#i'd read it for real

[very-uncorrect]

Edit: I've muted this post because apparently it reached some sort of higher plane of existence and is getting a shit ton of likes and reblogs and it's clogging up my notifs lol

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Who is this sassy lost child?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[fictionadventurer]

I love libraries.

I'm browsing the WWI shelves (as you do) and notice a very old book about the war. I glance at the first pages that talk about how one day the war will be over and we'll look at this place and not see any signs of the battlefield.

Then it hits me. And I check the publishing date.

This book was printed before the war's end. Not written. Printed. The physical object was created in 1918, while the war in question was raging and the end was as yet uncertain.

Now I'm standing on the other side of the apocalypse, with this physical link to that era in my hands. I'm living proof that the war did end and life did go on and we can all look at the end of the world as a long-ago memory.

Reading old books is cool enough, connecting our minds and hearts through the ideas of people who lived long ago, but there's something extra profound about holding a copy of the book that comes from the time that it was written. It's a physical link between the past and the present connecting me to those long-ago people. A piece of the past come into the future that gives me the chance to almost take the hand of some long-ago reader, to hold something they could have held, connecting not just mentally but physically to their era, a moment of connection across more than a century.

Excuse me while I go weep.

[zesty-alt]

Balls deep, rubbing his belly and asking "How many babies are you gonna give me?"

[triglycercule]

alright,,,,,is this newyears gift,,,,,, i dont no. but maybe it's late enough that i'll be able to forget that i drew this 😁😁😁😁 mttpoly doodles. whoever sees this sees this

[hbdttg]

“Hold the elevator!”

The elevator doors are mere inches from closing, but Steve dutifully shoots a hand out to stop them. They slide back open, revealing a flustered-looking man about Steve’s age on the other side.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, decked out in a simple black pullover with a modest V-neck, snug black jeans, and all-black leather Chucks with a messenger bag slung across his chest. The messenger bag is, unsurprisingly, also black, but covered in a collection of tough-looking patches and pins in varying shades of—well, it’s mostly red, dark red, white, and some yellows, but the pops of color still stand out against his otherwise monochrome ensemble.

His dark, curly hair reaches a little past his shoulders and he’s got this frankly outdated fringe that, despite its very 80’s vibe, frames his face perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, and he’s got this frantic energy about him that reminds Steve of a live wire. He’s nothing like the buttoned-up suits Steve usually shares his elevator rides with each morning, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The man gives Steve a thankful look before stepping into the elevator and leaning against the side wall. “Thanks,” he says, a little distractedly. He’s got a pair big of headphones on and Steve realizes he’s in the middle of a phone call when he adds, “No, not you, Gare, I was thanking the guy who held the elevator for me. Yeah, this building’s crazy. There’s a whole-ass sixtieth floor—guess I’m kind of a big deal now.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, reaching for the panel beside him.

As the doors close and the elevator starts to slowly ascend, Steve notices the man pressed the button for the floor above his. Both the fifty-second and fifty-third floor buttons are lit in a halo of green.

“You know I didn’t want to leave you guys,” the man continues, a bit more quietly now that he and Steve are sharing the same small space, “but shit, I couldn’t turn down the pay.” He scoffs. “Ugh, listen to me, just another cog in the capitalist machine. Man, if high school me could see me now. High school Eddie used to talk big about forced conformity and rising up against the man, and now here I am—”

Steve tries not to listen to the one-sided conversation going on beside him, but it’s difficult when a moment later, he hears his own name.

“—clocking in for my first day at fuckin’ Harrington Hargrove Hagan. The pretentious bastards can’t even shorten it to an acronym or something. God forbid they have to miss out on the sound of their own names.”

Steve manages to hold in the obnoxious snort that threatens to escape him. He’s starting to think he might like this guy—Eddie, his mind supplies helpfully—but Eddie’s next words have him freezing in place.

“And it’s nepo baby central. Yeah, pretty sure all the H kiddies are hotshot brokers with the company. All the biggest accounts—gee, I wonder why.”

Steve can feel the back of his neck burning hot with a mixture of annoyance and shame as Eddie cracks a caustic joke about silver spoons and trust funds.

“You’re kidding, one of them works at this branch? Damn, I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for the guy who most looks like he’s got a giant stick up his ass.”

This is quickly becoming the longest elevator ride of Steve’s life. He grits his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor display panel above the elevator doors, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

“Listen, I should go, but let’s grab a drink at the Hideout later. Cool, see you then. Bye.”

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Eddie removes his headphones and shoves them into his bag, angling slightly toward Steve. “Sorry about that, man.”

“You’re good,” Steve says shortly, not looking away from the changing numbers. They reach the forty-seventh floor, and all the while, he feels Eddie’s gaze on him.

It’s not like he’s openly staring, but there’s a certain weight to his furtive glances that completely counteracts his attempts at subtlety. It’s the type of gaze Steve’s familiar with, one that he’s been on the receiving end of since his sophomore year of high school when he hit a growth spurt and actually learned how to style his hair. Assessing. Appreciative. Interested.

And in any other situation, Steve would gladly engage. He’d turn on the charm, quirk the corner of his lip up in that way Robin always rolls her eyes at but reluctantly acknowledges as ‘passably effective’, and maybe even make up an excuse to sidle a bit closer.

But he’s not giving this guy his A-game.

Instead, Steve waits in stifling silence until the fifty-second floor is announced and the doors slide open. He steps forward to exit, but at the very last moment stops in the doorway.

He initially wasn’t going to say anything—though, a past version of himself would have definitely spat something biting and bitchy to Eddie about his snark, would have snootily told him to take his little assumptions and shove them where the sun don’t shine—but sooner or later Eddie’s going to realize he and Steve are colleagues, and he’s going to remember shit-talking him in an elevator on his first day of work, and it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

Steve’s just speeding up the timeline, pushing for the sooner rather than the later, when he decides to spin around and fully face Eddie.

“I think you pressed the wrong button,” he says, all sweet and helpful like he’s talking to Dustin’s mom over a sink full of soapy dishes. “Couldn’t help but overhear that you work at Harrington Hargrove Hagan. It’s on the fifty-second floor, not the fifty-third.” Then he takes a small step backward, moving out into the carpeted hallway.

“Oh.” Eddie scrambles for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly until he finds something that has him straightening up and smiling gratefully at Steve. “I guess I remembered it wrong. Thank you.” He pushes away from the wall, takes a step forward to follow Steve out, but then stops dead in his tracks.

Steve gleefully notes the line of Eddie’s gaze, how it lingers at the breast pocket of his shirt, where, clipped to a retractable badge reel, his building keycard hangs. Eddie evidently hadn’t noticed it during the elevator ride up, but he’s certainly fixated on it now.

Perhaps on the abstract yet easily recognizable Harrington Hargrove Hagan logo in the top right corner.

But more likely, based on the positively mortified look growing on Eddie’s face, on the name clearly printed underneath Steve’s photo in bold, black lettering: STEVE HARRINGTON.

Slowly, Eddie drags his eyes back up to Steve’s face. He stares in silence, eyes bugging nearly out of his head, face turning a concerning shade of pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and his reaction is extreme enough that a small part of Steve is almost inclined to take pity on the guy and laugh it all off.

Unfortunately for Eddie, a bigger part of Steve thinks Eddie looks kind of cute all red-faced and embarrassed like this. So he glances down at himself thoughtfully before turning his attention back on Eddie. “Wow,” he says with exaggerated astonishment, “now that you mention it, I guess I do look like I’ve got a giant stick up my ass.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes in warning. The doors begin to close, but Eddie just remains rooted in place with that same wide-eyed, horrified expression.

When it becomes clear he has no intentions of actually exiting the elevator, Steve chuckles and wiggles his fingers in a cheeky little wave. “Welcome to the team,” he says airily, before Eddie’s still-blushing face disappears behind the elevator doors.

/ Now with a Part 2!

[earlgrayfog]

my true calling in life is too be rich enough to fund my crippling fanfic addiction

[peachebo]

he finally can take some rest.... with his murderous clown-robot

Happy holidays

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: Hola!

Spreen: [Completely unprompted] I can't be homophobic, my btch is gay.

Tubbo: PFTTT—?!

Spreen: [Laughs as he jumps off the ledge]

Tubbo: [Continues laughing in confused delight]

[devotion-disorder]

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/3dFHa31qxQ8?feature=share

10/10 would smash Yuri buuuuut this vid lived rent free in my head, I don't wanna skip to my next life just yet-

no because i can vouch that she is 100% correct. of course everyone's built different but i have almost the exact same opinions as her...they dont call it rearranging your guts for no reason yall.

BUT you can also make a lot work with a bit of time and patience :D and when you're sequestered in the deepest part of the woods, trapped in a village that most people that don't even know exists, there is definitely more than plenty of time :) though Yuri also tends to be impatient, so......................... good luck? ^^;

[vampiresinthedaylight]

Im a little surprised at how much Im seeing "they turned conclave into a comedy" irt the live reading, I think its a really funny movie........within the first few minutes Cardinal Adeyemi side eyeing his elderly coworkers vying for the papacy and hitting them with "the papacy IS a huge burden for an elderly man" makes me laugh every time

[the-music-maniac]

I'm not gonna lie, I think I would become Homophobic™ if I had to coexist in real life with one of MXTX's couples.

No, but seriously, what do you mean you don't like anyone but your partner. What do you mean you're also powerful enough to destroy the world. Keep your love drama and excellency out of my salad, I can't even afford to buy groceries in this bitch. insufferable.

[sacchiri]

Nahh bro just doxxed integra hellsing💀💀

[baejax-the-great]

Fanfic isn't a possession.

When an author deletes a work on AO3, they haven't taken anything from the readers. It's not a physical object that can be snatched away, and if readers wanted a digital copy to keep, AO3 made that possible. It is the reader's choice whether or not to keep a copy. The author has absolutely no say over whether or not they do this.

If you have a favorite exhibit at the museum, and that exhibit closes for whatever reason, nobody "stole" art from you. Same thing with whatever play is currently at your local theater--it's temporary, and when it closes, the actors didn't take away your entertainment. Before streaming and box sets of tv shows being sold at Target, all of television was ephemeral, too. You caught it or you didn't.

I don't know why there is an expectation that fanfic should be permanently made available to readers. The archive certainly gives a place where that can happen, but there is no reason to assume that it always will happen, nor that readers are entitled to that.

There are many reasons to delete a fanfic--not orphan, not post anonymously, but delete. It's fine to be disappointed if that happens. It's not fine to harass authors or try to wrest control of the work from them or create archives full of stolen work.

[impossiblefeat]

Some unique artwork of Team Chaotix taken from Electronic Gaming Monthly Issue 169 (August 2003) page 106.

[fictionadventurer]

I keep thinking about Lewis' review of The Hobbit, because he claimed that the main thing contemporary reviewers compared it to was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Was fantasy in that poor of a state that Alice was the closest thing they could think of? Comparing that chaotic fever dream to Tolkien's intricately crafted world? Lewis does specify that the comparison is that both books are by an "Oxford professor at play", but they're otherwise so different that putting the two in the same category baffles me.