#for SEVEN ENTIRE HOURS with ZERO BREAK like masking that entire time on top of the 7 hour physical workout | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tsukishumai · 3 years

Text

pairing: sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader genre: fluff, slice of life wc: 1.2k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

There were a lot of things Sakusa wanted to do on his day off.

In fact, if one were to open the notes app on his phone, one would find a neatly compiled list of things he had planned in anticipation for this said day-off.

First on his list was to clean his apartment — his schedule is soon to be ridiculously packed with practices, games, interviews, and events, and who knows when he’ll get the next chance to tidy up his space?

Then, he thought, perhaps he could finally make a dent in the pile of books that were slowly accumulating dust on his night stand.

He even saw a movie he wanted to watch on some streaming service Komori downloaded into his TV. He read the reviews online, and it looked great.

Maybe he was gonna make himself a fancy snack. He might have gone to the grocery store to stock up on food and household items.

He had an entire day off — one that he wouldn’t be getting for maybe another three months, with season in full swing. He wants to make the most of it, and be productive.

So the last thing he ever wanted to do was to be sitting in a dusty waiting room of a dentist’s office, tapping his shoes impatiently on the linoleum floor. The reception attempted to usher him into a seat, but one look at the dark gray linen seats made him shake his head with vigor.

He’s been waiting for nearly forty five minutes, and the sharp scent of the antiseptics had started to singe his nose hairs. The TV that hung from the corner of the ceiling played the same news program in an endless loop, and no matter how many times he checked, his reception gave him zero bars.

Just as he was about to hang his head back and groan in frustration, the door into the exam rooms buzzed open, and a dental assistant peeps her head out, visibly sagging with relief at the sight of Sakusa.

“Are you Omi?” she asks Sakusa, and the black mask strapped across his face had successfully hidden the frown of irritation.

“That would be me,” he begrudgingly answers, and the young woman nodded before turning back inside.

As soon as the door opens, Sakusa nearly falls over in shock when the dental assistant emerges with you in a wheelchair, two ice packs wrapped against both sides of your cheeks with a white bandage tied with a bow neatly on top.

Though, that wasn’t the only part of your appearance that was jarring. He had thought you might be a little loopy, but he never expected for you to be wheeled out a sobbing, blubbering mess.

“Where’s Omi?” You said in between shaky breathes, your words muffled by the cotton that had been stuffed against your bleeding gums.

“He’s here, he’s here,” the poor young woman tried to console you with soft pats on the shoulder, “This is Omi, right?”

You groggily turn your head towards him, eyes lighting up once you recognized the figure standing in front of you.

“Omi!” You shrieked, making Sakusa wince at your voice. You held your arms out to him, but he gently pushed your snot-covered fingers away.

“Uhm, why are they crying?” He deadpans to the assistant behind your wheelchair, who just gave him a sheepish look as she shrugged her shoulders.

“The anesthesia can make some people emotional,” she says, before handing Sakusa an orange bottle, “These are their pain medication. Give them one tablet every four to six hours. Once the numbness wears off, they might be in a lot of pain.”

Sakusa nods at the instructions, still trying to push off your messy attempts at wrapping your arms around him. He sighed as he reached into his pocket to pull out sanitation wipes, opening the package to grab two. He takes the first one, and wipes them all around your hands and fingers. The second one had been used to gently wipe the snot bubbling around your nostrils.

He tosses the wipes away before looping your hand around his arm, and standing you up from the wheelchair.

He nods his thanks to the dental assistant, before guiding you down to the parking lot.

You were still crying as he strapped you into the front seat of his car, a task that normally should have taken just five seconds if you hadn’t been claiming he was trying to kidnap you.

“Weren’t you just looking for me?” He grumbled, finally buckling your belt seven minutes later.

“No,” you slurred, “I was looking for Omi!”

Sakusa rolled his eyes. “I am Omi,” he states before slamming the car door in your face.

Your attitude had completely changed when Sakusa had taken his mask off. You had been attempting to pull your lips into a smile, but the swelling of your cheeks from the missing wisdom teeth had proved it to be difficult.

Sakusa complained the entire car ride back home, scolding you to sit still in your seat, and grumbled whenever you would start crying again. He tried his best to decipher the nonsense that was spewing out of your mouth, but one “what would happen if the earth just decided to fall??” later, and Sakusa decided it be best for him to just keep his mouth shut altogether.

You had dragged your feet on the walk from the parking structure into your apartment, stumbling and blabbering for fifteen minutes before Sakusa just picked you up on his back and carried you the rest of the way.

His day off was meant to be relaxing. It was meant to be about the things he normally couldn’t do on a day to day basis, to catch up on his rest, and give himself a bit of a break.

It was not meant to spend an hour trying to force feed you the soup he had made you for dinner.

He wiped the sweat off his brow after having given you your first dose of pain medication, tucking you gently into your bed.

“I’ll leave a glass of water here, and your meds are on the counter,” he says, standing back and crossing his arms as he looked down at the cocoon he made of you with your comforter.

You nodded softly at him, your eyelids beginning to droop down as the medication takes effect.

He nods his head one last time. “Well, good night.”

He moves to shut off the lamp on your bedside table, stopping when your fingers reach out to grasp on his sleeve.

“Sleep over? Please?”

He looks down at you with softened eyes, trying hard not to laugh at your puffy face and the fresh ice packs he had wrapped against your cheeks.

He lets out the hundredth sigh of the day, saying nothing as he crawls into your blankets with you.

You settle into your sheets, letting out a content murmur.

“Thanks, Omi,” he barely makes out your words before you drift off into sleep.

He waits until the pattern of your breathing changes into a steady rhythm before he responds, “Anything for you.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

BONUS:

a/n: prompt request for @mariyeahh <333 hope u like!

rbs v appreciated <33

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faean · 4 years

Text

Spider-Man/Peter Parker x Male Reader

Rating: T; Angst

Word Length: 2,512

Title: Forgive Me

—–

Peter had never been more perplexed in his entire life, and he did not know what was more surprising: The fact that this ranked higher in terms of something than him getting tech from the Tony Stark and fighting the Captain America half way across the world, or that he was genuinely confused about everything.

A little exaggerated, of course (and possibly not for the first time), but you certainly did have an effect on people.

First off, you, (Y/N) (L/N), were a transfer student from who knows where. Second, you were easily the most amiable person in existence, so much so that it took no more than two weeks for you to become one of the very few people to know Peter as Spider-Man. Third, you seemed to be, somehow, always of aid to Peter even when he didn’t think he needed it nor expected it.

Lastly, and certainly the most prominent thing, was not just that you were open and comfortable about your sexuality (which wasn’t unheard of and even encouraged), it was that Peter began to question his own.

He still harbored a small, albeit diminishing, crush on Liz after she moved. He also began to develop feelings for MJ. Most jarring, however, was that in spite of him knowing that he is attracted to women, he could not get (Y/N) (L/N) out of his mind.

And things only got stranger.

Soon, (Y/N) became absurdly more affectionate towards his close friends, especially Peter. He had even become Peter’s, rather Spider-Man’s, go to after patrols and battles to get patched up or rest, sometimes spending multiple nights in Aunt May’s apartment, which she enjoyed immensely since you were such a help around the place. Peter had even become accustomed to the affection you showed, so much so that he found himself craving it at times.

Stranger still was the dramatic decrease in criminal activity. Peter knew he couldn’t be the cause of it, and it wasn’t because he didn’t do a decent job at being a ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’. It was because that drop in crime went straight to zero and the only reason he continued patrolling was because of a new figure on the scene. He had no idea if they were a new villain or hero, or even if they were male or female! The new figure was always heavily disguised, and it was obvious they were using a voice modulator.

Strangest of all, though, was that when the disguised person began making sexual advances towards him, it correlated with (Y/N) becoming unabashedly possessive, and to Peter alone. While Peter did enjoy the reprieve from Flash’s torment, he did miss spending time with his friends; even Ned and MJ shied away from him whenever you were present.

And all of this in the span of a mere six weeks!

It was now week seven of this strangeness, and Peter wanted answers. He wanted to finally figure out his sexuality; he wanted to finally hang out with his other friends; he wanted to finally unravel the intentions of the disguised figure; and he wanted, most of all, to get a break from (Y/N).

Surprisingly, he got through most of that list by the end of school.

He figured out that, while he is indeed attracted to the opposite sex, (Y/N) is an exception and it was due simply because Peter could admit he was comfortable with such an idea.

He got to hang out with his friends, and it was such a relaxing and fun experience that Peter nearly forgot he had more stuff to do.

Nearly.

The only reason he was able to spend some time with his friends was because you were absent, which was startling, as you haven’t even been late to any class or club meeting, much less absent all together. Peter had to admit that he was somewhat worried about you, but it was this worry that reminded him of his mission. Once school had ended for the day and he donned his suit, he searched throughout the city to find the strange person.

---

It had been several hours, and night began to fall, but Spider-Man could not find any trace of the disguised figure. Exhausted and defeated, he took rest atop a random skyscraper, watching the sun finish setting, and gazing into the night sky. There were few stars, given the amount of light pollution, but with the help of his suit’s A.I, Karen, he magnified the sight and stared into the depths of space. Unfortunately, this moment of respite was just that.

A moment.

“Peter, I am detecting an energy source quickly approaching.” Karen’s voice riled him up, but his Spider-Sense (or Peter Tingle, as his Aunt called it) had already put him on guard.

He stood, ready to counter whoever and whatever came at him, the suit’s sensors attempting to locate the direction of the energy source.

“The energy source is increasing in speed exponentially and resembles that of the disguised figure we have met. I am currently attempting to predict its- Above you!”

Karen’s warning and Peter’s reflexes were not fast enough to prevent him from being pinned to the floor. It took Peter a few seconds to recover from the force of the impact, and he came face-to-face, well, mask-to-mask, with the disguised person. He struggled to push them off of himself, but they were unnaturally strong.

No, not strong, he thought. They couldn’t possibly be strong enough to pin him down with brute force, not unless they were unnaturally heavy.

Which also didn’t make much sense to the still struggling Spider-Man. The figure was barely taller than him, and just as lean. In order for them to so effortlessly restrain him, they would need to be dense. Denser than most metals. Upon realizing this, Peter noticed no warmth emanating from the body above him, and Karen’s scanning revealed as much.

“Peter, the person, isn’t a person. They’re not even machine. I cannot determine the mat-t-t-t-… Pe-pe-peter, they a-re-re messss-ing-g-g-g with my f-f-f-unction-ion-ionnn...”

Karen went silent, and the holographic display of his suit disappeared. Black tendrils snaked from the thing’s hands, somehow shutting the suit down and paralyzing Peter as it reached across his arms, stopping at his neck and chest. This was unlike anything he had ever experience, and he was truly, genuinely, afraid.

The figure stayed still, straddling Peter and staring into his masked eyes. At least, Peter thought they were staring at him. He couldn’t see any part of their face, and he didn’t care, as his mind was set on finding some way, any way, to escape.

As the figure lowered its head, Peter could hear a faint purring coming from it. It pressed its entire body against his, an immense pressure weighing upon him, restricting his breathing and ensuring he couldn’t escape, if he could have in the first place. Soon, it buried its head into the crook of his clothed neck, its ethereal purring having an… effect on him.

It resonated throughout him, and he fought his body’s arousal. He was no stranger to it, admittedly, as he was a teen going through the paces, but those times were private and few in between. Though, they did become more frequent and intense when (Y/N) began to overwhelm him. But this? This was unwanted, and he struggled ever more vehemently to escape.

Then, the figure raised its head, seemingly gazing at Peter before an inky black tendril slithered to the seam of his mask and slipped underneath. Peter’s eyes widened as he was being unmasked, but then his Spider-Sense went nuts, the tingling in the back his head overpowering the sensation of the figure’s purring.

He couldn’t see what happened, exactly, but the figure was forcefully ripped off of him by an unseen force and slammed against the low wall that encased the rooftop. Instinctively, Peter first shot a capture web at the figure before shooting a tether at the entrance to the rooftop, hoisting himself away from the figure.

Freed from its grasp, his suit sparked to life, and Karen’s voice could be heard again.

“Karen! How did they shut the suit down? And what was that that pushed them back?” Peter asked, his words laced with fear.

Before she could respond, footsteps echoed, and Peter’s attention was on…

“(Y/N)…” he whispered as he stared at your back, watching you casually make your way to the figure, which had picked itself up and stood hunched over, its hands scraping the floor and it head unnaturally twisted at you.

“You had free reign of the city, all the enticing souls of Manhattan, and yet, you just could not help yourself. He is mine, and I will not hesitate to ensure he stays mine.” You growled at the figure as you continued towards it.

Peter was taken aback, his face heating up from your declaration and his mind racing from your reveal: You and the creature were connected, its appearance coinciding with your transfer and the sudden drop in crime. Although, Peter had thought the figure was likely you in disguise, even Karen had calculated it to be the most probable of scenarios.

“…” The figure remained silent, but its body spasmed as it turned its head to look up at Peter. “………”

“So be it.” Was your reply to the figure’s silence, standing in front of it now, your hand on its neck as you lifted it off the ground, its head still craned towards Peter’s perch.

Peter was in shock at how you managed it, and Karen’s voice was a distant echo as he remained fixated on you.

You took a step up onto the ledge of the wall, dangling the figure over the vast expanse of the city scape below. Peter snapped back to his senses, rushing towards you to stop you. He had so many questions and fears and he just had to get answers from you about the figure, but…

He stopped in his tracks as you turned back at him, a soft, loving smile on your face. Your eyes held such adoration for him as tears glistened in them, the moon perfectly aligned with your frame. So many memories flashed before Peter’s eyes, memories of loss and tragedy and heartache, he meekly reached out for you as you stepped off the ledge, falling, still with the same smile and love across your lips as you mouthed ‘I love you…’.

He screamed for you at the top of lungs, firing off two webs at you as he desperately chased after you, his tears clouding his vision. The webs raced after you and the figure, but you both fell at such an unnatural speed, as if something more than gravity drew you towards the gray concrete earth. They never reached, and Karen had to fire another to anchor Peter to the building so he would not meet a similar fate.

The figure landed first, impacting the ground and cratering it, the force shattering nearby glass. It laid there, motionless, until you neared the ground. It jolted up and leapt to intercept, but it fell a few inches short as you slammed into the asphalt beside it.

Peter swiftly made his way to your lifeless body, your smile and love unbroken. The figure knelt beside your body, and in its ethereal, warped voice, whispered “Forgive me...”

Peter held you as a crowd began to form, and the figure slowly dissolved into an inky black mist as it slumped over, its hand intertwined with yours.

---

A week went by, and Peter was still lying in his bed, the city of Manhattan wondering where their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man had gone off to. Peter refused to leave his room save for food and the occasional hour-long shower, and took no visitors, not even Tony Stark had been able to get through to him. Ned and MJ stopped by everyday to drop off his missed homework and copies of their notes, but Aunt May remained to be the only one to see him.

And now, she stood outside his bedroom door, a crisp letter of crimson with an ivory seal in her hand. She hesitated when she went to knock and decided it better to slip it under his door, knowing he would come out when he was ready.

Peter saw the letter but made no effort to get it. Hours passed before he mustered the strength to retrieve it. He sunk back into his bed as he read the lettering, the same color as the seal-

‘Beloved’

He gingerly opened it, immediately having recognized your handwriting. Carefully unfolding the letter, a few rose petals scattered about him and the bed as they fell from the opened paper. His eyes watered as he smelled your scent on the paper, and it soon became sobs as he read through it, your voice echoing in his mind.

My Dearest Beloved,

I imagine you have many questions, and I desire little more than to give you those answers. Beloved, I am gone, as is the shade that bore the darkness of my soul and the sins I have committed, but I ask that you shed no more tears for me. I am undeserving of your grief, much less your love and affection.

I longed for someone to call my own, but my shade haunted me everywhere I travelled, a reminder of all the sorrow I have wrought. While I changed my ways, it could not, and many more fell to the darkness that resides within me. I thought, in a place with a vast number of criminals, it would be satisfied. Of course, when my heart became yours to bear, it followed suit. Beloved, never have I loved someone as much as I love you, and it is your memory that I shall keep with me as I atone for all the pain I am responsible for.

But, enough of me, for I matter naught. Only you matter. Peter, my beloved, I knew that you could not be mine by any measure, and I accepted this. At least, I thought I had. Your radiant beauty captivated me, and your brilliant mind ensnared me, and my heart yearned for a love I could not have. It is an excruciating experience, and I do not wish that anyone, not anymore. As your happiness is my only desire, I prepared this letter, and many others, for when my time came to meet my fate.

Peter, my dearest beloved, I do not love you so simply. I am in love with your very being- mind, body, and soul. I cannot express my gratitude for your freeing me. May the next letters find you and, if you still have the kindness I am ever so glad to have received, may you treasure them as I have treasured every moment I spent with you.

With Sincerest Love,

(Y/N) (L/N)

Peter set the handwritten letter down, three simple words leaving his lips before he went to Aunt May, his heart aching.

“I forgive you…”

—–

#Marvel #Marvel Comics #MCU #Spider-Man #marvel spiderman #Peter Parker #male reader #spiderman x male reader #peter parker x male reader #angst #fanfiction #original works #enjoy you heathens

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vnderoos · 6 years

Text

2:00 am ✧ peter parker au.

warnings / language, college roommate!peter, peter being so cute it's almost unbearable, FLUFF.

word count / 3330.

@bucky-at-bedtime's writing challenge / "you're my roommate who's super cute and it's the middle of the night and you're cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it's becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you." AU.

(gif is mine)

masterlist.

↴

⠀⠀⠀⠀THE WIND was knocked from Peter's lungs in a quiet huff as he all but gracefully slammed himself into the side of his apartment building and he took a moment to catch his breath, his forehead briefly pressing against the brick, before he began slowly shimmying downwards toward his bedroom window. When he was a few feet from the railing of his rickety fire escape, he attempted to drop down, oh-so-quietly, onto the metal bar. He winced as the structure clattered, squeezing his eyes shut as it scraped against the wall of the building under the sudden presence of his weight. When all was silent—you know, aside from the beeping cars and the various shouting voices somewhere below—and right with the world, he very gently dismounted the railing and tiptoed towards his open window.

He slid into his bedroom, feet first, holding his breath as he pulled himself through the small space. It was just his luck that as he did, he kicked over the LEGO Millennium Falcon—the one that came with over seven thousand five hundred individual pieces—and the model slid off of his desk, falling to the floor with a horrific crash and breaking into thousands of tiny pieces. "You're shitting me," Peter whisper-hissed, ripping his Spider-Man mask angrily off of his head and dropping into a crouch. He tossed his mask aside and carded his gloved fingers through his sweaty hair, staring with aggravation down at the disassembled ship. "Man, that took thirteen hours," he groaned quietly in annoyance, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes at his own clumsiness.

Before he had the chance to at least pick up the pieces, his roommate, Y/N's, voice, like a heavenly choir, sounded through the halls of their shared apartment. "Pete, is that you?" Instead of feeling the usual butterflies that exploded in his stomach at the sound of her voice, he could feel every drop of blood drain from his body. He stood up slowly with wide eyes and panic-stricken features.

He'd woken Y/N up. Despite his terrible, terrible efforts at keeping quiet, he'd woken the beast and, now, she was going to rip his head off, he was sure. Peter swallowed thickly, frozen where he stood in front of the shattered masterpiece that used to be his LEGO Millennium Falcon. "Y-Yeah, it's me," he called as loud as his voice would permit. "Look, I know not waking you up is like your number one thing, and, usually, I'm pretty good about that, but I've kind of been having an off night. I-I didn't mean to wake you up, I swear," he added, making all of these hand gestures even though there was no way in hell she was looking at him in that moment.

He was so nervous, so undeniably nervous, because he was almost one hundred percent sure that Y/N was pissed at him. She hadn't been pissed at him in a while and he knew it was bound to happen again eventually, but he just didn't expect— Wait, was that laughter?

A surge of alleviation cleansed Peter's entire body and a sigh expelled the tension in his muscles as Y/N's amused giggle floated like a fluffy cloud to his ears. He'd never been so happy to hear that sound, like angels strumming on their harps, and he pressed his palm to his chest, almost slumping to the floor in relief. "You didn't wake me, Peter," she reassured him. "I need to ask you a question, though, so if you could come in here, please."

Peter left his bedroom without another worry, opening his door and kicking it shut behind him, and he stepped to Y/N's room, which was directly across the hallway.

He stepped across the threshold of her doorway and into the peaceful, desk-light-lit atmosphere that she'd set up for herself and his heart stopped in his chest at the sight of her. She was sitting criss-cross applesauce on top of her comforter in a pair of lightsaber-patterned pajama pants and one of his old t-shirts which she so rightfully wrongfully stole, staring down at a textbook for God knows what subject with gently furrowed eyebrows and locks of beautifully messy hair falling into her face. He could feel the blush rising to his cheeks almost instantly and, before he could think, he was tugging at the collar of his Spider-Man suit because it was suddenly so hot in there. Maybe, it's just her, Peter thought to himself, clearing his throat awkwardly and leaning a little less than nonchalantly against her wall. "What did, uh, what'd you need to ask me?" He asked. Various parts of his face—eyebrows, nose, eyes, mouth—scrunched and unscrunched as he gave a measly attempt at finding a facial expression that Y/N might maybe, possibly, hopefully find somewhat attractive.

"I know you're good with math and I wanted some help with this problem." Peter felt his lips twitch upwards into a smile. She said he was good at math. He knew he was, of course, but hearing it come from Y/N made him understand completely why Tony Stark was so cocky all the time. He watched her shift her position on her mattress, eyes never leaving her textbook as she pulled one of her knees up towards her chest and wrapped an arm around it. She fumbled with her pencil between her hands, shaking her head down at her notes. "So, if the tangent of theta is equal to five over twelve and zero degrees is less than or..." The moment she looked up from her textbook to make eye contact with him, she trailed off, the pencil falling from her hand and her lips parting. Peter's eyebrows quirked in her direction, before he glanced down at his body. The only thing unusual about him was the suit, but Y/N had known his secret almost as long as Ned had.

He looked back up, opening his mouth to ask if something was wrong, but before he could, she was shoving her books and papers away from herself carelessly. His eyes widened as he watched her move, following her as she clambered off of her bed at record speeds to get to him. "You're hurt," she pointed out quietly when she stood in front of him, her hands suspended in the air like she wanted to touch him and, God, she did, but she was hesitating.

"What?" Peter asked and he raised an eyebrow, his cheeks searing with heat because she was so close to him. She's even prettier up close, holy fuck, he thought to himself and he was sweating. And not the sweating that's so light that it just makes you look sparkly, it was the kind of sweating where droplets were rolling down his forehead, his hands were clammy and his suit was sticking to his body, even more than usual. If Y/N wasn't standing in front of him, all beautiful and elegant, he wouldn't taken it off right then and there.

She looked at Peter like he was stupid and he smiled slightly because of it. Then, her hands were on his face.

He inhaled sharply at the contact, his neck tensing up and his body going completely rigid. Y/N was touching his face. Oh, my God. Oh, God, can I kiss her? He tried his best to stay calm, to keep his breathing steady, to not turn into a stuttering and shaking mess, but it was just so damn hard when he was around someone so breathtaking. "You're hurt," she repeated in a motherly tone, her right hand moving to cup his left cheek and the fingers of her free hand flexing just barely so she could trace a delicate circle around his right eye. "You've got a massive bruise, Peter," Y/N pointed out softly, her voice barely above a whisper and her tone a bit throaty, like she was hurting for him and his heart just screamed for her right in that moment. Peter jumped slightly when a gasp left her lips and both of his cheeks were enveloped in her soft hands. He let her turn his face away from her and he let his eyelids flutter shut, just wanting to feel her fingertips and her presence undisturbed. "Oh, God, and you're bleeding," she whispered, her words saturated with concern, and Peter nearly died of happiness right there.

He settled for a quiet chuckle at her words, but he stopped it the instant she ran her thumb in a slant from a spot near the bottom of his ear to his jawline. "Peter Benjamin Parker, you are so careless," she chided, and even then her voice was soft like silk. Peter couldn't help but smile at her as she turned his face so tenderly to look at her once more and she didn't move her hands. They stayed planted right on his face.

"Are you in pain?" She whispered, like it was the only thing that mattered to her in the entire world. Like Peter was the only thing that mattered to her in the entire world.

Oh, God, when she said that, Peter just melted like putty in her hands. He was a gooey, sticky, gummy, lovestruck mess, but he wouldn't complain. He'd never complain as long as it was Y/N. "No, I'm not in pain," he reassured her, his hands taking their gentle places around her wrists and he thought about moving her hands away, but he couldn't, so he just held them there. Peter slid his hands up to hers and made sure they stayed against his cheeks, even though he was pretty sure he was on fire at this point. He wondered what would happen if he just leaned forward and kissed her. He didn't do it, though. Chicken. "It's just a bruise and a little scratch, I'm fine," he promised her and the look on her face when he did was everything to him.

She looked so relieved, so happy, so thankful that he wasn't hurting and he barely had time to blink before her arms were around his neck and her cheek was pressed against his. His senses, heightened and all, were overwhelmed with the smell of Y/N and he didn't mind one bit. His arms wrapped around her as fast as he could move them and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, because he'd rather go all in than wait God knows how long until he got to hug her again. He felt so safe with her arms around him, feeling the warmth of her body radiate to his and the scent of lavender flood his nose. "When have– When have you cared so much?" Peter asked, wondering if maybe he should've thought that through a little better because she pulled away from him as soon as he said it.

She gave him another look that told him he was dumb for even asking, but it didn't matter, because it still made him feel like he was soaring. "I always care about you, you idiot," Y/N answered him and he'd never been happier to be called an idiot in his life. "I hear about robberies on the radio and I care. You leave every time and I care. I see you in the headlines of newspapers and I see you in the morning and I care, Parker. Even when you're not Spider-Man and you're just Peter, I care, okay? I always care about you," she told him. "And I could show you more if you didn't get back at two in the morning and go off trying to fix yourself up."

"But didn't you say to never—" Peter stopped, his eyebrows furrowing because he could see tears in her eyes and he never knew she cared like this. His heart was longing for her, yearning for her, begging for her more than ever, because just when he thought he couldn't fall any more in love with her, he did. Peter wanted nothing more than to kiss her, right there, but he knew he shouldn't and it was taking everything he had to hold back.

"Peter, if you're hurt, it doesn't matter," she pointed out, her hands falling from his cheeks and resting softly against his chest as she looked up at him. "Anyways, you are coming with me so I can get you a Band-Aid and an ice pack," she ordered, stepping back to take his hand in hers.

Peter cleared his throat awkwardly and he pulled his hand out of hers, which took just as much effort as stopping a bus with his bare hands, it felt like. He grimaced after he did. "Uh, I can't," he blurted, before he even knew what he was saying.

Y/N's face scrunched up as she stared at him incredulously. "Why not?" She asked him. "If your legs hurt, you can sit and I'll drag you," she offered, half serious it seemed. She ran a hand through her hair, tucking a tuft of it behind her ear as she did.

He laughed at her words, but he shook his head regardless. "It's just– I don't know, you're my roommate," he admitted, averting his eyes from her unwavering stare and reaching towards the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Her arms crossed over her chest as she looked at him. "Yeah, and?" She asked, a crooked smile on her perfectly kissable lips.

Peter shrugged his shoulders, holding his arms up in the air so he very much resembled the emoji, and a nervous laugh toppled from his lips. "I don't know!" He protested and another laugh fell from his lips. "Nothing bad, it's just, you're you," he told her. "Y-You're you and you're my roommate and you look so cute in your stupid Star Wars pants and my shirt with your adorably crazy hair and you're, you know," he paused, running his hands over his face and groaning. "You're studying and it's, like, two in the morning," he finished, throwing his hands up in the air and trying to fight off his nervous chuckles.

It was a good thing he failed because, unbeknownst to him, Y/N found them to be in her 'top five cutest things Peter Parker does' list.

And yeah, she has a list, but don't we all?

Y/N couldn't help but laugh along with him, sputtering when she tried to hold her giggles back, so she just let them loose. "What else, Peter?" She asked him, with a smile on her face that lit up his whole world. Gosh, she was his whole world and she didn't even know. "I know you're hiding something, you big child, or you wouldn't be laughing so hard," she told him, hoping he would finally just spit it out.

Peter threw his head back, trying to quit laughing, but he couldn't, so he settled for talking through a smaller fit of laughter. Luckily, it died down as he started to speak. "I can't because—" He stopped. Did he want to say it? Maybe it was that sudden surge of confidence or maybe it was just because he was so tired—the loopy kind—that he was more open to daring decisions, but either way, he knew he wanted to. "Because it's getting really hard not to kiss you right now," he confessed and his blood ran cold.

He watched her cheeks turn as red as he's ever seen them and a smile, so bright that he almost had to cover his eyes, spread across her face. "So, do it, Peter," she said. "Kiss me."

For once in his life, he wasted no time getting what he wanted. He took a quick step forward, placing his hands where he always knew they belonged on her waist, and when Peter kissed Y/N, it felt like absolute magic. Peter's lips caressed hers, moved against hers, in a way that was so hot, passionate, demanding, fiery and his mind barely even registered his movements as he took the few steps to back her against her door. The door, unfortunately, wasn't opened all the way, so the second Y/N's back hit the door, she crashed into the wall.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," Peter apologized quickly, disconnecting his lips from hers so he could check if she was hurt. God, it would really suck if he'd finally, finally, finally gotten to kiss the girl of his dreams and she started bleeding.

Y/N just giggled, grabbing him by the back of his neck, and she shook her head up at him. "I'm fine, Pete, just kiss me again," she pleaded and he listened to her, pressing his lips back against hers and laughing slightly against them because that was the last thing he'd ever expected her to say to him when he slipped through his window that night. A few seconds later, he'd laughed all the breath from his lungs and his chest was aflame with a raging fire, but even with the pain, he refused to pull away. He moved his right arm from her waist, resting his forearm on the space of the door above her head, because he was so mesmerized by the taste of her lips and the way it made him feel that he didn't think he could hold himself up on his own. He could feel her hands, sliding down his chest and leaving trails of tingles in their wake until she let them rest on his stomach.

Peter panted into the kiss, sliding his hand from her waist to the small of her back. He could feel her shudder under his touch and he smiled against her lips, slowly brushing his fingers up her spine and his tongue hesitantly grazed the seam of her lips. His kiss grew unsure as her lips parted but she urged him on with a swipe of her thumb across his jawline. He continued to lose himself on her lips, scratching the itch he's had every day for the past two years that he'd lived with her and sending his mind reeling.

The taste of her lips, the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kiss in general was everything he'd ever dreamed of. It was the kiss he'd always wanted, the one that people talk about in the books and in the movies. There were fireworks and smoke bombs and explosions of purples and blues and reds and he could feel every spark throughout his entire body. He wasn't sure if it was the lack of oxygen or something magical, but he felt like he was spinning.

Before Peter could find out, he reluctantly separated his lips from Y/N's, the hint of a smile on his lips while she was full-on grinning. Their chests heaved as they simultaneously gasped for air, both trying not to laugh again because who would've thought that they'd end up kissing at two in the morning?

"Oh," Peter exclaimed when he'd caught his breath a few moments later. "I broke the Millennium Falcon," he confided in her, like they hadn't just had the makeout of a lifetime.

He watched her jaw drop at the news. He loved that she cared about his stupid LEGO toy when anyone else would just laugh and tell him to step on it. "Oh, no, that's what that crash was earlier?" She asked and he nodded sadly. "Didn't that take you thirteen hours?"

Peter huffed amusedly at that and he nodded again. "Unfortunately, yeah," he admitted, running his fingers through his hair and sighing.

"Tell you what, Peter," Y/N started with the sweetest smile on her lips. "I'll help you rebuild it tomorrow, and, since there's two of us, it'll only take six and a half," she promised.

Breaking the LEGO Millennium Falcon? Totally worth it.

↴

author's note / i'm actually really proud of this & i'm really proud of myself for finishing it in a day and for learning how to make a gif for the sole purpose of this imagine. thank you, @bucky-at-bedtime, for creating this challenge, it gave me so much inspo!

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caddy-whump-us · 5 years

Note

🔬 lab rat + your choice

Lab Rat + Will

Special thanks to Outlast and Gravity’s Rainbow for helping with this one. I know, it’s kind of weird, but that’s because it’s a remix of sorts. Also it’s from the whumper’s POV because that’s just how it came out.

Also: so many many many appy-polly-loggies for taking so long to get these prompts answered. Life, you know?

One by one they are being picked off below him: in his small pool of candidates the ratio slowly grows top-heavy, more ghosts, more crowding beneath the eaves, and fewer living. And with each one, he thinks he feels patterns on his cortex going dark, settling to sleep forever, parts of whoever hes been now losing all definition, reverting to dumb chemistry.

What should he have done then, gone down to Psi Section, asked Eventyr to get up a seance, try to get one of them back on the line? Or go back to the dogs? But he renounced them in favor of these untried human subjects. Don’t think he hasn’t doubts as to the validity of this scheme at least. As for the dogs, Lamplighter has deftly picked the locks of their awareness. They have no secrets. He can drive them mad, and with bromides in adequate doses he can bring them back.

But now with Will in it–sudden angel, thermodynamic surprise, whatever he is–will it change now? This immature intellect ripe with plasticity perhaps less inclined to eventual unraveling of telemeres and cross-contamination, less inclined to the lead pellets that would well up in the brains of the others? So the Pavlovian dithers about his office, feeling restless and old. And Will down below, waiting, 416832 tattooed behind his ear, like some studbook dog. Dead on paper and a ward of the state before that, buried in the potter’s field, but in truth buried in the bowels of the mountain, down in the cold guts of the mountain, among the servers and systems–and he will not die.

In two hours, Will will be woken. The white door to his white room unlocked, Will still stretched on his bed with nine-point restraints but still trembling. He’s young but he’s no fool. And getting stronger, which may rearrange the schedule of the experimentation going forward, unless it’s speed that fucks up the genetic code, makes metals pool in the brains of Defective Candidates, and finally kills them with splitting headaches. Hence, in this iteration: younger, weaker, smaller.

Still, it’ll take four or five staff beyond Lamplighter to convey him down to the very heart of the mountain–a dead volcano’s heart now frozen but so very alive. It’s a veritable hive of activity down there. And all for you, Will. All for you. The monitors, the sensors, the specialists, the technicians, the equipment, the doctors, the records–it’s all for you.

But what does will think, lying flat on his back as they wheel him along, with the lights flicking overhead in their steady-ready tick-tock pattern? He used to scream. He used to cry. He used to beg and plead. Now he’ll look to Lamplighter when he’s spoken to, but he has retreated somewhere behind those pretty blue eyes. And when they ensconce him at last at the heart of the mountain? What will he think then?

But that is for the future. For now, it’s another exposure dose and readings from those results, which means full alert down in the White Visitation. No sirens, but lights to be sure. And lockdown in the asylum up above–poor Will, a little anxious, a little sad, a little in-patient therapy, and suddenly you’re the precious center of this magnificent experiment that’s sent so many to their graves (and Lamplighter knows that someday he himself will be alone, in a black field lapsing to isotrophy, to the zero, waiting to be the last to go–but he has to try, he has to survive, to try for the Prize, not for his own glory, but to keep a promise, to the human field of seven he once was, the scientists who didn’t make it and then, of course, the subjects too).

The upper levels in the cored-out mountain, with all their catwalks and scaffolding staircases are Terminal Alpha, Terminal Beta, and Terminal Gamma. Each to their own purpose, looking down on the central purpose of this entire underground laboratory. But the top level and the bottom level were named, nicknamed, each Terminal Dogma–the door to this Hall of the Mountain at the bottom and the highest observation deck at the top.

Will is brought in by that lowest door with Lamplighter at his side, one hand resting on the rails of the bed on which he is laid, and for a moment there is silence inside the mountain (such as there can be), with all eyes down on Will and his racked body. A dozen whirling yellow lights announce his arrival. He is here, he is here.

He has been refusing food. He barely sleeps, save when medically induced. His results are appropriately abnormal but not within dangerous levels. His scans are still clear. There is still time. Perhaps he will, at last, become the Angel of the Mountain, the one who can, at last, break open the last gates.

Old Kevin Spectro did not differentiate as much as he (Lamplighter) between Outside and Inside. He (Spectro) saw the cortex as an interface organ, mediating between the two, Inside and Outside, but part of them both. “When you’ve looked at how it really is,” he asked once, “how can we, any of us, be separate?”

But there is to this enterprise a danger of seduction. Because of the symmetry. He’s been led before down the garden path by symmetry: in certain test results, in the handedness of certain chemical structures, in assuming that a mechanism must imply its mirror image (“irradiation” for example and “reciprocal induction”–and who’d ever said that either had to exist?). Perhaps it will be so this time too.

Signs and symptoms—was Spectro right? Could Outside and Inside be part of the same field? Certainly, there was documentation that mirror-images Inside could be confused. Ideas of the opposite. But what new pathology lies Outside now? What sickness?

And so, he had designed this modest experiment, to seek the answers at the interface, at the cortex–indeed, in the cortex of Will, lying here on this table. The boy will suffer–perhaps, in some clinical way, be destroyed–but how many others will not suffer thereafter? For pity’s sake, every day great minds are weighing and taking risks that make this seem almost trivial. Almost.

Of the seven tanks surrounding the central monitoring systems and life support, two are filled with black sludge and two are filled with blood. These are the recent failures in the traditional sense, but left intact until they can be deemed failures in the scientific sense. For the black sludge may be a primordial soup. For the blood may be like the blood of the womb. Of the three tanks left, two are empty. One, which is Will’s, is filled with clear salt water, the water of the womb (if one will).

First the mask, fitted onto and into his mouth and nose, down the passages of his throat. He’s still restrained, but he doesn’t thrash anymore as he did at first and Lamplighter notes this as the technicians and specialists glue the mask to his skin–it’s only spirit gum, but it does the trick. Then the tube, seagreen and soft, dropping down from Terminal Alpha and their air tanks, clamped into place. But, and Lamplighter catches their eye on their high balcony and signals (no radio communication for the moment, no beeping signals) to keep the air restricted. Because, Will, and we’ve been over this before, if you misbehave, you will suffocate. And he had learned–that’s just orthodox Pavlovian right there. Simple as pie. And now they can unbuckle the restraints, strip him down and out of the hospital gown so he stands small and shivering, clipped into his breathing tube, on the concrete floor.

There are samples to be taken, the port in his arm to fill with saline and with sedatives, electrodes to paste to his chest and wrist and forehead. He stands still and patient, sucking at what air is given to him by the grace of Terminal Alpha. (Soon, soon, perhaps he will need none of it.)

Then the swing dropped from Terminal Gamma. Lamplighter and his assistants can clamber up to the top of the platform on central system by any number of ladders, and they do. But Will must be hoisted in his hammock and brought carefully over the narrow mouth of his tank (all life came of the sea and it is in our blood and so we shall find our way beyond by way of the sea; mankind has forever sought to go over that great sea). Terminal Alpha opens the locks on his mask and Will breathes deep and shuddering at last as he and all his cords and lines and equipage are lowered into the water. He is their fish in their bowl.

Will’s panic registers immediately in the upper Terminals and radio silence is broken immediately with chatter within and between the Terminals. It happens every time. Heart rate and breathing are increased but he is within acceptable limits. Will hangs in the middle of his tank, breathing, blinking. He used to paddle and try to swim for the surface; now he floats in neutral buoyancy as they collect his lines and close the lid of his tank.

Lamplighter lets Will’s empty bed precede him as he walks to the elevator to which he and precious few others have keys (hasn’t he always had the keys to such rare things?) so he can rise to his place in Terminal Dogma.

The lights flicker into awareness as he approaches, trailed by his entourage of forgettable and interchangeable assistants. They join the radio chatter and Lamplighter takes his place before the monitors (video, audio, medical). Will is swinging his head gently under water, self-soothing. Like as not, he would do the same outside the laboratory were he not kept restrained. A frustrating situation that he would become so woefully institutionalized. But no matter, if the stimulus continues to prove successful.

Lamplighter begins the countdown. The non-essentials make their exit, retreating to staff rooms and crowded offices under the patient and precise voice counting towards zero, forever counting towards zero.

The screens over the Terminal balconies begin to grind toward closing, blocking the stimulus from the sight of those who need not see it. The madness, the headaches, the tumors–perhaps it was worth it to some of them: Spectro, Pumm, Easterling, Dromond, Cherrycoke, Contigo… But the fallacy of endangering one’s own life for the cause of research–well, here’s a medium shot, himself backlit, alone at the high window in the Grand Hotel Stockholm, whisky glass tipped at the bright subarctic sky and Here’s to you then, fellas, it’ll be all of us up there onstage tomorrow; Allen Lamplighter just happened to know how survive, that’s all. Publish or perish nothing.

The video feed shows Will face on, from above the stimulus. He’s still swaying in his tank. Eyes opened or closed, it hardly matters. The patterns and optics of the stimulus function either way (that was proven well enough after 987241 gouged out his own eyes–but the optic nerve was sufficiently intact).

The grinding screens wheel shut, sealing off the balconies from the ring of tanks and tests below them. The lower Terminals can see only what they must. It is Lamplighter alone who sees all (and nothing; but this must work–he must seize now or be doomed to the same stone hallways whose termination he knows).

And now the end of the count comes, opening the realm beyond the zero.

There is silence. For 90 seconds, there is silence, and Lamplighter watches the faint and inverted flickering of the stimulus projected on Will’s eyes. Soon, if all goes well, this will be his world, his life. He will exist within his container, his tank, breathing as he must and living as he must, but he will expand immensely, ceasing to exist solely within his body and moving forever outward–small steps at first, perhaps, but soon stepping across mountains and seas, unstoppable and untouchable, something too swift and too transparent to touch, unencumbered by physicality, a ghost perhaps–but more at an angel, in this world but not of it.

The stimulus session ended and the screens creaked towards opening again. Radio silence was broken with readings and recordings, duly noted up top in Terminal Dogma. Lamplighter did not listen. Will would float in his tank for the evening for observation, then be dried off and put under the EEG again and be considerably atypical as usual: spikes off the temporal lobe, delta-wave shapes off the left frontal, subdued petit-mal spike-and-wave alternation, whatever shape it might take this time. It’s all a matter of process and progress.

But that the change proceeds, and successfully–that is what matters, that is what the records of spike and wave matter. That this one might be the interface between worlds.

When he rises again to the surface of the world, Lamplighter looks out beyond the mountain where the sunset thunders in primal red and in yellow purer than can be found anywhere today.

But out at the horizon, out near the burnished edge of the world, who are these visitors standing, these robed figures–perhaps, at this distance, hundreds of miles tall–their faces, serene, unattached, like the Buddha’s, bending over the Rockies, impassive, indeed, as any angel come that day neither to destroy nor to protect but to bear witness.

What have the watchmen of world’s edge come tonight to look for? deepening on now, monumental beings of cloud, stoical, on toward slag, toward ash the color the night will stabilize at, tonight–what is there grandiose enough to witness?

That night, when the storm breaks, Lamplight collects his notes:

We may all be right and so may be all we have speculated and more. Whatever we may find, there can be no doubt that he is, physiologically, historically, a monster. The thought of him lost in the world of men fills me with a deep dread I cannot extinguish.

We must never lose control.

#whump #prompts #ocs #lab rat #human experimentation #william

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sturlsons · 7 years

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How do you do it? How do you stay so motivated and keep...going at life? Sometimes i get that motivation/urge to go out there and work towards my goals but it always disappears in a couple of days, sometimes maybe the same day

so my commute to uni takes like, 20 minutes right? add 10 minutes for me to walk to the tram station, and 5 to walk to class. 35 minutes from my door to my classroom door. 20 minutes, let’s say, to shower (i usually shower at night so in the morning i just like, throw warm water on myself and scrub my face) and get ready (i try to lay my outfit out the night before so that i don’t stand aimlessly in my towel trying to figure out what to wear and if my crush on my rhetoric professor is strong enough to warrant THAT sweater). 55 minutes, let’s say an hour to be safe. if i have class at eight, i can afford to get up at seven, and in emergencies i can get all of the above done in 40 minutes (throw on jeans and a sweater over whatever top i slept in and slather on some lipstick bc i can’t leave the house without lipstick).

which is, you know, a sweeter deal than a lot of people have. i have friends who need to take the train from strassy b’s surrounding towns to come to uni, i also have friends who go to the gym before coming to class. me, i live across the city from uni but i can still wake up just an hour before class.

my alarm is set for an hour and a half before class though. now don’t get me wrong, i’m not one of those people who needs a million alarms set 4 minutes apart because i’m a chronic snoozer. a five-second ring of one alarm is enough for me to shoot up in bed movie protagonist style (or like, not do that if my octopus boyfriend is wrapped around me so that i don’t break his nose) and even roll out of it immediately given the situation (exams, parties in case it’s an afternoon nap, travel, appointments).

however, it’s the other 80% of the time that’s the problem. i got class at eight, my alarm rings at six-thirty. from six-thirty to seven i’m lying in bed, trying to - no points for guessing - “motivate” myself. but guess what? i’m already motivated. i know in my head what i need to do to achieve what i want, and i have that burning desire to do it, i unironically watch this every week. i’m like, FUCK. LET’S DO IT. LET’S DO EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE. CLEAN THE HOUSE (negative: it’s always clean and i’m not only neat/clean in general, but also a stress cleaner, so when i’m stressed i get more stressed when i see that my apartment is already in top condition. so i grab a toothbrush and start microcleaning. welcome to my twisted mind and hard-water-stain-free taps) BUY A STATEMENT PIECE START LOOKING FOR INTERNSHIPS SOMEHOW FAST-FORWARD ALL MY FRIENDSHIPS UNTIL WE’RE IN STABLE JOBS AND STILL HANGING OUT TOGETHER IN BIGGER APARTMENTS WITH BETTER BOOZE LET’S WRITE THOSE FICS (lol) AND FINALLY CLEAR MY BACKLOG OF ARTICLES I’VE BEEN WANTING TO READ SINCE LITERALLY 2015 LET’S MEMORISE THE ENTIRE SEMESTER’S VOCAB IN ONE GO LET’S START WAKING UP AT 5 AM LIKE ROBIN SHARMA TOLD ME TO AND MAKE A SCHEDULE SO THAT I USE FACE MASKS REGULARLY AND SEE MY SKIN GLOW AND DRINK TWO LITERS OF WATER A DAY NEVER FORGET MY MEDS (lol) REDO MY BUDGET TO BUY HEALTHIER THINGS DONATE THE CLOTHES I PULLED OUT OF MY WARDROBE LAST WEEK TELL MY BOYFRIEND I LOVE HIM BUT WE’RE NOT GETTING A DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T STAND THE DOG SMELL, LET’S GET EDUCATED AND BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO KNOWS SOMETHING ABOUT EVERYTHING FROM EPIGENETICS TO ETHNOLINGUISTICS. LET’S DO IT ALL, RIGHT NOW.

then my six-thirty alarm rings. and i open my eyes, and i don’t need to ask myself questions from point zero. i don’t need to ask do i really want to do all that? because i know i do. what i have to ask myself every day is those things i want to do, which are worth the effort i have to make - do i have it in me to make that effort every day?

you can’t do everything all at once anon. it’s the most frustrating lesson i’ve had to learn. motivation makes you want to do everything all the time forever. it’s like my best friend in cali, who snorts a line of coke after a party so that he can clean the house. motivation is gonna make you jump out of bed and spend fifteen minutes making an Upbeat Playlist which can then play in the background while you do your dishes, clean your bathroom, organise your wardrobe - and then collapse on the floor. unfuckyourhabitat is one of my favourite blogs on the internet, and they have something very important to say about this.

you can’t do everything all at once. if you want to clean the house you’ll have to evaluate what needs cleaning, then see if you have supplies, acquire them if you don’t, and make a plan if everything’s a mess. if you want to buy a statement piece you’ll have to go through your wardrobe and see what you need, go through your budget and see what you can afford, go through online catalogues and see what you like, then clear some time so you can go out and get it - or more time if you want to browse. looking for internships - don’t even get me started. fast-forwarding friendships? sometimes the temptation of jumping ten years into the future and seeing if i’m still friends with the people i love today, seeing if i’m still with the person i’m with today, reaching that part of life where everything has become habit and dinner is with wine and there’s a fireplace in the living room - it’s so strong that the thought of having to live through those years to get there is excruciating. what do you mean i’ll have to live ten years, day for day, and slowly, painstakingly get there? what do you mean friendships don’t calcify in one day and i can’t decide today that that one friend i love is now my confidante and official best friend and we’ll do everything together? what do you mean you have to do everything together to get to a point where doing everything together is a habit. are u fucking kidding me.

i get it, right? all the things i listed up there - face masks, water, 5 AM, success, progress. they’re not one-liners on a to-do list. they’re concepts and they require something more than motivation.

you know, even rumi has something to say about this. first of all, i digress, but rumi has something to say about EVERYTHING and i really hate when people assume he’s some kind of over the top abstract vague philosopher. bro rumi was practical as fuck? he talked about sex and friendship and hangovers and life as we know it, so bizarrely immortal that it applies these centuries later.

rumi says: submit to a daily practice. your loyalty to that is a ring on the door. keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who’s there.

rumi also says: this windy mountaintop trough is ours. it sustains and protects, and you do not arrive here by just straining your neck to look at the mountain. you must start out and continue on.

but here’s my favourite thing that rumi says: it doesn’t matter that you’ve broken your vow a thousand times. still come, and yet again, come.

those things up there - Upbeat Playlist Number 29, buy-a-blender-make-frozen-smoothie-packs-stop-going-to-mcdonald’s-so-much, my-boyfriend-said-i-can’t-stop-him-from-buying-me-flowers - require more than motivation.

coming back to my six-thirty alarm. do i have it in me to make this effort every day? i want to do something with my life but this bed is warm, i’m tired, and it’s cold outside. it’s going to be a long, long, long day. do i have it in me to make this effort? i know i have the desire to make this effort, so why is it so difficult? why do i have to wake up half an hour in advance to negotiate with myself and coddle myself into actually getting out of bed and moving to meet my day?

motivation is 20% anon. the other 80% is sheer fucking discipline. say it out loud to yourself: D I S C I P L I N E. it’s not motivation that makes me live my life - sure, motivation starts the fire and i won’t lie, i have a lot of it, almost inexhaustible supply except for when it suddenly burns out on me without a warning.

which is why we need discipline. motivation can quit on you anytime - discipline won’t. motivation is i want to ace this english class, it’s easy as balls, i can do it. discipline is well, this english class i want to ace is at 8 AM and i’m not going to miss a single one. you don’t need to convince yourself of your life goals every morning - you just need to train yourself into fucking getting out of bed. submit to a daily practice, because you’re not going to achieve everything all at once. you’ll have to live every single day until you get there, and it’s a constant process, and when you have that process down pat, it’s the journey itself that’ll be rewarding. no need for instant gratification through sudden unexplained achievement of goals - your gratification is seeing your kilometer count stack up steadily, that odd “wow, you’re glowing these days!” from an aunt, the realisation that you chop salad so much faster now out of habit. wake up in the morning (feeling like p diddy) and take your fucking half-hour if you need it, but at the end of that half-hour, roll the fuck out of bed and give yourself finger guns in the bathroom mirror.

it’s not about motivation. i frankly don’t care if your motivation runs out in two days, or one day, or the fifteen minutes it took you to make your Upbeat Playlist Number 29. boo fucking hoo, anon. that’s how fickle motivation is. it ran out while you were looking for that one elvis song. so what’s going to make you clean your house anyway? not motivation, that’s for sure, motivation’s fuckin peaced out man. you don’t care about those dishes anymore, you’ll do them when you get back from uni (you won’t, you’ll order sushi and sit at your table).

you know what isn’t fickle? discipline. it’s discipline that’s going to make you clean your house. it’s discipline that’s going to make you wake up at 5 AM even if you’ve kind of failed four days in a row. keep knocking. keep working. still come, and yet again, come. you haven’t failed if you started trying to wake up at 5 AM last month and you did it maybe four times. you fail the day you turn that alarm off and give up on the concept.

motivation provides you with concepts - discipline provides you with the means to nurture those concepts. motivation is a high-resolution photograph of a beautiful oil painting. that’s all it is. discipline is the hour you put aside every day to sit at your easel and make it real.

today i want you to look for your willpower and gather your paintbrushes.

#teesta talks for ts #um i got...heated #what else is new #anons #replies

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yuckitup-jwd · 4 years

Text

Fulldeckisms Part 3

One shot short of a chain. (Shot is a section of anchor chain.)

One shot short of a locker. (Shot is ammunition; a locker iswhere it's stored.)

One shrimp short of a barbie.

One side short of a pentagon.

One signature short of a book.

One slate short of a full roof.

One sleeve/button short of a shirt.

One snowflake short of a ski slope.

One sock short of a pair.

One song short of a musical.

One span short of a bridge.

One spoon short of a full set.

One steering wheel / bolt short of a Yugo.

One step short of the attic.

One stick short of a bundle.

One straw short of a bale.

One strawberry short of a quart.

One strike past being called out.

One sub short of a party platter.

One taco/enchilada/chalupa short of a combination/Mexican plate.

One teabag short of a pot.

One tilde short of a full URL.

One tile missing from his space shuttle.

One tile short of a successful re-entry.

One too many lights out in his Christmas tree.

One too many rides on the Zipper.

One tower short of a castle.

One tree short of a hammock.

One vine short of the tree. (For Tarzan types.)

One volt below threshold.

One weight short of a shipwreck.

One word short of a.

One yard short of the hole.

Only occasionally wets himself under pressure.

Only one oar in the water.

Only opens his mouth to change feet.

Only playing with 51 cards.

Only playing with the jokers.

Operating in stand-by mode.

Organizationally impaired.

Ought to have a warning label on his forehead.

Out of his depth in a parking lot puddle.

Out there where the buses don't run.

Outlet isn't grounded.

Over the rainbow.

Overdue for reincarnation.

Overruns above 110 baud.

Paged/swapped out.

Parallel mind, serial world.

Parallel world, serial mind.

Paralyzed from the neck up.

Parents beat him with an ugly stick.

Parked his head and forgot where he left it.

Pedaling real fast, but not getting anywhere.

People around her are at risk of second hand idiocy.

Perfect chassis, bad driver.

Perfect face for Halloween.

Perfect percussionist for an acapella group (duh, duh, duh...)

Perfect training subject for apprentice hypnotists.

Permanently out to lunch.

Permanently rotated 90 degrees from the rest of us.

Phototrophic on a better day.

Pins 2 and 3 (RS-232) permanently connected to ground.

Playing an endgame with a king and no other pieces.

Playing baseball with a rubber bat.

Playing hockey with a warped puck.

Playing Scrabble, but we can't figure out what words he's building.

Plays pinochle with a poker deck.

Plays solitaire... For cash.

Plays tennis with no net and finds it challenging.

Plenty of myelin but not enough neurons.

Plenty of salt in the shaker, but no holes in the cap.

Posts empty articles to the Net, and enjoys rereading them later.

Prefers three left turns to one right turn.

Pressure's up, but there's a slow leak somewhere.

Pretty as 20 miles of bad road.

Produces a zero-length core dump.

Programmed into an infinite loop.

Proud of his lawn mower.

Psycho pneumatic. (Crazy air head.)

Put a lens in each ear and you've got a telescope.

Put on Earth to be an oxygen converter.

Puts a finger in his ear so the draft through his head isn't annoying.

Putting his brain on the edge of a razor blade would be likeputting a pea on a six lane highway.

Qualifies for the mental express line -- five thoughts orless. -- MacNelly

Quotes entire letters/articles as responses and hides her oneline of wisdom in the middle.

Racing fifty yards with a pregnant woman, he'd come in third.

Radio's playing but nobody's listening.

Reading from an empty/blank/unformatted disk.

Reads her newspaper back-to-front.

Reads Homer in the original Greek, but doesn't know Greek.

Ready to check in at the HaHa Hilton.

Ready to join the Anti-Mensa Society.

Receiver is off the hook.

Relatively three-dimensional, as fictional characters go.

Renewable energy source for hot air balloons.

Reposts this list when someone asks for it, but it's an old copy.

Requires retraining after every coffee break.

Reset line is glitching.

Result of a first cousin marriage.

Result of God's experiments to see if humans can functionwithout a brain.

Room for rent, unfurnished.

Roving target for a surface-to-idiot missile.

RS232C brain with a DIN connector.

Running at 300 baud.

Running lights are on but no one's at the helm.

Running on a 286.

Running open. (Old mechanical teletype term.)

Running U.S. appliances on British current.

Runs squares around the competition.

Rusty springs in the mousetrap.

S p a c e d o u t .

Sailboat fuel for brains.

Sailing with a short seabag / a few skivvies short of a seabag.(Contains all of a sailor's possessions including underwear.)

Sat under the ozone hole too long.

Says profound things but no one listens and no harm is done.

Seen it all, done it all, can't remember most of it.

Sending back packets, but the checksums are wrong.

Serving donuts on another planet.

Settled some during shipping and handling.

Seven cans short of a six-pack.

Seven seconds behind, and built to stay that way.

Several nuts over fruitcake minimum.

Sharp, like stone in river. Swift, like tree through forest.

She believes the three great lies.

She can piss standing up, but not much else.

She doesn't suffer from insanity; she enjoys every minute of it.

She fears success, but really has nothing to worry about. -- Thaves

She has reached rock bottom, and has started to dig.

She looks virtually real today.

She only packed half a sandwich.

She only schedules zombie processes.

She put the ding in dingbat.

She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B. -- Dorothy Parker

She sets low personal standards and then consistently fails them.

She sounds reasonable... Must be time to up my medication.

She stopped to think and forgot to start again.

She wears a pony tail to cover up the valve stem.

She worries about the calories licking stamps and envelopes.

She'll be just fine as soon as virtual reality arrives.

She's a screensaver. (Looks good, but useless.)

She's all thumbs.

She's as daft as a brush. (British)

She's running real fast, but toward the wrong goal line.

Shedding a little too much black light.

Short a few cards.

Short-circuited between the earphones.

Should be the poster child for family planning.

Should go far -- and the sooner he starts, the better.

Should have kept his helmet on while riding/playing.

Shouldn't be allowed to breed.

Shouldn't eat nuts -- for her, it's practically cannibalism.

Single-sided, low density.

Sings along with elevator music.

Sinking with a deck full of people; her brain cells can'tfind the lifeboats.

Sitting in the right pew, but the wrong church.

Six-packed seven times. (Volleyball slang: "Six-pack" is tospike someone in the head with a volleyball.)

Skating on the wrong side of the ice.

Skylight leaks a little.

Slept too close to his radium-dial watch.

Slinky's kinked.

Sloppy as a soup sandwich.

Slow as molasses in January.

Slow out of the gate.

Slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter.

Smarter than the average bear.

Smoke doesn't make it to the top of his chimney.

So boring, his dreams have Muzak.

So clueless, he could BE God and still be an atheist.

So dim, his psychic carries a flashlight.

So dumb, blondes tell jokes about him.

So dumb, he faxes face up.

So dumb, he puts postage stamps on outgoing faxes.

So dumb, his dog teaches him tricks.

So far gone, hard drugs push him closer to normal.

So fat, people jump over him rather than go around.

So slow, he has to speed up to stop.

So slow, we drive stakes in the ground to measure his progress.

So stupid, he tries to drown fish.

So stupid, mind readers charge her half price.

So stupid, she doesn't go further than Thursday.

So thick, he sticks to pasta.

So ugly, robbers give him their masks to wear.

Sold his car for gas money.

Solid concrete from the eyebrows backwards.

Some Assembly Required.

Some bugs in his software.

Some drink from the fountain of knowledge, but he just gargled.

Some of her inodes have nodded off.

Some pages missing.

Somebody lend her a quarter to buy a clue.

Somebody put a stop payment order on his reality check.

Someday when she's younger, she'll ________.

Someone blew out his pilot light.

Someone else is doing the driving for that boy.

Someone forgot to plant the seed for his brain stem.

Someone let the air out of her lock.

Someone Reverend Spooner would have identified as a shining wit.

Sort of like an inverse Einstein.

Source code is missing a few lines.

Speaks math/FORTRAN better than English.

Spent a decade on the leading edge of drug experimentation.

Stares at frozen juice cans because they say, "concentrate".

Still boots to DOS.

Still sending messages with his secret decoder ring.

Still struggling up the evolutionary ladder.

Still traumatized from the forest fire in "Bambi".

Still trying to figure out opposable thumbs.

Stocksy-babes. (A truly vile British-slang insult.)

Strolling through life with one shoelace untied.

Strong, like bull. Smart, like tractor. Beautiful, like KV-2.(A WWII era Russian tank.)

Stuck on the down escalator of life.

Studied for a blood test -- and failed.

Stumped by anything child-proof.

Subtle as a well-thrown brick.

Subtle as a wet tongue in the ear / kiss from a cow.

Suffers from Clue Deficit Disorder.

Suffers from excessive headspace.

Suffers from link rot. (The process by which hypertext linksbecome obsolete as their sites change or die.)

Suffers from Paralysis by Analysis.

Suffers from permanent rapture of the deep. (Nitrogen narcosis.)

Supports nativist theories that man is formed from clay.

Surfing in Nebraska.

Surfing the Web with a hard-copy terminal. (Does anyoneremember those?)

Suspend switch is jumpered.

Swimming on a cold shot. (Inadequate ejection force for a torpedo.)

Switch is on, but no one's receiving.

Takes her 1.5 hours to watch "60 Minutes".

Takes her an hour to cook minute rice.

Takes his imagination out for a walk and ends up being draggedaround the block by it.

Talking with her is a career-limiting move.

Talking with him is a waste of good bandwidth.

Talks to plants on their own level.

Tall as a post and just as smart.

Team player... No chance he'll develop a personality on his own.

Technically sound, but socially impossible.

Teflon brain -- nothing sticks. -- Lilly Tomlin

Ten to the dozen.

The aliens forget to remove his anal probe.

The bark on her family tree actually involves canines.

The best part of him ran down his mother's legs. -- Jackie Gleason

The butter slipped off his noodle.

The cheese slid off his cracker.

The definitive answer is: Her glass is half empty.

The fan is working but the freon's leaked out.

The fire is going well, but the flue is closed.

The going got weird, and he turned pro.

The heater's plugged in but the rheostat's shot.

The march of his intellect is like that of a crab, backward.-- Peacock

The most rock-hard argument can crash through his airy head andcause only the slightest disturbance in the air currentsthat surround the void that comprises his knowledge.

The only place she's ever invited is outside.

The perfect personality to write software manuals.

The recesses of his mind are always in recess.

The result of years of careful inbreeding.

The sharpest thing he's allowed to play with is a red rubber ball.

The space between his ears powers vacuum pumps.

The spit valve's fallen off his trumpet again.

The twinkle in his eyes is actually the sun shining between his ears.

The two put together have an IQ over 150.

The wheel's spinning but the hamster's dead.

The world's foremost collector of ignorance.

Their family tree is a tumbleweed.

There are great people in the world, but she's not one of them.

There she sits, Finite State Automation at its best.

There's no ice cubes in THAT tray. -- Second City comedy troupe

There's nothing wrong with you that couldn't be cured witha little Prozac and a polo mallet. -- Woody Allen

They had to burn down the school to get her out of third grade.

They must have done a clean boot on him.

They never shut up on his planet.

Thick as a brick / whale omelette.

Thick as pig dung and twice as smelly.

Thinks "Private Enterprise" means owning a personal starship.

Thinks a permutation is a medical procedure.

Thinks at 5 baud.

Thinks cellular phones are carbon-based life forms.

Thinks Cheerios are doughnut seeds.

Thinks E=MC^2 is a rap star.

Thinks everyone else is entitled to his opinion, like it or not.

thinks in lower case & types accordingly

Thinks like a boar hog looks at a wristwatch.

Thinks male zebras are the ones with the black stripes.

Thinks Moby Dick is a kind of venereal disease.

Thinks Taco Bell is where you pay for your phone calls to Mexico.

Thirteen short of a dozen.

Three sigma off the norm.

Three-bag/coyote ugly. (Ask your mommy to explain.)

Throws his rod and reel off the bridge when casting.(I resemble that remark. -- editor)

Tight / waterproof as a fish's sphincter.

Tight as a bull's arse in fly season.

To make him laugh on Saturday, tell him a joke on Wednesday.

Tone arm is down but no music is playing.

Too dumb to be bothered when publicly displaying her ignorance.

Too dumb to know when you're getting smart / playing dumb with him.

Too many bad drugs, not enough good drugs.

Too many birds on her antenna.

Too many jokers and not enough aces in his deck.

Too many stop bits in his transmissions.

Too much yardage between the goal posts.

Too pointless to even be called a pinhead.

Top paddock is full of rocks.

Toys in the attic.

Train of thought derailed / still boarding at thestation / has no caboose.

Traveling faster than light, but left his sneakers behind.

Traveling without a passport/towel.

Tried welding two 2x4s together and burned down his house.

Tries to forward this list to some friends, but instead shipssix copies of it to the editor (groan).

Trips over cordless phones.

Truck can't haul a full load.

Truly believes "neural network" is a new Ted Turner enterprise.

Trying out for the javelin retrieval team.

Tuning in shortwave with a TV antenna.

Two bits short of a word/dollar.

Two degrees off square.

Two inches taller than spherical.

Types 120 words a minute but her keyboard isn't plugged in.

Uglier than a hat full of assholes. (Whatever that means.)

Ugly as a warthog and half as smart.

Unclear which of Newton's three laws of motion keeps his ears apart.

Understands English as well as any parrot.

Used to have a handle on life, but it broke.

Useful as dinosaur repellent.

Useful as passing gas in a spacesuit.

Useful as piss on a forest fire.

Useful as tits on a bullfrog / bull / boar-hog.

Uses all three functional neurons for his best work.

Uses AOL.

Uses his head best for rolling Easter eggs.

Uses his head to keep the rain out of his neck.

Uses thumbtacks to post notes -- on his refrigerator.

Uses two hands to eat with chopsticks.

Using a 1S-2D floppy for brains in a world of hard disks.

Vacancy on the top floor.

Vacuuming linoleum using a deep-pile setting. (Not pickingup anything.)

Vaginally challenged, and preoccupied with the problem.

Validates my inherent mistrust of strangers.

Vegitatum davenportae. (Couch potato.)

Vertically-fornicated mind.

Views mold as a higher life form.

Vowel-buyer. (As on the TV show Wheel of Fortune, when thesolution is already obvious.)

Waiting on a toaster that's not plugged in.

Warning: Objects in her mirror are dumber than they appear.

Warranty expired.

Was assimilated by the Borg.

Was born an acrobat but landed on his head.

Was born when the planets were misaligned.

Was first in line for brains, but ended up holding the door open.

Was left on the Tilt-A-Whirl a bit too long as a baby.

Was napping in the nut pile the day God was cracking nuts.

Wasn't abused as a child, but should have been.

Wasn't fully debugged before being released.

Wasn't strapped in during launch.

Watches "Beavis and Butthead" to learn vocabulary.

Watching programs not listed in TV Guide.

We're all missing cards from our decks -- and different cards, too.

We're all refreshed and challenged by her unique point of view.

Went in for repairs but wasn't tightened with a torque wrench.

Went to the dentist to have his cranial cavity filled.

Whatever kind of look she was going for, she missed.

When a thought crosses her mind, it's a long and lonely journey.

When God said, "Come forth for brains," he came fifth.

When he collects his thoughts, they fit in a verysmall container. -- Bob Thaves

When he was compiled they forgot to #include<smarts.h>/<iq.h>/<charm.h>.

When her window of opportunity opened, she had the shade drawn.

When opportunity knocked, she refused to open the door.

When she dances, she makes the band skip.

When she hauls ass, she has to make two trips.

When she puts on her lipstick, it keeps backing down the tube.-- Kevin Wilson

When she was born the doctor tried to kill her / slapped her mother.

When they handed out brains he got the short end of the stick / wasat the end of the line.

When they said "drain", he thought they said "brain".

Where it says, "Sign here", she writes, "Pisces".

While he was not dumber than an ox, he wasn't any smarter. -- Thurber

Whole lotta choppin', but no chips a flyin'.

Will never get a ticket for speeding.

Wise as the world is flat.

With one more neuron he'd have a synapse.

Won't eat eggs because he believes the "This is your brain" ads.

Works well when under constant supervision and corneredlike a rat in a trap.

Would make an excellent illustration in a proctology textbook.

Would need help to drool.

Would starve to death in a grocery store.

Wouldn't know a tram was up him if the conductor rang hisbell. (Australian)

Wouldn't know ore if it jumped out of the stope and bithim on the ass. (Said of mineral prospectors.)

Wouldn't make any sense if she ever made sense.

Wouldn't recognize a clue if he saw one / you showed himone (labelled "clue").

Wouldn't shout if a shark bit him. (Australianism meaning hewon't buy a round of drinks (shout) in turn.)

You can hardly tell that he's a simulation.

Zero K memory.

#fulldeckisms #nerdjokes #personalityjokes

0 notes

mistereblue · 5 years

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warrnambool car thief who fled custody

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klivianjade · 6 years

Text

Untitled Halloween Prompt Challenge Snippet

Synopsis: all you need to know for now is that Mara Jade really doesn’t want to go to Leia’s party, and Talon Karrde gives zero fucks. This is completely unedited and is most likely space trash FYI

Prompt (courtesy of Carrie Autumn’s October Writing Prompts): It’s Halloween night - write a story about a costume party or get-together going terribly wrong.

“Karrde, I’m telling you I have a bad feeling about this.”

Mara tried for the thousandth time to plead her way out of the situation at hand. Normally she was above this type of behavior but damn it, she really DID NOT want to go to the Solo’s masquerade ball. Hells, the fact that they were calling it a ball made her want to be anywhere else. Besides, she had heard that Mustafar was lovely this time of year.

“Now Mara, I needn’t explain to you how important it is for our organization to be in good standings with Organa-Solo. A few hours of mingling and free booze won’t kill you.” He gave her a wink as he handed their invitation to the master of ceremonies. She linked her arm in his as she smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in her black evening gown.

“Oh I don’t know boss, it just might.”

Karrde chuckled.

“If anything, I’m sure you’ll do the killing.”

Mara raised an eyebrow in question, not that he could see her expression because of the elaborate mask covering everything from the nose up.

“With that gown of course.” Talon smirked, earning an eye roll from his second in command.

Though Mara had to admit, she knew she looked good. The high neck and long sleeved gown, all made of the finest black velvet, fit her like a glove. The open back and high slit up the side were just icing on the ryshcate.

“Complement me all you want, I’m still pissed that you made me come to this thing. I’d honestly rather drive zenji needles through both of my eye sockets.” She tossed her fiery locks over her shoulder for emphasis.

“Well my dear, in exactly three standard hours you will be free to do just that. Now come on,” he patted her hand lightly. “People are beginning to stare.”

Mara then realized that she had dug her heels in like a petulant child, holding up the line of beings waiting to be granted entrance to the ball. She let out a sigh as she conceded, allowing Karrde to lead her through the opulent doors before them. They paused at the top of the gilded staircase as the master of ceremonies introduced them.

“Master Trader Talon Karrde and his lovely, accommodating, and very pleasant associate: Trader Mara Jade.”

Realizing immediately that Karrde had doctored their preferred titles on the invitation, Mara shot a look towards her boss that, despite the mask, was still terrifying.

“You are dead to me.”

Karrde had the nerve to chuckle as they descended the stairs.

“Lighten up Mara. Who knows, you might even have fun tonight.”

“Fifty credits says I don’t.”

“Deal.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and Karrde released Mara’s arm with an air of sophistication.

“I’m off to greet our hostess. Perhaps you should have a drink, or seven, to relax while I deal with all of the niceties.”

“Good idea.”

She started towards the open bar but stopped when Karrde tugged her arm.

“Oh and Mara, if I find you hiding in a dark corner sharpening knives, I’m docking your pay.”

He bowed with a flourish and excused himself.

—

Seated at the bar, Mara drummed her fingers against the counter impatiently as she grumbled to herself.

“Who do I have to strangle to get a kriffing drink around here?”

Four times already, the twi’lek barkeep had ignored her request for whisky on the rocks and as far as Mara Jade was concerned, that was four times too many. Squaring her shoulders, she leaned over the counter and vigorously tapped the green-skinned humanoid on the shoulder. He turned to meet her disgruntled face.

“Can I help you miss?” He asked politely.

“Yes. You can help me by fixing the drink that I have been trying to order for the past fifteen minutes.” She banged her fist against the counter for emphasis.

“Of course, of course! You’ll have to forgive me miss. You have such a tiny frame that I didn’t see you sitting there.” He quickly poured her a whisky on the rocks, which she downed immediately.

“I am NOT tiny!” She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and pulled him halfway over the bar top, her nose mere centimeters from his. “I am terrifying and angry and I have incinerated entire armies without so much as breaking a sweat!” She banged her fist on the counter once again, releasing him from her grasp.

“My apologies miss,” he held up both hands as if trying to appease her as he put several feet between them just to be safe. “But please, if I may ask, do go easy on the bar? It’s a rental.”

“Fine,” she huffed with a dismissive wave as she sat back down. “But in exchange for my compliance, I’ll need you to keep my glass full at all times. Is that clear?” She really hated the mask. If only he could see her expression, he would be nothing more than a quivering heap on the floor.

“Of course miss, as you wish.” He bowed slightly after refilling her glass.

Mara rested her elbows on the bar, massaging her temples in preparation of the massive headache that would no doubt make its appearance soon. She lifted one black velvet sleeve to check her chrono and groaned inwardly. ‘Great. Two and a half more hours of this shavit’ she thought before throwing back her second drink.

As the twi’lek filled her glass for the third time, Mara noticed a familiar presence approaching the bar. She resumed massaging her temples, as he sat down in the vacant seat beside her. Even with his own elaborate mask disguising the top half of his face, Mara couldn’t possibly mistake his force signature for anyone else’s. Hells, even without the force she would recognize him. No one else in the galaxy had a strong jawline or dimpled chin like his, though many tried to achieve the look through frivolous procedures and surgeries. She considered those people to be mentally ill at best. He opened his mouth to speak but Mara cut him off.

“Don’t.” She said firmly. “I am not nearly intoxicated enough to have a civilized conversation with anyone, let alone you, Skywalker.” She threw back her third whiskey and motioned for another, which she immediately downed. A shiver ran up her spine and she didn’t bother stop it. She felt her cheeks begin to flush with heat and was, for the first time that night, thankful for the stupid mask. She leaned towards him, resting her chin in her hand and feigned interest.

“Now you may speak.”

#mara jade is not tiny #she is angry #and will cut you #Karrde gives zero fucks #mara jade #talon karrde #masquerade #haloween prompt challenge #luke skywalker #ao3 update

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harryandmeghan0-blog · 6 years

Text

Royal wedding: looking back at how Prince William and Catherine Middleton tied the knot

New Post has been published on https://harryandmeghan.xyz/royal-wedding-looking-back-at-how-prince-william-and-catherine-middleton-tied-the-knot/

Royal wedding: looking back at how Prince William and Catherine Middleton tied the knot

Updated May 18, 2018 08:06:00

Photo: Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, with their bridesmaids and pageboys. (Hugo Burnand: Clarence House)

Map: United Kingdom

As we approach Royal wedding 2.0, there’s never been a better time to look back to when Kate and Will tied the knot in April 2011.

After seven years of dating, give or take a breakup, Will plucked up the courage to ask Kate to be his princess — or rather, Duchess.

What followed was a fairy-tale wedding, watched by 300 million around the world, as Britons celebrated at over 5000 street parties across the United Kingdom.

Like all things 2.0, Harry and Meghan will be a break from tradition, swapping Westminster Abbey for a smaller ceremony with only a handful of high-profile pollies and press. Granted, they’re still being married in a castle — they were hardly going to go full barefoot-on-the-beach.

Fortunately, Kate and Will gave us the real deal, so let’s look back on the highlights of the full shebang.

The souvenir industry got creative

Way before the wedding day, businesses were already trying to turn a buck off the happy couple.

Zero points to Mattel for coming up with the (frankly, predictable) Royal Wedding Barbie Set.

Ten points to Papa John, the visionary who gave us Royal Wedding Pizza. A salami bouquet? A mushroom veil? This is true art, people.

Photo: Papa John’s commissioned a “food artist” to create this commemorative Royal Pizza. (Businesswire)

Then there’s royal wedding teabags, which satisfied both royal fans and those who’d prefer to submerge the royals in scalding water.

Photo: Souvenir teabags with depictions of Prince William and Kate Middleton sit in a cuppa in London April 7, 2011. (Suzanne Plunkett: Reuters)

Something old, something new

No, Prince William isn’t dressed as a tin soldier from The Nutcracker, he’s wearing his full dress uniform.

A few months before the wedding, he was appointed Colonel of the Irish Guards, so he opted to wear their uniform — except for the bearskin hat, which might’ve been a tad too much.

He also refrained from wearing a sword in the church, presumably leaving it in the umbrella stand instead.

Photo: Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, in their official wedding photo. (Hugo Burnand: Clarence House)

Kate looked ravishing in an Alexander McQueen gown and Queen Elizabeth’s “halo scroll” tiara

Fulfilling the “something borrowed” part of “something old, something new”, the Queen loaned Kate the 1000-diamond Cartier tiara she got for her 18th birthday. It’s been dubbed the “halo scroll” tiara and it’s kind of surprising that no one made spin-off baked goods.

Refreshingly, Kate did her own makeup for the occasion, which offset the cost of the $800,000 bill for flowers.

Photo: Their Royal Highnesses Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. (Tony Gentile: Reuters)

Queen Elizabeth kept spirits high in a canary-yellow suit …

… Which may or may not have inspired Royal Wedding 2.0’s lemon wedding cake.

Photo: Queen Elizabeth in a cheery yellow, with Carole Middleton, mother of the bride, and Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall. (Reuters)

Despite being a glorified babysitter for the day, Pippa Middleton became a sex symbol

Photo: Pippa Middleton escorted the younger members of the bridal party. (Reuters)

Her slinky dress made Kate’s sister the most talked-about derriere since Kylie Minogue’s gold hotpants in Spinning Around.

External Link: Pippa’s dress tweet

Yet Pippa was relegated to the kids’ carriage, much like when you end up at the kids’ table at Christmas because your aunt ran out of space.

Photo: Pippa shares a carriage with the children in the bridal party. (Reuters)

Princess Eugenie of York wore an outfit that looked like it was foraged by a bowerbird with its squished bottle-cap headpiece

Photo: Princess Eugenie and Princess Beatrice of York are known for their adventurous hats. (Reuters)

While her sister Beatrice wore the toilet seat that launched a thousand memes

Still, the memes made the internet’s most famous hat, which sold for a whopping $123,390 in a charity auction.

External Link: Beatrice’s hat sparked many a meme

Meanwhile, David Cameron’s wife wore nothing at all…

Photo: Then-British Prime Minister David Cameron with his wife Samantha Cameron. (Reuters)

…or so you’d think from the Twitter-storm after SamCam showed up without a hat.

External Link: There was a Twitter storm after #hatgate

Boris Johnson hired a suit from a chain store

It’s not like the Lord Mayor of London would have an occasion to wear a suit again…

Photo: Boris Johnson, then-Lord Mayor of London, rented his tails from a High Street shop. (Reuters)

Posh Spice, with husband/handbag David Beckham arrived to hysterical screams.

Becks dressed as a magician, while the ex-Spice Girl wore a tentacle hat that seemed to be inspired by The Little Mermaid’s Ursula, Queen of the Underworld.

Photo: Victoria and David Beckham at the 2011 Royal Wedding. (Reuters: Kai Pfaffenbach)

Larry, the Downing St cat, donned a Union Jack bowtie

Photo: Larry, the Downing St cat, sported a Union Jack bowtie. (Reuters)

Unfortunately, the British Parliament were “too busy” to make him a proper outfit to match Will’s

His Nutcracker costume was clearly in the same purgatory as Samantha Cameron’s hat.

Photo: It’s somewhat disappointing that Larry, the Downing St cat, did not get into full Nutcracker regalia like this cat.

A nun wore Reeboks, which saw her dubbed “the ninja nun”

A Royal wedding is no reason to ditch your orthotics.

Sister Annaliese Brodgen’s dad clarified that the nun did own some “fancy shoes”, but preferred her “comfy” Reebok Classics.

External Link: Nun in Reeboks

Crowds of well-wishers wore Kate and Will

There’s nothing like that feeling of gazing out on a sea of cardboard clones of yourself.

Photo: Royal fans wear masks of Will and Kate’s faces. (Reuters)

A perfect ceremony

Kate’s father and Prince walked her down the aisle, with Pippa carrying her train. The happy couple exchanged vows and Will gave Kate a Welsh gold ring.

Sounds like something from The Hobbit.

Will had pockets specially added into his Nutcracker uniform, so he wouldn’t lose the ring, because that would be awkward.

External Link: Will gives Kate her wedding ring

And this clergyman cartwheeled down the aisle

External Link: Clergyman cartwheels down the aisle

The wedding party travelled by horse and cart to Buckingham Palace

A cool million spectators lined the route.

External Link: Will and Kate travel by horse and cart

They had saved their kiss for the cheering crowds beneath the balcony

Photo: Thousands pack The Mall as they wait for Prince William and Catherine to appear on the palace balcony. (Darren Staples: Reuters)

Following in the footsteps of William’s parents, Princess Diana and Prince Charles

External Link: The Royal Kiss

Inspired by the cheers, they stole a second peck and the crowds couldn’t have been happier …

Photo: While their Royal Highnesses kiss and crowds cheer, their flower girl has had enough. (Dylan Martinez: Reuters)

Except their young bridesmaid, who won over the internet and became an enduring meme

Photo: The grumpy flower girl became an internet meme; in this iteration she is reacting to Donald Trump.

The 10,000 canape lunch

Queen Elizabeth hosted a luncheon reception for a third of the chapel guests.

For the other two thirds, it was pretty much like being dropped off your mate’s Myspace “Top 5 Friends”.

At the palace, 10,000 canapes were served, sound-tracked by the Prince of Wales’ “official harpist”.

The couple cut the 17-tier fruit cake with a ceremonial sword

Only plebs use knives.

Photo: Will and Kate’s eight-tier fruit cake is, to many, what a “real” Royal Wedding cake looks like. (Reuters)

Plus a second cake that Will requested, made of McVitie’s chocolate biscuits, which is the most British thing ever

Harry and Meghan, meanwhile, have ditched the fruit cake entirely, which has caused more wedding controversy than the threats to kick homeless people out of Windsor.

Instead, they’ll have an “organic lemon-elderflower cake” — a ballsy, borderline-sacrilegious choice that only millennials would make.

After the cake, the newlyweds drove away in a vintage Aston Martin, while the Royal family threw rice over the couple

Prince Harry enlisted the team at MTV’s Pimp my Ride to help jazz up his father’s Aston Martin.

External Link: Ju5t Wed

The party begins

There was a costume change for the party, where Kate took her style cues from a silkie chicken

Photo: Royal Bride or Silkie chicken? You be the judge. (Reuters/Wikimedia)

The Queen took herself to bed so guests could let their hair down at the “disco” themed party organised by Prince Harry and Pippa

Harry won the dance-off with his routine to Earth Wind and Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland”.

External Link: Harry dances at the Royal Wedding

Kidding, those are actors. But Haz would’ve done us proud.

The party endured until the wee hours of the morning when fireworks marked the end

That’s the royal equivalent of switching the lights on when you want everybody to leave, STAT.

Then VIPs took the “booze bus” home, with Prince Harry, then the “party boy prince”, crawling on at 3am without his bowtie — scandalous.

As he walks down the aisle this weekend, some eight years later, will we see a different man?

Stay tuned.

Topics: royal-and-imperial-matters, marriage, lifestyle, united-kingdom

First posted May 18, 2018 05:00:00

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harryandmeghan0-blog · 6 years

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Royal wedding: looking back at how Prince William and Catherine Middleton tied the knot

New Post has been published on http://celeb-central.com/royal-wedding-looking-back-at-how-prince-william-and-catherine-middleton-tied-the-knot/

Royal wedding: looking back at how Prince William and Catherine Middleton tied the knot

Updated May 18, 2018 08:06:00

Photo: Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, with their bridesmaids and pageboys. (Hugo Burnand: Clarence House)

Map: United Kingdom

As we approach Royal wedding 2.0, there’s never been a better time to look back to when Kate and Will tied the knot in April 2011.

After seven years of dating, give or take a breakup, Will plucked up the courage to ask Kate to be his princess — or rather, Duchess.

What followed was a fairy-tale wedding, watched by 300 million around the world, as Britons celebrated at over 5000 street parties across the United Kingdom.

Fortunately, Kate and Will gave us the real deal, so let’s look back on the highlights of the full shebang.

The souvenir industry got creative

Way before the wedding day, businesses were already trying to turn a buck off the happy couple.

Zero points to Mattel for coming up with the (frankly, predictable) Royal Wedding Barbie Set.

Ten points to Papa John, the visionary who gave us Royal Wedding Pizza. A salami bouquet? A mushroom veil? This is true art, people.

Photo: Papa John’s commissioned a “food artist” to create this commemorative Royal Pizza. (Businesswire)

Then there’s royal wedding teabags, which satisfied both royal fans and those who’d prefer to submerge the royals in scalding water.

Photo: Souvenir teabags with depictions of Prince William and Kate Middleton sit in a cuppa in London April 7, 2011. (Suzanne Plunkett: Reuters)

Something old, something new

No, Prince William isn’t dressed as a tin soldier from The Nutcracker, he’s wearing his full dress uniform.

A few months before the wedding, he was appointed Colonel of the Irish Guards, so he opted to wear their uniform — except for the bearskin hat, which might’ve been a tad too much.

He also refrained from wearing a sword in the church, presumably leaving it in the umbrella stand instead.

Photo: Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, in their official wedding photo. (Hugo Burnand: Clarence House)

Kate looked ravishing in an Alexander McQueen gown and Queen Elizabeth’s “halo scroll” tiara

Refreshingly, Kate did her own makeup for the occasion, which offset the cost of the $800,000 bill for flowers.

Photo: Their Royal Highnesses Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. (Tony Gentile: Reuters)

Queen Elizabeth kept spirits high in a canary-yellow suit …

… Which may or may not have inspired Royal Wedding 2.0’s lemon wedding cake.

Photo: Queen Elizabeth in a cheery yellow, with Carole Middleton, mother of the bride, and Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall. (Reuters)

Despite being a glorified babysitter for the day, Pippa Middleton became a sex symbol

Photo: Pippa Middleton escorted the younger members of the bridal party. (Reuters)

Her slinky dress made Kate’s sister the most talked-about derriere since Kylie Minogue’s gold hotpants in Spinning Around.

External Link: Pippa’s dress tweet

Yet Pippa was relegated to the kids’ carriage, much like when you end up at the kids’ table at Christmas because your aunt ran out of space.

Photo: Pippa shares a carriage with the children in the bridal party. (Reuters)

Princess Eugenie of York wore an outfit that looked like it was foraged by a bowerbird with its squished bottle-cap headpiece

Photo: Princess Eugenie and Princess Beatrice of York are known for their adventurous hats. (Reuters)

While her sister Beatrice wore the toilet seat that launched a thousand memes

Still, the memes made the internet’s most famous hat, which sold for a whopping $123,390 in a charity auction.

External Link: Beatrice’s hat sparked many a meme

Meanwhile, David Cameron’s wife wore nothing at all…

Photo: Then-British Prime Minister David Cameron with his wife Samantha Cameron. (Reuters)

…or so you’d think from the Twitter-storm after SamCam showed up without a hat.

External Link: There was a Twitter storm after #hatgate

Boris Johnson hired a suit from a chain store

It’s not like the Lord Mayor of London would have an occasion to wear a suit again…

Photo: Boris Johnson, then-Lord Mayor of London, rented his tails from a High Street shop. (Reuters)

Posh Spice, with husband/handbag David Beckham arrived to hysterical screams.

Becks dressed as a magician, while the ex-Spice Girl wore a tentacle hat that seemed to be inspired by The Little Mermaid’s Ursula, Queen of the Underworld.

Photo: Victoria and David Beckham at the 2011 Royal Wedding. (Reuters: Kai Pfaffenbach)

Larry, the Downing St cat, donned a Union Jack bowtie

Photo: Larry, the Downing St cat, sported a Union Jack bowtie. (Reuters)

Unfortunately, the British Parliament were “too busy” to make him a proper outfit to match Will’s

His Nutcracker costume was clearly in the same purgatory as Samantha Cameron’s hat.

Photo: It’s somewhat disappointing that Larry, the Downing St cat, did not get into full Nutcracker regalia like this cat.

A nun wore Reeboks, which saw her dubbed “the ninja nun”

A Royal wedding is no reason to ditch your orthotics.

Sister Annaliese Brodgen’s dad clarified that the nun did own some “fancy shoes”, but preferred her “comfy” Reebok Classics.

External Link: Nun in Reeboks

Crowds of well-wishers wore Kate and Will

There’s nothing like that feeling of gazing out on a sea of cardboard clones of yourself.

Photo: Royal fans wear masks of Will and Kate’s faces. (Reuters)

A perfect ceremony

Kate’s father and Prince walked her down the aisle, with Pippa carrying her train. The happy couple exchanged vows and Will gave Kate a Welsh gold ring.

Sounds like something from The Hobbit.

Will had pockets specially added into his Nutcracker uniform, so he wouldn’t lose the ring, because that would be awkward.

External Link: Will gives Kate her wedding ring

And this clergyman cartwheeled down the aisle

External Link: Clergyman cartwheels down the aisle

The wedding party travelled by horse and cart to Buckingham Palace

A cool million spectators lined the route.

External Link: Will and Kate travel by horse and cart

They had saved their kiss for the cheering crowds beneath the balcony

Photo: Thousands pack The Mall as they wait for Prince William and Catherine to appear on the palace balcony. (Darren Staples: Reuters)

Following in the footsteps of William’s parents, Princess Diana and Prince Charles

External Link: The Royal Kiss

Inspired by the cheers, they stole a second peck and the crowds couldn’t have been happier …

Photo: While their Royal Highnesses kiss and crowds cheer, their flower girl has had enough. (Dylan Martinez: Reuters)

Except their young bridesmaid, who won over the internet and became an enduring meme

Photo: The grumpy flower girl became an internet meme; in this iteration she is reacting to Donald Trump.

The 10,000 canape lunch

Queen Elizabeth hosted a luncheon reception for a third of the chapel guests.

For the other two thirds, it was pretty much like being dropped off your mate’s Myspace “Top 5 Friends”.

At the palace, 10,000 canapes were served, sound-tracked by the Prince of Wales’ “official harpist”.

The couple cut the 17-tier fruit cake with a ceremonial sword

Only plebs use knives.

Photo: Will and Kate’s eight-tier fruit cake is, to many, what a “real” Royal Wedding cake looks like. (Reuters)

Plus a second cake that Will requested, made of McVitie’s chocolate biscuits, which is the most British thing ever

Harry and Meghan, meanwhile, have ditched the fruit cake entirely, which has caused more wedding controversy than the threats to kick homeless people out of Windsor.

Instead, they’ll have an “organic lemon-elderflower cake” — a ballsy, borderline-sacrilegious choice that only millennials would make.

After the cake, the newlyweds drove away in a vintage Aston Martin, while the Royal family threw rice over the couple

Prince Harry enlisted the team at MTV’s Pimp my Ride to help jazz up his father’s Aston Martin.

External Link: Ju5t Wed

The party begins

There was a costume change for the party, where Kate took her style cues from a silkie chicken

Photo: Royal Bride or Silkie chicken? You be the judge. (Reuters/Wikimedia)

The Queen took herself to bed so guests could let their hair down at the “disco” themed party organised by Prince Harry and Pippa

Harry won the dance-off with his routine to Earth Wind and Fire’s “Boogie Wonderland”.

External Link: Harry dances at the Royal Wedding

Kidding, those are actors. But Haz would’ve done us proud.

The party endured until the wee hours of the morning when fireworks marked the end

That’s the royal equivalent of switching the lights on when you want everybody to leave, STAT.

Then VIPs took the “booze bus” home, with Prince Harry, then the “party boy prince”, crawling on at 3am without his bowtie — scandalous.

As he walks down the aisle this weekend, some eight years later, will we see a different man?

Stay tuned.

Topics: royal-and-imperial-matters, marriage, lifestyle, united-kingdom

First posted May 18, 2018 05:00:00

0 notes