#this is the dumbest thing I've ever written

[football-in-tuxedos]

A recently discovered script for a season 9 episode of Seinfeld dealing with Jerry dating a trans woman. While the script was well received among the cast, it was pushed back in Production Order to be one of the first episodes of a potential Season 10, and Jerry Seinfeld called an end to the show before it could be produced. As such it never moved beyond the first draft.

[torchflies]

Bradley blinks away tears as he stares up at the Perseids, lying on a scratchy blanket from Mav’s hanger out in China Lake. They're well into the Mojave for the view, but it’s still shit and he wants to go home.

The trouble is that he wants to go to a home that doesn't exist anymore.

(Or, Bradley is lonely, ten years old and grieving. Then, outer space decides to give him a brother).

[wlwvampirism]

Alice in Wonderland adaptations where everything is gritty, dark (both visually and thematically), and "We're all mad here hehe..." and everything is depressing and makes too much sense.

Meanwhile, in the original Alice in Wonderland stories:

"As Alice talked with the walking fish, it began to cry terribly.

'Oh, goodness! Why are you crying? What's the matter?' Inquired Alice.

'I don't want to be a walking fish anymore!' The walking fish who didn't want to be a walking fish anymore yelled.

'And I want to be Alice again!' Cried Alice in despair, 'If only there were something we could do.'

Suddenly, Alice looked up only to realize that the walking fish who didn't want to be a walking fish anymore had disappeared and that she was no longer in the beach at all, but in a meadow!

And in the meadow was the Red Queen and the Queen of Hearts who were busy brawling and rolling around in the grass. The Queen of Hearts kept shouting, 'Off with the imposter's head!' and the Red Queen was muttering about checkmate.

Alice approached them and said, 'Oh stop it! Stop it! You can both be a queen who is primarily associated with the color red!'

The Queen of Hearts looked at her in disgust and yelled, 'Off with her head!'

A bunch of playing cards swarmed Alice and started chasing her around in circles, they brandished spears made of eggshells and kept shouting, 'Off with her head!’

'Oh, stop it!' Cried Alice as she ran. 'Oh, stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Oh, Goodness!'

And then Alice woke up.

The End.

[necrosin]

in the end, perhaps the human body simply isn’t meant to push its limits quite so far, mankind isn’t meant to live among the stars —— an error in some stage of evolution or another, surely —— and he can feel himself start to falter, a part of the melody is slipping away, too energetic to fit the cadence of the rest of the song, cacophonous noise building and building until he simply : collapses. well, more specifically, falls to his knees because, truly, he can’t be expected to run so far. A WHOLE CITY BLOCK? that’s nearly enough activity to kill him outright, never mind the hours that he spends singing and dancing on stage multiple nights per week —— that is different, and running is torture. ❝ momo, ❞ the asphalt is hot beneath his hands, and yuki wants terribly to curl up and sleep, ❝ go on without me... this is the end... ❞ or, he supposes : an energizing embrace from momo would suffice, as well. nearly as good as a nap, really.

@ruinedheart​​ —— for momo, from yuki !!

[ghost-proofbaby]

fictional boyfriends (e.m.)

summary: eddie gets jealous of your newest fictional boyfriend from a game he got you into.

warnings: kinda sweet. kinda cringe. eddie is jealous of astarion. twilight reference jumpscare. not edited. biting and vague mentions of sex at the end.

wc: 2.5k+

a/n: this is the dumbest, cringiest thing i have ever written. but on this side of town, we embrace the cringe <3 happy valentine's day, enjoy me combining my current favorite fictional men (astarion and eddie) for my own personal delight. maybe one day i'll write a serious fic regarding the biting kink

It’s not that biting had ever been off the table with Eddie, per se.

Nips between kisses, using a little more teeth when he’d kiss across your neck, a joking sinking of your teeth into his shoulder when you were vying for his attention — they were all normal occurrences between the two of you. There was just never much discussion about it. No conversation explicitly had in which the two of you said, “Why, yes. This is something I’d like to bring into the bedroom.” 

Until that damn game.

When Eddie introduced you to Baldur’s Gate 3, the last thing he expected was to watch all your free time you used to spend pestering him suddenly handed over to some fictional vampire. He thought it’d be a game you tried, grew tired of, lost interest in, and that was that. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t expect a sudden competition for your goddamn affections. 

“Baby, please come to bed,” he all but whines as he drapes himself over your shoulders, trying to nudge off your headphones. He could feel just how warm your ears had grown beneath them. He swears he can feel your back crack from the slightest bit of his weight on your shoulders. And, sue him — he was tired and he wanted to cuddle. 

“One more minute,” you mumble the same phrase to him that he has used a million times on you; he instantly knows it’ll be far more than just sixty more seconds if he agrees, “Let me just finish this-“

“No,” he’s still whining, but it’s more stern now as he properly removes your headset, earning a glare from your bloodshot eyes, “You’ve been playing this game all afternoon, sweetheart. I think I might die if you don’t offer me some immediate attention. Truly.”

For emphasis, he lays more of his body weight on you, your chair creaking from holding up both of you now. 

“Eddie,” you moan out, wiggling beneath his dead-weight, “I swear to God, get off of me-“

“I’ll get off of you if you come to bed.”

You pause. Your hands hover near your keyboard and mouse, but you’re no longer walking your avatar across the world of Baldur’s Gate, and he knows he has you considering it.

More weight. More groans. At this rate, he’s questioning if your chair won’t break from his outrageous method to get your attention. 

“Fine.” 

The small yes he lets out only earns him a punch to the shoulder. But it gets you off the game, and that’s still a win for him.

He doesn’t even care about appearing over eager as you follow him back to the bedroom. He’s gone as far as preparing the bed, pillows fluffed and comforted pulled back while awaiting your arrival. He’s already washed his face and brushed his teeth (something he usually fights you on as you nag him before bed), and the moment he’s got you in the room with him, he’s dragging you right onto the mattress with him.

“You’re gonna hurt us!” you yelp as he wraps his arms around you and flops down, dragging you with him, but it’s through a laugh. He knows you really couldn’t care less — he’d never deliberately injure you, irritated about your newest fictional boyfriend or not. 

“Oh, no,” he mocks, rolling so you’re laying on top of him, “What ever will you do if I injure one of your precious wrists, and you can’t use it to flirt with your new boy toy tomorrow?” 

“Astarion would be devastated,” you giggle into his chest, not moving off of him despite all your protests. It’s nice — to feel the full weight of you, to just get to bury his nose in the crown of your head as he shamelessly inhales the sweet lingering scent of your coconut shampoo, “He’s even needier than you.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you serve as his functional juice box.”

“I do not!” you wiggle against him, and it only makes him tighten his arms, “He’s needy because he loves me.”

“Well that makes one of us.” 

Your head lifts off his chest in an instant, faux offense shadowing your features, “You tryin’ to say you don’t love me, Munson?”

He smirks, pressing his lips together tightly, making you huff in frustration. 

Of course he loves you. There wouldn’t be a ring in his sock drawer that he’s terrified of you finding if he didn’t. 

You pout, subtly and adorably so, starting to lift off of him, “If you’re going to be mean, I’m just going to go back to someone who appreciates me-“

“Mean?” he scoffs, enjoying himself far too much. He’s missed your attention, your affection. The effect it has on him is similar to a high, making him dizzy on serotonin as he rolls over and pins you between him and the mattress, “Oh, baby, that’s not me being mean. I can show you mean, if you want.” 

He’s always thought you looked prettiest like this. Under him, eyes wide as you look up at him as if he’s the only thing in this room worth looking at. Worth more than your prized bookshelf, more interesting than all the various posters the two of you have hung on the walls. You look at him as though he’s the greatest thing to exist in these four walls, and he doesn’t take it lightly when your favorite albums and candles are right there.

“You don’t have a mean bone in your body, Munson,” you whisper softly, face going soft for him. The two of you are still surely joking around, the playfulness of it all thick in the air, but there’s something genuine in your words that makes him even more enamored with you. 

He should have predicted you’d fall for Astarion when he showed you the game. You had a thing for people who put up the tough front, but who really just needed a little extra softness and patience under the surface. He was living proof of it.

Unlike your fictional vampire boyfriend. 

“Yeah?” he taunts, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushes yours. His hair works like a curtain, messy as ever as he shields the two of you from the outside world. One of your hands have crept up so that you palm rests against his cheek, and he can hardly remember that flare of jealousy that had gnawed at him when you’d spent your entire afternoon absorbed in the game instead of him, “I bet I could be meaner than Astarion. Although, I’m not sure just how mean that man has ever been to you, given all the war crimes you commit for his approval-“

He’s cut off when the thumb of the hand cradling his face trails up, pressing on his bottom lip. It only makes him grow even closer to you, pressing in, drawn by your touch.

You squint your eyes at him jokingly before cooing, “Someone sounds jealous.”

“Damn right,” he doesn’t even try to deny it, caught in the web of your trap with ease, “Does your pixelated lover even know what a catch he’s got?” 

You snort adorably at that. He pulls away to see the full force of your laughter, lifting up into his elbows to admire how your face scrunches with your smile. He bets Astarion would make some sarcastic comment about it — about the crinkles by your eyes that he aches to pepper with kisses, about the indents in your cheeks when you smile this wide, about the sound of your genuine laughter when you unrestrained and entirely comfortable like this. But there’s not a single joke forming on Eddie’s tongue. He’s all but hypnotized. 

God, he fucking loves you. So much so he’s jealous of a video game character.

“I’m not sure I’d consider this,” you lift the hand not holding him carefully still to motion at your current state of being, “A catch, my love.” 

He has to disagree. Messy hair or not, wrinkled pajamas or not.  You’re the greatest catch of this entire existence; not just Eddie’s, but the Universe’s. Nothing you could say or point out would deter him from this belief. He loves you, mess and all.

“My love?” he chooses to tease instead, all the words of affection threatening to choke him if he so much as considers letting them pour out, “I like the sound of that. If that’s the Astarion effect, maybe he isn’t so bad after all.”  

His elbows are sinking deeper into the mattress. With every passing second, his face is dropping closer to yours, and he’s not sure if it’s by instinct or choice. But when his lips finally brush yours, he decides it’s all the same — it doesn’t really matter what sort of gravity is at work here, as long as it keeps bringing him down closer to you.

“Shut up about the game and kiss me, Eddie.” 

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

The kiss is as sweet as ever. A comfortable dance that still sends shivers down his spine. If either of you looked closer at his arms bracketing your shoulders, you’d see the goosebumps raising as you eagerly returned all his affection.

You taste like the chocolates you’d been snacking on during your gaming. You taste like the greatest gift ever given, and he doesn’t care if he’s exaggerating or not. You’re divine — his favorite good morning and his only goodnight. 

And he’d say all that, but you’d probably accuse him of trying too hard to be like Astarion. Probably bring up that ridiculous line the character once said about you being made by the Gods, just to ruin him.

You were, though. Made by the Gods, specifically to ruin Eddie. Fuck the game. 

“You know,” he whispers against your lips, breaking for air as he adjusts positions. Your thighs open up and welcome him home, letting him slot right between your legs comfortably. He’s not trying to seduce you, but he can’t even be mad about it. He feels like a starved man now that your attention has been divided as of late, “If you wanted a lover who bites, all you had to do was ask, darling.” 

If you weren’t so wrapped up in the kisses he was pressing down your jaw and along your neck, you would have ripped him to shreds for the awful impersonation. 

But you’re already far gone, lost in his touches and his adorations. You let the half-assed attempt at a British accent slide, and you even bare your neck to him at the minute threat. 

Biting had never been off the table, per se, and Eddie was really fucking glad for it.

When he presses one, two, three greedy kisses to that sweet spot just below your ear, he has one intention in mind. Not his usual sucking and nipping and soothing, not leaving behind one of his ordinary love bites. No, he lets himself get caught up in the moment, and when he catches that quiver of excitement the moment he drags his teeth over your neck carefully, he’s fully committed to his decision.

He bites.

Not hard enough to draw blood, or even be terribly painful. He knows it’s nothing like the game or any of your subsequent fantasies you might have had from it. His canines are fairly dull, even as they dig carefully into the skin of your neck, holding for a moment for effect. But your legs tighten around his hips, and he almost wishes he was a damn vampire, able to actually pierce your skin in the moment. Drink your blood. Whatever the allure was with the origin companion.

You let out a soft gasp which has him keeping your skin between his teeth a few extra seconds, and then he’s letting go. Lifting his head and looking into your eyes, a silent exchange of is this okay?

If the glazed over look is anything to go off of, it’s more than okay.

He returns with reckless abandon, switching between his usual desperate kisses and the newer, sharper ones. He has one goal in mind: to mark you up as his, to the point in which you’ll be scolding him in the morning. It’s like a drug, to feel you writhe beneath him as he paints the picture. 

Love notes of freshly born bruises, the imprints of his teeth – a letter across your delicate skin that reads, he was here, and he loved you, more than anyone else in this Universe may ever be capable of. 

“If I had known how much biting would rile you up, I would’ve started doing it ages ago,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, finally pausing his assault. 

He settles for softer presses of his lip, peppering the affection where he had been a bit more violent. 

Your hands that had taken to tangling into the curls at the nape of his neck have gone more relaxed, no longer tugging but instead just lingering. Pulling him closer. Touching him with softer hands than he’s ever felt deserving of. 

“Guess you’ve got a certain vampire to thank for that,” you tease, but he can hear just how breathless he’s left you. He had sworn he could feel the pulse of your facing heart beneath his lips, even if just for a moment. Even if he just imagined it. 

“Please. Astarion is not getting the credit for that,” he scoffs, lifting up onto his elbows again to just look at you. His lover, his favorite person. It’s nice to see your face when it’s not washed over with the cast of a computer screen. “That was all me. And even if it wasn’t, I won’t forget that you had a Twilight phase.” 

Your hand quickly drops between the two of you, only to smack at his chest. The thump holds no weight as you whine, “I told you that in confidence.” 

He dips down, capturing one last kiss, “It’s okay, baby. It’s good to know that you have a type.”

“I do not-”

He cuts you off with a more playful bite to your neck. Less about marking you, and more just to make a point. 

“Just,” another nip, “admit,” another graze of his teeth, “it.” 

You’re fighting a smile when he looks down at you again, impossible to hide behind your mask of annoyance. “I am not admitting that I have a thing for broody, pathetic vampires.” 

“Well, I’ve got broody and pathetic down-”

“Eddie,” your thighs still bracket him, one hand still clinging to the back of his neck. When you say his name, the game is over. “We can spend all night bickering over the fictional men I love, or you can give me a reason to forget their names. It’s up to you.” 

His eyebrows jump up his forehead, and he’s just about to give up the bit, but not before one last snide remark.

“Kind of hard to do that when I share a name with one of them, but as you wish, sweetheart.” 

Another bout of beautiful laughter from him. Another smack on the chest from you. It’s good – it’s everything Eddie has ever wanted, and it is good.

He does, of course, make you forget their names. And if you find it difficult to get out of bed the next moment, dramatically unable to make the walk to your gaming computer, well – he won’t try to hide his smug smile in between the soft rays of morning light.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

join my taglist!

[sematarygirls]

꒰ telling sonny you don't like parmesan cheese on your pasta ꒱ 𝅄

  ／ sonny had invited you over for dinner at his place. he wanted to cook you a nice, homemade meal and woo you with his boyish charms—though, you had to admit you were already head over heels for him anyway.

you were so incredibly grateful for his thoughtful gesture that when he brought out a plate of pasta with grated parmasan cheese on top, you couldn't bring yourself to admit that you hated parmesan on your pasta.

you were a little odd and full of contradictions. You loved alfredo sauce, which was mostly parmesan cheese, and other foods that incorporated it into their dishes, but something about eating the cheese in it's pure, non-melted form made your stomach churn.

however, the people pleaser part of you that hated being an inconvenience kept you from just voicing this slightly weird fact about yourself. rationally, you knew it would be easy for him to just get you another plate, but you would feel so guilty for it—despite knowing that it really wasn't a big deal at all.

"and so I told him-" he paused, suddenly zeroing in on the fact that you hadn't touched your food. you were just sort of pushing it around your plate. "is something wrong?" he asked, brows furrowing as his gaze darted from your meal to your face.

"huh?" you asked, your own brows pinching in confusion as you followed his stare. "oh, no, everything is fine," you smiled as it dawned on you what he meant.

"why aren't you eating then?" he asked, concern written all over his face. "are you feeling okay? do you want me to make you something else?" he was quick to try and produce solutions for whatever unknown problem you were facing.

"no, no," you insisted, his attentiveness and care making your heart flutter with affection. "it's... silly. don't worry about it."

"well, if you don't tell me, i'm obviously going to worry about it," he said stubbornly. "c'mon, doll, tell me what's wrong."

"oh, god, i feel so stupid," you groaned, burying your head in your hands. he was so concerned and worried about you, and the only problem was that you had an odd food preference. "i just don't like parmesan on my pasta, and i didn't want to say anything because it sounds silly and is honestly not even that big of a deal and-" you stopped your rant when you looked up and saw the shocked expression on his face.

"you don't like parme- never mind, not important." he shook his head, clearly trying to brush away the italian part of him that was deeply disturbed by this information. "you should have just said something. i would have made you another plate without it," he said incredulously, bewildered that you would just sit there and not eat rather than tell him you didn't like it.

"i know," you said sheepishly. "i just didn't want to bother you after you went through all the trouble to invite me over and make me dinner." it sounded completely insane now that you said it out loud, but nothing about you ever seemed to be sane or rational.

he said your name firmly, rising from his seat to make his way to your side and take your hand. "it's no trouble at all, okay? next time, just tell me. i would never be mad or annoyed at you for telling me how you feel."

"okay, thank you," you smiled at him, nodding. he had a comforting presence and a way with words that always seemed to make you feel at ease.

"and don't thank me for it either," he smiled back brightly at you, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. "but, i honestly can't believe you don't like parmesan," he shook his head in disbelief as he grabbed your plate and headed to the kitchen to make you another one.

[lesbianslugreaction]

Something of a Tournament

A silly and somewhat meta fic in which Valvert discuss a romance-related event happening in Paris that may or may not be the 19th century equivalent of @lesmisshippingshowdown. (Feat. tons of fluff and sleepy cuddles)🩷

I'm submitting this as an old man steal (Wordcount: 1,195)

[wolfofcelestia]

MDNI

Zayne, Dawnbreaker, Foreseer x MC

Breeding

NoStoryOnlyIdea.jpg

Disclaimer: The only exposure to Foreseer I’ve had is from secret times so he is VERY OOC!! Ignore all background plot regarding him!! This isn't about canon accuracy, this is about fucking around with three Zaynes!!

>>> Do not take any of this seriously lmao

Zayne used his surgical knots on MC to tie her wrists to the bed posts at her request

Z: “I knew you were insatiable but I wasn’t expecting a request like this. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

MC: “I love you and want to feel more of you. Now I can.”

FS: “Meaning you weren’t enough for her, Doctor. Once I’m done with her, I’m afraid you’ll never be enough for her.”

Zayne shot MC a look that told her exactly how he felt about Foreseer but he kept his mouth shut. He was doing this for her and once she was satisfied, they would disappear from their lives

MC flashed Zayne a smile that was half apologetic, half appreciative of what he was willing to put up with

DB: “Do you really want to bear my child?”

Dawnbreaker sounded almost lost, completely unaware of MC’s lust, Foreseer’s rivalry, and the Doctor’s exasperation of his wife’s whims

Z: “Considering what she wants and considering we share the same DNA, the child’s father would be all three of us.”

Zayne sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He still couldn't believe this was happening. This whole situation was completely absurd

FS: “DNA may tell you one thing, but would you be happy raising a child knowing your wife begged for me to impregnate her?”

Foreseer was the very embodiment of Zayne’s smugness and seeing it in front of him made him look away, again shooting a look at MC

Dawnbreaker didn't say anything, but a black ice shard began growing in his hand, seemingly to appear when his emotions were triggered by Foreseer's words

MC caught sight of this and called out his name, fearing this night of indulgent pleasure would end in death

MC: “Zayne!”

All three of them immediately turned their attentions to her, like trained dogs obeying their master. Despite being tied to the bed, she was unquestionably the one in charge of the bickering trio

The ice shard quickly disappeared from Dawnbreaker's hand and he shifted his body away from her, adjusting his tie awkwardly as he dealt with the guilt of upsetting MC, even just a little bit

Z: "Let's just get this over with so we can get rid of them."

There was a clear sense of unease in Zayne's voice as he spoke to MC. It was kind of hard to know how to act when you had two other versions of yourself right in front of you. And your wife wanted all three of you to fill her up until her body had no choice but to accept one of their seeds to conceive

FS: "I agree. Enough talk. This night will be very long and I intend for you to never forget the feeling of me making you cry out again and again tonight."

Z: "Did you think I was going to just let you monopolize her? Once you're spent, I'll show you how to satisfy her."

FS: "Look, she's already so pliant under my touch. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?"

As Zayne and Foreseer competed for control and positions with MC, Dawnbreaker stood back, a whirlwind of shock, hurt, and disbelief swirling in his mind

It was only when MC looked past Zayne and Foreseer to lock eyes with Dawnbreaker that he finally, slowly, hesitantly... approached the bed

[the-spam-specialist]

Hello! i'd love to hear a line from your hit fic, Vacant Articulation! Maybe a line from Pain? or perhaps Palm Knee! I like Jex and Google, too!

Sure! Here's a line from Pain to Palm Knee

"Palm Knee, do you see the small vent on the floor? Have you ever heard of Among Us, Palm Knee? You need to vent. I know it will be hard for you to be sus, but I know you can do it, Palm Knee.

[justiceforplutoo]

a/n: I realized half-way through that this is less of an interpretation of canon, but more of an interpretation of an interpretation of canon. so, like, take this with a grain of salt? also this has slight nsfw (the characters connect sexual intercourse with gun violence and I wanted to examine that)

I'm sure that someone's said this before, but for me, the "his wife has filled the house with chintz" quote from Tumblr and the "of course I love you. I tried to shoot you" quote from Goncharov (1973) have the same energy.

His wife has filled the house with chintz. To keep it real, I fuck him on the floor.

In this reblog of "his wife", @headspace-hotel points out the contrast between the connotation here of chintz as something fake and flimsy and the idea of "fuck[ing] on the floor" as carnal and real.

The illicit encounter in the poem takes place within a house filled with facade, the flimsy construction of the wife’s marriage and domestic sphere, but the encounter itself is a taste of something “real.”

KATYA: Of course we're in love. That's why I tried to shoot you. GONCHAROV: If we were really in love, you wouldn’t have missed.

I really like this interpretation of Katya's death scene, written by @frstcorinthians. The way I read it, it feels like she says, "Of course we're in love," almost sarcastically, or even mockingly.

I'd like to point out that Katya only shoots at Goncharov because he shot at her first. "Katya is a good shot. Almost perfect, even. But now, the bullet goes wide; she sees it skim past Goncharov’s temple. They're one for one." In this violence/love metaphor I'm using here... Katya can love. She loves brilliantly. But for Goncharov, she misses (can't reciprocate). It's clearly different for Goncharov. He explicitly says (in canon!), "If we were really in love, you wouldn't have missed," before shooting her in the neck. A perfect shot.

I think that Katya engages in relationship with Goncharov because she wants to prove that they are equals. One for one - you shoot me, I shoot you - you love me, I love you. But Goncharov really does love Katya; likewise, he really does shoot her.

I feel like Katya is taking Goncharov's love (house) and turning it into a game (filling it with chintz).

I also want to bring this quote (from the fic) to focus:

She doesn’t feel the bullet go into her, not really. All she feels is a vague sense of warmth in the juncture of her neck and shoulder and the exchange of the bullet’s motion pushed into her body. Not so different from sex, then. Here, as there, she goes with the force Goncharov enters into her, relaxed.

So, with the idea that the bullet is some sort of metaphor for penetration, and then we know that Katya doesn't really feel the energy of that bullet versus...

He feels Andrey’s hands around his shoulder as he eases him down to the ground. In his final moments, he thinks he feels Andrey’s thumb stroke gently across his shoulder. Maybe it’s his dying mind’s attempts to self-preserve, a flashback to the night before Goncharov’s wedding, when Andrey’s thumb made the same motion in their post-coital bliss.

... this connection of the intimacy between Andrey and Goncharov? Katya doesn't seem to feel this intimacy, but Goncharov seems to feel it about Andrey. When Katya compares the bullet to penetration, it's because she thinks that both are insignificant.

Goncharov doesn't compare the act of killing to intercourse, instead he compares the intimacy of betrayal and intercourse. Andrey's betrayal feels intimate to Goncharov. It feels real.

So if Katya is filling the house with chintz by not reciprocating Goncharov's love/bullet, Andrey is keeping it real by fucking him (stabbing him) on the floor (the bridge).

[library-ghoulette]

So, I must confess to you that I live something of a double life. When I'm not composing fine cliterature about getting railed by Satanic popes and literal demons, I take the guise of a sweet, mild-mannered librarian. A librarian whose patrons possess an insatiable hunger for ✨Amish romance✨.

(This is so much more common than you might think.)

Which prompted @cruise-in-your-glow-bus to pose to me a most intriguing question:

And because my two passions are reader advisory and committing to the bit, I did it.

Now, as to why our Papas, the very embodiment of Satan's power here on Earth, would want to read a thoroughly evangelical Christian genre that fetishizes a largely imagined version of plain living in service of regressive values and politics... I don't know. I can only assume that they heard me whining after a hard day's work and got morbidly curious. "Wait, they're asking you for what kind of books?"

Well, they're about to find out!

Primo: Everyone's favorite murder grandpa and hobby horticulturalist gets the Amish Greenhouse Mysteries series by Wanda Brunstetter. And maybe also the Expectant Amish Widows series by Samantha Price... "procreate the unholy bastard," "Prime Mover," etc. Honestly, you could fill a dozen nursery wards with all the babies in Amish fiction--babies being found, babies being adopted, babies being conceived out of wedlock, you get the idea--so he's got reading material for life if he discovers he's into that!

Secondo: The Infamous Amish series by Patricia Johns. It's about the children of an Amish preacher dealing with the fallout after their dad is imprisoned for fraud, and I mean, has there ever been an Emeritus sibling with an uncomplicated relationship with Nihil? Ghouls have also described Secondo as wounded and bitter, so perhaps a story of healing and moving on would be a balm for his scarred soul? /s

Terzo: Women Talking by Miriam Toews. I cannot imagine Terzo touching an actual Amish romance--especially after how disappointed he would be to learn that there is no sex in bonnet rippers whatsoever, in barns or otherwise--but I can see him reading a novel that critiques the power structures that oppress and exploit women in a religious community. (Technically this is cheating because the characters in this book are Mennonite, not Amish, but it comes up when I search for Amish fiction at my library, so I'm calling it good enough.)

Copia: I'm tempted to say The Shunning by Beverly Lewis, because family secrets and feeling like you're going to be cast out? That's just a regular Tuesday afternoon for babygirl! But I think that anything this remotely close to home is going to make Copia dissociate himself into the stratosphere, so I'm suggesting Amish Vampires in Space by Kerry Nietz, instead. Pure escapism. (Yes, this is a real book.)

Nihil: What are you even talking about? That himbo's not reading!

[bridgertonbabe]

Bridgerton Group Chat AU - The Darkest Timeline

As a thank you to both @silverhallow and @holybatgirlz for writing hilarious pieces inspired by the Group Chat AU, I have written this entirely ludicrous and outlandishly batshit drabble for the series. This is an extremely over the top and completely far-reaching out of the realm of reality insight into what might happen in the darkest of timelines of this AU if the Bridgertons were to ever truly take a game night way way way too far.

Entirely based and inspired by this clip from Community following the events of study group's own chaotic game night:

"To Phil." Simon slurred as he raised his half-drunken bottle of vodka. "May he rest in Phil."

There was a pause as he processed what he had just said before he snorted and cackled, and then proceeded to pour out some of his vodka onto the floor by his chair.

"Simon, don't you think you've have enough?" Kate remarked with a wrinkled brow of concern as she watched her inebriated brother-in-law across from her.

"Of you." Simon instantly threw back.

Kate gasped from the offence made against her as Simon knocked back another mouthful from his bottle, all the while maintaining a pointed resentment-filled glare at her as he drank.

"Guys, I've been thinking about that night over and over." Penelope piped up. "One thing has become clear; this is the darkest most terrible timeline."

"Enough with the timeline crap, Pen!" Kate exclaimed.

Though she had endured the most amount of years faithfully attending Bridgerton game nights and knowing full well all the horrors that were bound to unravel and occur, ever since that night Penelope had well and truly cracked. She hadn't cried nor grieved nor shown any ounce of emotion since that fateful night, instead her brain had rewired itself (as a form of coping mechanism) to narrow in on the semantics of that evening as she obsessively tried to think up every alternate timeline that might have occurred had she interfered at numerous points of that night. Every time the rest of the spouses had seen her since all she had been capable of speaking of were alternative trajectories stemming from that night as well as fervently mentioning the odds and probabilities of the events playing out the way in which they infamously had.

"Phil had a heart attack and dropped down dead!" Kate hysterically reminded Penelope. "Simon's a drunk, Lucy's locked in a mental ward because her guilt drove her insane, Michael lost an arm in the fire," - she gestured to Michael sat beside her, who in turn emotionlessly (his merry persona now long gone) gestured with his only arm to where his other arm should have been - "Gareth lost his larynx because for some dumb reason he tried to destroy a flaming troll doll by eating it-"

"Clearly you don't understand anything about defeating trolls." Gareth's electrolarynx-powered voice interjected.

"Our spouses are all either dead or in prison, our children all got taken away by social services, and now the doctors have pronounced Sophie's practically brain-dead and that it's up to us whether to pull the plug on her!"

The last five remaining spouses all looked to the bed they were sitting around where Sophie lay comatose amongst a sea of tubes and wires keeping her alive, the beeping of her heart rate monitor and the machine pumping oxygen into her filling the momentary silence in the room.

"Life has gone to hell, Penelope! This is real!" Kate cried with the despairing hope of trying to get her sister-in-law to touch back in with reality. "Look at us! Look at me!"

"Kate." Michael uttered in a low voice, unable to look at her. "You put one wash-away blue streak in your hair - and I lost an arm." he stated in as tempered and controlled a voice as he could muster, as he finally turned to look her in the eye.

"Exactly." Kate nodded back at him. "Life got dark."

"And all because Michael rolled a one." Penelope said.

"Oh I love how this is all my fault somehow." Michael replied, his voice inflected with growing exasperation.

"It's mine." Penelope shook her head dismissively. "I've run through that night over and over in my head and I keep coming back to one thought; I should have caught the die and not let you roll it. That's the exact moment I've pinpointed all of the chain of events from that night stemming from. I failed to do that and we all suffered for it. But I'm going to make it all up to you."

Penelope then put down the pair of scissors she had been using and picked up the black pieces of felt she had been fixatedly working on since they had convened in Sophie's hospital room. She then distributed each of the pieces to her remaining fellow spouses, each of them receiving them with curious expressions.

"What is this?" Michael deadpanned after examining the cut out black felt piece he had just been handed.

"Of all the timelines this is clearly the darkest which is why I propose we commit to being evil." Penelope explained matter-of-factly. "I've made us all black goatees out of felt, I suggest you put them on until you're able to grow your own." she advised in all seriousness.

While Michael turned the fake goatee over in his hand, his eyes narrowing in on it with every passing second, Simon simply slipped the goatee onto the neck of his bottle before swigging from it once more.

"From now on, I am Evil Penelope." Penelope declared after putting on her fake goatee. "We are the Evil League of Bridgerton Spouses and we have but one evil goal; return somehow to the prime timeline - the one that I stopped you from rolling that die - then we destroy the good versions of ourselves and we claim our proper lives."

Kate and Michael looked at Penelope blankly before their attention was drawn to Simon whimpering across from them as he looked to Sophie's lifeless figure.

"It should have been me." Simon wept. "I should have been the one who got hit simultaneously by the firetruck and ambulance from both sides... I'm so jealous!" he cried out and waved his bottle about, spilling some of the contents over Sophie's bedding.

"Simon, don't say that!" Kate spluttered. "Everything about that night was godawful and should never have happened in the first place-"

"The darkest timeline." Penelope breathed under her breath in reiteration.

"-and there was nothing we could have done to save poor Sophie!"

"Evil Pen; as Evil Michael am I allowed to pull fewer punches with everyone?" Michael addressed his obsessive sister-in-law in a low voice brimming with a deep resentment that none of the other in-laws picked up on.

"Certainly." Penelope nodded.

"I hate you!" Michael exploded. "I hate you all! I hate the stupid fucking family we all married into! I hate your stupid sci-fi crap!" he barked at Penelope. "I hate you for standing back and letting the rest of us foolishly marry in one by one so you weren't alone being married into that wretched family of monsters!" he shot at Simon, who shrugged uncaringly and carried on necking back his vodka. "I hate your stupid fucking electrolarynx!"

"Rude." Gareth's robotic voice retorted.

"But I hate you most of fucking all!" Michael turned on Kate, much to her incredulous chagrin. "You who enabled, encouraged, and exacerbated the Bridgertons in their heinously insane competitive ways! You who were just as bad, if not even worse than some of them when it came to those stupid fucking games! You who Sophie was chasing to try and save from going back into the raging inferno when she got hit by the emergency vehicles because you were crazed enough to insist that if you counted up all your cards you could prove you had won!"

"But I did! I did win!" Kate retaliated, her maddening competitive glint returning to her sharpening gaze in spite of everything that had befallen them all.

"Sophie is on her deathbed because of you!" Michael yelled, his voice breaking with long-amounted incandescent rage.

"Well maybe if she wasn't so desperate to prevent me from proving just how badly she had lost-"

"That's it!" Michael screamed and jumped to his feet. "I can't take this anymore! I'm filing a restraining order against each and every one of you! I want nothing more to do with any of you! With any of this!"

With that Michael stormed out, flinging the door open with his one remaining arm and slamming it emphatically after him.

"Hey!" Kate leapt up, tearing the door open, and followed after him. "It's a group decision to pull the plug on Sophie - you don't get out of it that easily!" she called out as she marched after Michael's retreating footsteps.

A crash within the room then brought Penelope and Gareth's attention to where Simon had just passed out from all the alcohol he had consumed, having fallen out of his chair and into some of the machines keeping Sophie alive, his bottle crashing on impact and sending glass shards across the floor.

Gareth then turned to share a look with Penelope - and that's when she noticed that he too was wearing one of her black felt goatees. There was a shared nod of agreement as they both mutually decided on the path they were about to embark on

"Evil Pen and Evil Gareth!" they both chanted; and thus began the new Evil Chapter of their lives.

[esmecuckoo]

Am I good?

No. I'm Esme-zing.

[itchose]

❝  no hard feelings, right? ❞ he asks, raising his brows as he looks up to the top of his head, rightly decorated with the homecoming crown he always knew he'd win. with his girlfriend, of course, but he's not totally oblivious - he knows the vote for homecoming queen was closer than jackie would want to admit. ❝  i mean, i used to think it might be me and you someday, anyway, ❞ he laughs it off, like it's an obvious joke, like the moment he and @manslaught had when they were teenagers for all of three seconds was something special ( it was to him, so he only assumes it was to her, too. )

[pens-are-frenz]

I hate one of my fictional characters so much right now. Like, he's being such a dick right now I want to destroy him with my FUCKING EYEBALLS.

I did this to myself, but I still want this fucker GONE. Does the plot work like that??? No! Do I care? A- little bit b/c I'm really proud of my outline and don't wanna ruin it:(

Y'know what is canon? One of my other characters roughing hi up a bit (and by this I mean beat the ever-loving day lights outta him).

I am going to enjoy writing this scene immensely!!

[confusedpandabear]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick, Gav & Clive Rosfield, Clive Rosfield & Joshua Rosfield, Dion Lesage & Clive Rosfield Characters: Clive Rosfield, Jill Warrick, Gav (Final Fantasy XVI), Joshua Rosfield, Dion Lesage, Byron Rosfield, Charon (Final Fantasy XVI), Midadol Telamon, Tarja (Final Fantasy XVI) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dormitory AU, Romantic Comedy, i guess?, Boys Being Boys, Clive is a shy boi, Joshua is a shameless romantic, Clive just wants to study, cheesy af, Why Did I Write This?, who knows Summary: Modern/Dormitory AU that no one asked for. Clive is a shy boi who has a crush on his pretty new neighbour. Joshua, Gav and Dion are the wingmen he never asked for.