#aggressive twister playing

[justpostsyeet]

Glorfindel, Lindir and Mîr playing twister

Erestor *walks in* : Nope, not even gonna ask any questions you perverts.

Mîr: But you should 🤭

Erestor : What ?

💫Later💫

Celebrian *Enters* : Wtf

LINDIR : Join us my lady , you'll love it.

💫Much later💫

Elrond *enters* *faints*

[theclairvoyage]

Sour Lemonade (One-shot)

AO3 | Main Masterlist

Your nephew's little league baseball games take up many of your summer evenings, and it's not the dust or the concession stand treats that keep you coming back - it's one of the coaches, Joel Miller.

Pairing: Little league coach!Joel Miller x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI! alternate universe, adult language, alcohol consumption, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), fluff, flirting, angst, mentions of physical violence, light choking, baseball talk, mentions of child death, mentions of infidelity

WC: 12k

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Dust flies into your face, obscuring your view of the baseball diamond. “Fuck,” you spit, the sudden inconvenience enraging you. Aggressively, you wipe your lips with the back of your forearm, noticing now how sticky, slimy, and itchy your skin is from all the sweat and dirt. And the pirate bugs are relentless, tiny daggers pricking your pores at every moment. Each swat of your exposed skin produces a tiny black smear, only to be replaced by another miniscule, predatory black dot.

“Does anyone have some goddamn bug spray?” Anger invites itself to the baseball game now, alarming some of the innocent parents watching their 8-year-old sons try to play America’s favorite pastime. Your sister, who dragged you to this hell hole, tugs on your sleeve as she hops up from the bleachers.

“Jesus, can’t go anywhere without you cussing up a storm… no wonder your nephew knows all these colorful words,” she scolds you, your name rolling off her tongue with a sharp bite as she stomps over to the bathrooms. The rage inside you cools a bit, returning to its home in the corner of your stomach. She swings her tote from under her arm to her front, digging in the bottomless pit for some bug spray. She pulls out a pink spray bottle with feminine letters, and you already know it doesn’t have DEET.

“Sorry, Mer—for the cussing. But also, do you have anything containing any carcinogens? Need ultra strength right now,” you say, trying to ease the tension. She snorts and rolls her eyes, exchanging the pink bottle for a familiar green one. OFF! is plastered in big font on the front.

“Ahhhh,” you sigh, spraying the familiar harsh scent on your skin and clothes. She laughs, taking a big step away from the cloud of haze surrounding you. The mist cools your skin, though you know it’ll stick once it’s dried—you don’t care at this point. It’s the third inning, and you can’t handle another hour and a half of being a trained insect assassin.

“Thanks. Also, how d’ya know Noah isn’t learning cuss words at school? Or on YouTube,” you remind her, pointing a DEET-covered finger in her face. She ponders it for a moment, jaw ticking back and forth.

“Well, either way—these parents are going to blacklist you if you don’t put a filter on it.” You wave her off, grimacing.

“Meredith, let me put it bluntly—I don’t give a fuck,” you say, accentuating the last word and sticking your neck out. She laughs loudly and smacks your shoulder.

“Y’know, Noah loves that you come to his games. And I want to keep you around, so… I guess I can tolerate it,” Meredith says with a half-smirk, snatching the green bottle from your sticky fingers. “Let’s go back before the damn game is over.”

“Hey! Language!” you point at her, eyes widening in mock shock. A throaty laugh leaves her lips. The wind picks up again, sending a twister of dirt and dust your way, so hard it stings your legs. You curse yourself for not wearing pants.

Back at the bleachers, you find that your language is the least concern of these parents. It’s the bottom of the fourth inning, and the score is 2-9. Noah’s team looks somber as they take the field. Moms are perched on their bleacher chairs with crossed legs, quietly fanning their faces with paper programs with pursed lips. Dads spit their sunflower seeds and tobacco into the grass aggressively with arms crossed, shaking their heads with each dropped ball and fumbled groundout. A sharp contrast is the cacophony of shrill screams and boisterous laughter from children running around the nearby empty fields, with not a care in the world. They’re just happy to be here.

“Sheesh… tough night,” Meredith says solemnly in your ear. You nod, sucking your lips into your mouth. The pitcher on Noah’s team walks another batter, and a man, presumably one of the coaches, emerges from the dugout and steps onto the field, holding his palm up to the umpire.

“Time!” The umpire calls, waving both hands in the air a few times. You study the man as he approaches the pitcher, surprised at what you see.

He’s taller than average, but not too tall. His trim body is lined with lean muscle, though he’s somewhat soft in the middle. Broad shoulders stretch his gray t-shirt. Graying brunette curls peek under his hat, kissing the top of his strong, tanned neck. Strong legs stride quietly, though confidently, toward the poor boy, who is clearly distraught. The man kneels and puts a hand on the pitcher’s shoulder as he speaks to him. The boy nods, cracking a small smile and sniffling as the man jostles him softly. He told a joke, perhaps—whatever it took to get the kid to smile. You find yourself smiling, too, watching the pair interact. The man has a calming presence that seems to have trickled into the crowd. The tension in the air is less frigid, palpable. He high-fives the boy and stands, returning to the dugout. His gaze sweeps the field, giving his players a thumbs up, before turning to the crowd and locking eyes with you.

Shit. His face takes your breath away, complete with a curved nose, high cheekbones, plush lips crowned with a full mustache, and an angled jawline dotted with brown and gray hairs. His smoldering chocolate eyes, though, are what hypnotize you the most. He’s still staring at you, likely analyzing the structure of your features like you are to him. You notice his stride falters momentarily before catching himself, but his eyes never stray from yours as he returns to the dugout. Heat radiates from your cheeks. Your heart thuds in your chest, pulse racing at this gorgeous stranger checking you out. Meredith nudges you with her elbow.

“I’ve never seen anybody get eye-fucked like that,” she whispers, and you can’t prevent the loud guffaw that escapes from your mouth. You clap a hand over your mouth quickly and whip your head toward her.

“Who is that?!” you squeal, clutching her wrist.

“That’s Joel Miller, one of the coaches,” she whispers, craning her neck to look at him in the dugout. “His nephew is on the team. Brother is that guy sitting behind home plate here,” she points, alerting you to an attractive Latino man with shiny black curls and a similar strong nose. Damn. He’s fine as hell, too. Before you turn to look at him again, Meredith grips your leg.

“He’s staring over here, don’t look,” she whispers. You can’t help but smile and feel giddy, like a sixth grader developing their first crush.

The game ends on a higher note, with Noah’s team lessening the gap and ending 6-10. As parents trickle from the stands to wait for their boys out by the dugout, you try to catch a glimpse of Joel, who is picking up stray baseball bats and gloves, handing them to their rightful owners. Noah ambles over to Meredith and you, grin plastered on his dirt-stained face. He wraps his sweaty arms and hands around your midsection.

“Hey, buddy. You did great,” you beam at him. He sighs heavily and looks up at you, big blue eyes laced with disappointment.

“We didn’t win, though,” he laments, wiping his dirty face off on your shirt.

“S’not all about winning, my dude. Gotta have fun and try to get better every day,” you comfort him, patting the back of his sweaty jersey.

“That’s some good life advice right there,” a deep, sexy, Southern-accented voice interrupts. You snap your head up and see Joel, who’s already looking at you. God, he’s even more attractive up close, and he smells good, like pine and musk. His eyes travel your face before dipping down to your lips, quickly reverting to your eyeline.

“Joel! This is my sister,” Meredith introduces you, pulling Noah from your grasp. Joel holds out a hand. You grab it and shake, relishing the warmth and size of his hand. The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he lets go.

“Nice to meet ya. I think some of the parents are gettin’ drinks later, after puttin’ the Rugrats to bed,” he says, flashing a jaw-dropping smile at you. Meredith chimes in, saving you once again from your own awkward silence.

“That sounds great! We’ll definitely stop by, right?” she asks you, nudging you. You tear your eyes from Joel’s and nod.

“Yes—though I need a shower. I stink,” you admit, scrunching your nose. A deep chuckle emits from Joel, shoulders shaking with laughter. Your heart skips a beat.

“Y’can’t be that bad—at least y’look good,” he says with a grin, pearly whites blinding you. Your heart falters completely at his compliment and you’re frozen, like a mosquito inside a solid block of amber. Meredith, for the umpteenth time today, saves you from looking like an absolute fool.

“Joel, wait ‘til you see her all cleaned up! We gotta go get this kiddo showered and ready for his sleepover, see you in a bit!” she says, clutching your wrist and leading you and Noah toward the parking lot. Peering over your shoulder, you catch Joel’s eyes drifting up and down your figure. His smile fades, expression morphing from excitement, to astonishment, to desire. Oh, fuck.

Two hours later, Meredith and you are arm in arm, walking up to the bar the parents and coaches had chosen for the rendezvous. The summer heat has loosened its grip on the city, with gentle summer gusts and a Starburst-colored sunset replacing it. Your dirty and sweat-ridden clothes are replaced with some jean shorts and a fresh muscle tee, and you remembered to put lotion on your legs for once.

Meredith opens the creaky wooden entrance door, and you spot the baseball group in a corner of the bar. Eight parents and all coaches are here, each sporting a mug of some light and probably domestic beer. All greet you with either a wave or a loud greeting—they must’ve gotten started drinking early. You spot Joel sitting next to his brother, Tommy—both are staring at you as you approach the group.

“Since you’re late, you have to buy shots,” says one of the moms, lifting her empty beer glass.

“Fine, Katy—but it’s gonna be tequila!” Meredith quips, inciting a grimace from Katy and cheers from all the men at the table. “Let’s go up to the bar,” Meredith murmurs in your ear, setting your purses down on two empty chairs the group saved for you. You try not to look at Joel but feel his magnetizing gaze on you, and you make eye contact with him. His eyes are molten dark chocolate, sweeping over your face with a glimmer of want. You crack a small smile and his eyes latch onto your lips immediately. Before your knees buckle, you break eye contact and follow Meredith to the bar.

“So, you gonna fuck him, or what?” She teases once you’re both out of earshot of the group. You land a playful slap on her arm and drop your jaw.

“Mer! I don’t even have his number! Or know how old he is, or if he’s an ex-con, or a child molester, or a serial strangler,” you ramble, pulling a laugh from her.

“He’s not any of those things, but he’s in his fifties, I know that. Doesn’t look like it, though,” she says, eyebrows arching. He’s got some years on you, for sure, but you’ve had an experience or two with an older man—though this one terrifies you. His eyes alone could convince you to do almost anything.

The bartender pours up double-digit tequila shots, garnished with salted rims and limes, and plops them on a serving tray. Meredith hoists it up and you walk back to the table, making sure to put some extra swing in your hips in case Joel’s watching. You can tell from your peripheral that he is, in fact, staring at you. Something fizzes in your chest—warm, wanting.

“Cheers to not getting run-ruled today!” Tommy cheers as everyone clinks their shot glasses together. You down yours quickly, anticipating the spicy aftertaste. And boy, it burns like hell as it glazes down your throat. You suck on the lime and try not to shiver. Whoops and cheers fill the empty bar as everyone finishes their shots.

After a few beers and shots later, you’re feeling loose and giddy. Your end of the table is talking about the godforsaken umpire from tonight’s game, somewhat split from the other half of the table, which is discussing the MLB playoffs. Feeling a familiar pull, you turn and see Joel smiling at you. Once you make eye contact, he winks, which sends you reeling. He’s about to get up from his seat when one of the moms waltzes her way over to him, curling her polished claws around his shoulder.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he preferred her over you—she’s petite, with long blonde hair, tan skin, blue eyes, and perky fake boobs. She looks great, you admit, and she’s closer to his age. Sadness looms in your belly and your smile fades as his attention diverts to her. Oh well, you think. Good thing it didn’t go too far. Resigned, you join the conversation and try to focus on anything but Joel.

The night carries on, and you find yourself unbothered by Joel. Meredith completely let loose, singing along to the music echoing throughout the bar. Everyone at your end of the table is telling jokes, clinking glasses, and enjoying each other’s presence. It’s a fun night, you admit to yourself. You made every effort to not pay attention to the other end of the table but felt Joel’s eyes on you constantly.

What you didn’t realize was how much he wanted you to be the one pressed up against him, with his arm curled around your waist or his rough fingers stroking the smooth skin of your thigh. He needed to get away from this kid’s mom—she was newly divorced and obviously ready for a rebound. Yeah, she was attractive, but nothing about her excited him—if anything, he was irritated by her blatant advancements. The final straw was when she crept her hand up his denim-clad thigh and squeezed close to the apex.

“The hell are you doin’?” he says with a laugh, incredulous. She licks her glossy lips and leans in toward his ear.

“Oh, I think you know, big boy,” she murmurs in her sexiest voice. Joel is turned off. Not wanting to be rude, he lightly grips her wrist and pulls her hand back. You, unfortunately, look over right as he grabs her hand.

“Not interested, dear,” he murmurs back, watching the frustration grow on her face.

“Fine, Miller—there’s plenty more who want it,” she boasts. She snatches her manicured hand away and moves onto your side of the table, picking another innocent victim.

Annoyed, you stand and walk up to the bar, back facing the group. Guess her little routine worked on Joel—he really ate it up, even touched her arm. You chide yourself for letting this unnerve you—you don’t even know the guy, and for all you do know, he might be a sleazeball.

“Need a break from the loudmouths?” the bartender asks, half smiling. You nod, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Too much testosterone over there,” you retort, “I’ll take a Sprite.” She nods and punches a button on the soda gun, filling up a tall glass. Staring at the bubbles fizzing over the ice cubes, you feel a breeze on your side. It’s Joel, finally separated from his bimbo of the night.

“Hey, darlin’, can I get you a drink?” he asks, smooth, sugary voice tickling your eardrums. He sounds sexy as fuck. You hold his gaze but don’t smile, creating an icy wall between the two of you.

“Is your girlfriend okay with that?” you sneer, turning to take a sip of your Sprite. His shoulders sag just slightly, but you see it from the corner of your eye.

“She ain’t my girl, promise. She’s tryna find a rebound,” he murmurs apologetically. You shrug.

“Seems like she was getting close to getting one.” Ouch. It hits low and painful in his belly, though he understands.

“Listen, I know what it looked like. Promise ya, it ain’t nothing. She ain’t my type,” he says, eyes sweeping your face. Guilt pangs you, and you turn to look at him. Fuck. His eyes are solemn, repentant—he’s saying sorry, and he doesn’t even need to. You sigh deeply, feeling that the alcohol is forcing you to be honest with him.

“Joel, look—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha—,” you start, but he interrupts you, putting a calloused palm up and shaking his head.

“No need t’apologize, sweetheart. I get it. She was all over me,” he says, end of his sentence filled with a playful tone. You giggle quietly.

“Oh yeah, she was two seconds away from sinking her teeth into you,” you joke, chuckles exchanging between the two of you. Relief fills you, warm and cleansing. He stares at you for a moment before speaking again.

“So, that drink…” he says, a lopsided grin plastered on his rugged face. God, he’s handsome. You can’t hold off much longer.

“I ‘spose,” you tease, “Guess you owe me one, anyway.” His half-grin turns whole, smile sending a zip of desire down your spine. He leans close to your ear, sweeping your hair over your shoulder. The touch of his warm skin on yours and the proximity of him almost makes you jump.

“I’ll make it up t’ya, swear on it,” he says, voice an octave lower and Southern accent dripping with something you’re not quite ready to identify. You clamp your thighs together instinctively, another shiver rippling through you like that of the tequila shot. Joel waves the bartender over and orders your drink of choice and whiskey neat.

“So… you live with Meredith?” Joel inquires, watching you as he sips the amber liquid. You shake your head, twirling the straw around your drink.

“Nope, but I might as well with how much I’m over there, helping with Noah and whatnot.” He nods.

“I had a daughter once. Y’know what they say… it takes a village,” he says, tone laced with melancholy. Once?

“I hate to ask, but… what happened to her?” you ask carefully, hesitant to look at him.

“She passed away when she was little. Car accident. S’alright, though—it was a long time ago,” he says, smiling at you wistfully. You put a hand on his bare forearm, and he almost melts into a puddle.

“I’m sorry, Joel. That’s so awful. I can’t imagine experiencing something like that. Noah’s my nephew, but I wouldn’t be able to go on if something happened to him,” you add, hoping to soothe his pain.

“Enough about me, darlin’, I wanna know more about you,” he says, covering your hand with his. His touch is electric on your skin.

“Nothing exciting, trust me,” you say with a shrug. He scoffs.

“I’d be shocked to hear that you’re single,” he says, winking at you again. You shove him playfully.

“Prepare to be shocked,” you quip. He shakes his head and looks up at one of the TVs.

“S’a damn shame,” he laments. The alcohol sends courage racing through your veins.

“For whom?” you tease, mirroring his wink. His smile fades just slightly as he takes you in, desire washing over him. When he speaks again, his voice is even deeper than before.

“Not for me, that’s for sure.” Your stomach drops at his admission, though your face doesn’t show it.

“Yeah? Why’s that, Miller?” He takes another sip of his whiskey, eyes locked on yours.

“You kiddin’? Look at you,” he says, whistling lowly, eyes traversing your frame. If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. You wave him off and sip your own drink.

“Oh, stop. I bet you get the best of the best coming up to you,” you say, playing it cool. He takes another sip, swallowing with a hmm-mm.

“Darlin’, the best of the best is sittin’ next to me, and I reckon I got some groveling t’do if I wanna see her again,” he admits. He takes his baseball cap off, revealing thick, gorgeous curls, hairline swept with gray locks. He runs a hand through them before sliding the cap back on. Admiring his profile, you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Your gaze travels down to his neck, which might just be your favorite part of him at the moment—thick, tan, jugular vein bulging. You can almost see his pulse pounding at his carotid. Fuck, he makes your pulse pound. Sucking in a deep, calming breath, you avert your gaze to your near-empty drink, swishing the ice cubes around nervously. Joel nudges your arm with his elbow. You look at him, trying your hardest to maintain a straight face, but seeing his smile makes you grin.

“What?” you ask, noticing his eyes dipping down to your lips.

“Was just thinkin’,” he says, finishing the last of his whiskey as he eyes you inquisitively.

“About?” you press, tilting your ear toward him and raising your brows. He laughs at your facial expression and leans in, lips brushing your hair and nearly grazing your ear.

“’Bout what it would be like t’kiss you,” he hums, voice dripping with lust. Your eyes widen briefly, shock quickly morphing into nervousness, then anticipation as your stomach twists.

“Think I need another drink before then,” you say, slowly turning to face him. He’s close, close enough that you feel his breath on your face. He’s half-smiling again, brown eyes spanning your face.

“Nervous?” he taunts lowly. You look up at the TV and nod slowly.

“Darlin’, y’got nothin’ to be nervous about. I ain’t gonna make ya do anything y’ain’t comfortable with,” he says, face still close to your ear. You face him again, staring intently into his eyes.

“Oh, it’s not that. I’m afraid… you’ll be hooked,” you test him, hoping your bravado overshadows your nerves. His nostrils flare just slightly before he clears his throat.

“Reckon I need another drink, too—I might not survive,” he says, catching you off guard. A loud laugh escapes your lips. Joel is delighted at the sound and wonders how you’d sound doing other things, like underneath him or as his tongue unravels you. Suppressing an erection, he waves the bartender over and orders both of you another round.

“Wanna get some air?” he questions you, tipping his head toward the patio area. You nod, chewing on your straw nervously. The idea of being alone with him makes you squirm. You stand and he guides you outside, firm hand on your lower back. His fingertips burn into your back.

“Lemme just tell Mer I’m stepping outside,” you say. He nods. “Meet ya out there?” he offers, and you clink the rim of your glass to his in agreement. You watch him saunter over to the patio doors, salivating at the way his jeans hug his hips and ass. Meredith isn’t worried by your absence at all, still laughing and talking loudly with the group. She’s drunk.

“Mer, I’m stepping out back if you need me,” you say into her ear. She turns to you, holding your chin.

“Y’gonna kiss him, finally? He’s been tryna do it for the last hour!” she spits into your ear. Your lips quirk into a smile.

“Maybe, dunno. We’ll find out shortly,” you reply nonchalantly, shrugging as you turn to leave the table. She pinches your ass as you walk away.

Anticipation bubbles in your chest as you get closer to the patio. With a deep breath, you push the doors open and see Joel leaning up against the railing, hip cocked to one side. The patio is dotted with dim string lights and overlooks a small pond with a fountain, moonlight glimmering on the surface. The trickling of the water is soothing, a nice contrast to the loud music and voices inside the bar. He turns his body toward you, arm leaned against the railing as he watches you.

“Thought maybe I scared ya off,” he teases. You stand next to him, arm brushing his as he turns to face the pond again.

“Not in the slightest. Your girl back there, though? Not going within 20 feet of her,” you tantalize him, and he rolls his eyes as he chuckles.

“She ain’t even a blip on my radar, darlin’,” he says, voice shifting from playful to sensual. You feel his hot gaze on your face. Slowly, he dips his head closer to yours. You turn and lock eyes with him. You want him, though your expression is almost hesitant—his is pliant, asking permission. You look down at his plush lips and lean in while closing your eyes.

When your lips finally meet, a sensation roils through you like you’ve never experienced. You feel like a fishing boat in the North Sea, tossed around, dizzy, and soaked by the icy waves as they threaten to pull you under. You’re completely at the mercy of his lips, his touch. The kiss is slow, yet fiery—unlocking passion in both of you that has either been dormant or never existed. At some point, Joel turned to face you and pulled you flush to him, thick arms wrapped around your torso, squeezing you like he can’t afford to let go. You reach for his hair and knock off his baseball cap, and he laughs against your mouth.

It doesn’t take long for your tongues to tangle and the kiss to reach a new level of hot and heavy. He’s gripping your ass; you’re shoving your hands up his shirt. He’s breaking the kiss to nip at your neck and jawline; you’re moaning softly. He’s groaning into your skin at the sounds you make, telling you how good you are; your nails are carving shapes into the skin of his back.

You pull back, panting, fingers still latched onto his curls. Concerned eyes stare into yours, worried he crossed a line. You shake your head and laugh incredulously, glancing over at the moonlit pond. It’s surreal, the way you’re feeling now—none of your dreams have ever been so enchanting as this moment. Joel strokes your cheek softly, needing to know your thoughts.

“Everything alright?” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheekbone.

“Yes! Oh god, everything’s—amazing, I just didn’t know if—,” you stammer, trying to force the thousand thoughts swirling in your mind into a coherent sentence.

“D’you wanna get outta here, darlin’? I understand f’you say no, but good lord, I want you,” he breathes, searching your eyes for a semblance of hesitation or uncertainty. He doesn’t find either. Your pupils dilate ever so slightly, tongue darting out to lick your lips.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe, sending him over the edge. He smirks and releases you momentarily to pick up his fallen ball cap, tossing the sweaty fabric over his curls before grabbing your hand to guide you back inside. It’s hasty, the way he closes his tab and signs his receipt, tossing the pen back behind the bar with a chuckle.

“Let me tell Mer I’m leaving,” you tell him. He nods.

“I’ll wait here for ya, don’t need ya walkin’ in the dark parkin’ lot alone this time of night.”

“A gentleman, too? Hopefully that doesn’t carry over to the bedroom,” you coo, putting on your sultriest voice. His eyes are black as sin, sweeping over your body slowly.

“Oh, I am—ladies first,” he quips, enjoying the view as you turn to walk toward the table. Meredith is perched on the lap of one of the dads, whispering in his ear.

“Mer—I’m leaving. I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?” You shout over the loud chatter of the group and the music. She winks at you and gives you a languid thumbs up. Still drunk. You narrow your eyes at poor lad she’s sitting on, giving him a silent warning. He throws his palms up in the air in surrender. Meredith rolls her eyes at you before turning back to him.

Joel takes your hand as you walk out of the bar, giving the back a quick kiss. The excitement and thrill of leaving with him has you giddy, springy. Your steps are bouncier than before, confidence buzzing inside you. This fine man wants you, has wanted only you since he laid eyes on you, and is taking you home. Your past one-night stands have never been so exhilarating.

Joel leads you to a big silver truck, opening the passenger door for you and helping you into the plush leather seat. He swats your ass as you hop in, laughing at the yelp that escapes you. Trotting over to the driver’s side, he hops in and wastes no time getting out of there.

“Your place or mine?” He asks as the truck cruises onto a main road.

“Mine,” you reply, starting to feel nervous. Maybe a familiar location will calm your nerves a bit.

“Lead the way, darlin’.” You guide him to your apartment, which is maybe 10 minutes from the bar. He grabs your hand as you both speedwalk into the building, eager to rip your clothes off and finish what you started at the bar.

As soon as you’re inside your apartment, Joel rips his cap off and hoists you up, your back pressed against the door. Your legs encircle his waist and pull, crashing your hips together. His lips devour you hungrily, teeth nibbling your lower lip and hands frantically roaming over you. “Where?” he murmurs in your mouth, and you point to your agape bedroom door. You didn’t make your bed, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck right now, and neither does he. He carries you inside the dark room and lies both of you on the bed, your legs still wrapped around his midsection.

“Need t’see you,” he pants, and you point to the lamp on your bedside table. He twists the knob, filling the room with dim, amber lighting. His mouth latches back onto yours before moving down to your soft neck and collarbone.

“Off,” he says, tugging at the collar of your muscle shirt. You lift your arms up and let him tear the fabric from you, remembering that you didn’t wear a bra once you hear him curse.

“Fuck,” he groans, “look at you.” He squeezes your breasts, taking a nipple into his warm mouth. You inhale sharply, running fingers through his tousled curls as he sucks on one and moves to the other. He kisses down your stomach until he meets denim, sitting up and grasping the waistband of your shorts. He peers at you from poignant, hooded eyes.

“Can I take these off?” he asks softly, surprising you. He’s gentle, obedient, almost submissive to you, though you don’t realize what a treasure you are in his eyes. He wants to savor this, make sure it’s perfect for you. Your chest is heaving, nerves so alight that you almost forget to respond.

“Please,” you affirm, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

You’re already soaked—you felt it once you sat down in his truck, the damp fabric of your panties pushed up into you. He unbuttons and slides your shorts off, leaving your green thong on and licking his lips as he notices the wet spot.

“Jesus… this for me?” he says, returning his needy mouth to your hot skin. You’re squirming in his grip, breathless.

“Yes, fuck,” you huff, whimpers leaving your mouth as he kisses his way down your left hip and bites your inner thigh. You moan, the painful prick of his incisors heightening your pleasure.

“You like that, baby?” he asks, peeking up at you from down below. Bashfulness washes over you at the sight of him between your legs, worshipping your body. You nod feverishly, lower lip between your teeth. He growls lowly and kisses down your leg, stopping at your instep and watching your response before retracing his path. He stops over your clothed mound and kisses featherlight, pulling a groan from you. You feel his smile curve against your core, but he doesn’t oblige you—he kisses down your other leg. You tug on his hair, needing his mouth on your most sensitive spot.

“Needy, ain’t she?” he teases you, breathing hot air on your clothed, throbbing pussy. Your back arches and you sigh heavily at the sensation.

“I’ma give you just what y’need, darlin’, just hold on for me,” he soothes you, teeth pulling the waistband of your thong back slowly. He needs help from his hands, though, so he loops his fingers in the waistband and rids them from you. His gaze is boring holes in you, looking at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

“Tongue-tied?” you tease him, watching his eyes roam over your naked body.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. He shifts downward, lower half on the floor before hooking his arms under your thighs and pulling you toward him. He stares at you as he blows softly on your clit. The chill of the air on your wet core drives you mad, your hips circling involuntarily under his grip. At what seems like a glacial pace, he leans in until his lips touch your clit in a featherlight kiss. Though light, the contact feels like the floor has dropped from underneath you, making you dizzy. His teasing has you so riled up; it won’t take much for you to reach the zenith. His tongue slips out and slowly, almost agonizingly, licks from your entrance to your clit.

“Shit, Joel,” you gasp. He smirks against your core, impressed with himself for learning your cues early on. He continues licking you languidly, sensually, changing his approach based on your moans, curses, and sighs, each twitch of your hips and death grip of his hair and arms, relishing all of you.

“Like hearing y’say my name,” he purrs, “Y’taste so good.” White-hot pleasure keeps shooting up your spine, like fireworks on July fourth. Your stomach feels tight, like you might snap any second.

“I’m close,” you whimper, hips rolling on his face. He hums in approval into your pussy. You reach down and grip his hands before he pulls one away to prod at your entrance. He curves two broad fingers into you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. A strangled cry escapes your throat at the stretch, part of you worried about how his cock will fit. He pumps his fingers quickly, and you snap, your orgasm taking over every fiber of your being. He talks you through it, praising you and trying not to come himself at the sight of you trembling, arched in pleasure.

After a beat, he removes his fingers and slots himself between your legs, head dipping down to kiss you, giving you a taste of yourself on his wiry mustache and smooth lips.

“Taste good, don’t you?” he croons into your mouth, pulling a low moan from your throat. Gripping the fabric of his shirt as you kiss him, you realize he’s still fully clothed. You tug the hem of his shirt up and he sits on his heels to pull it off, revealing a strong, toned torso with a softness that makes you melt. He notices you admiring him.

“S’not as good as it used t’be,” he chuckles, smiling at you as he tosses his shirt to some corner of the room.

“Shut up. You’re perfect,” you breathe, hands roaming his chest and stomach before landing in his waistband, pulling him back to you. He resists, only to unbutton his denim and slide it off his legs, leaving only his boxers. You reach out and grab his hard length through the thin fabric, gasping at the girth of him. Your fingers don’t even reach all the way around. His head tips back, breathy sigh escaping his lungs at your gentle but firm touch.

“Off,” you parrot his command from earlier, fingers tugging at the elastic waistband of his boxers. Eyes locked on yours, he stands and pulls them off his figure, cock springing as it releases. A mischievous grin creeps over his features after seeing your reaction to his manhood.

Fuck. He’s big, probably bigger than most you’ve had. The length is up there, but the girth is what worries you—he’s so thick.

“Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll take care of you,” he soothes you, settling between your legs. Confusion contorts his face, like he forgot something—until frustration sets in.

“I don’t have protection, d’you have anything?” he asks, stroking a slow path from your inner thigh to your hip, making you squirm.

“No, but I’m good—I’m on birth control, and it’s been forever since I’ve had sex with anyone, so I’m clean,” you reply. You can’t even remember the last time you slept with anyone—months, perhaps.

“Me, too,” he adds, “minus the birth control.” His witty response makes you giggle. You sit up and lean forward to kiss him, stopping just before your lips touch.

“I want you inside me. Now,” you whisper, gaze flicking over his face. His eyes flash obsidian before he crashes his lips against yours and lies you both down. He rubs the head of his cock against your soaked folds, the sensation setting your body on fire. Aroused and impatient, you tip him back until your positions are switched, Joel’s head almost hanging off the edge of the bed. He chuckles at you but beams at your confidence. Perched on his lap, you lean back slightly and grind your hips, guiding your lips over his rock-hard length.

“Need a picture of this,” he says, bewildered at the gorgeous woman grinding on his lap, naked and needy for him. His rough palms caress your hips, stomach, breasts, before landing at your shoulders. He pulls you down for a kiss, the new angle pressing your slit flush against his cock, and you shudder.

“Fuck me,” he rumbles, mouth agape, messy salt and pepper curls dipping down to his brow. You sit up, bracing one palm on his chest and using the other to guide him to your dripping entrance. Making sure to watch him, you slowly sink down on him, the stretch splitting you open almost immediately. Your mouth drops and eyebrows arch, the pain and pleasure slowing your movements.

Joel’s face mirrors yours, your tight, soaked cunt squeezing him deliciously. He grits his teeth and grips your ass so hard you’ll have bruises, urging you down further onto him. You slowly take inch by inch until bottoming out, the sudden press of his tip against your cervix making you yelp.

“Okay, baby?” he asks. Your eyes are squeezed shut, breath coming out in heavy pants and hands clawing at his chest as you adjust to the size and thickness of him. A strand of your hair has fallen in your face, moving with each puff of your breath.

“Yes, j-just need a sec,” you whimper. Finally, your inner muscles acclimate to the intrusion of his cock, and you start to move. Each roll of your hips pulls a filthy moan from Joel, whose calloused hands are guiding you up and down his length. You’re whimpering with each thrust, the tip of his cock sending painfully pleasurable shocks up your spine as it slams into the deepest parts of you.

“Just beautiful,” he groans as he watches you bounce on him. It’s a good thing you’re on top, because he would’ve come by now had he been spearing himself into you. “Not gonna last long. Where d’you want me?” he spits.

“Inside me,” you mewl, and before he can react, you take the opportunity to press your chest against his, sweaty foreheads stuck together as you clap your ass against him as hard as you can. Your second orgasm washes over you suddenly, causing you to tuck your head in the crook of his neck as you cry out. Joel takes over, thrusting up into you a few times before grunting your name as he spills into you. Both of your pants and whimpers fill the room as you come down from your high. You’re still on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck, pussy wrapped around his cock still as he softens. He rolls you over and pins your arms above your head before dipping his lips down to meet yours in a messy postcoital kiss. You moan into the kiss, and his cock twitches at the sound inside you—he’s not quite hard, but enough to still stretch you out.

“Wanna do it like this next time,” you pant, cupping his cheek. He turns to kiss your palm and moves down to your wrist before latching his lips onto the slope of your shoulder.

“I’d like that, baby,” he purrs into your sweaty skin, “And I like that there’s gonna be a next time.” He rests against you for a moment before slipping out of you with a grunt and standing to find your bathroom. He returns after a minute with a towel, sitting next to you on the bed and wiping his spend from you.

A pang of disappointment washes over you suddenly, not wanting him to leave. One-night stands really aren’t your thing—you don’t want him to get the idea that this is a frequent habit of yours.

You speak his name softly, quietly. He slides back into bed, propping himself on one elbow and giving you his full attention. He tucks some stray hair behind your ear, your eyes closing at the tenderness of his touch.

“Hmm?” he hums, thumb tracing your eyebrow, forehead, temple, whatever part of your face is closest. You open your eyes and see warm, affectionate amber staring back at you. His eyes are so beautiful, so full of emotion, you find yourself unable to talk for a second. He quirks one eyebrow at you, lips sliding into his cheek as he waits for your response.

“D’you wanna stay?” you ask, hesitant. You really don’t know him, or if this is something he likes to do often, or if it was a spur of the moment decision made during your moment of passion at the bar. He leans down and kisses your forehead before pressing a slow kiss to your lips. Pulling back ever so slightly, his breath fans on your face and gaze flicks between each of your eyes before he opens his mouth to reply.

“Yes, I’d love to,” he says. You can’t help the grin that pulls at your cheeks. He twists the lamp, darkness spilling into the room, and tucks you into his chest before pulling the covers over both of you.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he whispers into your hair, and before you can reply, you’re sound asleep.

Morning rolls around, and you find yourself pressed against Joel’s warm back, arms wrapped around his torso and moving up and down with his expanding ribcage. He’s still sleeping, or you think—he woke up not too long ago with you curled into his chest, torn between needing to use the bathroom, and not wanting to let go of you. You looked so serene, so beautiful as the sunrise painted your features. When he came back and tucked himself under the covers, you immediately latched yourself onto him, arms wound tightly around his belly.

Now, you find yourself in the same predicament, needing to use the bathroom but not wanting to disturb him. You slowly unfurl yourself from his broad back, stand from the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom connected to your room.

Joel had opened his eyes once he felt you rise from the bed and watched your naked figure travel across the room, the sight stirring his already half-hard cock. Fuck, you were gorgeous, and he wanted desperately to see your body trembling with pleasure again, the memory of your face twisted in euphoria sewn into his brain. When he heard the bathroom door open, he snapped his eyes shut again, wanting you to think he was asleep.

You, on the other hand, didn’t want to wake him and had a primal urge for some fresh coffee. You search the room for your robe, startling when two warm hands grasp your waist and pull you onto the bed. Joel props himself up against your headboard, legs spread as he pulls you into the open space between them. His strong arms loop around your stomach, pulling you tight until your back is flush with his chest. He tucks his face into your neck, pressing gentle kisses behind and beneath your ear, down the column of your neck.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he croons, Southern voice raspy with sleep, igniting something inside you. You moan as his lips and teeth mark spots on the map of your skin.

“Coffee, I swear,” you groan, covering his arms with yours and squirming as his mouth continues adorning you.

“Mm. Not done with you yet,” he murmurs, unwrapping one hand from your stomach to palm your breasts. You arch into him, head tipping back on his shoulder. He growls.

“Feel good, sweetheart?” he presses, rolling one nipple between rough fingertips before moving to the other. You gasp sharply and nod against his shoulder, hips gyrating and ass rubbing against his hard length. He inhales deeply, the scent of your hair invading his space and heightening his arousal for you.

His palm dips lower, spanning your soft stomach before reaching your inner thigh, goosebumps erupting in its path. Lightly, he scratches at your skin there, loving how pliant your body is underneath his touch. He needs to see your face.

“Look at me,” he orders softly, and you turn your head to see him. God, he looks fucking good. His hair is fucked up from slumber, eyes wanton and full of sleepy desire. There are hints of intrigue and mischief sketched on his face.

Then, he kisses you, teeth tugging on your lower lip. It’s hot, the way he needs you in this moment, the way his tongue reaches for yours, the way his grip tightens around you. His hand dips further south, fingers feeling firsthand how much you want him. He moans at it, the wetness trickling from you.

“Joel,” you whine, his calculated touches teasing you. He swirls his fingers around your bud, almost excruciatingly slow.

“You want me this much?” he breathes into your mouth. Your hips are still rolling, ass feeling how much he wants you.

“Yes—please. Need you,” you moan softly, eyes opening to see him. He looks down, watching and moaning at how your slick coats his fingers. He prods his middle finger at your entrance, inserting it lazily into your tight heat with a groan. You gasp at the soreness of his cock from last night and at the stretch—his finger is thick, close to the size of two of your digits.

“Baby—need to stretch you out. So tight.” He pulls his middle finger out and adds his ring finger to the mix. He curls them once they’re fully sheathed inside you, pads stroking your soft walls. He pumps them in and out of you slowly, yet with enough pressure to send you reeling. The pleasure builds inside you, knotting tightly in your belly. You moan as he continues to unravel you, hips circling around his hand, his teeth sinking into your shoulder.

“Come for me, sweet girl,” he coaxes you, mouth moving to graze your earlobe. He holds it there, between his teeth, pulling it as you come apart on his fingers.

Your orgasm rolls through you slowly, vision spotting as the knot untethers inside your stomach. Joel fucks you through it and praises you, spurring you on more. It’s new for you, someone talking you through your orgasm, and something you didn’t realize you needed.

“Good girl, just like that—did so good for me, baby,” he soothes you, removing his soaked fingers from you. He takes the middle one into your mouth, brushing your tongue, and you suck lightly, moaning at the taste of yourself. His cock jumps.

“Need to taste you again,” he hums, placing his ring finger in his mouth. You watch him relish the taste of you, eyebrows arching and a deep groan escaping his throat.

“Can I fuck you now, baby?” he asks, syllables like chords of a sweet cello. You nod, tugging the back of his head down for a passionate kiss. He maneuvers both of you until you’re underneath him and he’s hovering over the cradle of your hips.

“Gonna go slow,” he says, palms cradling your face.

“Want you to fuck me however you like, Joel,” you whisper, searching his eyes. Brown irises flecked with gold, desire-filled pupils threatening to swallow them. He sits up, tugging your thighs toward him and tucks your knees at his sides. He grips himself and breaks eye contact to watch where your bodies are about to join. He looks up at you as he slips the head of his cock inside your warm entrance, jaw dropping as your walls swallow him.

Carefully, he feeds you inch by inch, eyes never leaving yours until he’s at the hilt. He commits to memory the morphing of your facial expressions as he fills you up—wide eyes, mouth dropping slowly, head tilting back and eyes snapping shut once he reaches the end of you. Only then does he look down to see where he has vanished inside you, moaning at the way your pussy stretches around him as he pulls out slowly.

“You feel so good,” you whine, fingernails lightly scratching his chest and stomach. His head tips back as he sets a pace, your muscles squeezing him and coating him in warm slick.

“Best I ever had—fuck,” he curses, fingertips bruising your hipbones. He pulls you up so your hips are propped up on his lap, leaving space between your back and the bed. You arch, head lolled back and hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Beautiful,” he moans, reaching a palm down to lightly squeeze the column of your throat as he continues pounding into you.

Blood rushes to your head, heightening the pleasure of each thrust. Your body is tingling, almost levitating.

With no notice, your second orgasm zips through you like a gasoline fire, flames scorching your neurons. Joel follows suit, lifting you into his lap, arms wrapped around your torso as he cries into your chest. You tug his curls, tipping his head back in a kiss as he finishes emptying inside you.

You pull back and run your fingers through his hair, stopping to cradle his face in your hands. He beams at you.

“Can I make coffee now?” you tease him, pressing a light kiss to his nose. He laughs warmly, squeezing you tightly and picking you up as he stands from the bed.

“I think that’s acceptable,” he replies, squeezing your ass before letting you stand on your own legs.

“So… when can I see you again?” Joel asks as he puts his shoes on. You’d typed your number into his phone per his request just moments ago and sent yourself a text with his name.

“Are you saying… you want to do this again?” you say, winking at him and dropping your mouth open in mock surprise. He rolls his eyes, standing to pull you into a hug.

“Yes, but not just sex. Unless, uh, that ain’t your thing,” he says, hesitation flashing over his features. You shake your head.

“What we just did isn’t usually my thing. I’d love a date. And more sex if that’s okay.” He snorts.

“It’s more than okay. You showing up to the baseball game tomorrow evening?” he asks, absentmindedly stroking the skin in front of your ear. You nod.

“Got a thing for the hot coach. Need to make sure I have my best jean shorts on.” He snorts again, raising an eyebrow at the prospect of seeing you with some short shorts on.

“How about I take you out later this week, then?” You swipe your eyes around the top of the room, lips sliding into your cheek as you try and remember your schedule.

“Friday? I have a busy week at work. Late nights, probably,” you offer. He nods with a big grin.

“It’s a date.”

The next day arrived in blistering fashion. Not a single cloud graced the blue skies, nor the tiniest gust of summer wind. By 5:00 PM, it was still in the lower 90s. You packed a large cooler full of water bottles, Gatorade, various other liquids stashed in your fridge, and snacks for Noah’s baseball game. Excited to see Joel again, you made sure to wear your best jean shorts and threw on a cropped tank top.

You pull up to the baseball field, searching the parked cars for Meredith’s SUV and Joel’s silver truck. You find both, parked at opposite ends of the lot. Your stomach drops slightly when you see his truck. He’s here, obviously—he is one of the coaches. Meredith waits in her SUV for you, hopping out when she sees you strolling up, big cooler in tow.

“Any booze in that?” she winks at you. You nod.

“I had some stray shooters in the fridge. All yours.”

“I believe you have something to tell me, yeah?” she says as both of you walk up to the entrance of the baseball complex. You look over to the field and see Noah’s team warming up in their familiar navy and red uniforms.

Joel is in the grass, hitting pop flies at the outfielders. His broad back is turned to you, the familiar shape sending a pang of anticipation up your spine. The flexing and jumping of his muscles and tendons is getting you hot. Meredith nudges you.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you here! Stop reminiscing,” she scolds you.

“I kinda have to if you want my account of the story, yeah?” you add, mocking her tone playfully. She guffaws.

“Spill. The man was obsessing over you since he saw you at the game.”

“Let’s just say he’s very good at what he does. And he’s a gentleman. He’s taking me out later this week,” you gush, cheeks burning at your recollection of yesterday’s events.

“Knew it. Could tell by the way he walks and looks at you. Mans is whipped. My guy on the other hand? Couldn’t even get it up. Passed out before anything meaningful could happen,” she seethes, eyes rolling.

“All old men are not created equal, Mer,” you joke, jostling her with your elbow.

As you two find home in the bleachers, you see Miss Blonde Ambition eyeing you from the concession stand. She looks pissed off, Juvéderm-filled lips contorted in a scowl and lifeless eyes swiping up and down your frame as she sloshes her Stanley cup around aggressively. Meredith notices, too.

“Guess she’s not too happy her usual antics didn’t work,” she gripes. You try not to give too much attention to the woman.

“What’s her name? I don’t even think Joel knows it,” you ask, noticing her return to the bleachers from your peripheral.

“Cassie. Divorced. Her kid is one of Noah’s closest friends on the team, unfortunately. I think he spends most nights with his dad.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Meredith chuckles at your jab.

A cloud of strong, overly floral perfume invades your nostrils, and you turn to see Cassie, manicured hands planted on her hips and face pinched in irritation.

“Hey, Cass,” Meredith says coolly, not looking in her direction.

“Is this your sister?” Cassie spits. Her voice is shrill, accent almost Valley girl. It would make a lot of sense if she was from Southern California. Meredith, having none of this hostility, whips her head at Cassie.

“It is. You got a problem? Because this is not the time nor the place,” she says, eyes narrowing briefly at Cassie.

“Just wanted her to know that she shouldn’t get too excited about her little escapade with Joel. He does that with every young thing that sits on these bleachers,” she boils, face and neck turning red. Ouch. Joel never seemed the type, but then again, you don’t know him. She could be telling the truth.

“Except you, yeah?” Meredith shoots back, unfazed by Cassie’s low blow. You, on the other hand, don’t miss how your stomach sinks and throat dries up at her words. Cassie’s mouth drops open. She cocks her hips to one side and lifts a finger at both of you.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve been there, done that. Nothing to ride home about. Enjoy my sloppy seconds,” she hisses. Meredith stands up, hackles raised and blocking you from Cassie’s view.

“S’at why you were all pissed off he didn’t want you last night? ‘Cause it’s ‘nothing to ride home about’?” Meredith fires, neck rolling. Anger boils in your belly, though you find it best if you don’t speak—Meredith has always been the verbal fighter, you the physical one. It’s not a road you plan on traveling any time soon.

Other parents in the bleachers are observing the confrontation, along with some players in the dugout, little claws gripping the chain link fence and wide eyes glued to the scene. You’re glad you have sunglasses on. You notice Joel turn his attention to you, shoulders drooping at what he sees. Embarrassed, you look down at your feet as Cassie continues her tirade.

“Tell your slutty little sister he’ll find a new spectator to fuck very soon—and I think it’s best if our sons don’t hang out anymore!” she screeches. It’s silent at the ball field—both teams have stopped their warmups to tune into the drama. A pin could drop here, and everyone would hear it.

Meredith hops off the bleachers and gets close to Cassie’s face. She points in her face.

“Slutty? That’s rich, coming from the lady who cheated on her husband with half the single dads at the last State Tournament!” Cassie’s mouth drops open in shock, taking a few steps back from Meredith. Some gasps ring out in the bleachers. Tommy walks over, stepping between the two sparring women and putting his hands up.

“That’s enough!” he booms. Meredith, nostrils flared and fists clenched, points a finger at him.

“Tom, you know damn well what she’s trying to do here. I’m not about to let it happen. She chose to do this in front of everyone to embarrass my sister. Ain’t my problem what comes out.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“I get it, Mer. Just didn’t need the kids hearing this stuff.”

Nausea squeezes your stomach and takes hold of your throat. You stand and grab your purse. Meredith turns to you, worried.

“Y’alright?” You shake your head.

“Need t’go sit in my car for a bit,” you reply, voice shaky. You turn and walk to your car, paying no attention to wandering eyes. Joel sees you ambling to the parking lot and sets his bat down, raking a hand through his stubble as he walks toward the dugout and out to the bleachers. He’d heard the entire conversation and knew you were probably hurting from Cassie’s remarks.

“I’ll talk to her, Joel,” Meredith says, stepping in between him and you, though you’re far away by now. He shakes his head.

“She needs to hear it from me. None of that shit is true,” he huffs, frown lines etched into his forehead. He jogs frantically to your car.

Hunched over your steering wheel, a knock at your window interrupts you. You jump and look up to see Joel. He looks worried. Shoulders sagging, you unlock the doors and tilt your head as you wait for him to get in. The door opens and he reaches for your hand. You snap it back involuntarily.

“I just wanna be alone right now, Joel,” you lament.

“Just let me explain, alright? I heard everythin’ she said to you,” he says, voice calm. You refuse to look at him, knowing that if you do, you won’t be able to stand firm.

“Look at me, darlin’,” he pleads, voice quiet. You sigh in defeat and turn to look at him. His amber eyes are filled with sadness and frustration.

“None of that shit she said is true. I’ve never slept with anyone that comes to these games, save for you and my ex-wife. Ain’t she ain’t been to a game in many years. Swear,” he says, voice tight, speech rushed.

You look back and forth between his eyes. Why would he lie to you? What could he possibly gain from fucking you—after all, he is a coach, and it might make him look bad to the parents and players. If anything, it was a risk on his part.

“I believe you, Joel. It just hurt,” you finally speak. He reaches for you again, hesitant from your previous rejection. You give him your hand and he kisses the back of it, eyes locked on your face.

“M’sorry. I knew she wasn’t gonna let it go easy. Promise ya, ya got nothin’ to worry about. I—I really like you,” he says, pained. You lean over the center console and kiss him, almost feeling his relief pouring into you.

“I really like you too… old man,” you tease. He roars in laughter.

“Y’gonna pay for that one, darlin’,” he says, half-grinning at you. He kisses you again before pulling back and checking his watch.

“Game’s gonna start soon, I gotta get goin’. I’ll see you later, alright?” You nod, smiling weakly at him. He gives you a quick peck before exiting the passenger side and trotting back to the field.

Noah’s team played an excellent game, which lifted the moods of all the parents and coaches. Cassie’s ex-husband, Byron, showed up and convinced her to leave, which was a relief for everyone. He apologized to you and Meredith for her behavior. Apparently, he already knew about her cheating escapade before they divorced.

Meredith, feeling badly for you, decided to splurge on concession stand snacks and got you a giant Bavarian pretzel and cotton candy, and supplied hot dogs to all the parents. You had fun, too—apprehension quickly turned to relief as parents took turns sympathizing with you and making you feel welcome. This was not Cassie’s first run-in with another woman in the bleachers, you found out—she made this sort of thing a habit.

Noah hit his first home run of the season, eliciting cheers and whoops from the stands. Joel, who had been working with him on his hitting mechanics, gave him a big hug after he returned to the dugout. The team finished 10-3, a great turnaround from yesterday’s loss.

The parents were eager to return to the bar and close it down again. You opted not to, feeling tired and needing a hot bath from the sticky summer night. You and Meredith chatted with Byron for a long time in the parking lot as families filtered out, discussing how to best keep Cassie away from the boys. They had a strong friendship, and neither Meredith nor Byron wanted anything to affect it. Byron shared that Cassie didn’t even have custody of their son—her cheating and drinking during their marriage put a bad taste in Byron’s mouth, and apparently the judge’s—he was awarded full custody.

After saying goodbyes, you were eager to get home, almost forgetting the most important goodbye. You scan the parking lot and see a familiar handsome shape leaning against the bed of his silver truck, eyeing you as you saunter over to him.

“Good game, Coach Miller,” you say slyly, sticking your hand out for him to shake. He grasps it, glancing down with one eyebrow cocked, before pulling you into his chest.

“Lotta motivation coming from the stands tonight,” he croons, wrapping his hands around your waist.

“For you or the boys?” He chuckles.

“Take your pick.” You shake your head and smile, watching the sun drop the last of its shape underneath the horizon. The sky is a beautiful cotton candy color, not unlike the treat Meredith bought for you earlier tonight. You two stand there for a moment, the only sounds being the quiet buzzing of the cicadas and crunch of cars leaving the gravel parking lot.

“Headin’ to the bar?” Joel asks you, holding your chin with his forefinger and thumb. You shake your head.

“Need a hot bath and some relaxation. You?” He smirks, thinking of your naked body undressing and stepping into a bubbly tub.

“Nah. Need the same.” Your lips twitch as you study his face, painted with a little mischief and a little fatigue.

“Want to join me?” you offer, watching a slow grin creep on his face.

“Hmm, need t’think about that one,” he says, eyes flicking over your face.

“What’s there to think about? You, me, naked in a tub. What could possibly go wrong?” You’re flirting now.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinkin’ ‘bout, darlin’, not whether I wanna go,” he says, pulling a goofy laugh from you.

“Meet you over there, then,” you say, turning to leave. He holds onto one of your fingers, preventing you from walking to your car.

“Y’want somethin’ to eat first?” he says, rubbing the skin of your finger.

“Sure. Something on the way?”

“I’m thinkin’ McDonalds. Text me what you want, and I’ll bring it over.”

“It’s a date.”

Not too long thereafter, you and Joel are sitting in your bathtub, backs at opposite ends. He’s tracing shapes on the skin of your knee, asking you every question that pops into his head.

“Shoe size?”

“Eleven. I have big ass feet,” you say, sticking a foot out of the water. He chuckles.

“D’ya want kids someday?”

“Nope. Noah is good enough for me. Never really wanted to be a mom. Would you have another?” He shakes his head.

“I’m too old to be a new father again. S’a lotta work. I had a good run with Sarah,” he says quietly, hand tiptoeing further up your leg.

He stares into your eyes, slicking his wet curls back from his forehead with his free hand.

“Why are you single?” His gaze bores into your face. You avoid it, focusing on mussing up some bubbles floating by your knee. You shrug.

“Haven’t had time, or the energy,” you finally say after a beat. “Haven’t found anyone worth giving either of those things to,” you add, tilting your head and meeting his gaze. He half-smiles at you.

“Yeah, me neither. ‘Til now,” he says, deep voice echoing throughout your bathroom.

“Oh yeah? Cassie, right?” you tease, and he snorts.

“Y’got me there. Alright, last question,” he says, hand stopping at the seam of your thigh. You tighten your muscles a bit, nervous.

“Shoot, Coach,” you say, flicking a bubble at him.

“Can I touch you, baby?” your eyes widen briefly, aligned with the quickening of your pulse. You’ve been wet since he ran the bath water for you and undressed you, fingertips gently tracing your skin as he removed your damp clothing.

“Yes,” you breathe. His finger grazes your mound, the sharp stubble like sandpaper against his skin. He grips your knees and pulls you into his lap. You look down at him, mesmerized by his face and the way he stares at you.

“One more question,” he says, warm, pruny hands traversing your back, warm water trickling from his fingertips to your skin. You thread your fingers through his wet tendrils, leaning your lips close to his, but not touching.

“I’ll allow it,” you whisper.

“Can I kiss you?” You nod, closing the gap between your mouths with ease. His lips are gentle against yours, somewhat chapped from the dry heat of the summer day and salty from sweat. He tastes like salt and mint, which he must’ve snuck into his mouth after you ate earlier.

The kiss deepens, wet sounds of your mouths and the splashing of water now echoing in the bathroom. He’s rock hard against you, cock only a few inches from your needy hole. He pulls back and stares at you.

“Alright, promise this is the last question,” he coos, rubbing his nose against your jaw and then your neck as you tip your head back to give him access. The stubble of his mustache and chin scratch at your skin.

“Fine. Last one,” you agree.

“Can I fuck you?” You nod.

And he does.

Some months and many bubble baths later, Joel wormed his way into your heart. And your apartment. He’s got a baseball cap or two hanging on your mantle, throws his keys in the dish on the kitchen counter when he walks in.

You spend most nights together during the week, either at his cozy home or your apartment.

He calls you his, you call him yours.

He fills your car up with gas when you’re out and about and your fuel light comes on, holds your hand when you walk into a restaurant, tells you how beautiful you are at least a few times a week—and not just when his cock is sheathed inside you.

He kisses you each morning before he leaves for work. Shares his food with you, even when he’s starving. Washes you in the shower and puts lotion on the spots you can’t reach after he dries you off.

Introduces you to his family, and shows you pictures of his late daughter.

Goes to the movies with you and doesn’t complain that you talk during the. Entire. Movie.

Lets you wear his ratty, baggy tees around the house, and even asks you to keep them on sometimes when he makes love to you.

Makes fun of how you use a hammer and that you can’t name the 31 different types of wrenches but corrects you each time with a warm smile.

Plays catch with you before the boys show up for warmups and lets you set up the dugout, though he’ll redo it later on anyway.

And when he finally tells you how much he loves you, you’re not shocked. Warmth ebbs inside you, like it does most days with him. You knew it all along, even if he never had the courage to say it—it was evident with each kiss, touch, and thrust, each bag of food he brought for you, each time he held the door open for you, each time he guided you somewhere with his strong hand on the small of your back.

You oftentimes wonder if he is your soulmate, though you already know the answer.

He makes lemonade with each lemon you give him, without complaint or judgment. And that’s all you can ask for.

[astroboots]

Hmmm ok maybe the three of them going on holiday and making good use of a hotel room and balcony 😉

STRIP POKER

Summary: The trio goes on a beach holiday only to get trapped in their hotel room and you end up playing strip poker.

Rating: Explicit, DP with Frankie's giant cock which needs a warning of itself.

Warning: Writer has no fucking clue about poker (or any card games) and it fucking shows. She did research and friends and family tried to explain it to her but that only confused her more.

Pairing: Frankie x female reader (you) x Santiago

Word Count: 5k

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist

It's raining outside.

A violent smattering of rain so aggressive it sounds like the window panes are getting the beating of its life.

Frankie sighs. $250 a night for a hotel room with a seaside view and it's just fucking pouring down.

He is standing outside on the balcony, still within safe shelter from the rain. Leaning his elbow against the balcony rail, he peers down at the perfect aquamarine water that glitters like a precious gem underneath, out of reach.

It's his first proper holiday from work in years, and he'd thought it'd be nice to splurge a bit. Big king-sized bed. Hotel Spa. Beach access.

It would have been perfect. And at first it seemed to be. Gorgeous sun as far as the eye could see when the plane touched ground on the tarmac. Then it started raining, and it just didn't stop. Torrential -- there's a typhoon warning on the weather forecast that everyone is recommended to stay inside -- kind of rain.

He throws a glance behind his shoulder, back at the hotel room where Santiago is draped across the large king sized bed with a thick novel he picked up from the airport. Santiago is about three quarters in, which means there's an hour, maybe less, before he's finished.

After that there will be nothing to distract the man and it's only a matter of time before Santiago will get restless. God knows what he'll get up to then.

For once, Frankie won't blame him.

Stuck in a small room with nothing but reruns of telemundo and shitty overpriced hotel service club sandwiches to keep everyone distracted. Frankie's pretty sure that he's going to follow suit with a case of cabin fever not long after Santiago.

From the corner of his eyes, he spots you stomp over to the bed where Santiago is lying. He can't hear what you're saying, but you're waving your hands around animatedly. Santiago immediately puts his novel face-down against the mattress, then he shakes his head adamantly at whatever it is you are saying.

Out of the three of you it looks like your patience was the first to snap.

Your arms cross across your chest, feet stomping down in dismay. Then you turn in the direction of the balcony and Santiago is immediately shooting to his feet to preempt you. He outruns you across the room and flings open the balcony door.

"Frank! Tell your wife it's a bad idea!"

Frankie rolls his eyes at the dramatic outburst. Oh it's his wife now that you have a bad idea, is it?

Cocking his head to the side, Frankie looks to you over Santiago's shoulder. "What's a bad idea baby?"

"Let's go out!" You announce. "So what if it's raining? We can go for a quick swim anyhow. It'll still be warm."

Frankie blinks. He casts his eyes over the cascade of rain that has turned the once white sand into grey sludge. Catches sight of the parasols on the beach that has been uprooted by the winds and are flying wildly, a scene straight out of that 'Twister' movie with Helen Hunt he saw as a kid.

There aren't many occasions in your life together that Frankie has ever said no to you. This though might be one of those rare ones.

"Baby," he starts, voice soft as to cajole you. "That's a bad idea."

You throw your hands out in a dramatic gesture as you stalk your way back inside the room. Frankie barely catches the tail end of your sentence but he hears the string of swears to understand the sentiment of it.

Frankie's left with only Santiago for company on the balcony. The man calmly walks up to the end next to him, leaning out against the railing to assess the weather outside.

To Frankie's surprise, Santiago doesn't say anything. Seemingly content with the companionable silence and the sound of rain smattering all around them. There are no bratty complaints about paying hundreds of dollars only to watch rain. No witty snark.

"You're being uncharacteristically well behaved," Frankie says.

Santiago grins. "I've had a lifetime of experience sitting out shitty weather with nothing to do during missions, Frank. At least this time, I don't have to listen to Firefly's snores."

Frankie snorts at the memory.

"There's much worse things in life than having you and Boa cooped up with me in a fancy hotel room."

There's something soft in Santiago's eyes as he says it. A sentimentality in his voice that Frankie has a hard time placing, because he can't quite recall when Santiago has ever used it with him before.

Before Frankie has a chance to recuperate from blanking out and think of something to say back, Santiago is already leaning away from the balcony to step back inside the room towards you.

"Come on sweetheart. Stop being a brat," he says and playfully swats your backside with a gentle tap that makes you jump.

Santiago leans over the desk and opens a drawer to pull out a pack of cards that he cracks open and your eyes light up at the sight of it.

"If you're bored, let's play a game, yeah?"

In his own humble opinion, Frankie's never been particularly good at poker. He's got the poker face part down, but he never had an interest for gambling and the rules of the game never quite made sense to him.

Santiago on the other hand is a master of it. He's the undefeated champion during their military days and he regularly cleaned out everyone's savings on any given night.

As for you. Competitive as you are, as with every game that you've played more than twice -- you got good at it with practice, but the poker face bit of it is something you are still struggling severely with, because it's always written as plain as day on your face if you have a good or bad hand.

So in a game of strip poker, it's a bit surprising that two hours in, Santiago is the one sat in his underwear, while you and Frankie are still fully clothed.

Frankie's down to his t-shirt and briefs, whereas you have only lost your right sock.

In all honesty, Frankie doesn't quite understand it. Because right now you're sitting across Santiago, a grin so wide you are going to end up with muscle soreness in your cheeks. It's a sign the size of a massive billboard on Time Square lit up in neon and flashing lights that the hand you've been dealt with is good as gold. Yet, despite all the clear signs pointing to only one very clear and undeniable conclusion, for some unfathomable reason, Santiago still refuses to fold.

He tips his chin up in challenge towards you. "What you got sweetheart?"

That grin of yours grow impossibly wider as you set down your cards, revealing them one by one on the wooden floor where you're sat.

First a diamond 8. Then a ace of heart. Then an ace of diamond. Santiago's defiant features fall, pearly white teeth sinking into that pouty lip as he watches you put down a club ace. And as you put down the final card: An ace of spade. Santiago groans in defeat.

"You're cheating," he mumbles indignantly. But his fingers are already dragging his sole remaining garment down over his hips to the sound of your cackling laugh.

If Frankie's eyes linger for a little longer than they should at the round ample curve of Santiago's ass, you don't notice over your absolute glee in defeating the man.

You're already hooting with joy as Santiago demands another round, metaphorically kicking the man when he's already down.

"And what exactly are you going to gamble with for the re-match? You're butt fucking naked Santiago!"

"We'll do different stakes," Santiago shoots back.

"Like what?"

"I'll do whatever you say."

It's like a pin drops in the space between you. Your laughter stops.

"Whatever?" you repeat.

There's a glint in your eye that even Frankie can tell is dangerous, and only an idiot (a competitive idiot) would still go ahead when met with that look on your face.

Santiago is seemingly that idiot.

"Whatever," he confirms. "Carte blanch. Nothing's off the table."

The devious smile on your lips doesn't wane for even a second. You take the deck of cards back into your hands and shuffle them.

"You're on."

Tense is an understatement to describe the next half hour that unfolds in the hotel room.

For a game that was meant to be a fun distraction from the rain outside, it's now turned into something else entirely.

Rundown gambling dens by the border of Colombia are less intimidating than what is going on between you and Santiago right now.

"Antique markets every Sunday at 6am for a month," you threaten him. Santiago practically twitches at the scene you're painting. His fingers grip on tighter on his hand of cards.

You grin at the sign of weakness.

"Oh and you're calling Martina about that time you blamed her for stealing booze from your mom but it was really you."

"What?" Santiago pipes up in alarm, with no trace of his trademark coolness that he usually has for these games. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Whatever I say," you remind him. "Those were the terms."

Santiago seethes. Gritting his teeth as he shakes his head and sits back down firmly on the ground. "Sure," he mumbles like a petulant child. "Whatever. Show your hand already."

You scoot closer to Santiago, cards tucked close to your chest with a smile so wide it lights up the whole room with it.

The first card that comes down is a club of 9. The next is a 10 in the same suit.

Frankie can already see the small muscle in Santiago's cut jaw flex before the man drags his hand over it in a tell-tale sign of displeasure that both you and Frankie recognize all too well.

Normally Frankie would say that with that look on your face, Santiago is in a whole world of trouble.

Normally.

The face of Jack is staring up at the three of you from the floor, and before you even put down the final two cards, Santiago and Frankie both already knows that it is going to be a Queen and a King dressed in black club.

You fling down the duo triumphantly and you're already listing out loud every embarrassing act you are going to force Santiago to endure. There are threats of toilet scrubbing. Brunches with Frankie's mom. Attending a taxidermy class with you.

It lasts for several minutes before you lean down to start gathering the cards to put them away.

"Sweetheart, slow down."

Santiago reaches over. His free hand that's not holding the cards, cupping over yours to stop you. There's a slow and almost gentle smile that spreads across his lips.

Then Santiago finally drops the act.

"I haven't shown my cards yet have I?" he says.

From the way that your smile fades. The way the bright light in your eyes dim, you know it too. The bastard played you. Has been playing you this whole evening, right into his conniving and clever hands.

Frankie suspected as much.

After all, Santiago is brilliant at poker. Undefeated for as long as he's known the man.

As good as you may have gotten with practice, there was no way your long and uninterrupted winning streak of this entire evening was from sheer luck. Especially not when Santiago has not shown his hand a single time this evening.

10 of hearts. Jack of Hearts. Queen and King dotted with red hearts above their crown. Then finally an Ace in the shape of hearts.

A royal flush.

"Soooo," Santiago starts with a slow and meaningful drawl as he grins back at you.

"Whatever I say huh?"

Frankie should probably put a stop to this.

Because you look like you're about to kill someone.

You're kneeling on the floor, tucked between Frankie's legs, as Santiago is right behind you, plastered closely to your back.

The man can't resist the urge to tease you, even if it is under imminent threat to his life. Santiago's nimble fingers tuck a loose curl of your hair behind your ear before pressing a kiss to it.

"You're scaring poor Frankie," he tuts. "It's not good manners to stare daggers at a man when you're inches from his cock, sweetheart."

That comment doesn't make you look any less like a murderess to be.

"Frank," Santiago calls out. "Take out your cock."

Frankie sighs as he reaches for his belt to unbuckle. One hand reaches underneath his boxers as he pulls himself out. He doesn't know why he lets either of you constantly rope you into these situations.

God he feels fucking ridiculous.

"Look at how nice and obedient our husband is being," Santiago goads as his hand comes to your jaw, bridging the span of it. Then he gently tilts you downwards to guide your face forward until you're lips are mere inches from Frankie's cock.

As if by instinct, without further instructions, your mouth already parts for him. Just the sight of your glistening tongue makes the entirety of Frank's back tingle.

He can't help it. It's sense memory at this point.

The tip of your tongue darts out, but before you make any physical contact, Santiago stops you.

"Not yet," he says.

His arm curls around the front of your chest, pulling you back again with an expression of pure schadenfreude.

"I'm gonna have to have you ask nicely for it, sweetheart. Ask Frank to let you suck his cock."

Frankie nearly rolls his eyes at Santiago. The man just has to rub it in doesn't he? Insufferable brat.

If he was Santiago, he'd sleep with one eye open tonight.

Still for all his teasing, it could be so much worse. Not to defend Santiago and his idiocy. But in comparison to what you had in mind for the man, Santiago is going more than easy on you. This is mild for the man.

You must know it too, because you don't protest. Barely even hesitate as you gaze up at Frankie, through your thick lashes, dutifully and do as you're told.

"Please can I suck your cock, Francisco?"

Shit.

Excitement pings across his nerves at your words.

This is a ridiculous situation. Frankie shouldn't get turned on.

But he can't help himself. not when he feels the warmth of your breath exhale gently over his cock and the stupid thing immediately stirs into rapt attention.

Your hands reach over, fingers wrapping around his girth. Frankie doesn't even get a chance to savor it before Santiago is already grabbing for your wrists.

Cock-blocker.

"Nuh, uh," Santiago admonishes. "No hands".

You don't fight him on it. Your hands withdraw to your sides and you keep them there obediently, as you lean down the rest of the way, until your soft gorgeous lips press down against Frankie's quickly hardening cock.

Heat spears through his stomach at your touch.

Soft and almost chaste, your lips linger on his cock and it has Frankie immediately swelling to full hardness, until he can feel it twitching against your soft cheek.

Your tongue darts out, the pink tip gliding along a protruding vein as you pamper his cock with your full attention. Lapping, sucking and kissing at the spot with a quiet moan before you finally move along and slip the head of his cock between your lips.

Dizzying pleasure punches through him and for a brief second, even sat on the bed, Frankie thinks he might pass out from the overwhelming sensation. His mind is in the process of drifting and floating out of his body and away from the room. The only thing that still keeps him tethered to consciousness is Santiago's voice. The gentle mocking praise that spills from the man's filthy mouth.

"Isn't our sweet girl good?" Santiago asks him. "Doing such a good job isn't she?"

Frankie wants to say yes. But his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he's gone dumb with pleasure to the point that he's forgotten how to speak.

In front of him, Santiago is having the time of his life (because of course the bastard is). There is a sly smile on his lips as that clever hand of his palms the small of your back. He traces the length of your spine until his hand disappears under the edge of your panties.

It doesn't take much detective work for Frankie to guess what Santiago is doing to you as you moan keenly around his cock.

"Look at her isn't she so pretty sucking your cock, Frank?"

For all that the man keeps coddling you with his words, cooing and hushing you with a soothing cadence, Santiago doesn't show you much leniency. His hand isn't stopping, even as you whimper and shake from his touch. He doesn't let up.

Even from Frankie's obscured view from the bed, he can see Santiago's fingers working into you. Finding every perfect angle that has tears stinging in the corner of your eyes until they gaze up pleadingly at Frankie with a wet glossy sheen.

Fuck, you're so fucking pretty like this.

"So fucking perfect for us. I think my only criticism is she gets so easily distracted", he teases as your hips cant up to chase his hand, for Santiago to give you more.

All Frankie can manage is a desperate groan in return. His head tilts back as the overwhelming sensation washes over him. Hips canting deeper into your mouth to have more of your lips, your tongue, more of… anything that you are willing to give him.

Your throat protests at the thick intrusion, swallowing in fits around Frankie. You whine, trying to pull back but Santiago is there pushing you forward with another encouraging string of praise.

Frankie can see the man work his fingers deeper into you and your body is wracked in another series of shivers, mouth parting until his cock slip out. You try to cover your mouth with your hand to stop a moan that breaks out, but Santiago's hand immediately shoot out to grab your wrist again to secure it to your side.

"That won't do. Put your pretty mouth back on Frank's big cock sweetheart."

"Santiago," you protest throwing him a menacing glare, a second away from telling him that it's his fault to begin with.

"Whatever I say," Santiago reminds you, parroting your own taunting words from before. "Those were the terms."

You bite your lip with a pout that is all too similar to Santiago.

In moments like this, Frankie is reminded of the closeness of the two of you. How inextricably intertwined you two are having grown up together. Two sides of the same stubborn, competitive coin. And god he loves both of you.

Swallowing your bruised pride, you bend over again, parting your lips to put your mouth back on his cock.

Heat spears through him until his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head. The last thing he sees before they do is Santiago's eyes gazing back at him.

Even behind closed eyes Frankie can't get away from it. Santiago's sweet and murmured praises as he talks about how good you are. How pretty you look. In the dark it's easy for the lines to be blurred enough that Frankie isn't entirely sure who Santiago is directing the praise at anymore. And that makes it even better.

When Frankie opens his eyes again, blinking away at the watery edges of his sanity, Santiago is right there.

One hand palming languidly at his own cock as he observes Frankie and you.

He smiles at Frankie, holding the eye contact before he moves to position himself behind you, gripping at your hips. Cock lined up and nudging against the cleft of your ass, taking his sweet fucking time like he's putting on a show for Frankie's benefit to make sure he catches every single detail. Then he pushes forward, into you.

You gasp at the new intrusion, hands flying to Frankie's hips to keep yourself steady as Santiago thrusts forward. The momentum forces your entire body further onto Frankie's cock.

It's a struggle for you to keep your mouth on him and it's a maddening sensation for Frankie. The way your tongue darts out, desperately licking and sucking around the tip of him as best as you can. All the while the man is taunting you with unrestrained glee in his tone.

"It's not too much is it cariño? You can do it. You can take me and Frankie both can't you? Be our good girl, don't stop. Keep going."

And fuck, you don't stop. Your mouth envelops the length of his cock. inch by inch as Frankie watch in delirious fascination as the thick girth disappears between your lips.

You take in so much of him, Frankie has a momentary thought of how you even manage to fit it. Then he feels himself hit the back of your throat.

Christ, Frankie's not particularly religious but he's pretty sure he sees heaven as his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Still you continue, past your limits, eyes watering as you swallow desperately around him.

"Good girl. Such a good fucking girl," Santiago repeats, as he grinds his hips into you.

His hand rests on your back, sweeping your hair to one side until your neck is bare. Then he leans over, his chest pressed along your back and presses a kiss onto your nape.

It's such a sweet gesture, completely at odds with what the man is doing to you in this moment. Then his hips come to a still, an indicator that Santiago is well on his way to implement phase two of whatever devious plan he has for the three of you tonight.

Because Frankie knows Santiago. Better than you know Santiago sometimes, it seems. He knows him well enough that what has transpired so far is just the appetizer for what's to come.

That's just Santiago. Always a step ahead of everyone else. Always an opportunist to the core, his mind is always considering and assessing and re-evaluating the situation for changes.

It's where you lose to him. You get too honed in and narrow minded, your eyes too focused on the prize in front of you. Your mind always too occupied with thoughts of winning the battle while Santiago has his eye on the horizon to emerge victorious from the war.

In front of him, Santiago's hand comes to your cheek cupping you gently as he pulls you off Frankie's cock to your confusion.

"So good for us. You wanna claim your prize hmm?" Santiago murmurs in your ear ominously.

With one arm wrapped around your front, the man lifts you up and guides you to your feet. Then he's maneuvering you onto the bed, arranging you to his liking until you're sat in Frankie's lap.

He curls his fingers around Frankie's cock, like it's a trophy for you to claim and guides Frankie to your slick and waiting entrance, until the blunt tip is nudging against your wet clit.

That clever hand steady at the small of your back, in a steady but firm pace until the entirety of Frankie's cock is fully sheathed inside you.

Fuck.

You feel so fucking good. Warm, slick and so fucking perfect. Frankie thinks he's going to lose his mind with it.

His brain cells are melting with pleasure inside his skull and he can barely pay enough attention with the way you're clutched so tightly around his cock to register that Santiago isn't next to you anymore. He's gone off somewhere, fuck knows where, as Frankie palms the soft curves of your hips to press you firmly down on him, pushing as deep as he goes.

Frankie can't stop long enough to think much else, except for the sweet pace that you're rocking forward on his cock with. He's lost in it. Drunk and inebriated on the way you feel in his arms as he rocks you up and down on his cock that he barely even notices when Santiago's back again.

This time with a bottle of lube in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Of course, that's where the clever bastard went.

"San--" you start, but your voice is cut off at the long drag of Frankie's cock inside of you as he thrusts up again.

Santiago's smile spreads even wider, predatory. "What sweetheart? Don't you want your reward?"

Frankie can hear the click of the bottle, two seconds before he registers the way that Santiago's hand slips between your legs again, and then he fucking feels it. The pressure of Santiago's finger as he presses inside of you, and fuckfuck--shit! It knocks the fucking breath out of Frankie's lungs.

The sound you make is the sweetest fucking thing that Frankie's ever heard. It's needy and desperate. It echoes in his head and he never wants it to stop. Wants to record it so he can replay it a thousand times over.

"You did so well," Santiago says, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. He stills, allowing you to adjust to the new sensation.

"You won the game tonight. Fair and square. I'm just here to give you your hard-earned prize."

Even though Frankie can't see it, he can feel it. The rigid heat of Santiago's cock nudging at your ass, inches from Frankie's cock.

"This good cariño? You want me inside you too hmm? Tell me how you want it," Santiago demands.

But there's no way you can answer the man coherently.

You're an absolute trembling, shaking mess. Can barely form a word and much less a sentence. You just keep nodding, as you keep moving up and down on Frankie's cock with a stuttering "ye-yes."

And that's not enough for the bastard

"Yes what, sweetheart?" Santiago teases.

You sob, knowing fully well you won't be able to give Santiago what he wants in this state.

But he doesn't ease up. "Try again," he says.

"Both," you try, struggling. The word panting and out of breath. "I want-- f-fuck!" It's such a high pitched sound, you practically sound like a damned squeaky to. "Please, please," you cry, tears brimming in your eyes.

That smug bastard likes that, smiling and humming as he rubs the side of his jaw along the back of your neck, scraping his prickly five o' clock shadow against your soft skin until goose bumps form in its wake.

"Ple--please, San--I want--"

"Greedy girl," Santiago rasps out. He moves back for a brief moment, and you squeak in alarm that he's gonna leave. Instead he thrusts forward and fuck, fuckFUCK!

Shit. Frankie can't breathe.

There are bright sparks in his vision. Blood rushes to his head and for a moment Frankie isn't sure if he's going blind or having a seizure.

It's electrifying, a sweet burn that zips through Frankie's spine.

The blood thrashes and swirls inside his ears. It makes every noise around him distorted, like he's under water and drowning in you.

In the far off distance, he thinks he can hear Santiago groan brokenly against your skin. Whatever bravado was there before is all but gone in his voice now.

You're so fucking tight. He can feel Santiago through you. Can feel the way your perfect cunt is clutching onto every inch of his cock... and Santiago's not even all the way inside yet.

He doesn't know if you can fit more. Everything feels tight and overwrought and so so so much. His brain is so overloaded on sensation, it takes him a second to register that both him and Santiago have stopped moving.

None of you are speaking, and Santiago isn't teasing anymore, seemingly at loss of words now.

Santiago hisses out a breath between gritted teeth. His fingers gripping into your hips until it dents the soft flesh as the man tries to hold on by his literal fingernails.

"Fuck sweetheart, you're so tight. Relax for me okay?"

And you're trying to. Frankie can tell that much. You really are. It's not like you're doing this on purpose. It's real fucking easy for Santiago to ask you to relax when Santiago's never had to try to fit two cocks inside his body.

On top of that, while Frankie's never liked to brag, he's self-aware enough to know his own size and how he's a lot to take.

Frankie's hand comes to the small of your back, stroking it to provide you with comfort in the best way he can manage in the circumstances.

"It's ok baby, it's okay. We got you," Frankie murmurs against your skin.

Behind you, Santiago's eyes are squeezed tightly shut. An expression of bliss and torture all blended together. "I'll go slow," he chokes out. "I always do don't I? Let me open you up and make you feel good,"

His voice has gone sweet and indulgent. There's nothing mocking about it now. Just pure unadulterated fondness.

Whatever game he was playing before has ended now. Frankie knows that all Santiago wants in this moment is for you to feel good.

But you're too out of it to notice Santiago's defeat and your own outright victory.

You crane your head back towards Santiago with an indignant glare, no doubt to start off what will be a round of bickering between you and the man.

And that's the last thing Frankie wants in this moment, for either of you.

And maybe Frankie's an opportunist too. Maybe he's just as bad as Santiago. Because he quickly cups your cheek, guiding you back towards his lips to cut off any words you might have for Santiago.

His other hand, moves down to the front of your stomach, sliding his palm down along the inside of your thighs until his fingers can draw along the wetness of your folds, pressing light circles against your clit.

You try to escape it, oversensitive and overstimulated. You try to press back only to be met by Santiago's firm chest caging you in, pushing you forward and back into Frankie hand.

You shake and spasm in between them. Tears brimming in the wet sheen of your eyes.

Frankie's barely done anything to you and, god you're already close somehow.

He can feel it. The rise in the pace of your breathing, the thrum of your heart beating against your chest like your very heart is trying to escape from your ribcage as your impending climax builds and builds and builds from within you.

You come with a defeated whimper into his mouth. To Santiago's rasped groan in your ear and Frankie's low moan into your mouth. Your orgasm cascades over you as you shiver in his arms and squeeze tightly around them both.

Everything is a pleasant buzz thrumming in his veins as he can sense how all of you are unwinding. Your body melting in his arms, pressed between him and Santiago as you are.

They let you recover. Let you calm down. The only movement between them, is Santiago lips dragging against your hairline fondly as if to console you.

"That good baby? Think you ready for us now?" Frankie asks.

You're still swimming in the afterwaves of your pleasure, but you nod drowsily in reply.

Santiago continues to press open mouth kisses against your cheek and jaw, before he moves back to give you space.

You whine, a little bit panicked at the sudden movement. Your hand clings onto Santiago's wrist and the man immediately stills for you.

"Stay," you plead.

"Not going anywhere sweetheart," Santiago says, there's no hint of teasing this time. No lingering bluster of pride or a need to one up you.

"I'm staying right here."

It's soft and loving.

The very same tone in his voice he held when he was gazing out at the rain on the balcony.

Frankie had a hard time placing it when he heard it the first time, but he recognizes it for what it is now.

Contentment... It's a tone so foreign on Santiago but it suits him so well. If he can, then for the rest of his life Frankie wants to make sure the man gets to keep it.

Raising one hand to the back of Santiago's neck, Frankie cups his hand over the old-worn surgery scar as he reels the man closer and seals his mouth over Santiago's.

His lips are soft and pliant against Frankie's own. Then his mouth parts with a sweet little hum that sounds all too similar to the gorgeous whines you've been making all evening.

Outside the rain doesn't stop. It rains for the whole of that week.

But Santiago was right. There are worse things in the world than being cooped up in a room with the two people you love the most.

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Author's note: We're baaaaaaaack! I know it's been a hot minute since we got some proper porn with these three! It's also the first time in months I've written proper porn so I may be rusty. Thank you for your patience everyone while I was off lusting for tall spidermen.

[wise-rainfalls]

The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles – Resolve of Ryuunosuke Naruhodou

Off the back of completing both games, a somewhat unavoidable impression is that the first game was almost entirely set-building for the second game: specifically the Professor case. It’s a relief, then, that the case delivers on the overwhelming momentum that has been granted it: a more satisfying tying together of ends, both narrative and thematic, would have been hard to achieve within the structure of the game itself. While this made for somewhat dismal playing at certain points (the first game, I am afraid to say, I somewhat struggled through) the payoff, being so fundamentally dependant on the long buildup, made it all worth it.

Structurally, the game spirals into the black hole of the Professor case with a sort of fatalistic gravitational pull – approaching that final unknown, the themes of the game begin to sand into clear brilliance as the narrative pares away all its false edges and red herrings. Truth, resolve, justice: the interactions therein. Specifically, the resolve to reach the truth that delivers justice: justice over comfort. Truth, the game insists, is not happened upon. It is not an easy coincidence of facts that travel the easiest route to a similarly easy conclusion. To deliver and search for the truth requires real moral courage, as well as true, cool-headed evaluation. Entering into the mire of the past, the honed knife’s edge that the games have forced us to sharpen is what allows the final delivery of the bitter truth to feel not just as a particularly clever trick, but a victory.

It's fitting then, that Ryuunosuke is our protagonist, and his journey is the one we follow. In a game so deeply concerned with bloodline ties and the spectre of the past, Ryuunosuke is the only prominent character who almost fully embodies the definition of a black slate. He seemingly lacks any family ties, and that lack causes him to feel, at least on-screen, absolutely nothing. His past is brain-breakingly generic: somehow, he got into university, and somehow, he’s studying English. He practices tongue-twisters in his spare time, and he’s best friends with Kazuma. When we meet Ryuunosuke, he’s completely unmoored without being in the least adrift. He exists, a self-generating entity, sprung seemingly from a magic rock into his black student uniform.

While certainly this multiple-choice or no-choice past is due to the constraints of the visual novel format and the influence of Ryuunosuke’s predecessor/descendant, as the games increasingly centralise with an inwards pulling force across oceans and generations into a singular map of criss-crossing relationships, encompassing almost every single major character in the games, Ryuunosuke alone remains aloft. Nothing touches him except for the present: every bit of information is new, every impression is fresh. Here is a man with no pre-considered opinion on anything, no priorities, no agendas except for the truth. Ryuunosuke as a character, in sharp contrast to nearly everyone else, is entirely oriented to the future: as the games continually digs up restless ghosts, he, of the entire cast, is the only one equipped to put them to rest.

For all that, while Resolve is where the majority of the payoff occurs, Adventures is where Ryuunosuke – and Susato! – really get to shine. It’s in this first game that the whetting process occurs. When we meet Ryuunosuke, he’s the equivalent of a quivering stick insect: in the immortal words of Kazuma: ‘This cheeky, wide-eyed no-hoper is out of his depth. He's going to be a pushover.’ For the first half of the trial for his own innocence, while nominally he’s defending himself, Kazuma still takes the lead. In-game animations of an aggressively assertive Kazuma contrasted with a taken-aback Ryuunosuke encapsulate their dynamic: Kazuma is the leader, whereas Ryuunosuke cowers. The defence lawyer path is one that Ryuunosuke stumbles into, ousting Kazuma from the role by pure happenstance (a nice bit of parallelism for the next case). Even Kazuma’s final claim that Ryuunosuke’s ability to trust has struck him feels…empty. Certainly the strongest impression we get is Kazuma’s trust in Ryuunosuke, while Ryuunosuke somewhat clings to the red floating strands of his friend’s headband. Kazuma gives a supremely unconvincing elucidation of his mystifying statement about Ryuunosuke’s potential as a defence lawyer:

Kazuma: You faced seemingly hopeless situations time and again, but you never stopped looking for the truth. And in the end, you found it. Through your own efforts. And because you never stopped believing in me.

And well…I’m not convinced! There’s a clear conflation/confusion here between belief in the truth and belief in another which seem hopelessly entangled. Is Kazuma congratulating Ryuunosuke for his unwavering dependence/belief in Kazuma’s ability or for the way he pulled through in searching for the truth on his own merits? At the time, I felt as if the theme of trust was being rather crudely stapled on. While I still think the execution could have been slightly better, looking back, I can appreciate the early sly weaving of these disparate interpretations of belief into tension together. As we learn later: belief in another and belief in truth don’t necessarily conflict, but nor, especially in the case of Kazuma himself, will they necessarily align. Blind trust versus belief and pursuit of the truth end as one of the overarching themes of the game, so it’s nice to spot them introduced here (albeit clumsily).

But in any case, this is our first impression of Ryuunosuke. A nice enough guy, with some potential – but almost completely overshadowed by his more competent, more confident, more purposeful best friend. Kazuma steals the show utterly.

And it’s for this reason that Kazuma has to die.

The second case somehow manages to imbue an impressive amount of genuine emotional feeling into events that reveal themselves as increasingly ludicrous for simply how…normal they are. This is an Ace Attorney case, for god’s sake! Kazuma died by tripping???? There might as well have been a neon arrow pointing down from the great writerly hand of Shu Takami saying ‘we need this guy out of the way for the protagonist’s development’. One has to admire the brazenness. Nevertheless, Kazuma dies from tripping after being pushed and knocking himself out on a bedstead. Ok. This is played with an impressively straight face, up to and including the commitment in Ryuunosuke’s and Susato’s reactions. While it would have been easy to slip in a hint of irony, there’s only absolute sincerity as the events come to light – a genuinely laudable feat that makes the death finally land. What comes to mind especially is Susato’s angry condemnation of Nikolina and silent gaze at Kazuma’s lonely sword, as well as the taut emotion of the gifting of the sword. Nonetheless, Kazuma dies, as he must. In his place, we get Herlock Sholmes, appearing like a great orange bug from the boards of the SS Burya, to slot into the narrative place Kazuma’s overly large presence had previously squeezed into: the mentor, the one who guides.

While they are both huge personalities, unlike Kazuma, Herlock is ludicrous. His conclusions are mind-bogglingly wrong, he’s ridiculously self-confident and self-absorbed in ways that are increasingly entertaining to watch, he prances through the scene like a highlighter vest doing a tap-dance routine, unreliably narrating as he goes. Whereas Kazuma led by example, Herlock very much does the opposite. The crux of his interactions with Ryuunosuke lies not in acting on Ryuunosuke’s behalf, but being corrected by him. In comparison to Kazuma’s reliability, Herlock’s flighty inconsistency is exactly what’s needed – to allow Ryuunosuke to grow.

Already within the tight confines of the second case, we see that the vacuum of Kazuma’s absence has an almost stretching effect on every other character in the story. The hole left in terms of plot, time, and development by Kazuma gives both Ryuunosuke and Susato the space and languor to extend into that suddenly-large emptiness. Whereas before, in case 1, I would describe the characters in a sort of spoke-wheel situation with Kazuma at the centre, the emptiness left behind allows them to begin chemically reacting with each other. The bond between Ryuunosuke and Susato, rather than something requiring mediation through the third-party presence of Kazuma, forms with unprecedented sincerity on Susato’s part especially, while the addition of Herlock fuels a sort of colour-changing blaze. This comes at the cost of both the characters’ and our own impressions of Kazuma: doomed to be flattened into an inspirational piece to make way for the uncurling expansion of his friends, he becomes little more than an inspiring dream.

This effect continues throughout the remainder of the game. Without the authoritative overhanging presence of Kazuma’s ‘rightness’, Ryuunosuke steps into his own. With no right answer but his limited remembrance of Kazuma’s example, he has nowhere to turn but to his own judgement as he wrestles with the conundrums of the legal system. The inner resolve that bolsters the second arc, the struggle and the decisive self-reflection that produces a coherent internal system of moral judgement on the law itself, and crucially, the ability to stand in equal opposition to Kazuma, cannot be achieved if Kazuma is physically present.

It's in the third case that we finally reach London – and where Ryuunosuke’s journey really begins. The pieces slot into place, the stage is set. The resolve of Ryuunosuke Naruhodou begins to form, a crystallising gem in the volcanic crucible of London’s darkness.

Almost immediately on reaching London, in fact, the question of resolve is posed to us. Similarly to the above supposition on trust, the characters struggle with definitions that stand in tension and are only uneasily reconciled. Opposing meanings battle on-screen, welded with cultural divide as Lord Stronghart proposes different meanings that Ryuunosuke and Susato subsequently reject. In a charged, if ambiguous exchange ripe with foreshadowing, Stronghart raises the idea of ‘resolved to continue Kazuma’s path/dream’ which Ryuunosuke and Susato jointly reject, not simply on the terms that Stronghart offers them, but definitionally, that continuation of Kazuma’s path has nothing to do with resolve – or more specifically, that toying with justice is a step beyond the pale. Stronghart both redefines his terms while dismissing their concerns in response: defending is always a matter of resolve, and the defendant has no one – what now? While clearly Stronghart is testing Ryuunosuke’s mettle, and indeed you can see him whittling down to the core moral concerns that define both what Ryuunosuke can be driven by and the lines he won’t cross, the question of resolve remains ambiguously half-answered. Has Ryuunosuke shown his resolve in choosing to defend the defendant on hearing Stronghart’s re-equivalence of terms, or a painful lack of it? Is his refusal to pursue Kazuma’s ambition at the expense of the dignity of the law an exemplar of uprightness, or a confused parry with only reactive impulse behind it? Is resolve, in Ryuunosuke’s specific case, only an extension of a determination to fulfill Kazuma’s dream? The simple question of the ‘resolve to defend’ gets almost immediately tested, and we, like Ryuunosuke, leave feeling vaguely befuddled, with the uncomfortable idea that our resolve may be more circumstantial than we think.

This confusion as to what exactly resolve is – indeed, what defence is – is raked further over the coals in the case of McGilded. In the previous two cases, we have perfect confidence in the defendant’s innocence – that defendant, of course, being Ryuunosuke himself. It would a different genre of game if Ryuunosuke was, in fact, the culprit – though perhaps also an interesting one. Nevertheless, the structure of Ace Attorney incentivises the player to assume 1. The defendant is innocent, always, no matter how bad the facts look and 2. The facts are never what they seem: the truth is always hidden. The McGilded case throws all that out. The defendant isn’t innocent, and the truth is that simple. The fruit that our efforts seem to be reaping, the ‘evidence’ backing up our storyline, in fact, the storyline itself – are a result of a canker in the justice system, in which we have unwittingly played a part. Suddenly, the previously uneasy conclusion of resolve that Ryuunosuke had come to – ‘defend the client as they need defending’ – grows shaky. Here, Kazuma’s words on belief come back to haunt us as the concepts begin to twine: resolve is impossible without trust. But trust in what? The defendant, when we might meet yet another McGilded? The justice system, which has allowed the trial in which we ourselves have taken part to conclude as it did? Ourselves? Kazuma’s dream?

This question of a guilty defendant is one that the Great Ace Attorney, to tell the truth, never quite manages to answer satisfactorily. Apart from this particular foray into a completely unknown client, every other client in the cases that follow are somehow ‘pre-vetted’ by Ryuunosuke. We never quite face the same dilemma, where we genuinely don’t know enough about the defendant, nor do we have any ‘character witnesses’ vouching for them, that their guilt in the matter might be truly suspect. Nonetheless, it’s a brave stab that the game takes, and the consequences of the McGilded trial rock the rest of the game. However, on closer inspection, one can’t help but feel that Ryuunosuke’s conclusions are predicated on the premise of ‘choose innocent clients’.

Yet, taken from another perspective, the McGilded trial draws the trustworthiness of the defendant into the open as a genuine choice rather than a foundational premise. The basic assumption of trusting the defendant as default is obliterated through McGilded’s actions as the question of why we trust the defendant is raised, and whether the defendant deserves said trust. Defence becomes less a secure insistence on innocence, and more a genuine judgement predicated on available information. In other words, Ryuunosuke must learn to decide: are we to believe, or not? Is our trust extended, or not? Already, we start to see the contours of what resolve might be: a series of cascading decisions, the ability to decide, to perceive and pursue. Judgement pared away from unbacked assumption.

If this is the shining ideal, the McGilded case thoroughly trashes it. Planted evidence, blackmailed witnesses, a biased jury – it’s a harsh awakening to the reality of the British justice system. Ryuunosuke leaves the trial shaken in his own actions, unsure how to handle his nominal victory, with the distinct feeling of having been played – worst still, complicit. Rather than the usual narrative of sticking up for the little guy under a tyrannical prosecution, we end up feeling vaguely disgusted with having been part of a scheme to get a wealthy tycoon off for a crime he was almost certainly guilty of. It’s an excellent way to build sympathy for Stronghart’s assertions later on in the game. In depriving us of the righteous indignation of fighting ‘for the right side’, so to speak, the frightening ease with which the justice system might be exploited by the rich and powerful becomes undeniable – yes, you too, Ryuunosuke, the game seems to say. You as well.

It’s at this low point that we meet Souseki Natsume, and get wrapped into a case tailored to be the exact opposite of the McGilded case in every single way. Souseki, when we meet him, is obviously innocent. This doesn’t even depend on any in-game factors itself to ascertain so much as the fact that Souseki Natsume is a real-life historical literary personage that I’m pretty sure didn’t commit any murders in London. Obviously, he also didn’t get accused of murders in London either, but his real-life solidity means that we, the audience, can rest easy on the question of whodunnit even as Ryuunosuke works through the process of doubt to trust in-game. In essence, we’re being given training wheels on the way up out of our rut: an easy mode where Ryuunosuke’s judgement has an obviously correct answer.

But other than that, this case goes further as to absent itself of a villain. Instead, we get a sequence of extremely unlikely, extremely unfortunate events that culminate in tragedy. And the victim is also not dead! Olive Green lives, it was all an unfortunate accident, and Souseki goes free. On the surface, it’s a case almost tailor-built to restore our faith in (humanity) the justice system. But even as this case does do these things, it deftly weaves in spectres of doubt. Why is Natsume the primary suspect? Well, for one, if we assume a premeditated crime, he really is the only one who could have done it. But the glaring, blaring reason stares us in the face: he’s Japanese. He is the racial Other in London, a city more than ready to condemn him as a bogeyman if the slightest thing in his vicinity were to go wrong. The odds are fundamentally stacked against him. He occupies, in many ways, the same position as Susato and Ryuunosuke, elucidating the theme of both racial prejudice and racial isolation. We are reminded, glaringly and starkly, that not only are Ryuunosuke and Susato visitors in a foreign land, but disdained and unwanted ones for the most part. I do have to mention Barok here, who obviously occupies the central position as the most Prominently Racist character in the game, but only to say this: the following exchange between Ryuunosuke and Natsume did more to drive home the casual, ingrained racism of Victorian English society than any one of Barok’s remarks in court.

Soseki: And anyway, I'm a student from overseas. I'm just a foreign nobody to them. Someone not to be trusted. I heard them openly laughing about me before. In my earshot, without any compunction at all. 'Any trial for this man would be a waste of time,' they said. And, 'Of course the foreigner did it!' They even had the gall to say, 'The man doesn't understand half of what's being said anyway!'

Ryunosuke: That's awful...!

Soseki: They're wrong! I've studied more English than half of the policemen out there on the streets! I've travelled halfway around the world to learn about these people's country and its great history! But no one here wants to listen to a man with a strange accent. They all hate me! So...at the very least... ...I'd like to entrust my fate to someone who can listen to me, in my native tongue.

What does it mean, to be obviously Japanese in Victorian London? I don’t think the game comes to any definite conclusions here, but it’s very obviously concerned with the question itself. In fact, I would say one of the subliminal anxieties of the game is Japanese identity – who and what was Japan at this point in time? These anxieties come closest to the surface in Souseki Natsume’s cases being – isolated, if that’s the right word, from various confounding factors. And these are anxieties that cast a further pall on Ryuunosuke’s journey: what does it mean to be a practicing Japanese lawyer in a British court? I do think this game has an ambivalent relationship with Japanese nationalism: certainly already blossoming during the early 1900s! However, in this particular case yhe association of being Japanese and a sense of moral security (at least outside of Japan) is reinforced – the identity of being Japanese is a small oasis against the wide, dark sea of London.

Furthermore, in this case we see outright police misconduct; non-malicious, certainly, but misconduct that almost gets an innocent man accused of attempted murder. Can we really rely, one might ask, on Scotland Yard – on this highly-touted institution which proves, in practice, devastatingly fallible to human error? Perhaps we restore some faith in our ability to select a defendant – but certainly not in a functioning justice system. However, overall this case still acts largely as a ‘breather episode’ where the high-pressure cooker of the ambiguities swimming in London ease away before the force of shared Japanese identity.

In the final case, however, these ambiguities return in full force. The McGilded trial returns to haunt us – literally, with the man himself dead. Once again, we’re faced with the same decisions: what is our resolve, and what is our belief? The threads converge on the character of Gina Lestrade: East End pickpocket, plucky, mistrustful, and an accomplice to murder.

If the previous case was a ‘training wheels breather episode’, this case signals immediately that it will be Ryuunosuke’s actual ‘graduation’, so to speak. It does this from the outset through Susato.

The role Susato has played so far has been primarily that of a stabiliser, a touchpoint of support in a world increasingly unfamiliar. This is especially marked by her rise to prominence following 1) the death of Kazuma and 2) the arrival in London, both events that tear up the status quo for Ryuunosuke so far. If she has diverged from Ryuunosuke, especially in the second case following Kazuma’s death, the primary reason is misunderstanding and a lack of shared information – a barrier that collapses by the end of the case. In essence, from a narrative positioning perspective, Susato and Ryuunosuke meld into a single, almost indistinguishable unit in terms of the events they experience and how they react to them. This is not to say their characters are indistinguishable, but more that their constant bound-togetherness leaves no clear lines of demarcation between their respective ways of interacting with the world – they don’t react as one, but they feed into each other so much that the combined effect ends up as ‘Susato and Ryuunosuke saw [x] and reacted in [y] way’.

But at the start of the Ashley Graydon case, we are immediately introduced once more to a split in the information they have access to and a barrier in the events they experience. The Susato-Ryuunosuke unit splits once more into its component parts. ‘We’ the player refers once more to Ryuunosuke alone, especially as the case progresses further and Susato not only gets put on a train (jettisoning her out of the case) but her independent, hidden actions become crucial to the solving of the mystery. In a very real sense, this is the case that forces both Ryuunosuke and Susato to solidify into the outlines of who they are – and the next game is simply relentless application of all they have become.

But back to Gina. The first investigations half of this case is clearly set up to build as much sympathy and camaraderie with Gina as possible, from the pawn shop altercation to the later invitation to dinner, to Gina’s genuinely passionate outburst to Iris. It’s a clear ‘getting to know you’ segment where the game does its utmost to show us that Gina is not another McGilded, even while drawing the net tighter on Gina’s almost certainly perjurious involvement in the McGilded trial. However, unlike Natsume, we have neither the blanket surety of history nor the shared identity of being Japanese to fully reassure us that Gina is beyond reproach – the evaluative process takes place with the lingering cipher of McGilded trial always at forefront of mind. And even as we get to know Gina more and more, to feel more and more affection for the plucky, poor, scrappy girl with a chip in her shoulder and a deeply defensive attitude to the world we can’t help that niggling bit of doubt.

On Gina’s arrest, things come to a head. Sholmes has been shot – a further destabilising element as our mentor-figure is taken out of the case for reasons that become frighteningly real. Susato is to return to Japan. Suddenly, Ryuunosuke is bereft of the two constant supports that have propped him up throughout his time in London: he has only Iris, a ten-year-old girl, to accompany him. The message is clear: Ryuunosuke’s on his own for this.

With the real, looming deadline of a trial in the near horizon, the reminder of how Eggert Benedict and by extension London at large would be all too willing to assume Gina’s guilt, Ryuunosuke is forced to make a decision. Do we trust Gina enough to assume her defence? Are we resolved to believe that in fighting for her, we’re fighting for the truth? Can we stand steadfastly by her without doubt? The answer is further complicated by Gina’s own rejection – adding yet another dimension to the question of defence. Are we, Ryuunosuke, worthy of Gina’s trust? And added to that question: what sort of attorney would be worthy of trust?

In many ways, this is an obvious rehearsal of Resolve, where the Gina-Kazuma-Barok triangulated parallels are blown into the open. The decisions we face here must be concrete by the time we come up against Kazuma and Barok: we know Gina isn’t capable of murder, but can we say the same about Kazuma and Barok? We know Gina’s hands aren’t clean – does that make her unworthy of being of defended? The conversational leadup to Gina’s trial weaves between these questions as Susato, through a combination of relentlessness and steely cruelty, asks for what has so far been unaskable: evidence. The lock cracks open: it’s as we’ve suspected all along. The McGilded trial was a setup, and Gina was the star witness. We access a heavy, unalterable truth: yet simultaneously, at last we can be sure of what Gina has done, if not yet who she is. It’s striking in the way that Ryuunosuke’s decision is deferred for yet another investigative segment after this – we jump to no easy conclusions, but are expected to ruminate both on Gina’s self-confessed actions even as work through the facts of the situation in the newly opened investigation. When we return from our investigation, Iris’ blood-colouration gun reveals that Gina is literally covered in blood: the blood that stains McGilded’s coat. It’s a perfect piece of symbolism: through the association with McGilded, she too has been stained with the blood-guilt of his actions. The question then becomes ours; do we believe in this bloodstained girl enough to fight for her? Do we trust her enough to deserve her trust?

The answer Ryuunosuke comes to is yes. He believes that what Gina is saying is the truth, and is determined to unearth what actually happened to exonerate her. He locks down on this, resolves to be on her side until the very end. On one hand, the build-up all leads to this moment, on the other hand, the fact that the build-up itself exists is the point. The point, stressed and belaboured, is that it is neither easy nor automatic to trust a client, nor should it be. That it in fact requires a great deal of both courage and evaluation, to take the defendant’s word as a bedrock on which to pursue, fully and completely, the truth. The resolve, as I see it, that Ryuunosuke finds here, is the resolve to believe in his client enough that their innocence is bedrock fact, and to believe in himself enough to trust in his own judgement. It is the resolve to trust that this foundational premise won’t lead him disastrously wrong (as in the McGilded case), and building from there, the courage to pursue the truth. It’s this commitment that he makes to Gina that is enough to break through her defences; a commitment not just to be on her side, but to believe her and fight for her truth to come out.

This, I feel, is one of the first breakthroughs of this case and a small climax. The small denouement with Susato on the night of her departure really clinches the deal as a sort of philosophical percolation, where Ryuunosuke articulates himself in one of the most…thoughtful and considered conversations that occurs across the entire game.

Ryunosuke: ......... I know we've only been here a short time, but... ...in my limited experience of the courtroom, I feel I've learnt something.

Susato: ...And what would that be?

Ryunosuke: It seems to me...there are many facets to people's personalities.

Susato: Facets..?

Ryunosuke: And like a jewel, the light plays off them in complex patterns, illuminating their actions and their motives. But we see only see [sic] a small number of the total facets. And what is illuminated is only a part of the whole story.

Susato: .........

Ryunosuke: What lies in the shadows? What do those facets we cannot see look like? Perhaps there are some parts we'll never lay eyes on, for as long as we live.

Susato: That's so true.

Ryunosuke: Sometimes I feel as though I'm blind to so much. But I keep hoping that one day it will all become clear. That all the facets will be illuminated, and I'll finally understand how everything fits together.

Susato: Naruhodo-san...

Ryunosuke: I suppose what matters... ...is that we keep our eyes open, and keep moving forward. Even if the way sometimes seems dark.

Susato: ......... It's amazing to think it's been just two months. ...You've grown so much.

I really have nothing to add to this. It’s perfect.

The trial that follows, for all its highs and lows, is a continuous stress test of this commitment that also weaves in a secondary strand of whether there is any truth too unsavoury, too explosive, to reveal. Can the truth do us wrong? Is there any circumstance where concealment of the truth is the right thing to do? The two major points where this becomes an issue is the revelation of the McGilded’s trial’s planting of evidence and coercion of witnesses, and the music box containing government secrets which are played out in court. It’s interesting that while the first point is where Ryuunosuke both resolves and does pursue the truth at personal cost to his career and at risk of getting Gina convicted for a lesser crime, the second point is a mirrored demonstration by Barok to the same higher ideal: that the truth must come out. We can already see how this point will receive its true test in the trial of Resolve with the revelation of the Professor, and the connection is spelt out for us with the introduction of the Reaper conspiracy into the game.

At the end of this case, Ryuunosuke has found his feet – finally. The man we end the game with is a far cry from the nervous, directionless, anxious shadow of a person we saw at the start. There is this constant sense of…becoming that occurs across the entire game, as Ryuunosuke tests various trite truisms in court and expands into the situations he’s thrown in, until finally the outline of who he is and what he is as a defence layer forms and solidifies from the gaseous explosion of his self. The second game is really all honing and sharpening as each of these qualities test themselves against more and more complicated situations, but the foundational formation of these qualities themselves, the birth of the resolve of Ryuunosuke Naruhodou – is complete all the way back by the end of the first game.

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Twisters

Despite its title, Twisters isn’t really about tornadoes. Don’t get me wrong; they serve a vitally important narrative function. They are not, however, the primary subject of the story; they are simply a convenient plot device—catalysts at best, mere props at worst. Director Lee Isaac Chung instead emphasizes theme and characterization, lending the drama personal stakes beyond the obvious physical threat posed by natural disasters. In this movie, the act of chasing storms is a powerful and versatile metaphor. Sometimes, it symbolizes confronting your fears and overcoming past traumas; in other instances, it signifies rediscovering and embracing one’s forgotten passions and ambitions. And occasionally, it’s even a substitute for flirtation—reading the wind can be a romantic meet cute; driving straight into the heart of a violent vortex might as well be a first kiss.

Of course, this raw material would collapse under its own weight without the support of great performances; fortunately, Twisters has plenty of those to spare, challenging the current theory that the archetypal Movie Star is an endangered species. Glen Powell ignites the screen as Tyler Owens, an arrogant adrenaline junkie with hidden depths and a heart of gold; the effortless chemistry that he contributes to every scene is palpable. At the opposite end of the spectrum, David Corenswet is quietly brilliant as Scott, an unapologetic corporate stooge; essentially playing the role as the most aggressively bland and boring man to ever exist, his deliberate lack of charisma makes him a fantastic foil for Powell’s endearingly rugged, masculine charm. Somewhere between these two extremes lies Anthony Ramos’ morally complex Javi, a tech entrepreneur whose genuinely good intentions have been corrupted by the merciless realities of capitalistic exploitation; his gradual redemption arc is the film’s most compelling, cathartic thread.

The true MVP, though, is Daisy Edgar-Jones. As protagonist Kate, she carries a tremendous burden; the conflict revolves entirely around her character’s insecurities, anxieties, and survivor’s guilt—and she absolutely delivers, conveying both vulnerability and perseverance through the subtlest gestures and glances. Her work is nuanced, emotionally honest, and thoroughly captivating.

And that is what makes Twisters an old school Hollywood blockbuster of the highest caliber: it never loses sight of the humanity amidst the spectacle. If you’ll pardon the (unerringly accurate) cliché: they just don’t make ‘em like this anymore—visually stunning, consistently thrilling, and irresistibly sexy.

[carlostck]

Cowboy AU original plot changes!!! This is more for myself to keep track lol Definitely going to be edited a few times, and that will be because this is very much open to any feedback or additional ideas!!

cut since it will get long

Alright, for starters, a handful of things will change!! This post is more dedicated to more major plot changes rather than the actual story

- I considered changing the name for spinjiztu (and all related) because there is a culture shift and it's a little weird to keep "spinjiztu"? But I'm lazy so we're sticking with that as a name now...

- The geography will be different, more diverse regions and whatnot. This AU will focus on the Southwest, however, Lloyd starts out in the Northeast. So while the main area is in the west, just about everywhere else should be explored in some way

- They won't be ninjas! Feel like that's implied but just to clarify. Thinking of just calling them vaqueros, protectors, guardians, or something like that??

- Lloyd's power will not be energy! Since the main focus of their group is to not only fight against invasions/marauders but to protect and supply the people overall. So, opting to give him some healing/life-related abilities (not to be confused with nature, can only revive what was once living and is now dead). His abilities are also extended past just that due to being a descendant of the First, like being able to mimic the four elements to a basic degree. Nya will also be fairly important due to controlling water, something fairly vital, especially in their environment! (not only because of water being a basic human need but due to twisters!)

- The golden weapons will be replaced by different weapons... dunno exactly what for who but definitely giving Zane a bow. And they'll also have guns because it's stupid to send in teenagers with metal sticks to fight someone with a Winchester rifle

- Garmadon won't know that Lloyd is alive. His tipping point would be due to a suspected stillbirth, causing him to give in and try to take the weapons! Never understood why Garmadon gave in around the time he had a kid if he could hold off for so long, so this is kinda just a reason for that

- Garmadon also won't be in some alternate realm to gain his four arms. He simply gains it when he fully obtains his Oni form. Kinda just spends his time with marauding groups to take over some villages for supplies.

- Serpentine aren't entirely in tombs! A fair amount roam the land and were originally peaceful (hence not being entombed), but some have turned more aggressive because of discrimination and whatnot

- More mythical creatures will be in this world, and their horses aren't actually horses, they're moreso a type of avian (first art post has drawings of them). However, most can't fly with extra weight, so it's rare to find one strong enough to do anything but ground travel (one of the few who can fly is named Marian by Lloyd and is the replacement for the Ultra Dragon)! - Lloyd can understand dragons from the Ninjago realm! He also finds a specific individual, Rei, who is a dragon from the northeast, and his great aunt! She plays a big role in their fight against the great devourer and guides little Lloyd in the equivalent of the first season

- A minor thing occurs with Quanish initially, who Lloyd runs into while traveling southwest to find his father. He is accompanied by Quanish for a portion of the trip. However, Quanish is very frail, so after almost dying on multiple occasions, Lloyd guides him to a village to get him off the road. He then takes on Quanish's goal of delivering a scroll to Wu (he doesn't know it's Wu then) and is told that it can't be given to anyone else. Hence why he was trying to deliver it by hand! When he shows up Wu isn't there, Lloyd is determined to give it to this supposed Sensei and isn't willing to give it to anyone else, so the five decide to house him until Wu returns (during this time they also unlock their potential)

- Darreth owns Laughty's Bar from the beginning! It's kinda their go-to-spot for hanging out and how they know who he is

- Sorry Bounty fans but I'm getting rid of it! There isn't that kind of technology yet (we're ignoring Zane and Pixal, I'll explain them later), so when the monastery gets destroyed they end up traveling on a thesigi! Which, excuse me nerding out, is short for the scientific name of a made-up creature... Thesigitherium Magnum  ("therium" means beast, "thesigi" is a combination of "standing" [thesi] and "land" [gi], and "great" [magnum]). Their class: Mammalia, Order: Artiodactyla, Family: Anthracotheriidae, Genus: Thesigitherium, and Species: Thesigitherium Magnum They're kinda just giant, sea-dwelling Anthracotheriums!!

(Definitely not final, but just to give an idea!)

- On the topic of not-so-advanced technology, they don't have video games!! So opting to make Jay do a handful of gambling... which may or may not get them into a few situations. Cheating in Texas Hold 'Em just seems like a Jay thing to do

- As for Zane and Pixal, still working out some kinks on how Pixal comes to life, but thinking that Zane was stuck on a volatile battery before the previous ice master rolled around? That being, Zane's "special" source of power IS the elemental energy once gifted to him... Also, it made me mad that Pixal only did spinjiztu for a single episode, so now she knows it permanently 💥💥💥I do what I want

That's all for now!!! Will have a reblog log of updates and edits in case I remember more points I didn't write down or changes made!!!

[dumbass-tumbler-cryptid]

Hey I saw that snippet of Cabin in The Woods you posted recently where Spider was looking at childhood photos and coming up with false memories of his dad raising him instead of living in foster homes. What would happen if Spider slipped up and referred to a false memory in front of Quaritch? Would Quaritch be concerned about this behavior and try to get him to remember reality? Or would he encourage Spider to create more false memories of being raised by him and feed into his delusion?

And after Spider is rescued, if he still believes in his false memories, how would the Sully family and Norm react to him referring to things they know never happened? Especially if Spider took a happy memory that specifically happened with the Sullies but replaced them with Quaritch in his mind.

I am so sorry this took me so long to answer. I said I’d think on this for a few days and now it’s been months so I’m so sorry for that.

If Spider referred to a false memory in front of Quaritch he’d definitely be shocked at first. He’d roll with it in the moment but then later try to figure out what’s up. He brought up a whole library of books and has quite a few on phycology. So he’d read up on false memories which are typically caused by trauma. But since he can’t admit what he did to his son is traumatic he’ll of course blame it all on his Spider’s trauma from being taken away from his father and put in foster care. Spider warping memories from his time in foster care would be all the assurance Quaritch needs to believe that.

Quaritch wouldn’t feed into the delusion because getting Spider to hate his life before is part of his manipulation tactics. But also he wouldn’t sit Spider down to try and fix it. He’d monitor it. If it seemed like Spider had legitimately broken from reality then he’d try to fix it. Whenever Spider would bring up a false memory he’d just say, “I don’t think I quite remember it that way. Are you sure that’s how it happened?” Forcing Spider to think about it and reconnect with reality. But if Spider kept his false memories to himself and just operated as a happy, obedient son, then Quaritch wouldn’t worry about it at all.

I will say depending on the ending Spider is having a messy mental breakdown. How could you not after everything. In one of the endings for the Spider gets sick and Quaritch has to take him back scenario Spider has a moment of clarity and calls for help, saving himself. Then because he’s still a ward of the state he’s placed in a mental institution to get therapy which he resists. And in the scenario where Spider is rescued most of that will actually take place in a mental institution. So I will be diving deep into healing from all the trauma he’s been through. And the Sully’s will be there for him every step of the way. They’ll be devastated when they see how deep the trauma goes though. Because they love him and Quaritch twisted everything they’ve ever done to make Spider resent them. So when Spider brings up a happy memory of them but replaces them with Quaritch it’s bound to bring up a twister of emotions for them. Fury, anguish, the need to comfort Spider, the need to more aggressively get him to see sense and yet they’ll have to force themselves to stay calm and silently file the incident away to tell Spider’s therapist about. 

I really want to give a more in depth answer to this but I don’t know how without spoiling what’s to come in Cabin but I promise there’s so many different endings that you’ll get to see this play out multiple ways. Some times he’ll heal, sometimes he’ll be broken even more, and sometimes he’ll get his delusional albeit happy ever after.

[caitie-likes-talking]

Jonathan headcanons bc I’m so mentally ill abt him

appearance headcanons

freckle Jonathan is SO real to me. his face is covered with them and he only gets more every time he’s in the sun

he’s the guy who’s hair is crazy curly as a kid but once he goes through puberty it’s suddenly super straight

he looks way more like his mom than his dad

i hc that after the mansion fight w dio he has actually remaining burns (idc if that doesnt comply w canon!! i do what i want!!)

tan Jonathan REAL! my out in the sun king

relationship headcanons

While I do think he’s an “every single love language ever” kinda guy, I think his main one is words of affirmation. Definitely can’t go a day without gushing abt how much he loves Erina and Speedwagon (also jonerinawagon polycule real)

speaking of which, bisexual jonathan is extremely real 2 me.

he loves doing any boring task for someone he cares about. folding laundry for erina is basically heaven for him

he proposed to erina by the tree w their initials carved into it bc i said so

uses horrible archaeologist pick up lines on his baes (for ex: hey babe, are you an ancient artifact? bc i wanna date you!)

just overall horrible at flirting when he's actually trying to be flirtatious. endearingly cringe, if u will

stresses out every time erina is on her period. she's getting princess treatment and it slightly pisses her off bc she's capable of still doing things but jonathan insists on her staying in bed all week

modern au headcanons

he's the kind of person who's just naturally decent at most things, so even when he's never played a game, he'll end in 2nd or 1st place. for example: bowling, minigolf, darts, and pool. he's comically bad at twister tho

he LOVES movies and once he watches a new one he's quoting it every two seconds and is just a little too upset if they other person doesn't recognize it

I interpret him as autistic (I’ve made a whole video abt his autistic traits in canon lmfaoo)

a real sweater and bomber jacket kinda guy. he has fun funky sweaters w silly patterns on them for sure

collects shoes. idk he just seems like the guy who has so many pairs of shoes for absolutely no reason. he's got every color of the rainbow in his shoe bin

volunteers at a museum part time. great w the kids and loves infodumping to these like middle-schoolers about some artifact.

horrible at reading tone over text. has misinterpreted lots of passive aggressive texts from erina as positive. (she has since learned to either use tone tags or the angry emoji to make her point more clear. the emoji is more effective every time)

has smoked weed before and every time he does its obvious that hes high as balls but he always thinks hes being sneaky abt it

cheated off of erina in high school to pass some classes. its his darkest secret and if anyone ever finds out he will like explode on the spot

also was super popular in high school but didn't realize, as he was too used to being a loser (12yr jonathan is a friendless loser no matter the universe)

im so insane i love him

[shiftingwithmars]

Marauders incorrect quotes pt2

(Mainly ships for this one)

(Includes Marylily, Dorlene, Wolfstar, Jegulus, Rosekiller, Pandalily, and Jily)

Evan: Guys, I’ve been meaning to tell you… Barty and I are dating. Barty, Lily, James, and Sirius: gasp Evan: Barty, why are you surprised?!

Mary: I asked Lily out. Remus: Oh, I’m sorry. Mary: Why? Remus: Well, I assume they said no. Mary: No, they said yes. Remus: Really? Then I’m sorry for them.

Marlene: Well, remember when Dorcas made a romantic dinner for me? Evan: Marlene, they microwaved you a pizza.

playing twister Marlene: Right hand red. Sirius: ends up on top of Remus Remus: You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Marlene: I stopped spinning like 15 minutes ago. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't notice.

James: Pros and cons of dating me. James: Pros. You'll be the cute one. James: Cons. Holy shit, where do I begin-

James, to Regulus: We had a date! James: aggressively points to Hello Kitty Coloring Book

[johnlocsin-johnyakuza]

What if I was a Yakuza 7/8 Party Member?

John Locsin

John was someone who looked up to Kiryu and Ichiban, having to have heard all of the adventures the two went on. John aspired to be like the two, a hero who fights for the right thing.

Job: Aspirer

John is described as being talented to an ultimate level. He utilizes multiple Self-Taught martial arts techniques and weapons along with having different buffs to use on himself. John doesn’t use any specific weapon and is bare-handed by default, much like Kiryu, though it’s his arsenal that makes up for it. John fighting style uses Karate, Boxing, Aikido (albeit being more aggressive and using many offensive techniques), Wrestling, Boxing, and even Parkour Techniques. John also knows his way around some weapons, such as a Shinai/Kendo Stick (which apparently has a metal katana blade hidden inside the bamboo wrappings) and a Metal Baseball Bat (Which he swings it around like a sword), however his weapon techniques are unrefined and raw. John can play music from his earphones to buff, heal, and hype himself up, and quickly make inventions to use against enemies or support the party.

John’s Character Skills:

Quick Combo: Damages one enemy with continuous 5 boxing punches

Point Blank: A single blow to the enemies Solar Plexus, which can stun or incapacitate the enemy

Sledgehammer Strikes: John preforms a wild haymaker into a downward hammer fist, a spinning high kick, and then a shoulder crushed.

Ultimate Dropkick: John preforms a Heavy Dropkick that has high critical hit chance that can also damage other enemies in the way

German Suplex: Performs one of John’s favorite wrestling techniques on one enemy that may instantly KO the enemy

Breaking Top: A spinning throw that wrecks a single enemy and deals collateral damage to any other enemies in the way

Desperate Throw: John puts all his strength into flinging the enemy, which deals heavy damage to the enemy but also damages John

Shoulder Flip: John enters a party stance, and the enemy that attacks him will be shoulder flipped by John

Neck Twist: John kicks the enemy in the gut before preforming a next twister on them

Motivation Track: John blasts J-Pop music from his earphones, healing his health.

Rage Track: John blasts Metal Rock music from his earphones, increasing his damage

Hype Track: John blasts Dubstep music from his earphones, increasing his evasion

Essence of Ultimate Martial Arts: John uses all his martial arts techniques on a single enemy, dealing massive damage.

John’s Job Skills (Aspirer):

Torso Slash: John removes the bamboo wrapping from the Shinai showing the metal katana blade to preform a downward slam slash that can stun or bleed the enemy

Face Smash: John out a Baseball Bat to strike the enemy in the head, which may stun them.

Precise Striker: John preforms 3 blunt strikes with his Shinai, with the last being a stab that may paralyze the enemy

Blade Flurry: John preforms 4 bladed strikes with his unsheathed Shinai, which may cause bleed on the enemy

Pitch Throw: John throws a baseball at high-speed that can stun the enemy

Ear Shatterer: John plays the genre of someone’s rock song for the first time from a speaker, which may shock or stun surrounding enemies from the sheer pain

Bike Breaker: John puts together a bicycle from scrap parts to then use as a weapon, which can damage surrounding enemies.

Tornado Strikes: John duel wields both the Shinai and Baseball Bat, which damages surrounding enemies and may cause bleed

Essence of 1000 Hit Combo: John uses both the Unsheathed Shinai and Baseball Bat, where he performs a flurry of hits on multiple enemies, which may cause fear.

Throughout the fight when it’s the characters turn and the party members may taunt the enemy when idle, John will either hold his hands out by his sides or gesture towards the enemy, and may say lines such as “Is that all you got?” or, “I learned some of these from a game!”

[callmemana]

Arms May Be Wide Open, But The Brain Cells Aren’t There: #24

[in Bootcamp on the mandatory run]

Birdie: *gives Bob a cute mushroom she found*

Bob: *to Smiley* Smiley she gave me a tiny mushroom- a mUSHROOM.

Smiley: omf she gave you a mushroom- give her a pretty rock, we need to find the most perfect rock on this trail. Let’s go.

Bob: *nods aggressively*

[playing twister]

Athena: Bird, right hand on red.

Birdie: *ends up on top of Bob*

Bob: ok, you’re doing this on purpose aren’t you?

Athena: I stopped spinning 10 turns ago, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed yet.

Athena: you think I enjoy being the mother hen to this family?!

Birdie:

Bob:

Smiley:

Athena:

Athena: okay, fine, it’s like crack to me.

Birdie: *applying chapstick*

Bob: what flavor is that?

Birdie: oh it’s birthday cake.

Bob: can I try it?

Birdie: *hands over chapstick* sure

Bob: *passionately kisses Bird*

Bob: holy shit it does.

Birdie: *has stopped functioning*

Bob: goodnight you guys.

Smiley: goodnight.

Athena: sleep tight.

Birdie: don’t let the bedbugs bite.

Athena: tonight.

Birdie: imma fight.

Athena: ‘til we see the sunlight.

Birdie: tick tock.

Athena: on the clock.

Birdie: but the party won’t stop-

Bob: SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Bob: can’t have one night w/o me yelling at you idiots…

Athena: *twerking on her bed* I’m a savage, yeah.

Birdie: *ballroom dancing with a stuffed bear* classy, bougie, ratchet, yeah.

Smiley: *breakdancing* sassy, moody, nasty, yeah.

Bob: *busting the door down* IT IS 3 IN THE MORNING AND NO ONE CAN SLEEP, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?

[Bob & Bird are making out in the boys’ dorm]

Smiley: *walks in* what are you two doing?

Birdie: …

Bob: um… Bird was choking and I had to do CPR on her.

Smiley: oh okay.

[six months later]

Smiley: WAIT A DAMN MINUTE

Birdie: Bam… I think that I just fell for you.

Bob:

Birdie:

Bob: you just rolled down the entire of the base’s flight of stairs. How the actual FUCK are you still alive?

Bob: I need some coffee.

Birdie: here’s mine.

Bob: I need some food.

Birdie: here’s mine.

Bob: I need a hairbrush.

Birdie: here’s mine.

Bob: I need some chocolate.

Birdie: fuck off.

Bob: how’s everyone doing?

Athena: I’m breathing.

Bob: setting the bar pretty low, huh?

Athena: we’ll it’s more than Smiley.

Smiley: *having a panic attack* honestly, fuck you.

Dragon’s Angels📻: @dragon-kazansky @mrsjaderogers @bayisdying @starlit-epiphany @breadsquash @gracespicybradshaw

🏷️ list: @luckyladycreator2

[thon717-fmp]

Sources that relate to my theme

Immortality - some games have bosses that you kill multiple times, for their loot some games also have special bosses that are just there to kill you as a joke but you can respawn with the boss gone. some games have infinite spawners with 'immortal' enemies, they are 'immortal' because they will just respawn, I could have it so they respawn by getting glitched through some kind of portal

corruption - if i keep the game idea then i could redesign the enemies to being courrupted versions, looking distorted and glitchy and the main play you can glitch out and change dimensions to obtain special items or something looking at this made me think of some games where you have to fight bad people or places being controlled by these people

illusion - i could add hidden items into the game that you have to find out by playing, illusions might have to be discovered with some kind of special item, such as some kind of vision goggles or something

natural disasters - twisters earthquakes and stuff like that i could have tremors that could show that the game is 'breaking' with a time limit and if you fail the work breaks and you loose

two sided stories - everything that happened before phones were a thing, books that were written in the 1600 were written by monks who could write and they could have chosen to write whatever they wanted to show that they were being controlled by the king at the time to write whatever made them look good in the future

dreams and nightmares - sleeping can either have dreams or nightmares, i could add beds you could sleep in to heal but you could have a nightmare, when looking at this it made me think of special rooms that you can get into when sleeping and some games let you sleep to skip to dawn. most people end up dreaming about being chased by something, failure or physical aggression

[gatheringgames]

Burning Passion: Exploring the Strategy Behind Yugioh Fire Kings Decks

Introduction:

In the vast realm of Yugioh, the Fire Kings archetype stands out as a fiery force to be reckoned with. Known for their explosive plays and strategic synergy, Fire Kings offer duelists a unique and powerful deck-building experience. This comprehensive guide will delve into the intricacies of Yugioh Fire Kings decks, exploring their strategy, key cards, and how to harness the burning passion that fuels their gameplay. Join us as we unravel the flames of this archetype, understanding the art of strategic dueling with Yugioh Fire Kings.

Understanding Fire Kings Archetype:

A. Core Theme: Fire Kings, as the name suggests, are centered around the fire attribute. This archetype is characterized by monsters that thrive on destruction and resurrection effects, creating a dynamic and aggressive playstyle. The primary strategy involves triggering destruction effects to gain advantages while maintaining board control.

B. Key Cards:

Fire King High Avatar Garunix: The heart of the archetype, Garunix is a powerful boss monster that resurrects itself during the next Standby Phase after being destroyed. This constant threat puts immense pressure on opponents and serves as the linchpin of Fire Kings strategies.

Fire King Island: This field spell not only provides a continuous source of destruction for the deck but also facilitates the graveyard setup crucial for Fire Kings' revival effects.

Fire King Avatar Yaksha: Yaksha contributes to the destruction theme, allowing you to destroy a Fire monster in your hand to trigger various effects, such as drawing cards or clearing the opponent's field.

Circle of the Fire Kings: This spell card enables targeted monster removal while simultaneously triggering the destruction effects of Fire King monsters.

Deck Building and Synergy:

A. Consistency through Destruction: To harness the true power of Fire Kings, a well-structured deck should focus on consistent destruction effects. Incorporating cards like "Onslaught of the Fire Kings" and "Generation Shift" allows you to trigger effects strategically, ensuring you have the necessary resources in the graveyard for revival effects.

B. Search and Draw Engines: Including search and draw engines enhances the deck's consistency. Cards like "Tenki" can search for Fire King monsters, while draw cards like "Allure of Darkness" and "Pot of Desires" help maintain hand advantage.

C. Supporting Fire Attributes: To strengthen the archetype, consider adding other Fire attribute monsters with destruction effects, like "Inferno" or "Brotherhood of the Fire Fist - Bear." These cards complement the core Fire Kings strategy and contribute to overall deck synergy.

Combos and Plays:

A. Garunix Loop: The cornerstone of Fire Kings' strategy revolves around the Garunix loop. By continually destroying and reviving Garunix, you create a recurring threat that punishes opponents turn after turn. Combining this with cards like "Circle of the Fire Kings" or "Rekindling" amplifies the deck's explosiveness.

B. Fire King Island Shenanigans: Fire King Island serves as a hub for various plays. You can use it to destroy your own monsters for strategic advantages while also providing a platform for summoning Fire King High Avatar Garunix or searching for Fire King monsters.

C. Yaksha Combos: Fire King Avatar Yaksha's effect can be utilized for both offensive and defensive plays. By destroying specific Fire monsters in your hand, you trigger effects that either disrupt your opponent's strategy or provide you with card advantage.

Side Deck Considerations:

A. Anti-Meta Choices: Tailor your side deck to counter prevalent strategies in the current meta. Cards like "Droll & Lock Bird" and "Ghost Ogre & Snow Rabbit" can disrupt opponent combos, giving you an edge in crucial matchups.

B. Backrow Removal: Since Fire Kings focus on board control, consider including cards like "Twin Twisters" or "Cosmic Cyclone" in your side deck to handle pesky backrow threats.

C. Extra Deck Options: While Fire Kings predominantly rely on their main deck monsters, having a well-rounded extra deck can provide additional options. Include generic Rank 4 and Level 8 Synchro monsters to adapt to various game states.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, mastering the strategic intricacies of Yugioh Fire Kings decks requires a deep understanding of their core theme, key cards, and synergy. By embracing the burning passion of this archetype, duelists can construct decks that deliver explosive plays, constant pressure, and relentless board control. Whether you're a seasoned duelist or a newcomer drawn to the fiery allure of Fire Kings, this guide provides the tools and insights needed to harness their power and set the battlefield ablaze.

[my-weird-news]

BRICS Shakes Up World! Joining New Members?"

BRICS: The Ultimate Awkward Family Reunion So, picture this: you've got this motley crew called BRICS — Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa. They're like that one dysfunctional family you only see at Thanksgiving. They cover 40% of the world's population and a quarter of its economy, like, no big deal. And now they're thinking of expanding, because they want to be the cool kids in town, challenging those snobby G7 folks. But let's get real here. This gang is as mixed up as a puzzle with missing pieces. You've got China, the heavyweight authoritarian champion, and right next to it is India, waving the democracy flag. It's like having a friendly robot and a hippie at the same party. And don't even get me started on Russia — they're the rebel of the group, doing things their way even when everyone's like, "Dude, chill." China's all like, "BRICS, let's go big or go home!" They want to flex their muscles and show off to Uncle Sam. Russia's there, pretending they're not hurt by being left out of the cool kids' club, but deep down, they just want to prove they've got pals too. India's just side-eyeing China, while Brazil and South Africa are the ones juggling their allegiances like they're on a reality show. Now, they're having a summit in Johannesburg, which is like the big family reunion where everyone's forced to share a room and pretend they're besties. Xi from China, Modi from India, Lula from Brazil, Ramaphosa from South Africa, and Putin... well, Putin's zooming in. You see, he's got some "court date" thing going on, but we all know he's just avoiding that awkward moment when someone brings up the whole "war crimes" thing. China, being the big cheese, wants to show the world they've got friends too. After Biden's pow-wow with Japan and South Korea, they're like, "Look, we've got our own party!" And they're expanding BRICS like they're throwing confetti at a parade. India's playing it safe, like the responsible older sibling. They're all, "Let's not make this a WWE match, guys." They're still scarred from that border brawl with China and that Quad thing with the U.S., Japan, and Australia. They want standards for new members and probably a rulebook for the next wrestling match. Brazil's on board too, but they're picky about who's invited to the party. "Follow the rules, or go home!" Lula says. They want big populations, big economies, and probably someone who can dance the samba. And Putin's like, "Hey, I've got some buddies who might want in. Saudi Arabia, UAE, Argentina, and oh yeah, Indonesia. They're cool, right?" But wait, more members mean more opinions, and with these folks, agreeing on anything is harder than teaching a cat to tap dance. And while China and Russia are having a bro-mance, India's giving them the side-eye like a pro. Russia's all "let's impress the new guys" after hosting an African shindig. But they've got some explaining to do about that deal with Ukraine that turned the grain market into a roller coaster. And the other members? Well, China's swaying towards Russia, India's avoiding eye contact, Brazil's throwing empty promises, and South Africa's caught in a game of diplomacy Twister. South Africa's the youngest sibling, trying to fit in with everyone. They're caught between East and West like a ping pong ball. They're all, "We're hosting this party, but America's still our BFF, okay?" So, the BRICS family reunion is on. There's laughter, awkward silence, and probably a lot of passive-aggressive smiles. And while they're trying to figure out if they're a global supergroup or just a bunch of folks sharing an economic potluck, the world's watching like it's the juiciest reality show in town. 🍿# BRICS: The Ultimate Awkward Family Reunion So, picture this: you've got this motley crew called BRICS — Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa. They're like that one dysfunctional family you only see at Thanksgiving. They cover 40% of the world's population and a quarter of its economy, like, no big deal. And now they're thinking of expanding, because they want to be the cool kids in town, challenging those snobby G7 folks. But let's get real here. This gang is as mixed up as a puzzle with missing pieces. You've got China, the heavyweight authoritarian champion, and right next to it is India, waving the democracy flag. It's like having a friendly robot and a hippie at the same party. And don't even get me started on Russia — they're the rebel of the group, doing things their way even when everyone's like, "Dude, chill." China's all like, "BRICS, let's go big or go home!" They want to flex their muscles and show off to Uncle Sam. Russia's there, pretending they're not hurt by being left out of the cool kids' club, but deep down, they just want to prove they've got pals too. India's just side-eyeing China, while Brazil and South Africa are the ones juggling their allegiances like they're on a reality show. Now, they're having a summit in Johannesburg, which is like the big family reunion where everyone's forced to share a room and pretend they're besties. Xi from China, Modi from India, Lula from Brazil, Ramaphosa from South Africa, and Putin... well, Putin's zooming in. You see, he's got some "court date" thing going on, but we all know he's just avoiding that awkward moment when someone brings up the whole "war crimes" thing. China, being the big cheese, wants to show the world they've got friends too. After Biden's pow-wow with Japan and South Korea, they're like, "Look, we've got our own party!" And they're expanding BRICS like they're throwing confetti at a parade. India's playing it safe, like the responsible older sibling. They're all, "Let's not make this a WWE match, guys." They're still scarred from that border brawl with China and that Quad thing with the U.S., Japan, and Australia. They want standards for new members and probably a rulebook for the next wrestling match. Brazil's on board too, but they're picky about who's invited to the party. "Follow the rules, or go home!" Lula says. They want big populations, big economies, and probably someone who can dance the samba. And Putin's like, "Hey, I've got some buddies who might want in. Saudi Arabia, UAE, Argentina, and oh yeah, Indonesia. They're cool, right?" But wait, more members mean more opinions, and with these folks, agreeing on anything is harder than teaching a cat to tap dance. And while China and Russia are having a bro-mance, India's giving them the side-eye like a pro. Russia's all "let's impress the new guys" after hosting an African shindig. But they've got some explaining to do about that deal with Ukraine that turned the grain market into a roller coaster. And the other members? Well, China's swaying towards Russia, India's avoiding eye contact, Brazil's throwing empty promises, and South Africa's caught in a game of diplomacy Twister. South Africa's the youngest sibling, trying to fit in with everyone. They're caught between East and West like a ping pong ball. They're all, "We're hosting this party, but America's still our BFF, okay?" So, the BRICS family reunion is on. There's laughter, awkward silence, and probably a lot of passive-aggressive smiles. And while they're trying to figure out if they're a global supergroup or just a bunch of folks sharing an economic potluck, the world's watching like it's the juiciest reality show in town. 🍿 Read the full article

[flecks-of-stardust]

[image description: a screenshot of Ghost standing next to the Pantheon of Hallownest entrance, a little to the right of the void gate, and looking up at it. The nail binding is filled in. end image description

SECOND TRY MOTHERFUCKERS

[lets-try-some-writing]

Aching Scars

I came across this headcannon that all the TFP bots have some sort of disability or injury that bothers them. As you might expect I felt the need to expand on the thought a little bit. And don't worry, it ain't all doom and gloom, after all I am a sucker for fluff.

Arcee

Arcee, despite her aggressiveness, has managed to avoid serious injury for most of the war, as such her problems lay not in body, but in mind.

She suffers from extreme PTSD from the loss of so many of her partners, it has led her to pull away from others and keep to herself.

Thankfully upon coming to earth and being assigned as Jack's guardian she lightens up again, content in knowing that she has a chance to try again as a protector once more.

She still has bad night terrors and occasionally has mental breakdowns thought, even if she is generally good at hiding it.

When the team do manage to see through her attempts at hiding her condition they do their best to comfort her in little ways.

Bad days usually end with the team watching a movie together, keeping Arcee from focusing too much on her own dark thoughts.

Arcee is particularly fond of romance films, not that she will ever admit it aloud.

Bulkhead

While no bot comes out of a war unscathed mentally, Bulkhead is by far the most mentally stable of the Cybertronian half of the team.

However that does not mean he is in pristine condition. His joints in his knees and knuckles are unfortunately rather stiff and painful from his many long years enduring hostile environments.

He does his work regardless of the pain, he has long since learned to tune it out for the most part.

But on days where the weather is off, his joints end up becoming near unbearable.

He usually plays it off with a joke or two but the team notices and does not hesitate to do something about it.

Optimus puts Bulkhead on groundbridge duty during those days, and the rest of the team ask him to handle minor tasks on the computer in order to keep him off his pedes while not damaging his pride.

Miko almost always ropes Bulkhead into having a spa day with her on such days. He tries to object but succumbs to her pleading in the end.

When the team return from their various missions they don't mention the almost comical sight of Bulkhead resting with pillows over his optics as the bright pink paint on his servo tips dries.

Wheeljack

He isn't one to hang around the team much, but when he does drop by, occasionally his ADHD rears its helm.

On such days he is fidgety, ready for a fight and eager to get into trouble.

In order to keep him from driving Ratchet to commit a murder, the team enact game nights whenever he comes round, even if he isn't having an off day.

Twister, UNO, Video games are the primary activities of the team game nights.

Wheeljack is incredibly competitive and always does a little dance when he wins.

His scrap eating grin when he absolutely demolishes Bulkhead and Bumblebee in racing games oozes with smugness.

His competitiveness has caused more than a few half hearted fights to break out over the true victor in a game, but no one really minds as it allows everyone to blow off steam.

In the end, even if he is a bit much at times, the team wouldn't have it any other way.

After all it wouldn't be the same if there wasn't a fight to break up, or cry of victory to be heard as Wheeljack gets far too into the game for his own good.

Smokescreen

Smokescreen hasn't seen much action due to the relative security of his previous station at Iacon, as such he only has one, thankfully temporary problem.

A few too many hits to the helm and then his stasis locked journey to earth have thrown his recharge cycles out of whack.

While his body readjusts and repairs the damage to his processors he is stuck dealing with the ever present threat of passing out at any moment.

He can usually sense the forced recharge a few minutes before it knocks him out cold and can groundbridge out of a fight before it happens, but around base he tends to not notice the signs before it is too late.

He often passes out while in the middle of an activity, thankfully there is nearly always someone there to catch him and lay him down on the floor somewhere until he comes back online.

The children have capitalized on his random naps and have gone out of their way to 'beautify' poor Smokescreen's armor while he is recharging.

More than once he has woken up with a Sharpe mustache on his face and silly little doodles on his armor.

If Optimus comes by while he is recharging, the Prime always moves him somewhere more comfortable and covers him with a sheet of some sort to tuck him in. (Optimus can't help his fatherly instincts)

Smokescreen loves it.

It still scares the scrap out of Ratchet though when Smokescreen just suddenly collapses on the floor in forced recharge.

Bumblebee

Bumblebee's most obvious injury is his torn out voice box.

Over the years since its loss the pain from the injury has lessened significantly.

It causes him discomfort on occasion but only when he attempts to speak beyond the capacity of his prosthetic voice box.

However after the loss and subsequent restoration of his T-cog, he has new pains to deal with.

Some days the organ will cramp up or freeze, the damage inflicted when it was removed causing transformation to be agonizing or outright fail altogether (thought the latter option has only occurred a handful of times)

On those days Bumblebee struggles a lot with his self esteem. He hates being useless and babied more than anything else. (except perhaps Megatron)

The children will often rope him into playing video games with them to cheer him up.

The rest of the team will play lob ball with him, or if the weather doesn't permit it, they will wrestle or attempt to play human games.

Ratchet may make energon goodies if rations permit it (not that he will ever admit to it) and Optimus will snuggle with Bumblebee later to ensure he feels loved.

Ultra Magnus

Besides his prosthetic servo cramping up and being rather unreliable, Ultra Magnus only has one other noticeable problem (not counting his stiffness)

He suffers from nearly every Anxiety disorder in the book, the horrors of his time on the front lines doing less than stellar things for his mental health

Neither Autobot or Deception were particularly virtuous during the height of the great war.

There were times when Ultra Magnus was forced to commit acts that went directly against his moral code, times when civilians and noncombatants were cut down in order to complete a mission.

It haunts him, it is why he sticks to the rules so closely. He never again wants to be in a situation where he is forced to choose between innocents and the mission.

He has episodes sometimes, generally when he hears about human conflicts and the acts of the Decepticons.

He gets extra clingy with Optimus during those episodes and is far more erratic, getting angry and upset far more easily when missions require conflict.

He stays by Optimus's side throughout his episodes, comforting himself in the presence of the closest bot he has to a brother.

Optimus kindly doesn't comment on it and often sits with Ultra Magnus to discuss trivial things, giving him a sense of normalcy.

Ultra Magnus appreciates it more than he will ever be able to admit to Optimus.

Ratchet

Ratchet is a melting pot of body pains, unmaintained plating, and an unholy mix of Paranoia and OCD.

The mech can't get a good night's recharge if all his tools aren't up to snuff. (You never know when a Decepticon might blow someone's arm off)

And even when he does lay down on his berth with the intent to recharge his protoform starts itching furiously and he remembers everything that could and has gone wrong and...he just... can't sit still.

So he gets up, checks his tools again, wanders around giving every bot in base a once over just to be sure they are still alive, then he goes back to his berth and gets like an hour of recharge time in before he is up doing the whole thing again.

Usually Optimus (an insomniac of the highest order) will help him settle down after around the third time he gets up again.

Some nights though Ratchet can't recharge at all, despite Optimus's best efforts, and he is the worst person to be around the next day.

On those days everyone gives him space, with Wheeljack and Bulkhead taking extra care not to irritate him lest they get a wrench thrown at them.

His aching everything also tends to act up when he doesn't rest, and so some bot will usually bring Ratchet a cube of painkiller laced energon as a peace offering.

It is accepted with slight appreciation.

Optimus Prime

Oh boy. Optimus is likely the worst off out of everyone.

He has injuries from centuries earlier that he still hasn't fully seen to, and he has all sorts of unresolved trauma that he swears he will get around to dealing with eventually when Ratchet prods.

He has all sorts of issues but the most notorious is the depression that loves to make an appearance whenever things get a bit rough.

And let it be known that when Optimus is depressed he gets extra self sacrificial.

Due to his sheer size and how active he is in battles and patrols, Optimus requires far more energon than the other bots in his team.

When rations are tight he tends to skip as many meals as he can get away with without affecting his performance too much. He can't bare to watch him team, no, family suffer from hunger.

Over the years the team, mostly Ratchet and Bumblebee, have learned to notice when Optimus begins skipping out on refueling and have developed methods to get him back into the correct mindset.

Generally if they catch him attempting to avoid meals they will drag him into the main part of the base where everyone hangs out and hand him a cube of energon and tell him to eat it, right there, right at that moment.

No slight of hand is possible for Optimus when the whole base have eyes and optics on him.

He always relents and consumes the given energon with no small amount of guilt.

The team know he feels bad consuming so much energon and so on those days they make sure to give him a few extra compliments (something Smokescreen is more than eager to participate in)

At the end of those bad days Bumblebee will recharge with Optimus in his berth, just to remind him that everything will be alright.

Optimus struggles to hold back a sob whenever Bumblebee utters 'I love you Sire' on those days.