#david blandly

[mortphilippa]

I’m working on a new dungeon/ adventure site for the Eco Mofos jam! Eco Mofos is a futuristic weird punk nsr style game by David Blandy (who stresses it is NOT depressingly grimdark despite being mildly post apocalyptic!)

I’m working on an idea for an abandoned android factory. I used Molomoot’s crossword dungeon generator tool to create a first pass at the layout and get some inspiration for the different areas of the factory.

Then, I used DungeonScrawl to create a simple map with some general ideas, which I will translate into my own isometric map once I finalise my room descriptions.

I think it’s looking pretty good so far!

[shanastoryteller]

Happy pride! 💛🤍💜🖤 SIAT Founders - or dealer's choice?

a continuation of 1

Out of the contraption, in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that has to be Ianto’s, she looks human. She and Ianto are sitting on one side of the conference room, the rest of them on the other, and Jack is probably focusing too much on how their clasped hands are resting on Ianto’s knee. He’s probably focusing too much on the ring on Lisa’s finger, one Ianto had slid on the moment she’d been on her own two feet.

“She’s been down there this whole time?” Owen demands, pacing angrily behind him. He’s fighting against his urge as a doctor to check her over and his desire to shoot first and it’s putting him in a mood. Jack doesn’t think it’s worth the effort to try and keep him still.

“Not the whole time,” Ianto says blandly, “just since two weeks after I was hired.”

“Your file lists you as a researcher,” Tosh says.

Lisa smiles. Ianto raises an eyebrow. “It does.”

She nudges him in the side and he sighs. She rolls her eyes. “He was a retrieval specialist at One.”

“A retrieval specialist?” Gwen asks.

“A spy,” Jacks says, voice hard. The Ianto he knows would have flinched, but this one just stares at him blandly. “Sent in to different agencies, different institutions, to steal whatever alien artifact they’d gotten their hands on that Torchwood wanted. Researcher gets out into a lot of places.”

“It does. It got me in here, in fact,” he says, like it was his title that got Jack to hire him.

Does Lisa know they slept together? Jack wants to blurt it out, to throw it down in the space between them like a gauntlet, but he stops himself. Barely.

“You’re being awfully forthcoming,” Gwen says.

Ianto presses his lips together. “It’s only fair. I owe you – well, not you, Gwen, sorry. But I couldn’t have saved Lisa without the others.”

Tosh gasps, hand coming up to her mouth. “Wait, all those theoretical – and you said you were tinkering, and your nephew in robotics-”

“David really is on the robotics team,” Lisa says, as if that’s the most pressing issue.

Owen has gone very still. “You said – those old reports from before us that you said had information missing, that you made me go through them all and write up what I thought happened, or how to fix it.”

“Manufactured,” Ianto says. “Although invaluable. I’m an intelligent man, but at the end of the day I’m no match for Cyberman technology. What I needed was an engineer and coder who could do what no one else could, and I also needed a very, very good doctor.”

“Thank you both,” Lisa says earnestly, like this is something they chose rather than something they were manipulated into. “You saved me. We’re very grateful.”

More manipulation.

It’s even working, because Tosh and Owen are hesitating, some of that anger and betrayal draining away in the face of Lisa’s smile.  

“And me?” Jack asks.

Ianto meets his gaze. “I am of course most grateful to you, Jack. If you ran Three properly, I never would have managed to help her.”

He flinches.

[underestimated-heroine]

I might've told this story before but once, at a holiday gathering, my family on my dad's side (ugh) who constantly baits anyone they can all bully in the refuge of their own home, was trying to do so with my sister. She's politically passionate, has a notoriously bad temper, and made enough mistakes as a kid that she's generally viewed by my "family" to be a good target to punch down at.

They kept bringing up topics they knew she was passionate about to make increasingly vicious remarks about anyone on her side of the issue. My mom and I were getting into it with them (and at this point almost in tears begging them to stop) but for once my sister kept her peace. She continued to eat her food, didn't even seem to hear them.

Finally my Aunt M, who at this point was visibly frustrated, demanded, "well? Don't you want to contribute anything to the conversation?"

(classic Aunt M move btw. step 1. Invite This Week's Degenerate warmly into your home. step 2. Set up a minefield of bizarre rules and preposterous expectations. better yet, improvise! throw the mines down as you go whenever they're not looking for maximum wrongfootedness effect. step 3. Act outraged, offended, and taken advantage of when degenerate accidentally falls into one of your traps. It's not like they have any ground to stand on "in MY home, which I GRACIOUSLY invited you into!!")

My sister, still focused on her food, said blandly, "Not really."

"Well, why on earth not? Don't you even care? If you're not passionate, why,"--yes, she said "why", she's deep south--"I don't know if I can even say you're part of this family."

Note the shift in Aunt M's strategy--not only is she taunting my sister with my family's cruel refusal to accept and love her, she's playing to my sister's (perceived) "bleeding heart." a small demonstration in Aunt M's borderline-Ali-level gift for adaptability, which could not have been bestowed upon a more unfortunate candidate.

"Do you know that song 'Christmas Shoes'?" Perhaps the Unfortunate Gift is genetic, and my sister also has it.

My aunt: "...Yes?"

"Do you cry when it comes on the radio?"

"What?" A surprised laugh. "Of course not!" Fair enough on this one. Of course Aunt M doesn't cry at "Christmas Shoes." No one does. Especially not David Sedaris's number one and most insufferably cynical fan.

My sister finally lifted her eyes slowly to Aunt M's. "Well, why on earth not?"

To date, this is the only time I've seen the enduring, lawful evil gleam which lives in my aunt's eyes snuffed by anyone other than my late father. It's the slow creep, isn't it? It's the puzzling out that not only were you just called out for your embarrassingly brazen emotional manipulation and bait attempt, but also called as stupid and unworthy of engagement as the song "Christmas Shoes."

By the time it'd hit, the conversation was a hundred steps past her. Dinner was over. There was nothing she could do.

[sky-neverending]

a little bit from my modern newsies au!!

David groaned and headed out the door, making it to the field about three minutes later. He stood awkwardly on the side as the players finished up, running around in stupidly heavy uniforms. Jack was on the sidelines, yelling at them to keep going. He turned to the left and saw David, a scowl forming on his face as the two locked eyes.

“You want something, Jacobs?” He called out, hands on his hips. Sighing, David walked toward him. He had no clue how he was going to get through the next two weeks.

“Kelly.” He greeted lamely, a sorry excuse for a smile plastered on his face. “I need to talk to you.”

Jack inspected him for a moment, almost as if he was searching for an ulterior motive. “You're talkin’ to me right now, Dave.”

David blinked at him. “Yeah. Okay. Are you free right now?” He asked blandly, watching as Jack looked pointedly from him, to the field, and then back to him before sighing.

“Yeah. Give me a minute to wrap this up, then we can talk.”

As he walked away, David watched, attempting to distract himself by picking idly at his fingernails. But he couldn’t help it; there was something so mesmerizing about the way Jack carried himself. Tall and confident, never a falter in his step. He was nauseatingly perfect. David hated him.

He hovered by a bench as Jack talked to the group, patting a nervous freshman on the back. He could just pick up his voice, yelling about the final game that was coming up the next week, encouraging the team in a manner that Davey could only wish Jack would talk to him in.

David shook that thought away. It wasn’t his fault that he wanted Jack to be nice to him. He was nice to everyone else. There wasn’t a single person, besides the occasional bully, that Jack Kelly didn’t treat with an unfathomable amount of kindness.

But he turned angry and cold when it came to David.

It hadn’t always been like that. There had been a time where Jack and David were joined together at the hip. They had spent all of middle school and freshman year bouncing from each other's houses, getting into whatever trouble Jack caused that David then had to get them out of.

When Jack started dating Sarah, everything changed. He distanced himself from David, rarely offering him a second glance in the halls. And when they broke up? He had gone back, tried to apologize, but David wouldn’t have it. He cut Jack off then and there, and the memories turned bitter, tainted with rage and despair.

And now, aside from the occasional snarky comment to and fro, they didn’t speak. That didn’t stop them from sharing darting glances filled with hurt and anger across the classrooms, or whispering about each other behind closed doors.

David didn’t actually know if Jack talked about him behind his back, but he figured the constant stares from Spot Conlon were enough of a sign.

Before he knew it, Jack was headed back toward him. The grin on his face dropped as he got closer, matching David’s own expression that grew cold with the proximity.

“You wanted something?” he asked, hands on his hips. David shot him a mocking smile.

“I need to write an article about you. Which means I need to interview you a few times. When are you free?”

Jack held up his hands. “Wait, wait. You're just gonna assume I’ll do it? What’s in it for me?”

Sighing, David crossed his arms, leaning his weight onto one leg. “Look, Kelly. I need this to save the journalism club, which is getting cut thanks to you and your gang of sweaty teenage boys running around with a ball. And it’s not like this is going to affect you in any way, except by maybe spreading some more positive propaganda around.” He took a breath. “So please, don’t make me resort to begging. Just agree, and we can get it done as soon as possible, and then we never have to talk again. Okay?”

A look David couldn’t quite read flashed across Jack's face, only for a split second. And then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'll do it.” He spit on his hand and stuck it out, offering it to David, who scrunched up his face in disgust.

“Not happening.” he said, taking a step backwards. “I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.” The statement was more of a demand than a request, and if Jack answered he didn’t hear. He was too busy storming away, feet thudding against the grass as he held his shoulders back in a state of mock confidence.

[lebknees]

A little theory popped up in my mind recently and I think its so blandly unfunny (spoilers for Jackson's diary s2)

So like yall know how in the end exercise figures out that he makes the future and how he "made" (we still don't know) Dexter a thing... well, what if he was the one who made Exwr and David as people so they'd be like his ocs??? What I'd also like to add is that maybe the reason why we never see Exer's mom was Jackson's choice as he still can't accept the loss of his own mother... Damn I'm going places

[anxresi]

GOD am I sick of this. (Watch Out, MAJOR Rant Ahead)

Why do Chloe haters (nearly) ALWAYS insist on using this tired old line to ‘win’ an argument?!

No-one (at least anyone I’M paying attention to) is saying Chloe should get away with her bullying because of her shitty parents.

We’re saying poor Chloe has been a victim of character assassination, sabotage, purposeful vandalism, ruination etc by the very person who created her! No... not her fictional dad or mom... but a certain real-life Frenchman by the name of Mr Thomas Astruc.

If you want a somewhat over-exaggerated parallel, it would be like Da Vinci painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa, Michaelangelo chopping David’s ‘bits’ off or Geppetto making Pinocchio into firewood (I say this because there’s been TWO movies about the lying puppet in the last year. Hint: don’t watch the Disney one).

It’s like... I can’t even debate these people, because they haven’t just got the wrong end of the stick, we’re not even in the same forest!

My point is to those somewhat disingenuous individuals, and let me be VERY blunt here, because I ain’t repeating myself... (clears throat): 

Chloe’s Character Writing Has Been The Worst I’ve Ever Seen In A Professional Cartoon Show. The Fact They Utterly Destroyed One Of The Few People In Miraculous With Any Potential For Serious Development For Growth And Basically Replaced Her With Another Girl Who’s Just As Blandly ‘Perfect’ As Most Of The Other Females Demonstrates How Utterly Lacking In Ambition, Creativity And Talent The Makers Truly Are. (As If The Glaring Lack Of Other Positive Attributes To The Show Isn’t Evidence Enough) The Only Reason You Use A Completely Manufactured And Different Scenario Than The Case I Put Forward As Your Lone Defence Proves You KNOW I’m 100% Right. THAT’S Why So Many People Are Defending Her... Not Because They Think She Should Get Away With Her Progressively More Ridiculous Misdemeanors Inserted Into The Scripts To Convince The Audience To Hate Her More And More, But Because We Recognize The Less-Than-Subtle Route The Writers Have Taken In The Last Few Seasons To DESTROY Her Character, Her Role, Her Agency And Any Hidden Depths Or Layers She Might Have. This Is A Girl Who LOVED Her Daddy, (Occasionally) Valued Her Best Friend, Adored Adrikins, Confessed How Inadequate She Felt In Front Of Her Idol Ladybug, Made A Heartfelt Apology To Her Teacher In An Emotional Hug (It Made Me Cry :,/ ), Made REAL STRIDES With Her Behavior In terms Of Being More Independent Towards The End Of S2, Had An Intriguing Relationship With Her Favorite Stuffed Bear Which Acted As Her Conscience, Was Setting Herself Up To Be An Efficient Anti-Hero With Questionable Loyalties... And All This Fascinating Narrative Was Left To ROT In Favor Of Turning Her Into The Most Boringly Generic Baddie In The Entire History Of The Show. WELL DONE, EVERYONE. Then To Add Insult To Injury, They Claim This Was The Plan All Along And Her Rapid Deterioration Into A Teenage Psycho From A Standard School Bully Is Some Kind Of Bizarre Statement On ‘How Some People Can Never Change’ Rather Than The Obnoxiously Terrible Piece Of Hackneyed Writing It Actually Was. Damnation Arc? A Fancy Title For Utter Bullsh*t That’s An Insult To Miraculous Ladybug Fans’ Intelligence Everywhere, I Say. I Don’t Know About You Guys, But I Feel Cheated, Swindled, Bamboozled... You Name It, Or Just Thorughly P*ssed Off Should Suffice. Want Some Evidence For My Claims? Okay, Here Goes: Get Comfortable... Removing ALL Of Chloe’s Positive Traits And Redemptive Moments Overnight After S3. Pretending They Never Existed Or Happened In The First Place. Turning Her Into A Villainous One-Dimensional Sociopathic Object Of Ridicule. Giving Us Zoe Who’s Goodie-Two-Shoes Non-Personality Is No Substitute Whatsoever For The True Queen. Cynically Producing AN ENTIRE EPISODE in S5 For The Sake Of Retroactively Making CHLOE Solely Responsible For Adrinette Not Happening Sooner. (Thus Purposefully Exposing Her To More Vitriol From Obsessive Shippers) Pretending That She Had ‘Plenty Of Help’ To Change When The Truth Is No-One Seriously Attempted At All. (Even Saint Marinette ‘Encouraged’ Her And Good Ol’ Toxic Audrey To Bond By Being Awful To Each Other Instead Of Getting To The Heart Of Chloe’s REAL Issues), Breaking Up All Her Closest Relationships One By One Until The Only Person Left Is With Her Is Her Tyrannical Mother Who Promises To “Take Control’ Of Her Life Now In A Different Country That Her Father Has Disowned Her. (So I Guess Letting Chloe Get Further Traumatized By Her Main Abuser is Thomas’s Idea Of ‘Punishing’ Her... Great Message There For Children!) This Means Adrien Wants Nothing To Do With Her, Sabrina Has Been Unceremoniously Dumped And Even Butler Jean Has Been Fired With Little Fanfare. (Not That Chloe’s Had Any Interesting Interactions With Adrien Since S2... What Was The Point In Making Them Childhood Friends Again?! Her Dad Is Basically An Enabler Who Got Off Scot-Free Now He’s Resigned As Mayor And Looks To Have A Fresh Start With His ‘Perfect’ Adopted New Daughter, Sabrina Has Been MIA For YEARS And Only Gets Acknowledged This Once To Further Isolate And Damage Chloe And As For Butler Jean... Who?!) What It Boils Down To Is That Thomas Doesn’t Just Want To Strip Chloe Of The Bee Miraculous Permanently And Write Her Out Of The Show, Oh No! He Wanted To Transform Her Into The WORST Possible Version Of Herself To Try And Forcibly Extract Away The Last Few Fans She Has, And Then Give Her The WORST Possible Ending In The S5 Finale Despite Other Characters (E.g Gabriel) Doing FAR Worse And Yet Either Ending Up Getting ‘Redeemed’ Or Thought Of As Heroes(!). Oh, And Lila Has Multiple Moms Now(!), A Completely New Identity(!!) And Is The Main Antagonist From Now On(!!!)... I Think Her Superpower Is Dumbing Down Everyone Else So They’ll Believe Her Obvious Untruths. GREAT STORYTELLING, GUYS. Mr Astruc Is A Pathetic, Petty, Spiteful, Talentless Excuse For A Showrunner Who’s So Problematic To Discuss His Many And Numerous Controversies Would Take Another Post Probably Five Times As Big As This Already Overlong Wall Of Text, So We’ll Save That For Another Day. Good To See Though, That His ‘Brilliant” Scheme Appears To Be Failing And The More He Sticks Pins In Chloe’s Likeness The More Support She Gets Online And The More ‘Very Sweet’ Zoe Gets Hyped Up Into Something She’s Not, She’s Recognized As The Shallow Shill She Truly Is. I Just Hope Little Kids Aren’t Taken In By His Obvious Crusade To Make Chloe The Most Hated Teenager Since Joffrey. Why Couldn’t The Idea For Miraculous Have Fallen To A Guy Who Had Some Semblance Of Ability, Instead Of This Mediocre Hack Who’s Happy To Wallow In Stale Romantic Cliches, Underwhelming Superhero Fights, Uninteresting Lore, Non-Existent Continuity, Bbaadd Dialogue, Filler, Filler And More Filler, An Overabundance Of Characters = No Development For Them, ‘Special’ Episodes Abroad That Are Anything But, Prioritizing The Merchandise Above The Show ALWAYS, Allowing SO Many Spoilerific Leaks To Spread Under His Watch, Blocking Fans Left, Right And Center When They DARE To Question ANY Part Of His Writing (Because Apparently We’re Too Dumb To See The GENIUS)... And... rreesstt.

I am well aware that this post started out as one thing and ended up rather more convoluted than I hoped for, but Tumblr has always been a great source of therapy for me... so what better to get all my major bugbears out in one word soup of a paragraph that nobody will ever read if they know what’s good for them, before slouching back in my spinning chair with a glazed yet satisfied look on my face?

Nothing, that’s what.

[arrowhearts]

TONSILS REMOVED WRAPPED

shout-out to cathy my advanced RN cathy who explained lots of pre-op logistics and warned me that there were at least 2 training type-nurses involved also. This meant that I was very attended to.

nurses loved the following: using my hospital bed as a mini table, misgendering me once or twice, as a treat, offering me warm blanket.

medical L: extended dancing around taking my pee for a pregnancy test, taking my blood instead, allowing me to sign a waiver to skip the pregnancy test when that blood lab was delayed. a waste of all our time!!

despite those irritations, it did help smooth things to have an "M" on my insurance card, photo id and hospital wristband. When you are in a hospital gown only, no underwear and only the thinnest of veils between covered and whole dick out, it helps to have something to indicate to the many medical strangers whose hands I passed through, that I'm a guy at a glance.

jenna, put in the pick line for my iv

sam anesthesiologist nurse #1

david, anesthesiologist #2 after the first one's shift ended. he found a makeshift foam bag to safely store my glasses in.

david was going to name his son arthur but a cousin named their baby arthur weeks before so they defaulted to their backup and released yet another David into this world

surgeon louis my beloved, 😍 very mild and matter of fact doctor willing to play with me in this space and tell me the details of what method he was doing for surgery (electrocauterization), and also describe how that method evolved from the knife and scalpel method from decades ago when he was new. He also mentioned a laser removal method which is supposed to be even better--but insurance hate fun and hates covering the costs of lasers

susan! my recovery room nurse susan. she told me about her son's own tonsil removal (aged 7) and how he ate spaghetti and meatballs as his first meal and went directly to bed

waiting room review: tv news, gotta have it, gotta have to sound on

hospital appearance: large, old building with interesting tiling and flooring. blandly a typical hospital in many ways, but with tantalizing glimpses or more.

probability of being taken by the fae for straying off the garden path: likely

~

I may write more about the recovery, but I'm glad to have done this!! I'm relieved to have the things I was most anxious about over with. And perhaps I will get to live without chronic tonsils stones

[vampirelequeer]

After reading IWTV and TVL as a teenager, I decided before the show came out to start again and slowly make my way through the whole series. I’m about halfway through the fourth book at the moment.

So without further ado, my thoughts on The Tale of the Body Thief so far:

(Spoilers ahead)

( also me special interest dumping oops)

- first off, HUGE trigger warning for a horrible sex scene. I guess (??) it shouldn’t be so shocking that Lestat is a monster and an actual canonical r*pist and seems to brush the whole thing off. But then also I’m sort of putting it down to Anne Rice very being weird in general and ideas about sex maybe (??) being different in the 90s. I don’t know I am reaching here

- Okay so that grimness aside, this is possibly my favourite book so far (I’m about halfway through). Tied with The Vampire Lestat maybe. After the drudgery that was Queen of the damned (oh the drudgery), I am loving the action and silliness of this story, the actual Lestat character development. There is less vampires sitting round a table telling their life stories and more actual stuff happening. There’s also some really beautiful writing and it feels quick and fun and romp-y to read. Pure vampire escapism.

- however I am PISSED that I waited 3 books to read a sex scene and what I got was a horrifying assault scene and…..a straight sex scene. An overly detailed yet somehow blandly vanilla straight sex scene. How dare you, Anne?? I wonder if this is the homophobia of time- Anne may have been all for mlm but felt too uncomfortable to actually write two men having sex. Or most likely it just wouldn’t have gotten published. I know vampires are supposed to be ace but it seems sort of….suspicious that Anne Rice the erotica writer has chosen this rule for only her male/male character relationships. Anyway basically we have been robbed

- There is some really great Louis content in this book. There is an absolutely beautiful scene where we learn more about his living situation and him as a vampire. I think he goes a bit wooden doll-ish character-wise in TVL and QotD and here he is actually his own personality again.

- However where is Armand, my evil rat baby

- I think what a lot of people hate about the books after Qotd ( though I speak as someone early on- I’m sure they will get really terrible soon) is that Lestat doesn’t stay dedicated to Louis. In fact he falls in love with anyone he gets close to. I think it’s easier reading it now, knowing that Lestat and Louis are going to end up together. But also I see them as a poly relationship (ish) and that they are working on their own stuff before being fully together again. As a poly independent person, I think this is great, and would honestly find the relationship a bit boring if it was just happy and monogamous forever. I am all about the drama lol

-on a lighter note god I love Lestat becoming human and remembering the horror of being a disgusting meat sack. Like him accidentally weeing on himself and gorging himself on chocolate. And almost dying of the flu because he’s not realised he needs a coat in the snow. I love that murder himbo

So yes halfway through and probably about to eat my words on supporting this (currently wonderful) vampire trashfire of a novel. David does seem to suck so far, but not more than say, Marius. And I find Marius’s POV fun to read even if he is an arrogant creep.

What do you all think of this novel? Thank you for coming to my tedtalk on old vampire books nobody reads anymore

[monsooninn]

Berakhot 7a:15. "The Boiling Point."

The actual written down printed pages of the Torah did not become publicly available until 1473, long after Moses and King David, Elijah and Elisha and the rest were gone. We imagine King David kept one on his bookshelf or his desk and read it daily and every night but that is not at all possible.

Up until the publication and distribution of the Torah the shul used handmade/hand illuminated copies of the Torah and Tanakh, or bits and pieces of them and the oral tradition called Halachah "don't forget."

The publication of the volumes in the Tanakh was unknown at the time the Mishnah were written and as the Rab says they were only found in pieces.

The presence of the published Law including all the material on the internet and this Mishnah below means we have reached what is called the Boiling Point, or the Right Time because it means we are all responsible for implementing the Commandments and putting an end to slavery, oppression, corruption, ignorance and foolishness, the causes of God's anger as the Torah describes. There is no way out, no one is exempt this has to be done.

15. And why is it a boiling point? - as it was said: "For a moment in his mouth lives in his will." And no mother came from here: "Hold me a little moment until my anger passes."

The Value in Gematria is 8723, חזבג‎‎ ‎, hazbag, from zbb, "death bringing flies" ba, "that hide" ng, God's brightness."

"The verb נגה (nagah) means to lighten, or to reflect light and occurs a mere two or three times in the Bible: 2 Samuel 22:29, which is reduplicated as Psalm 18:28 ("lighten up the darkness"), and Isaiah 13:10 ("the moon reflects light").

It's probably prudent to note that this root does not actually describe light or being light (which would be done with the root אור, 'or) but rather the traveling of light or else its effect of illuminating."

Whatever is keeping the Light from penetrating the darkness, whatever lie , falsehood, or rationale for it must be overcome.

The sight of Kamala Harris pleading for those Mormons and Marriott and Walmart employees who are trapped in Rafah makes my stomach churn. If the world had the truth, if it was driven by the foundation of civilized life on this planet found in the Torah, all would be well. Now is the right time to do it.

The planet earth depends on four seasons and proper transpiration of heat across its surface and between the surface and space. We have blindly and blandly jeopardized its future and now we have reached the boiling point. We know what to do about this, it just has to be done. Given the circumstances this is the most enviable End of Times scenario one could hope for.

[talesofpassingtime]

all with an expression she probably thinks looks blandly deep but which really looks exactly the way a girl’s face looks when she’s dancing with you but would really rather be dancing with just about anyone else in the room.

— David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

[ya9amicide]

The End of the World In a Woman’s Hands [Newsies]

chapter seven

♡ newsies masterlist ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ♡

summary: Being a girl in the everyday world is difficult. Being the leader of the Manhattan Newsies and a girl? Even more so. Especially when nobody knows you're a girl and the truth is the closest kept secret you have ever had. For Jack Kelly, keeping the truth of her gender a secret is one she's found easy after doing so for many years. Unfortunately, having close encounters with the iron fist, Pulitzer, and a new Newsie who seems determined to get to know her, that secret might just become the opposite.

pairing: fem!jack kelly x david “davey” jacobs

warnings: none

A juggler struggles on stage. Medda, waiting to go on, checks her makeup as Jack and David talk to her.

“Darlings, I love you,” she tells them. “I wish you luck on your rally, I am behind you one hundred percent. But I'm not running a union hall here. This is a theater, a temple of art. And a well-known money pit.”

“We got money, Medda. Some, anyway.” Jack takes some money out of the Prince Albert can.

David watches her. “We'll take a collection at the door,” he says. “We'll pay whatever you ask.”

“It's not the money. I depend on the papers. They write good things about me, the customers flock here like sheep. They give me the pan, I'm the one who gets sheared.”

“You're afraid of them, too…” David observes.

Jack looks at David, disappointed but understanding. “Medda's gotta look out for herself same as anybody. We'll find another place.”

“How can they make a whole city afraid? We're the ones putting our necks on the line. All we need is for somebody to have the guts to stand up and show them we're not alone!”

Medda gives them both an apologetic look. “They have the power to destroy people…”

“They can't destroy you if you fight them–only if you let them own you!”

Jack watches David in awe. She understands that while she may be the face of the Manhattan Newsies and the strike, David is the brains, the voice, and the power.

“You are so young…” Medda’s voice turns soft. She looks back out at the stage as Jack starts to pull David away. “Got to be on Monday night. I'm dark on Monday nights.”

Jack looks at her and smiles. She tries to put her money in Medda’s hand but she refuses it. “Take it, Medda. Please?” Medda takes it reluctantly. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. Thank Mr. Wisenheimer Guilt-maker of 1899 there.” She winks at David and moves off to the stage.

Later, Mush painstakingly charcoals "NEWSIES RALLY–IRVING HALL" on a piece of cardboard. Newsies are scattered in the lobby making handbills, signs, posters.

Kloppman comes in and stops short, seeing a dark figure at his counter, going through his register. “Can I help you?” He asks and the figure turns, revealing Snyder with a smarmy smile.

Snyder steps forward. “Do you have a 'Jack Kelly' registered here? I wish to see him.” This makes the Newsies look up, alert.

Kloppman feigns ignorance. “'Jack Kelly...?' Any of you boys know a 'Jack Kelly'?

“Unusual name for these parts,” snipeshooter drawls.

“I knew a Jack somebody once. Prob'ly not the same guy,” Skittery says.

“You mean Jack Kelly?” Racetrack starts. Behind Snyder, they see Jack bouncing in the front door. Racetrack tries to signal her. “He was here but he put an egg in his shoe and beat it.”

Jack sees Snyder, but instead of running back out the door, she can't resist mocking him behind his back. The Newsies snicker but Snyder thinks it’s simply because of Race’s comment.

Snyder smiles blandly. “I have reason to believe he's an escaped prisoner. Possibly dangerous.”

“Oh, dear me…dangerous? My files are in the rear. This way, please.” Kloppman tries to move Snyder away, silently imploring Jack to go, but Jack takes her time, picks up a leaflet, elaborately approves it, pockets it and strolls out, blowing good night kisses.

The Newsies crack up and Snyder wheels around suspiciously. Racetrack thrusts a leaflet in his face. “Give to the Newsies strike fund, mista?”

Snyder tries to look around the leaflet, then it catches his eye: "RALLY AGAINST PULITZER." He takes it thoughtfully, making a connection. Smiling dangerously, he digs out a penny and drops it in the surprised Racetrack's hand.

[doweirdthings]

There Are No Curses, Only Mirrors - Chapter 1, part 1

To all those who have been lost and to those that lost them.

A queer horror/romance

It only took Maya 17 minutes to realize she didn’t like David being there. Alice knew that because he arrived at 4:34 (over 30 minutes later than the 4pm agreed upon meeting time).

After Maya and David exchanged the base pleasantries that revealed absolutely nothing besides their mutual agreement to be cordial - the usual “how was your drive here/how have you been/what have you been up to’s” with Alice sitting to the side a quiet observer - Maya excused herself to the bathroom. A couple seconds later, Alice received a text from her at 4:51 (I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need to leave) and heard the back door slam shut. 

That would’ve been ok if Maya had come back quickly. Or told Alice why he was here. Or told Alice why Alice was here. 

Ugh. It was so unfair. Maya had begged her to be here for emotional support:

“Please Alice! I haven’t seen or heard from him in such a long time. It’s kinda wild that he’d drop in out of the blue like this. I want to hear him out, but I need you with me.” 

She had said this with a smile on her face. Like she was joking about needing her, joking about the anxiety that was clear in her eyes, but the relief that had relaxed Maya's whole body when Alice agreed to be there told a different story. So Alice showed up at 4pm, as promised, and waited with Maya until the infamous David arrived. And he was 34 minutes late - much to their shared but unspoken annoyance. 

So David and Alice sat there quietly in Maya’s cramped living room. The space between them got smaller with each passing second and Alice became acutely aware of the passage of time, peeking at her phone from underneath her leg. She knew she was checking the clock too often to not be rude.

David was calm though. He didn’t give an explanation for why he was so late. Or an explanation for why he was there at all. Really, despite the uneasiness between them, there was nothing truly wrong with him. Nothing Alice could put her finger on.

“So… Alice, right?”

She nodded.

“How have you been? What are you up to now?”

It annoyed her that he asked those questions like he knew her. Like they had met before and were old friends catching up. Perhaps Maya had shared with him details of Alice’s life - though Alice knew that she hadn’t. That she wouldn’t. 

Alice smiled tersely and answered with short, clipped words. “Good. And, uhm, nothing really.”

He smiled blandly at her, purposefully ignoring the rude answer. God, Alice hated that. The bland, passive, niceness of small talk suffocated the air between them and she wished for a moment that he had instead burst into a fit of rage at her rudeness. Something to show a hint of a personality.

She checked the time again. 4:53.

As they sat in that dense, nauseatingly-nice silence, Alice finally felt an overdue twinge of guilt. Yes, he had been late; yes, his presence obviously upset Maya; yes, he was dull to the point of frustration; yes, his questions annoyed Alice personally… but he hadn’t done anything egregiously wrong.

Maybe he didn’t deserve such a cold shoulder, she thought and ventured into the conversation again.

“So… David, right?”, hoping that he’d find a bit of humor in her parallel question.

“I prefer Dave now actually.” 

Of course you do.

He laughed in a peculiar way - short, quick puffs of air expelled through his nose. The sound reminded Alice of a dog sniffing a new object, desperately trying to uncover all its secrets from the scent.

“How do you know Maya?”

She asked this even though she knew a partial truth: they’d dated for a bit a long time ago but - somehow, for some reason - it ended poorly. 

Perhaps - given how Maya had told her about him in such a sparing, glossy way - disastrously.

“Old friends honestly. I thought this would be a nice way to reunite but…”, he craned his neck to look down the hallway, through the kitchen at the door where Maya burst through in a hurry. “I guess not.”

Alice tried to keep the surprise on her face by his use of the word ‘friend’ muffled with a polite smile. 

But you know people can be awkward about past relationships… especially since he doesn’t know me that well. She decided to move past it without comment.

“Yeah… sorry about that. She’s not usually like that.” This was true. Alice had known Maya for three years. She was normally friendly and kind, a true host at heart who was constantly concerned with making sure that her guests were not only having a good time but felt truly at home. But it was 4:56 now and there was no sign of her.

“Oh it’s alright. I’m not complaining. Unfortunately, it does makes everything a bit harder.”

“Harder?”

“Yeah.”

She waited for more of an explanation. A random article had appeared in her feed a few days ago about how if you wanted more information out of someone, you should keep quiet and the informant would eventually fill the silence themselves with the details you were looking for. But the seconds passed and he simply smiled pleasantly at her again.

He had a slight accent that Alice hadn’t noticed before; the way he pronounced the “th” in “everything” made it obvious enough that she picked up on it. Once she heard that “th”, it was like an optical illusion where once you saw the horse running in the opposite direction, you couldn’t ever go back to seeing it run the other way. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to un-hear it. Despite its constant presence in her ears now, Alice couldn’t place the accent. Of course that didn’t mean much; she’d never left the United States and her ear for different languages left a lot to be desired.

“Well…” Alice looked at the multi-colored, braided rug that was absolutely covered in gray and white fur. Maya’s large tabby cat, Mr. Man, normally loved people and would roll around on the rug to show visitors his gorgeous, fluffy white belly (an adorable trap for those that took the bait and pet him, only to be met with playful teeth and claws). But he’d run up the stairs to Maya’s small loft bedroom as soon as David - Dave, now - had walked through the door. Alice wished he hadn’t; the cute creature would’ve helped make this interaction slightly more bearable. 

It’s 4:57, she thought, where is she? 

“Well,” she started again, realizing she’d trailed off the first time with no purpose. “There’s nowhere to go around here. It’s really only this neighborhood and then the highway. So she has to be back soon.”

“Undoubtedly."

“Um… Would you like anything while you wait? I think she has some tea and coffee. She probably wouldn’t mind if I made you some.” Alice desperately looked for something to do that wasn’t sitting there making small talk with this strange, unforthcoming man.

“She would,” he said confidently. “Mind, that is. But yes, I would like some tea.”

“Ah… what…why...?” Alice shook her head to clear her confusion. “No, no, don’t worry, she won’t mind.”

She’d thought about asking why he said such a bizarrely obtrusive thing for seemingly no reason, but figured it was easier to make the damn tea.

Alice moved to the kitchen and stood in front of Maya’s electric kettle, waiting for the water to boil. She could see David through the narrow doorway sitting on the couch. After making sure he was busy staring at the cheap watercolor painting Alice was 99% sure Maya got from Target, she pulled out her phone from her back pocket and began texting with ferocity. 

A: It’s been ten minutes where are you??? Can I do anything while we wait? What is happening????????

Maya responded immediately. Was she already on her phone?

M: I’m here I’m sorry I needed to take a breath

A: Ok…?

M: Don’t make him tea

Alice, heart now pounding from the surge of adrenaline the text sent through her, stopped spooning sugar into the mug.

A: How did you know I was making tea? Why not?

M: Just don’t please

A: Ok… come back asap pls this is unbearable.

Alice heard the front door open moments after she saw her text read “Delivered”. Maya must’ve been standing right outside the door this whole time.

“Hi, hi, sorry… I needed… I wanted some more time,” Maya sniffled.

Alice started walking back into the living room to greet her friend. But before she crossed the kitchen threshold, David stood up abruptly with his back to her facing Maya. From over his shoulder she could see Maya’s face. Her eyes were bloodshot and watery, nose red to match her flushed cheeks. She wiped her face aggressively, pulling at her cheeks and the corner of her mouth with each swipe, to try to hide the fact that she had been sobbing. 

“I understand! No worries. I think your friend was just about to make me some tea.”

He sounded cheery, like a regular guest being accommodating to an uncomfortable host. There was nothing threatening about his tone, nothing to indicate violence or conflict.

Yet Alice was distinctly reminded of a scene she saw in a cheap horror movie (coincidently, one she saw with Maya) where the vampire’s MO was to smile at his victim and assure her (they were always pretty, young actresses that undoubtedly thought it was going to be their big break) that everything was going to be alright… seconds before ripping her throat out. She started backing into the kitchen quietly.

“It must be nice… having a friend like her.”

“Yeah, Alice is great.” Maya’s eyes flicked up at Alice’s face as her voice cracked on the word ‘great’. 

Alice furrowed her brow dramatically, widened her eyes, and mouthed “What?”, hoping Maya could give her some kind of clue as to what was going on or how she could help. But Maya just shook her head slightly, an almost imperceptible twitch right to left, and flicked her eyes back at him. 

“Here… let me make you that tea instead.” She emphasized ‘me’ like she was offering her body up for sacrifice as she tried to move past him. 

Dave stepped sideways to block her path. “No, no, it’s alright. You’re back now anyways. There’s no need to put this off. I’ve been waiting so long for us to reconnect! Please sit with me.” He yanked on her sleeve to guide her back to the couch. Maya sat down gingerly.

“Did you miss me?” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, just loud enough for Alice to hear .

Maya looked down and shifted on the cushion shamefully. “A little bit.”

David grabbed her shoulder firmly with one hand and lifted her chin up so she’d meet his gaze with the other. Alice hated it. She felt like she was watching something supremely dirty. Something not for her eyes.

“I missed you a lot.”

Maya leaned back abruptly, breaking free from his grasp. “Alice, do you mind waiting in the kitchen for a bit?”

“Um… yeah… I mean, are you sure…?” she asked. Regardless of the discomfort she felt, Alice was hesitant to leave Maya alone in the room with him even if she was just an open doorway away. Maya answered silently with an intensely desperate stare, the sclera around her iris completely visible. Alice knew that stare meant “Please leave. I’m not sure at all, but I need you to do this. For me.”

[wulfs-book-reviews]

Magician's Gambit by David Eddings My rating: 2 of 5 stars “"We all have our little shortcomings," Silk admitted blandly.” This is yet more of the same I’ve read so far in the Belgariad. We’re still travelling, we’re still seeing some fights the result of which is crystal clear from the outset and it’s becoming stale and bland. There’s some character development finally but mostly everyone still feels like an archetype and not like a real person. As if that wasn’t enough, there are lots of “Deus ex machina” moments during which something that should be hard gets resolved effortlessly: “He ran his fingers over the icy iron, not knowing just what he was looking for. He found a spot that felt a little different. "Here it is."” And just like that, that’s it. Garion explores some more of his capabilities but is still kept small by Belgarath and Pol. The ending is rushed, anti-climactic and actually feels like Eddings just wanted to end the book which doesn't bode well for the rest of the series. Sometimes I wish I could "unread" books because they were so fantastic. In this case, I would have had to forget an entire genre to find any original thought or idea. This book was actually starting to get boring and tiresome; everything feels rather mediocre about it – I just hope the next one gets better again… View all my reviews

[leonbloder]

The Roads We Build

Just off the Royal Mile in Edinburgh is a beautiful little exhibit called the Writer’s Museum.  It’s dedicated almost entirely to three of Scotland’s finest authors: Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Stevenson was a childhood friend of mine, if that makes sense.  I read many of his books: Treasure Island, Kidnapped, David Balfour, and A Child’s Garden of Verses when I was a kid.  

Scott’s Ivanhoe was a well-worn book on my grade school shelf, and later I found an old copy of The Lady of the Lake among my mother’s possessions.  She’d received that worn copy from her father, who found it, and several small bound Shakespeare plays in an old house he renovated when she was a teenager.  

By now, you are probably wondering if I was a nerd when I was a kid, and the answer is an emphatic yes.  I was a total nerd.  But then again, there were only four channels on TV and no video games to play or smartphones to stare blandly at for hours.  So I read.  

So with all of that in my head, I was then struck by a paving stone I found outside the Writer’s Museum that had the following quote from the Scottish author Neil Munro carved into it:  

And yet,

and yet, this New Road

will some day

be the Old Road, too.  

That quote really spoke to me, especially since I was full of nostalgia and longing for the stories of my youth and my mom. She fostered my obsession with stories by giving me what she could not fully understand.  

In a culture that over-emphasizes the latest trends, technologies, designs, viral videos, music, and movies, we seldom stop to think about how our obsession with new and better affects our own sense of ourselves in the world.

In a world that is moving far too quickly to keep up, it can sometimes seem that we never really stop appreciating the timelessness of what matters most.  We don’t sit still long enough to stay connected to the eternal nature of beauty, the glory of long, well-crafted sentences, or a song that lasts longer than 2 minutes and 40 seconds.  

Our worth then becomes inextricably tied to what we can get done or accomplish in a day. We don’t stop and think.  We seldom have time to truly rest.  And we are often distracted and numbed to the world around us by the mindlessness of social media and Netflix.  

My mother gave me a precious gift when she handed over that worn copy of Lady of the Lake. It opened a doorway into another world, an older world—that once had been the new world.

I have missed the feeling I felt when I read it for the first time. It was magical, beautiful, and… eternal.  It was a feeling that matters, that defies time and space and busyness and a world spinning madly.

I often wonder what good old world we are passing on to the emerging generations in our culture. Does it have the taste of what Jesus referred to as “that which is heaven” does it feel eternal, beautiful, and trustworthy?  

Or do we need to pause for a moment, stop the spinning, and realize that the new roads we’re building may not last long enough to be old, and even if they do, will anyone want to walk on them?

May we all be mindful of the roads we’re building and ensure they are paved not with good intentions but with all of the glory of heaven.  And may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you now and always. Amen.    

[thee-morrigan]

california nights

may i offer y'all some self-indulgent smut in these trying times? (aka I'm still the mayor of milo/sweetheart clown town 🤪)

redacted asmr; milo/sweetheart; 2.5k words; rated E for definitely explicit (minors dni).

read on AO3

Dinner was a goddamn disaster.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true: dinner had actually been nice. Really nice. The restaurant David had picked was (unsurprisingly) very swanky, although not so much that it seemed stuffy or pretentious — although, to be honest, as good as the food was, the decor could have been straight out of a barnyard as much as it mattered once they started eating. And, of course, it had been great to spend this last night of their vacation out with the pack. No, not great. Or at least not only. No, Milo thought, it had been a relief. That was the word. A balm stronger than any magical healing salve, this relief. One that smoothed the wrinkles and unwound the knots of worry that lingered in him, in them all. A balm that soothed his very soul. To see everyone so relaxed, and happy, for the first time since…everything. The first time in too damn long.  To see the absence of the tension that had crystallized, hard and brittle, in the lines of David’s shoulders and jaw, the release of those telltale signs of strain from the weight he placed on himself as their leader.  To see Ash’s eyes dance with barely restrained laughter, his face open and his smiles coming easy and unshadowed. Milo had felt a bright bubble of gratitude swell in his chest at how blessedly normal the evening — the whole trip, really — had been. 

So he shouldn’t have been surprised when his mate, god help him, also behaved perfectly normally. Which is to say, like an absolute fucking menace. 

“You should never have been allowed to have cloaking powers,” he says in the car, eyes flicking to theirs before returning to the road. “You only use them for evil.”

Their laugh is throaty and immediate, and he doesn’t need to turn his eyes from the road to know exactly how they’re looking at him. He can feel the warmth of their eyes on him from the passenger seat, searing as a sunbeam against his cheek. 

“When have I ever used my abilities for evil?” He can hear the smile in their sweet voice (another quality they had no business possessing, even if that sound is by far the best thing he’s ever heard) and can’t totally keep the grin off his own face even as he answers the ridiculous question.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe less than an hour ago when you slipped your underwear in my pocket?” 

They laugh again, a ripple of a giggle that’s nothing short of wicked, and he doesn’t need to take his eyes off the road to know that their smile now is the same one they’d given him at dinner after he’d unwittingly slid a hand in his pants pocket and discovered more than just his buzzing phone. He’d been so distracted by the feeling of unexpected silky fabric against his fingers that he forgot why he’d stuck his hand in his pocket to begin with, only remembering when he felt his phone vibrate again beneath the slip of fabric. He’d started to pull both items out of his pocket, then shoved his hand back into his pocket immediately as soon as he realized what exactly he was unearthing. He spared the barest glance at his phone screen, easing it — and only it — half out of his pocket, and choked. He had two texts; both were from his mate, who’d apparently found the time not only to sneak their fucking underwear into his pocket in the middle of dinner with his entire fucking pack — including his goddamn mother, Christ above — but also to change their contact name.

Sunny Rocks My Socks wrote: Surprise :). Then, in the next text, had sent only an emoji, the little yellow face winking and blowing a kiss.

He’d looked up to find them already looking at him from across the table, eyes looking almost blue-grey rather than hazel in the restaurant lighting and glittering with mischief. 

“Someone’s popular,” they said blandly, lips stretching into a teasing smile above the rim of their wine glass as they sipped, fingertips leaving abstract lines in the condensation frosting the chilled glass. For a moment, he’d just watched them as his brain juddered back into something like functioning, fairly certain that the prickle of heat he felt spreading across the bridge of his nose would have complemented the dewy pink wine in his mate’s glass perfectly. 

“Someone’s trying to give me a heart attack,” he’d replied, leaning in a bit and making an effort to keep his voice down. The last thing, the very last thing, he wanted to do tonight was explain the context of their conversation to any other person at this dinner. Which he would absolutely — appallingly — have to do if he didn’t manage to drag his eyes away from the long bare expanse of their legs every time they shifted to cross or recross them with intentional theatricality, he was certain.

They’d only smiled wider. “Now that would be counterproductive.” They leaned forward then, too, with a conspiratorial wink reminiscent of that goddamn emoji.

“Don’t worry; it’s just a little jumpstart. Plus,” they leaned back again, spearing a baby carrot off their plate and biting into it with a snapping crunch, mouth quirking up to one side, “you’re extra cute when you’re flustered.” 

Yes, he thinks, the smile curving across their face now is just as catlike, the glint of mischief just as wicked, as the one they’d given him at dinner. If he asked, they’d probably say he looks “flustered” now, too (even though he wasn’t then and he isn’t now, thank you very much). 

“If,” he continues, voice raised over the cascade of giggles from the passenger seat, “you can even call that scrap of fabric underwear. Underwear for ants, maybe.”

They laugh, a rich purr of a sound that sends a rippling caress of a shiver down Milo’s spine. 

“Never heard you complaining about my underwear before.” 

Milo rolls his eyes and starts to scoff, but the sound catches in his throat as they vanish next to him and he feels a light brush of pressure against his side. 

“Oh no, we have talked about you cloaking on me while I’m trying to drive, you absolute menace, wha—“ 

He trails off with a choked whimper of a sound at the ghosting touch of their lips against the shell of his ear, the breath of their voice, barely a whisper this close.

“If you’re so bothered by my underwear, I’ll keep them to myself.” 

The pressure against his side increases and he feels a deliberate tug against the fabric of his jacket, and then they’re back, reappearing as suddenly and unceremoniously as they’d vanished a moment ago, leaning back in the passenger seat with their underwear hooked over two fingers, a shit-eating grin splitting across their face, making it even more infuriating and beautiful. 

By the time they’re back at the Airbnb, any plans Milo might have had for creative uses of the various accouterments that came with the snazzy dress territory are gone, having vanished from his mind as neatly as his mate — his terrible, wonderful mate — had from the passenger seat. Apparently, simply sitting still for the duration of a drive from Point A to Point B is too much to expect from the miscreant whose mischievous soul both soothed and stirred his own. 

Honestly, he’s impressed he managed to keep both hands on the wheel — okay, occasionally one hand, when the other could so easily roam along those long, sun-kissed legs he’d spent so much of dinner trying not to stare at whenever his mate shimmered back into view beside him. But he kept both eyes focused on the road, which was more important, anyway. Either way, they made it back in one piece and no more near-death encounters to add to their lists.

By the time they’re both out of the car, the only thought in his head is how immediately he needs to feel them, to have the touch and taste of them flood his senses the way thoughts of them have flooded his mind. How urgently he needs his hands and lips and tongue along the slopes and lines of them. Needs the pressure and presence of their hands/lips/tongue along the curves and hollows of him, too.

It takes him three tries to get the damned code entered correctly to unlock the cabin door, a series of little interruptions from the buttons he’d prefer his fingers be pushing and leaves him even more impatient; it tears a muffled growl from his throat that’s only dampened by theirs, the vibration of it absorbed into the dip of their clavicle. Finally — finally — they’re in, stumbling blind and kicking the door shut, drunk on each other and giggling, falling into each other with every few steps, bodies powerless as magnets in their draw towards the other’s orbit. Every attempt to quiet themselves, to quiet each other, seems louder than any other noise they’re making, and they give up trying to make it to the bedroom after Milo catches his shin on a side table, barely avoiding sending the table and everything it’s holding crashing to the floor. They both fling out hands to stop the dangerous wobble of both table and large mirror resting atop it, and Milo has one idea, a flash of delicious temptation in his mind’s eye that’s more developing Polaroid image than proper thought.

Later, he thinks. Later there would be time for slow, lingering touches and sweetly ruinous kisses along soft, bare skin. For exacting revenge on the miscreant he loves so fiercely for all their glib teasing through dinner and the torturous drive back. 

But now there is only time for his hands gripping them closer to him, fingers splaying along their hips as he turns them, their hands slipping from him to brace once more against the tabletop, one arm again outstretched to rest their fingertips against the surface of the mirror they’d kept from falling a moment before. Only time for him to arc over them, one hand brushing a dark tangle of hair from the back of their neck, baring warm sensitive skin that he can never help but kiss, because it always leaves them shuddering and pushing back into him for more, and he’s never smelled or tasted anything as beautiful as that soft, hidden patch of skin (except maybe for every other inch of them). 

His other hand is busy, too, sliding urgent and insistent up the length of one leg, under the hem of their skirt, dragging across their bare ass and then lower, fingers sweeping over them in butterfly-soft strokes that have them pressing forward against the table for better leverage, arching their hips back and up to nudge his fingers closer, the touch of his hand firmer over them. 

He obliges, a teasing laugh caressing their neck and they shiver again as he nips at an earlobe, a gentle tug of teeth gone just shy of too-sharp. “So eager, sweetheart.”

He sees the flicker of an impatient roll of those too-pretty eyes in the mirror, hears the huff of quasi-exasperated laugh that follows. 

His hand sweeps back up to cup their ass again, lips stretching in a grin against their skin as he hears the answering needy whimper when his hand moves. Then gives a needful sound of his own at the flinching arch of their hips into his in response to the sharp sting of his palm against their ass before sliding his hand back down to where they’re so warm and soft and aching for him. He knows they’re aching because he is, has been, is far beyond driven to mere distraction for the aching want of them. 

Something between words and formless sound slips out of them. 

“What’s that, sweetheart? Tell me how you want me to touch you. Ask for what you need.”

“I want —“ Their voice is ragged now, breaths coming in little gasping sips of air, hips bucking against him as they grind against his hand. “Fuck, Milo, I just want you inside me. Like, yesterday,” they give a breathy laugh that turns into a groan as he presses two fingers deeper inside their soft heat, feeling his cock twitch in response to the noise and sensation of their muscles clenching briefly around his fingers, their ass grinding up against him again. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, giving little teasing, nipping kisses along the back of their neck, the top of their spine, before tugging the zipper of their dress lower with his teeth, the tip of his nose ghosting along the skin he exposed, lips widening in a wicked grin at the glorious, shuddering sound it pulled out of their smart mouth. 

“You want more, sweetheart?” He kisses the question into their skin, eyes flicking up to watch the play of needy response across their face in the mirror. 

“Yes.” It’s barely a word, wrapped as it is in a whimper. 

“Then ask me, sweetheart. Ask me to fuck you.”

He doesn’t know how he’s held himself back from sinking into them already, from letting himself sink into the fast, needy snap of his hips against their ass, holding them secure as they bow up into him, bare back into his chest. Doesn’t know how he’s kept himself leashed until this point, but is so grateful he feels completely undone as they finally answer, a groaning, relieved growl escaping him.

“Please.” The soft, sweet sound of their voice unmoors him, even as the sound of his name on their lips, the sound reverent and holy as prayersong,  grounds him, binds him wholly to this place and moment. “Milo, please.”

And then he’s inside them, easing in slow and gentle and then moving, fast and hard and deep, their hips answering his, the hand against the mirror flexing as if seeking purchase there, seeking to drive him deeper still. He’s already close, he’s been hungry for them since well before they slipped their underwear off in the restaurant, increasingly needy and desperate for them since they hid his fucking socks and then decided to put their hands to better use. When he sees their eyes, so pretty and alive with mischief and love and simmering desire, go soft in the reflection of their face, gaze going unfocused, he’s pulled over the edge. Their kiss-reddened lips part with a gasping cry that leaves a shadow of fog across the mirror glass as they find their release, and he’s tumbling over that precipice with them, burying his face in their hair, biting down on the curve of their neck, the soft sloping line of it just above their shoulder, one hand in a near-bruising grip on their hip to keep them as close to him as he can. He wants to always keep them close, keep them right here, closer even, forever this entwined with his body.  

“Don’t think this makes us even, by the way, “ he says later, mouth pressed lazily against their hair. They still haven’t made it to the bedroom, but the couch seemed so much closer and therefore more appealing. “This is nowhere near fair play for all the shit you pulled earlier, you hellion.”

They give a purring hum of laughter, snuggling themself closer into his side, their cheek pressed firmly against his chest. “I certainly hope not. Not after all those promises about the endless possibilities your ‘fancy shit’ might afford us.”

“Well, I do always aim to keep my promises.”

And, eventually, he does. But not before spending a long, long time just lying beside them, arms and legs tangled, breathing slow and easy. They have plenty of time. There’s no rush.

After all, this is a vacation. 

[gothicwidowsworld]

consequence of my actions L.N

Part 1

“Seriously Y/N/N don’t let Yuki teach your kid animal sounds… he doesn’t even know what noise a dog makes.” Pierre exclaimed breathlessly through his laughter, the Frenchman almost reducing himself to tears yet again. The Paddock was pretty hectic, camera crews and reporters littering the walkway causing the friends to occasionally have to pause. “You think I'm going to let either of you near my child?” Y/N replied sarcastically, almost feeling sorry for the Japanese Driver's fallen expression. “I’m joking Yuki.” the English girl reassured the young man, smiling at him gently. 

“Oh it’s a match, just as Pierre and Yuki walk past. Joined by the lovely Y/N Horner too.” Rachel Brookes cheerfully said into her microphone spotting the trio making their way up the paddock. Flagging down the mini friendship group Rachel couldn’t help but gush over the y/h/c woman. The two females had built up a strong bond over the years and with a combination of Covid and Y/N’s sudden disappearance it had been the first time they’d properly seen each other in months. “A congratulations are in order, Miss Horner” Rachel teased the younger girl, shooting the y/h/c girl a kind smile “You’re honestly glowing.” The sky presenter added joyfully, “You think so? I haven't been feeling so hot lately.” Y/N replied honestly, running a hand anxiously over her gingham summer dress, the soft cotton felt amazing in the humid temperature. “You look lovely.” David assured the young woman. “Thanks Crofty.” 

“They’re matching your score on Mr & Mr” Rachel explained pointing at the sheet of questions in her pale hand. Sky Sports currently had an ongoing challenge between all teams on the grid, small comedic behind the scenes content that allowed a friendly rivalry off the track between Drivers. Mexico being McLaren's turn to attempt to top the leaderboard. “We’re on 10” Daniel boasted giddily, a wide grin lighting up his tan face. Rolling her y/e/c eyes at the Australian Y/N ignored the intense gaze she felt on her. She knew who it belonged to, and it angered her that she used to enjoy the feeling of his denby azure eyes on her. “They have 1 more question to answer, do you want to watch this?” The Blonde presenter asked Pierre moving the stack of stapled paper closer so the AlphaTauri driver could read the question. Bursting into laughter the Frenchman nearly doubled over leaning on the Horner girl for support. Recovering Pierre moved to stand to the side linking his helmet free hand with Y/N’s. “Pierre, let's just go please.” Y/N mumbled wanting to remove herself from the group but too scared to leave by herself knowing it would draw more attention to herself. Wrapping his arms around the girl Pierre brushed a lock of her y/h/c hair out of her face “It’s just going to take a minute.” Sighing Y/N nodded, unfortunately catching Lando’s eyes, the previous gaze she’d felt had turned to an intense murderous glare. Sky were normally under a time restraint but the next minute or so felt like forever. Y/N didn’t understand how you could go from loving having someone’s undivided attention to hating it, it made her skin crawl now like she was under a microscope, the feeling that the young English driver was just looking for her to give him another reason to hate her. It was Pierre teasingly calling Dan a loser that jostled Y/N from her out of body moment. 

Guiding the Horner girl away from the interrupted interview Pierre glanced at the girl. “What was that about?” He asked faintly, quickly plastering a smile on his face for the photographer pointing his camera in the pair's direction. Yuki was a couple of steps behind so Pierre felt comfortable questioning Y/N, due to his stint at Red Bull the two had grown close. “It was nothing.” Y/N shook off the question blandly. Nodding sarcastically Pierre ran a hand over his chin “That’s the most painful nothing I've ever seen.”

Pausing Y/N turned to face her friend “Fine. It was just the consequence of my actions, happy?” the y/h woman hissed, pushing the man away a little before walking away. “Is she ok?” Yuki asked innocently, watching the young Horner storm off towards the Red Bull motorhome angrily.  

“Was it something I did?” The Japanese Driver asked again anxiously readjusting his facemask. Shaking his head, Pierre bit his lip “No Yuki.” His response was short and simple but it brought little consolation to the shorter man. “She’s just a little upset.” Pierre added, patting Yuki on the shoulder.

Setting based of this video

Part 2 Karma