#granted its a queue

[vullcanica]

Are you normal or do you also use your queue (set to one post at some weird hour) as another separate drafts box that's less overwhelming than your actual drafts??

[rhysartpiecess]

*borat voice* my wife

god i would do anything for her harpy form, Eda my beloved

[aibouart]

"can you hear me? can you see me? can you acknowledge me?"

[blorbo-images]

[bloodymyhands]

inbox empty !!! slay !!!

[sheepie-self-ships]

EAGLEACE MOVING!!! EAGLEACE IS ANIMATED IN COLOR!!!!!!!

[dvarapala]

you know that one gif of that white lady pulling at her curtains or whatever because she's mad? that's me whenever i find out spn took bits and pieces of my culture and whitewashed it.

[chaosfindsaway]

@theresastargirl said “ You are my hero. ” - Alan

Alan smiled dryly, a shrug rolling off his shoulders. He didn't quite understand how anyone could think that. Digging up bones for a living never seemed too heroic to him - not to say he didn't enjoy it. His experience at the Park must've been it. Escaping dinosaurs, after all, had to count for something.

That had all been luck, though, despite the stories that the media liked to put out. "I very much appreciate that, but I'm not sure why. If it's because of Jurassic Park, you should know I only survived by the skin of my teeth."

[ephermalities]

girls will have a watchlist on letterboxd longer than the hours in a year and then instead of watching something from it they'll put on another hugh grant romcom

[dzvagabond]

Happy 3rd Anniversary my dear scholar. I cannot wait to spend many more years with you.

[distressed-bird]

I see no one on the spotify post in the replies or reblog tags talking about soundcloud… please tell me I’m not that old…

You… you guys remember soundcloud right? Right?

I’m not alone here… am i?

[shalriy]

i hate this game sometimes christ alive

[chaosfindsaway]

@aerospectrum said “I hate it down here.” (Tim @ Ian Malcolm)

"Well, uh, yes. I would expect you too," Ian said, wincing with each step he took in the darkness of the bunker. His injured leg seared with pain, but it was the least of his worries. With the power out, there was no telling how many of the dinosaurs had already escaped. On top of that, Malcolm had lost sight of Grant and Lex. They were either dead or still out there.

Ian began to sift through the bunker - though the dark made it difficult - hoping to at least find a light of some kind. "Ah!" His fingers touched some sort of cylinder object which he assumed to be a flashlight. Sure enough, he clicked it on and it illuminated. "There. See if you can find another flashlight. Or a lantern. Who knows how well prepared InGen is for the disaster I warned them about."

[kissofrindou]

distance makes the heart grow fonder!

in which rindou misses you in his time in juvie

rindou x reader: pure fluff, likes & reblogs are appreciated!

distance makes the heart grow fonder — in the excruciating six months rindou’s been in juvie, he realises how true that is.

a part of him wants to blame the lack of fun or entertainment or any sort of proper facility in the rehabilitation center — a few hours a day at the courtyard where he practically just sits around, do some weight training whilst his brother socialises enough for the both of them, probably to garner another spot and connection. and another hour three times a day to eat bland and tasteless food that makes him truly rethink his delinquent life as he shoves soaking white rice that tastes like the water it was cooked in, or the chicken that definitely has been microwaved after being left out for multiple days straight. and then right after, its night time, lights off as he’s forced to “rethink” and “reflect” in the creaky hard bed that he’s still not used to despite nearing the end of his sentence.

and in these six months, youre all he can think about.

perhaps he’s taken for granted beforehand: you and him have never been apart after all.

sat right next to each other since kindergarten, your world and his has always collided, practically merged in one. your home was simply a walk away from his, and your parents adored him strangely enough. a routine, in contrast to his messy life with his older brother, one that he strangely likes and in recent times, missed dearly though he would never verbally admit it to anyone but perhaps some god who’s reading his mind.

it was easy, never having to make much of an effort. every morning, he would eat breakfast straight from the fridge into the microwave, grab his bag and walk to the bus stop you two met up in, get on the bus and go to school — nothing special. but now, stuck in his cell as though he’s been banished from society, he misses everything about it: he misses your voice and laughter as you two switched between topics from your weekends and school gossips and new shop items to get, he misses the occasional songs you two would share with the old wired earphones still kept in his wallet abandoned in his room that would alternate between your favourite songs that he can practically hum in his head even now and his that vibrates in his ear with the electric guitar and beats that had you two nod your head as though in agreement, he misses the unintentional touches during those trips that felt like electric shocks whether it was form the bumpy bus ride that had you push against him whether you two were sitting down or not or the fingertip bumping against each other in the cramp bus.

and in some twisted way, he misses school too, strangely enough. in a way, it was the place that brought you two together, red strings practically tying you too as well as the teachers who sought you out as the solution to rindou’s troublemaker personality though really, you were just as bad (though at least you haven’t been in jail). he misses the school lunches you two ran, hand in hand, to queue up for — japanese curry rice with his favourite katsu chicken which spice level varied according to the cook’s mood that day, cold soba noodles that was practically bathed in ice that melt away at the burning heat of the world, that stupid french toast topped his honey and sugar that always ran out too quickly — and most importantly you who sat right in front of him without fail every break, as though you two were the only one in this world at the corner of the canteen that no one dared bothered the two of you. he misses the classrooms, sitting right next to you in all of them: he misses the secret whispers and written notes talking about the boring classes, unwrapped candies shoved into both of your mouths, books standing on the table so you could have a quick nap mid lesson, eyes connecting to yours as you two lay your heads on the wooden surface, your smile sweeter than the caramel that’s bursting in his mouth as he bites down on the candy to not say his real feelings. he misses each and every class skipped: hiding in an empty classroom or at the back of the cold and quiet library that contrasted with your warmth or finding another new corner added to his memory long abandoned but now kept alive by the two of you, your head on his shoulders as you two do your own things, playing games, listening to his new beats he made the night before (with you in mind), napping and daydreaming about what the future held for the two of you.

and more so, after school: where you two would practically travel the world — whether in the crowded city and town, walking and laughing on the streets with your bag carried by him, dashing in and out of the stores as you two hear the saleslady yell after you and the salesman sighing at the sight of you two, hands holding your favourite ice cream (that he never tells you tastes really bad in his humble opinion), sampling food and drinks and items at the grocery store as he pushes you on the cart for no reason other than to be a nuisance (that is successful, considering the pointed glares and whispers at the passerbys). each time was a new adventure: different shops and different antics, different bites of equally bad ice creams and treats that you love all the same, different conversation and different days, and yet no matter what, he misses them all. not because he likes those overly-covered chocolate ice cream that tastes way too strongly, or because he likes those terrible-looking shirts that he buys simply because it makes you laugh, or because he has nothing else better to do but simply because you were there. your smile that practically acts as his sun makes the ice cream and treats tastes truly sweet, one that makes his heart swell up and aches at the same time, your laughs that sounds like inspiration for his next remix and beats rings just right in his ears to have another atrociously ugly shirt sit in his closet hung up for you to see when you come over, your voice that sounds like a song that he can’t stop replaying makes every single hang out and time spent with you just so mesmerising and addictive.

rindou remembers the first time you fell sick and didn’t go to school: it was pure torture, no one to talk to through whispers and post it notes, no one to sit with him to enjoy the sandwich he got that was practically stale considering he didn’t have the motivation to rush down as he would with you. it was so miserable that he left mid school and went over, buying hot soup and medicine on the way at some overpriced place that was near yours so it would still but hot when he got there, taking care of you that seemed so unnatural and strange to him but felt just right as he sat beside you, watching your sleeping face, wiping away the snot at the corner of your nose and drool at the side of your mouth that was slightly dry and pale. and now it was pernament, or at least for this six months — and really, he has half a mind to attempt to break out of here, if not the fact that you would probably not enjoy having a convict at your house (really, he knows you might not mind, but that would really ruin the impression of him to your parents that he still might need their blessing for for the future, but he digresses)

and after a whole six months, rindou gets released from prison: and instead of going home to sleep in his soft bed and rest up like his brother, or going to the club where he knows people would be all over him considering he’s the new talk in town after beating the back then best gang leaders in roppongi, he walks straight to your house, wearing some sweater his brother got his friends to get the both of them for their release.

and it feels natural, as though its like home: pressing your doorbell as he’s done a million times — every weekend to ask you to hang out probably at his favourite arcade to play those rhythms games or dance machines or claw machines, once in a while when he gets up and early and can’t be bothered to wait in the silence at the bus stop, or simply when he’s bored (and misses you).

and after a full six months, he thinks you look even better than his memory can serve him.

”hey, i’m back. missed you.”

a honest response from him, slipped out of his mouth despite his blank expression (and pink tinted face). but he doesn’t mind it, not when the smile he misses and has to scratch the back of his brain in the cell to remember the shape of it, not when he can hear your smile that makes his world go quiet, only you and him in this life together, not when you pull him by his shirt that makes his half-lidded eyes go wide as he crashes onto you, you on the floor and him on top of you. and he can’t help but laugh too, your world and his merging once more, his hands tugging onto yours, as he pulls you in: its magnetic , its natural, and its like home.

distance really makes the heart fonder: on both side, rindou thinks — his practiced facade gone when he’s in your arms as though your plushies that sits the same on your bed when he goes up later, when youre here with him and fitting with him just right like a puzzle piece so much that he feels whole again.

and perhaps, just maybe, he has to get his act together and confess a little quicker: he’s sure you think the same too, when you peck his cheeks in affection, you and him laying on your bed, eyes magnetic to each other, talking as though you two have never been separated, as though you two weren’t just separated by the stupid metal gates and barbed wires of his juvie, as though you two were truly connected by the red string that grew oh so resistant to the tearing and pulling of both yours and his facades and hidden love that has long melted into the open.

[muzzlemouths]

Hey!! I read your sunshine station piece and it was awesome!!! I know you mentioned Moon briefly, is there a second part with him in it by chance? Thank you! Have a great day!

As a matter of fact...

"Evening, dozers. That was REO Speedwagon's 'Can't Fight This Feeling', a classic for the ages. We're all fighting for something, facing our own demons these days. Maybe you're juggling a schedule that just won't let you rest, maybe you're struggling to balance your home and work life, or your heart is trapped in a game that you can't seem to win, maybe...you're fighting to stay awake." 

Laughter pours from Moon's voice-box, hazy and quiet. "Whether you're toiling through a graveyard shift or just can't seem to lay your head to rest, I'm here for you. I'll be your voice through the dark, the bedtime story that puts your mind at ease, the friend who stays up with you all night."

Neon red illuminates the soundboard, drawing his focus to the familiar silhouette standing just outside the booth door. His copper cage heart ba-thumps in place.

"This next one goes out to those of you burning at both ends of the fuse,“ he continues. “These timeless flights might feel lonely, dozers, but I'll be here until you come back down. Here's 'Rocket Man.'"

He slides the Elton John track into place, smooth metal gliding over vinyl, and queues "Just the Two of Us" at its tail, granting him just under twelve minutes to stretch...at least, that's what he'll tell Eclipse.

Moon cracks the booth door open and peeks just outside of it, glancing around. "Bedbug?"

"Here," you call at his back. Watching him jump ought to be funny, but you can't help but find it endearing. "Sorry, didn't mean to spook you."

"You didn't," he lies, grinning from cheek to cheek. "What brings you here at this hour?" He nods towards the clock, its hands pointed accusingly at fifteen minutes past four in the morning. "Your shift doesn't start for another two hours. If you're here for Sun, he hasn't even come in ye—"

"I'm here for you." The words jump from your mouth like a sneeze, surprising both of you. "I mean— I-I'm here to bring you a coffee," you insist, thrusting the lidded paper cup towards him. Normally. "Eclipse asked me to. Since — since you've been working so hard lately."

Moon blinks at the cup strangely. He's still trying to calm the steam rushing through his vents when he reaches for it, not daring to look you in the eyes until his heart settles down. It isn’t every day that you – or anyone, really – wants to spend their time with him. Not when the brighter, louder, better Sun is always there to cast him in shadow.

He takes comfort in the warmth soaking through the cardboard sleeve when he takes it from you, lingering for only a socially acceptable length of time when his fingers brush against yours.

"Did he, now?" That telltale grin of his returns. His shoulder slumps against the door frame, all worries forgotten. "Well, that's very thoughtful. Maybe I should head down to his office and thank hi—"

"Don't!" Your protest is loud enough on its own to draw attention even without Moon ratting you out, and he is nothing if not amused by it. You clear the humiliation from your throat and try again. "It's just, you know how busy he is, a-and I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate being interrupted over something so trivial, you know? He doesn't even have to know I was here!"

Dopey laughter bubbles from his voice box. You wish he wouldn't look at you like that; like he's hanging on your every word.

"Couldn't sleep, could you, bedbug?"

Your stomach somersaults, pouring blood into your cheeks and heating your ears, and you stammer. "I— It's just that I was already in town, is all, a-and—"

"I don't think it's trivial." He brings the cup to his lips and takes a long, thoughtful sip, eyelashes resting against his cheeks as he indulges in the taste.

"You..huh?"

"The coffee." His gaze settles on you like fresh snow, quiet and slow. His smile could melt through even the coldest winters. "I don't think it's trivial," Moon echoes. "You made it just how I like it, too. Must have had to sneak past Eclipse to get to the break room, then again to bring it all the way here, to me. What's trivial about that?"

If your face gets any hotter you're going to catch fire right where you stand.

"It— it's nothing," you insist, struggling with where to put your hands now that you no longer have the cup to distract your twiddling thumbs. "So...does that mean you won't tell Eclipse?"

Moon looks past you, towards your collective boss's office, then strains his neck to see into his booth, noting the time that remains. He hums.

"Want to join me?"

The question startles you into a hiccup. "I'd love to, but..." you cast a glance over your shoulder, peering down the hall yourself as though you're expecting Eclipse to pour from his office any moment now. "After the 'stunt' Sun pulled yesterday — his words, not mine — Eclipse will have my things in a box by morning if I get caught in the booth again."

He pulls away from the wall, perfectly composed, and straightens the cardigan sleeve that had slipped from his shoulder. "That's a shame," he murmurs. "I'd have let you pick the next song."

"Wh— Really?"

"Mhm." Moon steps over the threshold and into his booth, hand reaching for the doorknob with purposeful delay. "Well, I have to get back to work." The door begins to shut. "Thank you for the coff— oh."

He doesn't bother stifling his chuckle as you dart beneath his outstretched arm and into the booth. If anything, he finds it all too charming for your liking.

"Change your mind after all?"

"I can't stay for long," you tell him, trying (and failing) to sound firm about it. "You...you aren't going to make me talk on air, are you?"

"'Course not, bedbug." He gets your chair for you like a gentleman, then easily slips into his own. "In fact, if you're to stay with me, I will need you to be very, very, quiet," he tells you, whispering the last part. "Can you do that for me?"

You take your seat with an eager nod, deciding against trusting your voice already.

"The records are in that basket," gestures Moon. He reaches just past you and plucks the vintage headphones from his desk, a spare set, and wordlessly fits them over your ears.

He unwinds a separate wire for himself — a device you have been enthusiastically banned from referring to as ‘the AUX cord’ — and plugs it into a port that sits directly behind his faceplate. You've since learned that the innovation was created to combat the issue of how to keep a pair of headphones on a face shape like theirs, but honestly, it just looks like a glorified earring.

"Ready?" He asks.

It's a trick question. His finger lands on the button before you have the chance to answer, and just as soon is his voice in your ears.

"Welcome back, dozers. You're listening to Starshine Station, and that was 'Just the Two of Us.' We've got more groovy tunes coming up here in a moment, but before that," and he taps the record basket again, returning your attention to the task at hand, "I want you to take a moment to come back to yourself. I know you're tired, you're exhausted, your mind is racing and you just want to unwind. Put your phone down, close your eyes, and breathe. I know it's silly — I know, I know — but place those worries aside and just be here, in this moment with me. Breathe in, take all of that stress, all of that weight you're carrying, and breath out. Let it go. You can pick it back up later, you can carry it again in the morning, but for now, set it down. Let it rest."

You draw a record from the basket and hand it over, smothering a yawn with your hand.

"Good, just like that," Moon purrs into the mic. "I hope you feel a little lighter after that, listeners. And if you're out on the roads right now, well, I hope you didn't listen to a single word I just said." His laughter threads through the radio waves like smooth jazz, every word curling around a smile. "Either way, thank you for letting me keep you company tonight. We've got more cozy classics ahead, so tune in and turn that dial to ten... here's 'Unchained Melody'."

When had he taken the record from you? One moment it was in your hands, and the next it was on air. So, too, do you feel on air — that is, lightweight and floating, all your troubles swept away by sixties pop and the unspoken lullaby of Moon's hand smoothing circles over your shoulders, hardly remembering when he even got there.

Your head lands on your arms, slumped against the desk.

You aren't going to sleep. You can't sleep. You still have to drive home and be back here again in an hour, well rested and ready for whatever demands Sun has for you that day, saying nothing of what will happen if Eclipse finds you here. You can't afford to rest your eyes for even a minute. Maybe you should have poured yourself a coffee, too.

"I hope the night is kind to you," says Moon.

His voice rolls over you like cool, ocean waves. He sounds so distant already. You can't remember the song ending, or the next one beginning, just the sound of his voice guiding you through the dark.

"This next one is very dear to me." His words breeze over you, disappearing into a hazy fog. "Wherever you are right now, whatever your situation, I hope you have someone special to hold close tonight."

Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is," courses through your headphone speakers, but you aren't awake to hear it.

Moon unplugs himself from the soundboard just long enough to stand, shrugging off his wool cardigan. He stretches, arms raised above his head, exhausted steam whistling through his vents, stress marking every creak in his joints. Then he looks your way, and all the weight melts from his shoulders in an instant.

His cardigan drapes over your shoulders like a hug, still warm from his body. He brushes the hair from your eyes and lingers, selfishly this time, until the song comes to an end and he’s forced to pull away.

"Nighty night, bedbug," he whispers still. "Thanks for listening in."

[threegoldfish]

"You are a gentleman, yes! Of course you are --- you look like a gentleman, after all! V-very nice suit, by the way, very... posh, yes! Suits you, the suit. ---Oh, funny, the suit suits you, g-get it? Suit and...suit... hah, English's quite the thing, no...?"

Honestly, Steven's might be more than just a bit tipsy, despite only having had those two sugary drinks. Perhaps the fact of those drinks having been sweet is making things so much worse; He vaguely remembers having read about it in the past, the fact that sugar only causes all the alcohol to reach the brain sooner--- something like that? Anyways... doesn't matter! He can walk, it's just this damn road being so, so...

"---I-if the road wasn't so bloody rude to m-me here, mate! Look, the cobble... cobble-things, stones, uhm--- look how bad they are being, making me trip all the time---" Just as Steven says it, he's off balance again, but manages to hold onto his friend for a second time - to which he turns his head to face Erikson, offering him a slightly lopsided but sincere smile. "Oops, s-sorry --- gosh, you're quite strong, yeah, like, I'm---I'm not exactly light as a feather, heh! E-even though my heart apparently is, was weighed in the afterlife by Taweret, all of that---"

---If only Marc or Jake were to be around at that moment, they would've certainly tried to keep their third in check, definitely. ...Thing is, Steven doesn't even know whether they're around or not, it's all a bit fuzzy and like static up in there...

It takes an additional second then, a moment of hesitation, before Steven realizes that his friend has talked to him - asked him for something. Wallet? Oh! "...Ah, yes, wait, I uh--- I think--- I have it here, yeah, here, i-inside my bag--- can you, uhm, take it for me, mate? Just--- grab it, it should be right there somewhere..."

...There is a wallet in his shoulder bag, yes, and Erikson will definitely be able to find it - thing is, he's carrying 3 wallets. And even though he usually puts the two wallets that are not his own into a separate compartment of said shoulder bag, he must've mixed them up on accident - since the one that's sitting in the main part isn't his own but Marc's instead, complete with his ID, of course.

When work takes you to England, you gotta have one night out with your new pen pal, right? They'd been writing back and forth for a couple of months now, though with how slow mail could be and life delaying having a moment to sit down and write that only resulted in a handful of letters between them meeting and now.

Still, it had been something nice and new to look forward to. Sterling's mental state had taken a bit of a nose dive shortly after he got home from that trip (Thanks Void) and after finally returning to therapy she had encouraged him to write the first letter. Now he was back for a quick work trip and it seemed introducing Steven to the joys of karaoke had been an exciting time, to say the least.

"Just because you can walk doesn't mean I'm not still going to help you do it. I'm a gentleman" Sterling said, surprisingly steady on his feet. Like home, he stuck to a drink minimum. Plus, he was there on business. He couldn't allow himself to get too out of control in case he got called in for something. Control was something Sterling liked to remain hyper aware of. When he let go of it he let go but tonight couldn't be one of those nights.

Good thing. They'd both have been face down on the cobblestones right about now.

"I'm glad I'm back too. And I'm glad I have a familiar face to see when I'm sent back here. Really elevates a work trip to know I get to see a friend." He caught Steven as he cursed the road under them. "Seems you had a great time as well, Oops, there we go. Come on. Give me your wallet. I need your address."

Sure, he'd written to him a bunch but he hadn't exactly committed it to memory just yet.