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crow-in-a-teapot · 1 year ago

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unreal unearth first impressions

OKAY REALISING I AM RELISTENING TO THIS ALBUM FOR THE HUNDREDTH TIME JUST TODAY ACCIDENTALLY SO IIM GONNA QUICKLY WRITE DOWN MY FIRST IMPRESSIONS BC IM ALREADY BEGINNING TO ACTUALY THINK ABOUT THINGS AND LOOK AT LYRICS AND READ OTHER PEOPLE'S OPINIONS, so here is an only slightly tainted not quite first impression of unreal unearth from me (obviously the singls ive heard before but)

de selby (part 1) i turned on the album sitting in the absolute dark, ten minutes past twelve at night, this started playing, cue instant tears. i think i was just hit with 'this is the most beautiful thing ive ever heard' and i wasn't expecting that from de selby 1 for some reason. and when the irish kicked in that just. no words, just crying and im what two minutes in. i wasn't even thinking about what he'd been saying about connemara in the dark and mirrors of people you used to know (i'd seen him talk about it, but purposefully skipped the actual song when it came up online) it was just. de selby 1. and the part as gaeilge

de selby (part 2) sexy groovy silly fun, it's really growing on me, thinking about 'i'd still know you, not being shown you

i only need the workin' of my hands' also i cant wait to read third policeman and look at this completely differently

first time the beginning was jarring, and then at the lyric about his name i kind of :( i also liked the lethe/liffey parallel, it's so very hozier of him to do that. god the push and pull of there must have been something off from the beginning? if every time they called him baby he died? something like that was my first interpretation, now im wondering if it's because it's not his name and they're the one that made his name sound wonderful for once. intellectualising that part of the lyrics kind of ruins it for me ngl, i think it's more about how it feels, i think it feels like contrast like not knowing if it hurts or is wonderful. little detail of when he says come here to me and it sounds so casual and irish like come here to me tell me, i really love it. and the final lyric hurt. really impeccable timing for a breakup album like

francesca why can't i listen to i'd tell them put me back in it for the first time again WHY CAN'T I LISTEN TO I'D TELL THEM PUT ME BACK IN IT FOR THE FIRST TIME AGAIN AND REEXPERIENCE THAT. my favourite thing from this hozier era might just be that music video (over all the other ones help)

i, carrion (icarian) is just really devastating. sunlight but what if you wanted your heart to be torn to shreds. the imagery is so vivid

eat your young is growing on me too, the lyrics are just so good. they're just SO GOOD, their rhythm is so satisfying they fit together so smoothly, and at this point it's just as fun and danceable as something like de selby 2

damage gets done is kind of pop? it made me think of the bones ft marren morris

who we are [had to remove a section here] the vocals are otherwordly. the drums are gorgeously frantic. quietly it slips through your fingers love??? falling from you drop by drop??? HOLD ME LIKE A KNIFE???makes me physically ache

son of nyx i'm so glad this is here, an instrumental was something that really could put me back to where i was mentally with de selby (part 1). first thing i thought was i can't wait to learn the piano part. i've seen people say this, but it does seem like the obvious, it's an instrumental that just belongs in a movie

all things end all things do end so real. very cool how much of a direct inflence gospel music is

to someone from a warm climate (uiscefhuarithe) i can't wait to relisten to this one again and again, the parallels between being a child warming up a bed and jumping to later in time with a lover aaaa so tender NATURAL AS ANOTHER LEG AROUND YOU IN THE BEDFRAME AAAA

butchered tongue A FAVOURITE A FAVOURITE foreigner's god but softer, how can i listen to this and ever leave ireland how can i listen to this and feel like this and be packing suitcases what is wrong with meeeeee. the violin and the instrumence. jesus christ. instantly picturing my road signs when he started singing about the native ones

anything but THIS SONG STARTED AND I INSTANTLY STARTED SMILING COMPLETELY INVOLUNTARILY, THOUGHT OF ALMOST (SWEET MUSIC) i started thinking of bright lion king imagery before he even started talking about stampedes and hoofbeats. and the vocals here too, so overwhelmed by how cheerful and joyous it sounded that i really didnt pay attention to lyrics, so it'll be cool to look deeper later

abstract (psychopomp) the production here i was very unsure about, because there was something that made me think if it were more rustic/intrumental and less modern, it might have hit me even harder, like there might have been a way to elevate it further. it made me think of colours and purples and reds and oranges, another really visual song, like i, carrion. it's really gorgeous. SEE HOW IT SHINES will be in my head for a long long time... ugh it's all so bittersweet and sad and beautiful. all my love and terror there balanced between those eyes what a line

unknown / nth if you've scrolled through my accunt for longer than a second you know how i feel about unknown / nth

first light i was hit with such intense terror that this was the last song of the album. what am i supposed to do for the next decade without music to look forward to while andrew goes back into hibernation under bray train station jean jacket lost and found or whatever. so i didnt play and instead did this musing on how beautiful the vocals throughout the album are and how funny it was in the zach sang interview when he talked about singing instead of playing instruments when recording songs because he's 'better at singing than most intruments' and his producer just wouldnt replace those voice recordings and that's why there are so many choirs and zach is basically like 'you absolute weirdo no one else has the talent to do that but ok' (affectionate) (paraphrasing). i love the drums so much. i love the strings so much too. A VOICE YOUR BODY JUMPS TO CALLING OUT YOUR NAME :(((((((((((( imagining hearing this in the 3arena and having colours break out across the whole ceiling ill remember those lights during no plan in 2019 forever im an indoor concert girlie forever what they can do visually is so magical.. i saw a good omens edit of this today already i love you good omens fans

not to sound like a broken record i wish swan upon leda and through me the flood and love of were on this and maybe even but the wages and

#hozier #unreal unearth #crow #de selby (part 1)#de selby (part 2)#first time hozier #francesca #i #eat your young #damage gets done #what we are hozier #son of nyx #all things end #to someone from a warm climate (uiscefhuairithe)#butchered tongue #anything but hozier #abstract (psychopomp)#unknown / nth #first light hozier

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falconcoast · 2 years ago

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holiday baking | thoma x reader

day four. baking ft. thoma

event masterlist

after a long day, thoma cheers you up by baking with you.

a/n: late i know but tbh i have had the worst week in my academic career so therefore thoma fluff :D

tags: so much comfort. a little angst.

you stood in front of the door, shoulders slumping in relief. after a grueling day, you were finally, finally home. looking at your phone, you wondered if your husband was still up. it was so late at night.

you entered your shared apartment without much fanfare. you leaned against the door and took off your shoes. they fell to the floor with a soft clack. hanging up your coat, you ran a hand over your face. today had been very long. too long.

but as you dragged yourself to the condition, your mood immediately lightened when you saw your favorite blond dancing in the kitchen. smiling, you leaned against the wall and watched him.

music was playing softly from one of the portable speakers, with chipper bells clanging along with the song. his back was to you, and the apron was tied into a small bow on the back. thoma sashayed his shoulders, lost in the rhythm of the music. bowls laid around the kitchen with frosting dyed different colors. several little cakes were already made. one was covered with little fondant candy canes, another with red and green polka dots, and the other with a minimalist holiday greeting. currently, your husband was putting frosting into piping bags, presumably for cookies.

as he wiped the sweat off of his brow, you made your way over to him and slowly wrapped your arms around his waist. “mhm,” you breathed, kissing the pulse point on his neck. “hello, my love.”

“gah!” he exclaimed, nearly tumbling over in surprise. after recognizing your touch, he relaxed and kissed your forehead. “hi, sweetheart. it’s nice to see you again. i’m just finishing up some cookies for the charity bake sale and our friend’s party tomorrow.”

“sounds nice,” you mumbled, burying your face further into his neck. he sensed your fatigue easily.

“oh, long day?” he asked, placing his hands over your own. you rocked back and forth, relishing in his embrace. “that’s alright. you can help me finish up these cookies and then we can go watch a movie together on the couch. does that sound good to you?”

you nodded. beaming, he handed you a piping bag with white frosting. looking over at the various biscuits on racks, you carefully picked one up. it was scented with vanilla extract, soft notes of cardamom, and cinnamon. “it smells delicious,” you complimented, looking over at him.

“why thank you. it’s an old recipe from my mom’s side. family secret!” he laughed, winking. “i’ll tell you one day, i promise.”

silently, you worked on outlining cookies with the white frosting. it solidified quickly, and thoma came and filled the rest in quickly with various colors. after only a handful of minutes, all of the cookies were decorated. as he laid down the finishing sprinkles, he looked at you with sparkling eyes. “you did wonderfully. you have impeccable handiwork.”

“thank you,” you replied. an awkward silence filled the room before thoma tilted his head.

“hey, wait a second, you’ve got something on your face. i think it’s frosting.”

eyebrows scrunching up, you pat at your face. “oh? really? where--”

taking you by the waist, he peppered your face with kisses. laughter filled the kitchen, echoing off the walls in sync with the music still coming from the speaker. pulling away, he kissed your lips briefly. “i think it’s all off now.”

“you’re too smooth of a talker,” you laughed. breathing in, you sighed happily. “thank you, sweetheart. i really needed it.”

“of course. it’s no problem,” he affirmed, kissing your cheek. glancing over at the tv in the living room, he perked up. “so…do you wanna have a hallmark movie marathon now?”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #thoma x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact reader inserts #genshin impact imagines

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theadrogna · 4 months ago

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Dream Movie Challenge

@singledarkshade set us a Dream Movie Challenge and gave me the following cast:

Star Trek: Strange New Worlds - Babs Olusnamokun The Bear - Liza Colon-Zayas Slow Horses - Gary Oldman Umbrella Academy - Aidan Gallagher 911 - Angela Bassett Beyond Paradise - Zahra Ahmadi Wild Card - Martin Sheen Item - A Pack Of Cards (playing or tarot)

Synopsis:

Some people feel more than others, these are Affinates, people who have such an intense Affinity for something that they can read it better than anyone else, and even manipulate its forces. Governments around the world have kept this fact a secret. There are more of them every day and no one knows why. The Affinity Unit is set up to unpick the mystery and deal with the new crimes that are created by these remarkable people. When Arden discovers her Affinity for fire, she is pulled into the strange world of people for whom the usual rules do not apply, where she only has a young, brash American with an Affinity for water as her guide. Together they must discover who is killing Affinates and what the motive behind it is.

Gilgamesh (Gil) Fontenot (Aidan Gallagher) – As a baby Gil was rescued from the flooding caused by hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. His parents were never found. He is a recent recruit of the Affinity Unit and has worked for them for just over a year, straight out of his basic training with the FBI. He is a skilled investigator and a water Affinate. He lives on a house boat on the Thames, preferring to be close to the water at all times.

Arden Flammel (Zahra Ahmadi) – There’s a video of Arden being rescued from a burning multistorey building by firefighters. The fire made the news and killed her parents. She was only two at the time, and had nightmares for years afterwards. She raised by the firefighter who saved her, and followed in her father’s footsteps. She became a fire investigator with the London Fire Brigade.

Noële Travere (Angela Bassett) – A former Interpol Agent based in Paris, Noële is an experienced law enforcement officer who now heads up the Affinity Unit. She developed affinity late in life and no one is sure of her story. Her Affinity is for plants and her office is full of house plants on the verge of death that she lovingly brings back to life.

Harry Merchant (Gary Oldman) – An earthquake scientist who first identified the phenomenon of Affinity when he became one himself. He has an Affinity for stone, and was caught in a collapsing building, barely escaping with his life. Always impeccably dressed, he is occasionally called away to earthquake zones to identify points of stress and when the next quake might be. He says that he can now feel the rhythms of the earth. He is interested in trying to understand the mechanism behind Affinity and has all but abandoned his seismological research to work with Shirley on Affinity.

Shirley Ortiz (Liza Colon-Zayas) – Not an Affinate herself, but her son was one. He had a deep Affinity for machines, working as a Formula 1 engineer, and is currently missing. She is a pathologist and works with the Affinity Unit, helping them to research and solve mysteries. She also assists Harry with his research on the biological side.

Oluwatobi (Tobi) Iku (Babs Olusanmokun) – An assassin for hire, Tobi Iku was buried alive with his dead by his abusive father mother. He was eight years old at the time. When his aunt rescued him from the coffin, his first act was to kill his father. He is a rare Affinate who has an Affinity for death and can work out how to kill someone by simply starting a chain reaction of events.

Max McDowall (Martin Sheen) – An American billionaire who made his money in oil and is deeply suspicious of Affinity. He has firmly held beliefs that conspiracy theories are real and is the force behind the deaths and kidnappings.

Plot:

The story opens with a fire in St Martin’s church, London, that Arden is investigating. A single tarot card is affixed to the outside of the church door, Death. Whilst investigating, the body of a man is uncovered and instead of the police investigating, the case is taken over by Interpol agent, Gil Fontenot. Arden has little time for brash Gil, who seems to have a very strange way of investigating, tracing the lines of the water used to put out the fire and then the patterns of blood from the dead man, which should have been destroyed by the fire. However, he is struck by her fire investigation capabilities and recognises her as a fellow Affinate. He recruits her to the top secret Affinity Unit and helps her to recognise her power for what it is.

During their investigation they find that Tobi Iku is likely responsible for the body in the church – his calling card is the tarot card - and that he has been employed by someone very powerful. Gil has tangled with Tobi before and only barely lived to tell the tale. They race to protect the person identified as his next victim, but ultimately fail, leaving them disheartened and Arden wonders why she thought she could help.

Gil and Arden follow the clues to a warehouse in docklands where there is evidence that experiments are being conducted on Affinates. They are locked into a room within the warehouse and gassed into unconsciousness. They awake to find themselves on a ship at sea, the latest kidnap victims, and they are taken to a lab where blood is taken before they are thrown back in a brig. McDowall makes a brief appearance to see how his project is progressing, but Gil is somewhat distracted by the huge amount of water around him which messes with his Affinity and overwhelms him. Arden has to rescue them, which she does by destroying the boat’s engine using her Affinity for fire and pulling Gil out of his dazed state. The crew abandon ship, leaving Arden and Gil to die.

They call for help, and just have time to grab some important documents left behind. Gil uses his Affinity to ensure they stay afloat and they are picked up from the Atlantic by a military vessel sent by the Affinity Unit.

They analyse the data they have found, and realise that McDowall is trying to find a way to give non-Affinates their abilities, and ultimately combine all the Affinities into a single drug that he can sell to the highest bidder. Potentially this would build an army of super soldiers and destabilise the world. Harry creates a controversial drug that would remove Affinity and makes just two doses, for emergencies only. The Affinity Unit pull together all their resources for one final showdown with McDowall in Iceland, where he plans to demonstrate the capabilities of his Synthetic Affinates.

The Affinity Unity make use of all their contacts to destroy McDowall’s base and rescue Shirley’s son. The final showdown sees McDowall dosing himself up on fire Affinity and facing off against Arden, using a volcano as their weapons. Meanwhile Gil finally gets to finish his encounter with Tobi and this time gets the upper hand, using Harry’s anti-affinity drug to stop Tobi, who miscalculates and accidentally kills himself with set of circumstances meant to kill Gil.

The Affinates go home, knowing that the world is saved.

#dream show #Affinity #dream movie challenge #rbacl dream movie

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disappointingyet · 3 months ago

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Less Than Zero

Director Marek Kanievska Stars Andrew McCarthy, Robert Downey Jr, Jamie Gertz, James Spader USA 1988 Language English 1hr 38mins Colour

Oooh, aren’t these rich kids screwed up? Tsk, tsk

For a few minutes at the start, it’s possible to believe that this movie’s stinking reputation was undeserved, that like, say, Absolute Beginners, it’s worth a more sympathetic look now that time has passed… A college kid somewhere in America’s snowy east gets a phone call, The Bangles’s propulsive cover of Hazy Shade Of Winter accompanies him as he flies back to LA, goes to his huge midcentury family home and then to a party that has been decorated with (nothing could be more ’80s) hundreds of TVs.

If Andrew McCarthy always had a somewhat blank screen presence, that’s maybe OK for one of those observer/narrator characters. James Spader as a suave coke dealer who calls people ‘old sport’ is just about perfect. Jamie Gertz at least wears the clothes impeccably. And who could be more suited to playing a charming, indulged addict than Robert Downey Jr, a man whose career somehow survived his many substance-fuelled fuck-ups? (We’ll get back to that.)

But, alas, this movie does stink. In two different ways, one of which matters more than the other. It stinks as an adaption of Bret Easton Ellis’ novel, adding a clunky sense of morality, turning the main character, Clay, from a kid who very slowly comes to realise how much his time at a New England college has left him out of sync with his old friends to a prissy guy who arrives in judgement mode. It forces BEE’s drifty, episodic book into a simple, finger-wagging story about two boys, a girl and the dangers of DRUGS.

Just say no, kids

That it very much isn’t the book – and frankly, there was no way that anything resembling the novel could have been made by a Hollywood studio in the mid-80s* – isn’t a fatal flaw. There are unfaithful adaptations that are good films. But it’s worth asking what you would want to take from the novel: as I’ve said, it doesn’t have a story structure that lends itself to conventional filmmaking, nor are the characters carefully constructed.

What made the book such a phenomenon – and believe me, people went nuts about it (and I was one of them) – was the way the distinctive present-tense prose style immersed the reader in this world of numb, spoilt, rich brats who are sensation-seeking but not sensation-finding because nothing, it turns out, is so screwed-up it actually manages to wake them up. When I read it, aged 15, I wasn't sure whether it was any good or not but I did know that no writer – not even Raymond Chandler – had insinuated their rhythms and phrasing into my thought train so completely. Whenever I read a couple of chapters of the book, my brain would shift into continuous flat narration for the rest of the day.

One of the many excellent decisions Mary Harron made in her great adaptation of Ellis’ American Psycho is understanding that we need the writing, that without the sensibility of the prose this is a just a horrible story about a rich guy murdering people that tells us nothing. I’m not sure that having Clay narrating would fix Less Than Zero, but I do know that without it much of what makes the book work has gone.

And so what do we have in its place? In LTZ-the-movie, Clay (McCarthy) is summoned home during the Christmas holidays by Blair (Gertz), his ex-girlfriend. He’s thinking she might want to get back with him, but in fact she’s worried about Julian (Downey), Clay’s bestie but also the guy Blair left Clay for. Will Clay forgive them both? Can they help Julian, whose bottomless appetite for freebasing coke has him 50G in hock to the elegant but dangerous Rip (Spader)?

They go to lots of clubs and spend much time driving through the LA night in Clay’s vintage Chevy Corvette. There are a couple of terrible, terrible 1980s movie sex scenes. Parents just don’t understand. Clay disapproves – he would be pouting but I’m not sure McCarthy’s tiny mouth can manage a pout.

And Downey is incredibly annoying. God, is he annoying. He’s this whirlwind of puckish energy, constantly doing something to remind us he’s on screen. He’s as overactive as McCarthy is inert. Considering that to some extent, Downey was the guy he’s playing, it might be true to life. But it’s pretty near unwatchable.

Some of it looks pretty. Gertz gets some good outfits, as do McCarthy and Spader. Some of the songs on the Rick Rubin-masterminded soundtrack are great, some very much not. But the story is so clumsy, so basic and so obvious.

The director is Marek Kanievska, who I will willingly say I had never heard of. Before this, though, he had directed Another Country, a film about gay Marxists at a posh British boys school in the 1930s starring Rupert Everett and Colin Firth, and which – perhaps ironically – had its biggest impact encouraging the fashion for interwar clothes and hair styles. And that’s a pro-gay film, at least by 1980s standards, whereas LTZ-the-movie is homophobic – making Clay, who is casually bisexual in the book, aggressively straight and seeming to suggest that the sex-with-men aspect is one of the main issues why the fact that Julian is turning tricks is disturbing. I wonder if the director started this with very different intentions.

So, then, no, this is not a lost classic. Its reputation as a classic instance of Hollywood taking a book and forcing it into both an ill-fitting structure and an unnuanced moral stance is well-earned. Not even a fun, trashy watch, even.

*This film, the thoroughly sanitised version of the story, still got an 18 certificate in the UK; in the US it was an R at a time when studios certainly did not dabble in X-ratings.

#less than zero

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mariamariquinha · 2 years ago

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What's behind...

Well, it's been a while since I wanted to bring this kind of "trivia" about the things I write here.

Music has always been with me as an emotional and life support - basically everything I do involves music. I love it. With my stories, it's no different; each thing takes shape through other stories that the songs I listen to tell or represent.

Today I start with this small project for my multi-chapter stories, Versos de Placer and Bossa Nova. In the future, when I start writing more, I can keep doing it.

Let’s go, then?

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Bossa Nova - Benny ‘Borracho’ Magalon

Being a minor character in a B-movie of very dubious quality, writing for Benny is always an adventure, but at the same time a great writing exercise tool (for those who like that approach) or even pure and simple creativity. I like to say the benefit of writing for him is having the one and only physical sketch that Maurice Compte brought us, which was awesome because the guy knows how to be pretty as fuck.

ANYWAY

Bossa Nova was planned a little more closely than Versos de Placer, so even the title was chosen from a meticulous perspective of a Brazilian musical rhythm - with meaning. I've already explained this here, so I won't extend myself and go straight to the structure of the story haha

THE DIVORCE:

The moment that kicks off the whole story is the main character's divorce. There was a past and an established relationship between everyone, but the trigger for everything we've been doing since then comes from that moment of separation.

The reader and Theo, her ex-husband, had a crisis through cheating. Therefore, this plot was thought with a song in mind:

DREAMS - FLEETWOOD MAC

I think it's common sense that the Fleetwood Mac drama yielded that impeccable album called Rumors and ‘Dreams’ is my favorite song by far - theirs, of course, because there's so much fucking artistic pain in there.

Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom Well, who am I to keep you down?

Players only love you when they're playing

Theodore was the antagonist due to a classic but no less painful situation, which opened wounds that the reader disassociates, but that she feels. Parents don't know about suffering; the brother, limited to a minuscule fraction of the divorce bureaucracy. She knows that, deep down, Theo became empty and selfish enough to find what he wanted, when he wanted it, no matter what it could cost him, and hopes that he will be frustrated in the end (overcoming? I don't know her). ‘Dreams’, for me, is the biggest representation of someone mourning towards a person they loved but couldn’t have because, in the end, this someone choose to be with another someone. Tell them, Stevie. Tell them!

FEMALE ENERGY PART. 2 - WILLOW

BEING HERSELF AGAIN:

In another, slightly older post, I mentioned how I constructed father-daughter relationships differently in my two "biggest" stories, and that applies a lot with this aspect in particular. In both cases, I explored something that is personal to me, which is my relationship with the men I live with in life - I work in a predominantly male place, a father who is present but a difficult family history in this regard. Here, I think it's important to use such relationships to demystify the woman built under what she lives with a man.

The Bossa Nova reader is not as close to her mother as she is to her father; this dynamic will often interfere with her future relationships, from what to expect from a man to living with other women. When she loses Theodore, she finds herself alone. The father would not understand her like the mother, but how to talk to this figure who has always been partially distant?

Oh, and I'm falling into the arms of naked truth Not surprised to see the sky and know what I must do

I am human, I am woman Drifting down my life

The changes she has been going through include facing her own nature and looking for all the personality hidden in a failed relationship. We still have a lot to explore here, but I value that heartfelt, honest parallel as we build a background romantic drama.

BILLIE BOSSA NOVA - BILLIE EILISH

THE FIRST DATE:

Oh yeah, yeah, I’ll be the devil’s advocate here and give credit to a white girlie using a latin rythym to make money. SORRY. The song is a banger tho, I like Billie.

That’s basically the beggining (where we are now btw) of Benny and reader’s relationship. No one wants to prove anything or have high expectations - it came naturally and they linked right away. A few drinks, a kiss below a lamp post, a football game and sex. Everyone could do that. Makes sense for me.

'Cause waitin' for it gets so borin' A lot can change in twenty seconds A lot can happen in the dark

I'm not sentimental But there's somethin' 'bout the way you look tonight, mm Makes me wanna take a picture Make a movie with you that we'd have to hide

For me it’s the basics of: hey, found you really attractive, let’s fuck. In a way, they both don’t want complications and happens that Benny and reader can provide that to each other. I wouldn’t say they are 100% in tune, but they both agree that they should do what they should because there’s nothing better than a few orgasms.

FADE INTO YOU - MAZZY STAR

THE FIRST TIME:

This song was mentioned in the last chapter of Bossa Nova and it wasn’t just because.

I look to you and I see nothing I look to you to see the truth

Some kind of night into your darkness Colors your eyes with what's not there

I think that's something we'll explore in the future, but there was a reason Benny was wary of the reader in her house and genuinely indulged in lying on the floor with her to relax. I hate being that playful type of person who puts metaphors into everything because sometimes life is life, but they both knew it wasn't going to be, generally speaking, a grab and go thing. It's the beginning of opposition to what they think will be that 'convenient meeting', even if they don't know it yet. She knew him, but she didn't know who he was; the same happens with Benny. In the living room, the two of them are discovering themselves and understanding that to get where they wanted, they would have to find a balance point, something that would erase a more difficult reality for a moment of satisfaction.

-------------------

P.S.

It's a little early to bring more of this, we have a way to go, but I think it's worth sharing this kind of creative dynamic to help set a good narrative tone and involve those who follow the story.

I want to take this opportunity and thank everyone who has been giving me this strength here, as well as congratulating all the fanfic writers who keep sharing incredible stories with dedication and affection. You are amazing! ❤

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No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@nerdyreaderpapi

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@the-hinky-panda

@mysoulisasunflower

#benny borracho magalon #benny magalon x reader #benny magalon fic #benny borracho magalon x reader #den of thieves #den of thieves fic #maurice compte #female reader

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riddlemaster101 · 2 years ago

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I posted 3,776 times in 2022

That's 3,776 more posts than 2021!

1 post created (0%)

3,775 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@jabberwockypie

@bright-elen

@dathen

@andorerso

@whatrturtles

I tagged 3,773 of my posts in 2022

#humor - 1,324 posts

#rogue one - 433 posts

#cassian andor - 403 posts

#dracula daily - 392 posts

#andor show - 358 posts

#art - 332 posts

#andor spoilers - 304 posts

#this hellsite - 224 posts

#jyn erso - 197 posts

#social commentary - 143 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#i'm mostly ok with seeing it in other people's writing (except sometimes there's a little interaction so bad it yeets me out of the story)

My Top Posts in 2022:

Alright all. I do not tend to make my own posts on here, mainly because I prefer to just comment or expand on other posts. But I haven’t seen this recommended anywhere yet and guys. GUYS. Take a minute (or 1hr 30 min) and go watch this documentary.

It’s beautifully edited. It has an impeccable sense of the rhythm and beat of its own story and the telling is fantastic.

It is, hands down, the best example of how to do thorough internet research I have ever seen. Fact checking. Fact checking the fact checking. Emailing people and asking for interviews to fact check the fact checks. An exhaustively thorough effort to track down who actually gets the credit, because Kevin Perjurer is well aware of the size of his audience and knows that most of them will not bother to check his research...meaning that this is the video people will cite going forward and he effectively gets last say on the subject. And he doesn’t want to get it wrong. It also examines what it means to have the power to give this much “internet famous” credit to someone and whether that’s the right thing to do or not, which is not a question I see getting tossed around enough.

It is an absolutely gripping hour and thirty minute story with better plot twists than most movies these days...all to the tune of the disney channel theme jingle, which I honestly had zero exposure to until watching this.

If you’re bored. If you need a distraction. If you want to have a really, really good example of how to track down true information on the internet. If you want to learn something about storytelling. Go. Watch. This. Documentary.

(also it casually drops some info on how disney would do product placement and hook kids into subjects that they would then release as movies in a year or so, which was...a little sinister. The Finding Nemo fish facts was a trip.)

16 notes - Posted November 24, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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the-sassy-composer · 10 months ago

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I haven't seen many people talk about All of Us Strangers but if you're looking for a movie with:

-Queer love

-The ups and downs of coming out as an adult

-A touch of supernatural

-Impeccable acting

You NEED to watch this movie. Genuinely one of the best films I've seen in a long time.

(Grab some tissues first though cause it'll make you sob)

Official description: One night in his near-empty London tower block, screenwriter Adam has a chance encounter with mysterious neighbor Harry, puncturing the rhythm of his everyday life. As a relationship develops between them, Adam finds himself drawn back to his childhood home, where his parents appear to be living just as they were on the day they died 30 years ago.

I saw you looking at me from the street.

Andrew Scott and Paul Mescal All of Us Strangers (December 2023) ↳ dir. Andrew Haigh

@lgbtqcreators - bingo challenge (free choice)

#all of us strangers #andrew scott #paul mescal #andrew haigh

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starfriday · 3 months ago

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⭐⭐⭐⭐

By Aniz Filmvala

**"Khel Khel Main"** is a vibrant cocktail of comedy and drama, masterfully mixed by Mudassar Aziz. This film, a remake of the 2016 Italian gem *Perfect Strangers*, delivers a fresh twist with a star-studded ensemble that knows how to play its cards just right.

Akshay Kumar leads the pack with his impeccable comic timing, turning what could have been a simple marriage gathering into a high-stakes game of truth and consequences. His presence is magnetic—without him, the film’s rhythm would undoubtedly falter. But with him at the helm, it soars, delivering punchline after punchline with precision and flair.

The rest of the cast—Ammy Virk, Taapsee Pannu, Vaani Kapoor, Fardeen Khan, Aditya Seal, and Pragya Jaiswal—don’t just keep up; they shine in their own right. Aziz ensures that every character has their moment under the spotlight, allowing the tension, humor, and raw emotion to simmer and explode at just the right moments. The film is an intricate dance of secrets and revelations, with each character peeling back layers of their personas to reveal hidden fears and desires.

What makes *Khel Khel Main* truly stand out is its refusal to tie things up neatly. It’s a film that’s more about the journey than the destination, leaving you hanging on every word, every awkward silence, every unexpected twist. The comedy is sharp, the drama is real, and the surprises keep coming, making it impossible to look away.

In the end, *Khel Khel Main* doesn’t just entertain—it resonates. It’s a movie that plays with your expectations and leaves you with a sense of satisfaction, yet still pondering the complexities of the human heart. With no disappointment in sight, this is one game you’ll be glad you played.

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abcslidingdoors · 1 year ago

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ABC Sliding Doors: Hollywood's Premier Destination for Track Repair

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Why ABC Sliding Doors is Hollywood's Go-To for Track Repair

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ABC Sliding Doors is more than a service provider; we're an integral part of Hollywood's lifestyle. We ensure that a malfunctioning sliding door never hampers the charm and pace of this iconic city.

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#window repair #succession #across the spiderverse #welcome home #the owl house #wally darling #the mandalorian #sliding doors #glass window #glass door

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mando-abs · 1 year ago

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One day years ago (like gee idk 2014 maybe?) I was sitting with my family inside a Chili’s. An instrumental hip-hip techno-y song came on that at first listen had no significance to me. That is…until about the middle of the song.

As a child, I was obsessed with Inspector Gadget and memorized the whole first movie (a different story). The song I was hearing in that Chili’s was what I thought was specially made for a movie soundtrack. I was floored. And there was no way to figure out what the song was because it was instrumental.

Well gentlemen, with today’s impeccable Spotify technology, I found the song and here it is.

#I would like to thank the fellow neurospicy people who made a playlist of the songs featured in the movie #you’re the real ones #also whoever decided this should be in the movie was right #that’s the most 90’s inspector gadget you can get #Spotify

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popmusicu · 1 year ago

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Discovering MF DOOM genius of the metallic mask

Hip Hop emerged in the 1970s, mainly from the African American communities of New York cities. The genre was overlaid with African American cultural characteristics where it combined dances, visual arts and fashion that defined Hip Hop which evolved over the years. With the above in mind, during this post we will highlight the influence of MF DOOM or Metal Face Doom who emerges as one of the most influential artists in hip hop and rap. The creativity he demonstrates by mixing elements of Jazz, Soul, Disco music and the use of samples within his songs give him that unique distinction that has influenced the most relevant artists of the genre today.

MF DOOM's most distinctive contributions to the genre were his visual and melodic production, where his songs were characterized by using fragments of movies, video games and TV series to deliver a unique melody with an atmosphere that instinctively brings to mind his musical work. Another characteristic element of their songs was the use of sampling techniques inspired by the hip hop traditions of the 80's and 90's, which when integrated with very eloquent lyrics and some of the most creative of the genre, formed incredible works such as the albums Madvillainy and Operation: Doomsday. On Madvillainy, the artist's flagship album and a benchmark of alternative hip hop, he fuses rap and enigmatic lyrics with experimental sounds and rhythms, all of it hand in hand with Madlib's impeccable production work. For its part, Operation: Doomsday was MF DOOM's debut solo album, which defined the aesthetics of his image with the metallic mask, which transcends into the alter ego created by the artist and the characteristics of the experimentation of samplers as a method of narration within the songs, in addition to lyrics that in my opinion were the most ingenious of the artist.

Finally, personally, MF DOOM represented one of the best musical discoveries during the pandemic and from the first song I listened to I immediately connected with the melody and the creativity in using fragments of movies and series, which in itself told part of the song. There is no doubt about the contribution of this artist to the hip hop genre, who left an unmistakable mark thanks to his style. I can only thank him for his talent and creativity, and he may rest in peace.

By: Sebastian Durán Arriagada

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wildbornsiren · 2 years ago

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nsfw alphabet | j. s.

author’s notes: Thank you to everyone who has been leaving likes and sharing. It really means the most, and warms my dark little heart.

what: Not safe for work headcanons for Jake “Hangman” Seresin. Gender neutral reader, 3,058 words.

warnings: adult content. Do not read or interact with this post if you are under the age of 18. Explicit sexual content, frank discussion of adult themes.

thanks: many thanks to @darkelfgrl who yells at me to post fic-- and gleefully reads it over before I post.

A: Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Hangman will clean himself up, and help you clean up with a warm washcloth. He’ll lay with you, fingers combing through your hair, just enjoying the quiet, breathing and coming down from the high of fucking. If you guys got really filthy, he’ll strip the bed, put on a new bottom sheet and fresh blankets. He’ll offer you a shower if you aren’t staying the night and will join you in there for round three or four. If you do stay, he curls up and knocks out after a little bit of talking.

B: Body part (their favorite body part of theirs, and their partner’s)

Hangman is extremely proud of his physique. If he has to pick one, he likes his shoulders/delts. He’s spent a lot of time building them up and working on definition and tone. He knows that he’s a living, breathing piece of art and often hangs out at home in just gray sweats. He likes having eyes on him, especially yours. He knows when you’re watching and will flex or stretch to show off his muscles, smirking when he catches you looking away, or clenching your hands to keep from reaching out to touch him.

When it comes down to it, he’s a leg man. He’ll use that upper body strength to hold you against the wall, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave red marks behind. When you’re fucking, your legs are often over his shoulders, his hands sliding up and down, dipping between your thighs occasionally to play with you as he pounds away. When you’re watching movies on the couch, your legs are in his lap, his touch wandering up and down, nails scraping lightly over your skin. He’ll leave bites and hickies on your thighs when going down on you. He likes to edge your pleasure with pain, leaving you breathless, needy and shaking.

C: Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He fucking loves covering your face with his cum. When you’re giving him head and give him the chance, he’ll pull you off and explode, groaning as the cum drips from your cheeks and nose. If you use your fingers to wipe it up and lick it up, his cock will twitch and his refractory period cuts in half.

D: Dirty (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Hangman will keep your underwear. Panties or boxers, he keeps them and uses them to jerk off into when you’re apart.

E: Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Hangman is a gift to anyone with a sexual pulse. He knows he’s hot, he knows how to fuck, and he knows how to make you scream just for him. He’s got a high body count and isn’t shy about it.

F: Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Cowgirl: Him flat on his back, hands behind his head, watching you ride him. He likes it when you leave nail marks on his chest, and when you’re so desperate you’re grinding against him having lost your rhythm. When he gets in this mood, you’re doing all the work, and he won’t let you stop until you’ve gotten off and he’s watching his cum slide out as you ride.

Up against the wall: Your back against whatever solid surface he can get you against. Your legs wrapped around his waist, hands gripping your thighs, using those impeccable muscles to support you. His mouth is on your neck, leaving hickies in his wake. You’ll be walking funny and have scrapes on your back from the wall.

Face down ass up. He’s fucking you doggy style, your face pressed into the mattress. One of his hands spanning your stomach supporting you, the other at the back of your neck, pressing you down more, the arch in your back just this side of painful. It’s rough, fast and filthy, his sweat dripping onto your back, his hips snapping against your hips hard enough that your skin is pink by the time he’s done. All you can hear are his low grunts, and the protest of the bedframe. He’ll take and take and take in this position, using you completely. He’ll finish buried inside you, dropping his weight on top of you as his body trembles.

G: Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous?)

When he’s down to fuck, its hard to distract him. He’s on a mission to make you cum and get his own rocks off. He isn’t playful but will sometimes give you a swat on the ass or toss you around if you’re taking too long to get to bed, or where he wants you.

H: Hair (how well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

Hangman is a clean-cut guy. His hair is cut to standards and is clean shaven. Occasionally he’ll let a little bit of scruff come in, when he’s on vacation, leave or a long weekend. He takes care of his body, keeping his chest hair trimmed, he has happy trail, and his pubic hair is trimmed and kept short.

I: Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Intimacy for Hangman is a massive hurdle. It is not something you get while you’re hooking up, or just in his phone as a booty call. It’s then that you see that he’s got layers and is used to keeping people at arm’s length. He’s fucking Hangman, world class fighter pilot, highly decorated, infamous. He’s not one for great grand gestures like candles, flower petals or midnight walks on the beach.

Once you’re past the gate, he doesn’t just look at you and asks for some fuck, but will start with kisses, and touches that slowly escalate into getting frisky on the couch. When you’ve gotten to this point with him, he’ll do goofy things to make you smile or laugh.

J: Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

In his downtime, his hand is rarely away from his cock. Hangman doesn’t many chances to get off, so he jerks it any chance he gets. In the shower, in bed, in the locker room, he’ll palm himself in the back of the transport van when everyone else is asleep. He likes a sloppy hand job, so he’ll use lotion or lube, starting slow, grip tight on his cock. He likes a little twist on the upstroke, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock. He’s quiet as he jerks it, his breathing the only give-away that there’s something going on.

He’s into dirty talk, the filthier the better, given the chance he will describe in exquisite detail what he’ll do to you.

K: Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Call Hangman daddy and he’ll cum buried inside you.

He loves to edge his partner, keeping them high and needy, pleasure blending into pain and back again. He’ll have his fingers inside you, curling in the most delicious ways, pleasure wracking your body, bowing your back. You’re clawing at his shoulders, or tugging at his hair, whining, begging, so close to the edge, only for him to switch up the pace, or slide his fingers from your body. His voice purrs against your ear, asking you if you’ll cum for him—especially since you’re his.

Exhibition. He likes to show off, and why shouldn’t people have the chance to see someone as good as him lose his mind in something beautiful.

Hickies/bite marks/love bites. Hangman likes to show off what’s his. He’s possessive. When he catches a glimpse of a hickie on your neck, or under the neckline of your shirt, he’s already thinking of how many more he can put on you. He leaves bite marks on your thighs, hips, tummy, shoulders.

L: Location (favorite places to do the do)

Wherever he can fuck, he fucks. He likes the risk of being caught so he’s fond of getting busy in public.

M: Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going?)

Confidence. If you’re bold enough to approach him, you better be ready to play ball. Don’t back off and keep him on his toes? He’ll have your toes curled and you twitching on his cock. Want to rile him up the instant he walks in the door? Be in his t-shirt, and nothing else, or waiting for him by the door on your knees.

N: No (something they won’t do/turn-offs)

He will not be the subject of degradation. Poor hygiene, not being an enthusiastic partner (ie: just ‘taking it’), physical/psychological pain.

O: Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill)

Hangman loves getting head. One of his favorite things is to see you on your knees mouth stretched out around his cock. He likes it when you’re sloppy, drool and precum slipping from your lips. One hand will rest on the back of your head, pressing just a bit more when you’ve taken him as deep as you can. He likes it when you choke, groaning as your throat tightens around his cock. He likes it when you play with his balls, liking it when you squeeze—though the first couple times you were hesitant since those parts are particularly sensitive. He won’t make you swallow if you don’t like it and doesn’t mind coming on your face or chest. If you swallow, he holds your head still, as much as you can take, spilling his load down your throat. He’ll haul you up for a messy kiss, not caring that he can taste himself on your tongue.

He prefers to receive than give. He likes to watch you get off when he fucks you. He does go down, though you need to remind him that reciprocity is a thing. When he does go down, he’ll eat you for hours, bringing you over and over. He’s got good technique and the patience and will listen to you and your body. You may have to show him exactly how to get you off because every body is different, but he listens and learns. And God does he learn.

P: Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

It depends on the position, most of the time he’s fast and relentless. If he’s coming off of deployment, or he’s feeling like he hasn’t gotten enough attention from you, buckle in because he’ll fuck you for hours. Edging is something he enjoys and when he gets in that mood, you’re in bed for hours.

Q: Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often)

Hangman exists on quickies. He doesn’t have a lot of downtime, and even if he is off duty, he has to be levelheaded if he gets a call to return to base. The quality doesn’t diminish despite how quick he fucks you. When he’s on leave, expect a few days for that to be carved out for sex and only sex. This is when he'll spend hours with you in bed, on the couch, or any flat surface that holds your combined weight.

R: Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

He’s down to fuck in public—alleys, bathrooms, in the car, on the beach. He’s snuck you into the barracks when he’s been stuck on base. He won’t fuck you at work—his career and rank mean too much to him. Hangman is an exhibitionist. He’s a prime specimen of a man and wants to show you how weak he can make you, and how often it can happen. He’d protect you if you did get caught, but it’s mainly the threat of being caught for him.

If you have something you want to try, he’s more than willing to give it a go. Be the reason that a fantasy of yours is fulfilled? Even if you don’t last together, you’ll think of him whenever you fantasize about this new kink/experience.

S: Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

Penetrative sex he lasts once or twice a night. They’re not marathon sessions, and he’s not fast by any means, but he really prefers oral stimulation. You give him head? He’s got a quick refractory period and will happily let you spend all night with your mouth on his cock.

T: Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He has a pocket pussy that he uses when his hand isn’t cutting it, or he hadn’t managed to land anyone to bring home.

He doesn’t mind that you have toys. He’s curious about them, and will goad you into demonstrating how they work, or how you get yourself off using them. He’ll watch and learn, occasionally taking control and bringing you to screaming orgasms. He likes it when you get things for when he’s gone on deployment and asks for videos of you using them. He did buy a remote-controlled vibrator for you and had entirely too much fun tucking it into your underwear and playing with the controls while you were having dinner with friends.

U: Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is entirely unfair. He likes to edge his partners, having them spiral higher and higher until they’re begging for release, sweaty, voice breaking, body shaking, hands clenching at whatever you can reach on him.

While on deployment he’ll send you filthy text messages and emails when he has access to outside contact. The longer you’re apart the raunchier they get, often culminating in voice mails of him panting and the slick sound of him jerking off.

V: Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

He's relatively quiet. Heavy panting, soft moans, anything louder he’ll muffle himself against the curve of your neck. When you give him head, he murmurs praise, complimenting you on how pretty your mouth looks around his cock, or how well you suck him off.

Hangman wants to hear you. He wants the barracks to hear, the neighborhood to hear. He likes it when you whimper his name, and when you lose all control and nothing but nonsense spills from your lips. You’re not calling out to God when you’re getting off, it’s Hangman, and nothing but him.

W: Wild card (random headcanon for the character)

“Do you hear that?” His voice was rough from sleep, muffled because his head is tucked into the crook of your neck. He’s laying half on top of you, having fallen asleep while you had talked about your day and stroked his hair.

It took a few minutes for you to surface enough to register what you were hearing. The rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings, and soft moans coming from the other side of the wall. “Oh!” Laughter bubbles up even though your cheeks burn. His hand covers your mouth, muffling the sound.

“Shhh…” His eyes are bright, shining in the low light. His mouth curves into a smirk and you can see the thoughts turning over in his mind. “Who the hell is he fucking?” His voice was low enough you could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke.

“Who?” You whispered, twisting under him to get a little leverage to hear better.

“Bradshaw. Bradshaw’s in that room.” His shoulders shook with restrained laughter. “Fuck, who did he pull.”

“You really aren’t listening to this are you? Give him the illusion of privacy.” You tugged lightly on his hair. “Come on Jake, let him have some fun. He really needs to blow off steam.”

“I can’t do that.” His grin widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Normally you found him irresistible when he grinned like that, his dimples on display as well.

“Come on, it’s hard enough having a good night’s sleep in the barracks, let the poor man fuck in peace.” You squeak when Hangman’s hands grip at your hips. The sound of the bed in the other room stops for a minute, and you glare up at him. “You’re such a dick.”

He shifts above you, nudging your legs apart, settling between them. He’s hard, just as hard as when you first took him to bed.

“This is getting you off?” You hissed, but your body complied, happily accepting his weight and the way his kisses seared your skin.

“No, but I know what I can make you do. I’m going to fuck you hard, make you scream for me.” He groaned, lips brushing over your chest, then back up your body to capture your mouth. He kissed you until you couldn’t feel anything but him. “I mean, I can’t let him think he’s better than I am, now can I baby?”

X: X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

This is a man who takes care of himself. He’s fit, groomed, impeccable and he knows it. He’s got a great body, killer smile and he’s sharp as a tack. He’s average when it comes to length, but he’s thick. You can feel the stretch of his cock as he sinks into you, even after he uses his fingers to work you open.

Y: Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high. Brush against him in the hallway? Hard. Smile at him? Hard. Your hand rests on his thigh as he drives? He’ll urge your touch higher and between his legs. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s pulled over for road head or pushed his seat all the way for you to ride him in the driver’s seat.

He's a slut for head, so any chance he can get you on your knees, it’s on. You once joked about investing in kneepads, and he simply smirked—and the next day there was an amazon package with your name on it, containing a set of kneepads.

It takes him a little while to come down off the high of getting laid. He’ll lay next to you in the dark, sheet pulled up over the both of you, and that’s when you get bits of Jake, and not just Hangman. He’ll tell you stories about his day, details that he can share about missions, or his childhood. He’ll trail off after talking for a little while and knock out. If you’ve managed to wear him out, he’ll snore. Z: Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward.) It takes him a little while to come down off the high of getting laid. He’ll lay next to you in the dark, sheet pulled up over the both of you, and that’s when you get bits of Jake, and not just Hangman. He’ll tell you stories about his day, details that he can share about missions, or his childhood. He’ll trail off after talking for a little while and knock out. If you’ve managed to wear him out, he’ll snore.

#jake seresin x reader #Jake Hangman Seresin x Reader #top gun: Maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #Jake seresin x reader smut #Hangman smut #Top Gun: Maverick imagines #reader insert #shelly writes

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heli0s-writes · 4 years ago

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Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

#marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve rogers imagines #fluff #angst

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daltonacademia · 4 years ago

Text

There’s A Time For Daring - 1

charlie dalton x fem!reader [post events of the movie]

word count: 1.7k

warning: allusions to sex / slight sexual harrassment? drinking, mentions of neil’s suicide, horrible parents

Charlie couldn’t help but emit a low growl as his vomit-inducing, picture-perfect, high-society mother and father, whom he despised, prodded him towards the expansive front entrance of Nealson Preparatory School located in southern Vermont. His fuschia-lipped, cakey-faced mother, Cynthia Dalton, was a well-dressed, dignified housewife by day and charming socialite by night; she was particularly harsh as she trampled his pen-stained oxfords with her spearish kitten heels. His eyes shot daggers at the snow-strewn path below, a familiar fire burning in his core.

There were many things Charlie was tempted to furiously spit out at his parents, but instead, he managed to keep his jaw clamped shut, his pearly whites digging into the light pink of his lips hard enough to draw blood. No matter what he shouted, cried, pleaded, they wouldn’t budge. They never would. And it was infuriating.

“Charles! Being expelled from such a prestigious school is no laughing matter, young man. That school cost us quite the pretty penny! How dare you defy the rules to the extent of expulsion. It’s disgraceful, and I will tolerate it no longer!” Charlie’s mother shrieked, furious tears smudging the thick mascara that coated her eyelashes.

“You’ll be shipped off to Nealson Preparatory School in February, and if I hear so much as a single mention of your name not followed with overwhelming compliments, you can expect nasty, nasty consequences! Go pack your things, you’ll be staying with Aunt Barbara until the first of February finally arrives!” The rims of Charlie’s brown eyes stung with anger, frustration, and furthest down, sadness. He was diminished to nothing but an image-ruiner to his mother. The person who was supposed to love him, protect him, save him from the horrors of this hell called Earth.

Mr. Dalton silently observed the boisterous outburst from his expensive leather armchair across the den, a glass of strong, half-drunk whiskey in his palm. Charlie couldn’t bear to see their despicable faces any longer, and as his body felt no longer under his control, stomped up the stairs in a huff, rapidly swiping away the glassy tears spilling from his eyes. Thoughts of running away, escaping it all, flooded his unstable mind. ‘I get why you did it, Neil. I really do. But did you have to go so soon?’

But instead of lingering on the image of Neil any longer, he hastily threw his bare necessities into his suitcase, which was still covered in an array of Welton Academy stickers.

The grounds of Nealson were unsurprisingly well-maintained; it reminded him a lot of Welton. The impeccably manicured lawns, gleaming, icy blue lake, the gothic stone arches and pillars. It was eerily similar to Hellton, even down to the ice-cold blanket of snow coating the distant rolling hills. It’s beautiful, Charlie thought, surveying the slow sprinkling of snow, No, it’s hideous.

Before he could fully vomit at the vile grounds of his new school, his parents fiercely shoved him inside the Headmaster’s dingy office, politely taking the vacant mahogany seats beside him. Charlie couldn’t be bothered to listen to a word his parents said with pearly white smiles, which were no doubt tooth-rotting, sugar-coated lies about the real reason he was expelled over a month prior.

He knew that they couldn’t just be transparent and tell the Headmaster that he had socked the utterly vile Richard Cameron’s face in (rightfully so, in his opinion), or that he was a star member of the infamous Dead Poets Society, or that he had gone to the extreme lengths to stage a phone call from none other than God himself. It didn’t work like that.

His mother’s cheeky, artificial voice sounded precisely the same as it always had: carefully rehearsed and slathered with naivety. Seemingly without hesitation, the catty woman could deflect any less-than-pleasant questions or insinuations about her “golden role-model” son, who’s admittedly “a little misguided at times”.

The new headmaster seated across from him appeared to be around the same age as Mr. Nolan, which, as far as Charlie was concerned, was older than the Cretaceous period at least. His pale-as-a-ghost skin was wrinkled and paper-thin; his patchy, gelled side-swept hair was (very obviously) dyed a deep, midnight black, reminiscent of an off-brand Elvis.

Charlie’s ears continued to mute the awkward conversation happening amongst him, his focus instead shifting around to the various awards and certificates lining the ivory walls. They all seemed so phony; ‘Best Headmaster- 1947-1959’, ‘Nealson Academy: Exceeds Expectations’. The Headmaster had even framed his high school superlative: ‘Voted Most Likely to Succeed’. What a pathetic-

In a swift blur, his parents rose from their seats, his mother clutching her magenta purse with matching pursed lips. Charlie was handed a hefty, stapled packet packed full of school rules and guidelines with a denture-toothed smile from Headmaster ‘Campbell’. This’d make some decent kindling, he thought as he yanked the packet from his clammy clutches, leafing through its pages with a smirk, this garbage’s almost laughable.

A syncopated rhythm of raps on the door, followed by a gravelly, ‘come in', presented his new dorm escort. His chauffeur just so happened to be you, the accomplished and universally admired student body president in the same grade as the newcomer. You were dutifully donning Nealson’s horrendous uniform: a crisp, white button-up accented with a blue and silver tie was topped with a depressing grey sweater vest. An equally loathsome pleated skirt concealed your thighs, and your ankles were shielded from the chilly February air with black crew socks.

You extended your perfectly manicured, soft hand out to your brand-new peer with a yearbook-worthy smile, introducing, “Hi. Welcome to Nealson, I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You swore you heard the brunette mutter something disrespectful under his breath, but nonetheless, he, rather unprofessionally, shook your hand with an eye roll. Things between the two of you were not starting off the way you hoped, but you were determined to make a good impression. The best impression possible.

“Charlie Dalton,” he replied with a mischievous smirk. The brunette standing in front of you reeked of cigarettes, and there was the slightest smell of cheap beer clinging to his clothes. His brown hair was messy, springing out in every direction, despite the water furiously combed through it. His eyes glinted with rebellion, a look so alluring yet dangerous.

“I’ll be showing you to your dorm, which you’ll sleep in for the remainder of the year.” Since Dalton was starting in February, he only had five months of studying before long-awaited senior year. Mr. Campbell waved the two of you off, and with that, you trekked towards the Boys’ wing, Dalton sauntering at your side.

The walk through the main corridor was silent and awkward. You had tried to enchant him with fun facts about Nealson and its (extensively selective) history, much to his obvious boredom and dismay. His umber eyes glazed the walls, uninterested in the decor. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but for all you knew, it could be on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

After a while of treading through the high-ceilinged corridors illuminated with fleeting pale rays of sunlight, the boy next to you made no attempt to hide him drawing designs up and down your body.

“I’ve never been to a school with both boys and girls,” he drawled with a smirk. “Do things ever get exciting around here?”

You shook your head no while indiscreetly tugging down the hem of your skirt uncomfortably, and he said, “Do you think you’d maybe wanna spend the night with me in my dorm? Make sure I’m all settled in?”

Your whole body, from head to toe, froze. The audacity of this… creep! Your tongue poked, nearly stabbed, the back of your teeth, wanting to unleash a select few words to the disgusting Dalton beside you. But alas, if he were to tell anyone of your fiery wrath, you’d be demoted from class president faster than you could explain what really happened. It’s a corrupt system, sure, but even with the power that comes with such a title, there was no way to mend it.

Eventually, while you were wrapped up in the furies of your mind, Dalton revealed a small, autographed golf ball from his trousers pocket and began throwing it up and down above his head casually with every step.

“Can you not?” you snapped at the chestnut-haired boy after he tossed the sphere up and down again in an arch. “Don’t wanna get in trouble on your first day, do you?”

“You think this’ll get me in trouble? Have a little fun, it won’t kill you. I promise.” Dalton turned his gaze towards you, an annoyed but smug grin painted on his lips. He slowly tossed the golf ball to your hands, intending for you to catch it. However, the small ball evaded your grasp, instead bouncing around the hardwood floors below you, creating a series of loud, reverberating thunks.

“You were supposed to catch it, you know,” Dalton teased, nonchalantly watching you chase after the rogue orb. After it was finally safe in your clutches, you stomped over to the no-good newbie, irritated.

“Nealson’s strict. They don’t let stuff like creating an awful lot of racket go unreprimanded.” You were seething; red-hot blood pumped through your veins. Dalton didn’t look anything but utterly amused.

“Wow, you’re just about one of the biggest suck-ups I’ve seen in a while.”

“A what?” you growled.

“A suck-up. A rule-following poster child of excellence? A bratty, know-it-all? Anything along those lines?” He sputtered insults so nonchalantly, it made your blood boil and eyes sting.

“You better watch it, Dalton. I don’t know who you think you are-”

“I’m the best thing that’s happened to this school, by the looks of it.”

You had nothing left to say to this conceited shuck of a boy who really thought that he was all that and a side of fries. Well he wasn’t! Not in the slightest! And if his first day of classes wouldn’t drill it into him, you would.

The rest of the walk was pin-drop silent and tense. No more fun facts about Nealson escaped your downturned lips, just the light patting of his beat-up oxfords and your pristine mary-janes on the polished wood floor. The hallways seemed more depressing than usual, their framed portraits and condensated windows didn’t fill you with the motivation that you came to expect.

After finally arriving at the boys’ dormitories, you grumbled, “well, this is it. Have a swell life, Dalton.”

“Right back at ya, Y/L/N. Let’s hope this isn’t the last time we meet.” He gave you a cheeky wink before slamming the door in your face.

#dead poets society #Dead Poets Society (1989)#dead poetry #dead poets society x reader #dead poets society quotes #DPS #dps fanfiction #charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton x y/n #charlie dalton

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