#Prosaics

[bangaveragewhitewine]

soft slow, morning glow

Steve Harrington x Reader

A prosaic peek at Steve Harrington’s inability to sleep in and stay in bed and his reasons for changing his ways. 

October 1997; a cosy easy morning, where kisses are shared and ABBA songs are sung as a lullaby.

Word count: 4.3K

Content/Warnings: TW for talk of bleeding during pregnancy, borderline neglectful parents. 

Mention of sex (18+), not explicit. This contains dad!Steve & mom! reader toward the end; pregnant reader. Kinda rambling. Very soft. Low angst (but not none).

Note: Thank you to my ST rewatch for making me fall for Steve all over again. 

Proofread by @specialagentmonkey | Divider by @silkholland

Steve Harrington was always an early riser. 

As a honey-haired little boy, he spent Saturday mornings on the sofa watching cartoons with the volume dialled low as his parents slept. He knew not to make a mess with the cereal, or the milk, rewarded with a stack of pancakes or a new toy for keeping himself amused as Richard and Katherine Harrington slept off the previous evening’s dinner party hangover. 

Always the first awake at sleepovers, he would wait with bated breath for Tommy to stir or feign a sneeze to wake him. 

He never had to be dragged from bed to go to school during the week, always up and at ‘em to go see his friends, play tag and swap baseball cards on the playground. 

As a sporty and popular teenager, he started running when he didn’t have early swim practice or basketball. Steve rose with the sun and waved to his neighbours politely as his shiny sneakers slapped the pavements of Loch Nora. 

He was never sure what he was running from, or towards, but the burn of chilly morning air in his lungs made him feel alive. 

When he started going to house parties and hangouts on Saturday nights, his Sundays still started early, dragged to show face at his parent’s church. It was less about faith and god and all about appearances. He snuck out of bedroom windows, hopped white picket fences as the sun rose, fought hangovers as the priest’s voice droned and caught the eyes of pretty girls from the convent school a town over - they always blushed when he smiled at them or dropped them a sly little wink as the collection plate was passed around. 

When his parents started travelling more, after the shortlived re-commitment to the church, Steve’s Sunday morning hangovers were kept at bay with cold swims in the pool or hot coffee and loud music in the kitchen as he tried and failed to focus on homework.  

Steve started working right out of school as punishment for unsubmitted college applications and lower-than-predicted grades. He volunteered for the opening shifts in Scoops Ahoy and Family Video - he liked the responsibility and having a purpose, having an excuse to be out of the house before his parents could tutt and fuss and lecture him. It was easier when they weren’t there; when the office in Indy needed Richard’s attention more than his wife and son did, when Katherine spotted smears of lipstick on his collars again and insisted she spend some time with him in the city apartment. 

In their absence, the Harrington house was a mausoleum of failure that Steve couldn’t bear to be in. So he raised his hand for early delivery shifts and stock takes and drove his friends to school when he didn’t have to, already awake after another night of nightmares, memories of flying fists. 

Steve Harrington rose early and burned bright; burned out quickly when he realised he didn’t know what to do with himself or what his purpose was. 

He filled his time with making himself useful to other people, chasing and seeking a purpose or a person to fill the gaps and spaces in his chest; the hollows once reserved for the people who didn’t return the outpouring of love he offered so freely, so innocently. He found and made a rag-bag bunch of friends, a found family, who returned the love he deserved in the ways they knew how. Woven and knotted friendship bracelets, squished candy bars, mixtapes, weed sold and rolled at buddy rates or for nothing at all.

Steve Harrington moved to the city with his best friends; a Beemer and a battered van filled with boxes and suitcases. The early morning drive made Steve Harrington glow golden in the rising sun, his excited eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses as Robin Buckley snored in the passenger seat and Eddie Munson listened to metal at an ear-bleeding volume in his van and flipped Steve off with that big grin in the rearview mirror. They stopped for strong coffee and sweet pancakes and started a new chapter in the city. 

When you fell in love with Steve in 1990, he found a reason to stay in bed a little longer. A reason to slow down, soak up the sunshine glow you shone on him. 

You spent Saturday nights with friends, a patchwork group cheering on Corroded Coffin and selling T-shirts and tapes at a merch table when they scored a bigger venue and a bigger crowd. Movie nights and takeout Chinese food and a stack of new and old movies from Blockbuster. Date nights at swanky bars and restaurants, with flickering candles and pizza on the way home because you didn’t want the night to end yet. You spent hours in bed together, night and morning, talking about everything under the rising sun and dwindling moon, learning about each other’s life and mapping each other’s body with kisses and gentle touches. 

In the morning he gazed at your sleepy softness and took his own pulse to make sure he wasn’t dying. No heart attack, just falling in love.

He brought you cups of coffee and sweet pastries from the bakery a block away when his limbs felt restless. He always got back into bed with you to cuddle and while away the morning without a moment wasted. With Steve, those mornings were syrupy slow; he worshipped you between your thighs and held your hands as the headboard bashed against the wall.

You became Mrs. Steve Harrington in the spring of ‘94. 

A small wedding. A big party for your friends. A honeymoon week where every morning felt like a perfect lazy Saturday.

When Steve found his reason to stay in bed, together you created a reason that kept you from it. 

Bethany Rose Harrington. Born June 21st 1995. 

Beth had her Daddy’s eyes and her Mama’s nose, and the sweetest little dimples in her smiley pink cheeks. She was her Daddy’s little doughnut, her Mama’s little bee. She inherited Steve’s charm and wrapped her extensive collection of doting uncles and aunts right around her tiny finger. She took after you in the way that Steve was completely and utterly in love with her. 

Just like her Dad, Beth liked to start the day early. After a few weeks of seeking out and settling into a routine, Steve spent the earliest part of the day feeding his little Bethie her bottle of milk in the cosy armchair nestled in the corner of her pale yellow nursery. As he watched her big brown eyes gaze and blink, felt her tiny fist wrap around his finger, Steve decided that these were the happiest mornings of his life. 

On those soft and slow mornings, you could hear Steve’s low murmur to your little girl through the baby monitor when his excitement to see her gummy smile or stop her sad fat tears bypassed the off-switch. You fell back asleep to the sound of Steve telling Beth about how the Cubs and the Bulls (their teams now) were doing this season, or about the walk in the park you were going to go on once ‘beautiful mama’ was awake. He sang to her; never typical lullabies, Queen and ABBA and Dusty Springfield. 

Steve basked in the joy of her little smiles, soaked in the soft cooing noises as Beth found her voice to talk back to her Daddy. When she fell asleep again, milk-drunk with her cheek against his heartbeat, Steve watched the morning sky shift and brighten and listened out for the sound of your waking time. The soft thud and shuffle from bed to bathroom, running water, your yawn and stretch, the gentle steps to seek and find him and your little treasure. You filled reams of camera film, documenting Steve as a Dad, your little girl's first weeks and months. Lit by morning light, by afternoon sun and the shade of the tree in your yard, and dusky nighttime lit by nightlights.

When your laundry list of chores allowed it, you took one of your three options on those mornings of parenthood - take turns to bask in the warmth of lavender and milk-scented baby cuddles while the other showered; bring the sleeping beauty back to your bed to gaze at the ten fingers and ten toes you had created together; or leave the sleepy and full-tummied grub to sleep in her crib again to spend the slow dawn hours holding each other and trading kisses, and knotting yourselves up in the sheets together once the doctor gave you the all-clear and a prescription for birth control. 

You did plenty of all three. 

Summer turned to Autumn, then Winter, and Steve balanced being a father and husband with keeping a roof over your heads and the final year of his programme to get his qualification to become a guidance counsellor. His mornings with Beth were part of his routine, leaving her smiling and drooly for you when he kissed his girls goodbye. Missing him during full days of supervised sessions and hours in the college library when he wasn’t in classes bonded you and Beth, thick as thieves and lovestruck for the golden Harrington boy-turned-man. You made sure that he never missed a moment with how many pictures you took, and Beth saved all of her firsts for when he was home. You coached her to say ‘dada’ in Steve’s absence and he sobbed happy tears when she parroted it back. (He had been coaching her to say ‘mama’ during their early mornings together).

Your late nights of talking turned to early-to-bed nights, sleeping when the baby slept and when your little home was some semblance of clean and tidy. Steve fell asleep to the sound of Bethie’s breath on the monitor, your heart under his cheek and the soft stroke of your fingers in his hair, along the length of his arm. 

Both of you were exhausted. Neither of you had ever been happier. 

When he graduated in the Summer, you and Beth cheered and clapped for your golden boy along with his best friends - the loudest bunch in the college auditorium. A picture of the Harrington trio - Steve in his shirt and tie and graduation gown balancing a smiley baby and his degree as you kiss his cheek and tickle Beth’s tummy for the camera - was placed with pride on his desk when he started a counsellor job that landed in his lap in the late summer of ‘96. He coached basketball two afternoons a week on the side; it was perfect for him.

You go back to work part-time and you balance taking care of Beth and each other with the utmost care. With help from your family and Steve’s trust fund from the Harrington’s, you make it work. You are what he holds dear, pride of place in the centre of his chest, once vacant and hollow. The gaping space he yearned to fill with the wrong friends, the wrong girls, watery beer and too many cigarettes. 

By the Fall of ‘97, Steve had learned to sleep again. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Enjoy your days off. Enjoy every moment. He is. He’s so tired but never happier. 

This morning, you wake first. 

Your little house in the Chicago suburbs is bathed in autumn darkness on a lazy Saturday.  Six a.m. and Steve snores peacefully. 

Beth is silent, dreaming of her two favourite things: fairies and pancakes. That top five list favourites is rounded out by her Daddy and Mama and Mrs. Murphy’s orange cat that visits the backyard. 

The littlest Harrington is an early bird too, twirling in your tummy beneath Steve’s protective hand. Until Steve can take the morning shift, you are the early riser.

Beth is your sleepy little dreamer, she loves her bed like her Mama. She sneaks in between you and Steve (and the bump now too) when she wakes too early; you spend those mornings gazing and counting fingers and toes again like when she was a tiny thing. 

This baby however seems to take after her father’s love of sport, the way she practices the aim and strength of her kicks on your bladder. You don’t officially know yet (they were less than cooperative at the last ultrasound), but you know it’s a girl. Steve swayed to boy for a day or two before realising you were right. Maybe next time… 

The flush and sigh-groan from your aching back pulls Steve from sleep. When you pad back in from the little bathroom, he’s just about upright and wild-haired. 

“Y’okay?” Eyes swollen with sleep, he reaches blindly for you to help you back into the cosy nest of blankets. 

“Mm, needed to pee.” 

You try to keep your cold feet away but Steve sandwiches them between his own size fourteen and always warm feet. His lips brush your shoulder and the back of your neck when you settle into a comfortable position; Bump dictates what will suffice as ‘comfortable’ and settles under her father’s comforting hand. Harrington’s magic touch is famed in your home; settling gassy babies and working out knotted shoulders, fixing leaky faucets and carrying all of the groceries inside in two heavy handfuls, making shadow-puppet shows on the bedroom wall and holding back your hair when you’re not well. 

Slowly, small-spooned by Steve’s bigger body, you drift again. Sleep comes and goes like an inconsistent tide, and you are anchored safely in his arms. Baby names ebb and flow into your tired head and you wish Steve was awake to tell you what he thought of ‘Heather’ or ‘Ava’. Whether your (very slow) re-read of Little Women was influencing you too much to ‘Josie’. You wonder about how much candy you should get for the trick-or-treaters, and whether Beth will be too scared to help you answer the door to them this year. 

You wish he was awake - because you always wish your every waking moment was spent with Steve Harrington - but you’re so glad he is sleeping soundly, snoring sweetly behind you. You wish you could take more responsibility, take the pressure he puts on his own shoulders from him, but this pregnancy is less easy than the first and you hate that you can’t do it all anymore. You take solace in the fact that Steve is asleep, not awake worrying or nesting. 

Turning in his sleepy hold, you place his hand back on the bump to keep the littlest Harrington settled and content, and watch your handsome husband look like the teenager you wish you had known. You map the laughter lines instead of the ones etched by worry, counting the happy memories (which are insurmountable) as you fall back to sleep with him at last. 

Sleeping Beauty herself slumbers on until almost 8 a.m., meaning that both you and Steve sleep until almost 8 a.m. too - later on you will toast coffee (decaf for you) over that parent win. For the next few months, the weekends mean Steve will be hitting snooze on his body clock when the chances arise. 

This morning Beth’s little voice sings his name down the hall. Steve wakes with a smile and kisses your sleepy face as you stretch and peel your eyes open. 

“You’re up, Coach.” Your voice is a tired yawn, mumbled into the fluffy duvet Steve untangles himself from.

“Bring her in for cuddles please.” You pout for a tired kiss and hum happily when he grants your wish. 

Steve’s ankles crack as he walks from your room to Beth’s. She’s wide awake and wild-haired, matching her Dad, and she sits up in her bed with her bunny-teddy clutched in her fist. 

“Hi bumblebee,” he gasps, his tiredness swept away by his genuine joy to see her. Steve lays down on her too-small-for-him baby bed and pretends to get comfy to sleep again. “Sleepover?” he asks, opening his arm for her. 

“Nooooo, yo’bed!” Her sweet voice crackles with sleepiness and the remnants of a cold she picked up as the seasons changed. 

In the warmth of your bed, you can hear the mini-eye-roll she’s giving her Dad as he plays up to her dramatics. Uncle Dustin has a lot to answer for. 

“Bethie,” you call from your nest, “I miss you.” 

Steve watches with barely restrained amusement as her face beams bright like sunshine before leaving him in the lurch to seek out Mama. “Hey! What about me?!” 

You can hear his grumbling as he hauls himself up from the tiny toddler bed but your focus is the bundle of sunshine that bounds her way to your room in her sky-blue jammies. Pushing messy hair from her face, she squeaks happily as you lift her before Steve can beat you to it. You didn’t want another moment apart from your girl and she burrows against your chest under the toasty-warm duvet. 

“Morning Betty Boop.” You press kisses to her smiling face and hear Steve stomp and flop back into the room and into the bed. 

“Is Daddy not invited to this love-in? Just for Mama and Beth?” he asks, scowling at your smushed-together faces. 

You cuddle Beth and stroke her back as the girl shifts her impish gaze to Steve. “What do you think, Betty? Kisses for Dada?”

She can never ever resist him and reach-grabs out to be gathered in his big strong arms for kisses and cuddles. 

Steve lights up, features relaxing from his feigned annoyance, as he gives and receives morning kisses. You are gathered up alongside the titch of a girl and with her help, you smother kisses all over Steve’s happy face. 

“Never ever not invited to the love-in, my love.” You kiss his shadowed jaw once and tuck yourself under his arm. 

“Kiss d’baby?” Beth’s messy head pops up and looks at you hopefully. 

“You wanna say good morning to Baby?” Steve asks, and she nods. “Mama?”

“I think she’s asleep, but I bet she’ll wake up when she hears Big Sis and Dada.” Beneath the pitched tent of the duvet, you lift Steve’s t-shirt and present the rounded bump for inclusion in the morning love-in.

Beth has been immensely eager to meet her baby since she took notice of your bump and realised the new baby was actually in there.

The little girl’s pillow-soft cheek rests against the curve as she hugs around your middle. “Moh’nin, baby.” Her little voice is still a little stuffed up, nasal. 

Your heart and tears swell as you watch her with Steve, who kisses the bump and murmurs hello. You’re at that point of pregnancy where you could cry when the wind changes and you cover your eyes so Beth won’t go out in sympathy-tears with you. 

Steve’s big hand squeezes your hand as he distracts Beth, who babbles in toddler talk to her sibling. His eyes are wide and worried as he looks up and sees the hitch of your chest. He’s had that worried look since you bled at ten weeks and the doctor put you on bed rest, just three weeks into actually knowing you were pregnant. Everything has settled bar your hormones and emotions; two perfect heartbeats, an active healthy baby, a happy but tired Mom. Steve is more scared now than he was with Beth but pretends to be brave for you.

You swipe at your hot tears, dry your hand in your t-shirt before reaching down to stroke through Steve’s thick hair. 

“M’okay.” You give him a watery smile. “She’s just… so sweet, Stevie.” 

Moving up to lie along your side, Steve wipes your cheek and presses a kiss to the trail of the tears left behind. “Sweetest. Sweet Bee. Feelin’ okay?” 

His hand stays on top of your bump and then passes over Bethany’s bedhead when she looks up curiously. 

Seeing that she is missing out, Beth decides she has had enough and wants to cuddle with you instead of the baby who won’t kick back hello. She wiggles up to lie on Steve’s chest, little fingers poking into the freckles and moles as he pulls the duvet back around you all like a cosy cocoon. 

“Feeling good. You okay?”

Steve has tucked away his worry again, but you still see the pinch in his brow - though the curious little fingers might be the reason for that. 

“Peachy.” He chases the poking fingers with a growling kiss, pulling a shrieking giggle from Beth. “Hello, can I help you? Why are we poking Daddy this morning, huh?” 

You giggle with Beth and kiss where her fingers had pressed, modelling the gentle sweetness you know she possesses in multitudes. “Poor Daddy. See, Betty? Gentle kissies.” A kiss is snuck onto his mouth for good measure. 

“Daddy,” Beth sing-songs, patting his cheek lovingly. 

“Bethie,” Steve sings back to her, echoing her melody. He accepts a wet baby-kiss as you curl close to them both.

You twirl a finger in the messy wave of her hair. “What will we do today? Do you want to get some library books? Or we could… go to the park?” 

Steve pats her back gently. “Oh wow. All the possibilities, huh?” His lips press to Beth’s forehead as she cuddles up to him, her fingers distracted by the gold chain he wears around his neck. “Gentle, please.” He kisses her head again and looks at you. “We can do both… Go get a t-r-e-a-t?” 

You smile and nod, covering Steve’s hand on Beth’s small back. “I like t-r-e-a-ts. What do you want to do, big guy?” 

Steve’s fingers slot with yours. His lips brush your head as you share his pillow - the firm one to help with his neck pain. “Just be with you two. Could stay right here all day and I’d be the happiest guy.” 

You press your nose against his cheek and close your eyes; you’re both surrounded by your favourite people, it is utter bliss. 

“I love you.” Your voice is soft and tired against his stubbly jaw. 

“Love you. So much, babe.” 

Steve tilts his head so you can share a morning-breath-be-damned kiss. He wishes he had woke up sooner, before the wide-eyed toddler, so that he could have showered you with kisses, made out like teenagers (despite the baby bump between you). 

“No! Me!” The frustrated little whine makes you smile apologetically to each other, chancing one more peck before you both look to scowling Beth. 

“Sorry, Bee. Mama’s too delicious for me to resist.”

“Steve!” you tuck your face in his neck as you laugh, an affectionate headbutt. 

“What? The kid’s gotta know.”

The two-year-old smushes her face to her Dad’s chest, still too little to comprehend her Dad’s silly banter when she just wants to be the centre of both of your attention. You have a few months left to figure that out before the baby arrives, but it scares you that she might feel like she’s not the best thing that ever happened you (bar her Dad, of course). 

Your pout matches hers and you push back the stinging Mom Guilt Tears. She is only coaxed away with sweet little cheek-kisses from you as you hum-sing Take a Chance on Me (accompanied by Steve’s tapping fingers on her back ‘take a chance, take a chance, take a, take a chance-chance.)

The girl's smile splits her frustrated face, a quiet giggle as she is serenaded by her current favourite song (you have just got I Was Made For Lovin’ You out of your head after Steve had introduced her to KISS in the car). Her little arm hooks around your head as you whisper how much you love her, soft voice tickling her ear and cheek. 

Beth’s laughter coaxes a fluttering kick against your belly, which Steve feels against his side as you spoon against him. He wears the same wide-eyed joy on his face every time he has felt your babies kick. 

“Oo, she’s awake again. Finally joining the party.” You rest your hand against the side of your rounded belly and telepathically tell the tiny one how much you love them too, how you can’t wait to meet them but please stay in there until they’re fully cooked and ready. 

Steve’s free hand - the one not keeping Beth upright as she sits up on his torso - joins yours and echoes your telepathic communication to the littlest Harrington - I love you, I can’t wait to hold you, please stay safe in there and be nice to your Mom. 

His wide palm on your bump settles the fluttering before she aims her kick right against it Hi Dad! Okay, Dad!

You share a secret little smile with him and kiss his cheek as his eyes shimmer before rolling onto your achy back, feeling the satisfaction of the pop and crack as your spine relaxes against the mattress. Steve’s hand stays on your belly, and you hug his arm to your chest, as Beth sings her toddler-babble version of an ABBA mashup for you both from her throne. 

Steve’s face hurts from smiling as he listens to her, hears some semblance of the lyrics in Beth-speak. He doesn’t remember mornings like this with his parents, few and far between were the times he was even allowed to cuddle with them in bed on a weekend morning.

You glance at his face, watching shifting emotions come and go as he remembers, tries to forget and focuses on the memories being made right now in your cosy nest of a bed. You squeeze his arm and hold his hand on your belly - matching gold wedding rings clicking against each other as your fingers intertwine. 

Steve squeezes your hand, three pulses. There is simply nowhere he would rather be. 

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington character study #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x mom!reader #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #bangaveragefic #steve stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington x f!reader #prosaic fic

[asthevermincrawls]

its hard to overstate how deeply fucking revolutionary it was for me to read a wizard of earthsea at the tender age of eleven. to be told, as a tween just beginning to reconvert and unpack the trauma of Christianity and years of abuse, that the darkness inside you is not a personal failing that you forever have to fight against to be a good person, but in fact is essential. that you need it to be whole. to read about a character fighting his shadow--the embodiment of evil--for years, just like I was taught to, only to finally, at the edge of the world, meet it and embrace it and call it by his own name. words cannot express how grateful I am to ursula k leguin for that. the world is truly a darker place without her

#sorry im having earthsea feels #read a wizard of earthsea its good #very approachable if youre not used to reading too its only 200 pages #very prosaic but not a lot of big words. its considered a classic for a reason #a.txt #earthsea #religious trauma #100+

[fritzllang]

here I am like an insane person squinting at my laptop trying to read the barely-in-focus page of "the richmond way" by trent crimm that we get to see on screen and that makes ted laugh

this is what i've managed:

"In the winter of 2020, on a sunny and crisp morning I bumped into an old acquaintance of mine in the tree lined banks of the river Thames. Smiling at the world, he strolled comfortably with hands in pockets, the man seeming without a care or stress in the world.

On noticing me he exclaimed, and led his friend placing an arm over the man's shoulder over to me, already singing my praises and opening his greetings with a well meaning a personally insightful question.

The man, of course, was Ted Lasso. A Kansas born American football coach come UK coaching phenomenon.

Few of my interviewees would have such a reaction to seeing me outside of their working lives, knowing that I could ask questions that would make them uncomfortable or they wouldn't know how to answer. As well as knowing that what they chose [to] share with me was not in confidence but could be shared with all of those that read my articles. However for Ted this [??] never made an impact. For Ted, everyone that comes into his life is a potential friend, [no matter?] the circumstances of meeting. This attitude, it becomes clear, and I truly hope you will understand the power of its effect by the time you finish reading this book, contributed not only to Ted's personal life but to the sporting capabilities of the AFC Richmond team. When I first met ted the [??] was different. Humiliation would best describe Ted's first press conference. [...]"

the rest of it is so fucking blurry i cant read it for shit but hello? this is a love letter to ted

#can you see i am not good in the head? #ALSO #“the power of its effect” my man #he is like yes meeting this man has changed my entire life #what of it #also im so sorry trent i love you but it is a bit prosaic beard had a point #i am going crazy sorry #trent crimm #the richmond way #more like the lasso way #ted lasso #ted lasso 3x12 #ted lasso spoilers

[verdantglow]

I’m fine.

Jimmy Solidarity personally solved a gaping plothole in my smalletho fic today.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

It’s fine.

#I cannot believe him out here telling Etho Joel calls him babe #& Etho just saying oh snap & then proceeding to fixate on everything Joel for much of the tour #simply can’t. #this is so perfect specifically for my au #for something I was struggling to figure out this morning #is this real life is this fantasy #so yeah. definitely will be internally screaming for a while about this. #god today’s streams were so good. #honestly from what I watched I feel everyone significantly outdid themselves #today was amazing. #smalletho #smallidarity #hermitshipping #trafficshipping #prosaic wonders au

[gripes-withthesun]

... and also of relationship anarchy

[text:

of queer friendships - Hritvika Lakhera

My best friend and I are not lovers/ are not not lovers;/ I seldom say it so plainly. See –/ I am a particular brand of a logical poet. I fell in love/ with categories. In my mind are cabinets and endless files. See –/ I understand the impulse to put a name to everything –/ save this.

My first lover wanted to marry me. I wanted to want it too. One night,/ we stared out through the window and she said, “I can see it clearly now –/ I want us to grow old together and sit like this/ beside each other and watch the outside from/ our rocking chairs –/ and I would be scared no more with you beside.” I laughed. I cracked a joke about/ some earlier happenstance. I was terrified./ “Forever” was the elephant in the dimly-lit corridor./ “Forever” hid beneath my bed and grabbed my leg at night if I got too comfortable.

I cannot be forever./ I hope to cease./ I hope to be somebody new/ every week./ We could be anything –/ don’t you see? –/ anything; anything at all,/ and then something more/ come next week./ My best friend and I –/ we are infinite;/ two orbits intertwined –/ bound to each –/ and each:/ boundless./ When I cease to be/ I bid my lovers goodbye/ and to my dearest friend I say,/ “I am being unmade but/ I will see you again/ the coming week”/ and meet her for the first time – again./ We aren’t lovers, but more –/ we are a weekly wednesday –/ boundless, infinite;/ at home.]

#long one again #brevity is the soul of wit and i am of a soulless wit #poetry #poems #writeblr #w #lesbian poetry #queer poetry #relationship anarchy #polyamory #love poetry #prosaic #words #writblr #described

[drondskaath]

Mizmor | Prosaic | 21st July, 2023

American Black/Drone Doom Metal

Artwork by Bryan Proteau

#Mizmor #Prosaic #American Black Metal #USBM #Black Metal #Drone #Doom Metal #Black Doom Metal #music #band #art #artwork #artist #Bryan Proteau #Gilead Media #A.L.N. #Bandcamp

[theyuniversity]

For example, 

Henry quickly grew bored of the speaker’s prosaic comments and overused jokes. 😪

Website | Twitter |  Instagram | Medium | Pinterest | Ko-fi | eBook

#vocabulary #prosaic #word of the day #WOTD #English #English class #learning English #ESL #EFL #ELA #ELT

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

~Sigh~ I want to stretch my poem-writing muscles. But nothing feels worthy to write a poem about.

I think S.A.D. may be hitting me a bit earlier than usual, this year.

Could folks do me a favor and drop me an ask with a one-to-three word poem prompt?

Thanks!

#seasonal affective disorder #the world is too prosaic #poetry prompts #ask request

[bookpdf]

seeing the eclipse in 2024 isn't enough i need to go back in time and see it throughout history in different eras with different societies and cultures and people

#and hopefully in settings less prosaic than a hotel parking lot in texas #all jokes aside that was incredibly cool

[selanpike]

so in gangshuffle, steward has never gone sepulchritude. doesn't even have the ability yet. i'm working towards him sort of awakening to his Hero of Pulchritude self but will he ever get it together? will he make good use of it???? who knows

#prosaic steward #problem sleuth #gangshuffle #art #fanart #digital #csp

[verdantglow]

Read a little of a fanfic last night where Etho worked at a mall & I was aghast at what store they had him working at (won’t say where ‘cause the point of this post isn’t to put the author on blast) & now I’m thinking of a Traffic smp AU where folks work at the same mall & I just…

- Etho, Tango, & Mumbo are all geniuses at the Apple Store. Impulse is a genius admin.*

- Joel, perpetual former emo boy, works at Hot Topic. He’s probably like. A key holder or assistant manager or something.

- Scar also works at Hot Topic. Because he needed a job desperately & Grian convinced Joel to get him one at his store. So now he’s the location’s token normal guy. But hey, they carry a lot of Disney stuff now, so he’s not too upset about it.

- Lizzie & Gem work at Lush. They always smell amazing & are always covered in glitter.

- Pearl works at Aveda. She also always smells amazing, but is not covered in glitter.

- Grian & Martyn work at Game Stop. Grian is very begrudging about this, putting in minimal effort unless something specific piques his interest, while Martyn will happily chat with any customer about pretty much any game.

- Jimmy works at like. Abercrombie & Fitch or Hollister. (He knows nothing about fashion & very much got the job for being tall & handsome. Like he literally was walking past the store & they offered him a job.)

- Scott is the manager at Express/Express Men. He does know a good bit about fashion & especially is good at picking out clothes that accentuate people’s best features.

- Cleo manages the Starbucks inside the Barnes & Noble.

- Ren works at a table top game store as assistant manager & runs in store ttrpg sessions for people to try out different systems. (He runs these sessions off the clock; his friends are appalled by this.)

- Bdubs is assistant manager in charge of visuals at Pottery Barn.

- BigB manages the Cinnabon. (Currently. He’s actually worked almost everywhere in the food court & knows the dirt on every single one.)

- Skizz is a full timer at a cell phone provider kiosk. He’s been employee of the month at least six times in the last year, ‘cause he’s so friggen genuinely friend that it’s really hard to ignore him while walking past. You just have to stop to say hi because otherwise it’d be rude & you’d actually feel bad about it.

* genius admin is the person who goes through paperwork & payment with you on return of repaired items. Other duties include: maintaining the store’s repair database, all part inventory handling, managing the repair queue, & generally being in charge of the repair room.

#trafficblr #traffic smp #life series smp #traffic series AU #because I have more thoughts about this #& I’m gonna want to fined this post again. #guys help me I’m supposed to be working on a specific art project #& instead I’m using my many years of mall retail experience to put blockmen into The Most Mundane Situations. #verdant rambles #prosaic wonders au

[gangshuffle]

[GANGSHUFFLE]

The Mutinous Cabal

Marvel Capital's crew of self-proclaimed watchdogs. They keep an eye out on whatever's brewing on the city's notorious criminal underbelly- with a little cut of the pie, of course. Gotta keep their heads above water, after all.

Posing as their figurehead is the ever charming and mysterious DEBONAIR DESPOT, an ex-soldier turned vigilante. He's a quiet, dedicated man with the energy of a restless cat. Of course, when you have the ability to see the future, wouldn't that make you restless as well?

The real boss hiding behind the curtain is SCRUTINOUS SCOURGE, the visionary behind Marvel Capital's creation. He's madly in love with his city, and rumor has it he's made a deal with a Terror to secure her flourishing in exchange for his sight. God complex? Seems pretty simple to him!

With their intel guy, COGENT DEALER- a former Dersite agent- and medic turned heavy muscle, HARMONIC BASTION, the Cabal keep the shadows in line and out of the light of day. It's their city.

Team Ace

A gang of dishonorably discharged ex-coppers, teamed up with the goal of cleaning up Marvel Capital's dirty laundry. Little do they know, they've already passed their hero arc. Everyone else starts looking like a villain when you think you're the protagonist, after all.

Leading their rather suspicious charge from the shadows is the obstinate POLEMIC IMAGINEER. They say that cute face hides the wrath of God.

Functioning as the 'man in charge' is ACEPHALOUS DICTUM. But his friends, and his co-workers, and.. Well. Everyone calls him ACE DICK. Tired father of one girl and two grown-ass men.

And every ragtag group needs a poster boy, and for Team Ace that boy is the grown-ass man, PROSAIC STEWARD. He's. Uh. Been in a rough spot since a.. Particular even that happened before he was kicked from the Marvel Capital Police Department.

They seem at odds amongst themselves often with their goals- but when they pose as a threat? Shit just gets REAL.

The Flux

The top yakuza syndicate in the Marvel Capital. Having taken over during a vulnerable time for the city, they've had their claws dug deep into the corner of every block in every district. No gang seems stand a chance against them and their wide array of magical abilities- utlizing Shadow and Temporal magic alike.

The Flux use number based aliases, with their real names mainly unbeknownst to the public. But two in particular send shudders down the spine of even the most notorious oyabun in the city's underworld.

Number Six, DEOR. The big boss himself. A reclusive man who stands firm in his ideals, hellbent on sucking Marvel Capital dry before running it into the ground. Some say he's got a powerful Terror pact- other's claim he's a naturally gifted Green Sun mage. No one's lived long enough to determine for sure which one's true.

Number Seven, YUSHA. Deor's personal lapdog. He's never seen without a smile, nor without his Crowbar. People who know him say he's got an odd air to him, as if he doesn't even know what's going on around him. Regardless, that doesn't stop him from swiftly fulfilling his orders with great efficiency.

This rainbow of thugs will stop at nothing to claim Marvel Capital as their own. It's their land.

City Officials

Every city is only ever as good as the people in charge of it. Luckily for the Marvel Capital, capable hands work hard behind the scenes to keep the place livable for the average citizen- determined to keep the peace. Even if it means occasionally having to play by the Cabal's rules.

The former Mayor, WINDSWEPT VILLAGER, keeps a well trained eye on the city's archives. After an attempt on his life during that left him disabled, he's stepped down from his position. Nevertheless, he continues to work behind the scenes- playing as an informant and confidant for the current Mayor. PEACEKEEPING MAYOR is the current head honcho serving in office. Having been an ex-archagent like Villager, positions of great responsibility (and stress) are nothing new to her. She's a stubborn woman with a who will do anything for the city- going so far as to work with the Cabal to keep as eye on what goes on in the shadows. If the Mayor watches over the city, who watches the Mayor? That duty of course goes to ASSIDUOUS REGIMENT, the head of the City Council's security department. Having failed to protect Villager before, he's sworn to himself to not allow that to happen ever again. He's a stiff, stern figure, but below that tough exterior, he's got a good heart.

The three of them work day and night trying to maintain the balance of the city- but everyday it grows clearer it was made to be less of a home and more of a playground.

#the felt #midnight crew #problem sleuth #homestuck intermission #the exiles #homestuck intermission au #mspa #fan art #gangshuffle #character refs #mutinous cabal #scrutinous scourge #debonair despot #cogent dealer #harmonic bastion #team ace #polemic imagineer #prosaic steward #acephalous dictum #the flux #1 izashi #2 aiyana #3 haoyu #4 cezar #5 arata #6 deor #7 yusha #9 lash #10 daan #11 matija

[brinefathomcaves]

Brinefathom Caves Level 2, Week 5

2.43: Silence Is Golden 2.44: The Chained God's Armory: Simple weapons, light armor, smell of metal polish. Empty. 2.45: The Chained God's Kitchen: Chicken stew simmering unattended on a magical fire. Smells delicious. Dirty dishes in sink. Empty. 2.46: The Chained God's Commons 2.47: The Chained God's Laundry: Cauldron of grayish water; dead fire. Laundry drying on lines strung across the room. Sack of dirty clothes. Empty. 2.48: The Scriptorium 2.49: The Dormitory Fight 2.50: The Screaming Shard: Red X painted on door. Faint screaming from within. Dusty and empty, except for a fist-sized chunk of rock emitting the screaming: the missing piece of the howling pillar in 2.29. 2.51: The Sacrifice Room 2.52: The Chained Hulk 2.53: Yurig's Chamber: Door trapped with an alarm spell. Straw pallet bed; only other furnishing is a barrel with a holy book and stump of candle. No personal belongings. Empty.

#brinefathom caves #brinefathom caves level 2 #megadungeon #dungeon23 #dungeon24 #dungeons and dragons #why yes i DO think its funny to name prosaic rooms 'The Chained God's X'

[brechtian]

The way Ionesco writes stage directions is so interesting I’ve never read anything quite like it. He writes them as though they are notes or personal opinions he is letting the director in on. One second I’ll show some examples

#usually playwrights default to either a very neutral sparse voice to give stage directions or they get prosaic and write them in an almost #narrative style #this literally reads like ionescos footnotes

[literalnobody]

Where can I read justice and jack’s story? I love the canary!!!

Tragically you can't read it because it exists only inside my brain ^_^

#i also dont know what you mean by canary #is that a type of gun i accidentally drew??? idk i was just drawing shapes for the guns lol #asks #jack the tall man #but if you have any specific questions about their story i'll answer it as prosaically as i have time for

[dougielombax]

*Numerous American landmarks and monuments slowly but surely fade away and disappear into nothing amidst a blinding white light that ends just as quickly as it began, accompanied by a moving slowed down instrumental piano reprise of Total Eclipse of the Heart.*

Shit happens.

Idk.

#dougie rambles #personal stuff #monuments #landmarks #my poor attempt at a joke #what #no context #this sounded funnier in my head #shitpost #mister manticore #monument mythos #analog horror #mirrors lie twice #total eclipse of the heart #bonnie tyler #disappearance #where did they go #prosaic #i think #idk