it.

You set off as the knot in your stomach draws tighter. You don’t sit on the bus, instead standing as your nerves get the better of you. You rock, leaning into the motion of the bus and your stop comes too soon. You drag yourself off and shudder as you look down towards your fate.

You’re on time. Five minutes ahead of expected. The gate code works, that’s a good sign. Your usual trawl through the gardens is hazy and dull. You don’t notice the blue jay winging or the lady bugs crawling on the brick. You can only focus on what comes next. You’re completely blinded by the unknown.

Inside, the house is as empty as the day before. Not truly. You know Mr. Laufeyson will show himself eventually. You hang your bag and put on shoe covers and gloves. It’s Monday, a cleaning day.

You begin if only for the distraction. Down the hall, into the kitchen, room to room, until you reach the den. There is no sign of the previous night’s run-in. The bottle is neatly back in the cabinet with the rest, the short glass is gone, and all appears as it should be. So why does it feel so off?

You work through the room almost ritualistically. You have a pattern and you stick to it. The familiar has always been safest. 

As you near the table, something sparkles on the dark hardwood. You bend to pick up the small shard of glass, careful not to let it cut into your fingertips. You glance around to see if it broke off anything close by. No cracks, no chips. It’s clear and tiny. Almost indiscernible.

You cup it in your hand and take it to the kitchen to put in the bin. Something so small can cause a lot of pain. You shake off your palm and let the lid close.

“Ah, I see you are working hard,” Mr. Laufeyson’s voice rolls through you.

You tense and turn slowly from the bin. You keep your head down as you cross the kitchen, “yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

As you try to pass the counter, where he stands, he steps out to block your path. You stop and back up, your gaze stuck to the tiles before his leather shoes. He stands close enough for his warmth to cloud around you.

“Coffee,” he states the single word and in an undeniable demand. 

He’s never asked for that before but you can figure it out. It must be a test. Or a lesson. He’s reminding you of your place. You can’t just barge in after hours, even if you are trying to help. Well, that’s the thing, he only wants the help he asks for so you better stop thinking so much.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

You turn and go to the cupboard. You don’t know where anything is. You clean but you don’t cook or go through anything. You open one door; wrong. The second; wrong. On the fifth, you find a bag of coffee. 

As you unfold the top, you reveal aromatic beans. You stare at them. You make coffee for your father all the time but you buy grounds, not whole beans. You look around for a hint. You’ve seen people grind beans on television but they don’t exactly show the grinder; it’s always just a loud noise in the background before the balding blonde brings the metropolitan cast their wide brimmed cappuccinos.

You flinch as Mr. Laufeyson struts around the bend of the counter and slides a square device across the granite. He pushes it in front of you, crowding you again. You thank him and stare at the grinder. What do you do now?

You take the little scoop from inside the bag and spoon up a heap of beans. You hover them above the rest as you touch the grinder, turning it as you examine it. He sighs and taps a silver button. The lid pops up and reveals a compartment. You pour in the beans and close the top.

“Are you truly so ignorant?” He accuses.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you utter, not bothering with an excuse.

“It is a simple task. They train teenagers to do it,” he scoffs.

You nod and press the button that reads ‘grind’. You hold it, happy for the noisy reprieve from his criticism. When it’s done, you look around again. There’s a machine but it looks a lot different than the drip machine in your own kitchen. You go over to it and feel along the upper part, searching for a catch. Surely there’s somewhere to put a filter.

He nears again. He slides a drawer out and takes out a little metal canister. He pushes a button to open the top of the machine and wiggles it over it to say, it goes here. You open your hand and he lets you have it. You return to the grinder and scoop out the ground beans into the little canister. 

You return to the machine as he taps his fingers on the counter. You slip the canister into place and close the lid. The screen lights up and shows several options. You don’t know which one to choose. He huffs and selects ‘bold’. You stare at his tie in shame.

“How can you not know how to brew a coffee?” He sneers.

You shrug, “sorry, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Mm, there is much you don’t know, isn’t there? Much I know which you wouldn’t,” he snickers, “oh but I know something about you. Something… interesting.”

You furrow your brow and look up, not far, just at his throat. His hand slips across the counter and he looms over you. His gaze bores into you as he hangs over you like a shadow. He pulls back and turns to lean on the counter, lifting his wrist to adjust his watch. He’s certain to turn his hand to show it off. 

“What I know is that you’re a liar,” he states, “and sneaky. And nosy.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I only came last night because the alarm–”

“Last night? What do you mean?”

“Uh…” you blink and look him in the face. “You don’t remember?” 

“Ha,” he snorts, “of course I do. You were concerned after I triggered the alarm. So be it. I am not talking about that,” he faces you as he smirks, “you like to hide, don’t you?”

You frown and shrug. You don’t know what he means. He laughs and once more touches his watch.

“I know exactly how you came upon my watch that day,” he announces, “and I suspect you discovered a few other curious sights.”

You blanch and shake your head vehemently. Your cheeks are on fire and your whole body is buzzing. You could disintegrate right then and there. You almost wish you could.

“I didn’t– I didn’t see anything at all. I just– I just– Mr. Laufeyson, I wouldn’t ever– you’re my boss. I was afraid but I couldn’t see out from under the bed.”

“But if you could…” he hums.

“No,” you insist, “no, I wouldn’t want to.”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He echoes dully.

“I understand, I was wrong to not say anything but I was only trying to clean–”

“Wouldn’t want to?” He repeats even louder.

You snap your mouth shut and frown. You don’t know what to say. You’re embarrassed. You should’ve just told him yourself. Before you can apologise, he throws his hand up and sidesteps you.

“You may bring me my coffee,” he orders harshly, “be certain to knock.”

[soliloquy-dawn]

Last Line(s) Tag

Tagged by @anachilles and @sleepr-agent420 thank you!

Another Atonement AU snippet.

Bucky’s thoughts were elsewhere. With a feeling of vague but aggravating restlessness churning in the pit of his stomach, he slunk back into his room. The cloying darkness of the impending evening had seized its four corners, having crawled in through the cracked window, escorted by the unflagging chirping of the crickets. The breeze that had brought them a modicum of relief during the day had faded; the curtain hung stiff off the rod, with its bulk leaning idly on the window frame. 

Drawing the curtain wide open, he noticed the scent of wax and soap that softened the otherwise stale air. When he flicked the lamp on, the surface of his grand desk gleamed and rippled under the light. The stationery and his fountain pen were neatly aligned in the centre, next to his undisturbed journal. An empty whisky tumbler he had left perched on the edge of the desk last night was nowhere to be seen. 

He examined the four-poster, and smiled faintly at the sight of freshly starched sheets and the fluffed pillows arranged in a tasteful display. 

All the signs pointed to Mrs. Cleven having passed through earlier. Now, thoughts of Gale were impossible to shrug off.

Tagging @swifty-fox and @blixabargelds and @london-cowboy - I know this game has made multiple rounds, so no pressure, as always! But would love to see more of what ya'll cooking.

[stonedcowgirl420]

Introduction (active july 2024)

TW: mentions of 3d & possible sh on this blog.

about me:

hi my names cricket , i’ve been struggling with an 3d on/off of recovery or 10 years. not new to tumbler , but after my current relapse i decided to delete my old account and start fresh. i love making new friends, so don’t be afraid to send me a follow request so we can be moots (18+). not promoting anything, this is my safe space so please block instead of reporting.

• fave color is purple

• fave animal is horses or wolves

• fave movie is “the sixth sense”

• fave book is “all of the bright places”

• fave music artist is lund & powfu

• fave games are ACNH, the sims, DDLV, cult of the lamb, and SDV

stats:

height: 5’4

sw: 70 kg

cw: 61 kg

gw: 40 kg

ugw : 25 kg

[jintaka-hane]

Fight for her

(Bogard x f!reader based on @i-am-vita's Ghost Rose)

Summary: Bogard lost you a decade ago, burying himself in his career as a Marine. For years, he endured your absence while you found comfort in Mihawk's arms. But a chance encounter shakes his resolve, reigniting the passion he thought was lost. Now, he wrestles with the truth—can he let you go, or is there still a way back? Notes: This short fic is a poisoned gift to my friend @i-am-vita, because she deserves everything 💕. It is based on her Ghost Rose OC and its aim is to add a bit more angst to A Night at Loguetown and try to... make her... doubt 😈. Vita, you can't make us all fall in love with Bogard and then not expect us to act accordingly! Come on, Bogard!! Fight for your love!! ⚔️  Words: 900 Warnings: angst, some violence, not NSFW but sexy Song that inspired me: Quizas, Quizas - Cuarteto patria, Manu Dibango

The night was oppressively hot, the air thick with humidity. A relentless chirping of crickets was punctuated by the soft whir of the ceiling fan, its blades attempting to cool the stuffy inn room.

A nearly drained bottle of whiskey graced the bedside table, and alongside it rested a well-worn tumbler. Draped over a chair, an elegant suit jacket and marine coat were meticulously poised for the coming morning. A gleaming, well-kept, and sharp sword slumbered in its scabbard, resting upon the chair's seat. Atop the backrest, Bogard's signature fedora added the finishing touch to the ensemble.

The bed was a mess, its sheets tangled and creased from repeated use, damp patches betraying the night's discomfort. The pillow lay askew, disrupting the bed's symmetry and adding to its air of disarray and weariness.

Bogard embraced you from behind, his arms tenderly pressing against your abdomen to keep your body as close to his as possible. With his face buried in your hair, he inhaled your intoxicating scent of spring flowers while delicately lowering one strap of your black dress with his fingers. Revealing your bare shoulder, he placed a tender kiss upon it, making you chuckle softly.

“Rick…”

Smiling, you turned around to face him and encircled his neck with your arms. You sealed your lips against his in a slow, deep kiss which he willingly reciprocated, his hands now caressing your bare back through the opening of your dress.

With slow, deliberate movements, you both reclined on the bed. You straddled him, your thighs framing his hips and the dress hitched up, revealing them. His hands trailed between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer, and you leaned in to kiss him again while your hands caressed his freshly shaved chin.

“Rick…”

Your kisses grew increasingly passionate on his neck, and he surrendered it entirely to you, like a blank canvas awaiting the brush of your crimson lips to paint sins upon.

“Rick… I love you”

Fight for her

Bogard woke abruptly, his body drenched in sweat and his breath coming in ragged gasps. His trembling hands reached out desperately, searching for the warmth of lips around his neck, only to find emptiness. He looked around frantically, his pupils struggling against the darkness as they searched for you, disoriented.

His fingers fiercely stroked his damp neck, desperately trying to fill the void left by your touch and warmth. They descended to his torso to hold and comfort himself, his chest rising and falling in an agitated rhythm as he struggled to catch his breath. He continued touching his skin, granting his body respite to adjust to your absence.

He sat up in bed, growling loudly with frustration, and brought his hands to either side of his head, gripping it tightly as he rocked back and forth in a small, restless motion.

She still loves you...

Catching his breath, he managed to calm down. He reached for the whiskey bottle on the nightstand, bringing it before his eyes to confirm its nearly empty state. With a grunt, he returned it to its place and stood up to wipe away the sweat and freshen his face in the bathroom.

Leaning over the sink, he turned on the cold water and let it run for a few seconds before cupping it in his hands and splashing it onto his face, the coolness gradually pulling him out of his daze and back into reality. With the water still running, he leaned his hands on either side of the sink for support and looked at himself in the mirror, his reflection infuriating him and causing his fingers to grip the sink's edge tightly.

You had her. You had her and you lost her. And now that you've got her back, you're losing her again.

In a burst of anger, he released his right hand from the sink, clenched it into a fist, and struck the mirror forcefully in the center, creating a crack that diagonally sliced through his reflection. It took a few seconds for him to feel the pain in his knuckles, staring blankly as a trickle of blood made its way through his skin.

You still loved him, he was sure of it. The kisses you gave him the other night were unlike any he had found before on other lips, when he sought solace in other women. Women who weren't you.

Your kisses were pure, unbridled passion. And he had felt it when he held you in his arms, his chest overflowing with love and desire, as his fingers traced the heart-shaped curve of your upper lip.

You still loved him…

He raised his eyes and stared at his shattered reflection in the broken mirror, bitterly reflecting on how it perfectly mirrored his heart.

It was clear you were hiding something, and he wasn't a fool... he could perfectly well imagine what your new life consisted of. And this information made everything even more complicated, turning you both into antagonists of a forbidden tale.

But... what if things didn't have to be this way?

In his career as a Marine, he had seen many things outside the norm. He had witnessed various kinds of relationships: pirates falling in love with Marines, Marines secretly marrying individuals wanted by the law...

And he wasn't just some random guy. He was the damn right-hand man of the Vice Admiral Garp. With the right steps and circumstances, he could make the right moves to have you again.

You could have a clandestine relationship that no one would dare to judge, and with his power and authority, he could offer you protection if you ever needed it.

You were the love of his life.

And a love like that was worth fighting for.

Even if that meant he would have to challenge the world's greatest swordman himself.

.

[sempsimps]

Gregory violet song scenarios

so this is a bunch of random scenarios and head canons i have of this emo boy and i even made a playlist for it becuse im so prepared for this also i do edit the lyrics a tad to fit the time its set in and vibe of the shorts so like if that bothers you sorry i guess (also i wanted to experiment with the tumbler coloured text i think it looks so cool) but this is mostly x reader so sorry if that's not what you want im just brain rotting at this point i cant do this lmao also i would like to say i unfortunately dont have the manga so i actually dont know whats going to happen sorry

starting with the honourable runner ups i think these songs fit but i couldn't think of what to write for them

Necromancing dancing - bear ghost (pun intended) "when im necromancing, everyone's dancing, no one can stop me i dare you to try! the dead are infused with sentential grove"

i don't wanna fall in love - she wants revenge

ramblings of a lunatic - bears in trees "would anybody listen to this the ramblings of a lunatic"

everything is temporary - cavetown "sticks and stones they say that we dont have bones inside our brains"

mamas boy - Dominic fike "m-a-m-a-b-o-y mamas boy mamas boy"

im not a cynic - Alec Benjamin "i swear im not a cynic im just being realistic"

cats - the living tombstone "meow meow meow meow memeow"

they/them - atlas, jhfly

house of wolves - my chemical romance

plucked - destroy boys "take a bird from the sky and you wonder why she wants to fly"

nobody - mitski

underachiever - NOAHFINNCE "nothing beats the life of an underachiever"

the adults are talking - the strocks "dont go there you never return and i know you think of me when you think of her"

(lowkey heathers the musical JD looking ass)

WARNING ANGST IS HERE

your stupid face - Kaden macay (oh no + verse 2)

Gregory in third person pov - the realisation he liked you

he was zoning out at the swan gazebo and drawing some sketches with his charcoal pencil. The first bit of the facial anatomy was done, and he used French bread to remove the lines. to make the face he slowly did the eyes and made them defined and full of life, the nose features, and soon enough he had nearly finished carefully doing each strand of hair falling perfectly around the face he wasn't even thinking about who it was but when he stopped to finally look at it realised who it was. 'Oh no,' looking at it more, he tilts his head back, closing his eyes shut to not let the sun make him dizzy. 'noooo' now he was roughly pressing the charcoal to the paper. 'i just really like you face' drawing the smile you always wore around him. 'Ugh, you don't have to look so happy..' he kept drawing, now to try and get it just right. remembering all the times you expressed it. 'im not really into the love that you flaunt in some bright font' smirking to himself 'but if that's what you want ill make it snappy.- wait what' he looked around noticing no one was looking at him he sighed 'i just feel so out of place' he finished your face. 'but not when you near me' moving on to the shoulders. 'when your gone, I'm like a plant with no root' he made quick work of the shape and made the clothes 'or a ball that's on mute' he smiled looking at his work 'don't you dare call me cute, you should fear me' a hand on Gregory's shoulder makes him jump, it was bluewer telling him he needs to sort out a purple house conflict, and to bring cheslock to sort out a fight. sighing and carefully putting his sketch away, a small smile on his soft features. 'Now i like your stupid face'.

soundproof - destroy boys (verse 1 before chorus)

panic attack from social anxiety (if uncomfortable then skip it) - he got amongst the dancing and hated it

it was after the big cricket game that he had to be there for appearances, empty streets are just as soundproof as studios and big crowds. and there were people dancing already. It was making him dizzy, just looking. 'keep me away from here' but when he somehow ends up in the middle of the hall he starts to panic 'how'd i appear on this stage' he was amongst all the dancers getting in the way of some getting bumped into. 'im taking up too much space.' his head was spinning from all the movement, and he felt eyes on him. 'Look away, please don't look this way.' Feeling a hand on his arm leading him out of the hall, too dizzy and unfocused to see they walked outdoors, the fresh air bringing him back down to earth. not sure who it was, but he thanked whoever it was as he started to calm down, taking deep breaths. 'i don't ever want to hear myself ever again'

disco! in the panic room - bug hunter (chorus 2)

in your pov third person - dancing again i dont know im losing the plot as i write. sorry to the amab readers this one this feminine

i was in disguise at the school, as ceils older brother, as I saw him as one. and missed being in a dress. so after the cricket game was announced, and shown it was underway, i went behind the door to get into a dress. i was hiding one underneath my cloak, i let the dress fall from the purple robe it set nicely, and i just simply wrapped the fabric around my waist, like a bow. and headed out to find Gregory, he was still upset about the fire, and wanted to leave as fast as he could. and i understood, but i wanted to dance with him just a little. He was just out of view of everyone trying to leave, and i pulled him into a room with a bright smile. "hiya, would you like to dance in the panic room violet?" He simply smiled. "I made a promise so sure." he held my hands, and i started to slowly waltzes in a random backroom. away from the crowed and prying eyes and i could see that every few movement he was getting more and more pale, as we turned slightly in the dance "Now I feel nauseous, As if I drank a cup of stuff you clean your countertops with" i giggle a little as we stop. he lets go of my hands, to hold his head, he feels dizzy but i come prepared knowing about this, with some water in a canteen. "you probably did But Lysol won't solve this, so have some water." i handed his the medium sized flask, to which he hesitantly took a sip with shaky hands. "im out of options, arnt i?" he softly smiled after a few moments, and i was satisfied to get a little dance. making sure he was okay. but i felt bad. "you can head back now i understand this was a lot, sorry" he sighed "oh its okay and thank you, It's past my bedtime and I'm honestly exhausted" i smile as he hands back my water flask. "But if you want me, I'll be here." Gregory and i walked out of the room and said out good nights before he went wherever, and i returned to the ballroom to see Elizabeth and everyone.

fire on fire - sam smith (chorus 1 like half of it)

Gregory pov - looking at you from outside the purple house fire (and i realise that the song is more about love but i want the angst so deal with it)

i stood there, my eyes filled in fear, as the boarding house burned. i couldn't move, I don't say a word stuck in place, you grab my hand i should be used to it, But still, you take my breath and steal the things I know. just like the fire that i couldn't look away from, a soft hand leading my face away to look at you. There you go, saving me from out of the cold, but i couldn't do anything. but blankly stare at you. tired and scared features, eyes slowly morphing to cry. Fire on fire would normally kill us, and this was on the inside. i was breaking down as i saw how distraught everyone was. I couldn't keep it in much longer. but then the other prefects showed up, and i didn't have time for it, so i pulled my hood up to hold it in, letting go of your hand to do something.

Love me not - eimi (verse 3?)

the part that's always on TikTok but it is a good song- anyway this is at the dating stage and you try to get help from your friends idfk

Sitting on the grass, in front of the bench in the middle of a courtyard, talking with Ciel, soma, and your best friend, the latter two interested in how the relationship was going with Gregory. so far all you could describe it as was confusing, when they asked how. you stood up and started pacing in front of them finger to your chin like how a detective dose it but moving to act out and get you point across better. "Does he really love me? Does he think I'm too much." My pacing stops as i shook my head and returned to walk around. "Am I hanging by a string? Am I pushing my luck?" I looked at the two with confusion, hands out, doing some gesture. they were still intrigued, and i just wanted an answer. "He says I'm his beloved. He says I'm enough. but every time I kick and scream, he tells me to shush!" waving your arms up and down in frustration, and at this, the friends pay more attention. shock on soma's face, making an o shape. "He told you to what!" My best friend joining in, equally surprised. "he told you to, huh!" Ciel bored of our shit huffed out a sigh before speaking. "I think you shouldn't really worry. and you're blowing this up," and I hastily replied, almost yelling. "But I'm falling in love! Does he wanna break up!?" I gripped the hood of my purple house uniform, pulling it over my face, which was red in embarrassment, and I felt some paper in there. taking it off my head a small envelope fell out of my hood, it had a clear purple wax seal with the house cress. 'That wasn't there before'

absence - Rio Romeo chorus + verse 3

Gregory in third person this is angsty, and sad. description of dying

he was thinking about what was going to happen all the experiments, but he unwillingly took part in. he couldn't shake it a feeling of impending doom. he knew the things he did, and that didn't warrant him to be sorry for himself, but he couldn't eat or sleep, even drinking something seemed impossible. then his thoughts came back to his friends. He couldn't stop thinking about how they would react, to him dying. 'If i just vanished, do you think you'd manage' laying in his bed contemplating how you would miss him. 'Or would you disappear right besides me?' A tear came into his eye. As he continued to think of you, how would you react to what he's done, more and more tears came out, little by little. 'Do you think you're ready? When i went unsteady,' his tears ran down his checks, smearing the eyeliner. 'lover, please prepare for my absence.' he stifled his cries with the ball of his palm, keeping it in. lipstick smearing on his hand as he bit down harder, more tears rolling down, landing on his pillows staining them. 'absence makes the heart grow stronger', wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. 'pray my baby will not squander everything to gain by my leaving' taking his hands away from his face, to look at them they shook, as he starred at them blurry vision from crying, the bite mark on his right one blending red. 'and if i return the favour.' thinking to all the sweet parts you shared together. 'pray my baby always saviour, every moment we were both present' sitting up to hunch over head in his hands quietly sobbing, the walls were thick and he knew it but it hurt to cry louder.

oh boy that took some effort i was going to so many more but i just cant but i do kinda love what i did i think it matches his character well I hope it matches at least and again here is a link to my playlist i hope it works if not i have the same name on Spotify but non the less i hope my writing doesn't suck :) (feeling like the Q.A from welcome home "I want it out open open open" lmao MAYBE IM A LITTLE DELULU RN WHO KNOWS) ALSO ive never written angst before so i hope that was good idfk

https://spotify.link/tg5qbp9ZgJb

[rom-e-o]

Heaven (Modern!AU) (Constance/Orin) (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm and attempted su*c*de.

Connie experiences darkness before the dawn.

Something about the entire evening felt just a tad … off.

Orin Spiegler couldn’t exactly pinpoint what exactly was amiss in the couple’s stately 5th Avenue townhouse, but a sense of dread was tugging at him. He felt … anxious, which was not an emotion he felt often. Stock trading on Wall Street and rubbing elbows with some of the richest financial syndicates in the country and world took someone with steel-will and gumption. By self- admission, he had both in spades.

Orin knew there were many select adjectives one might use to describe him, but ‘uncertain’ was not one of them. When he felt or knew something, he believed it with his whole chest and soul.

Something in the air on that very evening was making his uneasy.

Orin sat in an expansive, high ceiling sitting room in the townhouse, the windows showing the top of Central Park’s green canopy. The clouds churned dark gray outside, pregnant with a chilling winter downpour that threatened to turn to snow if the temperature dwindled much more.

It wasn’t the cold or impending weather making him nervous, nor was it the distance scratching of the delicate sapphire needle on the phonograph nearby, playing a crackling blend of Chopin’s most well-known pieces. No. He was used to all that. He was used to the dry newspaper in his hands, ink smearing on his fingertips even if he’d given the damn thing the whole day to dry. He was used to the expensive firewood filling the parlor with the scent of aftershave, and just a little bit of nauseous smoke.

He was a man of routine, and nothing this evening stood out compared to anything else that would have also been commonplace any other night.

Yet, his fingers felt compelled to tap the wooden flourish of his armchair. An itch manifested on his freshly shaven cheek. The silk of his dressing gown suddenly felt as stifling as wool.

A persistent, nagging notion scratched at the base of his skull: Get up, get up, get up.

Something was wrong. But what?

Fuck, he needed a drink.

“Con!” he yelled, voice reverberating through the cavernous room, “Grab me a drink, will you?”

Silence.

A groan of irritation left him as he threw the paper aside and rose to his feet. “Con! Hey!”

He peered down the hall that housed a few of the townhome’s bedrooms. It was dark and still as nighttime pond. Uneasiness returned as he noted a persistent haze filling the hall. Steam from the bathroom, he realized.

Ah, of course, she was in the bath.

Well, she could fetch his drink nude, he thought. That could be fun.

Marching to the bathroom, his fingers curled around the knob like the legs of a dying spider. He gave the door a rattle. As expected, it was locked, the knob frozen in place. “Con. I know you’re in there.”

There was no noise from the other side. Not a sound of exasperation or fear, not the sound of sloshing water, not the sound of a squeaky tap or a groaning pipe. It was as if the room was empty on the other side of the locked door, but that wasn’t possible.

That persistent feeling of dread grew in tandem with the stretch of silence he experienced on the other side of the door. While one hand kept trying the knob, the hardware rattling like tumbling bones with furious flick of the wrist. While his right hand attacked the knob, his left hand rose seemingly of its own accord to tap his fingers against the lacquered wood. One finger to another, back and forth, three or four times.

The entire time, crickets. By now, she would have stirred. She should have stirred.

“Con?” he asked again, his voice growing with the same trepidation that had lured him up from the chair.

Silence.

Had she fallen asleep in the bath and slipped into the water?

“Constance. Constance!”

Panic rose in his throat and he continued to twist the knob over and over, attempting to move the lock’s tumblers by threat and force. The fingers that had previously siphoned out his anxiety through fleeting taps now curled into a fist and banged on the wood.

“I’m going to break down the door if you don’t answer me.”

Less than ten seconds passed before he acted upon the promise. Squaring his shoulders and bracing himself, he reared back against the hall wall before charging forward. The door jostled in place, and after a few strikes, began to buckle around the metal hardware. While the new lock remained in place, the historic door (a heavily restored original from the townhome’s initial construction around two hundred years ago) caved with relative ease.

Adrenaline numbed the pain long enough for him to force the wood forward past the screws and hinges.

On the next ram, it buckled. With the lock still clicked into place, the rest of the door flew back and smacked the bathroom wall.

Orin stumbled inside, and before he saw anything else, he saw red. A pool of blood, thick and black as oil, dripped from the edge of the otherwise pristine, white clawfoot tub. Perched atop the rim was a slit wrist, a jagged flap of skin hanging free from the cut veins.

One of his facial razors was limply cradled between the unresponsive manicured nails.

“Fuck!”

He pushed himself back from the doorway, stumbling away from the stained floor, as if he could push himself out of the dream before him.

“Fuck, fuck, no!” he screamed, voice shattering with each syllable. The world seemed to still in that moment, where each breath felt like an eternity to complete. “H-holy shit…C-Constance….”

Remembering himself, he peeled himself up from the floor and stepped through the metallic-smelling liquid to read the room.

As he looked inside, he saw his fear realized. While one slit wrist was perched atop the edge of the tub, her other slit wrist and head were submerged in the pink-tinted water, only a few bubbles leaving her nostrils and mouth. Her coppery hair wreathed her lifeless face like a halo, eyes already fluttered shut.

Acting instinct, he lunged to her side. Orin reached in and hauled Constance from the tub, all but throwing her onto the floor. She wasn’t nude, but rather dressed in a thin slip dress that reached her mid-thighs, likely to preserve some dignity for whoever found her.

She was already cold and limp in his arms from also slipping unconscious, therefore powerless to stop him bundling her wrists in towels and wrapping her in a robe. He worked in silence, waiting until all her wounds were covered before he began to apply beats of heavy pressure to her chest.

He thumped his hands against her sternum, then frantically tipped her head back and breathed into her mouth.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered, mindless of the blood and bath water drenching him. “No. Fuck. No, we’re not doing this.”

He commanded her to wake up over and over again, both shouting the order and muttering it against her blueish lips between breaths. Some of those whispers were prayers, not to Constance, but to any higher power or ghosts that could hear him.

When she finally did sputter up some water, she didn’t even take a moment to breathe. All Constance did was gasp and let out a choppy groan. Her agony was personified in a cry for death rather than a frantic gasp for life.

Ignoring her pleas to let her die, he scooped her up in his arms and rushed to his phone in the sitting room.

While waiting for an ambulance to arrive, he held her like a child cradling their favorite stuffed toy, rocking her softly all the while.

While he murmured sweet nothing, she let out creaking, suffocated groans for physical and mental release.

Release from life. Release from him.

The clawfoot tub in Ebenezer Scrooge’s London flat was large enough for her to practically lay flat in.

Slipping out of her robe (which was actually his robs - she needed to buy one to keep at his place), she tentatively stepped into the steaming tub of water one leg at a time.

Baths always worked wonders for her aches and pains, especially residual injuries from her broken legs.

This one was no exception.

Even when she went to sit down, the size of the bath continued to surprise her. Sitting fully on her bum, the water almost reached her chin. Almost slipping into the deepness, she caught herself with a giggle. She rolled her shoulder back and reclined against the back of the tub with a sigh.

Oh, it was heaven. She felt almost weightless in the tub, since it was large enough for her to move her arms and even wiggle her legs back and forth.

She could even dunk her head under the water (which she did, in fact!) and surfaced with another puff of laughter as she smoothed her curled bangs from her face.

The bath was a place of private solace; a haven to be truly defenseless and vulnerable. It was always one of the most reliable places she could retreat to and never be bothered. Whether it was after a chilly day of childhood snowball fights, a hard day at the office, or a harrowing modelling photoshoot that left her feet sore and ego bruised, she would go to the bath and feel peace.

Everything about this bathroom relaxed her. From the buttery paint color on the walls to the fluffy, freshly washed towels, and even down to the rainy London skyline outside the window, it felt perfect.

Slowly, she risked a glance down and at her wrist.

She turned her wrist over and glimpsed the deep, jagged scar adorning her right hand. While scars lingered on both hands, her wrist list had been badly marred thanks to the added clumsiness of her trying to use her non-dominant hand. It almost made her chuckle, the black comedy of it all.

Inhaling the steam off the bath, she took a deep breath to reground herself.

“You’re okay,” she reminded herself with a nod. “You’re okay.”

Her boyfriend was right outside.

This time, she had nothing, and nobody, to be scared of.

Ebenezer reclined in bed, dressing properly for a quiet evening in with pajamas and slippers. His torso sat propped against two layers of pillows, his legs crossed casually at the ankles. Across his lap was a thick book; an enjoyable endeavors compared to the massive manuscripts he often read daily as part of his job. A set of tortoiseshell reading glasses were perched atop his owlish nose. The frames were a set that Constance had helped him picked out at an optometrist appointment mere weeks prior. It had been a surprisingly domestic experience, he'd found. She'd been so serious about helping him choose the perfect set and offering her opinions. At the time, he'd wanted to pull her into a thankful kiss.

Now, he was eagerly awaiting for her to join him in bed.

Every once in a while, he glanced at the door to the ensuite bathroom. Whenever he heard a splash or giggle from inside, he almost smiled before returning to his book.

Gods, what had he done to wind up so lucky?

When the door finally opened and Constance emerged, her cheeks red and hair damp, his grin turned to a smirk. Wearing one of his robes with the hem of a sapphire-blue night slip peeking from underneath, she looked like a goddess emerging from her private springs.

“Hello,” she said with a shy smile.

“Hello, indeed,” he crooned, putting his book aside instantly. He opened an arm to her, and she crawled into his embrace. She sidled up to him, fitting perfectly in the nook between his chest and arm. “Enjoy the bath?”

She nodded and hummed. “Very much. It was so relaxing.”

He dropped a kiss upon her copper head. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“What are you reading?”

“Crime and Punishment,” he said. “I wanted to read it as a boy, but never got to it. I’ve been wanting to get back into reading more, my dear. I used to do it so often as a child when I could. Even when money was tight, libraries were always free.”

She hummed.

“Have you read it?”

“I’ve read Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Anna Karenina, but never Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment,” she said. “That’s the novel about the student, right? Raskolnikov. The one who kills his elderly neighbor with an axe?”

“…Yes,” he said, then laughed nervously. “I suppose it is a bit of a morbid choice.”

“Well, most literature is morbid in some way,” Constance giggled, readjusting herself so she laid alongside him. “Are you far along?”

“Not terribly – 10 pages or so. Barely a dent of a dent for a book of this size, I’d dare say.”

“…Can we both read it?”

“What?” he asked, glancing down at her. “Like, read it together? In turns?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes. Is…that okay? Just a chapter or so a night before bed every night. Maybe … I could read a few times, and you could read other times?”

Touched by her sincere interest, he would have agreed even if he hadn’t liked the idea. Oh, he was overjoyed by the thought. Any opportunity to bond with her filled his proverbial cup, so to speak.

“Well, then,” he started, holding the book open with one hand while his other hugged her close. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

She reached out to grab the other side of the novel, helping to hold it upright for them.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

Inhaling again, she nodded and let her eyes flutter shut.

“It feels like heaven.”

@quill-pen I was inspired by our convo the other day. Just a bit.

[midnightkens]

i’m cold, alone

TW: Drug addiction, alcoholism, mentions of trauma, rehab, and being outed

—

Colt blinks blearily and rubs his eyes. It’s never quiet in the city, but this is as close as it’ll ever get. If he closes his eyes, he can just barely make out the crickets’ chirp, a song that reminds him of hot Florida summers, chlorinated water clinging to his hair and skin and playing Manhunt with his cousins. Nothing was simple, but he hadn’t a care in the world in those moments. He misses his cousins. They haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years, not since Mom outed him to the entire family.

Colt can’t help but laugh. He’s been in rehab, yet his bisexuality was the final straw for more than half of his family. How fucking fake.

The door creaks beside him, and he cracks an eye open to see his partner coming out to join him. He grins. Ken has a familiar tumbler in his hand, but does it matter? Does anything? No, not right now. He should care. He should be begging through gritted teeth for Ken to dump the wine, to stop drinking and come back to him. But everything is so calm and peaceful. Who is he to destroy it by starting an argument?

Ken sits beside him. Colt pulls him into his side and kisses the top of his head, and Ken sighs contentedly. He gestures toward the tumbler. “Where’s mine?”

Ken snorts. “Are you crazy? You can’t mix, babe.”

Colt waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. C’mon. I’ll just go get it myself.”

“No, you won’t.” Ken stiffens in his hold, and Colt frowns. He’s so angry, and for what? Doesn’t he know that he’s a hypocrite? “You bitch about the taste every time I give you a sip, and there isn’t any beer or tequila in the house. Nice try. Besides, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Oh, like you’re not? You have a fucking twenty-ounce spritzer every night, and you don’t think you’re hurting yourself?”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Ken says with a shrug. “Don’t put words in my mouth. But you’re high as fuck.”

“I am not – “

“Babe, I hate to break it to you, but you can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I’m tired – “

“Don’t preach about me hurting myself when you’re sitting here acting like I’m stupid,” Ken hisses through gritted teeth. “How many painkillers have you had tonight?” Colt feels Ken’s icy glare, and he keeps his eyes focused on the sky. It isn’t that big of a deal. Ken has his vice; why isn’t Colt allowed his? Why is he getting criticized and judged when he’s been nothing but supportive? Ken’s been a fucking mess, and Colt understands, but he’s been holding it together for him for so long. Keeping himself and Ken afloat had been easy at first. He’d carried the weight of Ken’s trauma when Ken couldn’t. He’d completely crumbled, and Colt had been there to catch the fall. Colt misses his partner. He misses the genuine grins, how easily he’d laughed, how he’d serenade Colt with his guitar and make him feel like they were the only two who existed. Ken is a shell of the man he’d met all those months ago.

Colt misses him so much he could cry, but he can’t. The pills dilute everything; it’s almost like being outside of his body. He welcomes the floating, the complete emotional detachment. He wishes it were permanent. It’s so much easier to keep up the façade. His shoulders rest easily now that the weight is gone.

It’s not fair. Ken didn’t ask to be traumatized, and Colt promised to support him. Promises are easy to make in the moment, but Colt’s always been great at breaking them.

One pill. Just one to quell the stress and anxiety. Then two because one wasn’t working, then three so he and Ken could be stoned together and –

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine this. A few months ago, he would have laughed at the idea of Ken and him getting drunk and high together in their house. That’ll never happen, he’d thought as he watched Ken sip on his drink, resisting the own itch under his skin, the desperation for the familiar high so strong he wants to claw off his own skin.

Now, here they are. High and drunk together, dancing the same waltz but always three steps behind the other.

They’ll wake up tomorrow and stare at each other from across the kitchen table. His mouth will be parched, head full of cotton, and Ken will reek of wine. Tomorrow they’ll vow that they’ll stop, vow to return to their normal lives and their relationship. Colt wonders what the point is.

They’ll stop when they’re ready.

But when will we both be ready?

[fauvester]

would u mind telling us more about bridgerhoun?

BRIDGERHOUN BRIDGERHOUUUUUUUUUUUUUN

mashup of S2 bridgerton and pride and prejudice that has been living in my mind rent free for like. perhaps a decade in some form. sad!

Calhoun is the older, un-nobled older (bastard?) half-brother of Hayne, who's only just now old enough to inherit the family title and lands. Now Hayne's suddenly become the hottest commodity on the marriage market thanks to his Marquisate, his cherubic good looks and his gallant charm! But Calhoun, who spent most of his life on the margins of noble society, has a much more pessimistic view of the ton (and thinks himself wholly above it, morally and intellectually). He's going to make sure that Hayne is protected from social climbers who only want him for their reputation whether Hayne wants his protection or not!

Clay is a fabulously wealthy duke who's spent his youth in largely harmless but histrionic debauchery, who's now been gossipped out of town for supposedly running off with a girl and not marrying her after ruining her reputation (THAT'S a whole other story, though). He can't stay out of his beloved ton for long though, and he's right back at it again a season later, this time drawn back by his love of gossip, parties, card games and true love - specifically by a fellow nobleman who learned that Clay sometimes uses his acting skills and robust social cachet to help out peers who are unlucky in love. And Tom Benton is deeply unlucky - he's in love with his old school friend Hayne, whose brother hates him!

Clay, partly out of the kindness of his heart and only a little for material gain and ego-stroking, is going to do his level best to give Benton a fighting chance. Whether that means posing as a suitor of the famous Mr. Hayne himself or putting himself in the line of fire of Mr. Calhoun's single-minded volleys - and he is certainly a formidable fighter, brilliant and unyielding but now alone in unfamiliar territory in the ton, too good at finding another man's weak spots but not good enough at protecting his own - Clay has to find a way to bluff his most vexing opponent yet with the highest stakes he's ever played. Everyone has a tell, the serious Mister Calhoun's is the way he blushes when their eyes meet - while Benton sneaks away with his brother.

And poor Calhoun, suddenly having to protect himself against the blistering, blinding, all-consuming-floodlight heat of Henry Clay's charm. The king of rakes - everything that Calhoun despises - melodramatic, unprincipled, arrogant, frivolous... dazzling, sensitive, exciting, and too clever by half underneath that playboy facade... there's no way a Duke could be seriously interested in him, but what other explanation could there be for his dedicated attention? How can a man of Calvinist principle be expected to protect himself and his loved ones against such an infuriatingly tempting opponent?

Arguing as flirtation! Horses! Classism! Lies and plots! Andrew Jackson as Wickham! Tom Benton still got kicked out of college! Duels? Aggressive cricket playing! Stormy makeouts! In my brain Bridgerhoun has it all! One day I will expurgate it from my lobes and put it on a doc! Until then I will just tumble it in the rock tumbler of my imagination!

[mornyavie]

As I sit here yet again watching the slow-motion train crash of someone bad at organizing organize something, I will offer my unsolicited advice to tumbler instead:

You know that joke about how no one can get together ever? Your TTRPG group lasts a month, your friends' next meetup is in a year and a half, your book club took a week off and immediately fell apart?

Two points that help immensely:

1.

No open-ended questions. Don't walk up to someone or pull up the group chat and ask "when can we meet?"

No one knows how to answer that!

Instead make your own decision, ask, and refine. Ask "can we get together Tuesday evening" or "hey are people free this Friday or Saturday?" or "what about Sunday at 11am?" Then they have a clear yes/no question to respond to, and if the answers are all "no" you can choose a different day/date and try again.

Brought to you by someone asking 9 people "when can we meet this month?" Are you expecting a detailed month-long calendar from nine people to be sent to the group chat? You get crickets and "well I can do wednesdays I guess" because that's far too large a time frame for anyone to provide a decision.

2.

Some people can't come. That's ok. If there's four of you, three can meet up sometimes. It's fine. Try to keep track of whether you're always excluding the same person (even if they're the really busy one), but perfect is the enemy of good, and seeing groups of your friends is better than endlessly waiting until you can meet all of them.

The aforementioned nine people are almost never going to be in the same spot at once, and if you hold out for that magic day it'll never happen. You aren't being mean to someone by choosing a time they can't come; just make sure that they know you miss them, and that they get to come next time.

[manisha999]

#सत_भक्ति_संदेश

मानव जीवन दुर्लभ है,

इसे नादान संतो, महंतो व आचार्यों तथा

पंथो के पीछे लग कर नष्ट नहीं करना

चाहिए। पूर्ण संत की खोज करके आत्म

कल्याण करवाना ही श्रेयकर है।

#पवित्रहिन्दूशास्त्रVSहिन्दू

♦️देखें "साधना" चैनल शाम 7:30 बजे।

[anilbhamu]

Most Dot Balls In IPL 2023 By A Bowler

Indian Premier League (IPL) एक विश्वप्रसिद्ध भारतीय लीग है जो कि हर साल खेली जाती है इस लीग में भारत ही नहीं बल्कि देश विदेश से भी खिलाड़ी खेलने आते हैं इस लीग कि पॉपुलरटी हर साल बढ़ती ही जा रही है क्रिकेट क्रिकेट में एक टीम को जीतने के लिए टीम के सभी 11 खिलाड़ियों को अपना पूरा एफर्ट डालना होता है जिसमें से एक होता है गेंदबाज। एक गेंदबाज अपनी गेंदबाजी के दम पर किसी भी मुकाबले का किसी भी वक्त रूख बदल सकता है। ए गेंदबाज एक मैच में खाली बोल (डॉट बॉल) निकालकर किसी भी टीम की जीत के बीच में बचे हुए रन और गेंद के बीच में फर्क ला सकता है और सामने वाली टीम पर दबाव डाल सकता है तो आज है इस लेख में हम आपको बताएंगे कि इंडियन प्रीमियर लीग 2023 में किस बॉलर ने सबसे ज्यादा डॉट बॉल डाली है।

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[justforbooks]

Eileen Sheridan, who has died aged 99, was a multiple cycling champion who became a household name in Britain in the late 1940s and early 50s thanks to a series of spectacular record attempts. However, she retired relatively young because she had exhausted the meagre opportunities that the sport offered to women at the time.

As a professional cyclist racing for the Hercules bicycle company from 1951 to 1954, Sheridan captured the public imagination, “defining cycling as Roger Bannister defined athletics or Dennis Compton cricket” according to the bike-racing historian Peter Whitfield. Records such as London-Holyhead or Edinburgh-London were easy for the man in the street to understand; Hercules marketed the diminutive Sheridan heavily as the “Pocket Rocket” – “no ordinary woman” said the Pathé newsreels, while she had an unerring ability to smile in every photograph.

Records such as London-Portsmouth-London and Land’s End-London were merely part of the build-up to the most prestigious one of all: Land’s End-John O’Groats, which Sheridan tackled in July 1954, accompanied by a large flatbed lorry carrying a caravan and a portable toilet. She went through a crisis after almost 48 hours in the saddle, suffering from sleep deprivation, debilitating cold and sore hands, but, wearing every stitch of clothing available, she smashed the previous record by almost 12 hours, with a time of 2 days, 11 hours and 45 minutes.

That was only the first part of the ordeal, as Sheridan’s manager Frank Southall was determined she would continue for the 1,000-mile record. She was permitted a couple of hours’ nap but the final 130 miles took 12 hours as she experienced hallucinatory visions of mermaids, giant glass tumblers and lines of people telling her to turn corners. Her End to End record would stand for 36 years, and the 1,000-mile time was not broken until 2002.

Sheridan was born in Coventry, to Percy Shaw, who worked at the Armstrong-Siddely engineering firm, and Jeannie Morton, who was a skilled milliner. Her grandfather, Frederick Shaw, had been a bike builder and keen racing man in the 1890s. Eileen wanted to go to art school, but her family vetoed the idea, and she eventually became a secretary in a car showroom. She had begun cycling at 15, and was also a keen swimmer; she met her future husband, Ken Sheridan, at the open-air pool in Coventry. They were married in 1942, began cycling together, and Ken noticed that his wife was stronger than he was; the men in their cycling groups would wilt late in their marathon rides, while Eileen found new strength.

She began racing in 1945, and immediately won the National 25-mile time trial championship that summer. By the winter, she was pregnant with her son Clive, who was born in April 1946. It was a difficult birth, by caesarean, and she returned to racing in 1947. By the end of 1949 she had won everything the sport could offer in the UK, including setting a 12-hour record of 237 miles, smashing the previous record by 17 miles and beating all but five of the men in the field. There was disbelief among the men present that she could go so far, and she was asked if she had cut a corner or two; in fact, she should have registered an even greater distance as she had gone off course.

By 1950 she had won the British Best All Rounder – an aggregate of a rider’s best times at 25, 50 and 100 miles – two years running, setting competition records at 50 and 100 miles. There were no world championships for women – these were not inaugurated until 1958 – and the Olympics would not be open to female cyclists until 1984. The only challenge left lay in setting place-to-place records and Sheridan began with Birmingham-London and Oxford-London-Oxford. In mid-1951, Hercules made her an offer of a retainer solely to break records for the next three years, with a £1-a-mile bonus for every record set.

When her contract with Hercules ended in 1954, Sheridan held all 21 records on the Road Records Association’s books. She retired to the house she and Ken had bought in Isleworth, west London, partly using her earnings from Hercules, and had her daughter Louise in 1955. She embarked briefly on a second sporting career in canoeing, and won the national 500m double kayak championship in 1956. After that she studied glass engraving, and spent 40 years producing commissions from her studio-cum-workshop in the Isleworth house, in which there were book after book of her beautifully intricate designs.

With the benefit of over 60 years’ hindsight, Sheridan’s view of her career was a nuanced one. In 2019, she told me that she had “never felt like a champion”, because she had never had the opportunity to wear the rainbow jersey of world champion. She closed her autobiography, Wonder Wheels (1956), with these words: “Where is a woman’s place? Is it … in the home? Is it in industry or in sport? If I have shown in my life that it can be – and successfully so – in all three, then I am happy.”

Sheridan remained a life member and president of the Coventry Cycling Club; she was also a vice-president of the Road Records Association. In 2016 she was inducted into British Cycling’s Hall of Fame; in 2022 she was celebrated with a commemorative “portrait bench” steel statue on the Lias Line greenway in Warwickshire.

She is survived by Clive and Louise; Ken died in 2012.

🔔 Eileen Sheridan, cyclist, born 18 October 1923; died 12 February 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[white-light-on-my-prism]

Tagged by my fav moots who I'm not even sure are real cause they're too good to be true @mebiselfandi @thesupermegahell

rules: share the first lines of your ten most recent fanfics and tag ten people. if you have written less than ten, don't be shy and share anyways.

Okay so... while I have written more than 10 fanfics in my lifetime, very few of them are Neymessi, because I've only recently started writing about them. So I'll share lines from those, along with the link and name and pairing, but if I find any other excerpts from fanfics I've written for different fandoms, and they make sense without context, I'll just dump them here without any additional information. Fair warning though, a few of my fanfics are poems, a format people usually don't use for fanfics, so bear with me.

1. you put me on and said I was your favourite — Neymessi.

2010. A friendly against Brazil's biggest football rival, Argentina. Yet, that was the farthest thing from Neymar's mind, as it was currently occupied in its full capacity by the player, or as he'd describe, the magician of his dreams, Lionel Messi.

The man was a miracle, and, as always, Neymar was mesmerised. Messi's pale cheeks flushed red from the sun, his long hair swinging with every swift turn of his, his legs changing directions at lightning speed, the ball glued to his feet as if in reverence. Neymar couldn't believe a mortal had it in them to be so beautiful. Football was already art to him, but Messi's existence, perhaps, was his final bit of proof.

2. Wait for me, will you? — Neymessi.

Rolling river, running stream

I'm a helpless rock on top of a hill

Your current draws me swirling in

Yet I push against its way.

What will other people say?

3. Exile — Neymessi.

Neymar had never put much stock in the inner workings of the colour white. He could vaguely recall from sixth standard, learning something about white light falling on a prism and exploding in rainbow hues. Neither was he the one for academics, nor was his family the one for rainbows, so all he had known, all he had ever seen with those iridescent eyes of his, was life in black and white. The patterns on his childhood football, the one true love of his life, were drawn in the same twin colours. Then why was he, in that one wretched evening, finding the same opposing tints holding his throat so brutally to a knife?

The 30th of June, 2017.

4. 3 times Anto sees the flower blossom (+1 time she waters the plant :)) — Neymessi.

Antonela is standing, unsuspecting, on the sidelines of the Barcelona training ground, calmly enjoying the spring breeze, when a football hits her smack on the face.

Her vision turns black and her legs give away in a wobbly fashion for the slightest moment, before she locks eyes with her offender while still face down on the ground.

"Leo, you bobo, watch where you're hitting!"

Leo jogs up to her and gives her a hand, but Anto slaps hard on his palm, and gets up on her own.

"Not my fault if you're standing in the way, I'm just trying to play football."

5. It was dark.

The inherent calm of the misty night air was turned restless by the buzzing sound of crickets.

Festive lights had been switched off, so had the lamps in every room of the household. Hardly anyone, however, had been able to fall asleep. Only one tiny bulb shone downstairs, in the guest room, where two police officers clad in uniform sat upright in a chair and on the bed, cautiously sipping water from soiled steel glasses. <name redacted> presently stood with a tray in her hand, waiting for the men to return her their tumblers.

"Thank you", they said unanimously while placing their glasses on the tray.

"Thank you my foot", she mumbled under her breath on her way out of the room.

6. Fuck. I was hearing voices in my head again. The lines between truth and fallacies never felt more blurred. And here I was, caught between them both, trying to pick up the last pieces of my crumbling self esteem behind the closed doors of an empty washroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Face full of badly done make-up, smeared with tears; one eyeliner wing looking way different than the other.

7. Long before I knew you

I had gotten used to life in an armour.

Living in a tower, all bricks and concrete

No paint, no lawns, no light, no wind.

All alone.

"Alone's good," I had convinced myself,

Betrayal not likely in a one man army...

But then, I met you.

8. Breaths were coming in short gasps as our faces were inches apart. His black eyes were gleaming blue under some tinted light.

What were words? My head wondered.

All I could see were his soft lips, all I could feel was the prick of his light stubble under my fingertips.

"<name redacted>... I think I love you."

A teardrop or two brimmed on his waterline. A few more creases formed on his forehead.

Just as my right hand dropped from his face, I felt a loss of grip on my waist.

Sooner than I could process, his hold on my left hand tightened and his other hand grabbed me by my shirt.

He stood on his tip toes and planted his lips on mine.

I THINK THAT'S ALL I'LL DUMP HERE! Not tagging anyone because I'm late to this challenge as it is, so all my dearies must have already made this post if they wanted to. But if you didn't yet and you're seeing this, you're tagged! Thanks for reading, hope you had fun. I know I certainly did🧚‍♀️