#anthony was inexorable

[it-me-sannore]

Things I've learned from Bridgerton: inexorable

Usually used in the context of the tugging of a hand or some sort of *pressure*.

[fayes-fics]

Kinktober: Sex Pollen

Kinktober 2024 Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, casual acquaintances to sudden lovers, sex pollen, rough consensual vaginal sex, biting, smidge of oral sex (f to m), multiple times with no refractory period, breeding kink, creampie.

Word Count: 2.7k (drabble hahah)

Author's Note: First of my Kinktober 2024 fics. Utter filth, but also with a tinge of future romantic possibilities. Not betaed. Enjoy! <3

“Welcome, everyone!” 

Sir Phillip Crane greets the room genially as you grab a refreshment not long after entering his soiree.

“I hope you have a wonderful evening. Feel free to wander anywhere you wish within the house and gardens. Except for the greenhouse, please. A very rare and unusual plant is blooming today, and it should not be approached.” He advises with a scholarly air and a waggle of a foreboding finger to the gathered people.

“Is it toxic?” Someone from within the crowd pipes up.

“Sort of,” he offers enigmatically. “Just avoid it, please.”

Well, that is just a red rag to the bull that is your curiosity, frankly. 

Being a young widow, you feel no need to partake in the usual social carousel this evening; merely catch up with those you care to see. Having done so a little while later, you do exactly as you’re not supposed to—wander through the lovely Crane country home until you find its attached greenhouse, opening the door as quietly as you can and slipping into its warm embrace.

You stroll the neat rows, admiring all manner of flora, the riot of colours and beguiling scents. Orchids, lilies, ferns… a dazzling array of tropical plants you have only read about or seen illustrations of in books until now. In fact, you are so absorbed in reading each neat little nameplate that you do not even register the greenhouse door opening.

“I should have known…” a resonant voice rings out with a wry chuckle.

It makes you jump and spin around.

There, down the other end of an aisle you have not yet explored, is one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, renowned rake and most troublingly attractive acquaintance. Trust him to be the only other person willing to defy your host.

“Lady y/l/n… my fellow rule breaker,” he smirks, one eyebrow arched, his face a picture of alluring bemusement as he tips an imaginary hat at you with a quick bow.

“Lord Bridgerton…” you nod, your breath a little quickened as he moves towards you, and you to him, drawn inexorably.

Just as you reach each other, a large, resplendent plant to your left lures both of your attention. Its flower head is bulbous, vibrant yellow with purple veins that almost seem to pulsate.

“Well, that is quite something…” Antony remarks as you both twist to look at it, your shoulders touching. 

“Do you think this is the one Sir Crane warned everyone about?” you query, leaning in, swearing you can see the flower unfurling as you do.

“Has to be…” he trails off, also peering towards the specimen, just as drawn as you are by the fascinating sight.

You both inhale sharply as the petals peel back and the flower palpitates, emitting a large puff of yellow mist that is pungent. Before you can step back, you have inhaled the substance; it instantly tickles your nose, and you both sneeze in unison.

“This may be why he told us to stay away…” Anthony coughs, stumbling away a few paces.

“Most likely …” you wheeze, turning your back to him to sneeze again. 

Suddenly, you feel a spike of unbearable heat run through you that has you yearning to rip off your dress. There is the oddest heavy thumping in your ribcage that can only be your heart pounding wildly and, more worryingly, a sticky throbbing between your thighs—instantly aroused to an almost painful degree.

As if there is an invisible string between you, you and Anthony turn to look at each other, both looking bewildered. There’s an undeniable crackle in the air between you like you are out in a raging thunderstorm, and rather embarrassingly, you start to salivate. He looks utterly delicious in a way you cannot resist. And he is looking at you like you are a sumptuous meal, and he is a starved man.

Before you know it, you have taken large strides towards each other, and your bodies crash together, entirely without you meaning to. Your lips meet, and you are swept into a ferocious kiss, all tongue and heat, as your hands grasp tightly to the other.

This is not like you at all, but you are powerless to resist—something flicking off every switch of caution in you, making you reckless, impulsive, and aching with arousal. Your clit is swollen and distended, a need to be taken, fucked, primally coursing through you like an overpowering drug.

And it appears he is gripped with the same fever. You stumble around, bumping into benches as you wrestle with each other, pawing at clothes, kissing roughly, more animal than human. He crows triumphantly as he wrestles your dress up over your hips, one hand snaking up and ripping your undergarments to shreds just as you tumble to the flagstone floor together.

“Fuck me…” you gasp throatily, and it doesn't even sound like your voice.

You help him fight open the buttons on his trousers and then cry out as he yanks your legs apart and drives into you with one toe-curling rough thrust, growling as he does so, a wildness in his eye as he pulls out and plunges back into you, his hair curling around his forehead as he looms over you.

This is a man you barely know beyond a few exchanged pleasantries and mildly flirtatious looks. Now he is fucking into you so roughly the textured stone floor chafes your shoulder blades, your hands grabbing at his jacket, attempting to rip it off him, needing to feel, taste, bite his skin.

“Get naked, Bridgerton,” you grouse through gritted teeth even as your eyes roll, his cock large and punishing. So much more than your previous husband ever was. But then you are so copiously aroused it doesn't hurt; it just feels like heaven to be so utterly filled, the noises of him ploughing into you carnal and wet.

He fights off his clothes with your assistance, and you moan as your fingernails scrape down the ropey muscles of his back, pulling your legs up high and twining around him, your ballet slippers kneading his shapely bottom, encouraging his movements, begging for more.

Anthony curses under his breath and redoubles his efforts as he fights with the silk of your dress until it slips from your body, and he throws it asunder. He tears your stays and chemise roughly, the sound of the cotton ripping filling the air. But all you are is grateful, feeling so overheated and dewy. You push your pelvis into him, chasing each thrust, wanting him to be so deep inside it leaves a tattoo across your walls as they cling wonderfully to his veiny cock.

“Don't you dare stop,” you snarl, your nipples snagging deliciously in his chest hair, the solid slab of muscle underneath just the perfect amount of friction.

“Assertive…” he opines, but it's more respect than chastisement. 

Then there is no talking as you take from each other, greedily, your nail leaving marks on his spine, his hipbones no doubt leaving bruises on your inner thighs as he slams into you so hard you inch along the ground. And still, you beg for more, utterly possessed and ravenous. A hand worms between you, and one touch of the pad of his thumb on your pulsing clit and you are sent stratospheric, writhing under him, your cunt gripping his cock vice-like as he howls and you break, exploding with a white-hot heat you feel in every cell.  Dimly, you feel him pull out of you, your fluttering channel bereft as his warm seed spills over your belly, and he slumps heavily on top of you, panting harshly in your ear, his weight almost crushing you for a few moments before he rolls away, striking his shoulder against one of the long planter bench legs as he does.

“I do not make a habit of this sort of behaviour,” he pants, flopping his head to look at you, his expression earnest, almost at pains to point it out, on the verge of sheepish. “Despite what you may have heard.”

“I do believe whatever was in that flower responsible,” you venture, looking away to stare up at the glass ceiling above and the navy sky beyond it, confounded as you seem barely sated even though you have just had the most intense, almost violent orgasm you have ever experienced. 

“What on earth….” he is looking down the plane of his torso to his cock, standing proud again. “It can only be. As I am apparently in need again…”

That sentence alone has your cunt clenching, desperate for him to fill you again so much it aches.

“So am I,” you whisper, feeling out of control as you flip onto all-fours and crawl over him, your nose running the length of his body as you do so, from his ankle to mouth, stopping once to take his cock deep into your mouth, with a sucking draw, throbbing hot and viscous with the taste of your joint release. He whimpers as you release him and keep climbing until you line up your dripping pussy.

“Fuck me….” he pleads, sounding wrecked and debauched, a tremble in his being under you that is so damn beautiful. You could never deny him. 

Groaning loud and long, you plunge yourself down onto him, rocking deep. You curse in unison and immediately start to ride him with abandon, a sheen over both of you that has you scrambling for purchase, nails scraping down his chest, the feel of his cock so divine you bite your lip and slam onto him repeatedly, uncaring for how loud you are, singularly focussed on pleasure and appeasing this febrile, feral need. 

With every downstroke you take, he pushes his hips up off the floor, grunting with the effort, like he is trying to plant himself so far inside you he becomes a part of your body. You feel the opposite of fragile, unbreakable… wanting to push to a place where you are both bruised from the intensity, a want to throw yourself into a fire of sensation and burn from it. You know you will carry marks on your body from this savage coupling, and he from you—long, angry red streaks blooming down his abdomen where you have scraped his flesh, fingermarks on the flare of your hips where he grips you, your engorged clit mashing into his pubic bone with each pass you take.

It's such a frenzy that before you know it, you are climbing again, so far, so dizzyingly fast your chest hurts to heave the breathes you need, staring down at his handsome face contorted as he chases his high too, eyes screwed tightly shut, the tendons of his neck in sharp relief, a deep red flush over his skin. And then you are breaking again, this time more of a tidal wave that sweeps you off your feet, robbing you of any abilities except to sit speared upon him, clenching on his cock as he yells a warning, stars swimming before your eyes as you pull off just in time for an arc of his cum to coat your belly. Your whole body spasming, you fall away to one side, curling up, foetal, fighting for breaths. 

And yet, still, you know you are not done, and neither is he. Both possessed by something otherworldly, preternatural, not anything your right mind could override.

“What the hell is this?!” he laments, and he is looking at you beseechingly, a mien that you know is a mirror of your own.

“I have no idea, but please …” 

You don't even need to finish the sentence. A hand wraps around your ankle, the cold stone floor scraping your ribs as Anthony drags you to him, climbing over your back, pushing your legs apart unceremoniously with his knees as you lay face down, panting. His cock slides so deep you swear you can feel pressure from it under your ribs. His hands cover yours, fingers sinking between yours until you form joined fists on the floor, utterly pinned underneath his powerful body, wanting to be nowhere else. A need for him to fuck you so hard that you are permanently altered in some way. A thread of something that feels like insanity, questioning if this burning need will ever be met no matter how many times you come together.

He is not gentle, and you do not want him to be; a burn along your inner thighs at being pushed so wide open, his cock branding your inside, a tugging deep inside like a string between your hip as his harsh tips nudges your hilt with each stroke. His teeth are on the nape of your neck, more beast than man, and you encourage it, condone it, call out filthy words as you writhe under him, wanting everything he can give you. 

Sweat pours from your flushed bodies now, a thick fug in the air that smells of sex, lingering with the heady scent of florals in the humidity of the greenhouse. The glass, fogging around you, trickles of condensation from your harsh exhales. Over and over, he pounds into you, pain blooming in your kneecaps where they scrap the floor, but that discomfort just heightens your need. You bring one of your joined fists to your mouth and bite down onto his knuckles where they grip yours, and he howls, begs you to do it again, which you do, tasting his salty flesh, an odd metallic need on your tongue that wants to push it further and taste his blood, to mix with his sweat and cum that still lay heavy in your mouth. It's so primaeval and earthy, a drive to taste everything he is. 

This time, it's your fingers that slide between your legs to push you over the edge you seem to have been skating since he entered your body the first time—roughly rubbing yourself with your fingers until you are screaming and flailing under his harsh thrusts.

“Do not withdraw…” you bark, a craving to have his seed inside you, consequences be damned. It feels like that is the only thing that will break this spell you are under. As if this flower is demanding you be pollinated as much as it was calling out for with its release.

“I could not even if I wanted to…” he confesses breathily, his pace never wavering, one of his hands releasing yours to grab your hips again, a mounting you could not escape. With two last desperate thrusts, he stills, buried deep, a shudder up the length of his cock you can feel pressing your walls, and you are pulled over into ecstasy by it, milking him of everything he can give. You float away as you feel his release blossoming inside you, him pulling your hips high so none can escape. 

As you feel his weight bearing you down, the fever finally seems to break, both of you utterly spent and filthy, the dew on your body picking up specks of spoil from the floor shaken from the planters around you. You roll over under him, and your eyes meet contrite, but a mutual understanding there was nothing that either of you could do to prevent this.

“I have no regrets,” you admit, voicing what you can see behind his eyes, a new connection to him you can feel.

“Same,” he admits quietly, kissing your lips chastely, pitched to comfort and convey everything you feel. “I will stand by any consequences of this… experience,” he adds, a sincerity in his expression that makes you touch his cheek, moved by his gentlemanly chivalry.

“There was nothing either of us could do…” you soothe. “Let us see if there is anything before we worry of such things.”

He smiles and pulls you into his arms, “Agreed. In the meantime, I rather suspect we need to bathe,” he offers, gesturing to your dirty bodies as you share a giggle. “On my way in, I spied a lake. I am certain we can sneak there unseen…” he offers, nodding to a glass door at the far side of the greenhouse into the inky black gardens beyond.

As you both jump into the cooling water a few moments later, you feel the last of the bewitchment fading. Still, as your eyes meet in the glowing moonlight, you know on some fundamental level that a most unexpected adventure with this man is just beginning.

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[feiandart]

At ten o'clock, the foot that still rests on the ground begins to move, taking the rest of the leg with it in a continuous up-and-down, rapid swing, following a disjointed rhythm in a feeble attempt to vent agitation. But it is not enough. All he can do is continue to list reason after reason for the Lord's absence, and although he knows that the latter does not have a mobile phone, he still hopes to hear his own vibrating in his trouser pocket, bringing any news. But it does not happen, and the silence lingers on. With his left hand, dangling from the sofa, he absent-mindedly touches the handle of the wicker basket; though he feels it under his fingers, the reality of that object gives him no comfort. At half past ten, his eyelids are so heavy that he does not feel like opening them again. He is tired of looking at the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall, of counting the seconds ticked by the pendulum clock that, inexorably, continues to keep him cruelly company. Don, don, don, left and right, he can see it moving even without looking at it. He would be content with absolute silence at this moment, even where his thoughts seem to leave him no escape, chasing each other, huddling, in a disgusting orgy of anxiety and terror that, at least for once, stirs in front of him without inviting him to participate. Where are you,��Aziraphale? The pendulum chimes eleven and Anthony dozes off.

[the-gentler-gamester]

Happy ST4 Anniversary, nerds!

One year on since this moment in the first episode changed the trajectory of my life.

Now. Gather round, children. It's story time.

Let's dial the clock back.

- It's January 2008. I'm sitting alone in a dark cinema. The film I'm about to watch is Sweeney Todd. I. Am. Hyped. Suddenly this young lad appears on the screen. I watch the film and fall in love with it. I watch the credits thinking, "who played Anthony? I gotta remember that name. Kid will surely go places!"

- I do remember the name. And saw it crop up several times over the years. Twilight, The Mortal Instruments. But I was never more than just a casual admirer. I was always pleased to see him though.

- Then came the realisation he was a musician too. (Oh hey look, it's also the one year anniversary of Run On/Devil in Me!) I checked out some of his band's music and wasn't too keen (at the time that is. Low-key obsessed now.) It was little too hard-core for me. Although I did think it was pretty cool when I saw that they'd tour and Glasgow would occasionally be on the list. Alas I never went to any of their shows. (THE REGRET IS SO REAL)

Then... he fell off my radar.

- Stranger Things S4. Up until this point, I enjoyed the show. But never called myself a "fan"! So, I never really kept up to date with filming etc. Anyway. I sit down to watch the new series. Literally right after the title sequence, the name flashes up on my screen. I sit bolt upright.

"Oh... you're back."

You know that way when you see someone's name in the opening credits of something and think "I wonder who they're playing. I gotta keep an eye out" but then you're so swept up in the action, you forget? And before you know it, it's over and you sit there thinking "wait... I didn't see them..." Yeah! I should have clicked right then who he was playing... hindsight huh?

- The series progresses and come episode 5, I FINALLY see the face I've been waiting for. And something changes in me. It's hard to explain. I'm immediately intrigued and by episode 7 I'm ALL IN. This character, man!

- I have quite a few friends who love the show. And we're all collectively losing our minds. For several different reasons. I would have these amazing conversations with each of them. And while the world falls in love with Eddie, I'm inexorably drawn back into the fold by that same blond-haired, blue eyed boy who has been tucked away in my heart, waiting for the moment when I finally realise he's been there all along.

- My focus has been shifted back to him. I revisit all our previous connections with new eyes (AND ears!) All the while, the friendships I have are being fed constantly. Daily, nerdy conversations are my life. I've never smiled and laughed so much. All of this also allowed me to reconnect with people who had drifted away from me. Not intentionally. But life (and a pandemic) gets in the way. This series opened a gateway to allow so much positivity into my life. More than ever before.

- While deep diving into his past, I discover things that open my eyes further. The realisation that he was many years sober and clean after battling addictions made my heart hurt. But also instantly made me feel a deep pride in how far he'd come. I would watch videos of him interacting with fans and talking so openly and honestly about his struggles. Both with addiction and his mental health. I respected him so goddamn much for his honesty. And made me more honest about my own struggles.

Despite the darkness though, there is his sunny disposition. A laugh and smile that always makes me smile too. And there's the pure kindness and truthfulness he radiates. I was pulled in. There was no resisting.

- As odd as it sounds, everything combined gave me an entirely different outlook on life. I was happier than I'd been in such a long time. And then came the convention appearances. Oh boy. What a crazy ride that's been!

- After the initial "I can't afford this!" drama, I got my own shot at him in November of 2022. He was everything I expected and so much more. Kind, warm, chatty and an absolute sweetheart. Even though our literal first interaction was him shaking my hand, looking at me with squinty eyes then asking "have we met before?" No babe, we haven't but I've known you far longer than I realised. And our tale is a very long and complex one. Maybe one day, I'll be able to sit with you and share it myself.

Thank you. For everything. I'm so incredibly grateful that you came into my life. I owe you so much. My words, gifts and hugs will never be enough.

TL;DR - Happy S4 Day! And if you didn't know already, I fucking love one James Metcalfe Campbell Bower.

[themovieblogonline]

Thank you, Makers of Mischief, we are back with our first recap of our favorite “I'm not a Liar” show Loki. I’m your host, Anthony, and I will do my best to guide you in this Marvelous show as we’re actually picking up where Season 2 ended so let's dive in!This episode is titled “Ouroboros” which is a very which is a very fitting title as the episode takes time to introduce us to Ke Huy Quan's character Ouroboros, or OB for short. Still, it also hints at things to come when you understand the origin of the word. "Ouroboros" is a captivating concept often depicted as a symbol or image of a serpent or dragon eating its own tail. This ancient symbol has roots in various mythologies and cultures, including ancient Egyptian, Norse, and Greek traditions. It represents the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth, as well as the infinite and eternal cycle of existence. The Ouroboros is a powerful metaphor for self-renewal, transformation, and the idea that endings are inherently linked to new beginnings. Art, literature, and philosophy have used it to explore themes of time, eternity, and the never-ending cycle of change.In the context of "Loki" Season 2, the title "Ouroboros" hints at intriguing possibilities. Given the time-traveling and multiverse aspects introduced in the first season, it's conceivable that the show will continue to explore the cyclical nature of time and the consequences of alternate realities. The Ouroboros symbolize the interconnectedness of past, present, and future, which aligns with the show's themes of time manipulation and branching timelines. It could signify the ever-repeating patterns and challenges that Loki, as a character, faces, and how he must navigate these cycles of change and self-discovery. "Ouroboros" may also imply that the show is diving deeper into the fundamental nature of the Marvel Cinematic Universe itself, examining the cyclical and infinite storytelling possibilities that come with a multiverse concept. Fans can anticipate a season filled with mind-bending twists, where the past and future are inexorably linked in the serpent's eternal embrace.

[xxxlovedandlostxxx]

💭

marxsources

Send me 💭 to hear my muses thoughts on your muse

@untamedlobo

It was one of those lazy sunday mornings when the two had woken up late- or rather one of them did. Anthony watched as a shaft of light from the window eked its slow, inexorable progress over the room, and now it fell across the sleep-mussed waves in Peter's hair, washing out the edges of his brown locks in gold. How is it that the two now had a life so intertwined together, he wondered? It wasn't the first, nor last time he'd ponder that, as he regarded the other, savoring his beauty. They had come a long way from their awkward first meeting. That time Peter had accidentally ripped the door off of his car. The quiet little dates in the corners of unassuming diners. The run-ins with Hunters. Though Peter looked warm enough, he couldn't resist pulling the blanket higher up his bare shoulder.

(His thoughts just came out like this, so I decided not to fight the format)

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

Don't Look Now

F.W. Murnau subtitled his 1922 masterpiece NOSFERATU “A Symphony of Terror.” Nicolas Roeg’s DON’T LOOK NOW (1973 could have been subtitled “A Symphony of Grief and Dread.” The two clearly go together, with a traumatic event in the lives of the film’s leads, Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland, leaving them with a constant fear that something else terrible is going to happen. This is underlined by the predictions of a blind medium (Hilary Mason) and Sutherland’s own nascent psychic abilities.

The plot almost sounds like a giallo (and it’s very similar to Aldo Lado’s 1972 WHO SAW HER DIE). After their daughter drowns near their home, Sutherland and Christie travel to Venice where he’s supervising the restoration of a decaying church. By chance (or is it?), Christie meets Mason, who tells her their late daughter is trying to warn them to leave the city. Meanwhile, Sutherland keeps sighting a child wearing a red macintosh similar to the one their daughter had worn when she died. And the figure often appears shortly before the police discover a serial killer’s victims floating in the canals. But even the best gialli aren’t as carefully constructed visually as Roeg’s film, which filters recurring images into the action and cuts between different time frames to create a nightmarish, hypnotic effect. It’s a web into which the characters are inexorably drawn. Nor is the average giallo so well acted that its conclusion may move you to tears.

One expects brilliance of Christie. I think it’s wired into her DNA, and her portrait of the grieving mother is spot on. But I don’t think it’s just lionizing the recently departed to suggest that Sutherland gives an amazingly empathic, subtle performance. He has fewer overt expressions of grief, but he carries it under his simplest moments as a kind of ostinato. He so thoroughly inhabits his character that you may find yourself feeling with him, even when he’s making mistakes and behaving poorly. As carefully constructed as Roeg’s film is, he still allows his actors to breathe within it (he also let them improvise moments, often throwing out pages of dialog because he had overheard a simple exchange between his two stars). The film becomes a lived-in tone poem, with masterful color work by cinematographer Anthony Richmond and a striking score by first-time film composer Pino Donaggio.

[sail-southern]

ARKEA ULTIM CHALLENGE: Five Skippers, Five Different Challenges Under Scrutiny || Live Sail Die

In the space of one week, three skippers have passed Cape Horn, first, on 6th February, was Charles Caudrelier (Maxi Edmond de Rothschild), second was Armel Le Cléac’h (Maxi Banque Populaire XI) on Saturday and third very early yesterday morning was Thomas Coville (Sodebo Ultim 3). They are now continuing their climb up the Atlantic, moving inexorably closer to the finish, looking forwards to being home. At the same time, Anthony Marchand (Actual Ultim 3) and Éric Péron (ULTIM ADAGIO) experience mixed fortunes. 

Full Story Here…

https://go.sailsouthern.com/arkea-ultim

[mallahanmoxie]

two things I have not been able to stop thinking about since last Friday:

my imminent inexorable mortality

anthony bridgerton this is me trying fancam

[fayes-fics]

Hello Faye I hope you are doing well and staying hydrated! My number is 9 :)

Hi there! 🫶

Aww it's my water Nonny (as I have dubbed you). I am alright and hydrated indeed, I hope you are too!

#9 is an Anthony fic that isn't a request; it's a fic around the trapped together trope, as I haven't written that for him before.

Snippet under the cut:

----

“What did she tell you?” he seems to move inexorably closer, dark eyes sparkling in the low candlelight.

“That I should not seek a dance with you,” you admit, seemingly unable to avoid answering this man truthfully.

“And why might that be?” his cadence almost a rumble now.

“You are not marriage material.”

“And is that what you want? Marriage?” skillfully deflecting an admission it’s true.

“It’s what’s expected of me. What I may or may not want is irrelevant,” you sniff.

“What a pity. I think what you truly want may be something far more… interesting,” his tone is like velvet as he draws closer, towering over you. Your body responds almost against your will, a flush running down your torso, a tingle in your arms.

“Irrelevant,” you whisper even as you defiantly look up at him, heartbeat speeding.

“Is it…?”

He seems to know you want this precisely because it's what you should not be doing. The tempting taste of rebellion wrapped up in a handsome face.

----

Thank you for your ask 😁🧡🧡

[feiandart]

"What is your favourite part of your body?" He asks. Aziraphale smiles.

"The eyes," he replies, "because with them I can admire the wonders of the world." A brief pause; then, swinging his pelvis, he rubs his buttocks at the artist's arousal, sighing. "But mostly because they allow me to see you."

Anthony's hands move up his body; Aziraphale pulls off his shirt and leaves it aside, before grabbing the flaps of his vest, crossing his arms in front of his chest before removing it in a gesture that he perhaps doesn't realise how sensual it is in Anthony's eyes. He looks at the Lord, licks his own lips as he follows the outline of his broad chest with his eyes, and the reddish marks he left here and there the night before. And the same morning, in the shower, under the boiling jet of water. His hands descend again and securely wrap around the curve of Aziraphale's buttocks, guiding him in a swinging but continuous, deep, slow movement that brings the Lord to sigh and squint his eyes, resting his hands on Anthony's chest and flexing his back forward.

He moves like water on marble, fluid and inexorable, a soft friction that wave after wave raises the level of their desire.

[javiersprincess]

Anthony Bourdain once wrote:

“Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal, and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people — we sure employ a lot of them. Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, and look after our children. As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy — the restaurant business as we know it — in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs.” But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position — or even a job as a prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, probably, simply won’t do.

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them — and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires. Whether it’s dress up like fools and get passed-out drunk and sunburned on spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs — while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us. The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in L.A., burned out neighborhoods in Detroit — it’s there to see. What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead in Mexico, just in the past few years — mostly innocent victims. Eighty thousand families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.

Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace. Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness. Its archeological sites — the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it, we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over tortilla chips. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply “bro food” at halftime. It is in fact, old — older even than the great cuisines of Europe, and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet, if we paid attention. The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation — many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe — have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling heights.

It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, and was there — and on the case — when the cooks like me, with backgrounds like mine, ran away to go skiing or surfing or simply flaked. I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them. To small towns populated mostly by women — where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North. I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand from their hands to mine.

In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather around a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious salsas, drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, and listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.

The received wisdom is that Mexico will never change. That is hopelessly corrupt, from top to bottom. That it is useless to resist — to care, to hope for a happier future. But there are heroes out there who refuse to go along. On this episode of “Parts Unknown,” we meet a few of them. People who are standing up against overwhelming odds, demanding accountability, demanding change — at great, even horrifying personal cost.”

thinking of anthony bourdain again

[chrissywitchnurse]

On Mexicans, Anthony Bourdain wrote this:

Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities.

We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal, and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—we sure employ a lot of them.

Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, and look after our children.

As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs.”

But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as a prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, probably, simply won’t do.

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires.

Whether it’s dress up like fools and get passed-out drunk and sunburned on spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs—while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us.

The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in L.A., burned out neighborhoods in Detroit—it’s there to see.

What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead in Mexico, just in the past few years—mostly innocent victims. Eighty thousand families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.

Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace.

Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness.

Its archeological sites—the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it, we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over tortilla chips. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply “bro food” at halftime.

It is in fact, old—older even than the great cuisines of Europe, and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet, if we paid attention.

The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation—many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe—have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling heights.

It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, and was there—and on the case—when the cooks like me, with backgrounds like mine, ran away to go skiing or surfing or simply flaked. I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them.

To small towns populated mostly by women—where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North.

I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand from their hands to mine.

In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather around a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious salsas, drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, and listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.

[triviareads]

Preeti (Love)

For Kate and Anthony 2021 Week, Day 3 Prompt: Something stupid like I love you

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Mary had called them round for a quiet dinner after they’d been dating for a month or so to meet Kate’s boyfriend.

So Kate and Anthony had made the trek from Central London out to Hounslow one Friday evening.

Of course, where an Indian mother was concerned, a “quiet dinner” was never truly quiet, and Mary had also called her own parents, Kate’s paternal grandfather, and Kate’s cousin along with her husband and daughter.

“Should I prepare for some sort of overprotective “If-you-hurt-her-I’ll-kill-you speech from them?” Anthony had asked Kate while they were driving in his obnoxiously posh Mercedes-Maybach.

“Our lot don’t do overprotective,” she informed him. “We merely interrogate and make passive-aggressive comments that’ll make you want to flee before we even suggest it ourselves.”

Anthony chuckled, and Kate could not help but be awed by his casual confidence. “Should I prepare for that, then?”

“No,” Kate said. “I think they’ll like you just fine.”

Kate’s family in England were a rather tenuously-connected bunch. Her paternal side, the Sharmas, boasted of her grandfather and a lone cousin along with her little family, while Mary’s side of the family included her parents and a handful of aunties and uncles that were somehow related.

(Somewhere back in the homeland, there were dozens more of them, but by all accounts, this was Kate’s family, and she wouldn’t have it any other way).

Kate knew how much Anthony valued family. She’d seen him among his family, and how loving and considerate he was to every single one of them, from his mother and Benedict all the way down to little Greg and Hyacinth, but seeing him here at her mum’s place, among veritable strangers, was a revelation.

He was courteous, slipping his shoes off by the door without Kate even having to tell him, and he was so sweet to Mary, almost to the extent where Mary was politely bewildered that her daughter’s boyfriend of a month was treating her with the reverence of a future son-in-law (“At this rate I’ll have to do ashirvad for him,” Mary told her quietly, which caused Kate to blush and mutter, “Don’t worry, Mary. He won’t be on his knees before you any time soon.”).

Anthony didn’t even break a sweat when faced with three grandparents. After he answered all their questions to satisfaction (with Kate and her poor cousin acting as buffers), they were complaining together about NHS wait times within moments.

(“Your pappa would have liked him,” her grandfather said in an undertone some time later while they watched Anthony entertain Kate’s cousin’s baby daughter).

Mary asked the two of them to set the table for dinner, presumably to give them a private moment.

Kate was regarding Anthony, watching how he bit his lip in concentration as he adjusted the placement of a spoon, and a single, unruly lock fell into eyes that somehow made him look adorable and dashing all at once-

“I think I love you,” she blurted out.

Anthony dropped the fork on the floor, probably in shock, and Kate immediately began to regret her words.

Could this be any more unromantic? She thought hysterically. She had a plan- one that involved a nice, quiet dinner, with just the two of them on some romantic terrace with champagne and something chocolate at the end to round it all off nicely before they (preferably) ravished each other after heartfelt declarations of love.

Her plan certainly didn’t involve them setting the table in her mum’s home, for God’s sake, and having a perfectly nice (if staid) time until she had to ruin it with her big, fat mouth by saying something so arbitrarily stupid (not stupid, that little voice in her head taunted) like I love you!

Kate was so lost berating herself internally that she didn’t notice Anthony emerge from under the table with the errant fork. He had the most curious expression on his face, as if he could not quite make out what she’d said.

Kate immediately began to spiral again. Had he even understood her rushed, hasty words?

“You think?” Anthony finally said.

Kate groaned. Infuriating man- of course he would latch onto the thoroughly unimportant part of her declaration! Of course-

Kate paused.

He’d heard her. He knew what she’d said- what she’d meant, and somehow this strengthened her resolve to try again, to do this right.

“I love you,” she said, this time slower, clearer, almost as if she was warming to the idea herself (except she wasn’t- she was already wholly, irrevocably in love with Anthony Bridgerton, so much so that it hurt-). “You don’t have to say it back or anything,” she continued, faltering a little, but still soldiering on, “but I thought I’d-”

“-Kate,” Anthony broke in. “I love you too.”

Oh.

Oh.

Slowly, inexorably, a smile unfurled on her lips at the same time that Anthony beamed brilliantly and gave her such a look- all warmth and want and adoration- Kate had seen that look, been the recipient of it so many time, but she’d never been able to put a name to it-

But now she knew.

Her family came in just then, and Mary brought out steaming trays of vada, large bowls of sambar and rasam, rice, and avial to start.

Kate and Anthony looked at one another, still smiling, probably looking like idiots (love-struck idiots, Kate corrected herself), but quite frankly, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

They would have time later to talk about this, talk about what it all meant.

(God, so much time- she hadn’t dared hope before, but now-)

But for now, Kate was content with this:

Her hand edged towards his, grasping it under the table, never letting go for the entirety of dinner.

[perfectlyineffable]

Haven’t seen this on tumblr yet so I thought I’d share!

[Image Description: a tweet from the account @ AzAziraphale, name Aziraphale, which reads: “Today is a very special day. Crowley said yes!” Attached to the tweet is a photograph of a hand, presumably Aziraphale’s, holding a set of notecards with the beginning of a proposal speech visible on the first one. The background of the photo shows church windows filled with greenery, suggesting the photo was taken in the public garden of St Dunstan-in-the-East, i.e. the church that was blown up during the 1941 scene of the episode three cold open. The tweet is dated 10th May 2021, exactly 31 years after the publication of the book Good Omens, and 80 years after the bombing of the church.]

The full thing is an adorable proposal, so I’ll copy the rest of it out below, but you can find the original twitter thread at this link here.

Thread:

I spent months fiddling around, writing and re-writing my speech, before I was finally satisfied and transferred it on to note cards. I kept them in my pocket today in case words failed me. 

My dear Crowley - Eighty years ago, to the very day, you rescued me from a spot of bother I got myself into during the Second World War. You braved consecrated ground to save me from discorporation and dealt with the terrible people who hoodwinked me. Then you did something else-

You protected my books from the fire. That gesture was at once innocuous and monumental. For the first time I was unable to ignore the increasingly obvious depths of your feelings for me. You had no motive save for kindness. 

As the Church burnt around us, realisation of what I’d been unwilling and unable to acknowledge for centuries washed over me in waves. I was certain that I was in love with you and that the feeling was mutual. 

After that, I kept you at a carefully calculated distance. I hoped that, as ever, you would continue to be far more patient with me than I deserved. I attempted, unsuccessfully, to reassure you that I would be with you just as soon as I could find a way to keep you safe. 

The intervening decades were challenging – despite our immortality, each year felt arduously long. Neither of us expected to be free so soon, but we are now. We’re on our own side, in a space we made for the both of us. 

Two lovesick old fools inexorably changed by our time on Earth - by humanity and each other. We chose each other and I will continue to choose you for every day for the rest of my existence. 

When I was considering where to ask you this question, I knew two things. First, that it should be private, so that this doesn’t all end with you crying in public. You’d never forgive me for the damage to your reputation. Second, I wanted it to be a garden. 

Where better to begin this new chapter of our lives than in a different garden, a new Eden, one of our own creation? Wedding rings symbolise the unending love humans who choose to marry have for one another. My darling, that is precisely the kind of love I have for you. 

You have me completely, unconditionally, irrevocably. The entirety of my infinite celestial being is yours for just as long as you want it. Anthony J. Crowley, Will you marry me? 

Bonus:

[Image Description: A tweet from the account @ PlantMr_AJC, name Anthony J. Crowley, Esq. It reads: “I’m completely overwhelmed. Happy overwhelmed.” and tags Aziraphale’s account. Attached to the tweet is a photograph of a hand, presumably Crowley’s, wearing an engagement ring. The ring is thick, made of silver metal in a detailed filigree pattern, and is set with a very pale blue gem. The tweet was posted less than half an hour after Aziraphale’s twitter thread began.]

You can view the original twitter version of this tweet at this link here.