#both versions of the bottle seem really fucking generic and boring though

[diseaseriddencube]

looking at the akudrive perfumes again today and 1. why are they all bergamot based. is bergamot and pepper just the cyberpunk scent???? 2. what is with the character choices. cutthroat, courier and hacker???? why not swindler

[girlreviews]

Review #365: Madvillainy, Madvillain

This is such an interesting, unique record. Madvillain is (was) comprised of Madlib and MF DOOM, and it’s their only studio album. 22 songs, most of them under three minutes and none feature any kind of traditional structure like choruses or hooks. Despite this it’s cemented itself as not only one of the greatest hip hop records of all time, but also albums of all time in general. I feel like maybe it was lightning in a bottle for this one – although both artists have an incredible and respectable discography on their own.

The story of this record is just as interesting and unique. Madlib and MF DOOM had been collaborating on it for a few years, with DOOM responsible for the lyrics and flows, and Madlib responsible for the beats and production. Seems like it was a match made in heaven, really. MF DOOM is sort of unmatched in his word skills. Seriously though, there’s really plenty of write ups and deconstruction of his style and remarkable abilities, and the guy was absolutely out of this world good at what he did. I’m not particularly well versed in the ins and outs of creating good hip-hop or rap, but I do know that anyone making use of so many different literary devices in their music is some kind of genius. It kind of blows your mind to untangle it all, because it’s hard to comprehend someone being just that talented, but also that clever. If you’re a lover of words and language in general, then you will enjoy a lifelong love with MF DOOM. Or rather, you can, if you look in alternative spaces for exceptional wordsmithing.

Madlib has a really unique and specific sound incorporating really obscure samples from really jazz and soul, which at the time was sort of different, but I imagine is less unexpected now, since Madvillainy set the tone for future music. He also pulled from Indian and Brazilian music. Honestly, just as above, you could spend your entire life poring over all of the details, sounds, and samples and you’d never get bored and never cease to learn. Isn’t that fucking spectacular? That these two particularly unique and gifted artists created a single record together that can provide a lifetime of learning and admiration? And that it almost didn’t happen: just over a year before its release, a demo version of the record was leaked publicly and the duo were so disillusioned from the experience that they stopped working on it for some time. Thankfully, they eventually resumed and released it and now there’s life before Madvillainy, and life after it. I wonder if they knew what they had created before they released it. That public leaking of unfinished work is always such a devastating situation for any artist.

I had been introduced to this album in 2013 when several tracks showed up on various playlists made for me by others. One of them also featured Jai Paul’s BTSTU. His debut album suffered the same fate as Madvillainy, and his promising career was seriously derailed. He remains a bit of an enigma to this day, although he is actually playing live shows in 2024, and I’m excited to be going to one of them. I don’t know, it’s always a really strange thing to happen to a record and sometimes it cements its legendary status and sometimes it destroys the creator.

They created it quite separately and with very little communication. Madlib recorded the majority of the beats and music in Brazil on a cassette tape, sent it to MF DOOM who then added his lyrics. They collaborated without really collaborating and it stands out a lot throughout: MF DOOM was in tune to the sound and incorporated it into his words – take Accordian. The accordian sound on loop throughout comes from Experience by Daedelus. But the final line in the song DOOM makes mention of it:

“Your first and last step playing you like an accordian”

It's simple when you consider it, but that they put this together without actually discussing it and just providing their own individual contributions and vibing off of one another makes it that much more unbelievable that this record was the result. They themselves described the process of creating these songs as “telepathic”, without “a lot of talking”. Two artists with a one-time joint creative mind. I don’t know, I find it hard to put into words just how bananas this all is when you listen to it.

Something that I find fascinating about Madvillainy is the way in which both Madlib and MF Doom incorporated their alias persona’s into it. There are song credits that feature MF DOOM and Viktor Vaughn – the same person delivering the words – but towards each other and from differing perspectives. It’s sort of mind-boggling how this was done: Madlib gets into it with his own alter-ego, Quasimoto on America’s Most Blunted, and DOOM creates a weird love triangle between himself, his girlfriend, and Viktor Vaughn in Fancy Clown. Why? What was the point? Well, why not? And didn’t it produce one of the greatest records of all time? Maybe more artists should get this creative and ridiculous with their work. Pitchfork called Fancy Clown “a brilliant concept” and hailed it as “hip-hop’s first schizophrenic self-diss track”. Think about what they’re really saying there. It’s really, really, very cool.

To be able to give my normal descriptions of what it sounds or feels like, I’d have to listen to it another 100,000 times at least. I find it so dense and overwhelming – in the best way – but there’s nothing to do here but to listen to it. No amount of description from me or any other person reviewing it will adequately convey the magic of it. It’s just really that fucking good. Overlook it at your own expense. Enjoy.

[from-seas-to-skies]

The Teacher / Bakugou x Reader ♕︎

warnings: NSFW, teacher/student relationship, oral sex, spitting, sir kink, slut shaming, somewhat brat taming, age difference, unprotected sex

words: 5,772

(a/n): Bakugou is 30 in this; reader is younger (college age)

-

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

One, two, three, four… How long was it going to take until class ended again?

Looking up from your notebook, you stare up at the clock, the large, monotonous face seemingly glaring straight back at you. You don’t know how it happens, but time always moves so slow when it comes to your calculus class. Frankly, you’d rather ditch the class altogether, but if you wanted to graduate from college, you had to pass. Curse stupid curriculums and all that shit.

However, despite absolutely dreading having to stare at numbers for a solid hour and a half, there is a plus side to taking this dreaded class. In fact, it’s the very reason why you signed up for it in the first place. You’ve heard so many wonderful things about it, all from girls and guys alike, and you knew you had to see it up close and personal – rather, you had to see him.

Professor Bakugou.

Age thirty, drives a Land Rover, and, most importantly, single.

He’s about as dreamy as they come; a complete and utter Dreamboat Annie, absolutely huge in both height and stature, intelligent, and handsome. He’s only been a professor for a few years, but it’s been made apparent to the school that he’s worth it. Not only are his teaching methods and lectures incredible, but he’s turned out some of the highest grades your college has even seen. That itself is impress, and, combined with the hype of how hot he is, it’s no wonder people rush to take his classes.

So, when it came time for class schedules to come out, you were excited, needless to say. Despite having a general disliking to math in the first place, you figured this one guy could be what it takes to turn that idea around. Oh, but that was before you first laid your eyes on him.

Shit, you had heard that he was attractive – godly, even – but this? You weren’t expecting this. His biceps alone could crack a watermelon, and his sharp jawline could easily cut diamonds. It sounds cliché, that’s true, but you have no other way of putting it. Words did not do this man any justice.

At first, his constant yelling and crude demeanor were a total turn off. Professor Bakugou was essentially the teacher version of Gordon Ramsay, and you weren’t entirely sure if you liked that or not. However, as time continued, you actually grew accustomed to it. In fact, if he didn’t yell at least once during the class, you’d immediately figured he was having a bad day.

That’s when the thoughts began. Call it infatuation, a mindless crush, whatever, but you wanted Professor Bakugou. Your eyes soon began to watch his large hands flex while he wrote on the board rather than the content itself. You’d watch his forearms flex while he turned the page in his textbook, prominent veins inviting you for a better look. How you longed to touch him, to grab his sturdy shoulders or pull his wild hair. He always looked so good, clothes tailored to fit his muscular frame perfectly.

You’d fantasize about the most random of scenarios, each of them usually ending up with him bending you over his desk at the front of the room. You liked colder days the best, especially since Professor Bakugou had the habit of wearing form-fitting sweaters that outlined his massive pecs or the swell of his arms. You wanted to make him feel better, to sit underneath the desk and suck him off while he taught the rest of the class. Those narrow hips had to be strong, and you’d be damned if you never got to experience their power at least once.

It’s almost as if Professor Bakugou had cast a spell over all of his students. Nearly all of them gushed about how great he was; and, if you were in the proper company, they exchanged fantasies or proclamations about how fucking gorgeous he was. You’d usually grow bitter at these types of conversations. It was a crush, for fuck’s sake. There was no need to get all pouty like some problematic schoolgirl.

Still, the thoughts wouldn’t go away, not when he taught, not when he yelled. His booming voice became a part of your wicked fantasies, wondering how it’d sound to hear him grunting your name or commanding you to spread his legs for him. Again and again, you told yourself that it was fine, that people develop crushes on their teachers all the time. It was only in the dead of night that you’d have your hand stuffed down your pants and mouth moaning his name into a pillow was when you regretted it. It was a phase, nothing more.

And yet, over two months into the semester, and these thoughts still won’t go away. The constant ticking of the clock brings you back down to Earth, your eyes focusing on the problems before you. Swallowing thickly, you loosen your hand, now just noticing how hard you’ve begun to clench your pencil. Your insides feel oddly warm, that pleasant, heavy feeling sitting behind your belly button. Dammit, you mentally curse, this is not the time to be getting distracted.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

If only class could end sooner.

“Right,” Professor Bakugou suddenly says from his desk, “this Friday, I’m holding a study session for the upcoming exam on Monday. There’s only going to be a limited number of seats available, so if you wanna join, here’s your chance.” With his words, he holds a blank sheet of notebook paper up, a rather bored expression on his face.

He must be tired, you think, unconsciously biting your bottom lip. But why?

Around you, students shuffle to the front of the class, waiting for a chance to scribble their names onto the paper. Some seem a bit more excited than others, obviously arching their backs or flipping their hair over their shoulders. With a scoff, you look back down to your work. Did they really think they could catch his attention like that? Yeah, so he doesn’t show off a ring on his finger, but it’s pretty likely that he has people throwing themselves at him all the time. Besides, Professor Bakugou is a strict guy; there’s no way he’d engage in a relationship with a student.

You really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up. It’s pointless to pine after your teacher like that, especially with the risks that come along with getting involved with each other. Still, you can’t help but feel bitter. Professor Bakugou is a god that walks amongst men, so how could you not want somebody like him?

“Alright, that’s all for today. Class dismissed,” Professor Bakugou calls out. Dammit, you spaced out again. Maybe you should get that checked out?

With a sigh, you stuff your belongings into your backpack and draw to a stand. You wish it would be spring already; trudging through snow and ice is never fun, and the fact that your dorm is basically on the other side of campus makes it even more rough. Pulling your coat on and slinging your backpack over your shoulders, you make way towards the classroom door, completely unaware of a set of eyes watching your every move.

-

“Man, this is impossible,” your best friend, Ashido Mina, groans. “I’m going to bomb this exam for sure!” Sprawled out on her stomach, she squirms on the floor, her face scrunching with her displeasure.

You, on the other hand, sit cross-legged across from her. Notebooks and math textbooks surround the two of you, your laptop and calculator at the ready. Bags of chips and pretzels sit to the side, along with abandoned coffee cups and empty water bottles. Professor Bakugou’s exams were notorious for being hard, but at the same time, if you payed attention in class and studied, you’d succeed. The thing is, though, that neither you nor Mina are the best when it comes to math.

“I thought you went to his study session?” you ask, glancing up from your own notebook.

Flashing you a pout, Mina nervously runs a hand through her fluffy hair. “Well, yeah, but you know how it goes! A secluded area with Professor Bakugou! It’s like a dream come true! It was hard to focus when he’s leaning over your shoulder like that…”

Rolling your eyes, you puff in amusement. “Really? Mina, you know what will happen if you fail this test.”

“Yeah, yeah, but come on! You can’t blame me! You would’ve done the exact same thing!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh yes you would’ve!” Mina exclaims, pointing an accusing finger your way. “Don’t pretend like you don’t ogle Professor Bakugou during class! He’s one hell of a hunk, isn’t he? I never knew college professors could be so hot!” she gushes, a giggle following her words. “And that study session – oh my god, I nearly thought I was going to heart attack when he helped me solve this one problem. He’s so warm and he smells great!”

You cock an eyebrow at her. “You were smelling our teacher?”

At that, Mina blows a raspberry and waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not Kaminari, sweetheart. I have class. Besides, Professor Bakugou smells like caramel. Can you believe it? I wonder if he uses cologne or feminine soap.”

Caramel, eh? Now that’s something you can get behind.

“You want him to fuck you, right?”

Wait, what?

Narrowing your gaze at her, your brows knit closely together. “What kind of question is that?”

Mina rolls her eyes. “What, like you don’t think about it? Practically everyone on this campus has thought about it at some point or another? I mean, hello! He’s totally Daddy material. I’ve heard that he goes to the gym sometimes here on campus – turns out he’s huge.”

Huge. Of course this is what Mina chooses to focus on. You wish you had a spray bottle to squirt at her horny ass.

“And I don’t mean muscle wise,” Mina continues, a mischievous expression coming to her face. “I bet he tastes like candy.”

“Mina.”

“Why yes, Mr. Bakugou sir! I’ll gladly suck your fat cock for an A!”

“Mina.”

“His ass is really nice, too. I wouldn’t mind pegging him-“

“MINA.”

“What?”

You smack your forehead and groan as your hand trails down your face. “Are you going to study or not? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather graduate than work at McDonald’s for the rest of my life.”

Mina purses her lips at you in an excessive pout. “You’re such a fun sponge, holy shit. I think you need a good dicking down by Professor Bakugou. Maybe then you’d stop staring after him all the time during class.”

Your face heats up at her words, but there’s no way you’re owning up to that. Okay, so yeah, maybe getting fucked by him would be a dream come true, but you’re more realistic than that. “And you’re not concerned at all that he’s our teacher? You know, like he could lose his job and you could be expelled? That doesn’t bother you? At all?”

Mina shrugs. “Meh.”

“Woooow…. You really are shameless.”

“Hey, you win some, you lose some. If I could get that man to put a ring on my finger, then I’d be okay with it.”

“Yeah, because you definitely want to bring your math professor home. Uh huh, great one. Tell me how that goes.”

With a grunt, Mina rolls over and sits up. “Whatever, man. I’m hungry, so I’m going to go down to the dining hall. Wanna come with?”

Glancing at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand, you see that it’s only 5:15. True, you could get a bite to eat, but you’d rather stay back and finish a few more problems. “I think I’ll join up with you later,” you tell Mina.

She nods her head and offers you a small smile. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. I’ll see you later.” Gathering up her things, she unceremoniously shoves them into her backpack and salutes you with a goodbye. After she pulls the door shut behind her, you turn back to the task at hand.

It shouldn’t be this hard to solve these last couple of problems, but your brain is really starting to feel the struggle. A dull ache is already forming between your eyeballs, and you truly wonder if you’re going to make it through this or not. Maybe you should take a break, or at least give your eyes a rest. Still, that little stubborn streak in you tells you to carry on. You only have a few more problems left, and you’re so close to finally finishing!

As you set to work, the digits on your alarm clock change as time drags on. Okay, so maybe you’re demanding too much of yourself. Your brain is absolutely fried, and your headache is spreading. Glancing back up at the clock, luminous green lines glare a 5:31. Jeez, it’s only been sixteen minutes since you last checked, yet it seems as though hours have passed. You really want to finish this study session, but the last problem is throwing you in for a loop.

You’ve already scoured your notes and the textbook for how to go about the problem, but your mind is drawing up with a blank. It has to be because you’re tired, right? It’s not that hard… Or is it?

“Dammit,” you mutter, sitting back and pressing your palms flat against the floor. Again, you look at the clock. Frankly, you don’t want to spend all night pouring over this, and you don’t want to skip dinner, either. You know for a fact that Mina will beat your ass for skipping out on food. “Screw it.”

Scrambling off the floor, you throw a thick coat on and slide on your sneakers. Professor Bakugou sometimes has the habit of frequenting his office during the weekends (or so you’ve heard), and you desperately need to know how to solve this problem. Chances are something similar will be on the exam, and you want to get as good of a grade as possible. Plus, if he is there…

You swallow thickly. Now is not the time to let Mina’s previous words get to you.

And so, with your notebook tucked underneath an arm, you take off.

It’s a damned shame that his office is practically on the other side of campus, but you figure it wouldn’t be too bad to get your body moving after spending so much time hunched over. Now that you think about, you could just email him, but you’re not sure how quick he’d respond. This is a dire moment. Okay, maybe not, but still. Maybe you want to see Professor Bakugou. Maybe.

You’re thankful when you finally enter the building, free of the flurries of snow and the seeping chill. Stomping your feet free from snow, you look around, creeped out yet fascinated by the silent, empty halls. You doubt very many people are here besides lingering staff and the janitors. One could only hope that Professor Bakugou is frequenting his office.

As you draw closer and closer to his office, your footsteps bounce off the walls, reminding you of how alone you are. There’s a fifty/fifty chance that he’s even going to be in his office, yet your heart pounds frantically in your chest. If he isn’t there, you’ll just simply turn around and stalk back to your dorm and hope for the best. If he is there, well, you’re not entirely sure what you should say.

He’s your teacher, dammit. It shouldn’t be this hard going up to him and asking him for help. It’s literally his job to help students out; nothing more, nothing less. Still, Mina’s words ring throughout your mind. It’s just a crush, you remind yourself. Stop getting so worked up about it.

There it is, just straight up ahead – Professor Bakugou’s office.

Like the other offices lining the hall, it’s made from a heavy wood, a frosted window place in the top half with Professor Bakugou’s name printed on it. A simple door like this shouldn’t intimidate you so much, but yet it does. All you have to do is knock on it, wait for a possible response, and then go from there. However, now that you’re in front of it, you somewhat hope he’s not there. Your palms are growing clammy and your throat feels fuzzy.

“Here goes nothing,” you tell yourself, reaching up and rapping on the door.

For a moment, nothing happens. Perhaps Lady Luck has decided to spare some mercy on you, after all. Releasing a pent-up breath you didn’t know you were even holding, you prepare to step back and walk away, but then a muffled come in sounds through the door.

Oh, shit.

You wince as your cowardice floods you with a renewed force. There’s no way you can just leave now, not if you want Professor Bakugou potentially chasing you down. Taking in a deep breath, you turn the brass knob and poke your head inside. “Uh, Professor Bakugou?”

Oh, shit.

There he is, sitting behind an oak desk, hunched down over a stack of papers. He holds up a single finger, a signal for you to give him a moment. Immediately, your eyes skim over his exposed forearms, skim over the tight black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. Rolled sleeves, watch on wrist, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, he’s just dripping with classy sexiness.

The steady tick tock, tick tock fills the otherwise silent room. It grates on your already wired nerves, mocks you for just standing there, waiting. You can’t help but glance at its face – 5:49. It’s already dark out, winter’s everlasting darkness sapping the Earth’s light. Stepping fully inside the room, you gently shut the door behind you, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

After another moment or so, he finally clicks his pen closed, tosses it onto the desk, and leans back in his chair. “Oi – what do you want?”

Removing your notebook from underneath your arm, you hold it out for him to take. “I was… I was wondering if you could explain how to work out this problem?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Professor Bakugou sits upright and glances at what you’ve written. “We discussed this during the study session on Friday.” His eyes dart up to yours. “I’m surprised you weren’t there.”

Is he singling you out right now? It feels like he’s singling you out right now. But wait, doesn’t that also mean that he noticed you not being there? He’s just saying that to say it, right? …Right?

“There was a lot on my mind,” you say softly.

Professor Bakugou sighs. “Alright, come here.” Maybe it’s the gruffness of his voice, but the simple command nearly has you whimpering on the spot. Jesus, you need to get your act together!

“Of course, sir,” you reply, the title subconsciously rolling off your tongue. Skirting around the desk, you come to his side, unaware of him shifting in his seat.

“It’s really not that hard if you put your damned brain to use,” he grunts, picking his pen back up. You notice how the tendons in his hand flex with the subtle movement; actually, now that you’re up close in personal, you can clearly see the veins racing up his forearms, the sheen of blond hairs.

Warmth seems to radiate off of him, just like how Mina said. You wonder if he gets hot easily, or if that’s just the way he is. Either way, you shimmy the slightest bit closer to him, eager to ward off the chill that still clings to you from the outside. He goes into great detail about how to go through each step surrounding the problem; you lean over his shoulder as he goes through the steps, the heat emanating from his skin drawing you in more and more. With each breath, the scent of caramel floods your senses. You’re almost half tempted to press your nose to his nape and get a better smell, but that’d just be creepy. Plus, even if you did that, Professor Bakugou could probably pick you up and literally throw you out of his office.

Still, despite knowing the risk, your mind takes off, just like it usually does whenever you’re in his presence. It would just be so easy to squeeze his thick arms, to run your fingers through his thick blonde hair. Maybe you could push the collar of his turtleneck down, expose his neck and bite the pulse. It’s almost ridiculous just how big he is, how easily he could overpower you. A familiar warmth floods your system, encasing your insides and clutching onto your heart. This is bad – very, very bad.

“Oi, what the hell are you staring at?” Professor Bakugou barks.

Snapping yourself back to attention, you notice him staring at you, his glasses now off his handsome face. If possible, he’s even more attractive up close; thick lashes, full lips, a slight gleam in his eyes that demand power and control. He almost looks entirely different like this, face lax instead of fixed with a scowl. Good lord, you really are whipped for him.

“Oh, um, sorry,” you ramble, eyes going wide. “It’s just that your hair looks really… fluffy…?”

“…Hah?”

You quickly avert your eyes. “Nevermind…”

“You know,” Professor Bakugou starts, voice low, “you stare at me a lot during class, too. You’re not very subtle.”

You wince at his words. “I… I’m not sure what you’re talking about-“

Rolling his eyes, he scoffs and tosses down his pen. “You’re not majoring in theatre, are you? Because you suck at acting.” He flashes you a cocky smirk when you look back to him. “Just admit it – you like what you see, don’t ya? Can’t say I blame you.”

Okay, wow, cocky much. Yeah, sure, he’s an absolute babe, but wouldn’t you think he’d be a bit more… modest?

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Didn’t know my math professor thought so highly of himself.”

“Tch. Looks like you got a damn mouth on you, after all. Well, if you’re done undressing me with your eyes, do you want to learn how to do this problem or not? I don’t like repeating myself, but I’ll let it slide just this once since I like you.”

Wait, wait, hold up. Did he just say he likes you?

“You’re a good student,” Professor Bakugou continues. “Even if you do focus on me more than my lecture.”

Is this how the conversation was supposed to play out? Because damn you’re nearly shaking, and you still have your coat on. He knows too much, dammit. He’s known this entire time and he’s playing you.

“And yet you could’ve easily told me to stop,” you shoot right back, sick of being prosecuted like this. Sure, it might be a bad idea to pick a fight with a teacher, but this is outside of classroom hours; and, frankly, he can kiss your ass. Crude demeanor or not, you’re not about to let this man push you around.

“Who said I wanted you to stop?”

No. There’s no way he just said that. This big-headed narcissist is relishing in this, isn’t he? Bastard.

“Hate to break it to you, Professor, but almost everyone stares at you like that,” you tell him. You realize you just admitted it to the accusation, but there’s no point in defending it anymore.

“Like I give a shit about the others? Really? You’re gonna talk about them?” He scoffs his amusement and leans back in his chair, thick arms crossing over his chest. “Did you come here to ask me questions about the exam or did you just want to be with me all by yourself?”

You hesitate. Is that really the reason you came here tonight? The whole way here you debated this yourself, Mina’s words circling around your head. No, you’re smarter than this. It’s a bad idea to get involved with a teacher – it’s wrong.

“I’m not going to lie or deny the truth,” Professor Bakugou continues, his voice dropping to an uncharacteristically low pitch. “I’m also not stupid. You’re just as scared as me, aren’t you? Of the repercussions.”

Your mouth falls agape. What is he going on about…?

Slowly, Professor Bakugou sits back up, his face getting dangerously close to yours. Hot breath fans over the bottom half of your face. His eyes are heavily lidded, his lashes kissing his cheeks. “I’m not going to force anything on you,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Oh my god.

Unable to resist the close proximity anymore, you shoot forward, your hands landing on the arms of the chair; Professor Bakugou’s lips are softer than you anticipated, but in no way is he gentle. Right away he’s clutching the back of your neck, dragging you forward so you’re settled on his lap. The arms of the chair pinch into your thighs at the tight fit, but you could care less. You’re on Professor Bakugou’s lap, you have his tongue in your mouth, his hands landing on your ass and kneading the flesh.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this forever,” he growls, his hands slipping under your shirt and gliding over your lower back. You arch into his touch, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you pant.

“I know.”

Fuck, it’s all so good, his tongue licking the inside of your mouth and hands unbuttoning your jeans. A startled noise erupts from your throat as a large hand slides into the front of your pants, cupping your crotch. You buck into his touch, all sense dissipating from your thoughts as you fervently grind into his heated palm. There’s a clutter of paper and office supplies as they hit the floor. Before you know it, you’re rising from the chair, your ass landing on the wooden desk instead.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” Professor Bakugou grits. Your ass is barely on the desk by the time he’s done dragging you forward, your jeans aggressively getting yanked off, your underwear following suit. Your thighs instinctively snap shut at the cold air making contact with your bared skin, but strong hands pry them apart, fingertips kneading into the flesh. “I wanna make you cum with my tongue.”

“Wai- Ah! Fuck!” you cry out, your fingers clutching onto the edge of the desk as his head ducks down, his mouth latching onto your sex. Until now, you weren’t even aware that you were dripping with arousal. Sinful noises spill from between your legs as Professor Bakugou fucks you with his mouth, his lips wrapping around your most sensitive parts.

“God, you’re such a slut.”

Smack.

You cry out as he brings a hand down on the innermost part of your thigh; your nerves quake, your blood pumps wildly through your veins. Again, he slaps your thigh, a growl tearing itself from his chest as he looks up, his eyes catching yours.

“Say it.”

Smack.

“I – I’m a slut,” you babble, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth.

Smack.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m a slut!” you exclaim, voice cracking.

“I expect you to refer to me properly,” he says darkly, his pupils dilating to the point where you could barely see his irises. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

A single smirk is thrown your way before his mouth is back on you, his tongue lapping up your arousal. His moves are quick, sensual. It’s clear he’s experienced, and you don’t blame him. Just look at him for Christ’s sake. The man is basically sex on legs, all nicely wrapped up in a turtleneck sweater and a simple pair of slacks. The pleasure only heightens as his fingers come into play, prodding at your hole; the tips just barely push past the muscle, leaving you moaning even louder and clutching harder on the desk. Your fingernails scratch the surface, the lacquer coming off.

“Tasty little brat, aren’t ya?” he drawls. Your entire body jolts as he spits on your sex. “I could get used to doing this.”

“Please, sir,” you plead, desperation filling your voice. You want his mouth back on you. You want to cum. “Please, it feels so good…”

Professor Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Shit, you’re even obedient. How nice.” He redoubles his efforts, then, wet noises filling the room along with your heavy breathing.

“Shit, shit, oh my god,” you babble, your body tensing. Still, his tongue digs in just right and there goes your sanity, flying out the window as you cum.

A deep chuckle fills your ears as Professor Bakugou sucks it down; drawing away, he flashes you his tongue, your arousal coating his tongue before he makes a show of swallowing the last bit of it. Wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, he draws to a stand. The tent in his slacks is obvious, the front of it darker than the rest. Your insides squeeze around nothing, the idea of making him get like that making you feel hotter than before.

You’re hypnotized as he pulls his hands away. His movements are slow and methodical, the clink of his belt echoing throughout the room. Swallowing thickly, you bite your lip as he leisurely undoes his belt and slacks. Blood rushes through your ears, your mind a complete mess. You feel dizzy with want, with the need to sink your teeth into the swell of his pectoral, to claw the plains of his back.

All the air is sucked from your lungs when he finally pulls his cock out, the head flushed a deep red. Your eyes trail over the prominent veins, the fat bead of precum pushing its way out the tip. Fuck, he’s huge, both in length and girth. Whoever told Mina that he was big wasn’t lying. Your legs subconsciously spread even wider, a silent plead for him to fill you up and fuck you raw.

“Tell me you want this,” he husks. He does the honor of unzipping your coat and slipping it off your shoulders before easing you onto your back. The cold from the wood permeates through your shirt, brings a new wave of goosebumps to your flesh.

“Only if you tell me the same thing,” you croak. “Do you fuck all of your students who walk in through that door?”

“No,” Professor Bakugou blatantly says, and you can tell he’s being earnest. “It’s wrong of me to think so, but I’ve been wanting to do something with you since I saw you. It sounds like some sappy bullshit, but it’s the truth. I was too much of a pussy to ask you out for a coffee.”

Something about hearing him confess his feelings to you sets your heart alight. A slight smile tugs at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tch. And you’re a fucking brat.”

Hunching over you, a large hand plants itself by your head while the other guides his cock to your awaiting hole. A shaky breath passes through your mouth as he pushes himself in; the stretch burns, his thick cock filling you up in a way that you didn’t even know was possible.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes. “Look at you, sucking in my cock like that. What a good little slut. I bet you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? I bet you touched yourself while thinking about this very moment, about me fucking you on my desk like this.” A surprised squeak bursts from your throat as he grabs your legs and throws him over his shoulders, effectively bending you in half. “Gotta fuck you nice and deep, right? Because that’s how a slut like you likes it.”

Like this, with your knees almost touching your ears, the tip of his cock hits your soft spot. A pathetic whimper comes from you as he grinds his cock into you, his eyes carefully watching your erotic expressions, figuring out what you like best.

Before long, he’s fucking into with vigor, his hips moving restlessly. His cock pounds into you mercilessly, the slap of skin against skin mixing with your cries. His mouth is at your throat, teeth skimming your jugular before he latches onto your thundering pulse. You helplessly claw at his shoulders, your fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. You’re so fucking full, your velvety walls clamping around his cock selfishly. A blend of curses and yes, fuck, you fucking slut fill your ears; he’s panting hard, a slight chuckle breaking through every once in a while.

“Fucking let everyone know who’s fucking you this good,” he grits. “Jesus, look at the mess you’re making…”

“Professor Bakugou!” you whine. “Your cock feels so good… Fuck, fuck, oh my god, yes-“

“Katsuki. My name is Katsuki.”

Katuski.

The name rolls around your brain like a loose bolt. It settles on the tip of your tongue, just waiting to be let out.

It’s when you cum that you shout his name, your walls tightening around him harshly while your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders. A load groan rumbles from the depths of his chest as he follows suit shortly after, his hips moving erratically as his cum splashes against your insides.

The both of you are sweating, panting messes by the time he finally pulls out. You whimper as you clench around nothing, the emptiness a bit too much to bear. Surprisingly, Professor Bakugou – no, Katsuki – is gentle as he cleans you up, his free hand rubbing your side. Swallowing your pride, you clear your throat.

His eyes flick up, land on yours. “What.”

“Do you…” You worry your bottom lip. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Katsuki snorts. “Wow, got a real fucking charmer here, don’t I? How about you come to my place instead and I make you a proper dinner. You didn’t eat yet, did you?”

As if on cue, your stomach growls. Well, you did deny Mina’s offer for dinner, after all. You smile nervously and give him a shrug.

Chest swelling (with pride, you assume), Katsuki flashes you a cocky smile. “I’m a damn good cook, brat. I’ll cook a meal that will have you weak in the knees.”

“Maybe… Maybe you could finally show me how to do that problem?” you offer.

He rolls his eyes. “Will you finally pay attention this time or will I have to pound it into your brain?”

[joshslater]

Foreign Exchange

This is a re-release since the previous version got blocked for unknown reasons. I’m not going to bother to find yet another photo that doesn’t break the content rule, so you’ll have to imagine the lower part of a slim, white guy wearing red trunks with the outline of a massive penis. Or read the original story and more on my Patreon.

It all started in what was supposed to be a one week stay in Cape Town. I don't know what the airline had smoked, but a round trip from Europe sold for almost nothing during a few hours. Probably some clerical error in the pricing department. Whatever the reason, I shuffled some tasks around and manage to arrange myself a one week spring vacation. I had no idea of what to expect. Only thing I knew about South Africa was the Kruger Park, the worlds first heart transplant, excellent red wines, Apartheid and Mandela.

It started out amazing. I found a cheap place in Green Point, close to lots of the tourist places, and started to drink my way through South African wine bottles. It was on the third evening I made the wrong move. No, life altering move.

I was heading back to the hotel after some late evening sea side action. I had emptied a particularly good bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, rich with those mineral tones so prevalent in most South African wines. I was slightly sun burned, possibly lost and decidedly round footed when I walked up to two well dressed white men beating the shit out of black kid.

- Hey, stop that!

I said before my brain had fully reengaged. They did stop. One of the men stared right at me, eyes filled with disdain.

- What you say?

I didn't have time to answer him when something hard hit the back of my head with a thud and everything lost focus and disappeared.

When I came to everything was black and my head hurt like hell. I was lying awkwardly, hands bound behind my back, feet tied together, and some sort of bag tied around my head. The sound made me think I was in someones trunk, but I guess it could have been a van or a covered pick up flat bed just as well. In any event, the vehicle was running fast on what I assumed to be a highway. After a bit of struggle I concluded that I was not just bound up, but also tied down and couldn't move much at all. After a boring hour or so still drunk me slipped back into sleep.

Next time I woke up the vehicle was standing still. I was still as tied up as before, but I could hear someone speaking Afrikaan a few steps away. He came close, shuffled some things around, and then I felt a small prick on my arm. I barely had time to realize it was some sort of injection when I lost consciousness again.

Regaining consciousness was quite different third time around. I still couldn't see anything, but I could feel some swim style goggles around my head, probably blacked out. Now I was lying more properly on a firm bed or padded table. I tried to move, but like before I was tightly restrained. This time it felt more professional, like cuffs around arms and legs, and some kind of material pushing against the chest. And I was naked, I think. It was hard to determine, as the temperature was nice and I couldn't move, but I couldn't feel any clothes on my body. I tried to say "hello", but nothing came out.

This quickly became incredibly boring. I couldn't see or feel much. The smell was basically just some generic clean smell of faint detergent. With sounds there were a bit more variation. I could hear some HVAC rumbling once every 5 minutes, or so I guessed. In addition there was a constant low humming in the room. I could hear some faint sounds from outside the room. Perhaps infrequent cars coming and leaving outside the building.

By my estimate I was at least into the third wake hour when suddenly a door opened and I could hear a conversation between the two men who entered the room. They sounded quite far away, so the room was probably large.

"...so many in the database?"

"We use five key measurements combined into one value as sorting key. The circumference and length, both on flaccid and erect, are approximated into two cylinders. Balls are approximated as spheres. Then we just multiply the three volumes together to make the sorting key. First selection priority is of course bio-compatibility, but this size metric allows for fast selection within that set. It only brings candidates though. The final decision is more complex, of course."

"Complex how?"

"Well, let's ask the doctor himself. His coming here."

A third person entered the room.

"You talking about me?"

"Yes, we were just discussing the selection criteria"

"Ah. Well, since this is a demonstration we want to be bold, while being mindful of proportions and aesthetics. In addition to appearance we want to maximize as many of the secondary factors as possible from the paper. For this one we landed in using the Congo supply."

They were standing right next to me now. The "doctor" continued.

"So this is the subject. The first agent is being administered right now, as you can see. Any questions?"

I tried to say something. Anything. But only wheezing air came out.

"Is he trying to speak?", asked the first voice.

"No, he isn't. Come, let's look at the model", replied the doctor, and they left the room as quickly as they entered it.

6-8 HVAC cycles later I heard the door open again and several people walking into the room. I heard a women's voice close to me saying "Everything is green. Go ahead." and I again lost consciousness.

The room was barely furnished, completely white and bathed in light when I opened my eyes.

"Oh, how good. You are awake."

I heard a female voice in a strong South African accent. I turned my head and saw a fat, black South African lady smiling at me. I was super confused. I was in a hospital bed, but this didn't really look like a hospital, and she didn't look like a nurse.

"Wheh...", was as far as I managed on "Where am I" before my voice gave out.

"You need to drink a lot. Here, let me help", said the lady and gave me something that looked like a hospital version of a gym bottle. As I drank she continued.

"You had a traffic accident. Nothing serious. Just a concussion, so you were dismissed from the hospital to make room. This is a recovery home."

I was gulping water. Man, was I was thirsty. "Where are we?" I asked.

"Just outside the city, so still close to Johannesburg."

That's like at least 10 hours away from Cape Town. What the fuck had happened?

"What day is it?"

"It's Thursday today, dear. I'll go and get something for you to eat", the fat lady answered, and started to move towards the door.

Something just didn't feel right. It was Wednesday evening when I was kidnapped. "No, what date?"

"Thursday the 28th", she said from the door.

A whole fucking week.

I felt a sucking black hole in my gut. The lady seemed nice, but there was no way I would trust her right now. Perhaps she believed everything she had just told me, but clearly some things were not true. My head felt fine, as opposed to the last time I was conscious, but what about the rest? I didn't feel any restraints, just my body in a hospital gown, under some white sheets. In fact, nothing hurt anywhere. Just thirsty, still, hungry and a need to piss.

I could see a different door in another wall than the nurse had just left through. Presumably a private toilet for this small recovery room. A pair of slippers stood next to the bed, so I threw off the blankets began to sit up and swing out my legs. That's when I first felt it. It was weird feeling, familiar, but yet very different.

I quickly kicked my feet into the slippers and carefully, still a bit woozy, shuffled into the bath room. It was surprisingly roomy. Well, perhaps not surprisingly, given the number of people with casts, wheelchairs and whatnot passing through. But it had plenty of room around the toilet seat and sink, and a full length mirror next to the sink, presumably for wheel chair bound people.

I raised the gown from my knees to expose my front, and just stared for a several seconds to fully understand what I saw. My dick and balls were gone. In its place was the largest, most aggressively male genitalia I had ever seen, even in pictures. The massive dick went almost down to my knees, and thick as a can of red bull. And even though it was completely flaccid it was veiny as cabbage and the outlines of a massive head was clearly visible through the uncut foreskin.

Behind the dick were two softball sized testicles hanging low, but unevenly so. It was all topped off with a large bush of coarse hair. And all of it, the hair, the balls and the dong, where dark chocolate black.

I just stared in disbelief. Then tentatively I touched the penis. Yep, it was real and it was now apparently mine. Standing straight my hands couldn't even reach halfway down to the tip. My mind caught up with reality and was filling with questions. Who did this? Why did they do this? How did they do this? Isn't there organ rejection? Aren't you supposed to eat some sort of pills forever after receiving a transplant? Are there even any pants I can wear anymore? Did baller shorts just become underwear?

I went to the toilet and emptied my bladder. It worked fine. Better than fine even, as aiming just became a lot easier with such a hose, although using paper involved lifting. Lifting! I could feel that it was much more sensitive than what I was used to, and felt it starting to come alive. I quickly dropped it and went back to bed. Just as I did lunch arrived.

Once fed, and having checked with the care taker, Amahle, that she wouldn't be back for two hours, I decided to try out my new dong. Tissues were already on the side table. I sat up in bed, kicked off the sheet and had another look under the gown. I was again taken aback with the sight. It wan't just massive, but somehow everything, length, girth, balls, looked to be in proportion. I must admit that I haven't spent much time thinking about, looking at or describing cocks, but the first words that came to mind were aggressive, intimidating and virile. The black skin made it even more so, as the light from the window created contrasting highlights on the veins.

Carefully I looked at the border, where the black skin met my pasty, white body. Rather than a sharp line, as I had expected, there was a narrow gradient where one color blended over to the other. How on earth was this done? It looked like perhaps a decades old surgery where the scar had long since gone soft.

I resumed where we left off in the bathroom, slowly stroking it. It reacted right away, and apparently was a grower as well as a shower. Holy fuck was it massive. I just lied in bed and over perhaps 20 minutes had the best wank in my life. I have no idea whose dick I was giving a handjob, but this was clearly his loss and my gain. It was filled to the brim with nerve endings, making every stroke amazing. Or perhaps it was designed and grown in a lab somewhere? In that case, props to the cocksmith.

The head was leaking precum like crazy, sending small droplets of man lube for every noisy slosh of foreskin riding up and down the head. I was probably suffering from some sort of auto-erotic asphyxiation with so much blood displaced, but I managed to be amazed over how long I lasted, in the fog of pleasure.

When I finally couldn't keep it contained anymore, I erupted in rope after rope of cum going everywhere. On my chest, in my face, and some overshooting me all together. As I was catching my breath, sweaty and sticky, I was thinking about what to tell Amahle. Or if I should get up and do some attempts to clean up the mess first. I realized I had plenty of problems ahead of me. Cleaning up, getting home, ever wearing pants again, figuring out how to use toilets. But at least there and then I could not care less.

[samtheflamingomain]

25.21%

I've been sober for 3 months today. 92 days. 25.21% of 2021.

I could've posted more updates, more milestones (it took a LOT not to post on Day 69) but I wanted to kind of save it up for a Big Day. It was also a decent way to continue to incentivize my continued sobriety: a full pass to do a shameless, hardcore bragging sesh.

Anyway, this post comes in 2 parts: the TL;DR for those who only want the gist, then more in depth on my ability to stay sober, the lasting effects of rehab, etc.

I tried my damnedest to pare this absolute novel down, but it's long, so feel free to dip out if you just get bored. Onward!

TL;DR: I went to rehab the beginning of July for 3 weeks and haven't had a drop of alcohol since. I've lost weight, I'm more healthy, my daily anxiety level went from 8 to 2, I haven't had an anxiety attack in 3 months, and everything generally just seems... easier. My memory and concentration have improved. I've been productive and I've been meditating every day. I'm saving money, and while I sometimes fantasize about getting drunk, that's usually all it is.

Honestly, it's been much easier than I expected, but I think a lot of that is because for the first 3 weeks, the time in which I would usually break down and start drinking again when trying to get sober myself, was spent behind a locked door. So far I haven't had any days where I was close to giving in. I haven't had many days where I've been depressed about it, missing it or really tempted. Maybe 3-4. I've basically just gotten on with my life as if alcohol doesn't exist.

To wrap up the short version for those ready to peace out, I'll leave it with a bit of advice.

I don't feel qualified to give any specific advice, because my story feels very unique to me, and I honestly don't think what worked for me will work for MOST people. Sometimes people spend a year in rehab and still drive straight to the liquor store on their way home.

That said, there's one thing that I've found pretty universally true: you have to really want it. For a while, I floated about without much of a "reason" to stay sober. I don't have a spouse, kids or a job I've been fired from, so I didn't see the point.

It's taken me a while, but after not being "convinced" by a few superficial "reasons" like weight loss and saving money, I thought I needed something more... permanent? Consequential? I now realize that my "reason" for getting sober at a young age after only a few years of alcoholism is that I don't want it to get to a point where I'm hurting other people, drinking myself into multiple lasting health problems... I don't want it to become permanent or consequential.

Anyway, that's my two cents. If you do have something like kids or trouble keeping a job, definitely use that as your reason. But for anyone who's a pretty "functional" alcoholic like I was, "not letting it go on long enough to become disfunctional" is a good enough reason.

This is going to get stupid long, so feel free to walk away now, just glad you read this much and it really does mean the world when people listen to what I have to say.

Now some more things in depth. I'll go in chronological order: what made me get sober, what I took from rehab (and what I left), and how it's been the past few months.

I started drinking when I got kicked out, manic out of my mind and homeless unable to sleep. It took a while until I was able to sleep without alcohol, but by then the addict brain had taken over. I'd tried a few times to get sober myself, but I never made it more than a week without, and always got back to daily drinking after a few months maximum.

Some people need a "wake up call", a "last straw" or a "rock bottom". Something external to make them realize they can't go on as they are. For me, the catalyst was my health, which is more of an internal reason I suppose. I didn't have a heart attack or liver failure, but my anxiety was getting uncontrollable and I knew it was directly tied to my drinking.

My life had been starting to feel tolerable, and I was more financially secure than ever before. Things were looking up... except for the alcoholism. This is a weird analogy but the only one that makes sense to express why, if I was doing so well on paper, I decided to go to rehab: you have to sweep before you mop. If I hadn't been in the place I was, I don't think I would've been successful at rehab. I had to sweep up the cat turds from the floor of my life before I was able to mop up the shit stains with sobriety. I know, I'm a true wordsmith.

When I finally called the hotline that hooked me up with a bunch of different rehabs, I knew I was in for a wait. It was about 5 months from that call to checking in, which isn't too bad considering I've been on the waitlist for a neuropsychiatrist in ALL OF CANADA for 4 years.

That brings us to July 12th, Rehab Day One. I've gone in depth in multiple other posts but to touch on it briefly, if I had to describe my experience in a sentence I'd say "the place I went to got very lucky with me".

What this means is that, of the 5 people in my group, I think this exact program was only ever going to help me. At the same time, I didn't even know what I would need, but this exact program was 90% of it. I didn't think 3 weeks would be long enough, but for me it was. The hours-long, repetitive, basic-ass CBT groups held 5 times a day 7 days a week was absolute torture for everyone but myself. While it was a drag to spend an hour on defining what a cognitive distortion is, the routine and repetition, something I've never gotten out of any outpatient program, helped me to really absorb the information and let it rewire my brain.

I've always said that I'm someone who should be spending an hour a day with a therapist for the rest of my life, and while that's not even remotely feasible, this was as close as it's ever gotten, and it proved me right, because it worked. I've done biweekly therapy for a short time but even that didn't come close to the way my brain changed in those 3 short weeks.

This program required absolute commitment and open-mindedness. This isn't because it was hard work or difficult concepts, but quite the opposite. While I hate the entire concept of art therapy being used as a cure-all for mental illness, I willingly got out of my bed, went downstairs and tried doing a dot mandala for an hour because I'm willing to try anything to get better. A lot of people might think they are, but really aren't. To use the mandala as an example, one guy was really into it, I wasn't, but we both finished. The other 3 tried, messed up a few times, and then scrolled through their phones. When I say this program necessitates complete engagement, that's not a compliment. It shouldn't be a chore to engage with the program. It shouldn't take me actively saying "I know I've known this basic concept since 4th grade, but maybe hearing it again will help" to get something out of a rehab program. So again, in every way, I got lucky, and so did they.

Before I finish with the rehab section, having had a few months to reflect on the whole thing, I now have an endless list of things wrong with it. I arrived, greeted by the most jaded and disillusioned of staff, and quickly became disturbed and at points concerned with just how negligent the staff are.

Maybe it's because I've been on the psych ward where they won't even let you have shoelaces and shine a flashlight on your face every half hour through the night, but it could've been so incredibly easy to sneak in alcohol. I brought 2 full water bottles, fully expecting to have to dump them out upon arrival, but they said "nah it's fine". Is it though?

Then there were actual counsellors there who were... okay. I recall one, the one I thought was the smartest, reading a handout aloud and coming across the word "delve" as in "let's delve into..." and stumbled, then said she doesn't know that word. The room was silent. As she pulled up Google on the screen I said, "it means to dive into it". She Googled it anyway. Synonyms include "dive in". If that was the only example I wouldn't mention it, but this was the first of at least 10 words she had do Google, none past a 10th grade level, from HER OWN MATERIAL. From that point on it became clear that they had no fucking idea what they were doing.

We had one last one-on-one counselling session before we left and the counsellor just filled in boxes to questions on her computer, rephrasing everything I said to fit into the buzzwords and "lessons" we'd "learned". Example. Me: I do think I'm better able to catch myself thinking 'oh I can just have one drink' and say 'no I can't'." Her: "Okay, so would you say that you can recognize negative cognitive distortions like permission-giving thoughts and counter them with a more rational and less emotional mind?" Like girl, blink twice if your boss is holding your family hostage. She gave me some papers, detailing all the online courses they were signing me up for and options for more treatment they'd be sending me, a phone number to call and a phone appointment for the next Monday. I never got that call, the phone number is a hotline, I never got a single email from them, and given how shitty they really are at their jobs, I didn't feel the inclination to try and get those resources. If they even exist in the first place.

In summation, it was a place where it was physically impossible to get alcohol. That's really all I can say in its favor. Oh, and they let you have your cell phone.

Now on our timeline I'm back home. I want to kind of analyze why it's been easy for me.

I often said that my main goal of going to rehab was to lock me away from alcohol long enough for it to reset my brain. Most people thought that was naïve, but that's exactly what happened. But I'm well aware that my experience of "instantly became sober and literally hasn't had a single hard day in 3 months" is absurdly unusual.

I put this down to a few things. Firstly, I'm on seven different meds for my mental health. Almost all of them have their effects dulled or even eliminated when you drink. So when I noticed my mood, fatigue, memory, concentration etc all getting better at once - right about as I left rehab, I don't think it would be a stretch to say that all those meds started working properly.

Secondly, I've been keeping myself busy, but that's something I've always been good at. Now I specifically choose to undertake projects that will eat up a lot my time and put me in a state of flow. I recently made an entire card game from scratch, and let me tell you, I didn't think of alcohol for a week.

Thirdly, my other goals now get in the way of alcohol. I'm getting old and my body is deteriorating. But I've always wanted to do just one last season of gymnastics. Well, I need to lose weight for that to happen. I've already lost 35 pounds, and after another 20 I'll be ready to go. Also, I used to spend more on alcohol per month than rent. Even though I've done a few shopping sprees lately, I haven't come remotely close to how much I was spending before.

I want it more than anything. I want to be sober more than I want one night of "fun" that will more likely than not lead me back to where I was a year ago. I never want to need anything as much as I needed alcohol.

Lastly, just a few more random thoughts.

A lot of people, myself included, worried about the fact that I work at a bar as a cook, but honestly the entire time I'm there I'm thinking about food, not alcohol. If I'm hanging out with some regulars before/after, I can watch them drink and be perfectly fine with my coffee, because the coffee is $2, and I used to spend $20 after every work shift.

I also decided in rehab to start taking better care of myself as best I could. This started with getting my second vax which I'd been putting off, then an eye appointment, then new glasses, then a dentist appointment where I was informed I need to do $3000 worth of work on my implant that's erroding my bone matter, so that sucks, but I caught it early. I've also been meditating every day. In just 3 months, I've made pretty big improvements to my self-care and my daily routine.

One of my fears about sobriety was "missing out" on "having fun". A few days ago, all my housemates got together to play Mario Party, and it was kind of my first night doing something social while sober. It was a breath of fresh air - I wasn't constantly running to piss, I didn't worry about running out of alcohol, I didn't get sloppy and obnoxious as I can sometimes do. I even came very very close to winning my first game of MP. When I reflected on the night, I realized that, if I'd been getting drunk the whole time, I would've sucked at the minigames, been a hindrance to anyone unfortunate enough to be teamed with me, and likely would've stopped caring about the game itself after the first few turns.

Yesterday I was making my 4th pot of coffee of the day when I realized there was a full glass of wine just sitting on the counter. I had absolutely no idea where the hell it came from - nobody in my house drinks wine. I shrugged and poured that sweet sweet bean juice. It was only when I sat down and took a sip of coffee did I find myself thinking automatically, "this tastes so much better than wine". I only realized then that it had been rose wine, the only kind I've ever been able to tolerate. It was the ultimate moment of possible temptation, and the thought of just chugging that glass - as I may've done in the past - didn't even cross my mind.

I'm so glad to be where I am. I'm about to undergo some serious financial changes - i.e. going absolutely broke - but drinking isn't gonna help that, so I'm cautiously optimistic.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

[randomvarious]

SWV - “Right Here” 18 Top Hits 1/94 Song released in 1993. Compilation released in 1994. R&B

The first wave of R&B girl groups in the 90s was dominated by three separate entities: first, there was En Vogue, who were responsible for starting the whole craze, and then came TLC, who were then followed by SWV. And since this is a post that’s gonna be littered with a bunch of fun, little trivia nuggets, here’s your first one: SWV, which is an acronym for Sisters With Voices, originally wanted to call themselves TLC, based on the first initials of their three members, Tamara, Leanne, and Cheryl. But they received a cease & desist letter from Epic Records, who had the TLC name locked up for the soon-to-be sensational Atlanta trio that was on their own roster. And so, Tamara, Leanne, and Cheryl begrudgingly settled on calling themselves SWV instead.

They began in 1988 in New York with two members, Leanne and Cheryl, who both sang at church, and were in search for a third girl to finish out the group. After going through auditions, they chose Tamara, who, according to a Rolling Stone article, was really shy and originally would only sing with the lights off. The three girls also donned stage names. Leanne would be Lelee, Cheryl would be Coko, and Tamara would be Taj. As a quirk, they sent out demo tapes with bottles of Perrier because they couldn’t afford to send champagne. They would end up catching the ear of legendary producer, as well as the father of the new jack swing fad, Teddy Riley (more on him later), and he would end up getting SWV inked to a ridiculously terrible eight-album contract, which the group never completely fulfilled. But at least they got themselves signed to a major, right?

In 1992, SWV released their debut album, It’s About Time, with most of the production coming from a guy named Brian Alexander Morgan. Morgan has gone on to produce, remix, write, and arrange for a bunch of music superstars, including Usher, Drake, Wu-Tang Clan, Mariah Carey, and Ariana Grande. But his first big opportunity came from...right here...with SWV’s debut album.

In fact, it was “Right Here” that would kick things off for SWV, becoming the group’s first single, before their debut album ended up hitting the shelves. But here’s where it might get a little confusing. That first single isn’t the version of “Right Here” that everyone would end up remembering SWV for. Actually, almost no one remembers the original version of “Right Here,” which is an excellent song on its own. Morgan laced his new jack swing beat with organ, electric guitar, and ringing bells that remind us of Run-D.M.C.’s “Peter Piper” and Snap!’s “The Power,” which both trace back to Bob James’ “Take Me to the Mardi Gras”. And Taj raps, too!

The original version of “Right Here” would peak at #92 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #16 on the R&B/Hip Hop chart. The next pair of SWV singles, “I’m So Into You” and “Weak” would fare much better, both reaching the top ten on Billboard’s Hot 100, with “Weak” going all the way to #1. These singles would then set the stage for the release of a new version of “Right Here,” the one everyone knows and loves, which is credited as a Teddy Riley remix, and was fresh for the summer of 1993. It’s commonly dubbed as the “Human Nature Mix” because of its liberal sampling of the Michael Jackson song off Thriller. That particular mix would also feature on the Free Willy soundtrack, which would also contain and lead with Michael Jackson’s “Will You Be There”. 

(Another famous sampling of “Human Nature” would happen in 1994, too, with Nas’ “It Ain’t Hard to Tell,” which was produced by Large Professor. Now, you could be thinking that the “Human Nature Mix” might’ve provided some inspiration for Large Pro to conjure up that particular beat, but as it turns out, “It Ain’t Hard to Tell” was actually recorded in ‘92.)

So here’s the coolest piece of trivia you’ll run into today. Know who’s delivering that catchy “ess, double, you, vee” line throughout the “Human Nature Mix”? Pharrell. And it’s his first vocal credit, ever! One day, he was performing in a high school talent show with his R&B group, The Neptunes (not his production project with Chad Hugo), and guess who was in the audience? Teddy Riley! Riley’s studio just so happened to sit next to Pharrell’s high school. How’s that for luck? Pharrell would end up writing Riley’s verse on Wreckx-N-Effect’s old school hip hop summer classic, “Rump Shaker,” and the following year he was on the “Human Nature Mix”. There’s also a captivating, “give-it-some-time-to-work-itself-out” kind of “UK Remix” of “Right Here” on which Pharrell raps, and in 1996, The Neptunes (now just Pharrell and Hugo) would receive their first production credits for two songs (and an interlude) on SWV’s second album, New Beginning.

And now for something probably even less people know about. Although the “Human Nature Mix” is credited to Teddy Riley, it’s not his work. It’s Brian Alexander Morgan’s, the guy who also produced the original version. Riley’s name was merely attached for marketing purposes only. The label probably thought that if they sold the single as a remix that was made by a production superstar who was using a Michael Jackson song(!), it would move more units than if they said it was by Morgan, which is a name that barely anyone knew. And it seems like the label was correct in its calculus. Even though it didn’t end up hitting #1 (it hit #2), the “Human Nature Mix” remains SWV’s most remembered song, and you can credit it for leading to a re-release of SWV’s debut album, which at that point would add the remix, and would help generate over two million copies sold.

And come to think of it, how many songs can you name in which the remix ended up becoming far more popular than the original version? Before the advent of EDM, anyway. And “Ignition (Remix)” doesn’t count, by the way. That totally misunderstands what a remix is. There’s like a handful of tracks that come to mind: a pair of Amber remixes by Hani and Thunderpuss (”One More Night” and “Sexual (Li Da Di),” respectively), another Thunderpuss remix of “It’s Not Right But It’s Okay” by Whitney Houston, a Latin house remix of Madonna’s “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” by Pablo Flores and Javier Garza, and of course, Todd Terry’s remix of “Missing” by Everything But the Girl. But the “Human Nature Mix” of “Right Here” might be at the top of the list. Lots of people aren’t even aware of the original’s existence. When you say the words “’Right Here’ by SWV,” everyone just assumes you’re talking about the “Human Nature Mix”. When the song is included on compilations, a lot of times the words “Human Nature” aren’t anywhere to be found, like on this random German comp I have that gathered 18 of the top songs from January of 1994. That’s how much more popular the “Human Nature Mix” is than the original. Let me know if you can think of any other remixes that hold a similar status.

One more thing before I get to the music video. This mix is so different from the original. The original version has a much harder edge and clearly took way more thought and effort to put together than the “Human Nature Mix” since the “Human Nature Mix” primarily just coasts off of the Michael Jackson sample. It doesn’t mean the original’s better though. It’s definitely great, but it’s trapped in the new jack swing era, and for that reason, it doesn’t have the staying power of the “Human Nature Mix”. Sometimes a producer finds something that’s easy enough to cobble together and it just manages to hit really good. That’s definitely the case here. The “Human Nature Mix” is just so fluffy; it was perfect summer radio then and it’s perfect summer radio now. It’s like an R&B counterpart to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince’s “Summertime,” which came out a couple years beforehand. In fact, if I were doing a nostalgic 90s summer mix, I would probably line those tracks up back-to-back (”Rump Shaker” would be somewhere in there, too). There’s just a super relaxing, enjoyable airiness that both songs seem to possess. Oh, and speaking of DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince, you know who provides the background vocals on Will Smith’s “Men in Black” song? Coko from SWV. Wild, right?

So, anyway, the video. It sucks. It just does. It’s not memorable at all, besides the awkward, intermittent slip-ins of footage of Michael Jackson performing “Human Nature” from his Dangerous tour and some clips of Free Willy swimming and breeching. It’s really a missed opportunity for the group. Apparently, there’s another video without Michael and Free Willy, too, but I can’t find it. It sounds like it’s boring though. Oh well.

The first single off of SWV’s next album (”You’re the One”) would do very well for itself, too, and that album would manage to go platinum. But they’d get lost in the fold soon after, while En Vogue and TLC would end up building much more on their prior success. And TLC would come out on top for the late 90s with songs like “No Scrubs” and “Unpretty”.

SWV made good songs, but they weren’t marketed well, at all. Case in point, your last bit of trivia: Taj was a contestant on Survivor in 2009. No, not Celebrity Survivor. Just regular-ass Survivor. No one knew she was Taj from SWV and she didn’t tell anyone on the show either. This lady helped sell millions of records for fuck’s sake. I guarantee you every contestant on that show knew an SWV song and they had no idea who this woman even was. Isn’t that kind of insane? I mean, SWV were by no means one-hit wonders, and they weren’t super popular for that long, but they were definitely an early 90s R&B staple. Anyway, for what it’s worth, Taj ended up finishing in fourth on Survivor. She’s also married to soon-to-be Hall of Fame running back Eddie George. 

So, there it is. One of the greatest and most popular tunes of the 90s. A song everyone likes that has a lot of fun, interesting facts that surround it. Shame that these girls couldn’t sustain their success for the remainder of the decade, but at least they and Brian Alexander Morgan gave us this indomitable classic.

[expectingtofly]

Like Looking In A Mirror... Or Not

2.7k 

dean/cas, dean/huntercorp!dean

NSFW (smut played for laughs)

also posted on ao3

“Hey!” Dean called, walking into the library. “How’s my husband doing?” 

Cas sat in one of the leather armchairs, poring over a thick, leather-covered book sitting on his crossed legs. He looked up, eyes narrowed and head tilted—his adorable way of asking, what the fuck is going on?

Ignoring the look, Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ neck, kissing his cheek. “The Study of Supernatural Properties in Four-Legged Monsters,” he read, looking at the chapter Cas was reading. “Very interesting.”

Cas shut the heavy book with a bang and turned his head to look at Dean. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Dean sat down in the chair next to Cas. “I can’t casually say hello without you getting suspicious?”

“You’re too cheerful considering you’re sharing the bunker with your other world self.”

Cas was right. Sam and Dean’s alternate universe selves were back because real Sam and Dean had needed doppelgängers to trick Chuck again. Now that they were no longer needed, the rich Winchesters would be returning tomorrow to wherever they were staying these days—Dean honestly didn’t care. What did interest him, though, was the unique opportunity this situation afforded.

“Alright, hear me out,” he started. “A threesome. You, me… my not-as-hot body double.”

“Your body double—?” Cas started, with all the exaggerated facial contortions that told Dean he was dying inside. He rearranged his face into something like resignation. “I thought you hated him.”

“I do. He’s a douchebag wearing my face. But, when am I ever going to get the opportunity again to fuck myself? Like, literally?” Cas’ expression hadn’t changed. “So?” Dean pressed.

“No, uh. No. No.” Cas shook his head. “He has a me in his world, remember? Don’t you think it would be strange for me to be involved?”

“Yeah…” That was a good point. Rich Dean had been getting a little too close for comfort with Cas the last time he was over. The last thing Dean needed was to create any more non-sexy tension between all of them.

“But,” Cas continued, “if you want to have relations with your,” he sighed and used finger quotes, “‘body double,’ then go ahead.”

“Wait, really?”

“You’re right, this is a unique opportunity. I suppose you would be curious.” He frowned. “It is very strange though.”

“Best. Husband. Ever,” Dean said, leaning over to punctuate every word with a kiss. Cas rolled his eyes, but Dean could tell he was fighting back a smile.

*

Now that he had Cas’ permission, Dean had to decide how to go about this. He found his body double in the kitchen because of course he would be there. He and Dean were more similar than Dean wanted to admit. Hopefully similar enough that he wouldn’t be too shocked with what Dean was about to suggest.

“Hi, uh, how’s it going?” he asked. Not-As-Hot Dean looked up from where he was sitting at the kitchen table—alone, thankfully. Dean did not need Sam getting wind of this. 

“Good,” Not-As-Hot Dean answered hesitantly, looking surprised that Dean was talking to him.

Dean walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer bottle, and leaned on the counter. He studied his boots, then the floor, then looked back at his alternate universe self, trying to decide where to start. Not-as-Hot Dean was adjusting the sleeves of his shirt—Dean’s shirt—and no, Dean was still not okay with his body double wearing his clothes, but he would let it slide for now.

“So, uh, this is weird, isn’t it?” he started. “You know, us having the same face. Being sorta the same person—”

“I can guess where this is going,” Not-As-Hot Dean interrupted.

“You can?”

“You think we should have sex.”

“And you…” Dean tried to read Not-As-Hot Dean’s expression and decided to play it safe, “don’t want to?”

“We are very different, but not that different. Let’s be honest, Dean, this was always inevitable.”

Dean grimaced at his body double using their shared name, but he was going to have to get over that discomfort considering where things looked like they were going. “Right, uh, well, great.” He straightened off the counter. “You’re not as lame as I thought.” Not-As-Hot Dean smiled. “I’m not drunk enough for this yet, so…” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and started to toss it to his doppelgänger, then thought better of that idea and set it down in front of him. 

Not-As-Hot Dean looked askance at the bottle, then reached for it, admitting, “That does seem like a good idea.”

*

To tell the truth, Dean didn’t think he’d ever be drunk enough. And Not-So-Lame Dean was apparently a nervous talker because he wouldn’t shut up. Dean was learning more about the Rich Winchester Universe than he’d ever cared to. Turns out Not-Sam was incredibly invested in manscaping. Dean stored away that information to torture Sam in the future.

Opening his third beer, listening to Not-So-Lame Dean babble about a vacation to an exclusive resort, Dean realized he was going to have to make a move. Preferably soon, because if Not-So-Lame Dean mentioned his private jet one more damn time, Dean was going to throw something.

Summoning his courage—I stopped a damn apocalypse, I’ve fought God—he grabbed his doppelgänger’s shirt, yanked him across the table, and kissed him. 

It was weird. It was as weird as he’d expected, but maybe not as horrible as it could be. Maybe. 

Breaking their kiss, he pulled back. 

“Oh,” Not-So-Lame Dean said. They both stared at each other, then looked away hastily.

“You wanna back out now?” Dean asked, studying a scrape on the table. 

After a pause, Not-So-Lame Dean answered, “No.” 

“Well, then.” I kill monsters for a living, this is sex for fuck’s sake. Dean stood and grabbed his beer. “Let’s go somewhere else, because I don’t need my brother or, fuck, Jack, walking in and seeing this.” 

Not-So-Lame Dean nodded and Dean led the way out of the kitchen.

Time to see if he could get it up for himself. 

*

Having sex with your doppelgänger, Dean was learning, was not an easy task. For starters, while his doppelgänger looked identical to him—especially wearing Dean’s clothes—he proved they were as different as could be the moment he opened his mouth. 

On the way to Dean’s room, Not-Dean established some ground rules—no handcuffs, no gags, no, in general, anything kinky—as if fucking your alternate universe self wasn’t already the kinkiest thing you could do. Maybe his doppelgänger was right, Dean thought, pushing open the door to his room; it was probably best to stick to the basics. 

His brain was still playing catch up as they situated themselves on his bed and continued what he’d started in the kitchen. Turns out, kissing himself wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It probably wasn’t going to become his new kink, but he wasn’t hating it.

His cock was still late to the game, but he figured, unbuttoning his pants to palm himself, that was nothing he couldn’t fix. Then he changed his mind and groped his way into his doppelgänger’s pants, finding, thankfully, a cock identical to his. Chuck would’ve really had to watch his back if Dean found out his alternate universe self had gotten a bigger dick.

Not-Dean followed suit and, for all his douchebaggery, he wasn’t so bad with his hands. Dean was causally impressed with his not-self.

Then clothes started coming off. 

Yes, he’d looked in a mirror before, but this was something entirely different—his own body, but completely separate from himself, acting with a mind of its own. It was unsettling, to say the least. Plus, he wasn’t going to lie, he had his insecurities, and seeing himself in all his glory wasn’t helping any. Why did his belly button look so weird? When had he gotten so goddamn old? What the fuck was up with his elbows?

“This is strange,” Not-Dean said, stating the obvious. 

“Mhm,” Dean agreed, completely unable to look away from the sight before him. His body, but not his body. For a moment he started to question who he was—was that him? Or was he, him? Was this all a bad trip? No, but seriously, he could’ve sworn his elbows weren’t that knobby.

He realized Definitely-Not-As-Hot (and-He-Wasn’t-Just-Saying-That) Dean was watching him expectantly and bemoaned the fact that of all the alternate universe Deans to show up in the bunker, he’d gotten stuck with boring, fancy-clothes wearing, nervous talker Dean. Why couldn’t he have met some jacked, alpha male version of himself who’d take charge and fuck him into the mattress? 

Okay, focus, he told himself. What was the number one thing he wanted to cross off his bucket list?

“Can I blow you?” he asked. “Or is that on your ‘Absolutely Not List’ too?”

“Of course fellatio isn’t on my list—”

“Alright, great,” Dean said. “Lay back.” He was assuming Knobby-Elbow Dean wasn’t opposed to being bossed around.

“Um, okay.” Not-Dean complied and Dean situated himself between his legs (was he really that bow-legged?). To spare his pride, he was going to pretend that his stomach was absolutely more toned; Not-Dean had obviously let himself go. Then he noticed one thing they definitely didn’t have in common. 

“You don’t have any scars.” Before Not-Dean could reply, he remembered. “Oh, that’s right, you have employees who go on all the hunts for you.”

“I do go on hunts!” Not-Dean protested. “Sometimes,” he amended to Dean’s skeptical look. “It’s just that, Castiel always heals me when I get hurt.”

“Our Cas heals us too, only he didn’t get rid of all my scars.” Dean sat up straighter to point to a small, faded line on his stomach. “He says they give me personality, or whatever.” 

“Your Castiel is very different from ours. Which, actually...” Not-Dean propped himself up on his elbows. “That reminds me, I have a question about angels—”

“For the love of fucking everything...” Dean pushed Not-Dean back down. As much as he would love to discuss the wonderful peculiarities of Castiel, there were more pressing matters on his mind—mainly, deep throating himself. 

Not-Dean landed on his back with a huff, and Dean swallowed not-his cock down, successfully stopping any more conversation.

Now, this he could get used to. In fact, he was mildly jealous of Cas for getting to go down on him all time. Not-Dean thrust up into him with a low groan, and the prospect of choking on his own cock had Dean feeling giddy.

Then, he got a better idea. As much as he was loving having his cock in his mouth, what he would love even more was having his cock up his ass.

Pulling off his doppelgänger, he asked, “Can you fuck me?” 

Not-Dean looked affronted. “That’s very crass,” he said haughtily, and Dean rolled his eyes. “But, um, well, I was going to ask if you would, um… fuck me.” 

Unsurprisingly, and annoyingly, his alternate universe self was a bottom. But there could be worse things in the world than fucking not-himself, so Dean agreed, and after some preparation, he found his way two fingers inside not-his ass. 

It was at once the strangest and near hottest thing he’d ever seen: not-himself squirming and gasping under him at the end of his fingers. Ducking his head, he sucked and bit not-his neck, tweaked not-his nipples, unable to stop a smile at the favorable reaction that caused. Not-Dean grabbed his jaw and kissed him, licking his way into his mouth, and Dean changed his mind—kissing himself was his new kink. 

Then he was three fingers, three knuckles deep, and Not-Dean started to moan, which was even hotter—or would’ve been, if he hadn’t started to form words.

“Oh,” he gasped, “good gracious.”

And Dean was soft again. 

“Fuck you,” Dean said, pulling his hand away. The only thing worse than hearing those words come out of not-his mouth was hearing them in his voice. Not-Dean’s eyes fluttered open and focused on him in a frown. “Short of gagging you, there’s no way I’m going to be able to fuck you.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Not-Dean pushed himself up to sit. “And I’m sorry you’re having a difficult time, but I’m not finding this exactly easy myself.” He crossed his arms. “I’m not your biggest fan either. In fact, I find you quite offensive. For one, you’re very bossy.”

Dean tried to get a word in and Not-Dean cut him off, “Two, this bed is not as comfortable as you promised—”

“It’s memory foam!” Dean protested.

His body double continued without stopping, “You’re rude, you’re not hospitable at all, you have a ridiculous amount of ‘Busty Asian Beauties’ magazines—”

“Hold on!” Dean interrupted. “How the fuck do you know that?” A guilty look spread across his body double’s face. “You were rummaging through my shit! I specifically told you my room was off-limits!” 

Swearing under his breath, he started to get off the bed. He gave up. This had been a mistake, clearly. Not-Dean was the absolute worst and someone Dean would’ve never had sex with otherwise if they weren’t sharing the same face.

Not-Dean grabbed his arm, halting his escape. “Wait, no! We’ve gotten this far, we can’t stop now.” Dean huffed, but paused to hear him out. “Yes, I’ll admit,” Not-Dean continued, “I went through your room. But, in my defense, I was bored! The television shows in your universe are not nearly as entertaining as in ours, and you and Sam were gone for so long...”

Dean stopped listening then. Not-Dean was right about one thing—they couldn’t stop now. He wasn’t a quitter. And, he had an idea for shutting Not-Dean up. 

“Listen, we’ll sixty-nine it and get this over with, alright?” 

His doppelgänger blinked at him, his spiel interrupted. Slowly, he nodded. “I suppose that will work.”

It did work, actually, and pretty well at that. Occupied with blowing him, Not-Dean was sufficiently distracted from embarrassing himself and Dean with any more “good gracious” nonsense. And it turned out that despite their differences, they were similar enough to know how to get each other off. Dean paused just to look down at the incredible sight of not-his face sucking off his own cock. He had to get a good look because he’d learned his lesson—this was the last time he’d try to have sex with an alternate universe version of himself.

Maybe because they were the same person—physically at least—they ended up reaching their orgasms at the same time. It was the closest they’d ever come to solidarity, Dean thought, laying back on the bed physically and mentally fucked. 

“Well,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “That wasn’t horrible.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Not-Dean agreed. “And I might even add that I think we both learned something about ourselves today, bonded even—”

“Okay, shut up.” Dean pushed himself to sit. “We crossed this off our bucket lists, now we’ll never speak of it again.”

“Thank goodness,” Not-Dean said. “Agreed.”

*

“How did it go?” Castiel started to ask, turning from shelving a book when Dean entered the library. Started to ask, because Dean grabbed him and kissed him before he could finish his sentence. Cas let out a small noise of surprise, then smiled against Dean’s mouth before kissing him back.

“I hate myself,” Dean said, breaking their kiss only after sufficiently leaving himself breathless.

Cas’ mouth twitched. “Which one?”

Dean rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around his husband’s waist. “You know, you’re lucky to have gotten stuck with me,” he pointed out. “You could’ve ended up in Douchebag Dean Universe.”

“I did get the best version of you,” Cas said thoughtfully, running his fingers through Dean’s hair. He smiled a little. “Do you need me to erase your memory?”

“I’m considering it.” Dean grabbed Cas’ hand and pulled him from the library, pressing another kiss to his lips—which were, thank god, so different than his own—before asking, “Do you want to help me forget another way?”

Smiling, Cas tugged Dean's collar to pull him down for another kiss. "I think I can help with that."

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[androgynousblackbox]

Crafts I have done during quarantine

I was bored so decided to rate and review all the crafts I have done while I had nothing else to do. Working in felt Pros: -It’s fairly easy to do, even kids could try it, given that someone checks on them to be careful with the pointy stuff like scissors and needle. -You end up with something cute and soft that is going to be your very own plush, like wow, don’t you feel accomplished for making your own plush. And you can make it however you want, adding as many details as you could ever want. Or not, whatever, it’s your own choice. -There is a lot of free patterns for a lot of things online available. Do you want to make a beetle? Have a pattern for it. Do you want to make a bear? Have a pattern. And in case you don’t happen to find the pattern for the thing you want, you can always just make it yourself or adapt a prexisting one for the thing you need. -You can add details in embroidery if you want, to give something extra. Cons: -To work with felt you will either need a lot of glue or develop a second skill, that is sewing so it will take some practice before you are making the lines straight or as close as they need to be. Or else risk getting all untangled and have the fucking thing have it’s filling picking on a corner. -Time consuming. Between making/printing the pattern and cutting the parts there is no much trouble, that will feel like a breeze. Depending on the size and the level of detail, It’s the fucking sewing that will take you forever and, again, if you are not used to it, I hope you enjoy getting pinched, having the thread tangled up it’s own ass, having to redo a stitch because it came out way too fucking ugly and thread that motherfucker through the needle’s eye again and again, because you are going to do a lot of that with each single piece. Don’t try to make it perfect or your eyes will get tired. Which is a shit advice if you WANT to get it perfect and cute and exactly as the pictures show, but you won’t because you are just starting so, fuck, embracing the potential ugly it is. Take solace in the fact you made that ugly and that ugly wouldn’t exist without you. -3D images objects like balls for heads or body will take even more time and maybe especial patterns if you can’t just do them from your own imagination. -The plush will never end up exactly as you imagined after you put the filling the first times. Just deal with it. Rating: 6/10 because fuck sewing. Cold porcelain Pros: -It’s easy to make and if not, cheap to buy, infinitely cheaper than polymer clay and, on my case, so much easier to find. -Some cold porcelain can come in certain colors, but if you don’t have access to those that it’s okay, you can grab the cheapest paint you have on hand and kneed it together with just the tiniest amount. Your hands will end up a mess, but at least you can have all the color you could need to do anything with one single package. -Speaking of packages, cold porcelain is usually sold in bigger quantities than polymer clay so you could do a lot with just one. -You don’t like how it turned out in the end because the thing dried way darker than you expect? You can paint it over with acrylic paints no problem. -Did I mention that is cheap? The ideal glue for cold porcelain is white glue, the same shit kids use for school. Just a tiny amount will be more than enough to join any pieces together as long they aren’t too heavy, so with buying a big bottle you will served for a pretty long time. This only work as long the piece hasn’t dried completely, though. -If for whatever reason you want to save on glue, use water. In general you can use water to make more intricate details, join two pieces so they appear as one or smooth something out. -I have used three different brands of cold porcelain and I had never had a problem in which my fingerprints got stuck all over it. -Are you a terrible cooker that gets bored waiting for the food to cook, gets distracted with something else and come back to find you overcooked? Or rather, get so nervous about that happening that take out the food before it’s completely done and had to stand eating something undercooked because put it again on the oven sounds like too much of a hassle? Don’t worry, because cold porcelain doesn’t need an oven. Just make sure the thing can dry on the position you want and let the air do it’s job.  -It’s completely non toxic so literally anyone can work with it. -It usually smells like nothing or like glue, so if smell is something important to you on your craft, this is not bad. Cons: -Cold porcelain can be sticky as fuck, especially when you add water or just kneed it with paint, so you will have to use some kind of moisturizer on your hands to handle it easier. Oh, and for this too you will need to cut your nails and clean your work station because once a little hair or unwanted particles get stucked there, good luck taking it out if you don’t want to paint over afterward. So, hey, this could be a pro actually, because if you are someone that doesn’t remember to clean your hands as much you should, cold porcelain will force you to do it and maybe help develop the habit. -Depending on your environment, it could take one, two or even three days for it to dry completely, so you will need to develop some patience for this. The more intricate your piece is, the more you will have to wait for each of them to dry some before putting the details or join together so it doesn’t become too heavy. This could also be a pro for some because you can take all the time you want to modify or add whatever you want. -You must be careful about cracking because what looked like a tiny line during the modeling could turn into an abyss once it’s dried. You will usually be able to fix it easily putting more cold porcelain on top or covering with something else. -Everything you do will be reduce in a 30% in volume, so the figure might never be as big or the size your expected it to, unless you can actually calculate that kind of stuff before time and, like, who has time for that. -Depending on the shape of the figure, you may have to keep turning it from one side to another while drying so it doesn’t warp. You can avoid this by putting the figure on top of a bunch of paper tissues. Rating: 10/10, fucking love it. Punch needle Pros: -Once you understand the basic principles (don’t pull the thread, don’t make punches too far apart, hold the needle right), then it’s very easy to do. -You can make your own pins, plush, pillows, handbag and, truly, anything you can imagine with the fabric. -You have a double effect in which one side looks all smooth and the other one it’s all fluffy and soft, so you can combine both to make something really cool. -There are different size of needles so you can work with embroidery thread or yarn. -It’s very satisfactory to “punch” on the fabric, going with the needle just up and down and up and down during the whole process. You don’t need to be extra careful with it for fear of hurting yourself by accident so you could get your hand busy with that while watching a show or seeing a video. -If embroidery seems like too much work for you, this is the easier version of it even though, as said, the effect and the way of handled it is not going to be the same. Cons: -You will need especial made needle for this, so if you don’t have easy access to them you are kind screwed. There are some needles that come with different options for different threads, but the cheaper one is going to be a single one of one size with which you are only going to work with one type of thread. -You will spend A LOT of thread in one single piece so you better have a lot in hand to complete it. -You will need a especial type of fabric in order to punch it without completely destroying it. -There is not a lot of people who do this kind of craft, so you might struggle to find people interested on it or that publish their work so you can get some inspiration from. -It is, after all, time consuming because you are going to spend a good while just filling up one single are. If you are doing an entire area, that is going to take even longer. Raiting: 8/10 because impatience. Wet felting Pros: -If you are still a terrible cooker, but somehow find the action of kneeding relaxing, then this is the craft for you. It’s so easy that it’s a good activity for kids too. -Low level concentration required because once you get to work the thing with your hands, you can be doing anything else with your eyes and it won’t matter because you are just working with wool, soap and warm water so you can’t hurt yourself even if you do get distracted. -You can do practically anything with this, from clothing for dolls, dolls themselves, accesories and more. It’s up to your imagination and the ways you find to make it. You can even use it to wrap a bar of soap and then not only will help rid of dead particles easier when you use it, but it will last longer. -You can use embroidery for details once it’s dried and ready, or also needle felting.

-Any type of clothing made with this will be the warmest shit you ever had when it’s cold, will last the longest and will keep you drier than other fabrics. Wool is fucking awesome. -Two pieces done the exact same way are never going to look the exact same way. There will always be something unexpected that will give it a unique touch. -Because all you are doing is working with soap and water, your hands will be all clean and nice by the end. -This is an old as fuck technique so you know it must mean that works. -You can dry it around any shape you want, like a vase, and it will permanently take that shape no matter what you do with it after. Cons: -You must be able to get access to natural sheep wool. Synthetics might have pretty colors, but they won’t stick to each other like natural wool does. This can get expensive the more colors you want to add, if you happened to be a lazy fuck like me who can’t be bothered to learn how to dye it. But, you know, there is that option at least. -Making this is an entire process: you need an area where you don’t mind if some water gets spilled onto the floor, space big enough that you can kneed it all you need, put plastic or a towell underneat, don’t mind that your own clothing can end up a little wet and have access to warm water. If the dyed of your wool starts coming out, your towell will end up tainted with it. -If you are doing something 3D, once it start drying, your piece will reduce it’s size and become tighter the more you kneed it so don’t expect it to look the same as it was when wet. And it will take a long while to dry completely until it’s able to be used, like two or three days depending on how big it is. -If you like a smooth kind of look, this is not the thing for you. It doesn’t matter how much you work the wool or how well it’s made, there will always be some hairs sticking out so you will have to learn to live with that and take it as part of it’s charm. But unless you are extremely sensitive about your skin, it won’t be itchy to use either. It just feels warm and comfy. -You try to find people who dedicate to this on the regular. Just try. Rating:7/10 because it’s a lot of work. Crocheting (amigurumi) -Very forgiving type of craft unless your warn suddenly decides it doesn’t want to untangle and end up with an unexpected knot or breaking something trying to pull it appart. -There is A LOT of information, resources, groups, channels and more for you if you are a begginer. Plenty of patterns are also available for free and there is a lot of inspiration to take from that you can easily customize to your own needs. -It’s extremely satisfactory see a shape slowly being formed through your work and in the end you can something soft and cute all for yourself, or whoever you wanted to give it to. -You can do your own dolls, doll’s clothing, figures and creatures adding or taking whatever detail you want, no one is stopping you. -Yarn as a source material is easy to get for most people. A crochet hook are not that expensive either. -Since the warn and the needle are bigger than what a needle for sewing and thread would be, sewing parts together or for adding details it’s not that diffcult. -If you don’t like sewing not even then, or you want something to look a very particular way, you can needle felt it. Cons: -High level concentration required, especially if you are a begginer, because you must count a lot and if you miss even just a single step, the entire thing will look forever weird to you, but aren’t willing to go back all the other steps to find out what went wrong either. -It will take a while getting used to hold the hook and the warn in a way in which the work doesn’t end up too tight or too loose. -Patterns can and will confuse the fuck out of you in the start because you first need to learn an entire vocabulary in order to interpretate them. It’s like reading music, it’s just a bunch of meaningless symbols without that aknowledge. -If you have any kind of cronic pain in your hand, you will need to take a lot of breaks because a lot of crocheting will only make it worse. -The limit of what you can do is always going to be how you descipher the right way to crochet it. You can’t just do the thing, escupt it like on the cold porcelain and then it’s done, there is what you wanted, but you must work it row to row with a lot of care so you don’t miss anything or overdo it. -There is a lot of ways to hold your hook, your work, to do this or that, but all amigurumis are always going to have the same samey texture and look, so you must really be sure you are all about it before getting into this. -Also, if you want to create a new pattern or modify a prexisting one, you will need math. Fuck that noise. Rating: 5/10 because numbers suck. Needle felting Pros: -Excelent stress reliever since you are literally stabbing the wool to do your betting. -Because you are working with a needle, you can be as precise as you could ever want, making sure your work looks exactly as you wanted it to be. -You can sculpt the wool into any shape you want, but unlike cold porcelain or wet felting, there is no drying time required. The work is done and ready when you say is done and ready. -You can do great dolls with this technique since the wool is so flexible and maleable. -You can work with the wool and a needle, or combine this with other techniques to make something more unique, like on the case of amigurumis, welt felting or punch needle. It doesn’t need a especiall fabric either, you can use it on any to add fun details to your liking. -You don’t even actually need wool if you don’t have it close. If you lack any specific color, you can get it’s equivalent on yarn, make fluff out of it with a steel brush and use that for felting just the same, or use the yarn directly. Although if you do that last one you will need to work it a little more to get rid of the original texture and make it smooth. Cons: -The more you work on your wool with the needle, the more firm and less hairy will be, unlike wet felting in which you have to live with it. Problem is, this could take a lot of time and even more so if you don’t have any especial holder and are working with just a single needle in your hand. We are talking about hours and hours of stabbing and stabbing, so make sure to take breaks and let yourself breath before keep going. -High level of concentration required because the moment you get distracted, you will end up stabbing yourself. There are accesories you can put to cover your fingers, but if you don’t have access to those, be careful because those needles can get pretty deep. For this reason I wouldn’t recommend it for a child. -Compared with other type of crafts, there is not a terribly lot of resources for people interested on this and a lot of it is tutorial videos in japanese for some reaosn. If you speak any other language but that one or english, even less than that so a lot of your journey is going to be experimentation. -The needles might have no trouble piercing your fingers, but they are still very fragile, some more than others, so you can’t just grab whichever and go ham to town with it because it will end up broken. If a needle seems like it bends too easily it can be used, but carefully and once the piece it’s too firm for it to penetrate you will need to change for a sturdier one. You will probably need multiple needles of varyin sizes to finish one single work. Rating: 9/10 because I saw a neede literally piercing my finger and that wasn’t fun. String dolls

Pros -I love them?? There are so easy and so cute, omg??? And you are telling me that I can add embroidery, felt, wool or anything I want into it but all I need for the base is yarn? And no math or couting stitches required? Fuck yeah. -Anyone could do any of this, with or without an armature, and as long you have the glue to make sure nothing comes out of place even after some handling, then you have something a keychain, a figurine or doll exactly to your liking. -There is not a lot of resources for people to make these, but those that do exist are fairly easy to customize. Most of them were done by kids so, yeah, definitely they can do it too if they want. -Theorically you could make them as big as you want, but there is nothing wrong with just having something small and adorable. -You can recycle little balls of paper or scrapped yarn in order to make the filling for the head. Cons: -Unless you construct them very well and use a lot of glue, and depending the level of details integrated, they might not be the most durable thing on the Earth. They are relatively easy to repair at least. -Because they are usually small, like small as the palm of your hand small, you might not have space to make it extremely detailed. You can try, though, I guess. -Medium level of concentration required because you have to make sure that the yarn is tense enough that will keep it’s shape and not unravel the moment you let go. -If it’s too firm but you still need to add something with a needle, good luck forcing it’s way through it. Raiting: 10/10 would string again.

[manifestoonmoralmanlove]

Soulless Riffing: Brainless Ch.10 + 11.

I got a supernatural action/romance book series as a gift that’s just riddled with stuff that I hate….and as a steampunk Victorian London action romance story filled with werewolves and vampires…it’s yeah gonna be easy to poke fun at.

I just want to say, it’s totally cool if you like this story or ones like it!  It’s certainly a better caliber than a lot of what I make fun of…however…I can’t help but want to make fun of it.

Over here for the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7+8th, and 9th.

Chapter 10 is short so I threw in 11 too! SO FUCK IT HERE GOES!

Chapter 10

So this zombie bursts in to attack Alexia and Lord Akeldama.  The zombie’s clever plan is to just start…pouring chloroform on the floor. I don’t think that’s how that works but lol ok whatever. Immediately the super powerful vampire is out cold.  They talk about how gaudy and huge Lord Akeldama’s house is, so I totally pictured the zombie kicking the door open, pouring it, and even though he’s still like 50 feet away he’s out like a light.

So my head canon for this is the zombie is like, “Well they’re obviously going to get away! Why bother!?” So he just pours out a medicine bottle’s worth of chloroform out of annoyed futility. Lord Akeldama since he’s such a DANDY thinks the zombie poured some kind of staining liquid like wine all over his centuries old, priceless Turkish rug.  He’s so mortified that his favorite rug is ruined and feints on the spot.

Now this scenario makes sense, YOU’RE WELCOME!

Alexia is able to hit the zombie in the head 3 times before she realizes that’s not working and the fumes OVERCOME HER! YES SHE LITERALLY GETS THE VAPORS!

THANK FUCK! FOR ACTUAL DRAMA!

When she wakes up she’s being dragged bound and gagged into the Hypocras Club for scientists.  She overhears some shady biz about how they want to experiment on Lord Akledama.  She also notices an obnoxiously prominent octopus motif in the place.  It might as well read,

“Alexia turned the octopus-shaped knob, of the octopus-shaped door, to reveal an octopus-shaped hallway, with live octopuses hanging from the wall all wondering where they got such a bad rep from.”

The two of them get thrown in a cell and are able to undo their gags.  The less cool version of Blackadder’s Prince George (Lord Akeldama) explains that the zombie-thing is an automaton or basically a fleshy robot/golem.  He also explains that the robot can only be undone if you speak the magic word. Looks as if safe words work much better in this universe than they ever did in 50 shades!

 ALSO JUST KIDDING CAUSE THERE’S ANOTHER WAY TO STOP IT BUT WON’T BE REVEALED UNTIL IT’S A SUPER TENSE MOMENT! HARDY HAR HAR!

But we actually get a genuinely good scene after this where Lord Akledama talks about the fact they both may die.  He says that, if it’s possible, he wants Alexia to hold his hand so he can see the sun one last time.  It’s cheesy, and probably not going to be applicable in the situation they’re in, but it’s really sweet and sad and I like it.  The baddies then come back to drag Akledama out of the cell, presumably to be tortured to death.

NO! I WAS JUST STARTING TO ACTUALLY LIKE HIM!

Say something Nice Faps:

Actual plot

No or little mention of the dumbass ship

Akledama wanting to see the sun.

Chapter 11

So Alexia is not having the best time in the cell by herself but eventually she hears voices. We have super unsubtle exposition that boils down to.

“So yeah we’re torturing werewolves and vampires, so we can figure out how to genocide them REAL GOOD!”

Hoo boy listen. The only other racist thing against vampires/werewolves we have seen in action is a woman talk briefly about how untoward it is that a business is catering to THOSE kinds of people. I will not count all the vague times Alexia alludes to them being oppressed with no concrete examples.

Going from, Bad person is annoyed they may have to glance at a vampire while at a cafe, to inhuman experiments meant to further genocide is AT BEST a huge jump and at worse flat out feels entirely separate from the setting created.

Fun Fact: Racism isn’t a child predator who hides in the shadows and pops out when you need a scapegoat.  Racism is fucking everywhere effecting everything.

Don’t try to add racism allusions in your story if you can’t grasp that fundamental concept.

Faps, nobody picked up steampunk werewolf fucker for commentary on race. And besides the inability to grasp the complexity of racism is going to seem quaint next to some of the dumb writing bullshit coming up next.

So during this conversation this mysterious bad man also states, “We have a random human in this cell, cause she was there lol.”

“Can I see her?”

“Lol why not!?”

So we open up the cell to meet the big baddie Siemons, whom, I’m probably just going to refer to as childish evilguy nicknames for awhile cause his characterization is as on the nose as you can get.  Like no joke, whenever they mention him smiling it’s, “He smiles psychotically.” 

The guy, Mr. bigbad was talking to turns out to be #1 Stud MacDougall!

GASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSP

Actually I totally called this cause she mentions 3 times during their short conversation that she recognizes the 2nd voice, it would be most DRAMATIC, and cause I have money down that he’s secretly a bad, bad man so Alexia doesn’t feel bad about not fucking a fatty. She’s not shallow; he’s just a bad person you see.

BUT, to this story’s credit MacDougall is AGHAST to find Alexia in there, goes to her side, and demands she be set free at once.

Evilbaddy Von Octo-dump is like, “Oh! She’s Alexia the Soulless who can stop supernatural powers! We inexplicably did not put 2 and 2 together despite being super smart Nazi-scientists.  I mean we very obviously tried to kidnap her 3 separate times, and stole her records for more info. But we weren’t actually interested in kidnapping her. We just tried to get a vampire and took her along for the lulz!”  Why even put in the effort to say they weren’t after her? This is stupid!

MacDougall, despite studying the supernatural FOR A LIVING, has never heard of the Soulless phenomenon and like…

FUCK HOW AND WHY AND ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!

The author states explicitly that all the supernaturals in England not only are aware of the Soulless but are informed of the identity of every single Soulless.  How would normies NOT know? Vampires and werewolves hang with humans all the time, and it makes no sense why the Soulless would be hidden information from the general public.  Soulless can pose a threat to the supernatural not regular boring humans, there’s no reason to believe that the average citizen is going to be upset at this knowledge at all.

This wouldn’t even, so far, cause any plot inconsistencies if everybody knew.  I think the rub here is that we have to justify her family not knowing so the reveal would make them upset, but we’ll see how important that plot point actually is.  Honestly, I fear the author is just so used to supernatural media where SOMETHING is hidden from the general population she felt compelled to do the same.

MacDougall convinces Meaniemollusk NaziStink to take off her restraints and try to get her on their side. They allow her to clean up and change. Alexia takes advantage of this to go to the Octopus shaped mirror, break off an octopus-shaped shard, cover it in octo-cloth, and hide it in her octo-bosum.

Alexia tries to play dumb and meek in order to appease Squidlly MurderMan.  He tells her he plans to kill all Vampires and Werewolves.  She points out that they’re scientists with a political agenda and apparently that’s her breaking her bimbo character and the gig is up.

OKAY?????????????????

They then take her to another cell.  On the way there she hears Lord Akeldama’s blood-curling torture screams, but she doesn’t seem all that upset.  I mean she probably doesn’t want to appear outwardly upset to blow the gig even more, but we don’t really have much internal monologue about how worried she is.

So that’s cool.

They want to test her soulsucking ability and she lies saying it takes an hour. (Which is hard to believe, isn’t soulless supposed to be common knowledge in England, and also they stole all the notes anyway they probably know.)  They also OUTRIGHT SAY they’re planning on killing her anyway but it would be rad if she was cool about it. They say they’re going to murder/test it by putting her in a cell with a rabid werewolf to SEE WHAT HAPPENS!? (She’d probably die but lol turns out it’s Lord Maccon aren’t we all shocked.) But like let’s break this whole mess down.

1.)    You uhhh consider LYING that you won’t kill her if she cooperates. That tends to encourage people to cooperate. YOU ARE BAD PEOPLE AFTERALL AND BAD PEOPLE LIE!

2.)    HOW FUCKING INCOMPREHENSIBLY DUMB ARE THESE FUCKING SCIENTISTS!?  You UHH MAYBE consider you could learn a fuck-load from experiments where a person can turn off a supernaturals’ ability at will? PERHAPS it’ll be easier to genocide them if they’re not super-fast, super strong, immortal AND can heal real fast????? WHAT COLOSSAL FATHEADS ARE RUNNING THIS JOINT!? AUTHOR? YOU CAN HAVE THEM BE SUPER EVIL AND BAD WITHOUT THEM IMMEDIATELY TRYING TO KILL PROTAG? YANNO?

Also throwing her in a locked room with a PEAK werewolf, even if they never believed it took that long, is basically instant-death for her.  She’s kinda arrogant when it comes to self-defense but even she’s like, “I’d be super lucky if I even reach the point of having the shit kicked out of me before I can turn him completely enough for them to not be a threat.”

So they take the antidote to the supposed poison they want to snuff out and just dump it down the drain.

BUT GOLLY I’M SURE LOOKING FORWARD TO THOSE OVERGROWN CHILDREN ALMOST FUCKING IN THAT CELL! THAT’S GONNA BE SWELL!

Say something Nice Faps:

No shitty Maccon/Alexia verbal sparring

MacDougall does try to not get her killed. I mean he just shouts dramatically.  Not that I’m asking him to fall right on a sword but it does seem a bit tepid. But like for a woman who gleefully and regularly puts herself in danger? Maybe that’s the response that’s appropriate.

Also the author never really says MacDougall is down to clown with Murder Bigots.  So I guess what I’m trying to say is I’d still fuck MacDougall apart.

[aeide-thea]

i probably should have written this post earlier, i.e. before i had more of a bottle of rosé than i’m quite willing to admit to, but! i did not! so you are getting the not-not-drunk version! on the bright side alcohol’d me is very nice, mostly they are just Friendly and Happy albeit a little overinclined 2 inform you about how sad it is that they and A— are passing like ships in the night, that is, without any kissing...

anyway! today was a Day omg. i was very stupidly nervous about my german exam for reasons unbeknownst to man or otherwise nonbinary person, except i guess that i wanted it to be painfully apparent to A— that i’m good at this, which, uh, if he didn’t know that already he’s kind of oblivious and also my quickness has yet to cause him to be overwhelmed with love for me, why is that honestly! but anyway i was pretty excruciatingly jittery, like, we were all sitting in our formal rows and there were Extra Non-Classmate Strangers joining us for the proficiency exam and like, everyone else was being quiet and normal and i was, like, making dramatic woeful faces at C and telling her to pat my head and tell me it was going to be okay, which, jesus, self, calm yr tits! unclear if A— was observing this, he was there at this point but also my stratagem has mostly been to assiduously avoid any chance of eye contact in case my face somehow says ‘hello i think yr beautiful and would like to grammatically bump faces,’ which frankly seems like a likely thing for my face to say! anyway we did our exam and like, babe, i love you but also when you write a thing and then go back and add an introduction you’re supposed to make sure that e.g. people are introduced the first time we encounter them, rather than the second? and not repeat yourself? so that was a little lol. anyway we had a choice of two passages and i went with the one that was about wolfram eilenberger’s zeit der zauberer, which is not important except that the ““conclusion”” on this passage was, like, ‘and then mussolini and hitler leveraged the economic and political crises of the period—’ [at which point a nice friendly dazu compound, hello, how nice to encounter you here in the home stretch when i thought perhaps i might be free and clear!] ‘—to build up their movements, which led to fascism/nazism,’ the end. dear A—, i am very bad at conclusions but i’m pretty sure that was not one! anyway that was the first mention of mussolini in my day but not the last.

then C and i went to the grad cafe, which, sadness, who is going to let me into the grad cafe now! i will have to rub elbows with the general populace once more! which is especially a thing bc holy shit is campus swarming with literal high schoolers rn, i mean, good for them but also i have a solid decade on these children and it makes me feel ancient, remember when i was this ignorant of how much the world was going to bruise me!

anyway we went to the grad cafe and hung out with C’s boyfriend L for a while, who is like. a quiet really lovely italian potato? jesus i come up with the worst most insulting similes to describe people i actually like, i said to C this morning that i was the neurotic cheetah friend and she was the sensible dog friend which i meant as, like, ‘yikes i need a keeper, i am very grateful for yr well-adjustedness!’ but i feel like was probably kind of insulting although i apologized later and she was like, honestly i’m just amused! you were so zany this morning! which. yes. yes i was.

anyway we hung out and did postmortems on our respective exams and then went for lunch at Local Thai Place where i haven’t been since... maybe since i brought R there? is that possible? anyway in a long time, so that was kinda nice.

and then A emailed me to say,

A—

which like, sry abt the humblebrag or whatever but i’m just. how fucking typical honestly, jesus. i’m so absurd.

also he wants a ~contact in my department~ bc literally everyone else in the class was a grad student who needed to pass the reading proficiency exam as part of their degree requirements, except, uh, i am a baby dork who just thought it would be interesting, so i don’t think there’s anyone to notify particularly! i mean i guess he could let Prof V— know, but she would definitely be like, dot dot dot thanks, glad K— is out there jumping through random unnecessary hoops??? or, you know, whatever the equivalent of that is in german, since she’s also a native speaker, so presumably they would conduct this entire exchange auf deutsch...

anyway then i had more class, whoop whoop, which for my sins was a second class on the fucking aeneid, goddamn, i have spent a truly staggering amount of time being lectured on that poem considering how much i hate it! i mean parts of it are flooringly good and parts of it are workmanlike as shit and parts of it are shamefully propagandistic and the latter two aspects make me real frustrated with it even though the first aspect is also very real. anyway i decline to let drunkme have the final word on vergil so like, maybe someday there will be more things to say. although also my main feeling about him is intense apathy so also there might not be.

but so anyway that led to the second mention of fascism in my day, bc the fasces came up somewhere and then we got into Modern Reception of Same, which admittedly in diesen finsteren Zeiten is not nearly as remarkable as it might once have been, but i still was, idk, amused that my life had arranged itself in such a way that both my classes raised the topic! although i guess maybe a different way of saying that is, thank god classicists and germanists are acknowledging some historical culpability here, this is kind of an important time to be doing that...

but anyway back to some more frivolous notes, bc at the end of the day this is a perblog—

as i said to E earlier, i retract any aspersions i had previously cast on my baby mythology classmates, one of them asked for an extension on the paper and so we all got one, thank fuckin god honestly; and

A— emailed me as [different subset of my legal name than i have been using in that class all semester] and i really don’t know what to make of that, like, in the system i’m [full legal name] and my email is [firstinitial lastname] so unless he’s been doin some pokin on facebook or something i d fuckin k honestly! A Mystery! probably the actual answer is that he has paid insufficient attention to get my name right but also he got it right in class on multiple occasions so ????

anyway on that note i am going to end this inexcusably long post so i can go to bed and then study a bunch and then take another exam tomorrow evening and then help Baby Sister move and then somehow produce a dauntingly-long paper out of currently-nothing, yikes yikes yikes! 

in the meantime we can all take bets on whether A— will give me the A+ that quite frankly my disgusting aptitude and enthusiasm deserve, or the significantly more dubious grade that my total failure to hand in any of the more boring assignments has technically probably consigned me to... i mean, to be clear, the grade is not remotely important! except for the part where i'm obviously going to use it to decide whether he liked me at all, because that’s obviously what grades mean! welcome to this embarrassing illustration of the ways in which my brain is in certain ways very good but also in other ways very very crazy!

[knightofbalance-13]

https://sokumotanaka.tumblr.com/post/174162891984/makas-character-vs-rubys-lack-of-it

I barely know much about Soul Eater...and yet even I knew you’re full of shit

Sad thing is: you’re making SOUL EATER look bad, not RWBY.

“I struggled what to call this hell what to even talk about given ruby’s lacking characterization.

In this waste of post I want to talk about how miles in unfair to soul eater by ignoring maka’s character and point on the already known lacking bits of ruby’s.“

Spoiler alert: He’s gonna be FAR more unfair to both parties but especially Maka.

Now if you’re not familiar with soul eater I suggest watching the anime then reading the manga do to it branching off from the anime (But I say do both cause you’ll miss some amazing voice acting, animation and music from skipping the anime.)

Seriously? You are gonna argue Maka Albarn’s character...by recommending the ANIME?

The same anime that COMPLETELY fucked over Maka’s character into being an unlikeable, obnoxious bitch who randomly assaults male characters for showing attraction to female characters as well as being irrational about her father to the point that she has to be FORCED to spend time with a man who literally revolves his life around her? 

See, this kind of paints a bad picture of you Soku: YOU SOUND LIKE A SOUL EATER STAN. You sound like you are so blind with admiration for the series that it can do no wrong in your eyes, despite the fact that the anime fucked over Maka by flanderizing aspects of her character to the point of making her unlikeable (believe me, I tried my DAMNDEST to like Maka in the anime) and making a DEUS EX MACHINA ENDING. No amount of animation, voice acting and music can salvage something like these two.

Maka’s a scythe master, a cheerful young girl she’s direct, she loves books to the point of having to be dragged outside by friends and she’s a brilliant strategist. I love maka cause she’s very hardworking as we would see evident to both media she’s from she’s constantly striving to reach goals better fighters can get to on pure strength and shows that a strong mind can overcome a stronger fighter.

And the best part is we’re shown her reading books, she’s often reading something that catches her interest or studying to better herself. (It’s even a plot point when needed to learn more about a scholar and powerful fighter from the past.) Although she’s now without her flaws, she grows past them to work alongside her friends even if certain one’s can try her patience. 

Funny how you don’t mention these flaws and just gloss over them. Almost as though you feel insecure about Maka.

Let me inform everyone about Maka’s flaws: She’s irrational. She hates her dad for cheating on her mom which is understandable...to an extent. Thing is, her dad Soul REVOLVES HIS LIFE AROUND HER. He makes it constantly clear that he loves Maka with all his heart and soul and is constantly CRUSHED by her rejections. It’s said that Maka does this because she fears rejection but if that were the case then why would she subject her own father to that?

Not only that, Maka has a SEVERE tendency to assault male characters for acting perverted. Like, I know this is a thing in anime but with the way the she acts, you’d think she’s assault Mineta or Master Roshi, not guys casually remarking about people’s attractiveness. In fact, Maka’s pretty tempermental as well, attacking a lot of people who annoy her. Not to mention how she doesn’t read to better herself, she does it because she’s competitive and insecure, to the point it fucks with her in battles and in school. And for a few these (like her issues with her father): She never gets over.

Which is FINE. It’s her character. Not this Mary Sue cardboard cut out you made. The Maka YOU described sounds boring, unrelatable and fucking bad.

Now let’s go over Ruby

Despite ruby’s quick deterioration as a character she did have some characteristics to her in the past, in volume 1 she was afraid to branch out and used her sister as a security blanket, she had a fondness for weapons but it has dropped for a while then only brought up once, she was optimistic to a fault as that was the only trait she has as we continued, and she also likes books but mentioned it once and we’ve yet to see her bring it up again.

Gah! see this is me genuinely trying to like ruby as a character but sadly she’s not got as much to offer as maka does. Ruby as does many other character in rwby start deconstructing as characters as the series continues, I can’t remember the last time ruby did something smart enough for anyone to consider her a strategist (I mean I guess shooting nora was smart but  you could accomplish the same thing by giving her electric dust, and the plan falters when you all smile tipping the villian off.)

yeah yeah, misrepresenting RWBY because you’re so insecure you feel a need to manipulate info.

Ruby is socially awkward. This shows numerous times throughout the series from not wanting to go to Beacon due to hwo weird she’d look there to being unable to communicate with Weiss properly due to her missing out on sarcasm and freezing up to her inability to talk things out with Weiss to her awkwardness at the dance to even meeting Winter. Look I listed like five examples.

Ruby is also heroic to a fault, rushing in against opponents without thinking as well as prioritizing others above her self. She attacked the Nevermore without thinking. She went after Cinder by herself without reinforcements. She goes up against the Nevermore in Volume 3 without thinking. She bottles up her emotions like in volumes 4 and 5.

Ruby is also flexible in her beliefs as seen in volumes 4 and 5 where she acknowledges she was wrong about how she viewed the world but still kept her beliefs by adjusting them to how her worldview has changed.

She’s inspiring as shown in how people tend to follow her example, like Jaune did in Jaunedice. Or how Blake’s view of things changed to be more like Ruby’s Or how she literally caused the events of Volumes 4 and 5 by being unwilling to let things go in Volume 3, inspiring JNR to follow her. 

She’s also kind and trusting, like how she never tries to kill her opponents as well as trying to get Raven on her side in Volume 5.

And she’s gotten a will that would match up with a Gainax protagonist with how much shit she takes.

And even here you’re wrong because Ruby used the distraction of Blake’s arrival to send her best fighter to retrieve the Relic before the bad guy’s could!

Again, you sound insecure, like the moment you actually talk about Ruby she’ll outshine even your Mary Sue version of Maka so you jut shake your hand and avoid the topic.

It makes me think miles didn’t actually bother reading/watching soul eater and in terms of character hell in terms all around, fighter, character, positive female role model maka triumphs over ruby no doubt about it.

....

Maka can’t fight worth a shit without Soul and even then her feats, at ebst, are BARELY better than Ruby’s.

This Maka HAS no character aside from Mary Sue.

And this Maka has no flaws so why aspire to be her instead of the flawed but determined and kind Ruby?

Yeah, this is why I don’t want you to talk about Soul Eater and RWBY: You seem so insecure that you try to cover up Soul Eater’s ‘flaws’ but end up making it look worse. God I doubt YOU’VE read Soul Eater. I've shown a deeper knowledge of it and I barely have any first hand experience with it. Most of what I know is from friends and the wiki.

I made this cause  wanted people whom know about soul eater and don’t to know the diservice miles did in writing it off instead of learning from it and using it to improve his story.

... this sentence makes no sense. Even I write better than this.

Best I can say here is: you never provide a link to the Soul Eater thing Miles said. And I don’t find it ANYWHERE. So I’m just gonna assume you lied.

And honestly Soku, You’ve done such a disservice to Soul Eater I think you turned people off it. You made their main character look like a damn Mary Sue and made it look so weak that it needs help beating fucking RWBY. I honestly believe you’re a misguided Soul Eater Stan.

Tune in next whenever when I talk about how one sided a ruby vs maka death battle would be. 

Listen, nobody wants Maka to win more than me. Not because I like Soul Eater mind you but because I want Ben and Chad to get out of this scott free and I know you’ll assault them if they say otherwise.

HOWEVER I looked up Maka and Ruby on Vs. Battle Wiki...

http://vsbattles.wikia.com/wiki/Maka_Albarn

http://vsbattles.wikia.com/wiki/Ruby_Rose

... Yeah, Maka’s best feats are all reliant on the Black Blood Armor against Asura...which only WORKS with Asura or great amounts of Madness so it doesn’t work with Ruby.

So lets’ take the feats that actually work against normal people:

Maka:

Attack Potency: Building Level

Speed: Hypersonic+

Lifting Strength: Class 5

Striking Strength: Building level

Durability: Building Level

Stamina: Large

Ranga: Extended Melee, Several Meters with porjectiles

Intelligence: High

Ruby:

Attack Potency: Large Building

Speed: Hypersonic+ (WITHOUT her Semblance)

Lifting Strength: Class K

Striking Strength: Large Building

Durability: Large Building

Stamina: High

Range: Extended Melee, Several hundred Meters with Crescent Rose

Intelligence: High

... Yeah...

Things are NOT looking good for Maka. Her best powers only work against opponents in HER world while Ruby’s are so general that they can be applied universally.

I might be wrong here: I’m gonna read Soul Eater more after this to learn more but...even my friends who know Soul Eater say things are really close.

Just stop doing this Soku! You’re making SOUL EATER look bad!

[unofficialxstyles]

GYM RAT-Chapter One

“Did you not hear me the first time?” I cast my gaze in his direction, glaring this time. “We do not talk about it,”

Liam picked up on the distress hanging on my last word and true to his best friend, asshole roommate nature, he balled it up and shot it straight to my chest.

“Gym, Robin. Just say it, you’re going to the gym,” he cheekily whispered, his lips upturned into a half smile.

Oh fuck.

I reckon I had made better decisions in my life. Granted, there were not many of them but I liked to think that after years of semi-adult decision making, I had made at least one decent decision.

Like, for example, going out on that McDonald’s Chicken Nugget run at three in the morning just last week because really, there was no way in hell anything could come between me and my need for chicken nugget.

Hence, having had experience making decent decisions, anyone would think that by now, I could handle any and all that came my way.

I mean how hard could it be, right?

Clearly, I was dead wrong and by the time I had realised it, I had made the single most grave decision of my life.

Looking back, perhaps I should have thought about it thoroughly before muttering anything. I could have done a million other things and gone back to it or I could have decided not to make a decision when I was running on four hours of sleep-and away from a mounting pile of work. There were alternatives, basically, but I chose to be hasty, anyway.

Nothing new there.

“So, Robin, when is this happening?” Liam questioned from where he sat-front left from where I was. I grunted, indicating both my displeasure and unwillingness to answer. Liam, unfazed, pressed on. “It’s today, isn’t it?”

Ah, yes, go ahead and remind me.

“Fuck off, Li,” I mumbled, fingers still poised over the keyboard, my eyes skittering across the screen as I typed grand plans for my next lesson. “Yes, it’s today. Now will you shut up about it?”

I could feel Liam smirking through my laptop screen but I refused to confirm my suspicions, telling myself I needed to focus on the task at hand instead. The lesson plans were due almost three hours ago and any time between now and midnight, my boss would give me a ring, barking from the other end of the line about how teachers should have discipline and time management and all the bloody crap I had heard a million times before. I, therefore, had a goal to accomplish before the exact moment all hell broke lose on my ear drums-it would not survive another round merciless torture, sadly. Talking to Liam and/or entertaining him, would not help my case in the slightest.

“Aye, Rob. Teachers don’t swear now, do they? I don’t know why the idea is so adverse to you, anyway. Whichever way you look at it, this is a good thing. Firstly, you didn’t have to pay for it. Secondly, how hard could it be? And thirdly…think about that bet with your brother,” Liam listed, unaware and unconsciously unsupportive of my immediate goal.

“Did you not hear me the first time?” I cast my gaze in his direction, glaring this time. “We do not talk about it,”

Liam picked up on the distress hanging on my last word and true to his best friend, asshole roommate nature, he balled it up and shot it straight to my chest.

“Gym, Robin. Just say it, you’re going to the gym,” he cheekily whispered, his lips upturned into a half smile.

Oh fuck.

I reached for the cushion, conveniently located to my right, and launched it at him. Liam ducked just in time and chuckled darkly before standing up, stretching, and strolled in the general direction of his room. As if to rile me up further, he ruffled my hair on the way out, mumbling the forbidden “G” word into my ear.

Asshat.

By the time the little interaction was over, the words on the screen had begun to float, my mind elsewhere as I glanced at the time on my laptop and noted that I had exactly two hours, five minutes and thirty seconds before my date with death. Considering I needed an hour to actually get there and another hour to talk myself into it. I shut my laptop close and heaved out a long sigh, throwing my head back against the sofa, mumbling a series of profanities.

The act alone caused me to once more consider why I had made the decision in the first place and for the millionth time, attempt to find a way to wiggle out of it. I had thought of several, by the way, the most extreme (and really, the most fool proof) being faking my own death but even that was thrown out the window. Apparently, unless someone produced a death certificate, your membership continued to be valid and you were expected to turn up.

So much for the G word not being a place for torture.

Knowing I had to move it or risk being late and unprepared, I placed the laptop on the already overcrowded coffee table and proceeded to change. Needless to say, when I opened my semblance of a cupboard, I found nothing appropriate to wear because anyone who knew me probably would have known that active wear was definitely not my wardrobe staple. After rummaging around the depths of the abyss that was my pile of clothes, however, I found a lone sports bra, a pair of what looked like sport shorts and an oversized t-shirt.

These would have to do for now.

Stepping out afterwards, I grimaced as I caught my reflection in the mirror Liam had installed by the kitchen, next to the fridge. “For flexing”, he had reasoned. The girl staring back at me wore a perplexed, grumpy expression and looked nothing like Robin Westwood, king of sweat pants and graphic t-shirts. At that very unfortunate moment, Liam stepped out from his room-and gasped dramatically.

“You’re doing it!” he teased, standing next to me, poking my arm repeatedly as if it was the button at the end of the Ninja Warrior course. His wore an amused expression, though I could not deny the underlying excitement beneath it. “You, Robin Westwood, going out on a weekend and to the most holy of places,”

He then had the nerve to mimic the sound of stadium cheering followed by a corny version of a rain (read: victory) dance.

“Liam, for the last time. Can we stop talking about it? We all know I’m going to die there,” I replied flatly, sauntering over to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle. If I was going to die, I was going to die hydrated, at least.

“You’re not going to die, Rob. Would you stop being over the top about it? Give it a try; you’ll find that you like it,”

“In what universe?” I questioned. “Do you remember how to work the microwave?”

I capped my bottle and slid it into the pack I had.

“Why do I need to know how to use the-” Liam stopped himself and rolled his eyes, running a hand through his close crop. “For the last time, Rob, you’re not going to die,”

By then I knew it was pointless arguing so I waved my hand dismissively, having worked up enough courage to actually walk out the door.

“Have fun, Robin! Can’t wait to hear all about it!” I heard Liam shout as the door closed behind me.

One could only hope.

The trip to the G word seemed longer than it actually was. I attempted to distract myself by burying my nose into my phone, eyeballs deep in ASOS and the sneakers section. That, however, proved to be feeble because half of my brain was reminding me of my impending doom. When the train halted at my stop, I all but dragged my feet out and up onto the street.

Then, as if the universe was mocking me (or trying to show me a sign), a thing happened.

During my second stab of effort to distract myself from the walk to hell, someone ran into me-and it was not one of those light shove, brush past kind of ran into, either. It was a full-blown attack, not unlike the one Captain America unleashed upon his enemies. It came from the back and caught me extra off guard, causing me to stumble, and tumble, face forward onto the pavement ahead of me.

Ah, fuck.

“Damnit! It’s a pavement, not a bloody track,” I muttered, rolling over like an injured puppy almost immediately to save my bruised ego. I pulled up and dusted my knees, which were thankfully spared from the assault, just as a pair of bright green shoes came into my line of vision.  

“Sorry, love,” came the unexpected reply that sounded male, an undertone of genuine regret lacing his voice. A hand shot out to accompany the bright green monstrosity.

I always told the kids at school never to hold a stranger’s hand, mostly for hygiene purposes, but looking at me now, they would probably have raised eyebrows and trust issues because against my own damn advice, I took the hand, hoisting myself up. Any effort to get up on my own would be futile without me looking like an injured bird and there was already enough embarrassment in the last two minutes to last me an entire week.

“You really should be more careful,” were the next words I said. It should have been a ‘thank you’, I know, but I was far too high strung and the last thing I needed at that point was to deal with people who did not follow pavement etiquette.

Even if the stranger was rather cute.

After making sure no major organs and limbs were compromised in the mishap, I had a good look at the stranger, curly man bun and all. He was tall, lean and wearing a dimpled smile with his shorts and t-shirts. Lucky for him, his green eyes bore a hint of remorse or this encounter would have gone much worse.

“And you really should not be looking at your phone while walking. You would have heard me shouting a warning,” was his reasonable come back. “What was so interesting, anyway? Your ex-boyfriend’s new man?”

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re okay, right? I don’t have to pay any insurance? Your boobs are intact?” Stranger Danger went on, giving me the once over. I had to fight the urge to cover myself at the mild invasion of privacy, though I did roll my eyes for his pleasure. His eyes trailed back up to my face and he nodded, as if silently approving of what he saw.

“My boobs are fine, thank you,” I replied sarcastically,anyway, my arms crossed over my chest. “Don’t go around hurting other people,”

“I won’t,” His expression was solemn for a minute before the dimpled grin was back and he raised an arm up in farewell. Then, to my utter shock, he bowed.

Actually bowed.

Before I had a chance to say anything, however, Stranger Danger hurtled ahead in the direction he was headed to before, leaving me with furrowed brows and a bout of genuine curiosity. I should probably add that my mouth was hanging ajar, too.

Nothing was going right-or glamorously-for me it seemed.

The inkling of doom coupled with the tiny catastrophe with Stranger Danger should have served as warning for me to turn back and never head to the G word. I should not have cared about the obscene fee they would make me pay to cancel the membership or my brother’s smug grin when he won the bet but Robin Westwood was nothing if not a fighter.

So, mumbling my thirty seventh profanity in a span of thirty minutes, I plodded to Hell.

A/N: HELLO! This is my first fic in a while so fingers crossed that you liked it? This is sort of inspired by a friend of mine who’s a real life personal trainer and he joked once that he wanted to star in a movie centred around gym/training etc so idk this came out somehow? Anyways!! Questions: What’s your first impression of Robin? How’d you think she’d fare at the gym? Let me know what you think here!

[angelicspaceprince]

Catching

Author: Anna

Title: Catching

Character/s: Balthazar, Gabriel, Sam, Dean, Cas

Pairing: Balthazar/Reader

Word Count: 1, 767 words

Warnings/Tags: Pranks, upset Balthazar, established relationship (married), no smut but if you want me to write it in, lemme know and I'll make a part two with the missing scene

Summary: Balthazar can't get that fucking tune that you've been humming for days on end out of his head. And when he figures out what the song is, he's definitely less than impressed. - Based on the Disney Quote (#5) - 'If you start singing, I'm gonna throw up', Moana, 2016.

Notes: This is for thewhiterabbit42's Disney Challenge to celebrate 1000 followers and you guys should totally check them out because their stuff is amazing! The song that the Reader is humming is this, which I've been listening to non-stop all day because I love it, and it's the only version of that damned song that I'll listen to.

Tags: @thewhiterabbit42, @elyshakate, @oddone92, @bethisaghost

Buy Me a Coffee

Catching

You and Balthazar has been married for two years, something that everyone you met believed to be quite a feat. You were the first to admit, if someone said to you three years ago that the arrogant tosser of an angel would eventually be your husband, you would have laughed until you passed out.

But, it worked out. And the both of you were happy.

Don’t get me wrong, Balthazar was still a massive dick and looked out for himself above everyone else (except maybe you), but you usually ended up not being in the line of fire. Which meant you could get away with so much more than the average human.

So, when you found a certain video on YouTube, you and Gabriel hatched a plan to see how long it would take for your beloved to crack.

You started simple, humming the tune of the song in question whilst cooking, reading, researching, cleaning and even, as you had reliably informed, in your sleep when you took an impromptu nap in the library. Gabriel was, of course, helping you from the get go, humming around the Bunker and even programming the boys alarms and ringtones with the tune.

Sam was the first to catch the song, and he soon was humming along with you under his breath. He didn’t even seem to notice he was doing it, when you pulled him up on it he just looked at you like you had grown a second head. So you left it.

Dean quickly followed, humming the Postmodern Jukebox song wherever he went, replacing his usual Metallica and Led Zepplin when he drove. He, too didn’t realise what he was doing, which was mildly amusing to you.

Even Cas eventually cracked, and watching the usually serious angel humming as he worked was something that caused Gabriel to zap the two of you out of the room to hide the laughter that followed.

It took six weeks of dedication, but the one person you wanted to crack finally did.

Balthazar was, of course, the last to crack. He was already suspicious of the amount of time that you and Gabriel had been spending together, and one of your more explosive arguments – mind you, they were all explosive – was about that fact, and that he had basically said you were cheating on him so that gave him the right to find someone else to fuck. It was two weeks and a weekend of non-stop, uh, exercise, before you were back on good terms, but even Balthazar could tell you were still hurt by his comments.

But eventually, he did start to hum and even whistle along to the tune you had started humming six weeks prior. When he caught himself humming it, the look on his face was hilarious when he couldn’t place the tune, and then hysterical when you could see him trying to figure out where the hell he’d picked it up.

Then, the race was on.

You had informed the boys of your and Gabriel’s plans, and bets had been placed.

You: Two weeks

Cas: Three months

Sam: Three days

Dean: Never (which you all laughed at because he would eventually crack, but you could all hear the ‘I really could care less’ accent in his voice)

Gabriel: A month

All of you started watching him like hawks, all getting ready whenever to open his mouth to declare themselves the winner, but the sentence that you all wanted him to say never seemed to appear. You all continued to hum the song to keep it stuck in his head.

Sam was miserable when four days passed and nothing happened, he was sure Balthazar wouldn’t last. But you knew your husband well.

Day fourteen started and, just like you predicted, Balthazar snapped.

“That fucking song! What is it?” He cornered the five of you in the library, all of you looking up from your books to look at the pissed angel, each one with various levels of amusement.

“Whatever do you mean, B?” You ask sweetly.

“The song you’ve been singing for two months that you’ve gotten into my bloody head!” You bite your lip to try and stop the snickering as the boys pull out their wallets and start getting the money out to pay you.

“It’s a remix of possibly the most catching song of all time.”

“Happy?”

“What? No?”

“Shake It Off?”

“Oh, fuck no.”

“Hotline Bling?” You simply raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll play it for you, hang on.” You pull out your phone and start the catchy music.

It takes him until the third line when he realises what song it is, and you smirk when realisation strikes, accepting the money pushed over to you.

“Y/N.” Balthazar states simply. “Seriously?” You shrug.

“Well, I don’t know, its my new favourite song.” You send him a smile with your lips still held between your teeth. “And, it’s not as annoying as the original?”

“It’s still a bloody horrible song!” He protests.

“You didn’t think that when you were humming along to it.” You retort. “It’s really catchy don’t you think?” Balthazar glares at you before flying off. You roll your eyes and look back down at your book.

“Well, that went better than I thought.” Dean chimes in after a few seconds of silence.

“He’s still recovering from our last fight. Trust me, it’ll be brought up again.” You smile over to him before all of you return to your research, your pocket now $200 heavier.

Balthazar was clearly less than impressed about the fact you had tricked him, and spent the majority of the next few weeks sulking, avoiding you at all costs. You were slowly beginning to feel bad. So, you tried to romance him up, especially with the news you had to share with him.

Wine, food, sex. Those three generally speaking worked. And you were hoping you didn’t fuck it up so badly this time for it not to work.

Convincing him to go out was the first challenge, you practically had to drag him out the door. When you told him where you were going, he seemed to perk up. The small, intimate restaurant where the two of you met during a case for the Winchesters had become his favourite. He always claimed it was due to the fact that he met you there, but you knew it was also because they stocked his favourite wine.

So, he was already warming up to you, even more so when you told him you were paying.

He ordered the same thing he has ordered for the past three years whenever you went there, and you ordered something you knew he would never eat with the intent to snatch some of his and him not be interested in yours.

Conversation flows easy, as it always does, and snark and sass takes over the majority of the conversation, as it always does. You made a point of only drinking soft drink, wanting to make sure you were more or less sober for the rest of the night. Balthazar, however, was already on his second bottle of wine. Damn him and his inability to get drunk. The bastard.

By the time you two had left, you were humming the same song that had tormented him for weeks.

“Seriously?” He asks you in disbelief. You shrug.

“I genuinely like it, B.” You apologise. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep it for when you aren’t around.”

He huffs. “Just make sure you don’t start singing. If you start singing, I’m gonna throw up.” You snort.

“Of course, dear.” You bump into him. “Remember our first date?” You ask with a small smirk.

“How could I forget?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Remember what we did after we left the restaurant?” He smirks back down at you.

“I’m not sure I do, care to rejog my memory?”

~~~

You roll off Balthazar with a thud, your hair messy, body sweaty and your chest rising and falling harshly as you pant loudly, B clearly pleased with himself as he pulls you close. “Enjoyed yourself?” He asks, cocky with his ability. You hum.

“Not really, I mean, it was basically thirty minutes of you trying and failing to work me up. Need to get some sex tips.” You can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Yes, I enjoyed it you twit.”

He kisses the top of your head softly, keeping his head there as you shift. “Next time though, you are the one being tied up.”

“Want me to call you mistress too?”

“Queen of Everything Past, Present and Future would be more adequate.” You correct him causing him to snort.

“Sure thing, your majesty.” A comfortable silence falls over you before you clear your throat.

“B, I have some news for you.” You start carefully.

“You did cheat on me with Gabriel.” He says with conviction. “It’s okay, love, I get it. Clearly, you got bored with my skills and wanted something diff-” You manage to knock the wind out of him when you hit him in the stomach.

“No, you asshole.” You respond. “Don’t be a twat, I wouldn’t change our relationship for the world, and I definitely wouldn’t cheat, so get it out of your head.”

“Yes ma’am.” The small kiss he presses against your lips works as an apology as his hands move to rub the sides of your arms. “What did you have to tell me?”

“I’m pregnant.” You look up at him, gauging his reaction. His face freezes. “I’m twelve weeks, I found out on Tuesday.” You explain gently as the news sinks in. “B? You’re scaring me? You okay, beloved?”

Finally, he nods and swallows. “I’m going to be a father.” You nod. “What if I fuck up?”

“You won’t. And even if you do, it won’t be so bad. It’s not like babies are born with a manual.” Worry seeps in. “Are you…are you okay with this?” His eyes lock onto yours.

“Okay? Okay? I’m overjoyed!” Finally, the excitement sets in. “I can teach them to prank the hell out of their uncles and share all my seducing techniques and-”

“Seducing techniques? Like they exist.” You interrupt his rant, causing him to look down at you with a small smirk.

“They seemed to work on you.”

“I just joined on for the sex, if I’m honest.” You tease before giggling as he rolls over to straddle you, purring his next sentence before moving to initiate possible the most heated kiss either of you had ever shared.

“Well then, allow me to seduce you again.”

[angryhausfrau-writes]

You Can’t Cross the Same River Twice - Chapter 3

Trapper's shift starts disgustingly early and he's moving around the dark bedroom as quietly as possible, obviously trying not to wake Hawkeye as he gets dressed. But after sleeping so much over the past few days and going to bed reasonably early the night before, he's awake anyway. So Hawkeye turns on the lamp and he's treated to the sight of Trapper in shorts, socks, a mis-buttoned shirt, and and a severely off-kilter tie. Hawkeye laughs at him as he fumbles to straighten everything out.

"Sure, laugh it up. A guy tries to be considerate and this is the thanks he gets? Next time I'll just turn on the light at 4 am - see who's laughing then." But he's smiling, face so full of openness and warmth Hawkeye can't stand it and he has to go kiss him right on his stupid - adorable - overbite.

They kiss for a while, and they're both clearly interested in more, but Trapper has somehow become a responsible person in the year and a half since he left Korea. So rather than taking off the clothes he has on, Trapper pushes Hawkeye gently away and finishes getting dressed. And then they go downstairs to eat breakfast together. Maybe it's not the quickie Hawkeye was hoping for - and that definitely would have made Trapper late for work, because Hawkeye doesn't feel like being all that quick - but this is nice too.

And if, after Trapper leaves for work, Hawkeye takes a very long, hot, pleasureable shower, well that's between him, fantasy Trapper, and his own right hand.

Hawkeye's morning isn't altogether unproductive, though. He writes his dad finally. He'd sent a telegram from San Francisco saying he was back stateside, but nothing since. And it's a short letter, just letting his dad know he's fine and in Boston with Trapper and that he's not ready to come up to Maine yet but loves and misses him. The letter is a load off Hawkeye's mind, though. He doesn't want his dad to worry, but he also can't face him in person yet.

Hawkeye also writes letters of introduction - or reintroduction - to the various clinics around Boston, eager to get back to practicing real medicine after so many years of meatball surgery. And he's hoping to be rehired at the clinic in South End because it's familiar and close to Trapper's house and on the bus line. Because, the thing is, he doesn't technically have a driver's license. He hadn't needed one to drive in small town Maine - and he was rarely able to borrow his dad's car since it was needed in case of medical emergencies - and he hadn't needed to drive at all in big cities like New York or Boston. And though he'd passed the Korean version of a road test, it doesn't count in the states - and Rizo had maybe gone a little easy on him. He had once managed to flip a Jeep and give himself a concussion after all. Anyway, Trapper doesn't have a car he could borrow. Apparently that had gone to his ex-wife in the divorce. But, Trapper said, he'd gotten the house and he doesn't live out in the suburbs like Robert and now Louise so he hadn't minded too much.

So Hawkeye can't drive, legally or otherwise, and he figures he should probably get used to taking the bus as soon as possible. He and Trapper had taken the train when they went downtown - a mode of transportation that doesn't yet have any negative associations for Hawkeye - but it doesn't run everywhere. So he girds his proverbial loins, checks a bus schedule, and plans a trip to buy knitting supplies. It's a relaxing hobby and Hawkeye figures he'll need that after the day's adventure in public transit.

And it's not so bad really. The bus looks completely different for one thing, and there are no kids on the bus - just a few elderly ladies that kindly don't say anything about his tense posture and desperate staring out the window - his way of making sure he doesn't get magically transported to Korea. So Hawkeye makes it to the dry goods store ok and buys needles and yarn and a sweater pattern he thinks would make a good Christmas present for Trapper. And if the yarn he picks out happens to be a shade that will bring out the green in Trapper's hazel eyes, that's nobody's business but his. And it's so strange to be able to just go where he wants when he wants, doing what he wants. There's no concept of AWOL or leave or something-hour passes. He's free in a way he hasn't been in three years.

To celebrate his freedom, Hawkeye buys a magazine from the news stand - something bright and splashy and full of celebrity gossip - and then sits in the sunshine on a park bench for over an hour, reading the magazine and just enjoying being outside on such a nice summer day. In a place where there are flowers and trees and mothers with strollers and laughing children. A place that has remained untouched by blood and death and war. And then Hawkeye buys himself an ice cream cone.

He makes his way home and the bus ride is less nerve wracking the second time, even though the bus is more crowded. There are a couple of young kids, though, and their shrieks of laughter make him flinch - and bite back a tense order to be quiet - the first few times but he calms down. There are no enemy patrols here. Maybe he'll eventually believe that and be as bored and indifferent towards his surroundings as the rest of the passengers. But at least for now he should be able to make it to job interviews, and hopefully soon a job, without breaking down. Still, it's a relief to get home.

--

Trapper must've accidentally mentioned Hawkeye being in Boston somewhere too near Charles Winchester - or maybe hospital gossip is just that powerful - cuz they both get invited out for drinks at some unbearably posh club in fucking Back Bay. The kinda club that wouldn't let Trapper in through the delivery entrance much less into the actual bar. But Winchester's delivery of the invitation - which had involved calling Trapper to his office right as he was about to leave for the day - had brooked no argument. So now he's gotta go break the bad news to Hawkeye. And try not to get murdered by a bunch of angry WASPs.

Fortunately, Trapper's shift both started and ended early today so he has time to go get bruised and sweaty with all the other working class louts at the boxing gym before heading home to try and make himself look respectable enough for Winchester to be seen with him. Ok, that's not quite fair. He seems like a halfway decent guy. Still an upper class prick and a showboat surgeon - but he obviously cares about all his patients the same, regardless of their background. And maybe it's just cuz he can't stomach being anything but the top cutter in the outfit, but it's better than some of the docs Trapper's gotta work with. It's just that when Winchester or any of the other docs with breeding look at him, they see dumb Paddy before they see competent Ivy League surgeon.

Trapper ain't ashamed of any part of who he is. And he knows there's times and places he's gotta keep parts of himself hidden - to keep himself safe, to blend into the various worlds he lives in. But it pisses him off that his coworkers can't look past their shallow perceptions of him and see him. That's what he loves about Hawkeye. Trapper can be his entire self around him - no hiding, no being looked over.

At least that's one positive side to this whole deal. Hawk'll be there with him. And he's wearing his new suit and it looks real good. Trapper's disappointed when the car Winchester sent arrives cuz it interrupts his, ah, appreciation. But being chauffeured around is fun - the driver's wearing honest to God livery and Trapper feels like some kinda English lord outta a novel.

Reality comes crashing back in when they get to the club and the doorman or concierge or whatever gives him a look of such curdling contempt for daring to introduce himself as Dr. John McIntyre, here on Dr. Charles Winchester's invitation. Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce - nice and patriotic and Anglican - gets let in with no problem and Hawkeye must go get Winchester cuz he descends on the sneering sonofabitch like a pompous tidal wave. All "Do you know who I am?" and "How dare you presume to tell me who I can and cannot entertain" and "My family has been in Back Bay for three generations" and blah blah blah. Trapper just wants to leave, wants to run as far away as he can get, but Hawkeye's hovering there behind Winchester, looking about as miserable as Trapper feels, and he can't just leave him. And eventually Winchester's tirade winds down and Trapper gets let inside and Winchester is stuffily apologetic about the whole thing. Trapper appreciates that - knows how rarely Winchester apologizes about anything - but he had to've known, he's lived in Back Bay his whole life, he had to have known.

They get their drinks at the bar and head to a secluded table. Trapper has a whiskey and it's American - cuz of course it is - but it's ok as far as it goes. He's certainly drunk worse. And Winchester has some sorta fancy cognac that probably costs more per bottle than Trapper makes in a month. And Hawkeye has a Shirley Temple.

"On the wagon again, eh Pierce? Too bad; the cognac here is almost worth drinking. But I suppose anything is better than those terrible martinis you used to swill."

Hawkeye just smiles winningly and eats the cherry out of his drink. And immediately makes a face. Apparently the Shirley Temple habit is a new one.

"I dunno about you, Hawk, but I can't drink a martini that doesn't taste like it's made with lighter fluid anymore."

Hawkeye laughs. "It's true, they go down too smooth with real gin. And besides, I remember you doing plenty of swilling over in Korea, Charles. You're still the only Swamp denizen to ever get kicked out of Rosie's three nights in a row."

"No kidding? You went to Rosie's? And I don't think I managed to get kicked out even once." Trapper puts on an exaggerated look of contrition.

"Oh yeah, Charles became a regular lush when some kid of a Captain from Tokyo -"

"Insolent upstart," Winchester interjects.

"- replaced Potter for a bit and showed us all up but good."

And then they're off, telling funny stories from Korea. Charles has a bunch that Trapper never heard about from Hawkeye and even some from when he was stationed in Tokyo that Hawk's never heard either. And he and Hawkeye tell a bunch from back before Trapper shipped home - mostly about Frank Burns, but some about Radar and Klinger and Henry Blake. There's a moment of silence while they raise a toast.

And then Winchester says, "When are you coming to work for me, Pierce? Even McIntyre found a job at Boston Mercy. Surely you don't think I would turn you away?" And suddenly the air of camaraderie is gone.

"I think I can do more good outside a big hospital, Charles." Then Hawkeye's expression turns icy. "Anyway, Trapper has to work the job he found at Boston Mercy tomorrow, so I think we ought to be going."

Winchester looks confused. Like he knows he fucked up but he's not quite sure how. "Well, we'll have to do this again sometime soon. Perhaps at a different venue?" He cuts an apologetic look toward Trapper.

"Sure. But Hawk's right, I oughtta head home for some shuteye."

They shake hands under the watchful sneer of the concierge.

"Sorry if I got you blackballed from your fancy club, Winchester."

He huffs out a sigh but looks less constipated. And Hawkeye's smile becomes less fixed. All in all, the night coulda gone worse.

--

"Thank you for doing that."

"You're welcome." Trapper's response is muffled in the join of Hawkeye's neck and shoulder. They're laying cuddled up together in bed - which has become routine - but with Trapper all curled into Hawkeye. Trapper's a little taller and a lot broader than him and Hawkeye usually likes to be held in his big, strong arms. But Trapper seems to need a little extra comfort tonight. He's not one to be self conscious, but he'd been pretty obviously out of his depth the whole evening. And Charles had said some pretty terrible things to him - unintentional as they were. And he'd endured all that for Hawkeye.

"No, I mean it. You spent an entire evening with Charles and the rest of the snobbery brigade for me and I really appreciate it."

Trapper sits up a little so he can look Hawkeye in the eye. "He's your friend - even if he won't admit to it in polite company. There hadta be something decent about him or you woulda never got to be friends. It was worth braving a bunch of Back Bay snobs, including Winchester, to get to see that side of him. And anyway, I gotta work with the guy. It makes sense to play nice." And then Trapper lays back down and he's quiet for long enough that Hawkeye thinks maybe he's fallen asleep.

But then he says, "Next time we do this, we'll just haveta take him to the seediest working class joint we can find that don't have rats." And Hawkeye wonders what the hell he did to deserve having John McIntyre in his life.

[thesinglesjukebox]

TAYLOR SWIFT - NEW YEAR'S DAY [7.44] And we wrap up 2017 with the woman that we always have such high hopes for...

Isabel Cole: Swift's famously concrete scene-setting details have only in recent years begun sounding less like lines culled from a predictive text generator trained on CW scripts and more like human moments caught by someone with a thoughtful ear. Here, they function not as specificity for its own sake but to sketch out both a series of spaces and a state of mind: the exhaustion of girls with heels in hand, the backseat flirtation that whispers possibility, the shock of finding that after an end comes a beginning, maybe, after all. In fact this song has all of her repeating motifs, as well as she's ever done them--her preoccupation with narrativizing her own life (don't read the last page), her fucked up relationship to time as something that takes and takes and yet slips by too fast, her tangled conception of memories as both something precious to be cherished and an unrelenting force from which there is no escape: hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you, she sings, echoing a phrase that bookended her most idiosyncratic album. But New Year's Day is not a retreat into familiar territory tacked onto the end of a record of unsuccessful experimentation. Muted instrumentation complements an uncharacteristically hushed vocal performance that captures, even more than the gentle loveliness of Begin Again, the tentative tenderness of new love for someone who has felt love die not in fire but in ice; please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize everywhere tells a story that creates a person who understands now that love in fact is not a victory march, and heartbreak is no aria. For all her infamy as the girl who will write songs about the boys who dump her, Swift has also woven into her work a version of herself as someone who leaves things that shouldn't be left; what makes her wish for gathering party detritus more believable than her previous playacting at domesticity is what she tells us about why it lasts: but I stay. I stay when I'm scared, I stay when it's hard; I stay, which is something I have learned to do. Locating the power of a love not in someone else's repeated decision to choose you but in your own capacity for remaining present in the face of uncertainty, revering not the luck it takes to be loved but the strength you find in yourself to keep loving, is--well. It's very grown-up. Making this feel like the first song Taylor Swift has truly written as an adult, and more than that: like the song she has spent her entire career learning to write. [10]

Stephen Eisermann: My birthday is on New Year's Eve, so the New Year holiday has always been a very bittersweet one for me. Most people party their night away with the idea that they will wake up as more improved versions of themselves, based only on the resolutions they made a week prior and will forget a week after. It's ritual, but it's a devastating one, really, to want to change so badly that you are willing to drop and forget everything from one year to the next just because you feel like you need to be better. In a quest to better ourselves, we too easily toss aside the experiences, good and bad, that molded us and would rather crumple the paper with our notes for a fresh piece, than bring the key points on to the next paper because maybe we got those key points from something painful... I'm rambling, but there's a point. This past year saw me struggle a lot -- with work, with life, with our country's moral compass -- but I can undoubtedly say that I have never been happier. This, in large part, is due to my boyfriend, who has taught me that you can't let go of unhappiness or darkness, just learn to work with and around it. That piece of advice, however general sounding it seems, has carried me through difficulties this year and I think, with this song, Taylor is saying the same thing. She had a rough couple of years in the media between her album cycles, but some people stuck around for the aftermath -- the cleanup -- and she's eternally grateful and willing to do the rest for her lover and her friends. It's a beautiful feeling, and the lines "hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you" as well as "please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere" are particularly devastating, simply because too many people abandon others they deem unfit solely because they have demons they can't take ownership of, so they'd rather pass the blame to those they love; and that's heartbreaking, especially when accompanied by a sparse, melancholy piano production. [10]

Alfred Soto: Now the party's over, and she's so tired -- even the piano sounds hungover. Taylor Swift, whose contract doesn't allow for hangovers, sounds alert, as if she's been keeping an eye on the condition of the floors all evening. After an album of sometimes compulsive ebullience, "New Year's Day" is supposed to remind listeners of the early Taylor Swift. [6]

Will Adams: A limp olive branch to those who might have been alienated by the EDM production on the preceding Reputation tracklist, "New Year's Day" strips Taylor back to a piano, some guitar, and pretty organ flourishes. Never mind that Regina Spektor wrote this song ten times better a year ago, why leave a ballad at its barest when there's no reason to? [5]

Katherine St Asaph: Taylor Swift makes an album of shamelessly, undeniably pop songs: often missteps, but also big and seething and vital and alive in the way her past glurge never was. Everyone hates it, except on the one song where she regresses back to beige acoustic sap. Rockism lives! "New Year's Day" has the slight edge over the past 20 outings because Swift sounds on occasion like Lisa Loeb. But it's the only thing here that could be called "edge" at all. [3]

Nortey Dowuona: Soft, pulsing piano, barely visible guitar, wailing synths in the corner, dece backing vocals. Tay simply hums without straining. [6]

Thomas Inskeep: Liked Swift out of the box, more with each (country) album, as her songwriting got stronger. Hated her initial pop makeover (wub wub wub). Surprisingly loved 1989. Am indifferent-to-cold on Reputation. And even though "New Year's Day" isn't, necessarily, explicitly country, it's a reminder that she can return to the format whenever she wants. (And her CMA Song of the Year, Little Big Town's "Better Man," is a sterling reminder that her pen has lost none of its punch, even if I find her current popcraft largely lacking.) I think we all know that in an album or two she's likely to make a full-throated return to the format which made her, and we'll be better for it. "New Year's Day" helps smooth that transition, and is nicely underproduced to boot.  [6]

Ashley John: The tender intimacy of stability hides the questions beneath the surface, and in "New Year's Day" Taylor is begging to leave it be. Like Lorde recalling buying groceries in "Hard Feelings/Loveless," Taylor clings to the boring moments shared only between two. The classic Swift specificity is what made Red so good, and we watch her here smartly paying a bit into that savings account each month waiting to cash out on the inevitable full blown country return. But that doesn't matter, now. "New Year's Day" is a treasure I want to keep warm against my chest and share with no one else for fear of them tarnishing it. It is Swift making a moment glimmer with potential and hope by bending time and memory. "Don't read the last page," she asks, and I don't want to. I would rather live in this disillusion before the world wakes up, pretending that we're the only people who've ever been in love like this.  [8]

Alex Clifton: There's so much in "New Year's Day" that made me cry the first time I heard it. The lyric about Polaroids, a clear reference to the 1989 era; the lyrical parallels between "please don't be in love with someone else" from "Enchanted" to "please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I would recognize anywhere"; the lightly waltzing piano in the background, simple but somehow devastating when compared with the overproduced mess that crowds most of Reputation. There's nothing inherently romantic about New Year's Day itself as a holiday; so much stock is put into the night before, all the parties and festivities and anticipation for a new beginning that the day of usually feels like a bleak, empty page. Yet as she always does in her best form, Taylor turns something unromantic like a hangover day into something to pine for. "I'll be cleaning up bottles with you" is so intimate that it almost hurts, like overhearing a snitch of a conversation you weren't meant to hear. It's a far cry from the earnest romanticism shown on former tracks like "Stay Stay Stay," where domestic life was twinkly, cute and fun, backed by toy pianos instead of the real thing. This is the Taylor I've longed for, away from the feuds and self-pity and bad rapping: reveling in the small quiet moments she has always been so good at observing. [9]

Sonia Yang: So many songs about holidays focus on the joy of the moment, that explosive rush of living in the moment; it's what sells. New Year's Day, however, is the subdued reality in the aftermath of such escapist fantasies - "I want your midnights / But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day" - it's unglamorous, hesitant, and more vulnerable than it lets on. Not everybody greets the new year with bombast and resolutions they plan to keep; it's more likely to quietly clean up the mess and go on with life as usual, with all of the same hopes and fears as you carried before the clock struck midnight. The most painful line is "Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere", that aching dissonance between familiarity and isolation that Swift does oh so well. A relationship immortalized in glitter-covered Polaroids can end sooner than one realizes, as if to show that no matter how brightly something shines, nothing gold can stay. It's fragility at its most cutting; the most powerful words are whispered rather than shouted. [10]

Danilo Bortoli: In a way, Taylor Swift has encapsuled 2017. Reputation has been met with some divisive, if not lukewarm, reception, proving to be the album we didn't want, yet managed to admit and love its flaws anyway. In a year devoted to uncovering the world's true colors, her narrative, just like her castle, came crashing down. And also in a year where simply coping seems enough, her happiness has even been seen by some as a luxury - or perhaps a felony. "New Year's Day" might suffer from this same fate, as some may listen to it as a forced reconciliation with her inner self "a la Miley", a retreat back from the reckless journey that fits most of Reputation. Yet, it comes off as the truest moment of this era for Taylor: here's to Old Taylor and the embarrassingly long yet remarkable mantras ("Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere"). As it often happens with her best songs, this one paints a vivid picture, constructing an entire narrative, this time measuring words with a stripped down piano, all suggesting, finally, some closure. It's candid. It's simple. It's heartbreaking. It's all about character, as she has learnt too late.  [10]

Edward Okulicz: The old Taylor is dead, said the new Taylor, but whoever sequenced the album sure was nice to put this throwback to thoughtful, generous, storytelling Taylor as the last thing you hear. The domestic scene she paints is lived-in, cosy, relatable once more. Her optimism comes through, mercifully, without any smugness and it's easily the best set of lyrics she put out this year. Thanks, Taylor(s). [8]

Maxwell Cavaseno: On a certain level, "New Year's Day" is brilliant because it's a sham of a record; nothing here is organic; it's a sea of strums, piano pawings, and musings to sound intimate and sentimental in the way of a singer-songwriter record, and what deep down we somehow understand Swift to be and keep forcing analogies to. It actually is sequenced really badly because, as always, Antonoff is often too clever for his own good and is deliberately making something unnerving and ambitious rather than functional (yet again the bland ambition of Nate Ruess was truly the foil he deserved, a man who could smother his tics to death in brazen tapioca). Swift, who's clearly not giving a shit on this record vocally or in trying to reign him in, is utterly adrift and her talk of glitter and memory just rings as hollow as the other asemblikit elements of the song. This record could easily be more than it is, but its sense of orphaning is pained and senseless.  [3]

Anthony Easton: Listening to the Harry Styles record this year, I was wondering (and hoping) that Taylor had reached the end of her experiment with taste, and would make something resembling a Laurel Canyon record. Hearing most of Reputation, this was obviously not the case. It was interesting, because it seemed like both Lorde and Saint Vincent made albums which took the sonic experimentation of 1989 in new and difficult directions, trusting Jack Antonoff to take care of their aesthetics, pushing and deconstructing this kind of electronic thicket that marks populist taste right now. (See Craig Jenkins essay in Vulture.) I think that I overrated this single because it provided something new, not quite a rapprochement to old Taylor (if Old Taylor was dead, then who is singing this lovely, old fashioned ballad--a ghost, a zombie, something more technologically advanced) but also not something quite new. I always worry about misogyny when I say these things, that liking the pretty song is not liking the angry song (false dichotomy I know) or liking the ballad and not liking the more abrasive songs, but the ballad is so beautiful, lush, self aware and exquisitely sung, even more exquisitely produced This might be the most conservative thing she has produced, the most republican thing--in the moneyed, tightly private idea of pleasure, but also in the idea that those kind of pleasures are well guarded---thinking of the sexual harassment law suit, thinking of the failure of her kind of me-first feminism, that this is a kind of weaponized good taste, explicitly against the vulgarity of current pop, or current discourse, after an hour of trying to be as vulgar as more interesting pop stars, keeps prodding that Laurel Canyon vibe. It's slippery and fascinating, and probably less good than I want it to be.  [7]

Andy Hutchins: The story of "New Year's Day," in part, is that it was Taylor finding a use for the line "Please ... don't / Ever become a stranger / Whose laugh ... I / Could recognize anywhere" -- a strong bit of writing from someone whose fantastic songwriting chops have been wasted on too many attempts to veer away from being the evolutionary Carole King she could be with nearly no exertion. But even though I know too many strangers whose laughs I could recognize anywhere to not tear up at that line, the one that makes my breath catch is "I want your midnights / But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day." Swift is at her absolute best when she nails the ordinary details it does not beggar belief to think she actually desires -- and when she sings that she wants someone for after the afterparty, it sounds honest and yearning in the way truth and optimism can be. Would that she could focus on that, because I give more damns about it than her reputation. [8]

Jonathan Bradley: Taylor Swift alone somewhere at a piano, playing soft clumsy chords, only half-attentive, barely a melody. "New Year's Day" concludes and recasts Reputation in retrospect; as the unguarded obverse, it accounts for that album's garishness and noxiousness. "New Year's Day" is a song of little details and emotional import, which is another way of saying it is what we have come to recognize as a Taylor Swift song. In this one, she finds in the miniatures of her morning-after tableau -- glitter, candle wax, "girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby" -- a gentle grandeur, and then in that, earnest sentiment. "Don't read the last page," she tells her companion, casting them into a storybook before resolving back into the prosaic: housework and hardships. There are not many songs that do this on Reputation, and, as with "Better Man," casually gifted to Little Big Town, "New Year's Day" is a demonstration that Swift can still do this, that her current work is not a failure to create vividly detailed pop but a conscious rejection of it. Reputation is an album about privacy and turning away from the public; it asserts again and again that there are things in Swift's life that she can refuse to make known. The music and sentiment matches this: it is at times ugly, at others glib, often repellent or anti-social, dangling details before obscuring them in ellipsis or melodrama. "New Year's Day" demonstrates that none of that happened by accident. The old Taylor is dead, but she be summoned at any time: this song casts ordinary life as legend like on "Long Live," voices hopes and fears in the form of mantra as on "Enchanted," and concludes a tumultuous record with a new start like on "Begin Again." It's tender and familiar. It's one of the best songs Taylor Swift has ever recorded. [10]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox ]

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 1: bears, bourbon, and the boyfriend

Sat, June 9th, 1990

I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn my car off the highway and onto the quiet back road that leads to my favorite hiking trail up in the Northern Cascades. A good hour left on the drive still, but at least this is the peaceful part. Not much relaxes me more than watching civilization recede into the rearview mirror. It’s like dying a little death, seeing the sights and sounds of human disturbance get fewer and farther between, like a heartbeat slowing to a stop on a monitor, until I’m the only person left, with only the wilderness providing background noise like a flatline.

I can’t help but imagine Alex in the passenger seat. Here’s the point in the conversation where he would grumble something about my morbid, misanthropic tendencies, if he were here. Of course, he isn’t here… hiking isn’t really his thing. For what felt like the millionth time, he’d agreed to come along and then bailed on my way out the door. On my way out of town, I’d called him from the lab, where I had a few loose ends from the week to tie up, to try and cajole him one last time. It didn’t go well.

“Are you sure? I can come back and get you, I’m almost done here, I could just swing back home and –”

“– nah, that’s okay, just go.”

“I was just really looking forward to this, Alex.”

“You’ll still have fun! You’ll have more fun out there without me, honestly, you know I hate it.”

“It’s just, I have my trip coming up soon…”

“Right…”

“…and I was just hoping we could spend some time together –”

“– but that’s my fucking point! WHY can’t we do that here?!”

“Hey, don’t you fucking shout at me.”

“Why do I have to drive out to the middle of nowhere and trudge up a fucking hill to spend time with my girlfriend? What the fuck’s wrong with our apartment?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, but don’t you get bored?”

“Do you? … do you?”

“I mean… not of you, but… Jesus, I just wanted to spend some quality time –”

“– yeah and it only counts if it’s your fucking idea of quality time, not mine.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Just go on your fucking Bataan Death March, I’ll see you tonight.”

He hadn’t slammed the receiver down, but I had still flinched at the click. My idea of quality time, not his. That much was true. His idea of a quality weekend is unplugging the phone from the wall and playing video games around the clock. It’s how he has always wanted to unwind, and I spent countless weekends in college curled up next to him on the little bed in his dorm room with my homework (and the occasional joint out the window) instead of my boyfriend. Since we moved to Seattle after graduation last summer, the room has changed and so have the games – a little less Super Mario, a little more Castlevania – but the rest of the scene has stayed pretty static.

Static. It never bothered me before. For four years, that was my norm. Getting stoned and fucking around in the dorm room felt like what we were supposed to do in college. And I have no objections to getting stoned and fucking around as a theoretical adult, but this particular pastime is wearing thin. Do I even need to be present for his version of quality time?

I’m being a little unfair. I mean, he always turns his attention back to me eventually, and it’s not like I need to be the center of his existence… he’s such a good guy, really. I just wish it wasn’t this difficult to get him to meet me halfway. I can probably count on both hands the number of times I’ve prevailed on him to come camping or hiking with me over our five years together. Maybe even one hand, come to think of it. It just sucks. I love him, and I want so much for him to share in some of the things that make me happy. But I’ve never met anyone more at war with nature than him. I can’t get him to see the beauty of it with me.

I scowl and lean on the gas. The Rabbit does its honest best to keep up, but not without the same precarious wobble it always has at speeds above 60. Bless its heart.

Right before the end of the paved road, I turn into the gravel lot marking the trail head. How long has the car been quiet? Small Change must have run its course in the tape deck a while ago, so there goes my brooding soundtrack. The Rabbit bounces its way over the uneven ground and comes to a halt under the tree I usually park beneath. My jaw clenches at the sight of another car. Shit, please tell me the tourists aren’t coming out here now. I’ve been to this trail a lot over the last year and have never seen anyone else. This, of course, being the basis of its appeal.

I roll up the window and hop out, gathering a wind-tangled mass of hair up into a topknot and pulling on my day pack. I take a deep breath, leave Alex’s ghost in the car, and set off down the dark, dense trail. There have been times over the last year that I’ve missed the mountains back east, all ancient and sleepy and soft, but the comically overgrown plant life and violent skylines of the Pacific Northwest are hard to argue with.

I slowly wind my way up through the forest, gladly losing myself on the walk. Soon, I hit the series of switchbacks that signals the approach of the lookout at the top of the mountain. This is my favorite part of the trail. The trees open up to the left and there’s a partial view of the valley. Down the slope from my spot on the trail, there’s a cluster of burned stumps of giant old trees, the scars of a long-ago forest fire that haven’t yet been overwritten by new growth.

This is just one of those stupid fights every couple has. We’ll fix it when I get home. We always have.

Once I hit the start of the rocky cliff that holds the mountain views I came for, I set down my pack and kneel on the trail to rummage around for my beat-up stainless steel flask of bourbon. No sooner than I lay my hands on it, though, do I spot a tendril of smoke winding up from behind a large rock about twenty feet ahead. Shit, a rocky outcrop is possibly the worst place I could have picked to die in a forest fire – except that isn’t wood smoke I’m smelling.

Furious, I edge around the rock to find a lanky, dark-haired guy stretched out on the ground next to his pack, enjoying the views… and a joint.

“Hey, asshole! You mind not burning the whole place down?”

Well, if we both die out here in an inferno, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I gave the bastard a heart attack first. The guy jumps to his feet and turns to face his attacker, looking very much like a deer in headlights. A very tall deer. I glare daggers up at him.

“What?? Oh…” he chuckles. “no no, girl, I got a system, see?”

I deepen my scowl, not least for being reduced to “girl” as I’m trying to prevent him from destroying my fucking forest. He holds up a small water bottle clouded with ash and makes a big show of carefully dropping the roach in to extinguish it. Then he sets the bottle down, straightens up to his full height, and raises his hand in a Boy Scout salute with mock sincerity on his face.

“Safety first, I always say.” A devilish smirk starts to crack the mask. “Sorry, Smokey Bear, I wish I knew you were coming, I’d have saved you a hit!” He drops his salute and ruffles up his long, unruly mop of black curls, grinning openly at last.

I roll my eyes in aggravation, but if I’m being honest with myself, it takes some willpower not to smile. Irresponsible, maybe, but this guy is also a walking master class in roguish charm. His barely-there pencil mustache lends him a demonic air, like some kind of love child between Errol Flynn and a 19th-century occultist, and the black wardrobe and giant boots don’t do much to dispel the impression. At nearly a foot taller than me, his height is imposing, but his blue eyes are friendly and encouraging. Too bad I’m not having any of it.

“Oh, how considerate of you. I’m sure the weed would really have taken the edge off of my flesh melting off in a fucking wildfire,” I mutter as I scan the ground around his smoking spot for uncontained ashes. There aren’t any. But still. Doesn’t anyone else give a shit? Why are people so irresponsible? This is why I usually avoid them, as a general rule. When I look up, Smoker Guy’s smile has faded into a sheepish wince.

“Ok, ok, you’re right. I was trying to be careful, but yeah, that was an idiotic thing to do. I’m sorry. I don’t even really smoke, ever, I just… I don’t know, I needed to get out of my own head for a bit.” The roguishnes is gone, replaced by a vulnerability so intense and sudden it knocks me back on my heels. He actually seems sincere enough that I feel a tiny bit of pity and embarrassment at having been so colossally rude.

“Ugh. You don’t have to apologize to me,” I hedge, “just… don’t be an asshole out here again.” I offer what I can manage by way of a smile, and his face splits into another wide, warm grin.

“I mean, no promises about being an asshole, but I can swear I won’t burn it down. It’s too beautiful out here!” His voice shakes a couple of birds loose from the tree above our heads.

“It really is,” I muse, scanning the horizon and settling back into some semblance of calm. Smoker Guy senses the opportunity.

“And what did you bring to share with the class, Smokey Bear?” He gestures toward my side with that grin still plastered to his face, and I realize I’m still clutching my flask.

“Bourbon, but, uh… I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else… let alone a class…” I suddenly remember my annoyance at finding any other human, even a charming one, out here in my sanctuary. If it wasn’t going to be Alex, I’m not excited about sharing it with anyone, especially if I’m out here brooding about Alex. I fold my arms, tucking the flask behind my elbow, and fix him with a scowl.

“So, uh, do you come here often?” Oh for fuck’s sake. “No, I didn’t mean it like that…”

Too late. He booms with laughter. “Well now you have to buy me a drink!” He bounds over, snatching the flask out of my hand and dangling it over my head.

The embarrassment’s gotten to me and I can’t help laughing a little now. “Sure, knock yourself out… what’s your name?”

“Chris,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and passing the flask back.  “And no, this is my first time coming up here. What’s your name? I can’t just keep calling you Smokey…”

“Cora,” I frown. As I take a drink, I dig through my memory for whatever it was about his name that sparked in the back of my mind. “Chris… do I know you from somewhere? You from Seattle?”

“Yeah, I’m from Seattle, you’ve maybe seen me around…” before waiting, utterly unhelpfully, for me to place him, attempting to keep a straight face and failing miserably.

“Hang on, you’re not…” his grin widens. “Chris, like Soundgarden Chris?”

“Soundgarden Chris,” he shakes my hand a little too vigorously, almost knocking me off balance. “Chris Cornell. You know the band?”

“Yeah, I saw you guys at the Moore a few months back, February I want to say?” he nods. “You’re really good.” I’d even picked up a tape at the merch table that night.

“Usually the hair is the giveaway.” He gives his curls a shake for emphasis.

“Maybe to the more typically statured, sure. I have a hard time actually seeing a band on stage from down here.” I rock onto the tiptoes of my hiking boots.

“Fair enough. Bet people recognize you by your hair a lot, too…” he muses, making to tuck an escaped lock of it behind my ear, but I swat his hand away and shoot him a dirty look.

“Hey man, you don’t want to piss off a bear, do you?” I brush the hair off my forehead myself and sit down on one of the rocks with the best view of the valley. Chris follows and sits down next to me.

“No, not even a tiny little bear like you. But seriously, that’s a great color. Is it –”

“Yes, it’s my natural hair color…” I mutter, wary of what almost always comes next. 

“Sorry,” he grins, “just don’t spot too many natural redheads in the wild. You’re like an endangered species.”

“Okay asshole if you think I haven’t heard this fucking line before –”

“W-what line?”

“Ha ha, very funny. Endangered redheads, gotta fuck to save the species. You’re hilarious.”

I look away as I spit the words out before fixing him with a toxic glare, expecting to see him wearing the usual smartass smirk that usually accompanies such obnoxious pickup lines. Instead, his face is frozen in the perfect mix of horror and amusement.

“You… you really weren’t using a line, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t,” he says in wide-eyed bewilderment, “I promise, I was not offering to procreate with you. I mean I can, if you want, but…” the demonic smile creeps back onto his face.

I wrinkle my nose with a grin and shake my head, handing him the flask back. I’ve misjudged the poor thing a couple of times now, maybe it’s time to let up.  

“Sorry. You just wouldn’t believe…”

“Oh, I bet I would. People are animals. I’d sure as shit hate to put up with a quarter of what women have to listen to,“ he says, nodding somberly over his swig of bourbon, and I feel a surge of affection for him that is mixed with guilt for being so judgmental. We sit quietly for a while, drinking and enjoying the view, before he breaks the silence.

“So what do you do for a living, when you’re not laying waste to suitors or educating the public about the dangers of forest fires?”

“I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I’d say it’s ‘for a living,’ but I guess if I’m talking to a musician, you know what that’s like. I’m a PhD student down at UW. And I just took a job waiting tables at the Cyclops in the meantime, because science isn’t exactly the best get rich quick scheme.”

Chris raises his eyebrows mid-drink, clearly curious. “Wow. PhD. Egghead, huh? I like it. What are you studying? Please tell me it’s forest fires. Or bears.” He nudges my shoulder with his, almost knocking me off-balance for the second time, and hands me back my flask.

“Hey! No, nothing like that. I am in the forest science department though…”

“I knew it! You really are Smokey Bear.”

“Ugh, no. I’m studying soils.”

“As in dirt?”

“As in dirt.”

“What about it?”

“I want to understand how changing levels of Arctic ice affect carbon storage in permafrost.”

“Come again?”

Aww, the poor thing looks genuinely interested. I take a deep breath and a swig of bourbon, mentally planning my route. The more time I spend in school, the longer and more pedantic my answer to this “what do you do” question seems to get. Maybe one day I’ll wise up and resort to one-word answers, but I have a feeling that won’t work here.

“Okay, well… the whole global warming thing, right?”

“Yeah?”  

I raise my eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by how intently he’s listening. “Ok, so the greenhouse effect… we release carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, which traps heat and warms up the planet?” Chris nods. “So, as it gets warmer, Arctic sea ice is covering less and less land area each summer – see, in the winter the Arctic ice cap is pretty consistent, but we can learn a lot about changes in the climate by measuring how small the ice cap melts down in the summer.”

Chris is still nodding, which either means he’s utterly lost and just humoring me, or he’s actually following. I hate that I’m losing my ability to distinguish between the two.

“Well, as the planet warms up, that melting ice cap exposes progressively more and more bare soil each year -”

“Whoa there Professor, this lecture just got sexy!” He barks a laugh that echoes down the cliff, making me wince sheepishly.

“Ugh, gross. Anyway, the soil’s frozen solid –” Chris struggles to get a grip “– and we don’t know a lot about it because it’s always covered over, but the melting ice gives us the opportunity to study it better. So I’m going up there every summer and drilling holes to collect samples.”

“Wow…” he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. “You go up there by yourself?”

“Yeah. I went last summer. I’m leaving in a few weeks for another trip.”

“Like, no one goes with you? Your boss or whatever?”

“My advisor? I think he’s a myth. He’s never around. So no, he doesn’t go with me… and what, I’m supposed to need a chaperone?”

“No, not at all, I just… that’s pretty badass, Smokey.”

“Yeah, digging in frozen dirt, it’s a fascinating life.”

“No, really, that’s incredible. People like you are going to save all this –” he gestures out at our view, with snow still visible on the highest peaks “– from the rest of us assholes, I’m sure of it. I’m glad you’re doing what you’re doing.”

I can’t tell whether it’s his sincerity or the bourbon that disarms me and makes me blurt out exactly what’s on my mind. “I’m glad I met you, Chris. Not as glad as I am that you didn’t burn us to death, but still. Normally I hate people, but you’re okay.”

He grins as I pass him the last of the bourbon, which he drains. “Don’t get so effusive, you might strain something. You must really hate people if you literally go to the edge of the earth on purpose every year.”

We sit in silence for a while before Chris makes me jump by shouting, “shit, what time is it?”

“Just about 6:30.”

“Shit,” he says again, “Susan’s going to kill me, I’m going to be late.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Susan? So there’s a Mrs. Cornell? How come she didn’t get invited to your degenerate weed party in the woods?”

He shuffles a boot in the dirt and gives a small chuckle. “Yeah, I’m a newlywed, but she’s not Mrs. She kept her maiden name. Susan’s got no time for stuff like this. She’s a big shot music manager. And anyway, she’s, ah, not the outdoorsy type.”

Although Susan sounds kind of cool and I want to ask him more, the edge in his tone reminds me of this morning’s fight with Alex, so I just stand up in silence to help gather our things and hasten our exit.

We head back down the mountain together, making small talk about school, music, the neighborhood – turns out he and Susan used to live only a few blocks away from where I am now in Lower Queen Anne. I’m surprised at how quickly the time has passed when we arrive back at our cars, but the rapidly fading light confirms it’s gotten late.  

Chris hurriedly grabs a pen and a piece of paper from a notebook sticking out of his bag and jots down his number. “Cora, don’t lose this, I want to hang out again soon,” he urges. “You should come to our show! We’re playing at the Off Ramp on the 23rd, kind of a going-away thing before we head out on tour.”

“Yeah, that’s right before I go on my trip, I think I can make it.” I tuck the paper into my pocket. When I look up, Chris is already jogging toward his car.

“Drive safe!” he yells over his shoulder.

I shake my head as I climb into the Rabbit. It’s definitely not every day that one runs into a local rock legend almost burning down a forest. But at least he helped me forget about Alex for a couple of hours. Alex. I sigh as I turn the engine over and start my trip home to deal with the fallout.