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Links 1 through 10 of 2069 Electra's Bookmarks

“Don’t you think it’s odd,” he asks her one afternoon when Tom is out for groceries, “how nobody ever comes to Barry? And how we never go anywhere?” She looks at him, nostalgia in her eyes, and switches the channel over to Antiques Roadshow. “I think it’s enough, Hal,” she says, a firm line in her voice.

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1. Freak out. Because it's not like you thought this was going to happen. Sure, you'd definitely once or twice or several times thought about him in a naked way, but that's only to be expected since he sleeps right across the hall and sometimes he's not sleeping alone and so sometimes you hear things. That make you sort of imagine what's causing those particular sounds. There also might have been a couple of dreams that should have clued you in. But dreams definitely aren't allowed to count for anything. And oh yeah, there was that one time he grabbed you and kissed you like the two of you were on the front of one of those romance novels always floating around the teacher's lounge. Like someone's bodice would have gotten ripped if a bodice had been around.

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Because let's be real here: she is totally flirting with him, too. There's no question about it. She's flirting back hard, her hand wrapped around the stem of her wineglass and her laugh getting throatier and lower into Jessica Day sexy land.

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“Are you hitting on me on my Little Mermaid comforter ?” Jeremy winced. “It’s possible.”

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His body desired her, needed her. Not her blood, not this time, not anymore.

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When they were little their mother used to read them fairy tales. As she grew older, though, Edith began to notice a pattern. The eldest children inherited the best of everything, while it was always the youngest child who was the bravest and most beautiful. Never the middle child. The middle child was always only the ugly sister.
[...]
When she grew too old for fairy stories, Edith began to read novels. She read Pride and Prejudice at twelve and felt a curious sympathy with Mary Bennet, alongside a burning dislike of her, the way we always dislike those we fear we will become.

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“What’s there to be passionate about? It’s not like what you do. You get to write a story every day. Maybe it’s about pantyhose or canned beans or cigarettes, but every day you get to go in and sit down and get paid to write a story.”

There’s something sharp in his eyes, a longing Peggy’s seen a lot. It was in her own eyes when she got hired as a secretary and wondered if that was all she’d ever be. It used to be in Pete’s eyes, but it’s faded into something hard and mean over the years. “Does everyone in accounts want to be in creative?”

Ken chuckles. “I don’t, actually. I…” he looks around the bar, eying the dark corners, and then he leans forward like he’s sharing secrets again. “I write. I write every night.”

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They’re used to making love knowing that the world around them is dying, that some child is screaming, newly motherless. That when he presses his hand against her hip, someone has been shot there. Invisible scars cover the negatives of their bodies. (And their clothes are on his floor, scattered like shells, the fallout from simply existing together in a space like this, between frames and flashes and trying to find stories in empty bottles. It’s her doing, the mess. A leviathan of unfastenings, undoings, unpromisings that she leaves in her wake; he will pick up every inch of it, smooth every crease, hang every suit. This is closest thing they have to love. This is the only love they know.) They make love in the dark, drown their mouths in alcohol, disinfect the wound.

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"For the prompt Jimmy and Alfred taking turns on fucking Thomas. Everything consensual"

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