#space jam cast

[coldrubies]

Grief cinema

My mom died at the end of 2019, right before lockdown. When covid hit, I was still in a foggy state. My reaction to everything delayed. I am supposed to stay home? Not go outside? Fine! Those were precisely what my plans were for the next mumblemumble years anyway.

My brightest, most vivid memories would have been of the movies that I saw anyway, because movies are special to me and I am always watching them. But the way they informed my grieving process surprised me. One does not necessarily expect, in the moment, for anything to really make it better.

But the day of my mom's death—maybe the day of, maybe the last day that I saw my mom—I watched MIDSOMMAR for the first time. I didn't know the plot and was a little concerned about it but a lot unable to do anything about the way that I felt; the DVD was already in the DVD player, and I knew my mother was dying/dead. Florence Pugh's portrayal of grief was a real gift. I felt held by it. It was miraculous to me, frankly, how much it lifted me into a state of feeling able to engage with what was going on and how I was feeling. There is a rant in me—and it is in there pretty shallow; you can get at it easily—about how acting is a vital service. I feel about actors the way that THE OFFICE's Dwight Schrute feels about his urologist. It is something I cannot do myself all the time, validate my own feelings about life; I need someone to do it for me, and I am grateful.

Also right around the same proximity to my mom's death, I saw the "Original Cast Album: Co-op" episode of DOCUMENTARY NOW! in the midst of watching that season. It was funny, I loved it, it took me out of my troubles, and the milieu was so novel and fascinating to me—this is how a cast recording (something I had never thought about) is/was made?—that I looked up which real documentary the episode was based on.

Before addressing ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY and all it's done for me, a word on Stephen Sondheim:

I will pick up practically any biography of an artist. An all-time choice was the biography of Wendy Wasserstein by Julie Salamon. I didn't know her or her work, and it was such an absorbing book, I think about returning to it all the time. Ditto Michael Schulman's Meryl Streep biography. I love to get a feeling of people in time. The choice to buy Stephen Sondheim's biography was not totally random, but it happened to be on my person when, immediately after my mother's death, I was hit by a car! It wasn't fatal—here I am—it just tipped me over. But I was in a fragile state, I did cry a lot, and I explained to the driver that my mother had just died, and that was why I was crying, and that would be the only reason I cry about anything for a while, regardless of what it seemed like I ought to be crying about. Eventually, I got to a hospital that night to make sure nothing had happened to me, and I was stranded in a room for more than an hour, and all I had was this book about Stephen Sondheim.

I can't remember—I'm sure I could figure it out—whether I had the book before I saw the documentary, whether I'd already seen it by the time I started reading it—but it all feels like it happened more or less at once that I went from not knowing* who Stephen Sondheim was to knowing, you know, the reams of tedious details that a fan knows (how many lines he preferred to have on his yellow legal pads; his go-to chord structure).

As all of this is going on, I've been writing a novel about musicians since 2018, and I made a promise to myself that, once I finished the first draft, I would prioritize learning about music. I never did when I was in school, I always wanted to, and the novel would never be done if I did not understand what my characters are supposed to be doing. I finished the first draft at the very end of 2019, and how fortuitous for this guide to show up, again, more or less all at once (just in time for me to be truly knocked out when he died two years later, more or less exactly from the time of all of this).

The extent to which I've clung to that gift as a life raft during this time is best demonstrated by the fact that, at the end of 2019, I had no knowledge of anything pertaining to music other than liking it, and now I have been composing music since the spring of 2022 (composing was the very long goal, and I still can't get over the fact that I met it). Have I neglected other parts of my life? Big time. But this is still impressive to me considering I would have liked very much to simply pull a blanket over myself and be sad quite ongoingly.

(*- On the subject of "not knowing who Stephen Sondheim was," my only frame of reference was seeing his name in the credits, mostly on item descriptions online, for, like, CDs of the WEST SIDE STORY, INTO THE WOODS, and ASSASSINS cast recordings, all of which I happened to see randomly over the years, but it is the kind of coincidence that would leave one who doesn't know anything about musical theatre to wonder if, maybe, Stephen Sondheim has written every single musical ever.)

Back to the documentary:

Between my discovery of ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY and now, the Criterion Collection has issued an edition of it on DVD and Blu-ray that is beautiful, a dream come true, and it features the DOCUMENTARY NOW! parody episode—magnificent. At the end of 2019, though, my only option for owning it was as a Quicktime file. This is fine—whether or not I have internet access, I have access to ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY.

I have so much to express about ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY, but I will restrict myself only to how it has intermingled with my grieving process. It is, of course, a pleasure to see people lost in work that is demanding but, compared to grieving a loved one's death, a load of cake. In the moment, the first many times I saw it, it came with a fresh, invigorating spray of curiosity-provocation. I love to be curious. Curiosity can do a lot for me. And there is a lot to be curious about for the completely uninitiated when it comes to the byzantine, idiosyncratic, union-forged business practices of Broadway theatre. Knowing how much he loved rules, watching him in this documentary, I am so moved and so happy for Stephen Sondheim that he was from and dwelled in a land that loved rules so much.

I could go on and on and on about how cathartic it is to watch someone be difficult, a ruthless artist, rigid, upholding a high standard as a method of care. I could introduce the subject of Stephen Sondheim and mother issues and we would be here all day. One of the conditions of my loving a thing is that I just go on about it. But when I first saw ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY right around the time that my mother died, the big thing that it did for me was show me, in case I felt like allowing my grief to interfere with my plans, that working on music was going to be good, nice, and right, which in this case were all the same thing.

It's been comforting to rewatch MIDSOMMAR since the end of 2019 and, to be honest with you, I rewatch ORIGINAL CAST ALBUM: COMPANY on a basis so routine that, on second thought, to be honest with you about it would embarrass me too greatly, but the other movie that did something for me in the bewildering swirl that was right-around-the-time-my-mother died, maybe the day it happened, isn't one I revisit, but it is worth noting. I was not going to prepare any food that day, which I barely incentivize myself to do when I'm not pulverized by the cruelty of fate, so I bought, I think, a poké bowl (spicy tuna, etc.) and a Mediterranean-style grain bowl (ancient grains, spicy feta cheese, etc.), and ate them both promptly and simultaneously. I felt sick. I could not do anything lest I risk throwing up. I watched SPACE JAM (I did not throw up! A small miracle).

I am I-saw-SPACE-JAM-in-the-theatre-and-it-was-age-appropriate years old. The soundtrack was a presence in my home. I have no tender feelings about it, but, watching it for the first time as an adult, its ludicrousness did completely take me out of what was happening to my soul and body. That's not nothing!

Maybe more happened then and it isn't coming to me now, but this is how I remember it.

#stephen sondheim #original cast album company #midsommar #space jam #joe pytka #da pennebaker #ari aster #grief #covid

[deegeemin]

❄️✨❄️REMINDER THAT IDW SONIC WINTER JAM IS OUT!!! ❄️✨❄️

I'd love to talk about some neato things I got to draw in the comic! Spoiler warning for some contents below! If you haven't read anything yet, come back after reading the comic!

Let's start off with the cover thumbnails! I was more inclined to do A since it wouldn't spoil the big surprise Orbot and Cubot had in store! Otherwise I probably would've gone with B or D! It has that bombastic party sort of feel that I think would've been super fitting!

Here, Eggman is temporarily staying at one of his many bases throughout the world after the collapse of his Eggperial city! This base is inspired by Industria from Future Boy Conan and a bit of Eggmanland!

He also sure loves his chicken and fries!

A little beachside balcony in Green hill! I felt like we generally don't get structures there as much so I thought it'd be a nice addition!

The design on the floor is the stage from the JP Sonic X intro! It gets covered up by snow after but still neat to include!

Look at this magnificent cast of characters! I wanted to use the poses that each pair had when they were first seen together! I'd considered giving Big his winning animation pose from SA1 but alas no space haha!

Cubot's taped on eye brow gag was one I suggested and it's a reference to the same gag from FLCL!

Lil sonic team logo Iasmin asked for! Sonic sure knows to appreciate himself! Good on him.

And here's a sonic 3 wreath and the SA2 lock on reticle from the mechs!

Amy and cream's spread of delicious looking food beautifully rendered by the coloring god Reggie! I wanted to include all their items from the Official Sonic the Hedgehog Cookbook! So if you want to make them yourself, YOU CAN! (except for uhh the experiment on another panel. you guys can figure out what's in that yourselves haha)

Also made sure to list all the pages you can find the recipes!

This is one of my fav gags that Iasmin wrote in!! Can you all guess what this is meant to vaguely resemble?

Quick round of character refs from Eggman's screen going in order from left to right! [Conductor's wife and Conductor, Barry and Gadget, Early Conductor design, Early Barry design (his outside eye markings are white tho), My uh Sonicsona lol]

Mecha Sonic mark 3? Yep Iasmin wanted him to be there and so there he shall be!! Hopefully we get to see him again!

I remember seeing the story Iasmin made and it really felt like it could be something you'd see in a sonic anime episode if it were made nowadays. I drew the comic with some influence from Sonic X because of that. I think the most telling detail fans might notice is the constant 3 spines for Sonic.

but YEAH another absolutely wonderful comic I got to work on! See ya'll on another issue!

#sonic the hedgehog #idw sonic #sega

[peachesofteal]

John Price/female reader The Ocean anthology

The girl is here.

You’re tucked in a corner booth, rigid against old cedar slats, brown bottle and half peeled beer label crinkled between your fingers. The yellow track lighting casts a dubious shadow across your face, faint flicker of unease painted through your brow.

Your lips touch the rim. John’s stomach pitches.

You look up. He pretends you don’t. Perches on the stool, empty one of many, and waits for his usual. Rocks whiskey. Amber syrup, a cold burn.

One like he feels now, when he catches a local giving you a once, twice over.

You’re a grown woman. Grown women go to bars.

“Saw Aly made a friend the other day.” The bartender is lighthearted, but the comment doesn’t land, just floats aimlessly in the stale air, floundering.

“Yeah.” This is more than curiosity, this interest the town has expressed in you. More than good natured, or ill natured, interest. It’s sinister. It’s calculating. It makes him want to lock you away, hide you from the eyes of this place, the ones watching from the dark, the depths, the pale orange windows lining the street.

“The conservation effort pays for the ranger position, you know.” Mari clips at his left elbow. “Wouldn’t kill you to be nice to her.” It might.

She’s not wrong. He glances at your empty bottle and wandering eyes, and then with a sigh, orders one with a second pour for himself.

John doesn’t meander. He walks with purpose. It’s a learned technique from his past, straight and purposeful. A captain’s walk. Still proud, still able. Still carrying the echo of gunfire, shouts of dying men, well laid plans gone to waste.

He wants to walk right out the door, pull his hat down around his ears, tuck his chin and take himself home.

But then he’d be awake. Listening. Waiting for the sound of your door opening and closing, your feet heavy on the staircase.

Silent watching. Too afraid to go close. Unable to bring himself to gentle a wild thing, again. He’d dig his fingers into your flesh, rip apart these pieces singing to him, the ones carrying an unnatural tune, a siren song trying to drag him into frigid waters.

He’d dig and dig until he’s made a new home. Until he’s hollowed you out, turned you in on yourself. Until he’s lost where he ends and begins, lost the feeling of the most sacred pieces of his heart, the ones already slipping through his fingers.

He burns with a desire to consume you. Pick you apart. See what makes your wild heart tick. You’re like the sea, he already knows. A wild thing, in a wild place, with a wild passion. An interest so feral it’d kill you.

It might.

So when he appears at the end of the table, peace offering in hand, he doesn’t expect a smile or a gesture. He expects what he gets: a confused glance and then, a hot streak dancing in your eyes, willful as the tides. Amphitrite herself.

He hates you for it. Hates how much the burn has blossomed. Hates how you smile at him in the mornings, even though he’s only ever given you frosty, grim half smiles and frowns.

You’re willful. He’d bring you to heel, do to you what was done to him, bend body and soul, and then you’d never leave this place.

“Hi.”

“Can I sit?” He motions, and you chew the inside of your cheek before nodding.

“Please.”

“Can I ask you about the wolves?” No. Ask about anything, but the wolves.

“What about them?”

“Thought I heard them, the other night when I was out.” His spine snaps straight to attention, liquid fire sticking to his stomach like tar. It settles there, in this uncomfortable space he’s built out for you, for all the pieces he’s trying to jam up and away.

“Out where?” A sheepish look crosses your face.

“I went for a walk.”

“Thought I told you not to walk alone at night.” It’s a grand assumption, you being alone. Grand assumption that any one of these starved boys hasn’t picked you up already, hasn’t already tried to make you theirs, to pin you under their body in a bed and give you pieces of themselves.

“I wanted to look at the stars.” It’s a simple answer, but makes the blood hot under his coat. He wonders how much you like the word no, or if anyone has laid you across their knee and spanked you raw before. His hands itch just thinking about it.

He’d do it. He’d lick your tears afterwards too, brine fresh on his tongue. Sweeter than sugar. His crying girl, bent and broken beneath his palms.

There’s a buzzing in the back of his head, a whine. High pitched and unbearable, like the sound Aly’s cries. It’s PTSD, or hearing loss, or tinnitus, something lingering past retirement, sharp and lurking in wait.

“The pack comes close to town. Often.”

“How big?”

“Eleven. Used to be twelve but…” he peters off, hand rubbing down his face. Not too much. “If you’re ever out around the house, or town, and they get too close. You run. Don’t freeze. Run.” He must instill this in you. This chance at survival. Running will make you prey, certainly, but if you’re close enough to town, they’ll peel off.

They know better.

“And if I’m not around the house? Or town?”

“Don’t be.”

#more vibes and nothing else sorry about it #john price x reader #John price #peaches writes #the ocean anthology #captain john price

[kmt123whatsthetea]

Late night sweet treats

George Weasley x reader

Requested by cooki3crum8s (their account is deactivated but I’m fucking posting this anyway)

Request gist: Smut where you and George are eating desserts and he has some on his finger, leading you to lick it off and suck on his fingers.

A/N: I didn't know just how much smut you wanted, so I just went for oral. Again, i've never done a request before so if it’s terrible, my bad. I don’t really write for George (I'm more of a Fred girl, I just did those F+G fics cause I had the idea) but I'm willing to write this and write any more if they are requested. I also went for Goblet of Fire George, just because I thought it might go better.

T/W: Oral (male receiving), finger sucking, deep throating, praise and degradation

The crackling fire cast a dim orange glow across you and George as you both sat on the sofa in the empty common room in the early hours of the morning. It was George's bright idea to sneak down to the kitchen, avoiding various teachers and Filch, just to snag a few jam tarts that were left over from dessert. ‘A midnight feast’ he called it, to celebrate the completion of the first task in the Triwizard tournament (in reality, it was George's excuse to combine his three favourite things: sneaking out, sweet treats, and you).

That was how you came to be sat here with a small pile of jam tarts and George telling you about how brilliant it was when the dragon's tail smashed through the teachers viewing box. The common room was still a bit messy from the small celebration that was thrown for Harry. As George kept rambling about the dragon, you slowly zoned out, eyes focused on the small dollop of strawberry jam on his finger.

He snapped his fingers in front of your eyes when he noticed you were staring and smirked at how your eyes still remained trained on his fingers.

“Oi, love, earth to Y/n” George spoke softly before deciding to have some fun with this.

He raised his hand, your eyes followed.

He lowered his hand, your eyes followed.

He waved his hand slowly from left to right, and your eyes still followed.

Your light grasp on his wrist made him chuckle, pulling it closer to your face. You opened your mouth, welcoming his finger into your mouth before closing your lips. You gently sucked, licking the jam from his finger and enjoying the feeling of having some sort of closeness to him, although he was sitting right next to you. Your eyes never left his. His lip was between his teeth and his eyes slowly filled with lust and amusement. His trousers slowly became tighter, his cock getting harder as he watched you suck his finger.

“Such a little minx, aren't you? You wanna suck on something else or are you happy with my finger? Little slut” George’s taunt about taking something else into your mouth had your eyes lighting up in excitement, nodding eagerly with his finger still in his mouth. “Please Georgie” you begged softly, his finger slightly muffling you.

George smirked and stood up from his space beside you, pulling his finger (and a small whine) from your mouth. He slowly unzipped his trousers and pulled them down, slowing his movements down to wind you up.

His cock was already hard when he pulled it from his boxers. With one hand on his base and the other tangling in your hair, he guided you closer to his crotch. The minute your tongue met his tip, he wasted no time in sliding down your throat. The pride he felt when you didn't gag…he had trained you well.

He held himself still, letting you suck and lick his cock which was still buried securely in your throat where he belonged. He slowly started moving his hips back, retreating from your throat before sliding back in once again, his pace getting quicker and quicker and your throat getting more and more sore.

“Such a good little love, aren't you angel? Taking my cock so nicely in that little throat of yours. Show me just how much you love it and swallow everything I give you”. His cock twitched more and more until he came with a low groan, as not to wake the rest of the sleeping lions. His cum flooded your throat and mouth. It was almost too much to swallow all of it. As he pulled his softening cock from your mouth, you were able to swallow the rest of his cum.

George collected the last bead of cum on his finger and held it in front of your mouth expectantly, his smirk growing when you stuck out your tongue and obediently took his finger into your mouth once more. His other hand came up to your head to give you a comforting pat and stroke his fingers through your hair. “That's my good little love”

A/N: I’m now in the mood for jam tarts. God fucking damn it.

#george wealsey x reader #george weasley fic #george weasley x y/n #george weasley smut #george weasley x fem #george weasley x you #george weasley

[oliverreedmasterass]

My GVF Predictions for 2024

Sam will attempt to grow a beard similar to George Harrison circa 1970. He'll nearly get there, but when he starts braiding it, his friends and family tell him to shave it off

A new music video will come out for either Sacred the Thread or Farewell for Now out of the literal blue

videos of Danny singing Bon Jovi in a Nashville karaoke bar will unearth

Josh will get another piercing

GVF will issue an apology, revealing that they accidentally deleted the files for the Broken Bells music video

Jake will commit to speaking in nothing but latin for an entire interview

Some cryptic sign will be dropped that Oliver Reed isn't dead

Something's gonna come out of that mystery song that they've been playing during their jam sessions on stage, I swear

Josh is gonna try to bring back shoulder pads and he may or may not pull it off

At least a few members of GVF will accidentally make their way into the background of a Mastercard commercial like Michael Clifford did in 2014

Danny will get another tattoo of something goofy, like a frog playing a banjo or a dorito bag

Sam will want to get a tattoo too, but talk himself out of it while it's happening so he's left with a dot tattooed on him, which he calls a freckle tattoo

GVF will release a new curated spotify playlist, but it's just Nicki Minaj's Pink Friday album

Josh will tease a new short film about space pirates with Jake cast as the evil, latin-speaking three headed villain

New outfit debuts all around for the next leg of the Starcatcher tour, including more capes, more sparkles, and more chains

Josh has spent their entire break trying to figure out how to apply pyro to his microphone so he can shoot shit out of it, which he will test during their next performance

GVF holiday single drop, but they're all giving their worst Frank Sinatra impression and it's a clusterfuck

#greta van fleet #gvf #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #sam kiszka #danny wagner #greta van fleet predictions #2024 predictions #jake gvf #danny gvf #sam gvf #josh gvf

[courtesycalling]

Aniline's sprites which I created for my game jam game Pbouxhkiir Night on the Primox Alpha.

She was a very fun character to design and draw, and she has the most expressions out of the three characters.

The premise of the Pbouxhkiir Night cast was a long-running concept that I had reused a few times (in various things that never saw the light of day). The idea was "what if something's cast was comprised entirely of aliens who were all from wildly different genres of sci-fi?".

Annie specifically was designed to evoke the designs of Kirby and Mario characters, and the cute (and melancholy) way those games depict outer space. I thought it would be funny if, in contrast to this, she's the rudest and most spiteful character in the cast.

She's some kind of comet person, which I imagine living on a very large timescale. She's probably multiple hundred years old. Her colors are constantly flickering and shifting.

By the way, the chemical "aniline" has multiple pronunciations, but I've been saying her name /ˈænəˌlaɪn/.

_____________________________

Annie's design, specifically, was a concept that I reused multiple times. The last appearance was in an alien paramedic game concept that @wyntonyang and I discussed in early 2021.

(I still want to revisit this game idea one day. Also, nothing in this image is canonical to the Pbouxhkiir Night universe.)

_____________________________

The earliest iteration of this character was, I believe, a concept for a protagonist of a Kirby dating sim which I discussed with some friends in 2018.

This is a completely different character by now, lol.

#my art #original #pbouxhkiir night on the primox alpha

[eagerbby]

𝖇𝖔𝖔? 2 - 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 | 𝖊𝖒

pairing| Eddie Munson x female reader

synopsis| What was supposed to be a prank, payback, turns into so much more.

an| I wanna thank you for the incredible amount of love I got on part 1, it truly means the world to me and as part one just reached 10k today, I'm celebrating by giving you all the much requested part 2! I wrote/edited and am posting this all in one day so I apologize for any grammar or tense mistakes

warnings| 3k, masturbating (f), oral (f), protected sex, mentions of abuse (but no actual abuse), mentions of a deceased parent, teeth rotting fluff, virgin! Eddie, 18+ only

part one

Eddie wastes not a moment after Hellfire, cleaning up in record time and bounding to his van once he was done. The drive through the darkened streets is quiet, no radio blaring heavy metal jams out his open windows. Even his van, that on any normal day sounded ready to break down, idles softly at the stop light. Eddie is anxious with anticipation, fingers gripping the tattered leather of his steering wheel tightly as he breathes deeply in and out in an effort to cure the nausea riddling his stomach.

He knows you’re waiting for him, probably sitting on his bed reading whatever book you are currently deep into, bare legs crossed at the ankle and propped on the thin wall of his bedroom. The image has his heart pounding loudly in his hollow chest, picking up speed as the van flies down Cornwallis, slowing only slightly as he takes the right on Kerley next, the trailer park coming into view amongst the dusky sky.  

As he pulls to a stop in front of his trailer, he can see the only light coming from his room. You’re here, just like you said you’d be, and something blooms in his chest akin to desperation as he climbs out the van and walks the short distance up his rickety stairs, the cold bite of the metal door knob isn’t enough to clear the haze in his brain as he enters the darkness of the trailer.

Quiet, it consumes him as he stands next to the door, shrugging off his vest jacket combo and toeing off his shoes, his chocolate brown button eyes locked onto the orange glow casting from his cracked bedroom door. If you hear him come in, you don’t acknowledge him, and it makes Eddie wonder if you’re asleep.

He thinks if you are, there's no way he’s gonna wake you up, no matter how long he’s waited for this very moment. He’ll simply crawl in next to you, hold you close to him, and rest his eyes. It’d be enough to satisfy the suffocating need to have you for himself. If only for a little while.

But as he creeps up to the door, peeking in through the crack, he can see that you definitely aren’t asleep. No. Eddie could drop dead at the sight before him.

“E-Eddie.”

You’re stark naked laying atop his bed, which you appear to have made in the time he’s been gone, head tossed back into his pillow as one hand roams the soft expanse of your skin and the other glides through the wet folds between your shivering thighs.

It’s quite a sight to behold, a sight Eddie has only dreamed of before, and his mouth falls slack jawed as you moan his name again, fingertips pulling at a pebbled nipple.

Eddie’s painfully hard already, reaching down to adjust himself before he pushes the door open, hinges creaking. Your head lolls to the side, eyes meeting him in an instant, and the look you give him knocks the air completely out of his chest.

He had this whole thing planned in his head, but the moment your eyes meet his, his plan vanishes into the thick air of his room. Instead he closes the space between you both and falls to his knees at the side of his bed, his hands hanging in the air next to your bare form unsure of what he can and can’t touch.

“Missed you.” You whimper, fingertips brushing your nipple as you go to stroke his cheek. Eddie leans into your touch, reaching a hand out, his hot skin pressed to your cool stomach. He watches the way your body reacts to his touch, how you grind your hips up into the palm of your hand and whine again, head thrown back once more into the pillow.

“‘S not enough, Eds. Please, I need more.” You’re pouting, wet bottom lip jutting from your bitten lips and Eddie can’t help but to kiss it. Follow the tilt of your head, meeting him with a ferocious hunger, your free hand gripping the hairs at the back of his neck in a tight grip.

When he pulls away a string of saliva follows like a translucent tether between you two. “Tell me what you need, baby.” His voice bleeds softly through the room and it makes you whimper. You guide his hand to your core with your slick covered fingers that tremble as he takes their place, rubbing hard gentle circles over your swollen clit.

“Is this okay?” He asks, completely unsure of himself, and you nod fiercely as you guide his lips back to yours. You don’t kiss him, just hover his lips over your own, breathe in each other's gasps and moans. It is so intimate, so unlike what Eddie had been expecting from this rendezvous, but something Eddie has craved from the moment you sat next to him at the lunch table and offered him the other half to your chicken sandwich and a kind smile.

Eddie waits for you to nod, whisper a hushed yeah, so good, before he’s crawling onto the bed with you. He settles himself next to your side, his fingertips slipping around you wet hole with gentle ease, collecting what he can of your slick before he bumps his way back up to your clit, rubbing tight circles at such a pace that you thighs tighten around his forearm, trembling in a way that makes him coo softly at you.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” The compliment has you keening, lifting into his touch, clawing at the back of his Hellfire shirt. “Love you so much, you gotta know that.”

Before you can even respond, can even process the way his words make your heart bloom, his touch vanishes. Leaves your body cold, hands searching blindly for him, before you squint your eyes open.

He’s down between your thighs now, spreading them open so delicately, kissing at your ankle bone, up the smoothness of your calf, across your skinned knee, down the silkiness of your thigh. When his tongue treks an upwards path through your puffy folds, you moan in unison. Your taste is rapture on his tongue, his brown eyes rolling back into his head as he dives deeper, burying himself into you, plush lips sucking hotly at your bundle of nerves. His fingers burn against the skin of your thighs, clutching them open like his life depends on it. Like if you were to cut him off from your divine taste he’d surely implode.

“Oh my God, Eddie.” You're on the verge of tears, breast heaving, thighs spasming, hands grasping pathetically at his mussed brown curls as that white hot coil inside you bursts like a dying star, exploding supernovas behind your eyelids with titanic force. You arch, carrying your back away from the bed as a gasp rushes up your throat so hard and fast you choke, breath stuck tight and so painful it allows your tears to spill over.

Eddie licks you through your release, soft laps of his tongue as you collapse back into his bed, shaking and whimpering at every touch, every suckle from his lips. He’s resisting the urge to grind against the mattress, hips aching to rut, to find any source of friction available, but he doesn’t want to come in his jeans. He wants to come inside you.  

Eddie trails his lips across your hip bone when you’ve finally had enough, hypnotized by the glimmer of your tears falling across your beautiful face, slithering up your wrecked body to nudge his nose into your hot cheek.

“Taste so good.” He kisses the corner of your lip, humming proudly to himself when you turn into him, following his lips with an expression of pure bliss. “Wanted to do that for so long.” He tells you honestly, peering up at you as he rests his chin against your still pounding heart.

“I can tell.” You huff out a laugh as you try to gain your sense back, throat achy and raw, body tingling with electricity. His touch is delicate as he wipes your tears away, touches you like you’re some fragile thing he’s scared he might break. “I- that was incredible, Eddie.”

“Good,” He muses, settling on his knees between your thighs, he grabs his shirt at the base, pulls it up slowly like he’s teasing, exposing his alabaster skin to you. You reach out without thinking, following the slightly defined lines of his stomach, drawing your finger across black ink itched into the skin on his ribs. Wayne, in dark cursive, an homage to the uncle who was more a father than his biological one had ever been.

“Pretty.” You whisper out, smiling up at him as he tosses his shirt across the room.

“Don’t think guys are supposed to be pretty, sweetheart.” He quips, lips pulled into a little smirk that makes your stomach flutter like always.

“You are, Eddie.” You say it so simply, like it’s a complete no brainer, but to Eddie it’s earth shattering. Makes his smile falter as your words wrap tight around his heart, forces him to stop, to stare down at you with his big brown bambi eyes that you love so much.

You sit, feeling the shift in the air, feeling like maybe you said the wrong thing, but then he smiles at you so brightly it's blinding. He meets you halfway, presses his forehead against yours, closes his eyes.

“Eddie, are you okay?” You ask gently, brushing his hair out of his face to place your palm against his stubbled cheek. He nods into you, brushes his nose against yours before he’s capturing your lips in a slow kiss.

It’s tantalizing, the gentle push and pull of molded lips, wet pants, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip. Eddie doesn’t look the type - the soft and sensual type that is- his usual rough shield he’d built long ago to protect himself from the cruelty life had cursed him with guarding that hopeless romantic that lived deep in his chest. Eddie struggled to believe in things like love long ago, back when he was a gangly little boy listening to his mother cry herself to sleep next to him after another of his fathers devastating verbal attacks. As only a child, he saw the vacant stare his mother held when his father would chastise her for the littlest things, clench his tiny little fists as his father called his abuse love. The curse that was the Munson name scared any and all prospective love offers away.

”Don’t talk to that Munson boy, He’s bad news.”

“No good kid. Nothing but trouble just like his daddy.”

“Freak. Devil worshiper. Drug dealer. Criminal.”  

Eddie was fine with being alone. Saw no use in wearing his heart on his sleeve just for it to be stomped on by some girl that could never care about him.

But then you sauntered into his life with a pep in your step and a smile reserved just for him. He couldn’t believe you were talking to him that first day, watching with bated breath and unsure eyes as you stole his pretzels and questioned him about what he was scribbling into his campaign notebook. He thought it was a fluke, a one off experience, until there you were the next day offering him half your lunch and questioning his love for Dio. Then the next, and the next after that, until it was such a routine that he couldn’t remember a time where you weren’t by his side.

It didn’t take him long to fall for you, head over heels, walls crumbling to ash at his feet every time you smiled or laughed or hugged him in a way only his mother had. You weren’t scared of what people thought of you being friends with the town freak, standing up to anybody that dared to speak ill of him. You were everything to him, his heart and his soul, and he thanked his mother every day he woke up, staring up at the ceiling as if he could see her face against the white stucco tile, for sending you to him.

His saving grace.

“I love you.” His voice is broken as he says it, eyes watering. Shame washes over him like waves, the words feeling like poison on his lips. If you didn’t feel the same; he’d be ruined.

“God, I love you, Eddie. So much, so much.” You’re kissing down the thick cords of his neck, smiling as he shutters out a breath, wraps you up in his arms as you kneel before each other on his bed. “Want you so bad, Eddie. Please. Please.”

You wait for him to nod against your shoulder, hiding in the curve of your neck, before you reach between your bodies to undo his belt. It clinks softly as you pull it from his belt loops, tossing it to the floor before you start working nimble fingers to the button of his pants, fumbling briefly with the zipper.

You’re yanking his pants down when he stops you, cupping your face in his strong hands, gazing down at you tenderly.

“I’ve never… I’ve never done this.” His admission rings through the air, making you tremble deep in your tummy. I’ve never done this. Which means, you’ll be his first. It pleases you more than it should. “Are you sure you still wanna? I won’t be mad if you don’t.”

He’s so unsure of himself at the moment, nothing like the man he’d imagined in his head earlier when he left for Hellfire. In fact nothing about this was what he imagined and in a way it makes it entirely better. He doesn’t want his first time with you to be some fast, wild, fuck that goes nowhere. Doesn't want to sit next to you tomorrow afternoon at lunch and pretend that the moment you shared didn’t rewrite his entire image of you. The love of his life. He knows you’re both just seniors, adults but still kids, still have your whole lives in front of you. But he also knows, you’re it for him.

“I want this, Eddie. I want you.” It’s all you can think to say and you punctuate it with a heavy kiss, sighing into the deliciousness of it. “Need you bad, baby.”

That's all it takes, baby slithers off the tip of your tongue and carries like the most beautiful song into Eddie’s ears. He pushes you back gently, watches as you collapse into his pillow with a giggle, your eyes wide and glossy. You felt it too, he didn’t need to be a genius to see it, not when your love for him was written all over your dazzling face. You have bewitched him, spellbound by such a simple pet name.

He wastes little time pulling the rest of his clothes from himself, leaving the bed only to grab a condom from his dresser drawer. He blushes when he turns back towards you and catches your eyes raking his body, an insatiable heat digging into your core like talons, dripping wetness at the sight of him naked alone.

He’s long and thick, a fat vein leading from his pretty blushing tip to his base framed by a dark bush. You’ve seen plenty of dicks before -okay, maybe like three- but none of them have looked as pretty as Eddie’s. It has your mouth watering, has you making grabby hands at him until he’s laughing, finding his way back to the bed.

“Needy girl.” He titters, tearing open the gray wrapper with pearly teeth, yet his hands are visibly shaking as he slides it down his hard length, groaning inwardly at the most friction he’s gotten since he walked in and found you.

You spread your legs wide for him as he adjusts and finds the most comfortable position between your legs. He lets out a quiet whimper as he slots himself against you, hoping like hell you can’t hear it, one hand resting on your hip as the other drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds. You keen at the sensation, tilting your hips into his strokes in hopes he’ll catch on the place you really need him.

“So needy for me.” His voice is hush, breath hot against your chest as he looks down at where your two bodies meet.

“Don’t tease me, Eddie. Been wanting you too long.” You guide his face up with gentle fingers, offer him a soft smile, but your eyes are nearly black, the color blown away by the dark expanse of your pupils. He thinks it’s crazy how rabid it makes him feel, your pupils but an obsidian pool so deep and welcoming he could drown in them.

“How long, baby?” He needs to hear the answer before this goes any further, needs to hear how he hasn't been alone in this brutal yearning.

“So long, baby, before I even knew you. Used to- used to think about you at night, i-imagine what you’d feel like, what you’d taste like. W-why do you think I sought you out, Eddie? I needed you.” You’re gasping after every word, shuddering at the pleasure that shoots through you with every heavy glide over your clit. It’s all consuming, better than your fingers and your toys. You could cum from this alone, you’re sure of it.

But Eddie has other plans as he lines himself up to your hole, whispering softly into your ear -”My little perv.”- before he’s pushing in agonizingly slow.

He’s biting his lip as he focuses on not coming the second he enters you, so tight and wet and weeping for him. He buckles forwards onto his elbows half way in, your tight and sudden clenching knocking the air from his lungs. The feeling of you wrapped around him is nothing like his hand, in fact he’s sure that nothing in this world can compare to the way you feel around him.  

He’s struggling to keep his composure as he bottoms out inside you, burying his face into the side of your head as he whimpers and whines at the next level intensity of it all. A new, completely overwhelming feeling, that has him almost drooling into your hair as he moans into your ear as you grip his ass and beg him to move.

“Oh my god, y/n.” You smooth your hand down his bare back, soothing his fiery skin as he pulls all the way out till just his tip remains inside you, bottoming back out with a shaky thrust and even shakier breath. “F-fucking heaven.” He says as he screws his eyes shut, thankful you can’t see the pathetic expression on his face.

But it’s not enough for you, you don’t want him hiding himself, so you pull him up by the back of his head, kiss him sloppily once before saying, “Look at me, Eddie. I wanna see you.”

Eddie scoffs, shakes his head, eyes still tightly shut. “‘Mgonna cum if I look at you.”

“It’s okay, baby, I want you to come. Wanna hear you and see you as you cum inside me.”

“Oh fucking hell.” His thrust picks up at your words, eyes springing open to find yours as he fucks into you harder, less sloppy than before.

His hair blankets around your face, shields you from the room, leaves you in this private little bubble that's all you and him and wet hot pants, eyes locked in an rhapsodic gaze that neither of you can or want to pull away from. The coil inside you tightens tenfold as his fingers find your bundle of nerves, rubbing harshly against them as he keeps his even thrusts.

He’s the first to speak.

“Can’t go back to b-before.” He pleads openly, “Not now, not after this.”

“I know, Eds. I know.” You can barely speak, wound so tight you feel like you're gonna combust underneath him.

“Wanna be yours. Please, let me be yours.” He sounds near tears from the delirious pleasure coursing through his body, any other time he’d be filled with shame, but you’re safe. You’re his person.

You push the hair from his face, hold him tenderly in your grasp, thumb tugging at his bottom lip as you earnestly tell him, “You’ve always been mine, Eddie. I’ve always been yours.”

He crashes his lips to yours, craving your mouth as he cums deep inside you, whining prettily into the smoldering kiss. You follow after, nails indenting into the curve of his shoulders as you cum, air knocked from your lungs, toes curling against his bed sheets. Your scream is muffled by his hot mouth, hips carrying you through it till he’s whining from the oversensitivity.

You gasp at the sudden loss as Eddie pulls out and collapses against your chest, ear pressed to your thundering heart beat. Your bodies shake together in the come down, his lower half deflating into the mattress as you stroke his hair, tucking the crazy strands behind his ear and out of his mouth.

He wraps his arms around your back as he lays on you, nuzzles his nose into your soft skin, humming in satisfaction.

“Was it okay?” He asks after a couple minutes of silence, kissing against your ribcage.

“Incredible. I-” You huff out a laugh, smooth your thumb down his cheekbone. “I’ve never cum so hard before.”    

He wants to thrust his fist into the air, so proud that even on his first time he’s made you cum better than anyone before him, but instead he holds you tighter, basking in the glow.

“Wanna do that again?” You ask cheekily, smiling down at him with a devilish look. “I wanna try those handcuffs.”

He rolls off you with a laugh, titling his head up at you with a faux, and deeply exaggerated, look of disapproval.

“Damn, baby. Can a guy get a minute to regain his breath? I’m not some sorta machine, you needy thing.”

You giggle at him, curl your body against his, slap fat wet kisses at his bare chest as he continues to jokingly chastise you.

“I fucking love you, Eddie Munson.”    

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader smut #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fan fic #stranger things x reader #eddie munson fluff

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

02/05/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Cast & Crew; Rhys Cameos; Samba BTS; Samba & Rhys Goofyness; Wee John Wednesday + surprise Leslie; UK Launch; Watch Party Reminders; What We Do In The Shadows; New Watch parties: Love Birds; Articles; Fundraisers; Schadenfreude; Trends; Morale/LoveNotes/MORE RHYS CAMEOS; Daily Darby/Tonight's Taika;

Jeez Louise fam today was a seriously jam packed day! Once again Im worried I'm gonna miss something because there was just so much so please feel free to let me know!

== Cast & Crew ==

The Crew section is a hefty one today, so buckle up buttercup it's gonna be a chaotic and heartwarming ride.

Okay so, yesterday we had that lovely message that was edited from our beloved captain. But then our dear friend @meowzawowaza_ over on twitter released yet another part of the video that specifically went over Rhys' frustrations with the cancellation. Now it's less positive, but as she says, it adds another layer that is helping rally the troops to keep fighting. Here's the thread with the videos. Apologies if you don't have twitter... I don't have a link outside of there at the moment. If I find one, I'll update it here.

THEN because she's awesome, our lovely @lucyrosebutler decided to share the cameo she had gotten previously. Which he ended with, "Yeah, you be you, keep rock'n, and yeah, you be you, and do it loudly."

Before continuing with the cast & crew...

== Kudosboard! ==

Wanna send our lovely captain, Rhys, some kudos and love after all he's given us, especially the last two days? You can do so over on kudoboard.com! Thank you @madzilla84 for making this happen! Get on over there and send our sunshine man some love!

Alright! On to more Cast & Crew.

= Samba =

Samba, our favorite BTS buddy posted a new BTS picture + was making sure to shout out the new S2 out on BBCIplayer today!

= Samba & Rhys =

Then because our entire cast and crew is a pile of goofballs, Rhys and Samba shared this little exchange on twitter:

= Wee John Wednesday Monday! =

And well, then there was Wee John Wednesdays Monday! Where we not only got to see the expected three cast members: Kristian Nairn, Vico Ortiz, and Madeleine Sami, but a SURPRISE guest, Leslie Jones who crashed the Instagram live party.

You can watch the whole thing on Kristian Nairn's IG Here. WHICH I highly recommend because it was an absolute blast and got so many of us pumped and ready for more. Some highlights that absolutely cannot describe the pure and wonderful chaos were:

Rocket Jousting

Leslie fucking every alien in space

Leslie wants to come to a convention

Horny pickle ball

Jenkins is on board for s3 if it happens

They see how hard we're working on SaveOFMD and they said "they deserve it" (s3) and "so do we!"

Mads just randomly runs into Taika on the beach

Gypsy made a chest binder for all Vico's outfits @edscuntyeyeshadow ty for the screenshots here on tumblr

Oh and David Fane popped in because he's a gem of a human being. Thanks @madzilla84 for catching that!

= Leslie Jones + Convention =

PSSSST: Wanna help get Leslie to a con? Go request her on the Galaxy Con Websites! Thanks @insane_foliage on twitter for the suggestions!

= Vico Ortiz =

Upcoming cast events! Sunday Feb 11, 4PM PST, Vico will be interviewing with the lovely Samantha Rei on Instagram Live

= Erroll Shand =

I just, can't get over how amazing Erroll's IG Stories are, and how much he interacts with the goofy fan memes. I love this guy.

== Uk Launch ==

So many people logged in for the UK Launch of S2!!! Thank you everyone! The data teams over at @saveofmdcrewmates are still crunching numbers to show how things went the first day, but we can definitely see #OurFlagBBC trending for a bit!

Also Pink News was tweeting about the launch, and Wee John Wednesday!

Great job everyone-- please keep it up if you have the spoons! Wanna watch OFMD again? You can help support the UK Launch by watching it on BBCIplayer! Once again, if you are outside the US you can get instructions on how to here on @reallygoodplants page, or from this article.

== Watch Party Reminders! ==

= What We Do In The Shadows Watch Party! =

Tuesday February 6th, 9PM GMT, 1 PM PST, 4PM EST

Watch Party Hashtags:

#VamPirates

#SaveOFMD

#AdoptOurCrew

== New Watch Parties! ==

FINALLYYYYY we have a Love Birds Watch Party! Feb 9th - 9 pm GMT, 4 pm EST, 1pm PST.

Watch Party Hashtags:

#AdoptOurLoveBirds

#AdoptOurCrew

#SaveOFMD

==Articles==

So many articles today with the UK launch, including the Guardian again!

What’s On TV This Week: 5th February – 11th February

TV Tonight: It's the Final Series of Curb Your Enthusiasm

Our Flags Means Death fans get TV licence just to watch pirate show

The Best Romantic TV Series to Get into the Valentine’s Day Spirit

8 TV Shows Were Canceled in January 2024, Including 4 From HBO

Why won’t there be a Our Flag Means Death season 3?

= Fundraiser Status =

eSIMs and Sanitary Products for Gaza by Our Flag Makes A Difference is currently at 27% of their goal. If you're looking for a good cause to donate to, these folks have been incredibly transparent about all funds.

@One of the crew, @mcstuffiesphd is selling Jeff stickers as well as other SaveOFMD merch and donating 50% to the Our Flag Makes A Difference group for the above fundraiser.

== SchadenFreude / Trends Time ==

Thank you @btweenhisteeth on twitter for capturing this metric! Looks like WB Discovery is still having a bit of trouble with their stocks. Wonder why that could be?

Other fun trends that popped up today: Thank you @merryfinches catching a shot of the pile of royalty below.

== Morale / Love Notes ==

So normally I just want to say all the things about how lovely you all are, but Rhys posted YET ANOTHER video on cameo tonight, and I feel like his voice is the sunshine we all need. The longer one up, is dedicated to LGBTQIA+ folks with some anecdotes from Rhys' childhood, and another specific to the crew for this show (it's about 3 mins 10 seconds long). Please take a few minutes to go watch them, you don't need a log in or anything for them. It's just worth it to hear our lovely captain say nice things.

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

And to end the night, just some silly gifs that maybe sort of but don't quite go together for tonight. Goodnight lovelies, it was a LOOONG day today, please go get some rest. Love you.

#daily ofmd recap #ofmd daily recap #daily ofmd recaps #ofmd daily recaps #save ofmd #saveofmd #save our flag means death #ofmd #our flag means death #rhys darby #vico ortiz #kristian nairn #madeleine sami #leslie jones #erroll shand #samba schutte #ofmd bts #our flag makes a difference #ofmd watch parties

[fatehbaz]

taking relentless severe psychic damage from watching several hours of videos of television commercial advertisements from the United States in December 1999.

a world-historical moment, an all-time high peak of self-assured smirking arrogance.

ascendant home computers and internet modems. a new millennium! a time after Cold War but before Nining Leven, with saxophone-playing heads of state and cheery Spielbierg-ian sentimentality attempting to plaster over 1970s/1980s disappointments and hangovers with renewed millennarian End-Of-History optimism.

come celebrate with us! look at these images of The Nation! from sparkling Times Square and the cast of "Friends" in bustling cosmopolitan New York City, to sunny Californian prosperity, to those cartoonish frogs in the quasi-mythical Deep South-ish rural periphery of Budweiser ads, and all the suburban Midwestern Kay's Jeweler's in between! planetary hegemony. "Head east from the Colosseum, across the ruts of chariots, and you'll find an imperial estate built by a second-century Caesar. It's a rough ride. And if the agile and durable Chevy Tracker can handle these ancient roads, driving back home will be a walk in the park. Chevy Tracker: It Gets Around!"

or perhaps "our" power extends beyond this terrestrial imperium, into space, conquering the stars. UFOs; space aliens; The X-Files; Independence Day; Space Jam; Men in Black; the Phoenix Lights; Coast to Coast AM on the radio; Space Command in Colorado Springs.

the anxious fragility belied by the desperate constant promotion of an almost religious dedication to recognizable icons.

talking chihuahuas, marketing jingles, annual football game events. self-referential circular cross-promotion maelstrom.

"An all-new holiday spectacular, a Christmas special destined to become a family classic! With music from REM's Michael Stipe, voiced by Ally McBeal's Peter MacNicol, and starring Drew Barrymore! It's Olive the Other Reindeer! At 8/7 Central Fox Friday!"

trying to insist that this "classic" cultural iconography binds us. it has always lived in your heart. fabricating in real-time a supposedly shared history, insisting on this "reality" even at the moment of its very creation. hammering away at the soul.

Daffy Duck saunters in and pronounces: "Eat your way into the new millennium with this 'gigundo' party sub from Subway!"

why aren't you smiling?

[blackterrae]

Ideas for Black!Reader Fic

I am going to try my hand again at writing. And I wanted to share some people and fandoms that I love. If you don’t know these shows/actors/franchises/movies/streamers I’m putting you on! For the following:

Johnny Depp- All his characters

Cameron Monaghan- I know that there are fics out there but it’s only always his Jerome/Jeremiah roles never just him or Cal Kestis

Anthony Carrigan- I loved Anothy as Victor Zsasz

Paul Dano- There are Riddler fics but not as many for his other roles

The Entire Cast of Hawaii Five-0 (2010) - Don’t even get me started on how good this show is! And the cast looks amazing!

Chicago Med/Fire/PD- These shows have so much potential for fanfic storylines!

The Game (2006)- Has great potential for slow burns and fluffs.

Star Wars franchise (1977-present) - I know I said Cal Kestis but there are also other characters like Anakin, Luke, Obi Wan,Boba Fett (etc.)

NCIS franchise- I honestly love this franchise and it’s characters!

Hamilton

Any/All Sports Men- Jude Bellingham,Lewis Hamilton,LaMelo Ball,Allen Iverson(etc.)

Berleezy - He’s handsome and he’s funny!

Coryxkenshin- I literally love him and his videos!

Albert Aretz (Flamingo)- Look … he may be the epitome of mediocre white man but I like what I like!

AMP- Duke Dennis, Kai Cenat, Agent 00, ChrisNxtDoor,Davis, and Fanum ( all I gotta say is love a black man from infinity to infinity🗣️)

Beta Squad- A British YouTube/ streamer group!

SOMEBROS- Berleezy, Rico, ,PG, Joe (etc.)

WWE- come on now, do I even need to explain!!!

Four Brothers- All the cast but Garrett Hedland in particular!

Peacemaker - Don’t get me wrong I love Adrian Chase but I want to see just as much Peacemaker x black!reader fics because 2 words… JOHN CENA

MAWS- New animated Superman show! Love!

Smallville - The entire cast is hot! Tbh I fell hard for Tom Welling when I was younger when he was in Cheaper By The Dozen. Plus they literally whitewashed Vixen. COME ON! Vixen is a black female hero btw. She was also with Jon (Green Lantern) at one point.

Justice League/Justice League Unlimited (2001 and 2004)- I mean I literally can’t find any Jon Stewart x black!reader fics and he was with a BLACK WOMAN!

Warner Bros Franchise (minus the looney tunes & space jam)- There are lots of popular franchises that this company has from Fast & Furious to The Matrix!

Peaky Blinders- Saw a Tommy shelby x arms dealer black!female reader fic on my previous account but even then I couldn’t find it again on that account. So it’s gone with the wind. And the cast (i.e the actors and other characters they’ve portrayed). Example: Cillian Murphy as Johnathan Crane.

The Bear

FBI (All)

Vinnie Hacker

Tiktokers

Blue Bloods

Will Poulter- I haven’t really seen any Adam Warlock fics

Slashers

Stranger Things

Dave Lizewski

Eddie Redmayne

Macgyver (2016)

Fresh Prince of Belair

Guardians of the galaxy- Explanation? Do I really need one?

On My Block

Descendants (characters will be the actors age in real life.duh)- Love Boo-boo Stewart & Mitchell Hope!

Matt Rife

Joey Bragg (Liv &Maddie) - What can I say I love dorks!

The Boys- Haven’t seen that many fics about the characters and a black reader

Once Upon A Time- I love dark fairytales sometimes because they remind me that not every story has a happy ending and you have to learn from them. But this series is good for any theme really.

Walker Texas Ranger (1993)

Top Gun

Magcon: Whether you saw their vines on YouTube or vine, you know who they are

Dolan Twins

Mission Impossible

Euphoria- Entire show has great storylines with the potential of drama in fics

Shameless- Especially Carl Gallagher and Lip Gallagher

Creed- Michael B Jordan need I say more

Keanu Reeves- There are very few fics about Keanu but I’ve seen a few of his John Wick x black!reader fics (chef’s kiss) but never see any of The Matrix Fics!Also Ted (Bill & Ted)

River Phoenix

Batman Beyond

Rider Strong

Danny Gonzalez

Timothée Chalamet

New York Undercover

Past-Present Singers & Rappers/ Groups -Bow Wow, Tupac, Lil Baby, Nelly, Omarion, Prince, Michael Jackson, Jon B,Usher, Central Cee, Måneskin, New Edition, BTS, James Bay(etc.)

Anime(Any kind!)- Would love to see other shows, I know hunterxhunter,aot,one piece (etc.)

Bridgerton- There is very little Bridgerton stories catered around a black reader.

Marvel- Now that’s not to say that there aren’t any in fact there are many but I never see (Tobey Maguire Spider-Man stories and it seems like everyone tends to focus on the famous Marvel characters like The Avengers but not on other aspects like X-men or better yet, heroes that haven’t even gotten their own movie but are just as amazing like Squadron Supreme , it’s equivalent to DCU’s Justice League.

Secret Invasion- Not gonna lie , I’m feening for Gravik.😳

DCEU- Another franchise that pushes its other characters to the side. For example, Hush (Thomas Elliot) is literally the epitome of Bruce Wayne gone bad!

Ross Lynch- There are so many roles that Ross did so well in Like Teen Beach Movie or Sabrina.

Highschool Musical Franchise (2006- present ) I’m not just talking about HSMTS (2019), I mean even further back than that. I don’t see any Troy Bolton x black!reader and that’s crazy. I also can’t find any Zac Efron x black!reader

Interview with a Vampire (1994) and (2022)

Austin Butler- He did well in his role as Elvis!

Vikings - There are a good amount but still!

Transformers

Suits

Saved By The Bell

The Goldbergs

Parks & Recreation

Leverage

The Outsiders

Heart of Stone

New York Undercover (1994)

Addams Family

Victorious

Matpat

ICarly

The Real Bros of Simi Valley (2017)

Think Like A Man (2012)

One on One (2001)

Scorpion (2014)

The King of Queens (1998)

G.I. Joe Franchise

Terminator

Beware the Batman (2013)

Any and all Asian Idols/Actors

Seal Team

Mortal Combat

Bill and Ted

Barbie

Detroit: Become Human

Will Trent

Tokyo Vice

Growing Pains

Graceful Family (Kdrama)[Any Asian Drama shows or movies would be great as well]

The Regime

Batman: The animated series

If anyone needs ideas for these franchises/movies/shows/actors , then holla at me! I got you!

Also add more to the list if anything that you would like to see comes to mind.

Also tag black writers who you want to see this!

@sheabuttahwrites @shinsouscatpisssmell @cocoamoonmalfoy @heathenarmyimagines @cinewhore @cocoamoonmalfoy @stxxllaaa @glitterjuju @lilvampirina @breanime @blackmissfrizzle @afro-hispwriter @stargirlfics @lavenderursa @clydesducktape @pettyprocrastination @theblvckvenus @plantvenuss @punani @n-slayaaaaa @infernalodie @halfofmysoulsblog @iridecsense @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @supremethunda @thekrazykeke @canumoveurseatup-no @hiatuswhore @avintagekiss24 @ohcaptains @iguessweallcrazyithinktho @xsapphirescrollsx @sunflowertuliplily @bakarilennox @batfamily14 @ramp-it-up @blackreaders-assemble @royallyprincesslilly @funnyexel @blackterrae @slashisms @artemisthewh0re @shelbydelrey @toocriticalharlow @v-era-18 @vampsired @queenimmadolla @sinnerlillith @greengoblinswifey @apocalypse-shuffle

#black fanfic #black fanfic writer #black tumblr #bipoc writers #black writers #jack sparrow x black!reader #harry styles x black!reader #timothee chalamet x black!reader #mha x black female reader #r&b/hip hop #hawaii 5 0 #NCIS #cal kestis x black!reader #anime #marvel #dceu #warner bros #heroes and villains #star wars x black!reader #the bear #black fandom #peaky blinders #mortal kombat x black! female reader #black!fem!reader #Chicago PD/Med/Fire #multifandom black imagines #blackterrae #begone hiatus/writer’s block #slashers x black!fem!reader #Sam Witwicky x black!fem!reader

[lazuruspit]

separate ways (worlds apart) — (m)

pairing: miya osamu/afab!chubby!reader (no prns used) content warnings: osamu and reader are divorced parents, angst, smut, pwp (minimal plot if you squint and stand on your head), finger sucking, cunnilingus, size kink, unprotected sex, marking, cheating (reader cheats on her current bf he is an npc tho) wc: 2.8k

“Osamu.”

The aforementioned man looks up, rubbing the back of his neck, and laments your first name as a retort. It’s with the same blunt cadence and everything—rolling off his tongue a little sarcastically, squeezing past his lips like sandpaper.

“You’re late,” you finish.

“Traffic was a pain.” 

“You could’ve left your shop earlier.”

“I was busy,” Osamu grunts, jamming his hands in his pockets, “occupied with something.”

Your eyelids wilt into dubious slits. “Something? Or someone?” 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He mumbles, “How’s yer new boy toy?”

“Don’t bring up Rafael,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the taut canopy of his black t-shirt, “I know how to keep my romance life separate from my daughter's life.”

“Our daughter’s life,” he firmly states, “and I ain’t seeing anyone. Not that it’s any of yer business, anyway.”

You eye him gingerly. Osamu looks unseemly beneath the doorway to your home—especially considering it used to be the doorway to your shared home. He awkwardly idles on the threshold to your genkan, his thick body and tall stature almost taking up the entire space of your doorway. He rubs the scruff of his neck and hangs his head, averting his eyes.

“... You’re right. I’m sorry,” you say, before pivoting on your heel and walking briskly down the hallway.

Osamu hurries in toeing off his shoes, lining them up next to the door. He trips over his socked feet trying to follow you, making a conscious effort in keeping his eyes cast downward, unwilling to be faced with the barren walls that used to be decorated with photos of the two of you, or bleak shelves that once held ornaments from all your past anniversaries.

Osamu clears his throat. “Where’s Sayu?” He asks, saving himself from saying anything else.

“Upstairs sleeping,” you reply, “she fell asleep waiting for you.”

Humiliation flares over Osamu’s cheeks. “I was working overtime,” he mutters, “I’ve been saving up for Sayura’s birthday gift. She said she wants a Furby—whatever the fuck that is.”

He idly drums his fingers on the kitchen island—the counter he spent so many nights bending you over—as he watches as you flit around the kitchen, preparing your evening tea. It strikes a chord in him. Through bones and flesh and cartilage and all. It hurts for him to realise that the only thing fully cut from your life following the divorce was him, not any other part of your routine. 

(A selfish little part of Osamu wishes everything else was uprooted for you, too—that the smell of hōjicha tea reminds you of him; that you couldn’t walk past Connel Coffee without remembering how bare your ring finger feels—just as it is for him.)

Osamu silently heeds your silence, and decides to help you by grinding tea leaves.

“I’m trying my best,” he tacks on, “that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“I know you are,” you huff, vigorously wiping down the marble counter. Osamu watches with depthless eyes as you run a threadbare rag over the already spotless island. He can just about see your reflections—your sullen cheeks, his tired eyes. 

“I–”

“It’s just– it’s hard enough for our daughter to move between our house– my house– and your apartment every other week. If you wanna work doubles, that’s fine, but you shouldn’t do it on the days you’re supposed to be picking her up–”

Your words die on your tongue, and before you—or Osamu—know it, instead of rubbing an unstained counter, you’re now wiping away the tears that dribble like scythes.

“Woah,” Osamu panics, “hey, hey hey hey–”

He pulls you into his arms, letting your head ensconce itself on his shoulder. He gently shushes you as he glides his hand lower, letting it rest atop the small of your back. Osamu’s fingers run over your spine, over the familiar divots he has committed to his memory, and tries to stamp down the rush of nostalgia that fleetingly impairs his focus.

“It’s just so difficult–” you sniffle into his chest, clutching a fistful of his shirt in your hands. 

“I know, I know,” he placates.

Osamu’s heart furors before he can stop himself. He pulls back—just scarcely enough to look you in the eyes—and cups your face, running his jaded thumbs over the cherub of your cheeks, wiping away your tears. He always told you you’re too pretty to cry—especially when you were squirming around his throbbing cock, desperate to swallow him whole.

His silvery eyes flicker down to the necklace locked around your collarbones. It’s gold, lustrous against your buttery skin, and twisted into the letter R. For Rafael. The piece of jewellery mocks him, winking under the dull kitchen lighting.

(That of which you used to slow dance under at the crest of midnight, baring the skeletons in your closet to one another, before feeding each other lukewarm rice soup with cupped hands placed under a worn wooden spoon.)

Osamu’s bigger than you—decidedly so—he’s lost his edge over the years, with his college six-pack being replaced by a heartier layer of flesh, but still, he’s buff. Has the body of someone disciplined. So Osamu encompasses your world as you hoist your neck up, staring at him through your blotchy vision. He preens under your gaze, sliding the pad of his thumb along your mouth, which prompts you—through the curse of muscle memory—to part your lips, and shepherd Osamu’s finger into the round of your cheek with the curl of your tongue.

Your eyes widen. “Osamu–!”

“How is he, by the way?” He asks, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. Chewing it, gnawing it, tearing it, before letting it slip from his bite—swollen and raw and red. “Does he treat you well?”

Does he treat you better than I did? Is what Osamu wants to ask, stuck on the threshold of whether or not he even wants to know the answer.

“I’m not crying ‘cause of Rafael,” you sniff, “it’s just hard dealing with everything.”

“Has Sayura met him yet?”

“It’s too soon,” you whimper, “she still asks why we can’t have Sunday brunch together anymore.”

“... We’ve been divorced for a year, baby.”

(The term of endearment slips out before he can stop himself. He stands ramrod straight; you slacken into his warmth. Your chests touch, kept apart by the protective fence of your ribs, but even then, your heartbeats pulse in synchronisation.)

“It’s already been a year?” You slur, puckering your eyebrows.

“Yeah. It has.” 

He slips his thumb out of your mouth, hooking his forefinger under your chin. He tilts your head up as he looks down at you, eyes glazed with a misty glow. Osamu weaves his thick fingers between the wisps of your hair, craning your head back, baring your neck, and sets his sight on the supple skin of your collarbones.

His heart thumps in a rapid succession, miles from his brain. His impulsiveness overrides his consciousness, and in an undertaken lapse of judgement, Osamu tugs you close by your love handles, breathing lowly against the shell of your ear.

“Does he fuck ya well?” He sharply inhales, scarred lip tilting into a snarl as he not only smells your sweet shampoo, but something else—something a little unseemly wafting from your supple skin—like pomade, or burnt sandalwood.

It’s Rafael’s cologne, Osamu realises. He growls under his breath and kneads your waist, eyes darkening.

“Osamu–” you start, cutting yourself off with a croon of surprise as your ex-husband bullies you backwards, catching you against the kitchen island. The cold marble does little to offset the heat that flares over your body—blooming under your flesh, sluicing between your legs, spreading like a labyrinth throughout your chest—as Osamu cuts his fingers into your chubby skin, pulling you against his sturdy chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you gasp, but you refute your words by grinding against his thick thigh that he slots between your legs.

Your fickle statement is countered by Osamu’s beseeching “Just the tip,” as he holds you close, meagrely humping his swelling cock against you, nose buried in your neck.

You shuck Osamu’s shirt above his stomach as he works his fingers into your leggings. He massages the flesh of your ass and captures your lips for a wet kiss. It’s reminiscent of returning to your bed after a long vacation.

Osamu cards his tongue past your lips and curls it over your teeth, savouring your taste. Blood rushes to his cock at the thought of you having been chaste ever since your divorce—he knows it isn’t true, he knows you’ve had sex with Rafael, you have your realistic needs—but Osamu indulges himself, allowing his mind to caper and prance as the taste of home fills his mouth.

He moves his hand to the front of your leggings, palming your pussy through the thin gauze of panties. He shepherds out your natural lube—angling the heel of palm against your clit, tracing feather-light circles around your fluttering hole. Your arousal licks the skin of his fingers, making them glisten and glimmer under the lighting fixtures.

Osamu sinks to his knees, imploring a prayer to the altar that is your body, and tugs down your leggings. He digs divots into your thighs and leans in close, burying his nose between your thighs. Osamu puckers his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen clit. He pulls back, mouth glazed with a wash of your slick, that of which he eagerly cleans with the swipe of his tongue. You twist a tuft of Osamu’s hair in your fist and shepherd him closer, into the welcoming warmth of your pussy, fucking yourself on the defined bridge of his nose.

Osamu rolls out his tongue and flattens it against your cunt, revelling in the way your arousal sieves through the cotton of your intimates, marinating in his mouth. Your dewy cunt dampens your panties, turning them a pearlescent tint of off-white with your pre-cum and Osamu’s saliva. The panties stick to your cunt, making the froth a little see through, outlining the barest hint of your soft pussy.

He snags the band of your underwear between his teeth, and drags them down your legs. Osamu wastes no time in lapsing back to your pussy, slipping his tongue between the fat of your cunt, sucking at your sticky folds. He moans into you, sending vibrations curling up your spine, his eyes fluttering shut as your sweetness saturates his mouth. 

You fuck yourself on Osamu’s tongue until you’re creaming around the wet muscle, running your slick and swollen clit atop the tip of his nose. You moan synchronously with him, a cacophony of your voices echoing out in otherwise empty the kitchen. He fully submits to you—he lets you ride out your orgasm on his face—greedily lapping up all your juices, letting the rest trickle down his chin.

Osamu doesn’t give you the luxury of reorientation. Not after having been starved of you for so long. He raises to his feet and mashes his lips against yours. You taste yourself on his tongue. The saltiness of your arousal and the sweetness of his lips play like a mosaic inside your mouth.

Osamu sharply undoes his belt and shoves his pants down his thighs, not even bothering to pull his balls out. Just his cock—fat and heavy as it flares with an angry red tip, leaking with cum.

Your eyes flit down to his boxer briefs, widening. “Did you–”

“Of fucking course I did,” Osamu interrupts, jerking himself off, shameless as he admits he already came—just from eating you out. 

Osamu spins you around and folds you over the countertop. The coldness nips your skin the same way Osamu nips your neck, marking you with love bites. He drags his dick between your legs, slapping it against your puffy slit. The sensation prickles your heat, causing you to moan, squirming beneath his firm hand that keeps you in place, locked between your shoulder blades.

“Just the tip,” he repeats—mostly to himself, as some fruitless reminder—“do ya want this? Do you want my cock?”

“I want it,” you cry, halfway between a whine and a beg, “I want it all.”

Osamu grasps the base of his dick and directs it to your winking hole, teasing it with the drooling head of his cock. He drags it against your clit, and just barely squeezes himself past your opening before he starts to vibrate, sweat gathering over his eyebrow.

He tightly curses under his breath, white-knuckled as he grips your waist harder, rolling his hips into you, and into the deep warmth of your cunt. His “just the tip” resolve didn’t last long, he muses. Osamu lifts up his shirt and wedges the hem between his teeth, letting himself watch as his big cock slips in and out of your cunt.

You haven’t been stretched this far in a long time. Rafael’s good; Rafael’s stable; he’s safe. But Osamu—while your safeguard—was always a challenge. He always had to wiggle himself in, watching you struggle around his cock. 

Osamu’s hands loll over your waist, pulling you down on him; he growls as your pussy simultaneously swallows his impossibly large cock and squeezes it back out. Skin slaps against skin. Pleasure seizes Osamu, the feeling wholly better from the tightened fist he uses on lonely days, where his greying hairs are a testament to the struggles of co-parenting and the after effects of divorcing his first—and only—love.

Osamu pulls your arms behind your back and collects your wrists with a single hand, making a conscious effort in avoiding the stark absence of your wedding stack. He then raises his dominant hand and sinks it into your hair, using it for leverage to pull you up, to mould your back against his chest, still fucking you stupid as he wraps his arm around you, fingers finding your clit and blindly sweeping at the engorged bud.

His dominant hand leaves your hair and goes for your collarbone. He rips the necklace from its place, and there it goes tinkering to the tiled floor. A puckish chuckle crosses his tongue, seeing it flimsily discarded.

Your jaw hangs open at the pressure of Osamu’s fingers paired with the snap of his hips—his thrusts attuned to your every need.

(You remember back in university, your first year of dating, finding a dog-eared kamasutra book stashed under Samu’s dorm bed, in lieu of the usual eroge or hentai. His friends teased him about it; you found it endearing. He said he wanted to learn it all for you. To study it and improve—and from there your intimacy came a long way: graduation, engagement, and eventual marriage. Divorce.) 

Osamu knows you like the back of his hand by now. So he makes your second orgasm come easy, capitalising off the fact that you’ve been strung so far for so long, that only he knows how to turn you into a trembling mess.

Your orgasm crests when Osamu slots his mouth against yours, breathing a plaintive “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,” into your cleft lips. Making you feel good makes Osamu feel good; so as you quiver in his embrace, Osamu’s pleasure flares, and he hastily pulls out just in time to screw his fist around his heavy cock and jerk himself off. You mewl at the loss, kittening your butt over him, adding friction to his rising pleasure. Osamu whines as he cums—cutting his fingers into your hips, directing the thick ropes that shoot from his cockhead to the soiled crotch-area of your panties, low on your legs. Some of it sticks to your thighs, dribbling down like hot strings as they tremble.

Osamu rests his forehead against your back once he’s sapped. His hot breath sluices down your spine, his lips barely brushing your sheen-stained skin in what sounds like hesitance. It was always a part of your ritual for Osamu to kiss you everywhere after sex. To soothe the burning mosaic of hickeys and bruises with his lips.

“... You can shower here,” you say, stepping out of your panties, pulling your leggings back up.

Your name crosses Osamu’s tongue. It’s quiet, a premise to talk about what just happened.

“Samu,” you turn around. “I…”

“You can leave Rafael, ya know?” He says, and immediately regrets it. Selfishness was supposed to be something self-indulgent—not something he’d ever admit. This was not self-indulgence, this was pure assholery, because Osamu still missed you, and you had moved on.

You look up at Osamu. He always cried during sex. But not like this—red, scythe-like ribbons around his bloodshot, puffy eyes. You smile, and Osamu’s post-orgasm haze, riding on the last tendrils of love, ripens into dread. 

“I think we both know this was a mistake, Samu.”

Osamu hopes you mean the divorce, not the post-divorce sex. But you tilt your head, your telltale sign of discomfort, and Osamu submits to the pain.

“I’m sorry.” You awkwardly turn. “I’ll see you later.”

A tight knot nestles between your shoulders and your heart as you head upstairs, taking whatever’s left of Osamu’s heart and soul with you as you leave.

#osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #haikyuu smut #osamu miya smut #osamu smut #osamu miya x reader #hq x reader #mine

[i-am-the-niche]

I want a sci-fi/space opera TV show with real plot and character development, and more that 2 seasons that's free to watch

have you tried Babylon 5?

I want a space opera with no filler episodes, every episode should have something relevant to the plot

have you tried Babylon 5?

I want a space opera that is respectful to other cultures and religions and shows conflicts between different cultures and how they are resolved

have you tried Babylon 5?

I want a space opera where actions (and inaction) have real consequences that the characters must navigate and deal with

have you tried Babylon 5?

I want a space opera that deals with mystical-like things but remains realistic

Have you tried B5?

I want a space opera where women are actively involved and not treated as a damsel or a plot device I want a show where you see multiple sides to a story I want a show that talks about the harm of colonization and slavery I want a show that shows PTSD and the effects of war I want a show that talks about genocide and racism I want a show with an explicitly LGBTQ+ person, I want a show with fucking fantastic 90's fashion that's 'futuristic' I want a show where every actor is a good actor, I want a show where the main cast is expanded on realistically, I want a show that deals with alcohol, drug abuse, and how it effects those around you I want a show where love is both safety and danger I want a show with a fantastic plot twist that I would never see coming I want a show with excellent quotes I want I want a show with movies that are relevant and expand upon the universe I want-

HAVE YOU TRIED BABYLON 5?!?!??!!!?

Literally the only downsides:

most of the main cast is white, there are many side characters and extras that are POC but most of the cast is white

the LGBT+ character is not expanded upon much

while B5 does have 5 seasons the 4th was supposed to be the end until they got more funding, I personally recommend not watching the 5th season

*correction, original was intended to have 5 seasons but was worried about funding getting cut so season 4 is jam packed and season 5 is flat. they both suffer but personally I find season 5 worse. thanks to @purronronner for the correction!

#babylon 5 #sci fi and fantasy #sci fi #space drama #space #drama #star wars #star trek #the orville #firefly #the mandalorian #the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy #the martian

[vampirzina]

Jam

dialogue w. cottagecore!reader & havik

╰ ❝ clean yourself up. you're getting blood all over the place. ❜❜

tw: gender neutral, no y/n, sfw, mdni, friends to lovers, angst, blood, insecurities, oneshot

notes: idk what this is, n i know this dynamic is a big hit or miss but i just think it’d be kinda cute.., set when havik gets burnt.

masterlist

The rocking chair reclines; you toss the wool over your thick wooden needle.

The rocking chair keels over; you knit it into the rest of the pattern.

Occasionally Pinky, the cat, sniffles or stirs in the pool of the morning sun that frayed out through the sliver of glass in the front door, like a spotlight. She slowly blinks at nothing, groggy. You have to cut her some slack; keeping the freshly clean wooden floor company all morning is tiring for a lone cat.

It’s comfortable, here.

For a moment.

You hear two thumps and an audible sound of discomfort, before the rickety wooden door is burst open—Pinky, ears flattened to her head and tail puffed, bounds away and towards you. You abandon knitting entirely, but you don’t get up… Yet.

“Dairou?”

He slams the door so hard that it opens again, the walls shaking with the force of his fury. Havik holds his face in his hands and if it weren’t apparent by now, looks hurt. A splotch of red escapes his wound to hit the floor; you cast all of your knitting material to the side to get up and help.

You knew of his life outside of your quaint little world, but this is the first time he’s ever come to you like this. Any of his bruises or cuts are brushed off at his request, but should he try this time to keep you away, you won’t listen. Your hands dirty with his blood just trying to pry his hands away, and—

You gasp, hands flying to cup your mouth as you step back. You don’t know how long you stood there, but you have to yank yourself into reality to fix this, and swallow down the squeamishness from the spook at the back of your throat.

It was only a peek, but you saw it—Havik’s face was marred by something, something strong enough to skin away his mouth to his nose and leave nothing but burnt flesh and bone.

You haphazardly search the living space as it gets dirtier and dirtier, and Havik’s sounds of pain have died into a low hiss and growl every then and again, but he watches you through the gaps in his fingers. It must hurt to speak right now. You pick a cloth to sacrifice.

“Gods, um, um,” you don’t know how to give the dampened cloth to him if he’s holding his face, so you tuck it in between his bicep and arm. “Clean yourself up. You’re getting blood all over the place.”

You scoot out the nearest chair at the table for him to sit as you scurry to your bathroom. It’s not much, but there’s an aid kit in there; you’ll make do with what you have in there.

By time you come back, the rag in Havik’s hands is so heavy with blood, that simply moving it from the table he set it on to the sink left a mark. You hiss at the sheer spots left on your table, drawing a thumb over it to smudge it out. Ultimately making it worse makes you sigh.

Havik, however, is silent. Deathly silent.

He can’t look you in the eyes though.

“What happened?” you just wanted to know, but it’s obvious that you’ll go without, as you inspect his wound. “The gods must be tired of me calling their name in vain, but… Gods…”

You both stay in silence, staring, looking everywhere else but each other. It’s you who breaks it, realizing that the wound is not going to heal itself. “Can I?”

Dairou only grunts, his face scrunching—you would have backed off if he didn’t make a snide remark at you. “You’ve been staring all this time, I’m surprised you even ask.”

You mumble an apology, and get to work.

You do the best you can, at least to do away with most of the blood, but the redness won’t go away for a while. You’re surprised he’s even still alive, as you work on helping him. It’s unclear to Havik just how badly you’d be stricken with torment if he’d actually died.

Once you finish, you step back and admire your work with clasped hands. “So? …How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” Dairou responded in annoyance; but the restrained kind of it. He didn’t want to upset you further. Your bandages having been wrapped in a way that’d let him breathe and speak.

“Well,” you started, a bit forlorn at his seemingly indefatigable anguish. “Maybe a little less terrible?”

Dairou took a while to answer that one—he looked at you from the seat. And then, “Whatever.”

You look away when he looks at you, and if he could somehow, he’d frown. It’s unbeknownst to you that he’d been vying for your attention ever since he’d mashed your fresh strawberry garden into jam, something he’s come to both regret and love. But you look so… Unsure of him. Like you’re afraid.

“You…” he comes back to at the sound of your voice intruding his ears and shrouding his thoughts. “Should bathe, or something. There’s a change of clothes you left here. And ‘cause I think you don’t want to talk about it, you can just… I don’t know… Go or… Stay…”

“You’re bloody yourself,” Dairou pointed out, and he wasn’t really wrong—it was his blood, staining your cheek and fingers and turning the air from stale to coppery. It’s a new sight he found he liked, but needed to keep to himself. “And your home… Filthy.”

“From the blood, I know,” you peer down at your fingers, and shamefully you hide them. It looks like jam yet so far from the real thing as it turns a dark brown hue from oxidation. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll clean up.”

Dairou stood. You were right, sort of—he didn’t want to talk about it—not because it’s too soon. It was out of fear of what you’d might think of him now that he’s been scarred like this for the rest of his life. Would you still want to want him around? Do you find him hideous? Can you even look at him? These things don’t just go away with a shower.

But for a moment as he steps out from the spare room in your cottage and smells the sweet scent of warm food in the oven, it wanes. It reminds him of the very reason why he loves you in the first place.

Indiscriminate, is what he’d call you. Loving, even.

“Ah,” you perked from where you were mopping the floor, noticing him at the corner of your eye and watching as he moved to sit in the same place again. “Are you staying?”

“…Where else could I go?”

Oh. And ow.

That hurt. It wasn’t even really meant to be an insult, as the way he said it was in defeat, but it strung your heart strings the same way it would if he’d said something mean. You sigh, “Dairou…”

He loved it when you said his name, but not like this.

“You are the only person who can see me like this and care, not be afraid,” Dairou went on, his tone wrapping itself in grief and confusion. “How?”

“What do you mean, ‘how?’ You’re still my friend, and even if you weren’t, why leave you in pain if you thought to come to me to fix it?” you’d stop sweeping now, the inner corners of your brows curved upwards in offense. “You got hurt. Why do you expect me to abandon you?”

Because he felt like he was now undeserving to be in proximity to a beauteous person—and yet it doesn’t come out—you feel it. You were smarter than that and this conversation is taking a turn for the worse because of the tension bubbling up.

The wooden mop in your hand gets rested against the nearest wall with a hefty ‘thud’, and you come to stand before him, closer than the last time you assumed the position. To Dairou’s surprise, you scoot up a chair to sit adjacent to him.

You reach over to take his hand in yours for him to look at you, rubbing there. “Dairou, whatever happened, I’m sorry though it’s not my fault. But… That doesn’t mean I’m going to be afraid of you. It’ll take some time to get used to, but I’d never hate you. In fact, it’s always been the opposite.”

Dairou freezes. He stares.

Had you… Crossed a line now? It gets uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, very quickly. You begin to regret even saying anything like this, but it was out of paranoia of losing him to some silly argument that you said it. The corner of your lips downturn, and with a breathy apology and averted gaze you begin to pull away—but his grip on your hand keeps you.

“Maybe I read the room wrong, and–and maybe you don’t really feel like that back or this is a bad time to have said something like that–bemarriedtoyourworkforallIcarebut–that’s just what I feel, and even if you let me down now it won’t take that feeling away from me,” you ramble, still unable to look at Dairou as the rare look of adoration glazed over him. “…I think.”

You feel small.

His chest could burst, right about now. But he felt if it did literally, he’d truly succeed in spooking you for good this time. Dairou intertwines your fingers first, before lifting yours to his mouth. For a moment he forgets he can’t kiss without lips; so he settled for just having your skin against where they used to be. Dairou would find a way to kiss you even if he were headless. He inhales your scent and shuts his eyes.

This is the most tender you’d get from someone so tormented like Havik.

“If only you knew how bewitching you truly are,” he breathes against your skin, “Foolish thoughts of doubt trump something I thought so obvious.”

“And that’s?” your voice is hoarse and like sandpaper when you swallow.

“Want. My want for you,” Dairou’s moved your hands away from his mouth to caress his cheek. “It’s selfish, borderline primal, but I won’t hold it back. How could you be so stupid?”

What a backhanded confession—but it’s a semblance of reciprocity from Dairou nonetheless. You let out a sheepish laugh, your stick-straight posture slumping in relief, and he lets out a low rumble when you embrace the touch he coaxed with the back of your hand. It’s a savory moment, but it doesn’t last long when you realize where you were. Dairou’s face twists when you suddenly pull away.

“I made food, and,” you cast a glance over your shoulder. “Now that the air is clear between us, I have something to give you.”

He doesn’t get to ask what, you’ve already disappeared into the lounge room. Dairou doesn’t wait for long, though, and you come back with a sweater in your hand. Giddy, you narrate, “It’s for you.”

It’s the sweater you were knitting before he barged in here with his wounds. He’d seen you working on it a few times, but it was for him all this time?

The harbinger of chaos is like a serene sea in your hands.

#mk1 x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat x you #havik x reader #havik x you #vampirzina

[kthsbelle]

SECOND CHANCES

pairings : tattooed eren jaeger x fem!reader

sypnosis : written from eren’s pov . a couple trying to find themselves and meaning in their relationship after eren cheated .

a/n : this is a small / short gift to y’all because my first fic reached 10k !!! this is huge for me. i write because I love it and wanted to share an idea . the attention was something special to me . this is an excerpt from a fun roleplay i had . i thought it told am interested story . enjoy !

the day dissolved into dusk, a canopy of brooding clouds hovered over eren's head, foretelling a sense of impending doom.

        ominous. foreboding.

        as the sun set over the bustling city , the brunette sat at the small kitchen table in his apartment, gazing blankly at his plate of untouched food. the fluorescent light overhead cast a harsh glow on the scene, highlighting the cracks in the yellowing linoleum and the smudges on the walls . the traffic outside was steady hum , punctuated by the occasional honk or screech of brakes that indicated a slightly heavy afternoon jam . the lighting in the small kitchen was dim, casting long shadows across the room . the only source of light were a few overhead bulbs that hung from the ceiling , one of them flickering slightly as if on the verge of burning out . it was almost ironic ; the lighting seemed to be synchronized with the weight of the atmosphere as eren sat , left to face his own demise ; the threatening and inauspicious fact that he was guilty of his own misfortune .



        across from him sat yourself , his girlfriend- well, seemingly ‘ex’- girlfriend , just as absent-minded , who seemed to have taken profound interest in the food on your plate , having looked at anything but him this whole dinner . he understood , though - he wasn’t able to look at his reflection in the mirror either . the man shifted in his seat , fork now moving to pick at the fluffy scoop of mashed potatoes in his plate . eren's obsidian gaze fell on you for another moment , the slight rouge on your cheek being visible as well as the delicate lines of the side of your face . for a woman of small stature , you always made a prodigious impact . a delicate snub of nose , sun-lit strands and eyes that pulled on something deep in his chest .


        he swept his gaze about the room . his place seemed nothing but the empty of shell that nursed memories of what once was . the walls painted a cool shade of gray licked by the orangeade shade of the sun streaming through , the hardwood floors and the clean lines of the furniture that gave this space an uncluttered feel which eren always sought when it came to the comfort of his apartment. the polaroid photos on the shelf under the television caught his eyes ; both of you sunkissed , glowing at his favorite band’s concert . his piercing eyes shifted towards the kitchen , the red vintage coffee maker you had bought at a thrift store during one of your weekend adventures sat at the top of a shelf collecting dust . the spice rack that you had helped him organize so meticulously still sat untouched , and the refrigerator door was nothing more than a pit of bittersweet, scattered memories , adorned with postcards, unchecked bucket list items that served as a reminder of your memories together.

        he exhaled a lungful of sorrow as his fork finally pierced through a branch of asparagus which he hesitantly brought to his mouth . the man who usually enjoyed his greens found himself hardly able to pull his lips apart to welcome the vegetable . he chewed carefully and swallowed , the piece of food sitting at the pit of his stomach like a pile of rocks . eren cleared his wry throat gently before attempting to chase the dryness with a sip of the , now, watered down coke . he placed the glass back down , the signet ring around his little finger shooting gold through the glass' stem . the tattoo on his finger was exposed for a brief second . ‘333’ written in italic wrapped around his pinky as the time at which he first confessed his feelings to you . he had mapped many others . the black , and occasionally , red ink traced an endless pattern on his skin that kept a record of his most prized moments with you . if you had done something special , it would end up immortalized on his skin - somewhere , within the drawings on his chest or sleeves . with his gaping collar , sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his forearms and windblown dark hair , he seemed quite more at ease than he truly was .


his aquamarine eyes lifted towards you again , this time , a bit more urgently . his calm expression betrayed his inner turmoil . strong currents rose in his irises . he seemed to be deep in thought , stare lost in something he couldn't explain . was all of this truly lost ?

        oh , he was so wrong .
        

the memories of his cheating were nothing he could recall with a calm mind . they made his stomach churn with the acidic burn of guilt and disappointment . he couldn't help but feel that a deep part of him craved to have his actions be justified - he wanted to feel something . and though he didn't search for it ; it - she came to him and he simply let it happen . he couldn’t deny , he wanted the sense of intimacy that only physical contact and desire with another human could provide . quite selfish , he knew . but he truly thought there was nothing left for him in his relationship that had been slowly nibbled away by their own issues .

  " you’re always alone…ever want company ?" he remembered the red head's words as he picked up his skateboard , roguish green eyes piercing through his soul . it was such a formulaic thing to say that it almost broke a lopsided smile out of him . " what if i was ?" the words tipped over his lips faster than he could think and before he knew it , he was tangled under a pair of limbs.

        he spared her the details when recounting the ordeals of his affair . it was an especially hard conversation to have . it had to be paced . between the pauses to breathe and the glossiness that coated her eyes every few seconds , he was forced to watch the damage he'd caused . but were they forced to relive this over and over ?

        still now , as they sat to eat their dinner , the air in the room was thick with tension and unspoken words . he wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, to ease the tension.

        he fidgeted with his fork , drumming it against the table as he tried to find something to say , but the words wouldn't come . he wanted this crushing reality disappear , for the fog to dissipate - maybe there was still a chance that none of this was lost , that a remaining spark could be ignited for the depths of your eyes . you were , and still remained , as mesmerizing as a raging ocean, with depths and currents that no one could fully comprehend . but he did .

      eren cleared his throat , embarrassment seared him from inside out .

      a sheen of sweat broke out on his curved brow .

     his tongue was a sailor's knot but he finally mustered the courage to speak.

     a hard swallow , an intense searching gaze ,

        " babe..."

        the husky whisper of a confession ,

        '' i know i messed up . but i just-this is the truest thing i've known . can we talk again ?"

#belle’s writings 🎧! ♡ ✶ . ࣪ ׅ #eren jaeger #aot imagine #eren jeager x reader #eren x reader #aot x y/n #aot drabbles #eren aot

[ckret2]

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8: Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: grossing them out. Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that. Chapters one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven if you missed them.

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the steps, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed for the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack—and were blocked by Stan in the doorway. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air, and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened here," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! Your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Immediately twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it hasn't included sponge baths, and it's getting obvious."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hasn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world.

It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose. It was the wrath of the defiant teenager. 

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much, so what do you care what I do to this body?" Bill's grin widened. "Guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? You have to realize how stupid this is."

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your hygiene expectations are cosmetic! I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling them didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, emotionless look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but I'm sure you'd just say I'm lying to get your guard down, blah blah; so let's agree that, at least, I don't have the power to escape or kill you all, or I would have by now! This body—" he gestured grandly down at himself, "—as far as I'm concerned, is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's trash. It's disposable. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors to make me stop."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your species's ideas about minimum hygiene standards, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you all. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel look while talking about committing quiet, passive violence on himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for a small victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route, and Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid. 

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

Repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours. Usually he didn't even remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about faces and places he was galled to find out had been lodged in this human brain's subconscious—but the subject matter wasn't the important part. What mattered was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't know how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and he had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't mean it was normal for him. Because he was not human, and he hated blacking out for hours at a time, and he hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up. 

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?"

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"I'd enjoy it. It'll be fun."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"You two are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats and insults, when Bill had to slow down to catch his breath, Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped back to the floor, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. You win. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

"Clear as crystal."

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Course I am." Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. He pursed his lips dubiously at the results of this experiment. In a flash of brilliant inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off of the soap bar. "How hard can it be?"

"Fine. There's a clean change of clothes next to the supplies. If you can get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting all the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this.

"Gimme an hour. I've never done this start to finish before."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien staring at him was a mirror. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He was sure there used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but they must have been among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away. Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He searched for any sign of himself in the face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible. 

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold formed into lines—gold lines that bent and curled with acrobatic, contortionist flexibility.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.) "Ekoj kcis a fo aedi ruoy siht si, Ltoloxa?"

The Axolotl didn't answer. Bill didn't expect him to.

He tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for almost a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body to the humans' satisfaction and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So just get it over with. And use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what he wanted.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable smell but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there made his stomach turn; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach. 

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Were the humans going to get on his case for getting sick?) "It doesn't help," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop. 

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I haven't had the practice at scrubbing skin folds that you have! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers do you take a year? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second, or are you so used to it that you've forgotten these things are slippery?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

Why had the Axolotl given him hair. Why hadn't he dumped Bill on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't he at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed rapturous tears from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain.

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand. 

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher

[asha-mage]

I've been reflecting on it for a few days and I think my problem with the assertion that Moiraine is 'taking' Siuan's scenes/character arc because she is having to navigate the world without the One Power is that it's like saying she's 'taking' Rand's character arc by driving those she cares for away as a trauma response and justifying it to herself with it being to 'protect' them.

Like, on one hand I get it. People are frustrated we aren't getting as much Siuan this season as they wanted, but I think it's jumping the gun to say that her arc is being handed to Moiraine, not least because I don't see Moiraine's lack of saidar lasting much longer.

The books are full of characters paralleling each other in interesting ways, and having mirroring sometimes directly matching story beats. It makes sense to give Moiraine a stronger arc, especially one that will parallel Siuan's later on: It fills in the space from Moiraine being absent for most of The Great Hunt, it touches on a lot of the key themes of the series (the relationship between people and power, the importance of duty, the strength of people to keep fighting even when all seems lost), and it will makes the events of the Shadow Rising and the Fires of Heaven a lot more impactful when they come to pass.

We already know Siuan's going to have a bigger role in season 3, and I'm not sure even if Sophie was available for filming more in season 2 that it would have been a good idea to include a whole arc for her. Already the show is jam packed right now, straining to accommodate all the entire cast, especially when you remember that COVID restrictions at the time where limited the number of people who could be in a given scene. Someone, likely several someones, would have had to be cut to make room for a Siuan arc this season: and likely not a minor character or an antagonist either. I don't know that the show would be better for it if we had less Perrin or Egwene in favor more Siuan, especially given it's far to early to do more then forehsadow her main plotline: the Tower Coup.

Basically, I wish people would trust the show runners more, especially when they have earned it by showing time and time again how much love and care they have for this series, and have some patience to let the story evolve the way they did with the books.

#WoT #Wheel of time #WoT On Prime #Wheel of Time on prime #WoT Musing #WoT Meta #WoT Book Spoilers #TSR Spoilers #siuan sanche #moiraine damodred