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foone · 7 months

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why are printers so hated? it's simple:

computers are good at computering. they are not good at the real world.

the biggest problems in computers, the ones that have had to change the most over the time they've existed, are the parts that deal with the real world. The keyboard, the mouse, the screen. every computer needs these, but they involve interacting with the real world. that's a problem. that's why they get replaced so much.

now, printers: printers have some of the most complex real-world interaction. they need to deposit ink on paper in 2 dimensions, and that results in at least three ways it can go on right from the start. (this is why 3D printers are just 2D printers that can go wrong in another whole dimension)

scanners fall into many of the same problems printers have, but fewer people have scanners, and they're not as cost-optimized. But they are nearly as annoying.

This is also why you can make a printer better by cutting down on the number of moving elements: laser printers are better than inkjets, because they only need to move in one dimension, and their ink is a powder, not a liquid. and the best-behaved printers of all are thermal printers: no ink and the head doesn't move. That's why every receipt printer is a thermal printer, because they need that shit to work all the time so they can sell shit. And thermal is the most reliable way to do that.

But yeah, cost-optimization is also a big part of why printers are such finicky unreliable bastards: you don't want to pay much for them. Who is excited for all the printing they're gonna be doing? basically nobody. But people get forced to have a printer because they gotta print something, for school or work or the government or whatever. So they want the cheapest thing that'll work. They're not shopping on features and functionality and design, they want something that costs barely anything, and can fucking PRINT. anything else is an optional bonus.

And here's the thing: there's a fundamental limit of how much you can optimize an inkjet printer, and we got near to it in like the late 90s. Every printer since then has just been a tad smaller, a tad faster, and added some gimmicks like printing from WIFI or bluetooth instead of needing to plug in a cable.

And that's the worst place to be in, for a computer component. The "I don't care how fancy it is, just give me one that works" zone. This is why you can buy a keyboard for 20$ and a mouse for 10$ and they both work plenty fine for 90% of users. They're objectively shit compared to the ones in the 60-150$ range, but do they work? yep. So that's what people get.

Printers fell into that zone long, long ago, when people stopped getting excited about "desktop publishing". So with printers shoved into the "make them as cheap as possible" zone, they have gotten exponentially shittier. Can you cut costs by 5$ a printer by making them jam more often? good. make them only last a couple years to save a buck or two per unit? absolutely. Can you make the printer cost 10$ less and make that back on the proprietary ink cartridges? oh, they've been doing that since Billy Clinton was in office.

It's the same place floppy disks were in in about 2000. CD-burners were not yet cheap enough, USB flash drives didn't exist yet (but were coming), modems weren't fast enough yet to copy stuff over the internet, superfloppies hadn't taken over like some hoped, and memory cards were too expensive and not everyone had a drive for them. So we still needed floppy disks, but at the same time this was a technology that hadn't changed in nearly 20 years. So people were tired of paying out the nose for them... the only solution? cut corners. I have floppy disks from 1984 that read perfectly, but a shrinkwrapped box of disks from 1999 will have over half the disks failed. They cut corners on the material quality, the QA process, the cleaning cloth inside the disk, everything they could. And the disks were shit as a result.

So, printers are in that particular note of the death-spiral where they've reached the point of "no one likes or cares about this technology, but it's still required so it's gone to shit". That's why they are so annoying, so unreliable, so fucking crap.

So, here's the good news:

You can still buy a better printer, and it will work far better. Laser printers still exist, and LED printers work the same way but even cheaper. They're still more expensive than inkjets (especially if you need color), but if you have to print stuff, they're a godsend. Way more reliable.

This is not a stable equilibrium. Printers cannot limp along in this terrible state forever. You know why I brought up floppy disk there? (besides the fact I'm a giant floppy disk nerd) because floppy disks GOT REPLACED. Have you used one this decade? CD-Rs and USB drives and internet sharing came along and ate the lunch of floppy disks, so much so that it's been over a decade since any more have been made. The same will happen to (inkjet) printers, eventually. This kind of clearly-broken situation cannot hold. It'll push people to go paperless, for companies to build cheaper alternatives to take over from the inkjets, or someone will come up with a new, more reliable printer based on some new technology that's now cheap enough to use in printers. Yeah, it sucks right now, but it can't last.

So, in conclusion: Printers suck, but this is both an innate problem caused by them having to deal with so much fucking Real World, and a local minimum of reliability that we're currently stuck in. Eventually we'll get out of this valley on the graph and printers will bother people a lot less.

Random fun facts about printing of the past and their local minimums:

in the hot metal type era, not only would the whole printing process expose you to lead, the most common method of printing text was the linotype, which could go wrong in a very fun way: if the next for a line wasn't properly justified (filling out the whole row), it could "squirt", and lead would escape through gaps in the type matrix. This would result in molten lead squirting out of the machine, possibly onto the operator. Anecdotally, linotype operators would sometimes recognize each other on the street because of the telltale spots on their forearms where they had white splotches where no hair grew, because they got bad lead burns. This type of printing remained in use until the 80s.

Another fun type of now-retired printers are drum printers, a type of line printer. These work something like a typewriter or dot-matrix printer, except the elements extend across the entire width of the paper. So instead of printing a character at time by smacking it into the paper, the whole line got smacked nearly at once. The problem is that if the paper jammed and the printer continued to try to print, that line of the paper would be repeatedly struck at high speed, creating a lot of heat. This worry created the now-infamous Linux error: "lp0 on fire". This was displayed when the error signals from a parallel printer didn't make sense... and it was a real worry. A high speed printer could definitely set the paper on fire, though this was rare.

So... one thing to be grateful about current shitty inkjet printers: they are very unlikely to burn anything, especially you.

(because before they could do that they'd have to work, at least a little, first, and that's very unlikely)

#printers #my writing

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neil-gaiman · 4 months

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Hello Mr.Gaiman,

I hope you’re doing well.

I wanted to get your opinion on a topic that me and a friend of mine were discussing:

With the fast paced world we live in, where everyone(understandably) wants things as soon as possible, I’ve been reading and thinking about what kind of impact this has on novel writers.

For newbie writers, that want to be traditionally published, who are still studying craft, finding their process, need to find that story that’s right for querying, etc… It feels like I’ve missed the perfect time to enter publishing. With some authors publishing a book a year(something I’m not able to do at this point in my skill set) and AI on the rise it feels like their is no room for the newer writers, who are still developing.

Why invest in the slower(in terms of speed) writer, when we can get AI to create something at the drop of a hat?

Some of my favorite writers have said it’s taken them years to break into publishing. But what if, because of the current times, you no longer have that same time to break in?

I could be wrong about all of this but I wanted to het your opinion on this matter.

Well, for me, I'm not interested in reading anything that nobody could be bothered to write. I want to read a story that tells me about the world I live in and the person who made it.

For me, Why invest in the slower(in terms of speed) writer, when we can get AI to create something at the drop of a hat? is like asking why you would take a couple of hours to get a fine chef to cook a magnificent dinner when you could add water to powder and get a tasteless sludge that doesn't contain much in the way of nutrition instead.

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breelandwalker · 11 months

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Magical Powder Recipes

A collection of some of my original magical powder recipes.

All-Purpose Cursing Powder

Bree's Banishing Powder

Clean House Powder

Come Hither Powder

Dead Man's Dust

Dream Dust

“Eye of Sauron” Revelation Powder

Get Thee Hence Powder

Ghost-Be-Gone Powder

Heal Thy Heart Powder

Hexbreaker Powder

Inspiration Salt

Lucky Day Powder

“Outta My Way” Powder

Peacekeeper Powder

Persuasion Powder

STFU Powder

Traveler’s Luck Powder

Truthfinder Powder

For those of you who may not be able to find herbs locally, here are some online suppliers who consistently have affordable and high-quality products.

Penn Herb Co. - Bulk herbs, spices, and botanicals - including over 400 wildcrafted herbs, gathered from the United States and worldwide. Single ounce packages are available. Excellent source for powders.

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For more recipes to fill out your potion kit, you can check out Pestlework: A Book of Magical Powders & Oils. (Available on Amazon and in my shop!)

If you're enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊

#witch community #witchcraft #witchblr #baby witch #spells #potions and powders #witchy things #kitchen witch #green witchcraft

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

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BABES IM ON THE FLOOR 😭 I watched this Price Voice Lines Video and my god 🫠 His voice is so deep im litrally insane. Could you maybe do something with his lines around the 13:35 mark, where he’s being a self-sacrificing jerk? 🤭 Maybe the Reader is with him on a mission or something and like their both super protective and trying to save eachother or something ❤️

All, Most, Some, None

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Snow melts in the heat of blood.

WORDCOUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, major character death(s), some fluff in the beginning, protective!Price, pre-relationship pining, obliviousness, blood, bullet wounds, hurt/no comfort, etc. no happy ending

A/N: You know I have to finish out my requests with just pure heartbreak.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You look out over the dark landscape and take down a breath as the atmosphere of the camp behind you murmurs like a warm drink. Night had fallen swiftly two hours beforehand when you’d first volunteered to take watch, your smile bright and eyes eager. Snow was just beginning to slide down from the gray sky, thick clouds hanging like a navy cloth—splotch marks of yellowish stars a far-off glimmer of infinity.

When the footsteps echo out, coming to your position, you already know the weight and pace of who it belongs to; can trace the way his feet will conform to the dirt and the crunch of white powder. A grin flickers your lips easily but you don’t bother looking over your shoulder.

John huffs as he takes his place beside you on the lookout, crossing his arms over his chest. In the corner of your eye you spy on his loose yet measured face, that authoritative edge that seeps into his skin at times.

For a long moment, the two of you look out over the earth, studying the dips and drags of the Northwest Territories of Canada in early winter. While cold, the jackets the both of you wear take the chill off well enough. Along the body of your MK14 EBR, your fingers rest casually—no need to be tensed and ready. Your sharp eyes hadn’t spotted anything for eons.

“Sitrep, then, Sol?” You hum under your breath as John looks over at you with a raised brow.

“Rabbits and Caribou, Sir.” Your voice goes teasing, “I think we’re boxed in from all sides—I suggest immediate evac.”

A low chuckle and a firm shake of a beanied head, a puff of condensation as the darkness seeps over all to be seen. John glances at you with a smirk.

“Unfortunate, seeing as we just got here.” You smile and laugh deep in your throat. It was at moments like this that you thanked whatever deity was out there that Captain Price had seen your potential all those years ago.

He’d handpicked you when you were nothing but a Private—brought you up with knowledge and stern, yet gruffly companionate, assistance all the way to Lieutenant. You don’t know the exact moment when you started to get flustered around him.

Your chest is tight right now, fingers that were once cold going clammy as you twitch them. Inside your chest, your heart pounds blood into the thin drums of your ears like boot-thumps. Clearing your throat, you shift your feet and push out, “Did Laswell get in touch?”

“Ah,” John shakes his head, taking a breath as he says, “Negative. We’re on our own for this.” He turns his head fully to you and for a moment you’re enraptured by the shine in the depths of his blue irises. Teasing, “Think you can handle it, then?”

You turn away quickly, face burning.

“Doubt me?” Matching his jab you smile widely. John chuckles and jerks his shoulders, grunting as his chin tilts.

“Never.” Hiding the violent burn of your cheeks, you look at the landscape quickly, nails tapping the metal of your gun.

“Sol?” John speaks after a moment of tight silence. You blink over with an interested look, cocking your head. The Captain had shifted to fully face you, and one of his hands itches at the side of his finely-trimmed beard. Fast eyes glance over your form like a studious teacher—your lungs still inside of your ribs. John mutters, “Stick near me tomorrow, yeah? Want you on my six.”

Touched, your brows still furrow with confusion.

“Don’t…you need me to lead Unit Two?” John’s already shaking his head, gritting his teeth. It’s like something’s bothering him.

Feet taking you forward, you grab onto his bicep and stare into his tense face with slight concern. “John?” You ask, lids narrowing.

The man stills at the sensation of your touch, even separated by the layers of his gear and jacket. Eyes slip to yours and lightly soften, the edges easing in their relentless wrinkle of dark thoughts. Like the star that your codename emulated, you seemed to be a ray of illumination for the Captain, and John’s nose twitched before his eyes quickly looked away from your open face.

It wasn’t right to think the way he did about you.

“Just have a feeling, Love,” he shakes his head slightly, clearing his throat. Your hand drops from him and he stops himself from snatching it back.

You smile at him, huffing a laugh.

“Well, who else’ll be able to take my place, then, seeing as you’re so eager to have me by you?” Gazing behind you into the small camp, John grunts, keeping his eyes on you. A small smirk slips over his lips and pulls his beard back.

“Daniels has got it…copy?” Your throat hums in consideration before you nod in a firm flinch of your head.

“...Alright.”

“Good.” The Brit shifts his feet and the snow squeals. Snowflakes collect on the top of your head, sitting atop your scalp like tiny insects as the swell of your mouth goes back in a grin. John blinks at you, and before he knows it, he’s extending his hand up to his beanie with little thought beyond how lovely you look like this.

He plops the fabric down on your head and you snap a hand up to press into it in shock. The man’s large frame slinks back as he takes his leave with you looking back at him; his feet make tracks, leading away to mirror the ones that came before.

“Don’t get a cold, eh? I’ll expect you to be back in your tent within the hour, Lieutenant.” Face burning, you can’t answer.

Blue eyes peek over a wide shoulder. Something sparks in those met gazes, a pinprick of wonder and deep affection. Perhaps it was even love.

The snow falls faster, and as John disappears into the darkness the chill of the open ridge suddenly seems less violent than your pulse as it thumps to the humming of the earth. Hiding a giddy smile, you look back out and rub at your neck; hat upon your head perfectly ingrained with a scent of charcoal and pine.

—

“Leave me! I won’t make it!” The words made your stomach drop through your intestines. Shouted over the open line John’s voice barks the order like a knife with break-neck efficiency. No hesitation.

It had all gone to shit in a matter of hours. The sun was just on the horizon, spreading its hands of dawn over the camp that was awash with blood and bodies. Enemy soldiers, the ones that your squad was tasked with taking out within the next day, had killed the next sentry on duty after you and stormed your position.

To think you were minutes away from being that very sentry was mind-numbing. But now the real problem was the state of the camp.

John had been hit through the right thigh.

Taking cover behind a large pine tree, you dart out at every other interval to fire rounds into anything that dashes like a wild animal into the open. Most of the squad was dead—the rest scattered in the sparse cover that was offered or in the process of dying. Snow melted in the heat of crimson fluid.

Spying the downed figure of your Captain, you growl and sprint out before you can talk yourself out of it, taking the recoil of your MK14 EBR into your shoulder and teeth gritted. John writhes on the ground, trying to maintain control over the remaining forces as his leg is limp and useless. He growls out in pain as his head hits the ground behind him.

“Fuck!” He shouts. You feel a bullet whizz past your head as you skid down to your knees beside him.

“Sol!” He glares at you as you survey the damage quickly, ducking when the metal projectiles get gradually closer and closer. There’s shouting in the far treeline; death cries. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!”

“You’re stupid if you think I’m about to do that to you!” You yell, jerking your gun up to release three bullets into someone who had burst out with a raised assault rifle. Pain flares in your left bicep, but you barely notice it beyond a strained, instinctual, whimper. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Panic had gone as deep as your DNA, seeing the large pool of blood around John, his venom-laced words that stem from agony.

“Leave! Fucking hell, Lieutenant, that’s an order!”

“John,” you shout, “shut the fuck up!” The man’s eyes go wide with shock. It wasn’t often that you swore at him.

Making your hands dive under your Captain, you loop your hands behind his shoulders and latch at his armpits. With all of your might, you shift and begin dragging him backward into the trees; gritting your teeth at his pained yell and the bare of his own pearly whites.

Moving like this was stupid, you wouldn’t be able to take out your gun without dropping John—and you certainly weren’t going to do that. Not on your life.

“Christ,” the Brit groans, and you frantically watch the blood trail he leaves behind along the ground. Like a rabbit who’d gotten his leg bit off by a wolf but was still trying to run.

There was too much blood.

Agony explodes in your side, but you keep dragging backward with a new hitch in your lungs; eyes awash with tears before the air leaves you with a ragged and violent gasp. The sounds you hear from all around are horrible—the screams and the popping of rapid-fire shots. Sucking down oxygen with a vile cough, you get John behind a cropping of rocks and have to settle him down as you hack into one of your arms; chest shuddering.

There is a pressure inside of you that digs into your flesh, but the adrenaline floods your brain over the alarm bells, drowning them.

You pull back your arm to see blood. But it doesn’t matter—not now. Not with John like this.

Looking down, you stare into his eyes while you get to your knees by his side. His gaze is wide and stuck at your abdomen with panic, where you already know the damage a bullet can do.

“Love…” he begins, but his fingers curl into fists of pain instead. John breathes heavily, and when you look down to his thigh you find far more than one bullet.

There were three, all spaced out in an arch. One at his thigh, one up on his pelvis, and the other directly in his stomach. Your eyes widen with mute horror, mouth stuttering as your throat closes.

“Yeah,” blood bubbles from John’s mouth as he chuckles in quick gasps. “No good, eh?”

Tears build in great waves, but you force out, “No,” growling, you feel your own blood stain your gear and clothes. No exit wounds for either of you, you can already tell. “No, John—not like this.”

“Sweetheart,” he tries, but you grip the beanie on your head and shove it into his stomach, pressing on the wound there as he wheezes and you sob.

“No, John!” A large hand finds the back of your hair, and you shake your head wildly.

Blue eyes stare with regret and torment before darting back down to your wound. You can feel it—you already know; knew the moment the stray bullet hit you.

The both of you…

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly so that you have to strain to hear it above the noise. “I’m sorry, Love.” With a shiver of intense throbbing, the strain growing, you dart forward with waning strength and place your lips to his.

Bloody hands grip his cheeks, slipping over his beard in fruitless desperation. Blood coats your mouths, but the moment of pure love and tenderness takes over. For a minute you can both forget the chill of metal and the blood pooling to the ground. The shaking in your muscles.

You can forget that the both of you are dying.

John keeps the back of your head to him as strength begins to slip. When you pull away with quivering limbs, his thumb weakly brushes your undereye to dispel the bitter tears. He hums with wet eyes.

“I never got to take you out, did I?” You slip down beside him, shivering and losing heat not only because of the snow. Limbs grow heavy and in the back of your mind, you know you should be afraid—terrified. Maybe you were.

The comment makes you want to scream and rage and wail.

“No,” you instead say, laughing through a sob at the cruelty of it all as you latch onto him. “No, you didn't, John. But I’m here now. I’m right here.”

Eyes slide over your face as you stay near him; waiting. A tiny smile as his bloody fingers brush your cheek.

“When we get back I’ll show you ‘round Hertfordshire,” you both know that will never happen. His forehead knocks against yours. “You’ll love it, Sweetheart. Know you will.”

“I will,” you promise, knowing you can’t. The world besides both of your eyes swirls. “Anywhere with you, John, is worth going.”

It’s obvious what you mean.

John presses his lips back to yours with one last whispered breath of his vow. “I’ve loved you since I first saw that beauty of a smile.”

The two of you whisper promises and secrets as the gunfire dies down, lips making up for all of the times you should have kissed before and now don’t have the time to. Eyes don’t leave each other as the blood keeps flowing into two large pools of crimson sin. You’re drowned in it—flooded in it.

You should have told him sooner.

“I’ll find you,” you whisper, eyes fluttering. But the body is long cold.

You let your muscles loosen as the last of the fight leaves. Content, even in this, but for the simple fact that John’s arms are around you forever in this moment of endless infinity. The sky rolls back, and your last view is of him.

—

In the snow, preserved by the elements even weeks later, they would find your bodies, curled amongst themselves as if to protect one another. They would say that it had been because you were cold, freezing, and bleeding out from your wounds that you’d huddled for comfort. But that wasn’t the truth.

The two of you had never been warmer than when you were with the other.

What they couldn’t account for were the twin smiles on frosty lips.

TAGS:

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rin-fukuroi · 6 months

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𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail Pairings: Blade, Jing Yuan, Luocha, Dan Heng, Sampo, Gepard, Welt x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, sharing intimate photos, references to masturbation.

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

I'm not sure I've seen anyone write about this, so I decided it would be fun to think about how men from HSR send us photos of their dicks XD Enjoy!

✦ Blade

The first time it was your idea. Although he treated this with some suspicion, all doubts were immediately dispelled as soon as he received a seductive candid photo from you.

Blade has a lot of strange addictions, but now your little game at a distance has also been added to them. The job of a Stellaron Hunter takes up too much of his time, but it's a little easier for him to bear separation when you please him at least just by the sight of your sexy body.

Although you started it, Blade quickly gets into the taste, putting you in an awkward position especially at those moments when you are out of the house or, especially, at work. He likes the idea that your hips will close, your pretty face will surely be powdered with blush, and your underwear will be covered with warm moisture from just one photo that he will make especially for you.

Blade doesn't like anything else as much as teasing you and making you beg. He will definitely take care to accompany his photos with tempting captions, as if the sight of his excited penis alone is not enough to drive you crazy.

But even this will not be enough for him when he orders you to retire with the phone at any cost, no matter where you will be at this moment. Prepare yourself properly, describing to him in every detail how you play with yourself under his strict guidance and do not forget to send a photo report.

✦ Jing Yuan

The General will definitely be the first to suggest that you send him your intimate photo while he is relaxing in his chair, shirking from work.

Jing Yuan likes it when you obediently fulfill his requests, but he loves it even more when you yourself take the initiative to pamper your lover a little. If you surprise the General in the middle of the working day with one of your piquant photos, be prepared for the fact that when he comes home, he will properly thank his playful girlfriend.

As for him… If that's what you want, then why not? He will make any photo for you, no matter what you ask, without a bit of hesitation and doubt. If you want to take the initiative, forcing him to caress himself under your guidance, he will be happy to play this game with you.

Like Blade, Jing Yuan is a very teasing man, although not in such an overbearing display. He doesn't mind making you feel embarrassed at any time and in any place, but he prefers that you fall for his bait yourself, satisfying him with your charming detailed stories about how much you enjoy playing with yourself with thoughts about him.

✦ Luocha

His eyes widen slightly in surprise when he receives a candid photo from you, overwhelmed by feelings that he has not experienced before, since no one else has honored him with such an honor. Especially when you consider the fact that you are both in the same apartment, when he is relaxing reading a book waiting for you to get out of the shower.

Is this an invitation or did you just decide to play a little? Anyway, Luocha is intrigued and doesn't mind having fun with you at all. When he gets excited enough from your teasing, be prepared that he will no longer hold back. Throwing the phone on the sofa, he will definitely join you in the shower, properly demonstrating to you what pranks can lead to.

After this incident, he is no longer surprised if one of the days when you miss him too much, sitting at work, you ask him to make a juicy photo for you. He will treat this issue with all seriousness, carefully choosing the angle and going through several different options to satisfy your request.

We can say that Luocha definitely likes your little innocent games, especially those moments when you are finally alone so that he can throw out all the tension that your intimate correspondence caused. You didn't think that photos alone would be enough for him, did you?

✦ Dan Heng

Oh, innocent Dan Heng. He definitely won't be the one to take the initiative. In this relationship, you're definitely the one who teases, but not the other way around.

With all the outward seriousness, Dan Heng is so easy to embarrass and embarrass. It's even funny. That's why you decide, without any warning, to ask him to take a photo of a piquant content for you. You can't see it in the correspondence, but you can imagine how his face immediately lit up as soon as he read your message.

He's never done this before, but he can't refuse you. It will be a clumsy photo taken with a trembling hand, but incredibly cute from the fact that he really got excited from just one unexpected request of an intimate nature.

Although he doesn't quite understand why you are doing this, but he is pleased to receive these lovely sexy photos from you. He will save each of them in his phone, hiding it in a private folder so that, God forbid, no one will ever see your naked body. This privilege is only for him.

Will he ever do something like that for you again? Well… a little practice and maybe someday he will stop being so embarrassed by this request, but for now he will prefer to replenish his precious collection with even more photos of you taken especially for him.

✦ Sampo

There's not even anything to talk about, he will be the first one to come to you without any warnings.

His courage and perseverance, when he asks you without a second thought to take a couple of photos for him, definitely deserves respect. Although you know that your boyfriend likes to fool around and you've almost stopped being surprised by his strange antics, this one seemed very tempting.

Let his messages that accompany your little game sound even too dirty, but in each of them he is ready to literally worship your body, with pleasure using all your photos in the future to satisfy himself when you are not around.

Oh, you only have to take the initiative, and Sampo will kiss the asphalt on which your foot has trod! You're too good to be real if you can literally read his mind, spoiling him with naughty photos when he's busy with one of his dirty deeds, which he will gladly give up in order to return home and properly thank his goddess.

✦ Gepard

Gepard is even worse than Dan Heng. Not only is he confused by your request, but he will also bombard you with a ton of questions, why exactly did you need it.

The Captain is too far from such games and you really should explain to him the purpose of your request. But, as soon as all the questions that have arisen are satisfied with the answers, Gepard will gladly fulfill any of your requests.

As for your photos… Oh, what are you doing with him, he's at work. It will take a lot of effort for him to hide the bulge in his trousers that arose because of your candid photo. What a blessing that the Silvermane Guards uniform is loose enough that it does not cause questions from his subordinates. Although his red face will be harder to hide. You should definitely pamper him on his return from work for all the willpower he showed by going through this ordeal because of you.

And, of course, he will save every photo you take for him. Not even to satisfy himself in your absence, he will just sometimes admire your body, enjoying the thought that it all belongs to him.

✦ Welt

It would seem that such a mature man should have a lot of experience in everything, even in sexual aspects, but do not hope that he will immediately correctly understand your hints.

Even after receiving candid photos from you, it will not immediately reach him that you want to pamper your lover in this way. But as soon as all the pieces of the puzzle in his head come together in a clear picture, he will not mind at all. He really even liked your frankness and the fact that he now has the opportunity to save a couple of your intimate photos in his phone, instead of sketching your naked body from memory in his album.

As for Welt himself, yes, of course, he will do whatever you ask. Perhaps he, like Locha, will approach this issue with all seriousness. Welt is an artist, so the photo you get should be perfect, no matter how much time it takes.

Welt is really grateful to the universe for giving him such an amazing girl. He should definitely pamper you properly as soon as you are alone, paying special attention to those parts of the body that were so seductively flaunted in your photos taken especially for him.

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leclercings · 14 days

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The Writer's Block | Carlos Sainz x Reader

Genre: Blurb

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x author!Reader

Summary: When a morning with Carlos inspires you to start writing your second book.

A/N: I have some free time so I'll be taking requests as well.

You sit in front of the laptop, groaning in frustration. You feel so uninspired.

You get up, pace up and about, still trying to figure out how to start this chapter.

You're an indie author. Having published your first book which turned out to be a bestseller, you're procrastinating on the second one.

You have a deadline to meet and you have come up with nothing yet.

Carlos peeks inside your work room.

“Still stuck?”

You look at him, and sigh.

“Yeah.”

“Need some help?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Let's make something to eat first, then we can sit down and brainstorm.”

Carlos smiles at you.

You both decide to make the pancakes. You gather the ingredients.

Carlos does most of the work- you're useless when it comes to the stuff in the kitchen.

He sifts the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Then he makes a well in the center and adds milk, melted butter, and egg- mixing it until it's smooth.

You light a pan over medium-high heat and pour the batter.

It starts cooking.

“You know, I was thinking of writing another romance book,” you flip the pancake, heating it until it becomes light brown.

You serve the pancake to Carlos and repeat the cooking process.

He pours some maple syrup over it.

“This is delicious,” he gives you a bite before taking one. It does taste yummy. “And that's a great idea, honey. What will the romance be about?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Let's talk about the probable options. You wrote a contemporary romance in your first book. What kind of audience are you targeting in your second one?”

“Young adult, mostly.”

Carlos nods. You're surprised that he has done his research on writing. He has always been a supportive boyfriend.

“You know, sometimes I wish somebody would write a book on me,” he laughs, eating his pancake happily.

It suddenly clicks.

“Carlos, you're a genius.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What if I write about Formula 1?”

“That'll be really interesting.”

After you eat, you decide to sit in the work room, inspired.

You open Tumblr excitedly. You create an account, and search the hashtag of F1.

There are a lot of options and different fanfiction written by so many authors.

You grin, and start typing your own fanfiction.

Taglist - @nikfigueiredo @barcelonaloverf1life @too-many0-0fandoms @cliosunshine @nebarious @lichterfee @notleclerc @chrace

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impala-dreamer · 3 months

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Captive Audience

A Story from The Boys Universe

~Y/N gets invited to a party but fails to realize that she's the favor...~

Soldier Boy (Ben) x F!Reader

1,700 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Sex and Drug Use. 18+ ONLY

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo . "Lick it and find out." Please show some love and reblog. Reblogs are important!

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Green. Green. Green. Everything about him reminded her of a forest. A deep, dark, mist-covered wood that should have scared her, but managed to ensnare her every single time.

Dark green eyes like the leaves; body solid and long like a tree trunk.

Looming over the table, he cast a shadow across her nakedness, blocking the light and noise from the party raging beyond the swinging kitchen door. It was loud, obnoxiously so, flooding the big house with new wave rock and roll and the unmistakable sounds of ecstasy cresting.

But none of that mattered.

There was nothing in her eyes but him, nothing on her mind but the delicious nervousness of wondering what he’d do to her next.

Ben had tied her up good, wrapping prickly kitchen twine tight around her wrists and forcing them above her head. They dangled off the end of the wooden slab and he had attached the rope ends to the closest table leg, keeping her stuck there in place. Her arms ached already, but she was happy to be on display for him.

Blunt nails dragged up her bare legs and dipped between her thighs. He pulled away with a grin.

“Nice an’ juicy. I like that.”

His voice was slow and certain, not a hint of flirtation lingering in his tone. He didn’t need to charm her anymore, she was already right where he wanted her and there was truly no escape.

Not that she’d try anyhow.

The table was cold but warming to her body heat more and more every moment. Her top was warming as well, both from his hands and his gaze. His eyes were like laser beams working their way up and over every curve of her form, and she wondered if x-ray vision wasn’t one of his powers. Patience surely wasn’t one, as he reached for her tits, callously closing his big hands around each globe and kneading almost too roughly. She hissed at the touch and moaned when his thumbs grazed over her nipples.

“Fuck…”

She whimpered. He grinned.

“Oh, you’re gonna be a blast, arentcha?”

Pleasure sparked through her system as his nails dug like pinpricks into the dusky shadow around her nipples and she chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes fluttered when he twisted; her breath caught when he tugged.

“K-keep going and find out, soldier,” she teased, hoping to earn another hard twist.

He obliged and her back arched off the table.

“God!”

Ben chuckled under his breath. “If I had a nickel for every time a broad called me that, I’d be… well, I’m already rich, so...”

Y/N shivered when he pulled back. “Rich, handsome, kind of a jerk- what else you got?”

Amused by her flirtatious bite, he stood back and dug into his pocket.

“Got some party favors,” he replied, pulling out a small baggie full of white powder.

“Thanks…” Y/N licked her lips. “I’d love some.”

He laughed and sucked his teeth. “Oh, this ain’t for you, dollface.” The plastic tickled her stomach, but he warned her through gritted teeth to hold still.

She held her breath too, just for good measure, and closed her eyes as Ben drew a line of cocaine down the center of her.

“This is new,” she whispered.

“It’s fuckin’ hot is what it is,” he corrected.

His breath was like steam on her flesh, the thick shadow on his cheeks beautifully distracting.

He bent over her and pressed his nose to her chest, breathing in the drugs and her scent from tit to clit.

Ben stood up with a jolt and wiped at the powder on his nose.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s good shit!” He shook himself and his pupils dilated, eclipsing the green. The surge invigorated him and Ben dropped down again, this time running his tongue down the length of her, following the pale trail the coke had left behind.

Her moan was loud and needy.

“Delicious.” He hummed against her soft skin; tongue lingering at the peak of her cunt. “Does your cunt taste as good?”

Vibrant eyes flashed upwards and Y/N melted, spreading her legs for him.

“Why don’t you lick it and find out?”

He cocked an eyebrow and then grabbed at her, strong fingers peeling her thighs apart even further. The skin burned under his touch, bruises readied themselves to spring up once the pressure was gone.

Y/N sucked in a heavy anticipatory breath as he exhaled against her folds. She was soaked already, throbbing just imagining the feeling of his lips on her cunt.

She didn’t have to imagine for long.

Ben kissed her clit.

She gasped.

He dragged his tongue down her slit.

She whimpered.

He jabbed two thick fingers into her.

She nearly screamed.

“Don’t be shy,” he urged, curling his digits deep inside. “Ain’t a real party if no one can hear you having fun.”

Y/N’s arms twisted against the ropes, desperate to drop a hand to his head and tug on the gorgeous tawny locks. “I’ll be sure to keep that in- holy fuck!”

Mid-sentence, Ben jerked forward with his mouth and bounced his tongue against her clit, sending sparks through her system. He licked fast and hard, almost to the point of hurting her, but he held back just enough to make it worth every ache.

Right at the brink, he pulled away. He gazed down with a smirk on his plump, ruddy lips and laughed.

“You seem stressed…”

Y/N thrashed on the hard table, denied and pitiful. “Frustrated is more like it.”

He winked.

The bastard winked at her, knowing full well how close she’d been and how bad she wanted it.

With a seeming snap of his fingers, he was naked next to her, clothing tossed haphazardly onto the floor by the door. His shoulders were huge, arms like thick branches, chest hard and twitching with every movement. His cock already hard and hanging down on his left thigh. Y/N’s eyes shot to it instantly and Ben puckered his lips, enjoying her lustful stare.

He wiped her juices from his face and rubbed them on his cock before stroking slowly. “You like that?”

She nodded. “Mmm, I do.”

His fist bobbed over the tip. “How much? Tell me.”

Y/N wriggled, stuck and hungry for him. “Love it so much. Fuck, your cock is so perfect. I need it…”

“Yeah?” He picked up speed; his upper lip twitched.

“Please… I need your cock so fucking bad.”

Teeth bared, he breathed deeply; chest heaving and biceps flexing as he jerked off in front of her. He put on a show; stepping up on his toes and arching his back as he thrust into his hand. He was crazed and wild-eyed; preening like a porn star. He always loved a captive audience.

Y/N was near to drooling; every bit of her wet and desperate for him. She squirmed and pouted, begging with everything she had.

“Please, fuck me, Ben. Please!”

“You need it bad, don’t you, doll?”

Y/N rolled her hips against the air. “Please!”

Ben licked his lips and looked her over. “So many choices…” Finally, he moved to the head of the table and pressed his legs against the edge. His cock dangled aside her face and he looked down, face glazed with authority and thirst. “Open up.”

Her jaw dropped immediately and her tongue shot out, reaching for his swollen head.

Instead of a gentle slide inside, Y/N earned a hard slap against her cheek. His cock was solid and smooth. The hit stung. She winced and it came again, another quick hit, this time against her lips. Y/N pushed her tongue out as far as she could and Ben rubbed his cock over it, tapping a few times before jabbing into her mouth.

He hit the back of her throat and Y/N swallowed down a retching gag.

He was big and unrelenting.

“Fuck, you take my cock so good… Knew you would. Fuck!”

Her neck was twisted, throat full and struggling. Her breath was quick and her body shivered. Every thrust rolled her eyes deep’ every pull back left with a tight pop of her cheeks.

Ben was vibrating, fucking her throat deep and hard. He sneered as she sucked; head tossed back and eyes glazed.

“So fucking good!”

When he could feel it surge, he jerked away from her mouth and climbed onto the table, straddling her hips. She tugged at the ropes, wiggled beneath him, but there was no release for her in either way.

Bending close, he squeezed her tits, thumbed at her nipples again. Y/N moaned loudly, screamed when he bit down hard on her right tit. His teeth dented the flesh, nearly breaking the skin. He licked it clean and sat back, fisting his cock once more.

“You want this?” he asked, jaw set tight, eyes narrowed on her lips and the longing in her eyes.

“Yes, please!” She gasped, body aching badly.

He sat back, crushing her thighs. “You want all this? You want my cum?”

Unconsciously, her mouth hung open again. “Please!”

His lip trembled, his wrist quickened.

He came with a roar that echoed in her bones.

“Fuck!” Ben doubled over and sprayed her stomach with his hot cum. He rocked into his fist again, shooting another quick load that landed on her chest.

He grinned and took a beat, breathing deeply, laughing with satisfaction.

“You…” He wagged a finger at her. “You’re a fantastic piece of ass.”

He was gone before she could reply, hopping down from the table and scooping up his clothing from the floor.

She watched him dress, lying helplessly on the table, still bound and painted in his cum.

“But…”

Y/N whimpered and he spun around, seemingly remembering she was there.

“Oh, yeah…”

Ben came close and pressed his lips to her ear. She held her breath, waiting for a kiss that never came. He exhaled against her throat and left her with a few words that sizzled in her brain, forever rattling around and reminding her that he was not one to take home to mama.

“Thanks for the fun.”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@akshi8278 @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lyarr24 @nancymcl @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @sexyvixen7 @the-wounded-healer05

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy/you #the boys #the boys fanfic #one shot

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aleksandra-czudzak · 1 month

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ŻABA ✷ FROG ✷ (Ranidae) ✷ "Przed wschodem słońca łapali trzy jednakowe żabki (liczby magiczne), a następnie wsadzali je żywe do mrowiska na sześć tygodni. Po tym czasie zbierali pozostałe kosteczki, tłukli je na proszek, wsypywali do jakiegoś trunku i podawali wybranej osobie, która oczywiście nie wiedziała co pije. Skutek był natychmiastowy: ofiara czarów myślała tylko o tym, kto przyrządził ów napój, tęskniła, w końcu się zakochiwała." ✷ "Before sunrise, they would catch three identical little frogs (magic numbers), and then put them alive into an anthill for six weeks. After this time, they would collect the remaining little bones, crush them into powder, sprinkle them into a drink, and give it to the chosen person, who of course did not know what they were drinking. The effect was immediate: the victim of the spell would only think about the person who had prepared the drink, they would yearn for them, and eventually fall in love." ✷ From "Góralskie czary. Leksykon Magii Podtatrza i Beskidów Zachodnich" by Katarzyna Ceklarz i Urszula Janicka-Krzywda. published by Tatrzański Park Narodowy ✷

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powderblueblood · 5 months

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER ONE — THE POISE, INTEGRITY and LUCK OF A KENNEDY

MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you go head-to-head with your new neighbor, eddie munson, and lose something precious to you in the process. content warnings: NSFW / MINORS DNI swearing, classic 80s classism, tommy hagan jumpscare, eddie munson jackin off word count: 3.4k

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you it ends well for you.

I wish I could tell you that this is nothing but a bad dream, or a fugue state, or an extremely vivid hallucination brought on from that weed your friends buy from that burnout in the horrendous denim vest that is now your next door neighbor.

I wish I could tell you that you’re not sitting on your designer suitcases in the weed-ridden lot of a trailer park, watching your mom (who is already it’s-five o’clock-somewhere drunk) charmlessly haggle about the rent.

See, you used to have money, but now you don’t.

You used to have a dad who wasn’t incarcerated, but now you don’t.

You used to have integrity, but the IRS seized the last of that along with your childhood home in Loch Nora.

I wish I could tell you that you weren’t totally fucked. But it seems that there’s no way this total shitheap of a situation could get worse–

“Need a little help with that?”

–except there is. There totally is.

You flex your hand, relieving it from it’s writing cramp. You’ve been hunched over your journal, perched on your ready-to-burst luggage for what seems like hours now– admittedly, you’re the kind of girl that’s used to valet service. Bellhops carrying your suitcases to your room when you used to join your dad on business trips.

But valets never looked like this. Squinting at you from beneath his ratted-out waves, Eddie Munson gives you a once-over that makes your stomach lurch. You know him the same way everyone in Hawkins knows him– either barrelling through the hallways like a tweaked out autocrat whose only dominion is over his group of unwashed dorks or palming off baggies at parties. But there’s something about Munson that’s always rubbed you the wrong way. He’s so loud and defiant and achingly obvious, smug when he’s got no right to be.

Especially now.

“Excuse me?” you drawl, snapping closed the leatherbound journal.

“Just wheeling out the welcome wagon. It’s not often we get new neighbors with so much…,” he pauses, gaze scanning over the boxes and bags and randomized ephemera being loaded out of the cheapest moving van Hawkins has to offer, “Shit.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Munson, I’d say you were casing the joint.” In fact, you find yourself wondering where exactly your jewelry box is– y’know, the leftover shit your parents didn’t already pawn. The millieu of your grief made you forget about the high possibility of people in the trailer park stealing your stuff.

Munson grimaces. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

“You look like a drug dealer to me,” you snipe, smile all fake. “You might be looking to diversify your criminal skillset. How should I know?”

From where you sit on your straining suitcase, you’re about eye-level with Eddie’s crotch. And call him a weirdo, call him whatever, he doesn’t mind the view. As much as he’d like to pretend he’s above the discordant buzz of Hawkins’ gossip scuttlebutt, news of your family’s downfall is hot shit. He can barely believe it’s really happening, and right in his front yard; Hawkins High’s stoniest, coldest fox and her equally foxy mom were packing their fur coats and shit into a double wide. Eddie couldn’t lie– he liked seeing people like you get knocked down a peg. So he’d come to gloat. A little.

But you’re all snappy and full of venom– not like in school, where he’s almost positive you’ve never made eye contact with him.

He doesn’t mind that change in attitude either.

“C’mon. That luggage looks a little heavy for you, princess,” he says. “I don’t entirely trust you getting it inside the trailer without breaking a nail.”

“I don’t need your help,” you say, shoving that tattered journal into your book bag. Eddie wonders what kind of bullshit you’re always writing in there– every time you’re not in the middle of some idiot milleu with your popular cohorts, you’re practicing your longhand.

“You could use it, though,” he counters, and the condescension in his tone makes your cheeks flare up. You spring from your seat on the suitcase, making Munson take a shocked half-step back. His eyes blaze, rounding out as he takes you in at your full height.

Still taller than you. He'll be okay. He thinks.

“I’m a goddamn cheerleader, you Neanderthal looking dipshit,” you spit, “I’ve got a core of steel.”

You turn and dip, reaching for the thick leather handles of the case and discover–oof–that’s a little bit way heavier than you were expecting it to be. But spurned by sheer stubbornness and a need to get away from him as quickly as humanly possible, you brace yourself against the screaming muscles in your arms and wobble the baggage all the way to the trailer door. Your mom stands in your path, dress slipping off her shoulders, blearily looking toward the Munson kid as he retreats to his own trailer with a languid backwards tread. He can’t look away from this scene.

“Mom. Mom, can I fucking–” you struggle through gritted teeth, “The bag, Mom. Get out of the way.”

She moves out of your way at an aching half-speed as Munson’s eyes burn hot on your struggling frame–he’s loving this, he’s loving seeing you in the shit just like everyone’s loving seeing you in the shit–and you deposit your suitcase in your brand new matchbox-sized bedroom with a heaving gasp. Shit.

You cross the room in about three steps, heading to the window to close the blinds– shshk. Sshsk.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The blinds begin to close, but stop dead not even halfway across the window. They’re stuck, leaving you without a particle of privacy. Which sucks, of course, because you were really banking on some scheduled crying time tonight.

You had held it in for as long as you possibly could, all that hurt and frustration at the disaster your father had landed you in, promising yourself that you’d let it all out once you and your mom had a safe place. A place that wasn’t your estranged aunt’s basement couch, or a motel you could barely afford. A place that you could at least pretend was home. In your minds eye, you had envisioned something modest-if-shitty– the sunnier end of Cherry Lane, maybe. You hadn’t counted on a place that required a gas hookup.

You tug on the beaded chain with a desperate force and no give– exasperated, you let your head slump against the filthy windowpane. The bedroom window stares directly into the window of the trailer opposite, where a warm yellow light flickers on and illuminates another bedroom.

Peeling posters and a guitar on the wall. Of course. Of course you’ve got a bird’s eye view into Eddie Munson’s fetid cave. He spots you in the window and pouts a big ol’ pitiful pout– poor little rich girl. Missing your velvet blackout curtains?

You can’t flip him the bird quick enough before he closes his fully functional blinds.

–

You sleep like shit. Exhaustion couldn't even beat you into a slumber. You couldn’t be bothered to begin the unpacking process and instead fished out whatever closest resembled pyjamas from your luggage (an oversized t-shirt from a father-daughter trip to Columbia University), curling up on your bare mattress with your coat thrown over you, but the thing that was really keeping you awake? You couldn’t find your pen.

Your prized possession pen, your fountain pen in the ruby-red casing. Your journaling pen. You refuse to write in your diary with an inferior instrument, alright, that’s just not how it’s done, but it’s nowhere to be found. It’s not rolling around the bottom of your book bag, though you’ve emptied the thing three times. It’s not anywhere.

You ask your mom if she’s spotted it anywhere, but she’s still in a Valium haze when you’re buzzing around, trying to get ready for school.

That’s a whole other ordeal. Your acceptable school clothes are, again, buried in some suitcase that was hastily packed as agents waited for you to vacate the property. And by appropriate, you mean your carefully chosen pastel color palette– the very best of the very trendiest, the ra-ra skirts and the bomber jackets that sit so perfectly on your poised shoulders. The kind of clothes that make someone like Tina go, God, I wish we could trade dads. Just for the credit card.

Now, all you’ve got to hand are the clothes that feel like your dirty little secret– thrift store suede and dark, rich knits, dresses of velvet and leather boots. The kind of things you collect just to collect, to dress up in when you know no one’s going to be looking at you and think someday. Someday you’ll be someplace where you don’t have to wear the exact right JCPenney piece of shit to fit in with a crowd. Because these are the kinds of clothes that feel right, but make people, important people, people like Carol go–

“Jesus, Lacy, dressed for a funeral much?”

You hadn’t though the ensemble was too dark, but hey, in the harsh light of day. You bashfully shrug your jacket closer around you, faux fur collar tickling your ears. “I’m in mourning.”

“Shit, I hate driving out here,” Tommy Hagan squawks from the driver’s seat, already agitated first thing in the morning, “I always feel like I’m gonna get carjacked.”

Forget your shitty car; the only thing they’d be stripping for parts out here is you, Tommy, you want to quip, but you just fasten your seatbelt. Carol had managed to guilt him into giving you a ride this morning, an effort in pity and also because she wanted the gossip from the trailer park before anybody else.

“Yeah, how was it, Lace? Did you like, deadbolt the doors and shit? Because you really gotta do that out here.”

“You should get a bat to leave by the door. Y’know, for intruders,” Tina blankly adds, staring into her compact mirror.

“You should get a gun,” Hagan says, peeling out of the park with a quickness, “if that’s who you’re livin’ next to.”

“What? Who?”

“That Munson freak,” you sigh, resting your head against the windowpane again, “He like, basically threatened to rob me when I was trying to move in yesterday.”

A chorus of disgust rises up in the car that makes you feel good– warm, surrounded, accepted. Even though it blatantly wasn’t true, you’d do just about anything to win your friends’ approval these days. You noticed a certain waver in their stares when you revealed where you’d be moving to, after your dad was sentenced and everything.

A lot of the time, you didn’t feel like they wanted to be there for you, more that they wanted to be the first to hear the dirt on Hawkins’ most scandalous family.

Usually you’re the one on the receiving end of their deep, dark secrets.

It’s like they feel like they finally have something on you.

Or, no! That’s crazy, you’re just being paranoid. These are your friends. As much as high schoolers can be friends.

“I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off it, Lacy,” Tina says, pinching your arm, “Kegger at Harrington’s on Friday. He even asked about you–”

“--he said he could give you a discount at Family Video if you need it–” Hagan sniggers, earning a smack in the ear from Tina.

“--shut up! So, you’re not a total social pariah yet, okay?”

You blink. You know Tina means well, but sometimes she is so fucking tactless. “Um. Didn’t think I was one, Tins, but thanks for the reassurance. I guess.”

–

He’s not a thief. He swears to God, or whatever the cooler alternative of God is, he’s not.

But he’d be lying if he didn’t consider keeping the stupid red pen just to see if you’d miss it. It’s engraved, he noticed, while rolling it between his fingers as he lay in bed last night. And Eddie Munson is a man not unfamiliar with the value of a decent writing utensil. Those D&D campaigns don’t write themselves. You want something that’s going to be in it for the scribbling long haul and this thing’s not bad. Etched in teeny tiny letters on the pen cap are your initials– the letters of a name no one calls you anymore.

Which is the part that makes it stupid, obviously. What is it with rich people and putting their monogram all over everything?

God, she’s obsessed with this fuckin’ thing, Eddie thinks. Wonder how much it’s worth. A lot, to you, obviously. You’re always etching with it in English, using it to push a lock of hair behind your ear in the library. Tapping it against your lips when you’re standing at your open locker, the tip settling right into your Cupid’s bow, the red casing bouncing off the plush pink of— woah. Pause.

Eddie had to take a beat.

He’d been tapping the pen against his lips too. Thinking about you. Thinking about your lips. That nasty little pout you gave him outside your trailer, the snarl it curled into when he goaded you on.

Fuck, was that kinda… were you kinda…

It’s enough for him to jam the pen into his mouth and palm himself over his boxers, just to make sure. And— yep. He’d hummed, a kind of well whaddaya know! and slipped his hand under the worn elastic waistband. He even gave himself a couple of tugs, just to make sure.

And the thing that made him really sure was the Technicolor vision he had of confronting you in the library’s restricted section.

Yanking that pen away from your mouth and grabbing a fistful of your hair.

Clamping his mouth onto yours and sinking his tongue so deep inside he could taste the cherry Tab lingering on your uvula.

Guiding your hand, your writing hand, past the undone clink of his belt and waistband of his jeans so you could stroke him to the head.

Ink stains mixing with precum.

Moaning into your mouth.

Giving you something to write to dear diary about.

So now, back in the harsh light of day, this stupid rich bitch pen is burning a hole in his pocket.

Almost like payback, as if you’d embarrassed him by making him hard in the privacy of his own trailer, he approaches you in the most audacious setting imaginable— the cafeteria.

You sit there, among your usual gaggle of Gap zombies, but you look— different. You’re dressed different. Cool jacket, Eddie involuntarily thinks before mentally slapping himself. Shut up! We’re here to humiliate her, remember?

“Lacy,” he says, but he draws it out all over his tongue so it sounds like laayyyy-ceeee, and you are visibly disgusted by this. He looms over the table, barely containing the twisted grin on his face. He's playing the part of fake bashful here, you see. “You, uh, dropped this outside my place last night.” Your shoulders go tense. Eyes of your space cadet friends snapping back and forth, from Eddie to you to Eddie to you.

Because it’s true. Technically, you did drop it and technically, it was outside his place but the implication is what's killing you.

Eddie can barely outstretch his hand before you snap the pen from him, icy fingers a shock to his skin. This sick thrill gathers like a twister in his stomach as you freeze in place, staring him down with a laser pointed glare. Fuck. Off. And. Die, it says.

But he doesn’t! “Oh gosh, no need to thank me, Lace! Really, it was no trouble at all— what are neighbors for!”

Mocking giggles start bursting from the popular kid peanut gallery. But the flavor is… off.

Eddie scans the little in-crowd that are scoffing at your expense— which, okay, is totally what he came over here to do but… these are meant to be your buddies, right? Shouldn’t Hagan be threatening to beat Eddie’s ass right about now?

But instead they’re just… letting you stew. No one’s telling Eddie to back off, no one’s calling him their second favorite F slur (freak, naturally).

Nicole Summers is laughing into her sleeve. That’s rich. Underclassman Carver is almost looking at him like, Yeah man, you got her good!

Which does not feel good. Feels kind of shitty, actually.

Too easy of a win.

You didn’t even get a chance to fight back. You couldn’t.

Fuck.

Eddie turns heel and heads back to his table, a gaggle of befuddled Hellfire heads eager to know what the hell was that, man?! But even he can’t quite put his finger on it.

He feels… bad for you.

—

“Anybody got bleach?”

It’s the first thing you manage to choke out after a chorus of ooh, Lacy, what a good neighbor! and Hope that’s all you dropped outside his trailer, girl! All through lunch period, you’re the fucking laughing stock squared thanks to that long haired douchebag.

“Bleach ain’t gonna cut it,” Carol smirks as you both exit the girls room and head toward your respective lockers, “That thing is totally contaminated with freak cooties. Better toss it— unless you don’t mind.”

See, that’s the thing. You do mind, because it’s your stupid goddamn special idiot sentimental pen and now he’s gone and— and— freaked it up somehow. Exploiting the fact you’ve had to make a major lifestyle downgrade because it makes him feel better. It makes you feel even more exposed than you’ve been getting used to feeling lately.

Before you can get into it any more, Carol is clotheslined by Tommy to go, I don’t know, finger each other behind the basketball bleachers or whatever it is they do instead of going to study hall. You’ve lost track.

You push past the gathering rush in the hallway to access your locker. Just as you slam the door closed, it appears again, like an insistent apparition.

“What, Munson, are you here to tell me you put a bomb in my book bag? Because, if so, great. At least that’ll kill me.”

Munson stands there, leaning against some poor bastard freshman’s locker, brow all tight.

“Was I kind of a dick earlier?”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I was. Shit, I knew it!”

“Why the fuck are you talking to me.”

“I didn’t mean it to come off like that— well, okay, I kinda did, but that was pretty cold. I mean, your dirty laundry’s already all over Hawkins, I probably shouldn’t have been like, waving your panties around—“

“Munson.” You gesture toward him, as if you’re going to clutch him by the forearms to shut him up, but halt at the last second. Fuck, you can’t stand him, you can’t stand the way he’s standing there with this earnest look in his eyes, on some hair metal Ferris Beuller protagonist of reality bullshit.

Your eyes flare white hot, jaw flexing.

“Listen to me. We may live in a regrettably closer orbit now, but that does not require us to acknowledge each other as human beings. In fact, if you try and pull some shit like that again— in fact, if you even so much as deign to look in my direction again, I will slash the tires on that fucking decommissioned World War II ambulance you call a van. You do not exist to me, and I better not exist to you. I am not your neighbor, I am a figment of your fucking rotted pothead imagination at best. Leave me the fuck alone or I will eat you. Capiche?”

You know for a fact that these are the highest volume of words you’ve ever spoken (or will ever speak) directly to Munson, and he knows it too. You don’t let loose like this— you don’t even talk to anyone outside your friend group unless extracurriculars or group projects call for it. Not because you’re shy, but because you’re discerning.

Munson has managed to disarm you of all that with one stupid little pen.

He’s staring at you with a deviously shiny-eyed gaze, one that makes you feel like you need to button the modesty button of a blouse you’re not even wearing.

“M’kay, well, let me know if you need a ride after school!” he chirps and shrugs and takes off down the hallway to some class he’s certainly failing.

And you’ve just earned the first big fat F of your life, by letting Eddie Munson get under your skin.

author's notes: hi! if you've read this far, i owe you my eternal thanks. been a hot sec since i wrote fic so i appreciate it. - thee perennial reference to lacy's nickname— best imagined sung to yourself in your bedroom mirror and having a classic 18 year old existential crisis, lol! - the journal and fountain pen motif is a not entirely subtle reference to veronica sawyer from heathers. please expect this trend to continue - as far as timelines go re: steve's working life and tommy and carol's high school careers, bear with me. all will be discussed or at least briefly mentioned but will there be inconsistencies? of course there will, babe. i'm here to fuck around, i'm not here for continuity - horndog eddie munson you WILL live forever! - please reblog, like & comment to show support! i've got some killer chapters planned for this fic and i live to entertain u

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson x you #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #e. munson by powder

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thunderfrommyheart · 2 months

Text

breaking down the misinformation in @afronerdism post about me.

Debunked by Stuart Semple himself.

I’ve taken the time to do this because nobody wants mis-information bouncing around the internet.

The key thing to know - in the artworld rich people have access to processes and companies that most artists don’t. That’s how they get to create giant beans which cost $20million. At the top the rich get richer, and at the bottom artists struggle to make their mark with what they’ve got.

Vantablack is an example of a group of rich, entitled people getting together to pat themselves on the back, whilst the rest of the world watched horrified at the tone-deafness of the whole thing.

it's also worth noting whilst OP is clearly educated and understands politics they are not in any way an expert in the artworld, art discourse. I however have been in the artworld for 25 years, have written for the guardian, art of england and vogue. I have presented art programs for the BBC and have a properly published book on art history - it's out in June called 'Make Art or Die Trying'. I have studied art and art history and spoken at Oxford University, The ICA, Denver Art Msueum, Dublin Art Museum and at Frieze. I have lectured at the Royal College of Art in London. I have curated over 20 contemporary art exhibitions internationally, I have directed two galleries. I am by definition an expert.

MY BREAKDOWN: OP is @afronerdism - I've gone below them point by point

A: What Vantablack is not: a pigment. A paint. Vantablack is not something that you were supposed to use to paint with.

SS: CORRECT - However nor is glass, chrome, powder coating, sandblasting, booze casting, tar, concrete or steel yet they are used by artists everyday.

Whether the material/process is a paint or pigment or not doesn’t matter.

A: Who creates and distributes Vantablack: an engineering company named Surrey NanoSystems.

SS: True. And many artists work with engineering companies every day, notable examples are Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. Lots of artists collaborate with industry to get their work made, that is what fabrication is. You go to Surrey NanoSystems - not to buy paint but for them to coat your work in Vantablack.

A: Who does not do those things: an art house. A distribution company. Any kind of company that creates and distributes pigments on a massive, artistic scale.

SS: Which is totally true and fine. However they do coat things in Vantablack for a series of clients in many different industries including fashion designers, jewelers, brands, car companies, and watch companies. They will coat anything for anyone who has the money unless they are an artist. They only accept work from Anish Kapoor as he has an exclusive license with them for art.

A: Who was Vantablack made for: Vanta Black was made by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, looking for something to coat the insides of massive NASA telescopes.

SS: Initially, but quickly was used by a lot of other industries including architects, fashion designers, bands, brands, car companies and even a deodorant.

They are able to make it in quantities large enough to coat whole buildings as we saw when architect Asif Khan used it to coat a whole pavilion during the Pyeongchang Winter Olympic Games.

(If had told Surrey nanoSytems he was an artist - not an architect, this would never have happened)

A: Who it was not made for: artists.

SS: Except the one with the license. (Anish Kapoor)

———————————-——————————————

A: Hopefully already just by understanding what Vantablack is, what it was made for, and who it’s made by you and other people are beginning to see what the problem is with Stuart simples narrative around Vanta black.

SS: It’s Semple not simple.

SS: The narrative was not created by Semple as for a few months before he shared his pink the world media was criticizing Kapoor for his Monopoly with major articles in the Guardian, Daily Mail, and BBC news. Each featured reactions from a broad spectrum of artists who spoke about the unnecessary license and the elitism in the artworld.

A: But you may be wondering if Vanta black is a highly toxic unstable substance made out of carbon nano tubes by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, working in space, then how did we get here? well, Vanta, black 2.0, if you will was created in such a way that it could be sprayed onto substances in a certain way meaning that theoretically it could be used artistically.

SS: Yes VBX2 can be sprayed, and Surrey Nanosystems have training days where they teach in-house teams how to do that. The VBX2, however, arrived quite late in the story and Kapoor’s rights started with the first version.

A: Surround nanosystems held an exhibition where they displayed Vanta black and when artist saw this, they were inundated with calls from artist, wanting to use it in their work.

SS:

Surrey nano systems (not surround)

They actually debut it at an airshow in England, it was all over the world media, many artists saw it. They then went on a massive PR mission and the material was seen on CNN etc.

Kapoor became aware of it and approached them to see if he could use it in his work.

Together they struck up an exclusive deal which would mean if any artist asked them to coat a piece of work with the stuff they would be turned away.

That deal was something Surrey and Kapoor were initially proud of. They couldn’t see the inherent elitism in the exclusivity so they went on another PR pr to tell he world Kapoor was signed up to use it.

It was then the artists of the world really became aware of it, and sure enough, when any of them wrote to Surrey - even really huge ones with plenty of money, they were turned away. These artists including Christian Furr and Ron Arad, amongst others were all featured across the media. =

A: But as we’ve already established surrey nanosystems is not a distribution company. They’re an engineering company. And they made the decision that they could only work with one artist, because they simply did not have the physical ability to produce Vantablack at a scale that allowed them to work with more than one person.

SS: They did say that, but a lot later. They were always a fabrication / engineering place and there was never an idea that they would distribute the material. That’s not the problem any artists ever had with it, they all fully understood what the material was. The issue was that even if the artist had the money and could ship their work to Surrey, they would not coat the object with it, but they would serve other industries. This is seen as deeply prejudicial towards artists.

A: (To this day, vanta Black has to be distributed by a specialized robotic arm that creates it in painfully small amounts in an enclosed box that can then be given to someone in a lab. )

SS: This is untrue - the arm is used to spray the objects that Surrey have agreed to coat.

It does not make the material. The material is made by growing carbon nano tubes on a surface.

And the spray version contains nano particles. The robot arm is used for precision when coating.

You often see a robot arm spray cars for example. The arm is used like this.

A: Enter Anish Kapoor: Anish Kapoor, at this time was already a world, renowned artist, and the creator of many public facing pieces, such as cloud gate, a.k.a. the Chicago Bean. His entire life‘s work was dedicated to how light is refracted and interplays with the void, making him not only the perfect person to be chosen because of prestige but also because his life‘s work spoke to the engineers who created Vanta black.

SS: Whist as an artist he has dealt with reflection and the void at length, it’s a stretch to claim his entire life’s work is dedicated to it.

SS: It is true that as a figurehead for Vantablack he is a good choice, he’s very rich, extremely famous, he’s a Sir (i.e knighted by the queen and a turner prize winner). Plus he makes work that would look good in Vantablack.

SS: None of this means that he needed exclusivity to do it, the company could simply have collaborated with him and if any other artist asked to have something coated, they could have easily said they were too busy or didn’t have enough of the material.

SS: The issue is the way they couldn’t see the prejudice, elitism and lack of access in the exclusivity.

A: Now this should’ve been seen as an incredible accomplishment and honor for this Indian artist to be chosen as the soul licensor of Vantablack as this company was only able to choose one person and people were really excited about this for him and that’s where the story ends, right? Right? Right?

SS: It’s unclear why his race matters. He is one of the richest, most well known, most famous artists in the world. The fact he has exclusive access to a material/process like this is not a reason for people to be excited for him, people are free to be excited or not. This is purely your opinion not a fact.

A: Enter Stuart Semple: Stuart simple was a 25-year-old man in the UK living with his mother when she came into his room and told him about Vantablack.

SS: Stuart was born in 1980, which would make him 36 at the time.

SS: He was not living with his mother, in fact he was living in London with his own family.

SS: His mother did not come into his room however on a phone call she spoke to him about an article she had read in the guardian about how artists were upset by Kapoor having Vantablack.

SS: Stuart was (and is) a well-known contemporary artist, very embedded int hat world. He has had over 20 solo exhibitions dedicated to his work all over the world and his pieces are in major collections and museums. He’s not in the league of Kapoor but in the artworld is well known as an artist.

A: As an artist himself, Stewart simple wanted to try Vanta Black, and was told by the company that he could not.

SS: This is untrue - Stuart did not want to use the colour, nor did he approach the company.

A: It was then that he discovered the only person on earth licensed to use Vantablack was Anish Kapoor.

SS: This is untrue, he was aware of this when his mother told him what she had read in the newspaper.

A: Please keep in mind that Vantablack is not a paint, and it is so difficult to work with that Anish Kapoor has only ever produced one singular piece of art with Vantablack.

SS: This is untrue. Tens of thousands of items have now been coated in VantaBlack, from soda cans to watches. Initially, Kapoor used his rights to create a series of limited edition wrist watches that sold for $100,000 each, and then went on to create a whole series of large sculptures that were initially shown at a huge palazzo in Venice that Kapoor bought, during the Venice Biennale, and then at an exhibition at the Lisson in NYC where there works were for sale with an average price of $500,000USD.

A: So like a child who has just been told by their mom that they can’t use something, Stewart simple decided to throw a hissy fit.

SS: It’s Stuart Semple (not stewart simple) - and there is no evidence of any kind of Hissy Fit. However he did create a piece of internet performance art, where he put a jar of pinkest pink paint on the internet, humorously, and asked anyone who bought the paint to sign an agreement that they ‘weren’t Anish Kapoor and Associate of Kapoor and that to the best of their knowledge information and belief, the material would not make its way into the hands of Anish Kapoor’. Semple has always explained it was a tongue-in-cheek piece of performance art, and that he was never expecting anyone would actually buy any pink. The best source for this is an article in Wired in which the journalist concludes with the piece being a powerful piece of online performance art. Bearing in mind Semple is an artist who works with performance, that is extremely likely.

A: He created a pink pigment that he conditionally said everyone could use except Anish Kapoor and then launch this pigment with the hashtag #ShareTheBlack.

SS: He created the pink pigment in 2010 - and has made his own paints to use in his own work since he was a child. It was not made in response to Kapoor. However he did not make them public they were for his own use, and the Kapoor situation made him question his own exclusivity in keeping the materials he was making for himself. He decided to share his pink as a gesture and a piece of art in it's own right.

A: This caught the attention of the news media, and when asked about this situation, that was previously relatively unheard of, Stuart simple,

SS: Neither Stuart nor the Vantablack situation were unheard of. The media was already reporting on the controversy around vantablack long before Stuart put the pink up. Stuart was also well known which is why the media wanted to talk to him about it.

When GQ came to do a 5 page feature on him they were clear it was because he was an established and well-known artist in his own right.

He had already been hosting art shows for the BBC, had written for the guardian and Huffington post and had collaborated with major musicians.

A: went onto describe Anish Kapoor as this tyrannical elitist who “banned“ the use of Vantablack to keep other artists from using it.

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple said that, however, he was critical of the exclusive license and did feel the story opened up a well-needed discussion about access to art and the trend in which those with the money could afford to have works fabricated when others couldn’t. He is at heart an egalitarian and has made free art studios, his Designs for humanity charity, his creative therapies fund at Mind (a mental health charity) etc.. and a major free art gallery in his hometown that shows some of the biggest living artists. So Semple’s opinion is allowed, to him Kapoor epitomizes an elitism that is dominated by the super-rich, after all, Kapoor is getting close to being a billionaire.

A: But hopefully you can already see how that is Literally not true. Anish Kapoor does not make Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot sell Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot give you permission to use Vanta black. And Vanta black is not even a paint.

SS: He does not make it, but he does hold the exclusive right to use it in art.

SS: No other material or process has been exclusively licensed by one artist in the history of the world.

SS: Jeff Koons does not make his own giant steel sculptures, a factory does. Jeff can’t book your work into the factory, and steel is not a paint either. He doesn't have an exclusive agreement with the steel fabricators. If they aren't too busy with Jeff, and you've got the cash, they'll make something for you too. This is standard with art fabrication.

SS: I didn't physically make the giant steel and foam smiley sculpture of mine for the city of Denver, fabricators helped with that, and engineers. They work with several artists.

SS: This makes no sense given it is understood vantablack is a material and a process of application.

SS: However Kapoor could surrender his exclusive right and Surrey would then be able to take bookings from artists.

A: meanwhile Stuart has launched an entire very lucrative career around slandering and smearing Anish Kapoor

SS: Untrue, Semple had a very successful career and his day job is as a contemporary artist. Actually speaking up about elitism in the artworld is a risky move for someone who relies on that artworld to pay his bills.

A: when Anish Kapoor literally never did anything but be qualified enough to be the one person chosen by a company that is literally only able to work with one person at a time.

SS: He did do something, he signed an exclusive agreement and he felt he was entirely justified in doing so. He also went out in the media and with surrey nono systems and gloated about it.

SS: They can’t only work with one person at a time, we have seen whole buildings covered in vantback, jewellery, cars and soda cans and many sculptures by Kapoor. Surrey have collaborated with thousands of brands, designers, architects and companies.

A: The fact remains Stewart simple, very intentionally allows this narrative to continue because it makes him money.

SS: It is unclear how it makes him money as the pink was sold for $3 which was what it cost to make, and his website which researches and distributes cutting edge materials is a non profit that collaborates with artists. They even did a crowd funder to make Black 3.0 - a super black acrylic that any artist can use. It's also unclear how he is perpetuating this narrative, when he's clearly moved on to other projects many years ago and rarely mentions it. In Semple's world it's a very small thing.

A: He has made a ton of money off of slandering Anish Kapoor as if Anish Kapoor is the reason he can’t use Vanta black when the reason he can’t use Vanta black is because no one can use Vanta black, and the only person who might be able to use it is Anish Kapoor and that is not Anish Kapoor‘s fault.

SS: There’s no evidence at all that he’s slandered Kapoor. Kapoor being extremely wealthy, and the level of media that covered the story back in 2016 would never have allowed it. It would have been a legal nightmare. All the publications who write about the story GQ, BBC, The Guardian, Wired, have journalistic laws and it would not have happened.

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple has made a ton of money.

A: It is not lost on me that there are racial connotations to the story as well. There are actual companies and artists in the world who have trademarks around certain colors that they do not allow other people to use in public showcases.

SS: There are colour marks or if you like 'trademarked colours'. The public showcases point doesn't make sense in this context - colours are protected in classes i.e certain uses on Serbian products are prohibited. EG - Tiffany blue cannot be used on jewellery boxes.

A: But we really as a community allowed this white man to smear and slander an Indian artist,

SS: Again it’s unclear what the ethnicity of the artists has to do with the core issue.

SS: It’s a little bit of a leap given Semple has also liberated Klein Blue (made by a white French man), Barbie Pink (owned by Mattel a corporation), and created the Brightest White.

A: based entirely off of misinformation, and to this day people jump on the Internet, saying fuck Anish Kapoor because of it.

SS: Kapoor secured the rights to the blackest material ever made. Everyone else who can afford to, can use it, unless they identify as an artist.

SS: Many people feel like that is wrong.

A: Now, Anish Kapoor is not some struggling person. He is probably a multibajillionaire

SS: He’s worth about 800 million according to Forbes, he’s within the top 5 most wealthy living artists.

A: And doesn’t necessarily need our sympathy. But I think the story of Vantablack is a really good case study of how misinformation spreads, and how people never bother to question the framework of a story.

SS: In my opinion, your post is misinformation, that has been spread unquestioningly.

#stuartsemple #anish kapoor #stuart semple

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