#The last pic is like a metaphor again

[screwpinecaprice]

This is why I like to draw Connie with longer (or at least with an abundant amount of) hair, so I can do dramatic crap like these.

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | eight

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: the one where they get caught. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, domestic bliss, gratuitous descriptions of joel reading, joni mitchell, explicit unprotected piv sex, delayed gratification, dirty talk, finger sucking, biting, academic praise kink, cream pie, who's in the pic on joel's desk??, angst, confrontation, an orpheus and eurydice metaphor uh oh, those blue panties from 3 come back to haunt us. word count: 6.9k nice series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: i need someone to make me write [or not write] the way j miller phd does in this... also sorry and i hope you like it and sorry again follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part eight of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Winter descends over Maine not with a bang, but with a whimper.  

The days and weeks fold together in a blurring mess of sleep ins and papers and coffees, until suddenly a month has passed, and you hardly noticed it slipping through your fingers.

You spend less time at home, and more tucked on one side of Joel’s couch, your feet in his lap as he lounges down the other end. You dip pale toast in runny yolks at the table, listening to him on the phone to Sarah in the other room. Hear him say I’m good, baby girl… I’m really good when she asks how he is.

You ride shotgun in the truck between his place and the university, slipping out the passenger door a little early every time. Walk the final stretch lest someone notice his glasses, your hair through the windscreen.

On campus you watch him up there on his stage, a burn in your chest, and see how he seeks you out in the after. How he props you above him and returns your gaze finally. Curls his body around yours and repents for every time he had to look away.

It's warm and it’s kind and it’s trading books with scribbled notes in the margins.

It’s rain smacking against the windows as you read, his scruffy chin nesting in the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, two sets of eyes staring at the same words.

It’s nodding off in his bed where the sheets have started to smell like your perfume, eyelids heavy as you wait for him to get home. It’s wearing only his clothes and being woken up by his face between your thighs, pupils blown and lips slick.  

It’s finding each other at the end of a long day and hearing him say, I thought about you all afternoon.

And this feeling of familiarity writhes between the slats of your ribs. A comfortable, quiet fondness that you see reflected in his eyes when he looks at you; that you hear when that tender mouth forms your name.

You gorge yourselves on it. Put lips to the crooks and thorns in each other’s bodies and suckle on that fondness, swallow, swallow, and watch the well never run dry.

The bleed is endless. Beneath the stain of time it floods and flurries, melting the two of you together until you start to feel certain it could never end.

Until, of course and at last, it does.

Sunday.

It’s late, you think. Somewhere in the mess where time blurs between sunset and midnight, Winter stealing hours that feel like minutes.

The curtains in his living room are drawn, low yellow light warming the room from a tall lamp in the corner. Blue spins in the on the record player, a gentle sway of sound that fills the room.

I like listening to Joni on Sundays, he’d confessed in the bathroom, bashful as he rubbed a towel over you, drying the wet ends of your hair and the slick skin of your shoulders.

He reads at the table now, strong chin cupped in his palm as his eyes flit across the pages of a textbook.

Something to do with conservation; a Minoan palace in Knossos, you think. He’d explained it earnestly, but his curls were soft and fluffy from the shower and his glasses were resting on the tip of his nose and so you’d found yourself zoning out, eyes going from round to heart shaped as you nodded along from the couch.

Every few minutes he grips his pen and jots down a note before glancing up to check on you. And whenever this happens you avert your eyes quickly, pretending to be enthralled by the half-finished essay on your screen. You have a feeling he catches you each time, because he keeps laughing softly, tutting under his breath as he goes back to reading, foot never stopping its tap-tap-tap in time with the music. The only time he gets up is to flip the record, and soon those little laughs and huffs start to mix with Joni’s bell-like voice, and the opening lyrics to California swell through the room as you type at a glacial pace.   

She sings, I met a redneck on a Grecian isle, and you glance up again, eyes turning wide and doe-like when you find Joel already watching you. He gave me back my smile, Joni sings. But he kept my camera to sell.

“How’s the writing going?”

“Good.” Liar. “Great, even.” Bad liar.

Joel’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, lips twitching in a clear attempt to smother a laugh, but he just nods, looking back down at his book.

He’s wearing home clothes. That’s what he called them. Home clothes.

When he’d said it, still pulling them on, you’d wanted nothing more than to grip his hands and stop him in his tracks, but you’d sequestered yourself to the other side of the room instead, sorely committed to the study evening he’d suggested. But he’s in soft grey sweatpants and an even softer looking white t-shirt, and every time he sips his coffee he hums happily against the rim of his mug, and his bare foot goes tap-tap-tap and Joni sings Oh, will you take me as I am?, and—

“Come here.”

You blink. His eyebrows raise expectantly, lips split into a broad smile now.

“Unless you’d rather stay over there and keep starin’.”

You reach him as The Last Time I saw Richard, the final track on side two, begins to spin.

Joni sings, all romantics meet the same fate, and Joel’s knees fall apart, thighs splayed so handsomely across his chair, inviting you to take a seat. You ignore the woeful lyrics and focus instead on the knowing smirk on his face, taking a step forward, and another, until you’re stood between his open legs.

He doesn’t touch you. Just smiles, all saccharine and easy, leaning back in his chair.

“Much left to do?” He points at the laptop in your hands.

“Maybe another hundred words,” you grumble and put it down on the table. “Today, at least.”

Joel hums, eyes flicking down. His gaze skirts across the bare skin of your legs, the soft sleep shorts you’re wearing; ones he puts on you himself, and knows you don’t have anything beneath.

“Come here.” He pats his thigh; stops you with a soft tut when you try to straddle him. “Naw, baby, like this.”

Soft hands tilt your hips, turn you until your back is to his chest and he’s drawing you onto his lap.

“Oh.” You smile, leaning your head back onto his shoulder.

Nose turned into the side of his face, you brush a kiss to the edge of his jaw and sigh in relief as he wraps his arms around your middle and squeezes.

The space between his chest and the table is a little tight; small enough that if you were to lean forward a few inches your ribs would knock against the wood.

As if he’s thinking the same thing, Joel leans forward. Presses you against the table, one hand coming up to hold your face. His fingers are soft on your skin, offering small amounts of pressure as he grips your jaw and encourages you to look forward.

“Gonna tell me what’s on your mind?” he asks.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up a little, skin prickling at the shift in his tone. Still soft, still quiet, yet with something… demanding, shifting just below the surface.

“You,” you say, cringing at the way your voice takes on a higher quality all of a sudden. Steeling yourself, you add, “You’re distracting me.”

“Wasn’t doing anythin’,” he responds simply. “Just sittin’ over here, minding my business while you burn holes in my head.” 

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I cooked dinner.” He squeezes you again. “Fed you. We showered, and now I’m readin’.”

“You were humming.”

Joel kisses the shell of your ear.

“And tapping.”

He flutters his fingers against your hip.

“S’that such a crime?” he murmurs.

“No, but…” You sigh when his tongue snakes out, tracing the soft curve of your earlobe. “But it…”

“But but but,” Joel mocks, and you can feel his sick smirk against your neck, teeth teasing along your carotid now. “But all you can think about is my cock, ain’t that right?”

Your stomach falls away. Everything firm inside you turns to goo as he laughs, knowing he’s right.

“So needy,” he taunts you, holding your hip tighter as his length begins to thicken against your ass. “Had all day to ask for it.”

You don’t respond, tongue tied and more uninterested in your essay than ever.

“Just lookin’ for a distraction now,” he teases lightly. “The more you put it off, the harder it’ll be to get it done, baby.”

“I know.”

“If you know.” He hooks a finger over the waistband of your shorts. “Then finish it.”

“S’not that simple,” you whine, rolling your hips over his lap. A sharp puff of air warms the back of your neck, so you do it again. His hand tightens around your jaw.

“Just a hundred words, right?” he coaxes gruffly. “Come on now, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You feel his thick cock beneath his sweats, stiff and pressing between the crease of your thighs, melting what’s left of your resolve. You want to grind down against it. To pull your soft sleep shorts to the side and let him sink inside with no more pretence. But you put your hands on the desk, eyes on the screen, and Joel slides his warm palms beneath the hem of your t-shirt. Floats them over the curve of your stomach, the soft flesh around your ribs, waking thousands of tiny hairs that cover your skin until his fingers meet your chest, and he cups your breasts.

You shiver, lids growing heavy as he squeezes and tickles at your skin. Your nipples harden to peaks against his rough palms, and he sighs at the feeling, face resting against the back of your neck as he plays.

“Fuck,” you sigh, voice a broken buzz in your throat as he pinches one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. “I thought you wanted me to write.”

“I do,” Joel murmurs unconvincingly. “A hundred words, go on.”

Hands like lead on the table, it feels like an impossible task. Even more than it did ten minutes ago. You force yourself to lift your fingers to the keyboard, vision sharpening as you look for where you left off. You try to shut him out, try to ignore the way his tongue warms the skin on your neck, the way the hairs on his thighs tickle against yours, and begin to write.

But he doesn’t make it easy.

The second you finish the first sentence one of his hands drifts down your stomach to cup your pussy over your shorts. You flinch, heart galloping in your chest when he sighs in your ear.

“Joel,” you whimper, pleading already. “I can’t if you…”

“You can,” he soothes. The warmth of his palm is suffocating, so hot against where you’re already wet and wanting. Thick fingers press against the fabric, nudging it between your slick folds until it goes damp. “Just ignore me, baby.”

“Easier said than done,” you reply. You type five more words, chest rattling with heavy breaths as he paws at you, thumbing at your clit through your shorts.

His breath is hot and heavy against your neck and his soft curls tickle your skin as you try to focus.

“Ignore me,” he repeats, and you squeak as he tilts you forward. A rush of breath spills from your mouth, chest flush to the desk, ass suspended above his lap as he shifts behind you. And when he pulls you back down, you sigh pathetically over the fact that he’s pushed his sweats down.

The full weight of his length presses against you, nestled between the rounded flesh of your ass, and you manage to mumble his name.

“Just—” You’re panting now; considering begging. “—I can do this later. I will finish it later, I swear, just—”

Joel nudges your shorts to the side and presses a finger between your folds. A ragged gasp stutters out of you, finger jammed against the keyboard. A steady stream of kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk fills a line of the document as he smears your wetness up to your clit.

“Fuck,” you mumble, hips tilting forward, trying to chase the feeling.

“None of that,” he tuts quickly, other hand slipping down and pinching the skin at the inside of your thigh. You’ve only backspaced half of the k’s when he slips two fingers inside you. “Come on, now.”

Thirty words fly as he crooks his fingers inside you. Slow and gentle, thumb rubbing messy circles against your clit as he works you open.

“That’s it,” he coos, pressing a third finger inside. Your cunt sucks desperately at his fingers, the skin of your face warming as you catch a glimpse of your reflection on the laptop screen. Jaw hanging low, a silent prayer for relief written across the open slant of your mouth. “My smart girl. Knew they didn’t give you that degree for nothin’.”

You gasp and swat at his wrist, but a satisfied little smile cracks your face for a moment when he laughs. Only for it to fall seconds later when he lays a sharp bite to the back of your shoulder. You moan, voice cracking around his name, rutting desperately against his hand.

“You can do it,” he flatters you, sickly sweet and entirely convincing as he strokes at your insides. Curling and stretching until you’re turning to a wet trembling mess in his lap, wobbling through half-assed sentences that you aren’t sure even match up with your essay outline anymore.

“Good,” Joel murmurs. “That’s good.”

“Don’t look,” you slur out, heart pounding at the idea of him reading anything you’ve written in this state. “It’s f-for your class, you can’t look.”

“Not lookin’.” He noses at the back of your ear. Presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of your jaw. “Just lookin’ at you, m’always just lookin’ at you.”

“I’ll finish it.” You switch up your tactic now. Voice low and breathy, the back of your head resting heavy on his shoulder, eyes longing to close. “Tomorrow, I’ll write it—”

“Tomorrow?” His thumb drags harder on your clit.

“Yes,” you gasp, stomach tensing. You feel a bit floaty all of a sudden. Locked out of your own mind, all thoughts spilling from between your thighs as desire grips you, consumes you. “Please, just…”

“What, baby?” he prompts. “Say it.”

“Just let me sit on your cock,” you groan. “Please, I can’t think right now, I’ll finish it, I promise.”

“You fuckin’ promise—Christ,” he grumbles, fingers drifting from your tight clutch. “Just a little more, baby, for me.”

You don’t even really know how it happens after that. Ears roaring, skin tight, everything is a blur as you write and write and write and he presses his leaking tip between your folds works you down onto his length. Hands everywhere, so warm, so rough, holding your thighs, your waist, your breasts, your shorts to the side. Slower when your gasps spin higher, you think, always knowing when to ease up, when the burn gets too much too quick.

Joel grips your thighs, prying them apart until your calves are on the outside of his, and then he’s shifting his legs open wide, giving your own no choice but to follow. You feel the full weight of him in this position. The long, thick stretch of his cock inside you as your legs dangle listlessly over his lap, toes straining and failing to reach the floor. You can do nothing but rest heavily across his thighs, those hands still everywhere all at once, and whine pitifully as your walls spasm and clench around him, coil inside pulling tighter and tighter.

Vision waning, the text on your screen warbles as Joel slips the pad of his finger against your clit and begins to play with it. Soft little rubs that have you going tense and leaning forward on the table, braced on your elbows and grinding down into his lap, desperate for release, for movement, anything. It feels like your brain is splintering into a thousand tiny pieces inside your skull.

“You’re so wet,” Joel rasps, forehead heavy against your shoulder blade as he groans. “Pretty pussy’s drippin’ all over me, honey. You really need it that bad?” 

You say something you think, mouth moving and eyes rolling as his hips shift up in a weak little thrust. Just one.

“Keep goin’.” He sounds pained, half-drunk as the words stumble out of him.

Your mind slips further from your grasp and you’re typing pure gibberish. Slurring messes of letters cloaked in perfect punctuation. Your fingers fly across the keys, painting commas and full stops and semi colons around complete and utter bullshit as your cunt flutters and your belly stirs.

His finger glides and his cock pulses and your vision darkens and you come. Shoulders hunched, table digging into your forearms, you fold forward and cry out as an agonisingly brief orgasm rips through you.

It’s over before it’s even begun, but Joel groans and offers a shallow thrust, your cry turning to a gasp as he grips your thigh for dear life.

“Oh good girl,” he murmurs, fingers slowing against your nerves, not wanting to overwhelm. “Fuckin’ squeezing me so tight, baby.”

“Joel.” There are tears in your eyes now. Liquid frustration that pools against your waterline and threatens to spill when he still doesn’t fuck you how you need him to.

“How much left?” he asks roughly, rocking his hips against yours in a steady pace now. Gentle, rolling movements that snag on the heels of your orgasm and hold it close.

“Huh?”  

“How many words?”

“I don’t…” Your eyelids flutter. “I don’t know.”

“Shit, sweetheart,” he laughs a little then, rueful but not unkind. “That’s gonna be hell to edit.”

With a furious groan you slam the laptop closed, the sharp smack of metal on metal filling your ears as he grips your hips and really starts to fuck you.

It’s not fast though, not rough. Just deep, lingering strokes that grind against the end of you and nudge you stumbling toward the edge. He pinches your clit between the tips of his middle and ring fingers, rubbing slow drags up and down against the hood like that. Moaning and sweating, you slip your hand over his. Press lower and let your fingers glide around his girth, thick and vascular between your thighs, hot skin wetter every time he pulls out of you.

“Feel that?” Joel pants, teeth nipping at the top of your spine. “You’re creamin’ for me, baby. Fuck, I—I need to taste it.”

“Shit—oh god.”

He grips your wrist and drags it up, chin harsh against your shoulder as he sucks your fingers into his mouth.

The groan he lets out is filthy as his hot tongue snakes out to lick the webbing between your fingers, and you tip your head to watch his eyes roll back. His thighs tremble beneath you, but you can’t be sure it’s not just the vibrations of your own body tricking you.

But no, it’s him. His hips stutter against yours, deep plunges stilting into shallow movements, and he stalls deep inside your cunt for a second on the end of every thrust, as if his brain is short-circuiting.

You hook your fingers in his mouth, the tips digging into the gums behind his teeth, and tug him back to reality. He nips at your fingers and moans, hand falling heavy between your thighs again. And he doesn’t stop now; keeps pushing and pinching and fucking and grinding until your pussy is pulling tight and slick around his length and your fingers are fanned loose and shaky across his face, and you can hardly breathe except to say Joel or please or oh my god.

“Can feel it,” he grunts breathlessly, skin smacking against yours in a sharp staccato beat. “Deep breath, baby, c’mon, let me have it.”

“Your teeth,” you gasp feverishly. “Bite me again.” 

“Fuck,” he snarls and then he’s grating the hard line of his incisors along your shoulder.

The sweet pinch of his canines digging into your back sets your cunt aflutter around him, mouth hung open in silent ecstasy as he fucks you full of his seed and you suck it in deep, tight with longing, still panting and high when it begins to drip from where you’re connected, spooling around his cock and smearing between your thighs and his.

His chest heaves against your back. Chest hair damp wet sweat, dripping through your thin shirt until it can’t decide whether to cling to his skin or yours. There’s an ache at the base of your spine, maybe a muscle pulled, and his thumb presses into the flesh there as if he can sense it.

Sounds come back slowly. Joni’s finished and the needle tracks around the runout groove on the record, a little crackle flaring every few seconds where the two channels join. Joel’s breathing too, rough against your shoulder, harmonising with the wet sound of his lips peeling from your skin.

You tilt your head to the side.

Wild eyed, cunt-struck, Joel knocks his nose against yours. Groans low when you flick your tongue out to graze across his bottom lip. He’s bitten it rough and ragged and red, and you want to soothe the sting. His glasses are on top of his head, smudged lenses tucked amidst wild fluffy curls.

You try to kiss him, hard and wet, but he stops you with a hand to your jaw. Cradles your face and strokes your cheekbone and wipes the spittle from your lips before kissing you lightly. Chaste and gentle, like the two of you are ten and have never kissed anyone before, have never been brave enough to use your tongues.

That invisible bleed in your chest drips heavier. You picture a thick spurt of red against your chest cavity as he kisses the corners of your mouth, the tip of your nose, your eyelids.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, smiling when his lips catch and drag across your skin with the movement of your head.

A moment passes like this. Searching kisses dotted over your smiling face. The swell of your cheeks, the ends of your eyebrows.

“Sometimes I feel like you aren’t real,” Joel confesses. A bare bones whisper that tickles the skin between your eyebrows, where his lips rest now. “Like you might just melt away if I don’t hold on tight enough. Disappear if I look away too long, and I’ll be stuck tryna convince myself that you were ever really here.”

Twisted up in his arms, you can feel the way his heart batters against his chest, thrashing through to vibrate against your back. He might as well be plucking the admission straight from your own mouth.

“I’m real,” you murmur against his neck. “I’m here, it’s real.”

“Me too,” he says. Something wet tickles your skin, but it’s gone in a second. Rubbed over by his thumb, soothed with another kiss.

I love you, you think, but when you speak it comes out as, “No melting.”

Joel laughs softly. Kisses you again. “No melting.”

Thursday.

“It was too much.”

“It was fine.”

“I said the word grateful three times.”

“Four, actually.” You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug apologetically. “I counted.”

“Jesus,” Joel sighs, reaching up to a drag a hand over his face.

He’s pulled his desk chair all the way across the office. Tie loosened and top buttons undone, he slumps in it a little. His thick knees almost brush against yours where you sit in his armchair.

“Hey, I liked it,” you smile, bumping his knee. “It was nice - shows you care.”

“Well, you ain’t all that hard to please,” Joel smarts, lip quirking up into a sly grin.

Mouth open in a scoff, you feign offence, dragging your laptop from your satchel and making a show of ignoring him.

“How the mighty fall,” he continues, sighing dramatically and tilting his head over the back of the chair. The light coming in through the window hits his face just right, and the grey hairs in his curls shine. “Grateful to have been your professor… asshole.”

“Don’t be precious,” you laugh softly. “You’re just embarrassed because you said you were going to miss us.”

“That was a lie,” Joel tuts, brushing you off with a hand in the air, biting back that grin. “I ain’t gon’ miss any of you assholes. And when those final papers come in—” He taps a finger against the top of your laptop “—I’ll be sayin’ my prayers that any of you can string a worthwhile sentence together.”

“If you’re lucky,” you drawl, batting his hand away. “You’ll teach some of us again next year. And when that semester finishes, you’ll say all of that shit again, because you’re a sap, Joel Miller.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, face softening, and then clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Smart ass.”

“And you love it,” you quip easily, only balking a moment later when the word hangs awkwardly in the air. Hands pausing on your keyboard, you glance up, neck hot, only to find Joel watching you still. Face suspended in a small smile; eyes light as he nods.

“I do,” he says after a moment. “But you’re on thin ice, wise guy.”

He plucks a book from his desk and spreads it open on his lap, either not noticing or simply not caring as you watch on, slack jawed. I do.

After a moment, Joel taps his foot against yours again. “Write.”

So, sucking in a breath, you do. Time passes and rain starts to drizzle against the window as you write, and Joel reads. Having forgotten to put a record on like normal, he hums lightly under his breath; some tune you can’t place but still nod along to. Every few minutes he turns his page, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine.

You hate the way he holds books. Hate the way he cradles the spines, thumb hooked around the footnotes to hold his page. Hate the way his fingers trace the stanzas as he reads, tender and patient, and always afraid to miss something. Hate most the way the tendons on the backs of his hands flex when he turns the page. How the veins around them go fat and blue the longer he does this, as if all the blood in his body is sprinting towards the words. It’s a dangerous sort of eroticism, watching him read. You hate how much you love it.

In need of reprieve, you focus on your own hands. Crack tired knuckles and stretch out cramps and aches, taking a moment to peer over at his desk. The picture frame you’d once been so curious about is propped on the edge of it once again.

You can see Joel behind the glass panel, sporting a shit-eating grin with Sarah, clad in a graduation gown, tucked proudly against his chest. Taken the day she finished high school, you know now. And you’d never noticed it that first time, months ago, but Ellie’s face rests in the corner of the picture. Pink tongue stuck out and eyes pinched shut; she’d snuck her head into the frame at the last second apparently.

You gaze fondly at it, and feel that familiar warmth in your chest over the fact that he’s put it back out. No more hiding.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Joel glances over his shoulder, and then smiles.

“It’s a good photo,” you say. “You look so happy there.”

“I was. It’s one of my favourites,” he nods, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He seems to consider you for a moment, eyes flicking around your face, fingers fidgeting with the corner of his page. “Hey, I uh… Sarah actually called yesterday.”

He pauses. Takes an unusually deep breath and folds the book shut.

“Okay.” You blink, confused. “Is she alright?” 

“Yeah.” He nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah, she was uh, she was askin’ about the holidays, and if—”

The office door creaks open, and Joel’s mouth seals shut as Rachel walks hastily inside, rushed words filling the small room.  

“Joel, sorry, I need to grab—oh.”

There’s an odd pause after the words catch in her throat. A moment of uncomfortable stillness as the three of you inhale all at once, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

You and Joel aren’t touching, but your knees rest close, one of his feet in the space between yours on the carpet. Laptop propped on your knees, your final essay still lays open with a stream of edits pasted through the margins, cursor blinking at the end of the word nostos.

Joel, tie undone and sleeves rolled up, looks painfully casual in your presence.

“Sorry.” Rachel blinks, hovering awkwardly as the door clicks shut behind her. “I didn’t realise you had a… a meeting today?” The end of her sentence flares up, as if she’s confused, phrasing it like a dubious little question.

You offer a smile in her direction and hope it comes across as relaxed, a little encroaching even; as if you are the one who has interrupted; the one who should not be here.

“It’s fine,” Joel supplies easily, straightening in his chair to give her his full attention. His face gives nothing away. Stoic and calm, the way you’d imagine him to be if you weren’t here at all. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she says, frowning like she’s affronted by the question. Looks between the two of you again, listless fingers curling at her sides. “Just came to get that Livy copy back

You look back at your screen and will yourself to type something. To appear casual, studious, as if your heart isn’t lodged in the base of your throat.

“Sure,” he nods, gesturing vaguely toward his desk. “It’s in one of the drawers on the left.”

Rachel nods, walking over to the desk, and as her back turns you spare a glance at Joel. Find him already looking at you, eyebrows pulled down a little. Pink lips mouth It’s fine, married with a soft nod of his head, and for the second time in seconds you attempt a smile. 

There’s the sound of wood sliding against wood, and then a soft, tired kind of silence. The lack of sound seems to swell, the air in the room thinning, your eyes focusing on Joel’s fingers on the armrest of his chair, tap tap tap, Rachel’s unruly curls somewhere past that, her face downturned, looking at something. Wary breaths held in unison, synced heart beats racing. It’s fine, it’s fine, no melting.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Your head snaps up. Joel turns in his chair and begins to ask what’s wrong, but all that ends up coming from him is a sort of choked noise, rough around the edges, and breathless in the middle. Chest on fire, you let yourself look past him to where she stands.

Her gaze is hard as she stares Joel down from across the room. A slip of blue; soft material visible between her fingers, held up for a stunned chorus to see.

Your hearing deafens a little as you look on, motionless, a vague memory of birthday boy and got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock? playing in your mind. Of a damp patch on his shirt as he tucked blue into his desk drawer.

Joel says Rachel’s name, you think. Can see the way his jaw moves, the way her dark eyes sharpen, flitting back and forth between the two of you. And then, like a volcanic eruption or the swell beneath a wave, realisation crests the hill and It’s fine cracks and crumbles and turns to dust in your grasp. You don’t know what she knows, or how she knows, you just know that she does.

“You… what is this?” Rachel’s face shifts into something uncomfortable. A warped, grotesque shot at a smile. But as her lips curl upward, eyebrows down, it’s nothing but a contorted mess that blurs endlessly between confusion, surprise, and then horror. “This… her? She’s the reason you—”

“Rachel.” Joel’s entire body is wound tight. You can see the edge of his jaw from where you sit; the way his shoulders pull back, tight he watches her.

Your body seems to hold itself together for a moment. Breath caught on an inhale, lungs expanded, eyes frozen on the hard line of his nose, the arm of his glasses—places you feel safe to hover. But then she speaks again, and everything lurches back into focus. Like a needle scratching on a record, or tires squealing as a car pulls to an abrupt stop at a red—the words make you cringe, chest deflating and face crumpling.

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” she’s saying, and her voice raises, louder to match the disbelief in her tone. “You… she’s a fucking student.”

When the fear hits it doesn’t come slowly. It strikes hard and solid; an icy sheet of dread that sucks at your fingers and numbs your extremities. Cool and abrupt, it sinks to your bones and promises that you’ll never again feel anything but this. It laughs in the face of your warm kind month, pressing its chilled ice picks to the back of your eyes until they burn.

Her words hang heavy in the air, thick weights that press down on three sets of shoulders, and you have never wanted anything the way you want to see Joel’s face right now. To look at him and believe that this isn’t as bad as you know it to be. See that mouth tell you it’s fine and remember how it tastes.

Instead, a fear-stricken Orpheus, you will yourself not to look at him. Despite that longing, the way your arms beg to stretch out, to hold and be held, you do not look. No, you don’t think you could suffer the double death of both knowing this is happening and seeing him know it too.

In his place, you let your eyes turn to Rachel, and find that she already stares at you, small mouth cracked ajar in incredulity.

Mind whirring, racing, stumbling; fumbling to pin back together the pieces of who you once were in her eyes and who you are now. This woman you admire so, whose career path you’ve dreamt of, whose wit and quirk has propelled you, invigorated you.

It’s agonising to watch—the way her face morphs into something so unfamiliar as she looks at you now. An expression that once held only admiration, kindness, marred here by an inexplicable sense of pity. Not hate, or contempt, which perhaps would be easier to handle. Easier than the way those dark orbs go round and solemn with worry as they fall upon your anguished frame. It’s a slap in the face; camaraderie washed down the drain like the dregs of a long overdue bath, as she grips your soiled underwear in her fist.

Joel says her name, you’ve lost count of how many times he’s said it now, and she spurns his attempt at placation like a snake. Fast and deadly, venom dribbling from her tongue. 

“Someone else?” she says, and her voice is like never before. Mirthless and cold, fury laced through every word. With a sharp jerk of her elbow, she tosses the underwear across the room. They land against Joel’s chest, caught silently in his fist. “You’re fucking sick.”

“This isn’t what you think it is—” Joel starts, and you think you hear his voice shake.

“It isn’t?” She laughs cruelly at that. “You haven’t been sleeping with one of our students?”

The cursor blinks on your screen. Nostos, nostos, nostos, nostos.

“Listen, can we talk about this somewhere else?” he asks. “Not like this, I—”

“Oh, is this not a convenient time for you?” she scowls. “Jesus Christ.”   

The urge to speak bubbles in your chest. You don’t even know what you’re going to say until the words are spilling from your lips, disjointed and warbled, a voice that doesn’t even sound like your own.

“I pursued him,” you say.

You can feel them looking at you. Can hear the way you must sound to her, like some kid and not a woman who’s almost thirty years old and just as much to blame. But you can’t stop it.  

“We’re both adults. He never made me do anything I didn’t—”

Joel says your name sharply. His fist, in the periphery of your downturned gaze, grips your balled up underwear so tight that the blue is entirely invisible within the thick masts of his fingers.

You suck in a breath, and it feels like the last bit of air in the room disappears into your lungs, so you hold it there. Keep it safe inside and figure that if all three of you were to suffocate then at least the truth, and all the foul consequences that come with it, would die here with you.

“Can you give us a minute?”

Silence falls in the lull after those words, and it takes a moment for you to look up, finally. To realise that the double death wasn’t in looking at Joel, but in understanding that he’d spoken these words to you, not her.

Eyes locked with his, you feel the fear move to your side. Hang low until it ebbs and flows in the space beneath your ribs—a sharp ache with no end in sight. He looks tired; resigned. Mouth thin and downturned, cheeks splashed with red.

You think you must say something. Some fumbling, awkward acknowledgement, because Rachel is giving you that look again and you can’t bear it. Can’t stand those eyes, that misplaced pity.

You collect your things, hands numb as you pile them into your bag and head for the door, skin prickling in defence against the silence that follows your movements.

Outside his office, alone in the long corridor, you know you should go. Should follow the wall down the stairs, out to your car, and not look back. Can you give us a minute? But that sharp ache leaves you cowering against the wall, limbs heavy, ear to his door. 

“Rach,” Joel says softly, and it’s so familiar that your stomach rolls, lids fluttering closed. “It isn’t what you think, just let me explain, alright? We met before the term began; before she was my student. Before.”

“And then?”

“What?”

“I said, and then?” Rachel’s voice is steely. “You met her before and, what, you saw her in class and decided it was fine to let it continue? You—”

“Everything was consensual. You know me, I would never—”

“It’s not as simple as that, and you know it. Did you not think about what would happen if you were found out? Her credibility will be destroyed, Joel.”

“I know—”

“I mean for fucksake, her first major presentation was given at a conference where you were the keynote speaker. How do you think this will look?”

“Fuck, I know. Can you keep your voice down, please.”

There’s a brief silence. You hear shuffling, feet against carpet, and a dull spike of fear flares in the back of your mind. The idea of getting caught a second time, eavesdropping from outside the door. Against better judgement, you don’t move, and Rachel speaks again.

“You’re wrong,” she says. “I don’t know you. I… you aren’t the man I thought you were.”

You don’t hear Joel’s response over the drumming in your ears. Hot blood thrashes and roars inside your body, veins pounding with terror. Hands shake damp and weary at your sides, thinking hard, hard, grasping for solution, for the chance to say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, this is my fault.

But he must have said something because then you hear it. A low fragment of a human voice, words spoken clear as day. They slice through your ears and have you peeling away from the door, swallowed by a white-hot longing to disappear as you stumble down the hall, the stairs, until you’re sucking in cold air on the pavement outside.  

It’s raining hard now. Thin spray that comes at you sideways, lashing at your face and blinding you. You curl your back to the downpour and search thoughtlessly for your car, hands outstretched, those words of hers ricocheting off the inside of your skull.

When you find it, you press your key into the door and slump inside, and you still can’t avoid it. She might as well be standing right by the door, peering in at you. Shock in the jut of her brow, disappointment in the slant of her mouth as she whispers those words over and over through the crack in your window.

"I don’t care if you love her, Joel. I have to report you.”

refs:

joni mitchell's 1971 Blue album. [life changer]

the hollow men by t. s. elliot [fat juicy banger of a poem]

orpheus and eurydice from metamorphoses by ovid, tr. by a. d. melville

thank you for reading x

[apocalypse-shuffle]

JASON TODD | RED HOOD (batman:under the red hood | canon divergence?)

—

“Co-opt #1 - Fire Escape Rendezvous 1/?” (Jason Todd x Fem!Reader)

| You’d thought the man you were talking to was just uninterested and biding his time. That is until one thoroughly fucked up Red Hood falls from the sky early one morning and becomes a more pressing issue.

| SFW, serious injury, drugged & mentally compromised, late night conversations, idealogical debate, canon typical violence, mentions & descriptions of death/killing, -panicked!reader

| pics via: Batman: Under The Red Hood tpb

| content apart of the co-opt series

| 2k+ words

Beg. NOTES: This first chapter is a lot of establishing the universe and background information, so yeah.

‘I officially live in hell,’ you think idly over the crackle of the television and the almost imperceptible sound of your electric kettle boiling water.

One emergency evacuation of the mall, a slew of bomb threats, city wide shelter in place, and a mandated curfew had surely elevated the power struggle between Black Mask and the Red Hood to the top of the Gang War Hall of Fame.

If such a cursed thing existed, anyway.

“In recent news the fight seems to have traveled from the docks to the outskirts of the Narrows. Unfortunately there is still no sign of Batman and our eyes in the sky have once again lost the two battling criminals.”

Great. The man let you all take a collective breath a year after fucking off to who knows where just to restart the clock right after the final exhale. There was always a bomb - metaphorical or otherwise - about to go off in the city anyway, why not add another?

Your teeth worry at your lip. You haven’t heard anything yet, no gunshots or yelling - like Gotham herself was holding her breath in wait for the destruction they would wrought - so you’d been able to ignore the anchor trying to lodge itself in your gut, but now that you knew they were close?

Your teeth leave an indent in your bottom lip and running the top of your tongue over the bite mark only serves to make the area pulse more, not soothe it. You make a low sound, eyes rolling.

Honestly if you had done what you were supposed to last week you likely wouldn’t even be up to worry yourself to death currently. As it stands you’d had an assignment due roughly fifteen minutes ago, so from the second the telltale siren of the Gotham Emergency Network’s warning sounded from your phone you’d been hyped up.

Watching it buzz on the table beside your laptop had made your stomach drop. Like the split second where you start thinking up your funeral rites after missing a step on the stairs.

Even now, looking out at the wayward streaks of moonlight peaking through your curtains to splay onto your living room floor, your mind twits itself where it doesn’t belong.

Admittedly, a split second after the first buzz, right before your phone cried out that the city was once again on fire, you’d thought it was the guy you’d been seeing. Heavy emphasis on ‘been’.

Rising panic aside you’ve been throwing little looks at it for hours now. The colored bubble around your words hasn’t left your head; it meets you seared on the underside of your eyelids every time you blink.

You:

Hey we haven’t talked in a hot minute and I was trying to call to tell you this btw but I'd like to break the whole arrangement we have now off. We don't want the same shit I guess.

You’d gotten nothing short of the ‘unseen’ marker under your message changing to ‘seen’ for your effort. So, now here you were worrying over ten hours later about a guy that couldn’t even be bothered to respond to you breaking up with him.

“Well that’s enough of that,” you sigh, turning off the tv and walking over to your kitchenette. Did you still have anything left over in your fridge that you liked? A pick me up sounded good, especially if you were planning on worrying yourself into an early grave all night.

It was uncouth honestly. At least Batman contained his messes. Hood had managed to knock crime down in The Alley by 60% the last time he was at large, you’ve seen the reports, but starting a city wide dick measuring contest with Black Mask was only dragging everybody through their shit. You couldn’t exactly say you endorsed his current plan of action.

Now to the fridge. The contents of which make you frown.

Fan-tastic.

Swooping down a little more to catch a possible glimpse of anything other than the food stains clinging desperately to the floor of the bottommost fridge shelf, your eyes narrow. Your tongue clicks harshly in the quiet when you thump it against the back of your top teeth.

If you really let yourself think about it, the fact he hadn’t even bothered to answer grated like a snagged scab. Oh!

There was some leftover spam that’d been pushed back into a corner of the middle shelf — bad as it was for your mood you couldn’t help but pick at his lack of answer. Etching away at your thoughts on the man in tiny barely noticeable increments — you’d only missed the meat on your initial scan because of the box of leftover pancake mix shamelessly in front of it. You snatch up both items, shoving them into the bend of your non-searching arm.

Another click of your tongue; more picking.

There was no way he could just leave you on ‘read’. You broke up with him, that’s not just something you leave somebody on goddamn ‘read’ for.

Only a nanosecond’s worth of pain, of worry for what uncovering more could make come pouring out, before the rush started to fade and you couldn’t help but pull on the scab harder. Till you felt your brows furrow all over again.

What were you? Just a way to pass the time?

A dog's rapid fire barking sounds from outside and your head pops up, looking over the fridge door, head on a swivel and eyes wide. The way rabbits go; blood frozen and breath held.

A beat passes where you just listen. When no signs of further disturbance occur though your blood warms, your air puffs out of you, and you can move again.

If you ever saw Red Hood you’d kick him in the dick (except you really wouldn’t, you weren't crazy). You snap open the bottom drawer only for your lip to instantly curl, unfortunately not cause of the game of hide and seek your fridge was playing with you. Hood would deserve it though, and so would another man that was embarrassingly still on your mind tonight.

Peppers. How did you forget you had those? They join your arm stash with a few rough movements.

Maybe you shouldn’t even be surprised. Jason was great - a little testy, but who in this city wasn’t? He was definitely still the best person you’ve dated since high school, though only so far as he was paying attention to you.

The constant “work” calls he had to excuse himself for you’re half convinced were actually his main woman calling or some other jumbled theory. If there was one thing you could do it was reach, but it was more so just the real world applications of creativity in your opinion.

Point was Jason was - had been - nice to call yours for however brief a moment. Even now thinking about him had your body doing an odd combination of being close to legitimate tears over an eight month relationship and the nonstop tremble that tended to come with the hot sensation of shame crawling up your neck.

Was it embarrassing to be this hung up on a white boy you’d barely known for a year?

Kind of, yeah.

Eight goddamn months and you were so caught up on the man you couldn’t snatch the random ingredients out of your fridge without a slight tremor in your hands, and an incessant barrage of curses that weren’t gonna stop going through your mind anytime soon that was for sure. That fucking asshole.

It wasn’t even like you actually cared anyway, it was whatever. Jason was whatever.

With a heavy sigh you straighten from your crouch and move to drop everything on the counter.

Jason was cool enough half the kids in your complex flocked to guilt him into giving them some cash when he came over, and he’d play along like he himself was getting paid for it every single time. He volunteered all over the ‘rougher’ parts of Gotham, and he was from The Alley so he got the city - plus you were a sucker for that Bowery accent, what could you say? Sounds good right? Downright perfect? Yeah well, Jason also didn’t talk, but not in the way that meant he couldn’t hold a good conversation.

You grin a little, unaware of the action, while walking over to pull out a chopping board and knife to wash. You didn’t have much, but fritters didn’t sound half bad and would take thirty minutes tops for you to put to a pan.

Once, you’d both spent hours arguing how The Thing as an adaptation was actually better than Who Goes There? while he harped that you inherently couldn’t separate the adaptation from the book like that: “Everything genuinely interesting about the movie came from the book. The movie quite literally wouldn’t exist without it.”

The conversation had lasted long enough for you to fall asleep on him - a song and dance that quickly became habit for you two; by now your FaceTime has seen many a squished drooling face - but Jason never once revealed anything personal. Not truly.

Not ever.

There’s a harsh crash from below, and that damn dog bellowing again. You take a second to glare at your window before focusing back on the task at hand.

It was a hard thing to catch, the sidestepping, but you weren’t that clueless. Jason didn’t have a middle name - which is fine, that was normal - but that wasn't all. Jason also had an undisclosed job that was always interrupting your time together. Said undisclosed job that paid him so much he could opt to get a hotel rather than let you go to his place - godforbid - every time you didn’t want to meet up at your house for the fiftieth time. You got it when your relationship was new, but nearly a year in?

Both his parents were dead, but sometimes if you called him and it was early enough he’d say something offhanded and mean about his father like he was still alive.

And Jason was fine - he was always fine - but you’d asked him to ‘just trust you’ once and his eyes had gone hard before his entire expression went flat and the date had ended there, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t physically left. Afterwards he’d avoided you for nearly a week and only convinced you to stay once he finally came back around by offering to let you beat his ass if it’d make you feel better.

Even as flabbergasted by the offer as you’d been, it'd worked and you two were back to business as usual within the same hour - no violence needed.

Before that you’d honest to goodness been contemplating going to ask him for his forgiveness for whatever it was you’d apparently done wrong. You’d been so scared he’d leave you you’d been ready to apologize for a problem that wasn’t even communicated to you.

Something that was pretty sad now that you were thinking about it so you were gonna stop now.

Point is it was getting embarrassing, even for you. Contemplating stooping that low for someone who couldn’t be fucked to give you an actual explanation after ghosting you that first time, let alone one that couldn’t even put a name to what the two of you were, was a waste of your time.

You could do better than Jason fucking Peterson that was for damn sure.

A sigh rattles through your chest as you shake out your knife, water droplets falling all over you and the counter in the process. Which—

You turn your head to look at your kettle sitting pretty on the side table closest to the window - you only had so much counter space, okay?

Tea sounded nice right now. You squint at the kettle with a frown. You could’ve sworn you’d had that same thought a while ago. Sure enough when you look a little harder it’s already been filled with water. You were that deep in your head for real? Enough to miss the shrill peeping your kettle let loose to announce that your water was effectively boiled?

“Wow.” You look up, shoulders rising and dropping with more flourish than necessary. “I need a nap,” you grumble and push away from where you’ve got the least wilted peppers and your leftover meat diced.

The kettle clicks back on with a quiet beep, the batter that you completely disregarded the instructions for cause you didn’t have eggs or milk is mixed, and you’re in your third fold to incorporate all the food together when a sharp BANG reverberates somewhere below your flat.

It’s a painful sounding pang that makes you flinch; spoon clattering to the imitation granite with a wet plop. The noise sets off the stray dog worse than before and you’re dropping like a cracked brick flat to the floor, heart hammering in conjunction with the animal’s startled barks.

You're high enough up from wherever the loud noise came from that your window doesn’t so much as rattle, but close enough that the breath shakes out of you with no less resistance than if it were physically being squeezed from you, and your palms tremble against the peel and stick tile your landlord insists is authentic.

You couldn’t—

A gunshot rings out in the definitely too close distance and you flinch.

“Fuck,” you rush out.

The curse you gasp out is unintelligible even to your own ears as you shake against the floor. The bang feels like deadweight vibrating through your bones. Like a presence squeezing at your lungs. There were protocol’s for this, you knew it, but you were just—

The sound of metal rattling harsh and fast meets your ears and this time your window does shake. You look up in what feels like slow motion, dread burning a hole through your stomach. A thump and subsequent end to the rattling freezes you in your tracks.

No way that didn’t come from your fire escape.

Fuck.

You knew one day it’d be Gotham that facilitated your demise, but right after a breakup? That was cruel even by the city’s standards.

Just your damn luck too that whoever was out there skipped three other peoples perfectly presentable fire escapes for yours.

You worry at your lip, eyeing the window behind your sheer curtains for anything unusual. Nothing immediately jumps out to you, just what you can see of the night from the upper mouth of the alleyway you’re in front of and the very top of your guard railing. Your suspiciously un-obscured guard railing.

Without really thinking you pull yourself up to your hands and knees. Your knees ache uncomfortably from your fall and your arms are weak at the elbows, threatening to send you careening face first into the floor, but you crawl forward anyway.

See, you liked to think you were smart. It was one of those things that was nearly a prerequisite in Gotham, even if The Hill was becoming less outwardly dangerous as more of the rich guys looking for cheap real estate forced their ways in. Still, the changes were only recent and - most importantly - a thinly veiled façade.

Crime was still crime no matter how pretty the buildings it took place in or around were.

Regardless, you thought you were smart, but now here you are easing up to your window like a reckless idiot with a death wish. If you were any less shaken up maybe you’d be running out your door - false alarm be damned - or you’d be thinking about calling the police at the very least.

Even in your haze you snort quietly to yourself. As if. At best they’d show up too late, The Hill was so far from everything that police response was shit on a ‘good’ day, let alone when every cop was out falling over themselves in their search for Mask and Hood, so you know you wouldn’t’ve bothered even if your stomach wasn’t currently trying to turn itself inside out.

The floor is cool under your palms and you let out a shaky breath. Elbows aching and knees starting to chafe because of how slow you were moving. You shift to list yourself to the side - alleviate the pain hindering your common sense - only to have it knocked right back into you when you overbalance and fall into the back of your couch.

“Oof,” you huff, noise forced from your chest.

Hands fly up to cover over your mouth, your eyes widening.

The seconds spent sprawled out on the floor give you time to think, at the very least, as you try to catch your breath as silently as possible.

No one would be rescuing you. The police weren’t coming - not that you really wanted their help anyway, your parents had moved to Camden last year, and you’d never even seen Batman in person. If you kept being stupid you’d be well and truly fucked.

Christ, you were mental. What the hell did you think you were gonna do - confirm to whoever was out there that you were home and then fight them off the fire escape yourself?

Somewhere in the ether someone was probably revoking your black card all now.

Retracing your steps backwards while still keeping mum wasn’t the easiest feat with your horrible balance and shaky limbs but you’re managing just fine - even grabbing your phone along the way. That you almost forgot it in the first place you ignore for now, the door and your shoes right beside it are too close for you to jeopardize your goal—

Beep beep beep beep…!

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading! It has officially been two years to the day since I posted my first fic on this blog!!!!!

❤︎

Okaaaay, I am very nervous about finally posting this but it’s been nearly two years in the making so hopefully it’s not terrible. Could I have waited to write this until I was a better writer and all my personal thoughts were fully fleshed out? Sure, but there’s no time like the present and I can always rewrite this! This’ll hopefully be a long ride so I’m excited.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

—

Also, feedback would be lovely, but be nice please, goddamn. Was the first chapter unengaging considering Jason’s not in it? Was it in any way confusing or hard to follow the Reader-Insert’s thought process throughout, specifically during the back and forth where she’s thinking about Jason and about what she’ll cook and shit?

[divisionull]

☝︎Whenever I think about his font Wingdings, it feels like wing is connected to angel and hand (kind of homologous organ). Other than that, I just really like motif of angels and urge to synthesize them to my favorite characters. And the opposite of angel is a devil. Devil is goat, goat with wings, Asriel.

☝︎Their conversation between in the dark, I guess.

It's been months since the last post of Gaster. I'm still thinking about the sequence of my manga over and over again. Although I came up with some primitive ideas long ago, I haven't found the compromise point of how all of them go like yet. So I'm uploading something another and short this time (maybe next time too).

Be careful that Gaster in each story is independent from any other Gasters!

Next one.

I forgot to put the title.

A Metaphorical Vision Hypothesized by Deflected Mind, or Solution Containing Something Plausible in Extremely Dilute Degree

Bruh bruh bruh.

Thank you for reading!

Here are some bonus☟

☝︎The original sketch of the first picture. Too crowded with symbols! Besides, it's too messy to show... But I still have hesitation to simply discard.

☝︎image of characters in upcoming story(maybe). I just aligned them, that's all. Oh, I know most of my ocs in lab coat aren't wearing it correctly in the pic. I wanted to emphasize their difference. Comments and questions are welcomed!

[sugar-omi]

I feel like Cove is the type of boyfriend to go into nail salons with his partner to be close (he’s a fucking giant lost puppy) and also to pay for his partner’s nails. Imagine looking through the colors with him in the waiting area and leaning over to whisper in his ear “what color do you wanna see wrapped around your cock tonight baby?” Fucking frying his poor brain, now he can’t follow to the nail chair cause he’s hard.

yesss i've talked about that before, n i'm so glad someone else thinks he'd also pay for your nails/give his imput!!! he'd be so happy to pay for them for you n he'd be super happy if you asked what you should do for your nails

after you whisper that in his ear, he'd have to just go straight to the car, he cannot hide it n he won't be able to sit still anyway because now he's thinking abt it. and he's restless.

oh but he does pick out a color.. has a hard time keeping composure bc he's thinking about it, vividly imagining your nails wrapped around his dick only to paint your hand in his cum by the end..

i can't tell you what color he'd pick. he'd be thinking about his favorite colors, your favorite color/s, nail trends.. tries to think back to whatever nail inspo pics you've been looking at most, and picking one of those colors if that's the theme of your scrolling

tells you the color, and if you agree, he's out. he'll see you outside in an hour or so

and when you get home (or to the nearest secluded parking spot if you're real horndogs), he's like putty in your your hands.

only metaphorically, because he's ridiculously hard. to think such a little comment would stir him up that much is crazy but it did

even makes you undo his pants. he just wants to see you use those hands on him in every way. hates when you slowly tug down his zipper and tug his jeans halfway down his thighs, and your nails scrap his hips as you tug down his boxers to expose his heavy cock..

he's fucking hypnotized

his eyes are honed in on your hand, how you hold his dick tightly on your hand, jus the way he likes. and your manicured thumb is circling his leaky, flushed head.

his head is spinning like crazy. pretty sure you've changed his brain chemistry with that question earlier at the salon, he'll never be able to look at your nails (especially this set and that color) after today. probably won't be able to think about anything else the next time you ask him what you should do for your nails

ohh but he'd melt if you lowered yourself towards his lap, taking as much as you can down your throat, focusing on lavishing the tip with attention from your tongue

can't help but throw his head back, your spit drenching his length, and you're still working the rest of his length with your hand. the obscene wet sounds, plus your new nails, pre and drool running over your knuckles, it has him in pieces

and when he falls over the edge, his cum spilling past your lips and you pull off him, his dick is still lively at the sight of your swollen lips kissing his tip and licking at his leaky tip as you

can't help but be rearing to go again even after he finishes. the sight of your pretty, swollen lips and your hand, twisting to work him through his orgasm, milking him for those last few spurts of cum that run over your knuckles...

jfc he's so easy to ruin with a good handjob

[pinkvaquita]

hey u know class of 09 right? whatd you think of the flip side (came out today, jeckas pov)

Just make a post saying that it wasn't that much good-, but guess I can make a longer one because that other one was literally just those words.

Soooo... Oh god it had so much potential. It had so much wasted potential.

Going in order of routes. Spoilers Ahead

1° Jecka Suicide.

Again... Why foot fetish!?

Like I get that maybe using other options could not be possible because is 2009 and there is no only fans. But it could have been any other thing!

Like, in the last game they show us the whole myspace prostitution circle. They could have used that to make her sell swimsuit photos or questionable poses!

If they necessary wanted to use Jeffrey, maybe they could make Jecka do shitty cosplay or voice acting manga scenes!

And even if the foot fetish was totally necessary, they didn't needed the scenes to last that long! They could have done the whole "screen goes black" timeskip thing like when Nicole attempts suicide!

And now with the whole Nicole fucked her dad thing...

That was the only part I am not complaining.

Nicole is a sociopath, and as much (Wich is literally just the bare minimum) as she appreciates Jecka, this is in character for her.

She herself said in the first game she doesn't care enough for Jecka to try to see her after graduation. She was more than fine with leaving her alone with her pedophile brother. And only cared about it untill Jecka wanted to leave her.

And honestly, she only cares about Jecka when she tries to leave her. Like in the jail ending and the dating Ari ending.

And is only in those two! Like literally, we see her witness Jecka die and go to jail in the racist endings and she doesn't care!

Even when people hate her or love her, Nicole doesn't give a fuck, and would backstab for the most simple reasons.

She literally make a whole scheme to steal Megan's boyfriend and embarrass her about it In front of anyone, just because Megan was bossy.

She abused Ari, even if she didn't do anything wrong to her. Just out of fun.

Are we really that surprised she did this to Jecka? She has done worst for less!

And also, Jecka leaved a sorry message when Nicole killed herself. Nicole didn't.

And the monologue... Oh, that was depressing. Jecka's words were so sad. Although I have one problem with this. The pic.

Why is she in her bra!? Why is she in a pose like if it is a body pillow!?

Is this some weird metaphor I am not getting????? Because this thing looks to me like another weird thing going on in the developing.

2° Jeffrey dies ending.

Same situation with the foot fetish. Why????

Now going with the end... Damn that monlogu was also good. I do appreciate the showing how the different circumstances Jecka and Nicole had growling up affect their behavior. And also, Nicole voice at the end genuinely scared me. For a whole second I thought she was gonna use Jecka's abusive background against her and talk to her like an abusive parent would.

Other than that it was... Good? I guess. I mean, Jeffrey is a total creep so I don't really care if he died.

3° FYE

What the fuck was that?????????

Seriously, that was the most out of place and boring route. It felt like it was a total different game!

The dialogue, the scenes, the ENDING????

I mean, yeah I don't find that insane that maybe there is a whole warehouse filled with illegal porn and the FBI finding it and not telling anyone.

What I do find insane is a guy giving the place information I'm a riddle, two teen girls finding it, and that somehow ending in one dead and the other being victim of human trafficking.

And the dialogue of the counselor was so weird. Like, wtf?????

The only mildly good thing is that Kelly got some screen time. But that wasn't even enough because she had zero character explanation. She is the true bimbo, give her an actual exploratory arch like Emily or Ari. Or at least make her be worth to watch like with Megan! Give my girl something to be iconic about!

4° Ari dies ending.

Jecka turning emo was not on my bingo card. Honestly I like this route more than the Jeffrey one, even if involves Ari's death and Jecka still living with his dad (Wich by the way, I was also scared everytime he was on screen.)

The party scenes felt so real. Emily acting out an calling Jecka and Nicole possers was in character. The hat man scene was unnecessary but good enough to ignore it was out of place. Jecka with black hair was EVERYTHING. OMG I feel so bad for how damaged her blonde hair got.

Now story wise, I remember seeing a YouTube comment calling this a route were Jecka becomes slowly as bad as Nicole. Literally she killed someone and instead of the regret she would normally show, it was: "That was low-key funny" and "I'm so pretty when I cry"

Good route. I can live with this one. Live, laugh, love emotionally empty Jecka.

5° Jecka's version of Nicole suicide route

This was so heartbreaking.

First. I was not expecting this from Mister Kaz. He literally was the only teacher in the whole game that seemed to not be a pedophile or racist or both. I should have seen it comming.

Jecka's scene in therapy was tugging my heart so badly. Specially because of her desperately rambling and breaking down in tears. I almost forgot that Miss Ames was racist just because she was trying to help.(although I still hate her. And even more with how she acted in the foot fetish route.)

Second, seeing that scene from the first game word by word was terrifying because that was the signal of: "you know how this is gonna end"

The intervention scene was also realistic. The break trust. The attempt to get police involved. The fear. Even more when Jecka got home and was received by her dad screaming at her. I even though he was gonna kill her.

And all that tension and horror builds and builds untill we reach the scene. We know is gonna happen. And it still hurts like hell.

Seeing Jecka standing right besides Nicole's corpse (Wich again, why Nicole got such a cinematic picture for her suicide end but Jecka instead got THAT????) while reading the suicide note was so sad.

And the final dialogue was good. I feel kinda disappointed that there wasn't a final monologue. But that scene replaces it enough.

Conclusion. This was... Meh? The only memorable and well develop ending is the fifth one. The Ari one is good but is not that much good. The suicide one has too many weird things going on to be as iconic. The Jeffrey one is both things combined. And the FYE one is bad.

And even if there is some good things.the game feels so... Bland and soulless? There is no longer the social commentary or the routes were there is some sort of fucked up justice. Neither the humor. It could be because of Jecka not being as sociopathic as Nicole. But even when Nicole got bad endings, there was still some reflection about society in those.

It could have been so better. It wasn't worth the hype.

[sillystringsimpsons]

Pic unrelated. I just think they're cute here. Lol.

SOMETHING IS WRONG.

A short fanfic set in The Good Ones [AU], featuring Johnny and Frankie.

STORY BELOW CUT!

"Something is wrong."

As he speaks, his leg taps incessantly beneath the dining table: little creaks and the rhythmic scuff of his socks against the linoleum punctuating the syllables and iambs in his anxious words.

"Somethin's always wrong with yous," I mutter. My words are muffled as I lazily press a chunk of bread, drowned to limpness with pumpkin soup, into the pocket my right cheek. "What's the matter, coniglio? Jeez, is it the bread? Sorry, baby, I know you ain't a fan of them baked-in olives, but it's all the bodega had out when I got there-"

"Gio, damnit! I ain't a frigging toddler, I can stomach some damn olives!"

...Jesus.

I like his skittishness. I know it sounds a little patronising, but it's endearing to me; the constant fidgeting and wriggling is as much a part of him as the borrowed trace-scent of my cologne in the crook of his neck and the way he gets little crow's feet by his eyes when he smiles. But this, right now, is more than his day-to-day restlessness: he's cagey today: more so than normal. I can see it in the way his eyes dart frantically around the room, the way those dilated pupils can never quite seem to sit in one place, caught in that same little loop of endless motion as his squirming lower half.

"...Sorry."

As soon as he breaks the silence, I realise I've been absentmindedly holding my breath in - as if, if I had let it go, some inappropriate response to his seemingly unprovoked outburst would have slipped out with it. But he's taken the weight of the reply off my shoulders, leaving me with nothing to do but give a barely audible, shaky out-breath after I choke down the food still in my mouth with an unwittingly stilted swallow.

"I... I, uh, don't apologise, Frankie," is all I manage to offer, at first. "I shouldn't 'a cut you off like that. My foul, alright?"

"No, Johnny, it ain't your fault, babe, I just... I just-"

Ironically, he's never been very good at expressing himself: it's no real surprise that the words he wants to get lost at the tip of his tongue, leaving him with nothing but stutters and frustrated little grunts - and once he's run out of those, all he has left to give is a big, defeated groan as he buries his face into his hands.

"It's just... Things have been good."

That confession, meek and padded by the hum of his lips against his calloused palms, is the absolute last thing I expected to hear.

"Good?"

"Too good," he whines, still refusing to look me in the eyes. "Everything is too damn good, and I feel like somethin' awful is about to happen. I can't freaking relax, Gio, I feel like- Damnit, I don't know, it feels like my brain is full 'a fluid, and- And my head is going to explode- Or somethin'-!"

"What, like, a fever? Frankie, if you got a fever-"

"No, no, it's metaphor-ismical, or freakin'- Whatever you call it! I just... It feels like there are a million bees inside my skull, Johnny. Does that make sense?"

No, not really. The bees, at least: I can't particularly envision something like that, I've never been all that good at creative thinking - or whatever the ability to picture insects in your head is called.

But, what does make sense is the look in his eyes as he raises his gaze: only slightly, just enough to meet my own.

There's a frenetic, anxious energy there, one that I've seen time, and time again: in the eyes of the lanky, up-town sixteen-year-old who'd ride past my shop on his bike a suspicious amount of times every day, in the eyes of the point of contention sat across from me at one too many impromptu meetings of DiMaggio's inner circle, in the eyes of the disgraced caporegime reluctantly settling into his new place among the ranks of my crew...

In the eyes of the man sat opposite me.

I give my best attempt at a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah. It does."

[likeawildthing]

when i fnished grad school (which was actually 2022? new job was this year though!) my friends made me swear on a napkin to learn to relax and im happy to report the experiment has been a success and i have become a lesiure QUEEN.

what am i doing w/ my free time?

making miniatures! currently working on a dollhouse for my old coworker's daughters. will share pics! maybe i will finish a single project this year.

hanging out w/ my kids and their GFs because they're awesome. at the same time, trying to avoid becoming BFFs with said lovely GFs because i cannot take having another tragic breakup dollhouse rotting in my basement

i color in a coloring book every night which is not making my own art but it is relaxing w/out the pressure of making like work!

making friends in the most random places (mammogram screening, hospital emergency room, while white water rafting)

slowly watching my gardens die because my kids forgot to water them when i was out of town for two weeks and i've been sick for most of the summer (feeling MUCH BETTER now. who knew gallbladders could be such a nightmare!)

have been going to monthly craft meet ups with the old ladies at my library. they go multiple times a week and the tea is always piping (literally AND metaphorically)

at my prev WFH job the cat trained me to sit on the couch w/ him BUT at my new WFH job I need 2 screens so i've slowly been traning him to sit in a cat tree next to me. it's a WIP for sure. he s a king forever and i hate to ruin his life but mommy must have a job to pay the bills)

exercse? hahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa no. i did buy a stair stepper when i was on morphine in the hosptal tho because i thought it would be KEY TO MY RECOVERY? ma'am. no.

rewatching derry girls once a month becase yes?

have become a NYT games feind. morning: wordle, connections, i am 50/50 on strands but am giving it a try. 9pm sharp: sudoku, the mini, crossword. spelling bee enrages me.

learning my own WFH fashion

getting myself grocery store flowers every week, taking flowers to other poeple every other week

i am so angry about this but...doing laundry on a weekly basis is actually good for my mental health? so now i do laundry on a weekly basis instead of holding for weeks and doing 22 loads in a weekend once a month. (no fear, i am not and never will be the type of functional person who does a load of laundry a day, or, god forbid, pair socks. sock basket or bust for life). i did by a cordless shark vacuum and it's lifechanging.

reading again! have read two books this week which is more than the last several months so that feels nice <3

apparently trauma dumping on tumblr again

venmoing my kids so they'll run snack-based errands

[fuckthemforthis]

Maribor recap or long rambling, some pics and trying to make sense in my head:

1. Thank you @chibi-chellist again for reaching out, it meant a lot not to be alone! Rambling about the boys is so much better in person and when it's not one-sided. I enjoyed meeting you and sharing experiences! 💕

2. Kaj pa Ester? is one of the cringiest things I've recently seen, especially dialog wise haha BUT it is also funny and kinda cute. Very teenage-y I guess, with too much lots of kissing and parties for which scenes they used some terrible modern cajke music (like use the good old soul ripping ones that don't mention Elon Musk... teenagers today smh). Anyway, I wouldn't mind it being longer and better developed in the emotional areas which you see they scratched but need deepening to give an actual sense of plot and sense to the movie. Could be due to the fact it was supposed to be a show first tho. However, I couldn't see Bojan's personality, mannerisms or gestures so in that sense I feel he did a great job acting 👏

And THE SCENE. Oh boy. Less sad and more frustrated bojerking. Putting shame aside to admit I would love to have it available on demand, especially for some ragged breathing appreciation...

3. Bought and tried Jan's fav cookies, yaay! They're really soft and don't crumble so I approve and will enjoy. I'm sure sentimental reasons are definitely a big part of why he named them as favorite and when I think about it they really suit him but there are better Slovenian cookies like almost any from Težak bakery in Zreče.

4. Half the venue were teenagers or parents with anything between 4 to 12 year olds. I was surrounded. And since I sat a few rows above the backstage entrance, kids all tried reaching for them as they were going off stage and among all the girls there was an 8 (?) year old boy who reached out and Bojan gave him a high-five... and lemme tell you I very much dislike kids but the way that boy turned and excitedly smiled melted my icy heart.

5. Third concert of theirs, third time on Jan's side. And I think Kris somehow knows & takes revenge by not singing NGVOT whenever I'm in the audience 😔

Well Krisko, princess dear, no photos of you 😝

6. Found it adorable how as ASTP was starting, Nace went to drink some water, took his bottle and clinked it against Jure's 🥂

7. Love that Maks was there again, I like the guy. At some point during the concert he was leaning on the fence above me taking pics and I missed half a song watching him work 🙈

8. As I was behind the loudspeakers, I heard Bojan's singing fine, but talking barely because it was often too distorted. What I did hear was him saying we came there for a workout to burn all the cookie calories from the last few days... and boy are you on the wrong track because I came back home with four different packs of cookies 🍪

9. Band dad Niko's daughter was with him watching the concert from next to the stage and he danced with her and it was adorable. The existence of good dads baffles my poor unloved ass...

10. We all know how in the setlist there's a connection between Padam and Demoni because Bojan even sometimes said "and when we fall they come", but I realised the chain starts with Dopamin. First you get a dopamine rush and feel like flying but soon you experience a crash because your body used up all the good stuff and then comes the falling and the demons (and then you go back to someone so the demons would go away but that someone just plays you again - if I wanna extend it to Katrina). Yes it's kind of a concert - post concert sadness - concert rinse&repeat metaphor

11. Janči had problems with his pedalboard for the first two or three songs, he and Kiki spent minutes fiddling with it trying to get it to work. Poor guy can't catch a break.

12. So yeah, the last point is based on Jan being sick, but it's actually about the main reason I like them so much - the connection, love and care they share.

I realised Jan wasn't okay during the concert so Bojan just confirmed it for me. He obviously still slayed, and he went to play at the front a lot, but there were telling moments.

A) When Bojan came to Jan at one point and rubbed his back in a very non performative way, squeezing at his shoulder and whispering something.

B) When Jan plopped down during Padam I thought "not when he usually goes down, is he okay?" and then Bojan leaned down to stroke his hair.

C) The most telling of all, when he sat down during Umazane misli. I kept looking at him, ignoring the left-front-right karaoke. He looked so tired and off, put his head in his hands and then Kiki gave him a bottle of water. When Nace turned around and noticed him like that, he smiled encouragingly and told him it's okay three times (yep they were close enough to read lips) and that's when I was 100% sure something was wrong and he was either feeling off emotionally or sick. He then got up, went to the front, played his ass off and only when he was walking back was it visable again for a moment how empty his expression was.

D) Jure coming to comfort him and cheer him up as soon as he could lift his ass away from those drums, leading him to the front where in the end Jan turned out to be the one stroking Nace's back in a "yeah it's okay" kinda way

E) As they were leaving for the final time, someone gave Jan a wrapped present he looked actually happy about and he threw back a pick but it fell where the person couldn't reach so Nace took over making sure the person gets it.

That's it. They are all utterly beautiful. And anyone who knows me, knows I use that word to describe people first and foremost on the inside. Beautiful.

[forsakenmissives]

inspired by @izzyspussy’s prompt. hope u dont mind?? lol also tw for mention of james tartt. yknow how it is — also im thinking this takes place around the start of the season after the show ends 💚 but also (thanks nonny!) just pretend eras tour came out 2021 and barbie came out 2022 and not. now LOL

It starts as less than a handful of Tweets. Honestly, Jamie laughs at the first one, then scrolls by and completely misses the rest. And then he sees a group of lads donning West Ham merch pointing at him while on his morning run (sans Roy, who had to bow out due to a cold, the dick . . . Jamie's planning on picking him up breakfast) and whispering — but not quiet enough — that the Barbie has escaped his box. The Tweets (and comments and replies and DMs) appear more frequently after that.

The pictures of him in his pink tracksuit, tied to Roy’s bike, are passed around again. This time not by his loyal fans who begged for proper HD pics from him and thought he looked good as hell, but by the ones who call him Barbie and think his hair is blond and dumb and that he is just a dumb blond who isn’t even that good at football. At least that last bit could be easily refuted by his stats. He’s damn good at his job, and he knows it.

He doesn’t say anything about it, however, until they’re in the locker room after training, and Isaac huffs at something while looking at his phone. Jamie glances over to see him angling the screen toward him. “They’re callin’ you Barbie, bruv.”

Isaac is a really good friend, like, the best a guy could ask for. But Jamie kind of doesn’t want to think about this. “Yeah, I saw. It’s a compliment, innit? And kind of fittin’. I’m perfect, I’m everything. I am Barbie, ain’t I?”

At his easy dismissal, Isaac brightens up, grinning, and Jamie grins back. He finds the Tweet he was shown and posts a good selfie he took a few days ago, captioning it, I am everything. You wanna be Ken? It’s a bit stupid, but the insult is stupid too, so he thinks he’s allowed it.

The thing is — he wants to be unbothered by the nickname. The Barbie movie was fucking awesome, and though he’s still on thin ice with Keeley, even after their strictly-business trip to Brazil, they put aside their differences . . . that is, they put aside Jamie’s fuck-up to go and watch one of the screenings together. Yeah. It was fucking awesome. And he loves women. Like, major respect.

But the condemnations of the word are a knife’s edge away from a whiskey-tinged voice hissing soft and little bitch in his ear, and Jamie really can’t fucking deal with that right now. And he had gone and seen James in rehab, just for a couple hours, and he doesn’t regret going and seeing him, and he actually thinks it’s fucking mint the man’s getting help. He even enjoyed going through the old photos of his grandparents and James as a baby and even some of his own photos, when his mum looked a little less tired and he wasn’t afraid to smile too brightly. And in rehab, James is given limited Internet time, so the chances of him seeing the insults, seeing Jamie being called a girls’ toy, something pretty and pink, are small, and even if he does see, what can he do? They won’t just let him leave while obviously on some rampage.

It’s not like Jamie plans on going back to the man any time soon anyway. He’s not James Tartt’s anything. They just share a name. So what?

Jamie jumps at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He pockets his phone (his Quote Tweet is now at twenty thousand likes and counting), and when he turns, it’s Roy, staring at him with those impossibly dark eyes and wild brows that make them even darker.

“Hi, coach,” he says with a grin.

Roy grunts back.

Jamie stays still for another second before blinking. “Got any wisdom for me?”

The other guys have begun to clear out, and now it’s just them and Beard still in the coaches’ office. And Will, who seems to be some metaphor for God, the way he’s always around, not even lurking, just . . . around.

Finally, Roy says, “Good pass. Don’t be late tomorrow.”

It’s so unbearably Roy that it makes Jamie sick. It also suggests there’s more he’s not saying, but Jamie isn’t sure what. He doesn’t push, however, just salutes him. “‘Course, coach,” he leans back on his heels, “dark and early, yeah?”

Roy nods, then pivots and mechanically goes back to the office. Jamie watches him go before turning and gathering his things. As he packs, he can practically feel Roy’s eyes on his back, but he knows when he turns, both him and Beard will be staring down at things on their desks. Whatever.

Jamie doesn’t run into anyone on his way out, and he’s grateful, taking a breath when he gets in his car then speeding off. He feels itchy under his skin, like when his foot falls asleep but the sensation is all over his body, and he kind of regrets leaving Nelson Road because he thinks running a few extra laps up and down the pitch would soothe him, if only a little bit. Despite this, when he gets home, he just gets out of his car and goes inside. It’s not that he’s worried about a repeat of his solo jog that one morning. It’s just really hot outside, what with it being late July and all, and he just showered, like, thirty minutes ago.

Every time a notification goes off on his phone, his stomach flips in a really awful way. Jamie turns off his phone.

Maybe now that he’s said something, it’ll die down. Since he’s made it clear he’s not bothered by it, that he can take whatever they give, they’ll stop.

And then, the first match of the season, Jamie walks onto the pitch, and a familiar song starts up. It’s not his song — but it’s certainly for him.

“Are they singing . . . ‘Barbie Girl’?” Colin asks from behind him.

“And changing the pronoun to ‘he’,” Jan adds, helpful as ever.

Jamie catches sight of one of the cameras recording the match, grins and sticks out his tongue, and when he looks to the opposing fans’ side, he even gives a little bow. Just for them. He thinks about something Lasso said to him once about bullying, after he stopped being a dick to Nate and asked why Ted never stepped in. Acknowledging it almost always makes it worse. Sorry that Jamie had believed in the ‘almost’.

;

After getting booted from Keeley’s and after a dinner at a kebab place that Jamie knows is good because Roy didn’t actually make him sit and watch — he picked bits of lamb from the skewer and placed them on the napkin i​​n front of Jamie without a word — it’s not unusual for him and Roy to get dinner together. Sometimes it’s just them at Roy’s, who’s a better cook than his mum but not better than Simon, and sometimes it’ll be at a pub, and sometimes they’ll go to a restaurant. It was with ruddy cheeks that Roy admitted the kebab shop was like his church, but Jamie wasn’t judging. He thinks he understood the ecstasy of St Theresa after a bite of that lamb.

Tonight, however, Roy drops Jamie off at his place, and then parks the car and follows him in.

“Uh,” Jamie says when Roy stands in the entryway, a hand behind his back, posture stiff, “can I help you?”

“Go to your room,” Roy replies, and Jamie’s eyes go wide, and he says, “O-kay, Daddy,” before he backtracks, but Roy is backtracking too. “I mean, go somewhere that isn’t behind me or the kitchen.”

Jamie’s mouth drops into an ‘o’. “Right. Okay. I’ll just go to the living room, then.”

Roy nods, and Jamie walks slowly to the couch, backwards so he can watch Roy watching him.

He manages to sit still on his couch for a good two minutes, listening to Roy clattering about his kitchen, before he hops up and goes to sit at his dining table instead. It’s there that he sees a paper bag, and it takes everything in him not to peek into it. At the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, Roy leans back from where he’d had his head stuck in Jamie’s fridge, and he turns to look back at Jamie, who smiles innocently at him. He even waggles his fingers in a wave for good measure.

Roy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so Jamie thinks it’s fine, and he doesn’t think about how good it feels to be the one behind Roy Kent’s smile. Roy goes back to rummaging through the fridge.

Eventually, Jamie gets roped into helping out, but all his complaints are customary, and he thinks if he had allowed himself — if he had been allowed — to dream about domesticity, this is exactly how it would’ve been. Right down to the celebrity footballer. It’s kind of perfect.

Then, Jamie’s phone goes off.

It’s his news app, which he keeps forgetting to turn off the notifications for, and it irritates him every time, but especially when he actually clicks the notification ‘cause the story looks interesting, only to find out he’s somehow already used up his articles for the month, and would he please be willing to spare a few pounds every month for more? In theory, yes, he is willing. In practice . . . he has other places to put his money.

That being said, the irritation he feels then is nothing compared to the humiliation he feels now, reading the headline: This Barbie is a Footballer: AFC Richmond Jamie Tartt’s new song.

Roy is turned the other way, so luckily, he can’t see the way Jamie’s smile immediately drops from his face. This shit isn’t even important! It’s just some stupid fan war mess, the opponents’ fans trying to get in his head, and it’s not fucking working, alright? He doesn’t care. He’s just embarrassed that it’s apparently made the news. It’s really not a big deal.

When he looks up from his phone, Roy is looking at him. Jamie swallows.

“It’s nothin’,” he tells him. “Just some politician, saying some stupid thing. Sam sent it to me to rant.”

Roy nods, but he looks like he doesn’t believe him. Jamie’s voice had wavered in the middle, so he doesn’t believe himself either. But he still doesn’t budge, just leans back against the counter and waits for Roy to either turn away or say something in return. Roy turns away. Over his shoulder, he says, “I have something for you after we eat.”

“Whatever’s in the bag?” Jamie asks. Roy grunts. “Is it concert tickets? Am I goin’ to see Taylor fucking Swift? The bag’s just to throw me off, obviously.”

“Fuck no,” Roy’s response is, pun intended, swift and immediate. Jamie grins. “You’ll see later. Just . . . wait.”

Jamie groans. “Fine. But it better be good, since you got me all excited for the concert.”

Roy gives him a stern glare. Jamie puts his hands up, then gets back to washing the dishes they’re done using.

All throughout their meal, Jamie struggles to sit still, and his eyes, without fail, return to the bag. It becomes enough of a problem that Roy takes the bag and hides it in his lap, but Jamie’s no coward, so his gaze still wanders to — well.

“The quicker you finish eating, the sooner you get to see it,” Roy growls out around his own mouthful of salmon and quinoa (Jamie was surprised he had those things in his freezer and cupboard too, but it made a damn good meal, so he’s not complaining).

Jamie grows a lot more focussed after that, and he’s done within minutes — nay, seconds. Roy raises his eyebrows in approval. Jamie licks the leftover glaze for the salmon off his fork for good measure. Roy looks down at his plate.

Once Roy finishes eating, the paper bag makes its triumphant return, Roy setting it between them. He nods his head at it, and Jamie takes it quickly, before the other can change his mind and take it back.

He doesn’t expect what he pulls out, but he feels like he should. He looks between the Barbie and Roy, who’s staring at Jamie with a gaze so intense Jamie worries he might burn up from it. If this had been bestowed to him any time the year before, especially from Roy, he’d think it a continuation of the insult. But all he feels right now is laughter, the weight in his stomach turning into something bubbly and light that works its way up his throat and past his lips. Slowly — because he’s out of practice, the old fart — Roy begins to smile back.

The stupid fucking made-to-move soccer Barbie is even wearing an England kit, and when Jamie turns her around, he grins at the number and name on the back.

“You fucking dick,” he says, the words coming out as a hiss through his teeth, that’s how hard he’s grinning.

“You’re Jamie fucking Tartt,” Roy replies, and Jamie wishes he had a word to describe the look the other was sending him, but the best he can do is say how it makes him feel — really fucking good; like nothing could ever hurt him; like there is no one else in the world but the two of them; like he could go win the World Cup, the FA Cup, all the Leagues, every award in the football world, and not break a single sweat. It makes him feel a lot like he’s in love.

Roy’s not done: “You are everything. Who gives a shit if some pricks call you Barbie? You fucking own it, Jamie. You are every-fucking-thing, and they’re not even Ken.”

And Jamie will make fun of him for it later, that he’s more than aware of the movie’s tagline, but at the moment, he’s clutching the Barbie to his chest like a lifeline, and he feels a sting behind his eyes, like tears are threatening to spill, and his cheeks hurt with how hard he’s smiling.

Roy clears his throat. “Phoebe said there are ways you can change the hair, but . . . don’t use heat. It’s plastic. You can cut it or dye it fucking . . . walnut haze or whatever.”

Jamie doesn’t even correct him that it’s walnut mist. He’s close enough.

He gives the doll one last squeeze. “Thanks, Roy, I mean it.”

Roy doesn’t reply, just gives a grunt and nods his head. That’s alright too. Jamie looks down at the doll again, then leans back in his seat. He holds it up to his face, angles her head so they’re cheek-to-cheek more or less.

“Like twins, ain’t we?”

And Jamie wonders if maybe there were something in the food, or maybe in their drinks, because it seems like Roy can’t stop smiling either.

;

The opposing fans are at it again. Jamie sees Roy glance back at him and grins. He considers mouthing all good, coach, but he’s more interested in using one arm to wave and the other to hold his Barbie up the same way he had when it was just him and Roy, teeth bared all the while. The crowd goes wild, of course.

He’s Jamie fucking Tartt. He’s everything. Of course no one is going to think of him as just Ken — that’s just ridiculous.

in case you can’t tell “condemnations” is supposed to be “connotations”. ily jamieisms 💚 also i wrote this rly fast on my phone so sorry & now on ao3 if u'd prefer to read it there ✌️

[knifedog-machina]

Dogs As Narrative, Through The Lens Of Abuse Recovery

J: so I got into the Archetropers’ Guild discord server, saw a prompt, and immediately started writing answers because wow talking about myself is fun, I need to do that more? definitely a more informal essay than the last one, I really just copied it from discord!

Content Warning: mentions of past abuse, but it’s pretty vague and has a hopeful swing to it!

I identify with dogs, as a dog, in the metaphorical sense of like - a dog as shorthand for a beloved tool? Being a bad actor's attack dog, being used and abused, biting the hand that fed and hit you. Dogs in the way they're used in vent art, as a metaphor for loving and trusting the wrong person.

But I also identify with dogs as beloved companions, as sweet and loyal and playful and loved. I know people who adore their dogs even if they came from horrible circumstances and have bad habits from abuse, and like - it's a narrative identity for me, something that ties together very different parts of my life, the before and after.

Like, yeah okay, I'm a dog. I unquestioningly love and trust people I care about. Of course an abuser took advantage of me, I didn't know better, and she promised to love me but she wouldn't even comfort me when I was scared of the rain. But also, there are way more people in the world who love me and want me to be happy, and that's good to remember as I recover and heal and grow! Calling myself a dog means accepting the way I adore people as a neutral to positive trait, instead of becoming a paranoid mess who refuses to be vulnerable again.

I don't know how much it's a species thing, because whenever I try to picture myself as a dog it's more like the shadow of a dog, pricked ears and bushy tail and all black, no detailing. I feel Wrong about picturing myself as a more realistic dog, instead of an artistic rendering of a black dog - like for dog photography to Resonate with me, it cannot be someone's candid pics of their pet German shepherd rolling around, it has to have some kind of message intended for use, otherwise it's like. That's a normal dog! I do not identify with you, normal dog, you're very cute but that's it. You’re unrelated to my life narrative!

And I don't generally feel the need to introduce myself to people as a dog when new people hear about me, because that feels like it's more personal? like hey, I’m a dog, you wanna know why? It's The Traumas! I’m open enough about it, but I don’t want to be pushed into thinking about it, and sometimes alterhuman spaces grill you about the origin of your identity too much for my comfort? I’m talking about it now because I want to, not because I’m being pressured into sharing.

I say all that, but I do really like cultivating my doggish traits, because they're kind of just things I like already - exercise, chewing and biting as a stim, play-fighting, getting scritched, curling up in a little ball to sleep. And sometimes I like giving myself phantom ears or tail or fangs for the expressiveness of them. I feel perfectly complete without them, but I like having them sometimes! They're fun!

And I don’t know if it just has to be an archetrope? I can describe it in other ways! Poppy (@aestherians) coined a term on rair website, here, about something being an alterhuman simile if you relate to it so strongly because it reflects your lived experiences, and I think I could call dogs my simile just as naturally as calling them my archetrope. It's a useful word and I haven't seen it around much!

[ndostairlyrium]

4th question for the ask game: what does your worldstate look like??

Hello!!! Thanks for asking!

And sorry in advance for the length :'D

The ask game

So, um, lemme grab the Keep real quick hahah

I'll paste pics from that, from time to time u-u

This worldstate could be summed up as: we hate dragons, and we're saying "world peace" at the q&a portion of the show

Ela - Walker Hawke - Ankh

Origins:

Elanor Cousland, Warrior, 2H Weapon, romanced Alistair

Honorable, fair, and possibly the stupidest - earnest? Both things are valid for her and can cohabitate lol

-Companions:

-Arl of Redcliffe:

Helped Redcliffe prepare, all townspeople are safe, Isolde is alive, Connor is alive and not possessed, and Jowan was sent back to the Circle. The urn of sacred ashes is pristine ✨ a dragon was hurt in the process tho <<

-Broken Circle:

Supported Mages, Irving is alive.

-Nature of The Beast:

Brokered peace, saved the halla <3 we love our weird goats <3

-Denerim / Landsmeet:

Anora is queen (literally and metaphorically. my warden fangirls pretty hard @ her)

DLCs:

-Awakening:

We sided with the Architect, because she's stupid like that << and full of hope, okay, but mostly stupid

-Witch Hunt:

She let Morrigan go, but didn't follow her. I guess Alistair still blames her for that

-Warden's Keep:

Both Avernus and Sophia are dead, she couldn't drink the drink <<

-

Dragon Age II

Walker Hawke, Entropy Elemental and Force Mage, Humorous personality, romanced Fenris

Joined the smugglers at his arrival (he's quite the silver tongue)

-Companions:

-Act 1:

Going along with the "Blame the fereldan for everything" trend, starting from mom. If you get repeated "it's your fault" constantly, you start to believe it.

Also, the way he's butthurt for poor Ketojan!! Damn!

Will blame himself for handling that quest horribly. He can't understand, literally. He'll bring that experience with him forever

-Act 2:

A classic "my bullshit detector worked, but what the hell is going on anyway?" :'D

Also of course we did the 8 run around the columns << it's a must have in every playthrough!

-Act 3:

Sided with mages, heart of gold confirmed.

Also we hate dragons in this game as well u-u

Anders is alive and well, with a hand stamp on his cheek

-DLCs

Recruited Sebastian (unfortunately) - Sided with Larius (again, unfortunately) - I, huh, can't remember anything of Mark of the Assassin because it was unplayable :'D literally. The dialog wasn't working, it glitched every five minutes, and the game started to crash at a rapid pace after the party. Will watch walkthroughs in the future, because I remember having fun <<

-

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Ankh of clan Lavellan, Rogue Archer, Artificer, slayed all the dragons, romanced Cullen

Stoic approach favored

-Advisors

Prefers a honest approach, when she can. Diplomacy route is her favorite, but when she's dealing with nobles she always talks to Leliana first. The poor Cullen is the last to get attention :'

She denies being chosen by Andraste, Cassandra is veery happy about it /s

Reasons with Leliana about her role in Valence's cloister. Not hardened

Helps Josephine by raising the Du Paraquettes to nobility

Tells Cullen not to use lyrium, but it was more like "what do you want?", "This", "Then I'll help". Anyway, I always disliked how that discussion was handled as an addict myself lol

Leliana is the new Divine

-Companions:

The "friends with Blackwall" happens after a big while after what he did, but I won't say anything else since I have the chapter(s) planned and ready to be delivered lol then I will talk about it freely

-In Hushed Whispers / Champions of the Just

Sided with Mages, Mages are allied with the Inquisition

-Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts

This won't bite her in the ass in the future, noooo, like, totally a great decision :'D

The judgment after that was top tier best BioWare moments, I will cherish that experience forever <3

-Here Lies the Abyss

The utmost horrid choice was between Hawke and Alistair. She preferred to give the Wardens a chance, because she understands the weight of their duty - also they saved the world multiple times?

There's much else to say that relates to this decision, and some of it is personal, I must admit. But I'll eviscerate the thing another time, maybe :'D if people are interested ofc

-What Pride Had Wrought

Didn't drink from the well, because Solas made a good point about it lol and after what happened with Flemeth later, well... she's okay with that decision :' thanks Solas!

Oh, and she did the rituals. Good elfie <3

DLCs

-Jaws of Hakkon

I don't really have much to add, other than:

She sees what her role could turn into and that's a pretty scary outcome. She had fun with the bear thing, tho! That was pretty hilarious, plus I have something in mind with a climbing contest but, um

Will say the sayings another time lol

Also we still hatin on dragons

-The Descent

Did stop the earthquakes, enjoyed the trip and all the new info! 10/10 would return for Spring break (I hated it, she had the time of her life. That dlc was hard o-o like, intensely hard what the hell)

-Trespasser

She's gonna slap the god, and then she's gonna treat him with chicken soup and a hug

Also, she always knew that the Inquisition had a limited time, and she did everything she could to make it right. But you can't squeeze a lemon forever and pretend the sauce isn't increasingly bitter (?)

-

That's all I guess? Hopefully it's understandable :'D

[trrickytickle]

Therapy Dog

(great art by @//akkasute on Instagram)

Fandom: Puss in Boots: The Last Wish ☠️

A/N: I remember when I said I’d do some tickle art for this movie- I wanted to, couldn’t find the time, but I got an idea for a fic after seeing lots of pics of Perrito and Death’s friendship in the film! Speaking of 2022 blockbusters, I wanna do something with the new Avatar movie lol, so anyways- onto fic :D

Pairing: Perrito + Death, friendship, lee!Perrito, ler!Death

Death itself was the only force that could make fearless hero Puss in Boots’ whiskers fray, its eerie whistle howling whenever the red eyes met his. This force had a non-metaphorical or rhetorical, honest to goodness face, and while it wasn’t ugly, it was unsightly to behold. 

But right now, two beady eyes dared to look directly in the face of death, straight-up asking to be at the mercy of its claws. 

“...Que?” 

“Rub my belly! Come on! Pleaaase? Pretty-pretty please?”

Perrito, the tiny dog wormed his gut out of the sock-sweater he wore, staring beckoningly. Rolling around to give an extra-cute effect, the scar and gurgling noises coming from it weren’t helping at all. 

“I’ve asked Puss- and-and Kitty, but they all refused- and like, I said to them that it’s PRACTICE for being a therapy dog-” 

Death scoffed. “..La Muerte doesn’t need therapy.” 

“But isn’t death.. sad?” Perrito beckoned. 

“Do I look like I’m crying right now, perro?” 

“No, no, let me explain!” the dog got back on his hind legs, pacing around Death almost like he orbited him, “Don’t you see people’s families grieve...”

“All the time. Listen, nino, it means they’ve lived a good life-” 

“People being murdered..” 

“Now, now, perro..” 

“One day, you could just take one of us- Team Friendship-” -Perrito gestured, pawing at the air and jumping around- “when we haven’t lived to the fullest and just- SNATCH!- the life out of-” At that, Death interfered, using his paw to signal him to sit down. 

“Okay.” He growled. 

“Wh- what?” Perrito lit up. His pupils enlarged, tounge out- almost panting.

“Okay.” Death repeated. “I’ll rub your belly.” 

“I know! I just wanted to hear you say it again! I’m so EXCITED!” Perrito barked, flipping himself over as if to get ready. Death flinched. Did he have worms or something? Alright, let’s get this over with. he thought, reaching his claw over to prod at Perrito’s gut as lightly as possible. No panting. No leg-kicking. No nothing that would indicate a dog in a state of pure ecstacy. Not that he would know, of course. There were, instead, tittering and slight giggles. Not the usual. Death stilled its spindle-like fingers, afraid to take someone he didn’t intend to away. Instead, Perrito whined in impatience. 

“Keep going, keep going!” he beckoned. Death, resigned, did just that. In all his humiliation, he couldn’t admit he felt a warmth in his cold embrace. Speeding it up, he gently placed two more claws onto Perrito’s belly, scritch-scratching it in a circular motion. With that the giggling grew louder and louder, erupting into full-scale belly laughter. 

“Kk-HA-hahaha-HA! Dehehe- DEATH! DEATH! Thaha- that tickles! Hahaha-HA!” Now there was that leg kicking. The puppy writhed around, shaking as if spilling the mirth he had inside out all over the place. Death scowled in response, as per the usual. Despite saying nothing, he kept on going while Perrito was attempting to keep still to no avail. He kept rolling around and kicking his leg like he was scratching invisible fleas. 

“Keep still, perro.” Death broke his silence, leaving Perrito in that play-bow position he first laid in.The gentle scratches were practically about as effective as a sickle scar to the chest, and secretly he was relishing in it. Stifling a Cheshire cat grin, he moved his claws up and down, slyly yet slightly experimenting with different techniques. 

“Ha-hahahaha-haha- HA! Yehe- YEAH, Deahath! Let ahall those emohohotions out!” The encouragement made Death feel like Perrito was almost egging him on. But the concept itself shrugged that inferior concept off, going in straight for the kill out of pure cuteness-aggression. 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got LOTS to work on.. And we’re just getting started, perro..” Death whispered in a strangely teasing and cooing tone, one he had never used in the past.

“Let’s sta-haha-hart with your- AHAHAHA-HAHA-AHAHANGER ISSUES!” With his long snout, he nuzzled Perrito’s stomach feverously, tickling him with the coldness of his nose and fluff of his muzzle. Even when he was close to the sharp teeth of death itself, Perrito laughed. He was laughing in the face of death, sparkling with life. 

“Yes..?” Death smirked, halting his attack. 

“Well- well, aha, you tend to let it all out on the people you take, and that includes Puss, and...” Perrito prattled, gesturing with his forelegs. 

“And...” Death continued. “I’ll huff- and I’ll puff- and I’ll blow the house down!” He blew a raspberry- the best one he could do with his pointed snout. 

“GK-HAHAHA-HAHA-HA!!” Perrito cackled, kicking both his hind legs frantically. Death halted, leaving the little dog a breather. “*pant* *pant* *pant* Ya know, Death, that was a workout! We should have another session sometime! Really work on telling me those feelings rather than whatever magic you were working over there with your nose- Hey, thanks for rubbing my belly, by the way! You look happier already!” he rambled at a breakneck pace, following Death’s trailing charcoal cloak. And he smiled. Smiled back. Not a “let’s never speak of this”, not a frown, not nothing. As a reverberating whistle whisked by, there was an echo of a sentence. 

“You’re gonna be one hell of a therapy dog.” 

[maggotwithanf]

it's come to my attention that not a lot of people know who the guy in my profile pic is and so i have made an effortpost about my favorite late 2000s adult animation sidekick character ever, Trans Icon Randall Skeffington from Ugly Americans:

Ugly Americans is a show about cryptids/monsters/etc living and adjusting to life in NYC and that doesn't matter WE'RE HERE TO TALK ABOUT RANDALL

Randall is a canonically bisexual zombie who's the main character, Mark's, roommate. He's also super fucking trans guy coded and I genuinely don't know if they did this on purpose or not but holy shit this speaks to me on another level.

He turned zombie for this chick he liked who decided she didn't like him that much, and came to terms with just being a zombie as an identity he chose for himself, and he sticks by it a lot. He's also got two (two?!?!?) full fucking episodes about losing his dick as it physically falls off his body and how he's pretty much okay with that but his dick isn't, and he learns to respect it and everything. And there's constantly background gags of Randall getting dick upgrades at the mechanic like he's modular b/c zombie dick

oh yeah and there's this:

Randall's bottom half gets ripped off for like the third time in the series and Mark has to carry him around in a garbage bag and Randall ends up rabbitholing onto a forum for transgender mummies and he's like ">:( it's no use they're just all tips on moisture retention" said with zero 2000s era irony for the trans thing or anything just genuine disappointment that this trans mummy forum has no advice for how to deal with his missing bottom half and is just dusty, like literally. like the last half of the sentence was the punchline, not the first half

okay more fun randall facts: he's a huge fucking slut and a massive whore (canon). he has big Karl from Workaholics energy but if Karl was like, disillusioned by the very fabric of life. he's kind of a creepoid in that 2000s way but he's also perfect and i love him so everybody shut the fuck up. there's a running gag that he definitely probably wants to fuck Mark and in the episode where Mark and Randall's ex Krystal (the girl he went zombie for) swap bodies, Mark's like "what am I supposed to do now" and Randall's like "well you can make one of my longtime dreams come true"

anyway i love this gay gay (canonically bisexual) zombie man and i went back and watched season 1 again and he's honestly treated with a lot more queer/trans coding and whatnot than I remember (and also I didn't remember that they just fucking made him bisexual and he says so in season 1 episode 3 so i'm just a big idiot) and I thought I was reinterpreting a bunch of 2000s era gay jokes but nope, randall skeffington trans icon. spends 1/3rd of his time dickless or with no bottom half and inspires us all. has 200000 STDs and a dream.

Also there's this fucking episode where Randall who's from New Jersey goes back to his home town and has to deal with his internlized homophobia (excuse me ZOMBIEPHOBIA) re: small town gays vs big city gays and it's just really fucking real idk idk idk. And you think it's gonna be straight people doing a hamfisted metaphor but at the end of the episode his dad does this:

anyway watch Ugly Americans which ran for 2 seasons on comedy central in fucking 2010

[steve0discusses]

Ep 44 Pt 1: It Took 3 Damn Seasons For These Two to Meet

I’m not dead! (though my schedule and my long covid fatigue would imply otherwise) So lets procrastinate my other responsibilities and talk about Yugioh.

Seto is still stalled out like my car in the winter.

And the show decided just out of the blue that Seto has right to the throne although he’s the cousin to the Pharaoh...he’s not Yami’s older brother. That’s not really how the birthright of Kings work, last I checked. Now if Seto had married Yami’s Mother? That I know is a clear birthright steal. But uh, last I checked BEWD was not Yami’s Mom, although I would accept that headcanon.

Blue Eyes White Dragon is often shortened to BEWD and it sounds very funny to me so I apologize if I use BEWD too much. But I mean...

(read more under the cut)

But like, Seto has a girlfriend, so he’s allowed to sit at the adult table at Thanksgiving. Meanwhile, Yami’s gonna have to be stuck babysitting because it’s not like he’s gonna be official with either of the two powerful women that he’s inferred to be dating. Like either the Dark Magician girl, or Tea, make your pic, both are godlike.

Or Rebecca, we can count her, too, she’s like a PHD graduate at like 12 and weirdly powerful for no reason. Also, knowing this show, she may have dated several of these people without them knowing so she’d be down.

Anyway, point is, neither Seto or Yami are the Blue Eyes White Dragon so who cares if they are connected to her? If Kissara needs to inherit the throne, she’s right over there, don’t even bother going through Seto. And youknow that’s just the show making a poor analogy for playing cards. Did they intend for it to come out that way? Probably not, but also Kissara isn’t a paper card here, she’s like a real ass woman, despite the zero personality they gave her so far this season.

So Aknadin shakes his head and was like “This isn’t how you treat your not-a-girlfriend, guys” and in one motion decided pull a Mokuba. But, instead of stealing those little star chips from season one in the middle of a card game, he just straight up stole Seto and it was very funny.

Like look at seto’s little feet in that image there haha. Seto’s just been tossed around this season place to place like a ping pong ball.

And then Bakura was like “I’m not done yet, I can do THIS!” and they watched this thing mozy down a hole at like a snail’s pace.

They just watched it slowly descend and were like “... huh. Why didn’t I think of that?”

So Yami whips off his VR headset (well, metaphorically) in order to share his grievances back at the game table. Mostly to dump on Bakura that this game isn’t any fun.

Which is shockingly low standards, we are talking about Yami.

And before I ever had to update the Death count, turns out Seto Kaiba is just fine.

I have no idea why he’s back in the city, don’t think about it, I don’t think it will ever be explained. So he wanders around lost, like he does about 80% of the time on a normal day. Just kinda wanders hoping Roland picks him up at some point.

And when a kid runs directly through his own body he starts to connect the dots about the ancient Egyptian clothing, housing, and general lack of electricity and wheels.

Which is when we finally have them meet.

That’s right, it’s been a while.

Seasons, so many seasons ago, Seto had a dream about the perfect woman, who was also coincidentally dead in his arms, and for so many years we assumed (ok I was the only one who assumed this) that Yugioh’s creators knew that they could in no way ever put these two people in the same exact room.

And then they did. Because Yugioh will never let you write fanfiction, they already do it for you. That’s right, modern Seto Kaiba ran into past Kissara in an alleyway and so lets get a gist of their true love conversation.

And no, that isn’t just me making a joke in the cap, Seto immediately says to this stranger “Girl, I saw you die. In my arms.” and she was like “lol”

And uh that was it. Again, a HUGE leap of romance for Seto Kaiba. This is truly the most romantic he’s been on this show so I can’t dock it too much. But I will dock it somewhat because it’s been so many seasons of leadup, hahaha!

I’ll have you know my bro was like “wow you stan Kissara so much” and I was like “mmm pretty sure I don’t” and he was like “uh you gave her so much more dialogue than in the actual show” and he’s not wrong. Maybe I do stan Kissara. If anything, I stan her being the true Pharaoh of Egypt.

So she’s gonna run off to find the correct Seto. But yes, she did look future Seto Kaiba directly in the eyes when he said “why should I believe you?” and say “I don’t care.”

so that’s about it for this half of this episode that took me........what 7 years to write? I’ve been having fatigue problems, long covid’s a beast, so updates will be whenever they are, but as always, thanks for y’alls patience about it.

And uh, have a little teaser for the next half:

Ohhh yeah that’s right, we gonna do a maze!

And as always here’s a link to read these in chrono order from the beginning if you just got here, and want to see exactly how many posts are in between when Seto hallucinated Kissara and actually met Kissara.

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

[arbitrarygreay]

Gerit Deep Dive

The Gerit storyline is the only time that MFS appears to be a youth relationship drama like the Freeform shows that came before it. However, the fact that a storyline like it (a temporary love interest with DRAMZ) never happens ever again, combined with the prestige pedigree of the writers of the show, indicates that the Gerit storyline had a designed thematic and permanent character development purpose, nothing so simple as "a protagonist dates a jerkass."

And this will make the shippers really mad, but when I really looked at the structure of it, Gerit is a preview of the same patterns of behavior that Alder will exhibit (and therefore is also setting the stage for Tally's reactions to that behavior).

To begin with, we have to look at the implications of the fact that as of the time that we first met Gerit in 1x3, he had already completed a "trial run last season" with Hilary Saint, a trial run that was so successful that a handfasting was approved based on it. That looms over the background of all of his interactions during Beltane. Next, the very first scene of 1x5 features Tally noting that Gerit's actions during Beltane were textbook from the Codices. Presumably, these actions worked just as well with Hilary. So, Gerit is good at his job, of being a High-Atlantic man who serves the desires of the women according to the traditions of their culture.

And what were those actions during Beltane? Besides the more obvious Codices things like dick pic Tweets, Gerit praises Tally's dedication to service in the museum. He also claims that hanging out with Tally alone (instead of mingling with other witches) is special, a sentiment he repeats in 1x5 that he wants to be with Tally alone because Tally is a contrast to High-Atlantic behaviors (per 1x3, "Try growing up around them. The appeal doesn't last.").

Meanwhile, though, Tally is told to "trust the dance." If we come back to treating this storyline with thematic purpose, Gerit in this time represents Fort Salem military witch culture, and Tally has been told to trust it.

So, Gerit Buttonwood, High-Atlantic himself, following High-Atlantic seduction procedures to a tee, is nonetheless intrigued by someone who doesn't come from that tradition, someone who still chose to serve even when she didn't have to. Then, at the wedding, he says that he wants to be exclusive with Tally, despite having already put the lie to that by agreeing to handfast with Hilary (which is following his role as a High-Atlantic man). And this after Tally has already told him "Don't mess with me, Gerit Buttonwood."

The responsibility isn't completely one-sided, though. Tally is bulldozing over his chances to come clean, and Gerit has been raised to be subservient to the women's desires and demands. Furthermore, he is raised in a non-monogamous culture, so when he says "I love you. And you have to believe me, no matter what happens," that doesn't have to be a lie in a non-monogamous framework. Too bad he did also say "But I want to be with only you." That is non-negotiably a lie.

Thematic parallel: Tally's first stated opinions on Alder, from her debate with Raelle in 1x1. Tally acknowledged that Alder was "controversial", but what is her defense? "Part of what she said is agenda-less and true." So, treating Gerit as a metaphor, Tally knows that military witch culture (as epitomized by High-Atlantics) has its issues, but she believes that enough of what Gerit said (his confession of love) is agenda-less and true.

Also, consider the nature of Gerit's lie, which is what made Tally fall for him: that he wanted to be with Tally alone, not just mingling with other witches, as would be expected of him. Throughout the Beltane episodes, Gerit/Tally was contrasted against Abigail/Clive/Augustin, who represented what an uncomplicated version of the High Atlantic dynamic should look like (with no moral issues associated with their behavior). Simply being charming wasn't the thing, it was the idea that Gerit wanted to break from the standard witch culture for her that captivated Tally. Abigail was continually telling her that Tally herself shouldn't be seeking monogamy in the first place. The applications of this as a metaphor to Tally's expectations of Alder are obvious. And they were said outright in 2x8, too, where Tally's fantasy was that her connection to Alder was something special, not content with being just another Biddy like all of the others.

So I reiterate that the responsibility isn't completely one-sided, because what happens from here to the end of the storyline is about Tally. She is indeed devastated by learning of Gerit's marriage, because this is the first lie that she's been confronted with the truth of in the show. However, the moment she sees Scylla, Gerit is shunted down to, like, less than tertiary priority. Gerit was seeking her out during the crisis, but in the aftermath, Tally sees him holding to his duty of being at Hilary's side. So, Tally gives up and commits to her sisters.

Except, now Tally is the one caught in a lie, because she is stuck between her orders from Anacostia and the ideals of unit sisterhood. In some respects, she should understand the situation Gerit is in. Not that she is thinking about him. In 1x6, the only mention of Gerit is by Glory. Like Tally bulldozed over Gerit in 1x5, now she comedically bulldozes over Glory, as well. But what is the subject of that ramble? Justifying to herself how she can continue to lie to Raelle, through her duty:

The whole point of being a soldier is to defend our nation with all of yourself, even the parts of you that are ambivalent. It isn't your fault, per se, if you can't tell the whole story. If you can't be completely honest due to circumstances beyond your control, simply don't focus on it. Focus on what you can do and not what you can't. And if you've already done everything you can do, if you're doing your duty, then you can just forget the rest and trust that it will all work out.

A speech that Gerit probably told himself, too! But it also sure sounds like a line of reasoning Alder herself would proudly spout, doesn't it? Can you imagine Tally saying this about Liberia? The sweet sweet ironic preview.

So, in 1x7, when the men make their return to Fort Salem, Tally is all in on trying to live up to her Alder-esque model of soldierly behavior (which Gerit is modeling, too). But she's also firm in her decision to dismiss Gerit. She's got the same confident smirk of defiance when Glory asks what she'll do about Gerit that she does when arguing with Alder in 1x10 and 2x8.

Gerit apologizes to her! (A thing that Alder never does before S3? I'm still making my way through transcripts, but that's one of the big things I'm checking on.) And what he says next is just the facts. (With Hilary watching the two of them from like six feet away, mind you! He mentions kissing at the wedding! Hilary totally knows at this point and she and Gerit probably already have their agreement! Nothing he says in this scene implies that Hilary doesn't know or disapproves!) We see Tally subtly waver for a second before Glory rescues her. One can easily parallel this moment to when Tally talked to Alder in the Tarim cave in 1x10, when Alder also swayed her by simply being sincere about her feelings. It's the same camera angle on Tally, certainly.

When Tally next meets Gerit, we get another scene where Tally rambles about her concerns that are not about Gerit, to his face. She muses that friends share secrets and burdens, words that she will also associate with Alder in S2. (Not to mention an implication that perhaps Tally was so swayed by Alder's 1x10 cave speech because it felt like Alder was sharing her dreams/secrets/burdens with Tally in that moment.) In this moment she is clearly talking about her own failure to be honest with Raelle (and also therefore not being able to relieve Raelle's burdens about Scylla being alive). Tally tried to justify it to herself in the previous episode, but is clearly not buying it anymore now.

And when Gerit cluelessly tries to claim that Tally can share with him, Tally again flashes that "I have written you off already" face at him that she used when pushing her protesting mom out of her room in 1x1. Gerit's next words are instructive. "You can tell me everything or nothing, it doesn't matter. I'm here for you." This is not about friends or love, it's a statement of fact about his role in military witch culture. The men are there at the service of the women. They are there for them, even if the women give them nothing. Clive and Augustin said the same to Abigail earlier. And so, Tally, trying to live up to the justifications of a High-Atlantic soldier (All Secrets Keep), reacts by treating this man like Abigail treats hers. She tells him nothing, and uses him for sex.

(Meanwhile, Abigail is unable to treat Adil the same way because Adil doesn't belong to that culture, and instead challenges Abigail back.)

Next, Tally is confronted with the fallout of her own being Gerit-like, when Raelle finds out about her reporting of Scylla during Citydrop. It is here that Tally regains her personal sense of justice. She concedes to both Raelle and Abigail that following Anacostia's orders to stay silent was something she regrets, but she is adamant that protecting her sisters was the right thing to do.

So, she has no bones about talking about how dishonorable their actions were in killing the hostages. She's not going to try to convince herself that it wasn't wrong. In 1x9, she stews in resentment about Alder lying, being used, about it not being why she joined the service, being "involved in something deeply unjust", contrasting it against doing good. Apparently, stopping the spread of Spree munitions doesn't count as doing good. In contrast to her words from 1x1, part of it being agenda-less and true is not enough.

In the wake of reconciling with Raelle and Abigail over her lying to them on Anacostia's orders, Tally has decided that she will never sit back again. If she has done something wrong, then "we have to do something. […] I can't hold on to any more secrets. No more secrets." To the point of breaking chain of command.

After talking to Petra, they're in a limbo of what will happen next. Tally has done something, but hasn't actually affected any real change. So she's still stuck in part of her rationalization from 1x6. "Focus on what you can do and not what you can't. And if you've already done everything you can do, if you're doing your duty, then you can just forget the rest and trust that it will all work out." And in this state of emotional conflict, what is Tally doing? Continuing to participate in what she believes is adultery, under the justification that "I need this." ("this" being "complicated") Going behind the back of another soldier for the sake of using an asset for her own purposes.

Tally is still trying to somewhat follow High-Atlantic military witch culture, despite having found her resolve in other areas. The next scene makes it clear that she never got her hopes back up after the wedding, because she reiterates to Gerit that "this is an all sex, no‐talking thing." Talking, of course, being the thing reserved for friends. So Tally has still mentally written Gerit off, objectifying him as a means for her to forget her actual woes. Tally was steaming about being used by Alder, but here she is, using Gerit herself. And since she didn't know that Hilary knew, in her own mind Tally was complicit in betraying Hilary, going behind her back. As well, being so frustrated that Gerit set up an encounter knowing that Hilary would be back early implies that Tally wanted to keep them a secret, indicating that Tally felt shame about it. Contrast all of this to how Abigail shamelessly had sex with Raf at the wedding even after he disclosed that he was there with someone else (which is not morally incorrect because of the non-secret nature of the non-monogamy, as confirmed by Charvel's description of her future handfasted life).

As we know, this "insatiable" encounter is then what pushes Gerit to work with Hilary on the threesome scheme. Which, honestly, I don't think Gerit did anything wrong there? Tally has written Gerit off. Gerit isn't a fool. He's recognized that the chance for romantic love (to be exclusive, against High-Atlantic custom) with Tally is dead. So, Gerit falls back on said High-Atlantic custom, which is for men to objectified in a non-monogamous framework. See again Raf and Abigail at the wedding. Tally has told him that they're not friends, they don't have talking privileges. Why wouldn't he think that therefore she is following the rest of the framework? Because Tally is kind of doing that, at this point.

Note that the end of the Gerit storyline comes before President Wade's address. Tally still thinks that she's committing adultery with Gerit. But upon being confronted with the reality of transparently participating in High-Atlantic non-monogamous custom, Tally finds that she can't go all of the way. She drags back up old resentments that were previously forgotten (if only ambiguously forgiven). She not only brings up Gerit's omission of his engagement, but also goes back to the first accusation around his following the Codices playbook of seduction, as if that was an inherently bad thing to do. Despite this appearing to be a chance for everything to be transparent and truthful, Tally instead decides that she is not compatible with "this way", and that Gerit should not have accepted her attempt to push herself into that mold. She acts as if Gerit should have pushed her to be true to herself instead of rationalizing herself into adultery. That is the final sin that she charges him with: not the lying, but not knowing her.

And so, in the wake of having re-discovered her moral core, that is the Tally that witnesses Alder Puppetting the president. A Tally that has decided that she won't bend to the High-Atlantic ideals of All Secrets Keep is the one that doesn't hesitate to throw her accusations at Alder's face in Tarim.

The implications of this for S2 are obvious. It is because of the Gerit ordeal that Tally so quickly flips on Alder, instead of spending more time waffling around in angst. She has already personally experienced lies of omission, being swayed by partially agenda-less and true appeals of sincerity, being the perpetrator of lies under orders and duty, being used, and doing the using. So now, Tally knows deep to her bones that it isn't her. That is why she can jump straight to taking the initiative in digging for the truth, and working to undermine the situation.

Note that in 2x4, despite having started to dig into Liberia, Tally is still supportive of Alder's speech at the testing center. What actually happened to make Tally storm into Alder's office wasn't Liberia at all. It was that Alder lied to the public that it was the Spree that attacked the testing center, not the Camarilla. It was because Abigail said that part of why she was vulnerable to attack was because Alder told her to stand down on the matter in 2x1.

It's because Alder followed the same patterns of behavior as Gerit, and that Tally loathed herself for trying to follow: hiding behind established customs/procedure that praise a devotion to service, a habit of not telling people big things, going behind fellow soldiers' backs, using people as assets, putting Tally's sister at risk, justifying it all as needing to do things because the situation is complicated, doing her duty and forgetting the rest.

(And then, of course, in 2x5 Alder completes Gerit's final sin of not knowing Tally by impugning Tally's motive in asking for answers. After that, for basically the rest of S2 Tally faces Alder with that "I have written you off" face.)