#fucking pottery barn?

[the-kneesbees]

the death of shopping malls in favor of strip malls is devastating

[gravehags]

sometimes an older lady mistakes your $12 depop velvet overshirt for a $300+ top from johnny was and that makes your whole day lmao

[nsfwitchy2]

Unfortunately discovering against my will that I am R E A L L Y into the decorations and bedding on pottery barn teen 😔✊

[cherishcherubi]

Went to a plant nursery today!

Chanel got herself into a Situation.

[nothingunrealistic]

QUERIDO EVAN HANSEN

TALLER DE 3° ITM, PRACTICAS DE INTERPRETACIÓN EN EL TEATRO MUSICAL 21/22

this is a delight… obviously the production values aren’t the highest but many fun acting and staging choices here, especially the four evans, and i’m impressed that they managed to incorporate the anonymous ones and hiding in your hands without cutting songs

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

The thing is, Tommy’s worried about Evan coming over to his house for the first time. He’s seen Evan’s loft. It’s all clean lines, modern appliances and details. What little sentimental odds and ends he owns are tucked away or so subtle than Tommy didn’t spot them the first couple of times he came over.

Tommy’s house, by contrast, is filled with the detritus one accumulates when they’ve gone no contact with everyone related to them and they’re trying to create a homey, family atmosphere out of thrift stores and the Pottery Barn catalogue instead of friends and family.

He’s a knick-knacker, an antique furniture collector, a throw pillow and afghan fanatic.

He doesn’t have much in the way of books, but he has shelves and shelves of notebooks, some full, some half-used, some untouched. It’s a habit he picked up when his first ever therapist (after he left the 118) coaxed him into writing everything down to make a little sense of the mess of contradictions, phobias, old prejudices, prejudices still clinging on and traumas that made it feel impossible to figure out what to talk about first when he sat down in that office.

There’s a small, awkward section of wall in his kitchen created when a previous owner of the house decided to add a laundry room (embarrassingly, his favorite room in the house for it’s sheer utility) and that’s where Tommy hangs his collection of coffee mugs. Some of them are Goodwill finds, some souvenirs, some band merch or creations by local artists he picked up at some market or other.

There’s five different varieties of protein powder constantly cluttering his kitchen counter because he ran out of room in the small pantry. His pots and pans hang over the tiny, rolling kitchen island, which is itself nearly taken over by a serving tray that holds his water filter, a candle, a decorative planter filled with his cooking utensils, a plastic case of toothpicks.

He still has a dvd collection, for heaven’s sake, and it takes up most of his sagging entertainment center. He should replace it, but it’s the first piece of furniture he ever restored and he’s having trouble letting go. Speaking of letting go, there’s a dog bed in the corner for a dog that passed away nearly ten months ago. He probably will at least hide that in a closet before Evan gets here.

Because he is coming over. No matter how nervous Tommy is, he’s not gonna come up with another excuse for why they have to postpone or meet at Evan’s instead. He gets the feeling he’s already made Evan a little wary, and with Evan’s relationship history and his fear of being too much, not enough, just left, Tommy will eat his own foot before he purposely exacerbates Evan’s fears.

If Evan looks around and decides Tommy is a hoarder or a slob or a million other nasty epithets Tommy’s brain is offering up like some cruel, self-sabotaging buffet- Well, they’ll talk about it. They’ll learn and adjust. Evan has never, ever been cruel to Tommy and it’s quite frankly laughable that he would start now.

That’s what Tommy tells the rogue half of his brain trying to rain on their parade. Another thing he picked up from his therapist - name the part of you that spews negative self-talk and talk back to it. Predictably, Tommy named his Vince. Shut the fuck up, Vince.

Evan’s shift ended twenty minutes ago and Tommy has chili on the stove keeping warm. Between showering and the drive over, Evan should be due at his door in another twenty-five or so. Tommy hides the dog bed, lights the kitchen candle, tries to find things to do with his hands so he doesn't watch the time like a hawk. They’ve had conflicting shifts for almost two weeks with only stolen moments and half-asleep kisses in between. Tommy misses his boyfriend. But a watched clock never ticks, or whatever.

His strategy works, because Evan’s knock on the front door actually startles him a little from the stack of unopened mail he’s sorting through. So many flyers for what feels like every home decor and craft store in the state.

Evan’s eyes are gentle and joyful when Tommy answers the door. “Hey.” He leans in to squeeze Tommy’s bicep and press a kiss to the wing of his cheek. Tommy can feel Evan’s mouth stretch into a smile against his skin.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy wiggles his fingers under the strap of Evan’s duffel to take it from him and steps aside to let him into the house. His heart thuds in his chest.

Evan surrenders his bag and steps into Tommy’s home for the first time. If he notices Tommy holding his breath, he doesn’t comment yet.

He takes a look around while Tommy tries to look anywhere but his face. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s being a complete lunatic about this, that he let his anxiety take over for the better part of the day.

When Evan turns around to face Tommy again and slides his hands over Tommy’s waist, presses his fingers into Tommy’s back, nudging them closer together, his smile has split into a full grin. Tommy can’t help reflexively smiling in return. He can feel his cheeks flooding with warmth. It should be embarrassing that Evan still makes Tommy blush at the drop of a hat even all these months later, but if it helps Evan know deep in his bones that Tommy is gone for him, Tommy wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It looks like you.” Evan draws his hands up and down Tommy’s torso in gentle strokes. “Cozy. Warm. Like…” He trails off and bites his lip, drops his eyes to Tommy’s chest.

Tommy hooks his fingers under Buck’s chin and lifts his gaze back up until their eyes meet in a move that’s become so routine it’s pretty much an inside joke between them. “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging.”

It’s Evan turn to flush a deep pink. He takes an unsteady breath in. “L-like home.”

An immense weight lifts off Tommy’s chest so quickly it almost steals his breath, but Evan has tensed up just a fraction, so Tommy hums softly, spreads his big hands over Buck’s wide shoulders and digs his fingers in to massage the tension back out. He slides deeper into Evan’s space to take his mouth in a chaste, lingering kiss, and he murmurs against his lips. “Glad to hear it.”

[yutamayo]

Excuse me but my boyfriend is sexiest, crowned king pussy facing the world. He's himbo. Babygirl approved. Babygirl coded. Celebrated annually by those who deserve to observe. The favored femboy girlfag pussywhipping non-binary Y2K twink. All twunk. Always cunty. Unspeakably hunty. Prettyboy. Babe. Little dumpster baby meow meow. The GNC dyke blueprint. Boytoy. Boyslut. Manwhore. Manslaughter, if you will. (Barbie by Nikki lyrics) BARK! BARK! BOARK! RUFF! RRRUFF! He's sissy Pippi Longstocking. Born in a sink. Juicyfruit faggot that can mansplain, manipulate, or malewife his way out of anything. Except his one-year ban from Target and lifetime ban from Pottery Barn. A daddy that never stops mothering. A father. #1 Mommy. Better than Quakers apple cinnamon instant oats. Not a human being; a dessert on legs. No Victorian spoon required. He says fetch, I fetch. Must suck to be a hater bc he don't fuck with the haters so, your loss. My win.

[artdcnaldson]

Patrick looks like the type of guy to show up to thanksgiving either high or horny ..or both. He really would try to fuck u in old bedroom but he keeps stepping on legos or sumthing really loser like that

GOD!!!!!

He literally gets so smug about fucking you in his stupid twin bunkbed with the desk beneath in his ugly ass early 2000s pottery barn teen bedroom... fucking rattling the random shit and knick knacks on the desk below. It's so laughable that you're crammed into a top bunk, head knocking against the wall, or the ceiling. Staring at a poster he has up of one of Lucy Liu in Charlie's Angels, and like David Beckham or something stupid like that.

But yeah :) Fucking old legos on the floor, a tangle of wires for chargers for his old MP3 players and game systems and shit. But you also find stuff he's soooo embarrassed about, like a build a bear, and little baby pictures of him and art <3

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag angel baby @guiltyasdave <3 • 18+ under the cut! MDNI!

wip #1 • far too familiar a stranger…feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

a long time ago, logan howlett knew a woman with your face…

i couldn’t not write a ‘worst!logan coming face to face with his tragically dead love interest but from wade’s universe after wade forced her to help them stop the TVA and hating her for bringing up that time in his life until he doesn’t anymore’ fic.

it's crimson because i felt that making whole new mutant reader would be sort of confusing so this fic is in the to the bone universe but it's not the same timeline...if that makes sense lmao

Wade Wilson is the worst neighbor in the entire fucking world. It’s really something you should have known sooner, like ‘the very first day in your new place ending with him breaking in through your window fully suited up after counting the floors wrong and bleeding all over your brand new pottery barn throw rug because he was still a little too concussed to walk’ sooner. Even after that whole fiasco left you with a broken window latch and a beyond fucked non-refundable $80 carpet, you still let yourself entertain his crazy. Just like everyone else whose life Wade crashed into, both physically or metaphorically. And once he's in, you can never really get him back out again. So yeah, maybe this whole thing is your fault. Maybe getting thrown into a barren, dusty void with two somewhat failed X-Men is just all your bad karma manifesting in one huge finger from the universe.

wip #2 • red and yellow kill a fellow! feat. logan howlett & wade wilson

logan doesn’t appreciate you letting wade get one up on him…

finally finally finally getting off my ass and writing logan x reader x wade! i was inspired by this one episode of satc (which is like my favorite show ever bee tee dubs) where charlotte goes out with two guys at the same time and she has sex with one but not the other until one of them catches her with the other guy and they all break it off.

my vision is a little different cause instead of getting mad and leaving when logan finds out reader fucked wade and not him, he figures it's his turn to get even. aka wade in the cuck chair and loving it.

The three of you pass a BMW sitting in a no parking zone, all four windows rolled down as Madonna blasts through the speakers. "So," Wade says, voice breaking the silence for the first time in five minutes. "Who white-washed your guts better?" You nearly trip over your own feet, whipping your head to gape at Wade. "Fucking excuse me?" "You know," Wade shrugs, like it's a perfectly normal thing to ask. The leisurely pace of his stroll not slowing, his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. "Who carved the lyrical railway better?" He just keeps going as you stare at him with a repulsed look on your face. "The number one stud that's stuffin' your muffin? That's takin the ol' bald-headed gnome for a satisfying stroll in the misty forest. Pick one hot stuff, they all mean the same thing." Before you can even answer there's a rough, questioning grunt from your right and your stomach flips. Oh. Logan, he was still here too. Still here and right next to you, listening. Oh yeah. "You fucked?" You still haven't slept with Logan yet. You turn to him face slowly, eyes a hair wide as you take in the sharp raise of his brow. "Um..." "Whoops," Wade snorts from somewhere behind your shoulder. "Cat's out the bag."

wip #3 • it's the easiest thing (just love me and eat me) feat. logan howlett

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

the same requested sub!logan fic from last wednesday just with a new name and weirder energy! like this has really gotten away from me and turned into something that i can't really explain well enough to make it sound like chill...

lots of religious imagery and symbolism...and some metaphors of cannibalism...idk i'm just a girl with religious trauma and a weird blood fetish sue me.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church. The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of it like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship. Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion. The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. The sound of your name pulled from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered. You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

kisses!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing @superhoeva

[majorasnightmare]

i finally did it. character relevant sex lore for the party bicycle YAHOO

this post fucking fought me every step of the way. thats what i get for writing character analysis while violently ill and dosed to the moon on meds. enjoy in detail content on how bhaals favorite gore baby straight out of pottery barn fucks his way through the sword coast

content warnings for below the cut for sexual content and references to past sexual abuse 👇

so dirges relationship with sex is kind of... intense? ironically its at its simplest in his bhaalist years but that baggage gets carried over into experiences post tadpoling

bhaalist!dirge did... NOT have a good relationship with sex. the act itself was to be done for procreation, to seed the world with spawn to help fulfill Bhaal's goals, and to that end Dirge was coerced via duty into having sex with volunteering priestesses to try and conceive. Those efforts never bore fruit, and Dirge unconsciously tried to avoid that particular duty whenever possible, and it contributed greatly to his compulsive need to prove himself fit and worthy as Bhaal's vessel to avoid having to conceive an heir. the pleasure was embodied in the ecstasy of murder, a sensation somewhere between a full body orgasm and an addictive drug high, an instictive kill response triggered by Bhaal's blessing, and a sign that Dirge was the favored child. the desire for sex, for intimacy with another living person, was a sin, a sign of weakness. if you wanted the feeling, all you had to do was kill, and kill well. if you didnt want to kill, then it must be because you desired to spread your seed and incubate another heir to the throne of blood. what else could you possibly be looking for?

so dirge more or less avoided sexual encounters as a whole during his bhaalist years, up until meeting gortash, where gortash was an intimate human connection dirge WASNT going to kill (for the sake of bhaals schemes), and furthermore gortash was a connection that encouraged dirge to view himself as a person with desires outside of bhaal. things snowballed, and dirge fell into a cycle of sleeping with gortash that looked something like this

-be overwhelmed by the crushing weight of being a living religious idol

-feel soul destroying amounts of guilt for not living up to the standards set for you by yourself and everyone you interpret as a voice of authority on the matter

-refuse to go home because you hate yourself and your procrastinating on the inevitable routine of self flagellation and overwork until you feel youve earned the right to exist again

-end up at gortashs because you dont know where else to go

-seriously consider killing gortash and freeing yourself of this final piece of connection tying you to the material plane and potentially keeping you from killing the world. avoid killing gortash for exactly that reason

-let yourself be talked into making use of your time here by working on your schemes and projects together. be completely unable to focus and emotionally distraught

-be convinced into letting gortash relieve your stress. let things get carried away and take your clothes off. finally indulge your desire to be close to another person. >not your fault >banite talked you into it >youll kill him about it later

-you dont want to be responsible for your own desires or actions but you want to be guided by someone who knows how to make this work, so now that youve already shot yourself in the foot, might as well deepthroat the barrel. go completely submissive in bed and give gortash the thrill of a lifetime being the dom for a murderbeast that only tames itself for him

-have a genuinely really nice enjoyable time having sex

-wake up at the crack of dawn before gortash wakes up, feel completely disgusted and ashamed with yourself for succumbing to the weak desire for social connection, use his bathroom to clean yourself up, leave through his window without saying anything.

-promise yourself your never going to do this again, find someone to kill on the way out, crawl back home in disgrace to get started on that routine of self flagellation (literally)

-rinse and repeat.

and that cycle more or less stayed stable entirely up until dirges lobotomy. but dirge got to carry alllllll that unexamined guilt and trauma with him into his second go around

Post tadpoling, Dirge doesn't retain the old religious values that punished him for connection seeking, though he DOES retain the effects it left him with. Topping triggers traumatic memories of feeling coerced into trying to conceive at the temple (though he only recalls the intense discomfort, bereft of context or reason), and the years of religious guilt means hes so consciously present in his body that he struggles to finish. He also just takes a long time to climax overall. The discomfort doesnt start fading until a good bit into his relationship with Minthara. Generally this means his preference is to just treat his body as a tool his partner can use to make themselves feel nice, and Dirge derives a LOT of pleasure from watching his partner climax because of him. Its usually enough to satisfy him even if he doesnt cum, just as long as his lover does. This was one of the main sticking points in his relationship with Astarion, and one of the reasons Astarion eventually transitioned their relationship away from sex.

Dirge post tadpoling doesnt project any particular meaning onto sex and mostly sees it as a way to enjoy yourself physically, and is very open to casual and platonic sex. He sleeps with Astarion off and on throughout act 1 very casually when giving Astarion blood, he sleeps with Gale to reaffirm to Gale that he IS desirable and attractive, Dirge just cant reciprocate the exact kind of relationship Gale wants, and Dirge sleeps with Karlach after her engines fixed cuz he told her hed stay open to the idea and shes been pent up for a decade. Its something thats enjoyable to do, and Dirge takes to the role of attentive seducer quite well, lavishing affection on a partner over and over and over again, so he doesnt see a reason to abstain from it when its so fun, and it can do nice things for the people hes sleeping with. dirge very much is the kind of guy you can fuck without changing literally anything about your relationship to him, and he makes that clear before you blow his back out.

while dirge CAN be dominant in bed, he enjoys himself the most when hes being submissive. the dom/sub dynamic has more of an influence on how "into it" he gets than any other particular kink, because for dirge the relationship of power, potential for violence, and the physicality of his body are all intrinsically linked together. dirge is a killing machine that receives pleasure from inflicting death, and finds peace in receiving pain, and he is constantly aware of those facts. if someone isnt making him submit, hes doing the work of taming himself for them, and thats going to contribute to his difficulty losing himself in the experience. its easier and more enjoyable for him to pleasure a partner unwilling or unable to dominate him, because he can divert most of his attention off of himself onto intuiting the noises and motions of their body to pull the strongest reactions out of them.

when it comes to actual sex acts, dirge is a MASSIVE fan of oral. dirge typically seeks to satisfy multiple of his senses at the same time, and burying himself between his partners thighs ticks multiple checkboxes for him. its a reliable way of pleasuring a partner that rewards attention to body language and patience, it brings him close to multiple erogenous zones on his partners body (inner thighs, lower stomach, behind the knees, all within easy reach of his hands or easily manipulatable to bite, kiss, or otherwise mark), it satisfies multiple senses at once (nuzzling against his partners thigh, indulging the taste of them on his tongue, savoring the intensity of their scent so close to their heat, being able to look up and make eye contact), its something he can happily do for hours at a time until his partner wants him to stop, and above all its something one sided he can give to his partner without having to receive anything. dirge is free to take pleasure in the act itself and what it does to his lover without worrying about his bodys own reactions to things his lover might want to do to him, and in a d/s context its a blatant act of fulfilling devotion and worship that is its own reward. dirge is a very worshipful submissive, combining aspects of pet play with religious kink, needing a dominant to domesticate and take charge of him, before he rewards their efforts with service, devotion, and worship as thanks for going through the efforts of taming his more unruly urges. to that end, once minthara and him agree on their romance, she collars him as part of their initial courtship so that she has a means of restraining him on hand at all times.

dirges understanding of interpersonal power, autonomy, and self control are all tied up with his desires in social relationships and intimate connections, so because hes a bhaalspawn, because hes specifically an instinctive killer, the concept of indulgence itself carries inherent risk, and furthermore it carries the burden that he is not an infallible paragon of restraint. if dirge wants to be fully present in a relationship, he needs an external vehicle of control that isnt centered within his own capabilities of restraint, because otherwise he'll betray himself and act out against his own wishes and cause harm when he doesnt want to. dirge NEEDS someone to leash him so he can fully let go, but the responsibilities and risks of something like that are too much to reasonably expect out of most people. so far minthara and gortash have been the only ones willing to step up to be his self control kill switch

anything that plays into or around dirges power dynamics will typically be received well. bondage and restraints are enjoyable for him, alongside most forms of painplay. he has a huge thing for blood, and letting him draw it or drawing blood yourself and letting him catch the scent of it will sharply increase the intensity of the experience

generally dirge enjoys spoiling his lovers, dedicating the entire night to them with barely any focus on himself, lavishing affection on them, and using his own body to pleasure theirs, or letting his partner use his body themselves. intense scenes push dirge into subspace where his tendency to worship a lover gets emphasized, and he has a much easier time finishing like that and is prone to overstimulation. because he usually focuses so much on his lover, dirge tends to be quiet in bed, but gets increasingly vocal the deeper hes pushed into subspace

the only thing dirge possibly enjoys more than having sex with someone, is the aftercare afterwards. dirge gets incredibly soft and sweet after sex, and is a very big cuddler. aftercare is another oppurtunity to spoil his lover, to service and attend to them, and he enjoys the feeling of winding around them in the afterglow of it all. typically, the night has gone on long enough to thoroughly work through most of his visceral cravings for intense sensation, pain and blood, and with the Urge cowed through dominance and satisfied through intensity, whats left is shameless affection. hes very much an acts of service+physical contact love language kind of guy

it probably goes without saying but there isnt much that dirge wont experiment with, as long as it turns his partner on. hes also very openly a monster fucker, and the potential for dramatic violence holds deep erotic appeal for him. chimeric hybrids of monster and man scratch an itch meant to be soothed by the rejected slayer form for him, and his "hear me out" cake features bloodbornes ebrietas, daughter of the cosmos and the moon presence, and would almost certainly include several of MtG's phyrexians if i knew more about them. hed happily solve the lament configuration to fuck a cenobyte ala hellraiser, and he almost definitely found several of the necromorph transformations in dead space remastered viscerally satisfying

overall dirge is a submissive bottom who prefers being able to focus almost the entirety of his attention to servicing his lover, as his own pursuit of pleasure requires a lot of time investment and intensity that has to be increased either physically through stimulation or emotionally through domination, but finds plenty of satisfaction and enjoyment through his effects on his lover. the act of sex is very casual for dirge, with the d/s dynamic being more emotionally charged and the relationship standard for dirge. hes very open to polyamory, but wont seek out another dom if hes already leashed to one, but will happily share a partner so long as everyone is satisfied with the arrangement. he has a very high stamina, owing to his particular collection of cult traumas and bhaalspawn traits and how they more or less ensure he takes a while to satisfactorily finish, and he will gladly suck the strap like his life depends on it and eat out his lover like a starving man graced with his last meal. he adores all the attention aftercare provides, and it means that if anyone plans on actually making a night of sleeping with dirge thats more than a quick roll in the hay, it WILL be a multi hour affair so dirge can propely indulge in all the physical stimuli their body can offer. he is, also, super big on terms of endearment and if you dont give him something to call you, hes going to invent his own and itll probably be something morbidly sweet.

all in all, probably a rewarding lay for anyone who can make it past all the cult trauma spike traps and dark urge murder scares! or at least the post coital snuggles would be

[sootchild]

So what is happening in your Blades in the Dark Game exactly? The Midnight Runners Specifically?

[Takes a deep breath in] OK so this is gonna take a bit.

Blades in the Dark: The Midnight Runners was run by my friend colinomicon on The Lost Caravan RPG twitch channel at the start of 2024. (You can find 3 out of 4 sessions on the youtube channel, sadly the 4th is lost to time and space.) The premise of the game was the 1979 film "The Warriors".

Where The Warriors leave their turf in Coney Island to take part in a meeting in uptown NY city called by the largest gang in the city. Things go south and The Warriors have to survive the night and get back to their turf whilst everyone thinks it is their fault things went wrong at the meeting. So our game followed that premise but with a bit more to it.

In our game The Midnight Runners is a small gang of drug producers/movers that specialize in "Blue Lips" a psychedelic mushroom that grows on corpses. It mimics the "going into the light" feeling people have in near death experiences, though untreated the shrooms cause actual death. The gang knows how to make the shrooms safe to consume and also how to make the purest high, so they corner the market on Blue Lips.

The members are (L to R)

Rust: The Cutter. The muscle of the group. Loves to fight and fuck, typically in that order.

Soda Pop: The Hound. Second in command and drug tester. Drinks a lot of soda pops, like so much. There is a post about her pre episode 4.

Cricket: The Lurk. "God's favourite child", an ex Blue Lips junkie and sneak thief. Likes having a place she feels she belongs and River.

River: The Whisper. She sees dead people and talks them into moving on which makes the Blue Lips high all the better. She likes stuff... she is insane but she likes Cricket.

Dexy. The Leader. Botanist, mother figure, the best of us all. GM NPC.

The gang got their invite to the big meeting called by The Unseen by crashing a big old fundraiser/ball at the Academy and getting everyone high as balls off Blue Lips that was added to the beef wellington and vegetarian dishes. As well as having smashed so many priceless antiquities and releasing some ghosts in the process.

There was a lot of downtime and flashbacks that happened in episodes 2 and 3 so I'd suggest checking out the videos that didn't get lost to time and space, cause I think we were entertaining and brilliant.

At the meeting (which they had to go to without any weaponry since a truce was called), all the leaders were called up to the stage to talk with the leader of The Unseen... Only for a bomb to go off. Killing a lot of the leaders, including Dexy. Dexy had been wearing a piece of pottery that served as a new calling card for the gang and that unfortunately survived the explosion and made everyone think that The Midnight Runners had set up the bomb.

Episode 4, which is sadly missing, was the gang trying to get back to Barrowcleft.

Dodging gangs and the police. Dangerously climbing under a bridge to bypass a barricade. Fighting Soda's old bounty hunter mentor who was trying to collect the bounty on them. Fighting a gang with a ghost toilet cover, River called up a useless ghost of a man that died on the toilet along with the ghost of his toilet. So Rust having no weapons armed himself with the cover from the ghost toilet and bashed a man's head in.

Getting back onto their boat to try to make it home, only for the mostly exploded leader of the Grinders, Marlo, sitting in the boat being a scary badass. Luckily talked her into not killing us all with her one good hand.

Got back to Barrowcleft only to find our hideout, the barn, on fire surrounded by cops. Decided, fuck it, we are going in live. Ends up that "Officer Muttonchops", a seemingly joke of a man, was the one that set up the bomb and pinned it on us... Soda shot him through the eye before he could get into his whole villain monologue. Everyone ran in swinging: River summoned a lightning storm, Rust punched his way through, Cricket armed herself with dynamite from some stashes, and Soda made her shots count.

In the end The Unseen showed up and ended the conflict. Apologizing for thinking we were to blame for the death of their leader and offered us reparations. We said we'd need a new hideout and since we needed new corpses for Blue Lips, we'd be taking the cops'.

That is how it went. Hope that answers your question.

[fleshadept]

i don’t know i just feel like there’s the little girl buried under layers of scar tissue in the core of my soul who heard the word tomboy for the first time and got giddy because it fit so well. who got into a screaming match with her dad to wear a button up shirt instead of a dress. who looked everywhere for characters who were like her and found only angry, violent bullies. who gave up and started dressing more feminine, only to sob her eyes out to “ring of keys” from fun home when she heard it the first time. and i think it’s pretty fucking ridiculous that it’s a decade after i began that search and it hasn’t gotten much better!! if i see one more wlw couple on my screen who are both skinny, long haired, conventionally attractive, who would not stand out in a pottery barn, i will scream!!!!!

[goldfades]

Like you said, manager does have some outrageous and some cute nicknames for the girls, here are a few (These are bad btw, be prepared)

Azzi: Azzikins, Azarath Metrion Zinthos, Zazzle/Zapple, Fuzi, Izzi Pizzi (Easy Peasey)

KK Arnold: Kaptin Krunch, Hey Arnold, K.K. Slider, Krusty Kream, Krusty Krab

Paige: Peanut Butter, Pipbone (Hipbone), Paige Bruiser, All Hands on Beuck, Pottery Barn

-🐹

HELP ME KRUSTY KRAB GETS KK ANGRYYYY shes like "cmon man..." 😭😭😭 LIKE 😭😭😭😭

p is so confused with "pottery barn" cause... how the fuck did she even come up with that

[sapphicscholar]

A/N: happy end of term! I fell in love with this show watching it for the first time this fall and wanted to write my own canon divergent love letter to two women who remind me of back home more than just about anything else I’ve seen on television

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The world shifts beneath Patty’s feet as she clambers up the stairs to a floor of Kevin’s house that’s as unfamiliar to her as the world outside of Worcester. For as many hours—christ, probably years if anyone cared enough to add them all together—as she’s spent with her ass planted in the living room, the bottom landing of the stairs is as far as she’s ever gone into Allison’s domain. (At least sober. She thinks she may have been the one to puke on the bathroom floor one St. Patrick’s Day, but if she did—and she’s not taking the heat for it until someone finds real proof—it was only because Allison’s idiot husband and his idiot best friend had managed to clog the downstairs toilet to hell and back.)

It’s different up here than she’d expected. Then again, a lotta things are different than she expected. It’s lived in, but not homey. There’s nothing that looks like it came from Pottery Barn, thrifted or no, up here. It’s just…someone’s house. Not anyone in particular’s.

“Allison?” Patty calls out as she slips through the door into the bathroom.

A sad little hiccup meets her question, then: “Patty?”

“Yes. Obviously,” Patty huffs. “What are you doing in here?”

“I’m…” Allison sniffles, and it’s just enough for Patty to slide the shower curtain back, revealing a very much still clothed Allison curled up in the bathtub, clutching a bottle of wine like a lifeline, mascara streaked beneath her eyes and her hair pulled back into a messy bun.

“Jesus,” Patty breathes out. “What the hell happened to you?”

[numinousmysteries]

For the prompts: Mulder peering into the wondrous world of his fishtank.

This prompt is ancient now but the muse strikes when the muse strikes. Origin story of Mulder’s fish tank comes from @sagan-starstuff's brilliant post here. (I also don't actually. think I answered the prompt but this is what happened.)

A true one-bedroom in a good neighborhood—”in walking distance to Old Town,” according to the matronly realtor—2630 Hegal Place wasn’t a posh address but it wasn’t a total shithole either. Despite his burning instinct for self-flagellation, Fox Mulder’s trust fund parachute and Brooks Brothers upbringing would only let him stoop so low. Still, it was dreary enough to feel like a punishment.

He wasn’t naive enough to think that apartment 42 would be the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but it was an appropriate answer to the question of where to put a brooding man, ears still ringing from the shellshock of a failed six-month marriage. A fitting habitat for a 20th-century Heathcliff in virgin wool Zegna suits locked on course to ruin his professional reputation in the name of a long-lost sister and memories he didn’t fully trust. 

It was meant to be a stopgap. He signed a month-to-month lease. Months turned to years.

Late at night, dozing on the couch (beds are for men deserving of rest, who have the luxury of shutting off their brains a third of each day with no need for constant vigilance), the only light came from the fish tank. 

He hated the fucking fish at first, resented their glorious ignorance, their freedom from the burden of comprehension and consequence. The tank and its occupants were a housewarming/divorce gift from the Gunmen; a poorly-considered insurance policy against what they expected was his impending suicide. Fuck them, he thought, let the fish die. Let it all burn to the ground. After two days of mutual starvation, though, he locked eyes with a translucent molly and felt his humanity pulse beneath callused layers of cynicism. He tipped the container of freeze-dried flakes into the tank. He made himself a piece of dry toast. 

Newton’s first law of motion governs that action begets action. He kept rising every morning, searching for the truth, and feeding the fish. 

He was assigned a new partner. She fed the fish when he was detained in military custody, quarantined with a parasite of unknown origin, or chasing radio signals in Caribbean jungles.  

But Scully didn’t belong in his fox den. His newspaper-plastered bile nest. 

Her home was light where his was dark, soft where his was hard, warm where his was cold. She displayed framed family photos out in the open. Apple-cheeked baby nephews. A younger Scully in a cap and gown with her father grinning beside her. He hid an album of patrilineal co-conspirators under the false bottom of a desk drawer. Unsmiling men quietly plotting the demise of all mankind over cans of Rheingold in well-manicured backyards. Demerol-dazed wives trading their children for Givenchy dresses and empty promises of a valiant future. 

All her blonde wood Pottery Barn furniture and Yankee Candle torches couldn’t protect her from his darkness, though. Duane Barry stepped right into her sanctum and tore her away from him.

He took off on an ill-fated West Coast vampire hunt that ended in a bloodless climax and a three-alarm blaze. Somehow, all but one of his fish survived. He flushed down the fallen soldier, contemplating the shortcomings of mortality and the prison of eternity. 

Bleary-eyed and broken, he sat in the darkness, his gaze darting between his loaded gun and the glowing tank. This new knowledge of himself—that he was a man who’d kill in cold blood for vengeance—threatened to obliterate his reluctant detente with the fish. By tomorrow morning, he would no longer be their worthy steward. 

A knock on the door. Melissa Scully entered, her presence a tauntingly inaccurate facsimile of the woman he wanted to see. She was a few inches too tall, her hair several shades too dark, her rosy worldview miles off base. But she wasn’t that different from his partner after all. She called him out on his masochistic bullshit and saw the light within him. 

Newton’s second law of motion states that an object requires a commensurate force to launch it into action. He doesn’t believe that. These wispy Scully women with their birdlike bones and feather-soft breath shouldn’t have the power to lift him out from under two decades of self-hatred—but they do. So he put his faith in this patchouli-scented witchy sister with her silk choker and mall-bought crystals, bid the fish (and his blood-stained, testosterone-fueled revenge fantasy) goodbye, and went to see his dying partner.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

@stunudo sent me an ask a week or two ago challenging me to share my five favorite lines that I’ve ever written, so here goes!

To be fair, a lot of these are missing something without context; most of my favorite lines are the ones that call back to other moments in the fic and tie together imagery. BUT. Here.

From A Muscle the Size of Your Fist — this is a theme that runs through the whole story, and there are places where I think I captured parts of it more elegantly, but this is where it’s said most concisely:

“Punk has always been about the outcasts, the queer kids and the misfits and the marginalized, the black sheep… everybody who feels like they’re alone. Everybody who feels powerless.” Steve’s voice rings out, fills the space like a living presence, and Bucky gets chills when he continues: “But you’re not alone, and you never were. Look around you. Next time you feel like you’re alone, next time you feel like giving up, I want you to listen to this song and remember that there are people out there who are willing to fight for you. We’ll fight for you until you’re strong enough to stand up and join in. We’ll love you until you learn how to love yourself.”

From If It’s A Highway:

Jesus always seems so damn tired, up there on his cross, with his arms spread wide as if to welcome death, and maybe Bucky can relate. If he could just sleep for three days — doesn’t sound so bad, when he thinks about it like that. Three days isn’t that long.

He wonders whether Jesus knew what was coming. Whether he was surprised to find himself alive again. Whether he woke alone in the dark and screamed until his lungs gave out, or broke his knuckles beating his fists against the stone.

Also from Highway:

Bucky used to have an empty, sterile cage in his chest and an endless stygian labyrinth of caves in his skull, and as long as he didn’t look too close, he could ignore the buried remains of past lives under his skin. The darkness didn’t bother him until the walls started to crumble and let in the light.

Every tiny human act has been a hairline crack in his icy shell. Every moment of empathy and desire, gentle touch and sharp lust, coffee and cigarettes and food and sex; pebbles dropped in wells and flashlights shone down mineshafts, tremors that shook the foundations, coffin lids splintering. Miniscule fissures, microscopic landslides.

Just for the sake of switching up the vibe, here’s The One With The Pottery Barn Couch — probably the funniest fic I’ve ever written, and there were other lines I could’ve picked out, too, but I’m a big fan of this one:

When Dick wakes up, he’s being carried. He’s being cradled to a really absurdly muscled chest that’s covered in leather and smells like explosions, and carried in one goddamn arm, like Paris Hilton would carry her fucking chihuahua.

…

Maybe it’d be nice to be a rich lady’s spoiled chihuahua, Dick thinks, and then, holy painkillers, Batman, and then he is out for the count.

It was ridiculously difficult to choose this last one, not gonna lie. I re read this fic the other day and I really love this — it does tie into the rest (and, like, into canon) so YMMV, but. From Lost My Fear of Falling:

It took them both years to get here, to learn to let themselves be loved without doubting it, without looking down waiting for the self-fulfilling prophecy of an inevitable stumble. It was worth the work. There’s no doubt in his mind. But he misses the days when he never thought twice about all the open space under that tightrope.

Dick lets the tears come. Lets himself mourn the kid who thought love was as easy as gravity, and who’d never had any reason to be afraid of falling.

Tagging — @kangofu-cb @drgrlfriend @bittercape @sammialex @oliocelottafanfics you WILL compliment yourselves dammit! 🖤