#civics assignment

[canadianno]

Skill issue

-alz

Listen it ain't my fault (yes it is)

[buck-yyyy]

local guy is anxious

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

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[evilios]

“Apollo is traditionally portrayed as more carefree” Apollo (which exact tradition are we talking about?) is EXTREMELY involved in mortal affairs even outside of Homeric (or any) texts. Though he’s extremely engaged in politics within them too.

He’s one of the most political Gods in the pantheon. He’s an authorizer of colonizer quests/new communities. He’s a patron of new settlements. He’s a guide on an ephebic journey/maturity trials and one of the few Gods overlooking legitimizing of young men as citizens and adoption into the phratria. He establishes oracles, thus stretching the political importance of his cult. Many of his cult sites became economic and political centers.

Modern media took the path of portraying Apollo as carefree, but even his role of a God of music (in ancient concept) is civic. That’s an aristocratic role, his instrument is not rustic. Apollo’s existence as a God of very specific musical instruments and styles is a denominator of class. He plays on banquets, not in the countryside. He’s a very civic, very urban, very political, very involved God. Nothing bad about portraying him as carefree but claiming he’s traditionally assigned such a role is factually incorrect.

[double-m-b]

MXTX college au

details/closeups under the cut

Xie Lian: Archaeology major with kinesiology minor. He has a focus in ancient weaponry and the evolution of weapons throughout various cultures. Known as the "scrap collector" because whenever he comes to digs, all he seems to find are rocks. Grew up a child/teen idol and was very popular. Had a major crisis in highschool when he was invited to a special retreat abroad for top students and came back home to find his parents dead and his home burned down. Took a few gap years as he picked up the pieces of his life and is finally ready to go back to school.

Hua Cheng: Double major in painting and sculpture. Grew up listening/watching the "Prince of Xianle" and it was his only solace for most of his childhood. He could never afford to buy official merch so he made his own, from t-shirts to figurines to posters. He'd even snuck into one of the shows by climbing in the rafters to the catwalk but ended up falling only to be caught by Xie Lian himself. When he first ran into Xie Lian on campus, lost and wandering while holding onto a map, Hua Cheng nearly fainted on the spot.

Wei Wuxian: Bioengineering major, music minor. He's definitely the odd one out in all the classes for his major. Everyone assumes that this weird theater kid stumbled into the wrong classroom. That is, until he answers every single question correctly. Unfortunately, knowing the material isn't the same as getting to class or turning in assignments on time. Neither of which he's been able to master. In his intro to music class, he found the guy who looked the least friendly and sat next to him (cause he was the MOST pretty).

Lan Wangji: Civics major, music theory minor. If he had it his way, he'd be a music major but unfortunately his obligation to his family forced him into a major he didn't really want. He plays in the college orchestra and is acclaimed for his perfect performances. He's even won awards for pieces he's composed. Everything was going exactly as his uncle had planned for Lan Wangji until that first class with Wei Wuxian. He fell hard and for the first time in his life, he struggled to stay composed.

[communistkenobi]

went on a terf blocking spree and they were sharing this tweet around

and like obviously this is factually wrong - “homosexual rights” happens primarily through de-pathologising homosexuality, quite literally an effort to redefine sexuality and sexual activity, which was commonly followed by a legal redefinition of marriage in many states as not only being between a man and a woman, and parenthood as not being strictly done by a mother & father - that’s redefining gender categories! Gender doesn’t exist as a repressive force independent of political & legal institutions. Universal paternity leave is a redefinition of gendered reproductive labour through employment and labour policy, it is a structural economic benefit that incentivises fathers to participate in child rearing. This is a (limited, partial) redefinition of what it “means” to be a man, just as gay marriage is a redefinition of what it means to be a husband or wife, just as allowing gays to adopt is a redefinition of motherhood and fatherhood. 

And this denial of being in an “ideological cult” is also intentionally downplaying the massive homophobic outcry that gays were/are in fact trying to destroy the meaning of family and marriage - that gay marriage would let you marry your dog, that gay parents are all pedophiles, that even expanding the definition of the nuclear family to include cis gays would threaten to destroy all categories of familial and civic life. Denying that gay rights are not viewed as an “ideological cult” of their own is laughably homophobic.

Taking this argument to its natural conclusion - that cis gays just want to be “left alone,” they aren’t here to “redefine” anything unlike the transsexuals - means a comprehensive denial of the law as an institution that produces patriarchal and gendered violence, that societal conceptions of gender (and the oppression produced by those conceptions) are unaffected by legal redefinitions of family and marriage. An absurd claim! This argument denies patriarchy as a social force, assigning it instead to this mystical abstract force that exists “out there” in nature, unable to be punctured or altered by any social response. Like tbh if you believe that why even fight for gay marriage at all? Just accept your lot in life as broken men and women with a mental disorder that makes you incapable of raising a family.

But of course they don’t actually really believe this, they know what side their bread is buttered on. Cis gays got themselves removed from the ICD and DSM, got gay marriage legalised in a bunch of countries (the tweet’s exclusive use of past tense when talking about gay rights implies the fight for gay equality is finished, an obviously self-centred western & homophobic argument) and said fuck you got mine! The king granted us entrance into his castle unlike you freaks, all we ever wanted was a seat at his table. Liberation is not the goal, cis gays just want to be permitted equal access to the power of cisheterosexual society. This tweet is arguing that gender is not a relevant mechanism in the oppression of homosexuals, that their oppression is altogether something else, unrelated to ideas of what it means to be a woman or man, because they want access to the violence those categories produce. Destroying these categories makes this goal unattainable for them, and so now cis gays are continuing to pivot to reactionary opposition to trans rights. But don’t take my word for it - I’m just repeating what this guy’s saying!

[copperbadge]

Before I left for vacation I did my usual “tidy for the petsitter” routine, and there was some paperwork that I thought should probably get put away, so I stashed it in a storage bin I had out. Because I know me, I put a note in my to-do list for when I got back that said “There’s important stuff in the bin, remember to go get it.”

So I did, but I thought I should deal with the other stuff in the bin too, and I’ve just been popping the lid and dealing with one or two things every time I go past it. Most of it is paperwork, and I’ve just hit some records from high school that my mother recently gave to me without either of us going through them.

There’s a bunch of report cards, which are heartbreaking and hilarious. I graduated a semester early and my last semester was cleanup -- two classes to complete graduation requirements and one to maintain status as a “full time” student. Two were math-based which I was notoriously bad at, and sure enough at the midterm I was getting a D+ in one and a C- in the other. We’d just begun digital grade recording, so the teachers would keep their grades in a paper book and then log into an extremely basic database and enter the grades, which would spit out on our printed report cards. They could put in a grade plus three “codes” which would print next to our grades as status updates, stuff like “disruptive in class” or similar. 

My English course, in which I was getting an A, said “Exceeding expectations” which was kind of Mr. G because I remember him and his expectations were exceptionally high for me. 

The other two have the same catechism: Missing Assignments, Does Not Pay Attention In Class, and of course...Achievement Not Up To Ability. Guess now we know why. 

Reading through these old cards with the cushion of time, it’s fascinating to see my young brain at work. My math and (math-based) science grades tank so hard, at the same time I was getting As or Bs everywhere else -- history, civics, econ, english, spanish. There are documented questions about whether I’m going to pass enough math to graduate high school, dated the same semester as my perfect Verbal SAT score and my fives in AP Comp and Lit. The first semester after I was put into the Gifted program, I failed Remedial Algebra.  

I did say at the time, to my mother and my teachers, there’s something wrong here. My mother, in her defense, had her hands full with my brother; my teachers just didn’t know what to do with me. The school district was broke and didn’t have disability testing available. By the time I got to college I’d simply internalized the idea that I was a neurotypical kid who got stubborn when asked to do something I found pointless and boring, and that was a personality flaw to be corrected, not a symptom of something bigger. My therapist for my last few years of high school agreed, and thought I should probably learn more anger management techniques. Although it turns out you can’t breathing-exercise your way out of undiagnosed ADHD. 

In any case, here in 2023, there’s no solution or tidy resolution or anything to be done about it, it just is what it is: a sheaf of paper from the late 90s about a smart fuckup who could have used a hand. I’m here now, alive and employed and medicated and a homeowner, so it’s a bunch of numbers that don’t mean anything. I’ll scan them into my digital archive, then toss the paper and never look at the archive again, probably. 

Achievement not up to ability. Boy, no kidding. 

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#19: The Bad B (1.03)

If the definition of an A was in the dictionary it would likely just define it as "Michonne Grimes." I genuinely think of all of team family Michonne is probably the one that would be hardest to conceal that she’s an A. Which is why I felt Richonne’s plan was a little doomed because when you’re a natural-born bad b… it's gonna make you a bad B. 😬

And it’s gonna make your husband forget he’s not really supposed to know you let alone be mesmerized by the sight of you.🤭...

So the baddest chick in the game has found herself in Rick’s similar position as a consignee killing walkers. Michonne waits for the walkers to arrive as that chipper woman on the PA says these assignments bring them one step closer to being Civic Republic citizens. I know Michonne is paying no mind to all that talk because she intends to be out of here in no time. 

I love the throughline in this episode of Michonne speaking to Judith, her little Shoto, in the voiceovers. 🥰 Michonne is in this vast new territory, knowing no one but her husband and it really is like she finds some comfort in going through this with her daughter. Her kids are always on her mind. And it’s so sweet that as a mom she wants to tell Judith everything going on.

And again Rick and Michonne are so similar because during his consignee shifts, he was talking to Michonne and during her shift she’s talking to their daughter. Also Michonne really just does have “That Girl” presence as she waits for the walkers with the rest.

The voiceover starts with Michonne saying, “Shoto, it’s Daito. I found him. I found the Brave Man.” Considering she and Judith (and later we learn RJ too 🥹) were the ones most believing Rick was still alive it’s great hearing her tell Judith she really did find him. 

She says, “He’s in a place I didn’t expect. A world I didn’t imagine. I know you have questions. I wish I could answer them. But there is so much I don’t know yet about the people here.” And part of why she still knows so little about this hidden city is because the one moment of alone time she's had with Rick in this place, he didn’t exactly give her the full 411 since making out was the top priority lol. 😋

But also I just love hearing Michonne as the mom who knows her inquisitive daughter is going to want answers and she wants to provide them to her as soon as she gets them. 

She continues, “and how they were able to keep someone as strong as The Brave Man for so long.” I love that she says that. It again illustrates her belief in Rick and it’s something I think a lot of us were wondering when Rick left the main show and there was a 6-year time jump. What could have kept him away that long? So it makes sense Michonne would wonder that too since she knows how strong and resilient Rick is and also how devoted Rick is to his family - so if something kept him down this long it’s gotta be pretty formidable.

Michonne looks up at the wall and sees ‘Grimes 68’ written, indicating Rick holds the kill record. And I feel like with her taking that in there’s this element of knowing Rick is still that guy who can handle business but it also could almost make Michonne wonder how much roots has Rick laid here. Like wondering if he's more tied to this place than she knows, considering even their last name is on the wall.

(Side note: I like how it’s clearly been at least a year since Rick was a consignee but still no one has broken his record…yet. 😉)

gif cred: @perryabbott

Michonne then says, “He’s been trying to come home all this time.” I love that she believes that wholeheartedly. She knows that even tho Rick told her losing his hand was from one of the last times he tried to escape, he still always wanted to come home to her and to Judith.

Then I love the shot of Michonne just smiling a little and looking like this ain’t no thang as she prepares to kill the walkers. She says, “They stopped him again and again.” And then I love the way the music swells as she reassures her daughter, “But Shoto, they can’t stop us.” period. 👑 I love her belief in Richonne. She’s like baby girl, your mom and dad got this cuz we always do together. 😌 And it’s true, now that Michonne’s up in this place 'the last light of the world' doesn’t stand a chance. 

Then they cut to Michonne and Cleo Clifton doing walker clean-up and this is where Michonne has got to try to be in her acting bag as Dana Bethune again. And similar to Rick, I can’t quite give my good sis Michonne an A letter grade for the Dana performance, but I’ll give her a B+ because she was doing her best lol.

And my B letter grade is the only thing 'B' about this scene because Michonne really can’t help but be an A all day every day.

Cleo notes Michonne’s natural ability to cut through the walkers quick and asks if she’s been out there awhile. Michonne tries to sound casual as she says, “Yeah. Were you?” Then Cleo introduces herself and Michonne introduces herself as Dana Bethune. I love that she chose an impactful Black woman educator and activist’s last name, Mary McLeod Bethune. 😊

Michonne has decided this Dana character is very smiley and wonderstruck by the Civic Republic stuff as she smiles and says, “Just taking it all in.” Cleo calls consignment “the doorstep of paradise” and Michonne asks, “You think it’s paradise for everyone?” Because she knows for her husband this place has been hell.

Cleo says she’s pretty sure it is since it’s an upgrade from how she was eating crickets and sleeping in a tree before this, to which I was like dang girl you were living like that this late into the apocalypse?

Then Cleo wants to know if Dana was given 3-day training or 6-day training, as they dole out days based on how much ‘steel’ they think one has.

Michonne tries to evade answering by saying, “Why don’t you guess and tell me later.” The way the CRM suspects Michonne is an A, she probably is the only one out there with 1-day training. 😂

gif cred: @nerd4music

Cleo shares her guess right away and confidently says, “Three” because she knows Michonne knows what she’s doing and can handle business.

Michonne, not the most subtly, tries to dead that narrative by saying Cleo doesn’t know that but Cleo is basically like girl, you straight up radiate competence. And does. She has since day one when she told Andrea she never stopped having it together.

One of the things TOWL did better than TWD is have more characters take note of Michonne being that girl. I’m here for it because characters not being instant admirers of Michonne...

Some super nasty-looking walkers weren’t fully killed and so it causes some complications. But not for long because bad b Dana takes care of it before the soldiers can even approach.

And my client is innocent because the soldiers said, “Consignees, clear” and Michonne just thought they meant Morgan Jones’ version of ‘clear’ so she proceeds to handle business all by her bad self. 😇

gif cred: @taiturner

See, those CRM soldiers should have been more specific lol. 🤷🏽‍♀️

But yeah because an A gon do what an A gon do, Michonne rips the head off a walker and saves Cleo by tossing the head with perfect aim to kill another walker. Again, TOWL really found the one thing Michonne can't do which is not be the baddest woman walking.

I mean we're talking about the woman who quickly clocked who the Governor really was and wasn't afraid to let him know she saw right through him. This is also the woman who rolled up to a prison and had both the Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon in her face demanding answers and she wasn't shrinking back at all.

Basically, being an A is just deeply embedded in her DNA.

And our girl really was trying her best to be a B before this, but the A in her couldn't help but pop out.

gif cred: @nerd4music

The soldiers say “Good work” and Cleo doubles down on being right about Michonne’s aura, as Michonne subtly looks like 'shoot this might have been the opposite of what my husband told me I should do.' 😬

All those challenges she's had to overcome over the years, and hiding that she's a bad b is one of the hardest challenges yet. 😅

gif cred: @nerd4music

Ok so then next we get such a great wordless Richonne moment. I love it so much. 😍

They cut to Rick masked in his helmet and CRM uniform as he walks up and then takes off the helmet looking all kinds of fine. 🔥 Like for some reason whenever Rick is under the most duress, his fineness somehow skyrockets. It's been a consistent thing since early TWD and I don’t understand it but it’s a prepossessing sight for sure. 👌🏽

gif cred: @nat111love

And Michonne is always a welcomed sight for Rick as he looks out and before they even cut to her you can see in the softening of Rick’s face that he’s spotted his wife. 🥰

gif cred: @riickgrimes

So then with their signature Richonne music playing, Michonne walks toward him and it seriously feels like it’s filmed like a bride walking to her groom to me. And Rick sure is looking at her like he’s looking at his beautiful bride too. 😊

gif cred: @andy-clutterbuck

I’ll always adore how Rick and Michonne are some of the world’s most lethal and yet their hearts become so warm and fuzzy everytime they look at each other.

I love the little shy glances Michonne sneaks at him as she approaches. And then her little smile. 😊

gif cred: @riickgrimes

She loves him so much, she thinks he’s fine, and she knows he’s completely taking her in right now. And she knows this because, unlike Michonne who's trying to be subtle during this cute passing moment...that man Rick is not making little sneaking glances.

No, Grimes, who is supposed to be playing the role of Man Who Is Not Madly In Love With The New Consignee, just straight up stares right at Michonne as she walks. Entranced since day one, y’all. Ain’t nothing changed. 🤭

gif cred: @nat111love

It’s so cute seeing Richonne have to pretend like this but still have a moment that’s so filled with love and desire.

It’s already gotta be so crazy for them that they’re even looking at each other at all. Like just reuniting is still so fresh. But even tho Rick and Michonne can’t greet each other how they’d want to right now (which would most definitely look like pouncing on each other with more kisses) they still just look like ‘there goes my baby.’🥰

When Michonne walks past him I always remember the first time I watched this scene I was thinking, 'If Rick didn’t have to pretend they were strangers right now he would most definitely turn around and look back to check her out.' And y’all, before I could even finish that thought…

gif cred: @riickgrimes

Rick does exactly that lol.🤭

I said now, sir 🙃. This is why Richonne needed to draft up a new gameplan because they're supposed to be undercover lovers rn and Rick's out here doing exactly what he'd do if he could just be in love out in the open. 😅 Lol that turn-around look was signature Rick Grimes. If there’s an opportunity to admire and check out his wife, baby he’s gonna take it. Even with all these CRM people around. 👌🏽

I’m surprised the show didn’t have a moment this ep where somebody picks up on the fact that Sergeant Major Grimes, who used to be completely checked out, now hangs around consignees and gives the new girl his full undivided attention. Like Rick, these people only know you as the quiet grump and now your eyes have all this light behind them. But it’s Michonne - there’s no choice but for Rick to look alive with her around. 😇

gif cred: @nat111love

And while it was frisky risky to do this publicly, I honestly love that he still turned around to watch her go anyway. They’re magnets, he can’t help it. 🧲 😇

Also, watching it back, I noticed he really lingers with the look too. Like Rick doesn’t just do a quick look back. He full on stands there a moment just watching her. Lol gotta love this whipped man's admiration for his wife anytime any place. 😋 And to me this pretty much confirms that both Rick and Michonne love each other's walk. 😏

This moment is also really sweet because it's almost like seeing Michonne gave Rick a brief sense of calm after all the triflingness with Jadis. Like it’s sweet how despite all the stress we saw him feel with Jadis’ threats and how anxious he is to now figure out how to protect Michonne, here he could still take a moment to just presently be calmed and captivated by the sight of his gorgeous wife. 🥰 Without a word being spoken, Richonne gave us another golden scene with this moment. 😌👌🏽

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

I’ve searched everywhere for this fic and can’t find it. I’m hoping you can help!! So stiles has to go stay with the hales to like see if he’s a match for any of them, but they all don’t like him cause of misunderstandings. Like talias car getting messed with, stiles stealing Laura’s phone, stiles like giving a condom to Cora. I remember Derek and him hooked up before all that but Derek pushed him away cause he didn’t wanna be like Kate. Btw I love everything you do and have been an avid follower for years now!!! Keep up the good work!!

Hi anon! @spookycollectorcandy says it's this one.

The Accords by 3rdgenderfromthesun

(6/6 I 15,082 I Mature I Sterek)

Since Stiles couldn't afford to commit social suicide, he did his civic duty and showed up at the Hale House to be assigned a time to spend with each Hale House member on his eighteenth birthday. Since she was a busy woman, Talia Hale herself only shook hands with people to decide. Then she passed them onto her children who were forming their own packs within hers. If a person were rejected by all four children they could petition to spend more time with her. This all sounded very formal despite the naked cuddling in a bed, but Stiles had a reason to be nervous about the meetings that others his age did not:

Stiles had offended or humiliated himself in front of each and every member of the Hale family in his short 18 years on the planet.

[castielsprostate]

reblog to assign as many creatures as possible!!

[messenger-of-stupidity]

HELLO AND WELCOME TO THINGS MY FRIENDS HAVE SAID THAT I ASSIGN REDACTED CHARACTERS TO AHAHAHSJTJJCBDJ

"This is Dicklandia. To become a citizen, you must have a dick swinging contest."

"Or you could have a civics test like a normal fucking person"

- Guy and Honey, Asher and David, as well as Asher and Milo, Gavin and Damien

"Leave me alone, I am begging you."

"Yeah okay. In a minute. First, let me bribe you with this shiny penny and empty Starbucks cup. NOW PLEASE JUST LET ME DRIVE YOU HOME!"

- Damien and Huxley

"Look, just because a kink has to do with sexual gratification, I can still say my kink is making you smile but not be sexually attracted to you. You're thinking too deeply about this."

- Asher

"Well fuck me. I guess I can't just draw a triangle normally. Why am I even in this class?"

- Gavin, Freelancer

"Sometimes I think about being a piece of glass in the middle of the road. Unnoticed until I slice your tires."

- Freelancer, Lovely

"He's trying to find someone to fuck. Or he wants to play fetch."

- Angel, Guy, Gavin

"Imagine if I just stared at you while you were eating."

"Like you are right now?"

"I said to imagine. I didn't say to notice."

- Asher and David, Angel and David, Guy and Honey, Starlight and Avior

"I'm going to color Greece the color green."

"I hope you slip down the stairs when you go home."

- Asher and Milo (because in my brain, Milo has some Greek heritage.)

"What? We have a test on Wednesday? I'm staging a walkout. I'm not going through this shit again."

- Freelancer, Gavin

[estrellka-chipsa]

ts4 Medieval Phone Organizer

This mod replaces the icons on sim's phone.

!Choose ONLY ONE VERSION

━━ ✧ ━━

DOWNLOAD (free): Patreon | Boosty

━━ ✧ ━━

━━ ✧ ━━ - MissChipsa UI PhoneIcons - main file

- Optional - for some mods, that I use.  These files overwrite the icons that the mod authors have assigned.

━━ ✧ ━━

FILES:

MC UI Basemental Drugs

MC UI Turbodriver - WW :  Wicked Whims

MC UI FalseHope - SpaDay Rabbitholes: Spa & Wellness

MC UI LittleMsSam - SimDaDatingApp

MC UI LittleMsSam - Social Activities

MC UI SimRealist - SNB

!MC UI TwelfthDoctor1 - Occult Hybrid

MC UI Zero - Civic Policy Overhaul

_______________________________

You can download 📜 Medieval Phone Wallpapers (19 backgrounds replaced + matching swatch previews)

Many thanks to @flowermilksims for Cupid's Corner icon from v2.

[topazadine]

A Primer on Dyscalculia: The Learning Disorder You Weren't Told About in School

I rarely see people discussing this learning disability, to the point that many believe it doesn't exist (ie, saying math is the universal language and everyone understands it but just doesn't try) so I thought I'd explain a bit about what it is.

Dyscalculia is a learning disability characterized by difficulty with math, numbers, and some systematic learning that requires the use of memorization and application. Like its relative, dyslexia, it is not that someone is "stupid" or "not trying hard enough" to learn math; our brains are essentially wired not to absorb information in this form.

Common symptoms of dyscalculia include:

Inability to do basic math problems

Struggling to count, often using their fingers to count

Difficulty using multiplication and division

Challenges with visualizing heights, lengths, and widths

Difficulty counting change

Struggling to read a clock or divide time into reasonable measurements

Challenges with memorizing numbers, dates, and sequences

No one is actually sure how many people have dyscalculia because it is rarely diagnosed. Right now, estimates are around 3% to 7% of the population, but this is likely a vast underrepresentation.

Educators still believe the myth that everyone can do math and that those who say they can't are just refusing to apply themselves. This causes lifelong problems for dyscalculiacs because if not treated early enough, it is nigh-on untreatable.

Many people with dyscalculia may complete math problems in unusual and time consuming ways. For example, if you asked me to divide 145 by 5 without a calculator, this is how my brain would have to do it:

100 by 5 (20)

20 by 5 (4), then multiply this by 2 (8), then divide 5 by 5 (1)

And finally, add up all the results (20+8+1) to get 29.

Numbers that are not easily divisible or "chunked" like this would be nigh-on impossible for me to do in my head. I wasn't able to memorize the times tables and in fact needed a laminated times table well into elementary school (think 5th grade).

I distinctly remember feeling like everyone else was on the helm of the USS Enterprise when they could so easily shout out answers to simple multiplication or division problems, and I was always the last person to do those stupid times table sheets. Sometimes I couldn't even complete half of it by the time everyone else was done.

I failed 3rd grade math class and had to be assigned a tutor. This was despite getting all As in every single other class. In fact, I failed multiple math classes during my academic career.

Since my grades were so high in other classes, I had to petition to be put in a remedial math class. Everyone assumed that because I did well in things like English, science, civics, and so on, I must have been able to do what my peers could.

A college-level physics class was the hardest class I have ever done in my life, and I have a Master's degree in International Relations, which requires a lot of very dry and complicated political theory. That is the A I am most proud of because it required far more effort than anything before or since.

No one told me what dyscalculia was or identified a problem throughout my entire time in education. I had to seek out resources myself in adulthood before finally learning what my problem was. This, of course, led to significant "math fear" and self-esteem issues, especially in a society that is obsessed with STEM.

This learning disability can have far-reaching effects and impact things that other people may not even consider. There are many connections between systematized learning and math.

Dyscalculiacs may also have trouble with:

Learning languages

Playing musical instruments (because sheet music and tempos are a form of language + math, though it is possible to learn by ear)

Reading maps, including general world geography

Estimating distances

Navigating a new place because they can't make "mental maps"

Dancing (due to the sequencing)

Reading diagrams

Remembering step-by-step instructions without a cheat sheet

Completing complex tasks that have a lot of steps

Starting a project that necessitates doing things in a certain order, such as building something

Cooking or baking (because it requires measuring and matching measurements to specific ingredients)

Repeating sequences, like a phone number

Remembering numbered streets or highways (like I-480, 5th street, or etc)

Playing games that require counting or keeping score, like Yahtzee, card games, and so on

Completing spreadsheets with numbers

Of course, not every dyscalculiac will struggle with all of these things because there are different degrees of severity. Many also learn tactics to compensate. For example, I never learned sheet music but did well in choir because I memorized all the songs entirely by ear.

I have developed visualizations of common routes I travel and can navigate to them by remembering the landmarks I pass. If you tried to ask me specific step-by-step directions of anywhere, I couldn't tell you, but I can tell you that you'll pass a KFC on your right if you're going east (parallel to Lake Erie), and then you will turn left at the big shopping center.

There are plenty of adaptations that everyday people use which are lifelines to dyscalculiacs in ways that other people may never recognize. Formulas on spreadsheets, conversion websites, built-in calculators, and turn-by-turn navigation apps are all examples of accommodations that appeal to everyone but are especially important to dyscalculiacs.

So, the next time you scoff and say "everyone can do math, they're just being lazy" or "cooking is easy" or "anyone can learn a second language if they want to" or "using a calculator is cheating" and so on:

Recognize that you are ignoring a very real learning disability. These statements are ableist.

Such rhetoric is equally damaging as anti-dyslexic statements like "everyone can learn to read," "open dyslexic fonts are ugly," "audiobooks are cheating," "video lessons are lazy" and things of that ilk.

Ableism takes many forms, many of which people refuse to recognize. Difficulty with math is a widespread problem, and it often has nothing to do with trying hard enough or refusing to learn. I remember breaking down in tears trying to do my times table; I would spend hours trying to understand them.

These issues are NOT a lack of willpower or application. They have to do with real neurological deficits. Please be kind to those who can't do math, and stop assuming we're lazy.

[weheartchrisevans]

Chris Evans Is PEOPLE's 2022 Sexiest Man Alive: 'My Mom Will Be So Happy'

If you were to tell a middle school-aged Chris Evans that he would one day be named PEOPLE's Sexiest Man Alive, "he'd be pumped!" the star tells the magazine in this week's cover story. "This would probably be the road to the cool table which I was not at."

Present-day Evans, 41, is still adjusting to the new title of PEOPLE's 2022 Sexiest Man Alive and having to talk about it, but he knows this news will delight at least one person: "My mom will be so happy," he says. "She's proud of everything I do but this is something she can really brag about."

It's a sunny fall day on a farm outside of Atlanta, Ga. where Evans is sitting in front of the fireplace in a quaint farmhouse. Although he appears to have fully understood this particular assignment, dressed in a cozy knit sweater and jeans, the Boston native would probably rather jump into said fireplace than talk about being sexy.

"This whole thing is tough to be interviewed about," he says with a laugh. "It feels like a weird form of humble bragging."

The Gray Man star is also bracing for some good-natured ribbing from his close friends.

"Really this will just be a point of bullying," he jokes. "It's ripe for harassment."

Regardless, his mom Lisa is delighted by the news. "I am not surprised at all," she tells PEOPLE. "Our family will be beside themselves."

Best known for playing the altruistic, self-sacrificing superhero Captain America in Marvel's multi-billion-dollar Avengers franchise, and as a devoted, photo-happy dog dad to Dodger, his boxer mix, on social media, Evans is far more comfortable talking about his career, which has been on fire for the last decade. This year alone, he starred in Pixar's Lightyear, Netflix's Gray Man and filmed three new movies, including 2023's Ghosted for AppleTV+ which he is also producing, and also still co-runs A Starting Point, the civic engagement platform he launched in 2020.

Now in his 40s, Evans is trying to prioritize a healthy work-life balance and spending as much time as possible at home and with his family in Boston.

"When it comes to seeking out the people I play it's more of an issue of where the movie shoots," he says. "I'm too old to be living out of a suitcase for six months and I've settled into a nicer phase where I'm just happy being at home."

He's also thinking a lot more about his future outside of acting — one that includes marriage and fatherhood.

"That's absolutely something I want," he says. Just don't expect him to talk much about that when it happens: "Some things you want just for you, or just for my family and my friends."

Twenty-two years into his career, Evans admits he's ready to slow down a bit.

"The most enjoyable aspect of my career right now is feeling secure enough to take my foot off the gas," he says. "I feel like I have a bit more freedom to take time away from the industry and still find projects that will satisfy my creative appetite when I return."

​And given all the time he's been spending in and around his hometown, what does he think is the sexiest thing about Boston?

"So much history there! I love the accent. To me, the accent is home," he says. "I love the weather. The seasons, the sports teams. But the sexiest thing about Boston... maybe our universities. We've got a lot of good schools. Let's give education a plug, that's damn sexy."

Just don't ask him to use the word "sexy" in a sentence about himself. And although he's not quite comfortable with it yet, years from now he'll look back on the title fondly.

"It's something that as I become old and saggy I can look back on and say 'I remember then…' " he says. "I'm lucky to be in the discussion in any capacity."

[overalls4all]

Jake, Samuel, and Aiden had been best friends since kindergarten. They have always done everything together. So of course after they graduated they hoped to get the same labor assignment. It was a long shot though, as the mandated manual labor program could place them at farms, factories, and work sites anywhere across the state.

The best buds were hanging around one the summer after graduation, only a week away from receiving their labor assignments.

"Man, I hope I get assigned to a work farm," said Jake, in the light blue flannel and black Carhartt overalls. "I love working outside."

"Me too," said Samuel, in the dark blue flannel and matching black Carhartts. "I always did well in our Agricultural Studies class." School curricula had changed a lot since the Overalls for All Act, with boys being required to take several vocational courses to prepare them for a life of manual labor.

"I don't get want I get assigned," Aiden, in the red flannel and dark brown overalls, said glumly. "I just want to get assigned with you guys."

Samuel put a comforting hand on Aiden's shoulder, "I hope so too, Aiden. But it's no guarantee. It's not up to us to choose our assignment."

"I know, I know. We have to obey what our leaders tell us. Believe me, I trust in their wisdom and leadership," Aiden said. "But we've always been together. I don't know if I go for two years of assigned labor without you guys."

Jake came over and placed a hand on Aiden's bib. "Dude, even if we are separated, we'll still be united in our overalls! That's why our leaders have us wear them. All men are united through our uniform, our labor, and our obedience to our leaders!"

Aiden felt a swell of pride in his chest as he placed his hand on Jake's bib. "You are totally right Jake! Overalls for All has made our country a better place. As long as we obey and wear our overalls, we'll always be together!" Aiden then placed both hands on his overalls straps, a standard salute, "Overalls for All!"

Jake and Samuel returned the gesture and said in unison, "Overalls for All!"

The young men had learned well in school to trust the new systems put in place. Their leaders had tirelessly worked to ensure all men have a future as long as they trust and obey the leader's policies. Overalls for All as one of the most sweeping and historic pieces of legislation in the country's history, but it's success had been even more monumental, with men across the country embracing their uniform overalls and labor requirements.

The friends would receive their assignments a week later and alas they did not receive the same assignment. Jake was indeed assigned to a work farm where he spent each day cleaning the pigsty, a dirty job he was honored to carry out. Samuel was assigned to a factory, helping manufacture products that would serve the whole country. And finally, Aiden was assigned to a construction site, helping build a new civic center that would offer the newly required masculinity courses that male citizens were mandated to take. But whenever Aiden, or Jake or Samuel, missed their old friends, all he had to was salute with both hands on his straps and say, full of masculine pride and conviction, "Overalls for All", and he knew somewhere out there his friends were doing the same.

[blueiscoool]

Lost and Found: Bottle Hunter Digs Extraordinary Farmland Treasures

Tom Askjem is a time traveler. Every May to November, he disappears into the bowels of the earth, descends to depths of 13’-plus, and returns to the surface with treasure—bottles and glassware from farming’s past.

After 1,800 pits and hundreds of thousands of relics, Askjem is equal parts archeologist, thrill seeker, and mole. Muscle on dirt, the North Dakota farm boy has turned an addiction into a career, multiple books, and a captivating YouTube channel with millions of views. However, Askjem seeks more than glass.

“I’m digging for adventure, history, and love,” he says. The past is in these holes and there are countless numbers of them across farmland.”

Time to hunt with a master.

The Infection

On the flats of extreme eastern North Dakota’s Traill County, Askjem, 32, prepares for a dig trip. “No mountains and no hills in the Red River Valley,” he describes. “You can see your dog run away for days. The land is mostly featureless, other than a few big cottonwoods and shelter belts where farms used to be.”

A mop of blonde hair sits atop a 6’-tall, lanky frame as Askjem saddles his pony—a Honda Civic. At the current mileage rate, the Civic will be junkyard fodder before it has a scratch: 60,000 backroad miles added to the odometer in the past six months.

Askjem piles layers of gear into the trunk, including three of each tool for insurance: shovels, pronged garden forks, trampoline pads, probe rods, buckets, plastic scoopers, trowels, tents, sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, air mattresses, clothes, and waterproof, Redwing leather work boots.

“It never gets old,” he says, wearing a wide grin. “I caught the infection when I was a kid.”

Digging Bodies

Pushed from the Grand Forks area by the historic Red River flood of 1997, Askjem moved to a farm outside Buxton at six years young. The main property was an 1878 homestead—a progression from sod house to log cabin to the present standing 1898 farmhouse decked in Victorian-era woodwork and hardware.

Surrounded by history, including the skeletons of old wagons and rusting machinery, Askjem explored a 5-acre patch of woods on the property, and chanced on a garbage dump: pop bottles and trash.

Askjem dug.

“I went deep and found stuff going back to 1898. When you’re a kid living in the country, there’s no going down the street and there’s no hanging with friends to play video games—you make your own adventure. I started hitting up all the farmers I could find for leads.”

Behind the wheel of a rattling go-cart, Askjem sought Buxton old-timers and collected tips on abandoned houses. “They all helped me,” he says. “Nobody cared where I hunted because I was just a little kid exploring for all the right reasons.”

“I’ve still got an elementary school journal with an assignment describing my weekend,” he adds. “I wrote, ‘Me and Mom dug up old bodies.’ The teacher marked my paper out of concern,” Askjem describes, with an easy, deep chuckle. “I meant to spell bottles, not bodies. But it shows I was truly hooked.”

Indeed. Wonderfully hooked.

Soft Landing

Why are bottles buried under farmland and old house sites?

Prior to plastic and synthetics, glassware held everything: medicine, hygiene products, alcohol, soda, and beyond. Glass was it.

Additionally, prior to waste disposal services, homeowners discarded trash on-site—in back yard outhouses, trash depressions, burn pits, and wells or cisterns. In short time, the various ground receptacle spots were filled and forgotten.

“Let’s say, for example, a family moved in around 1880,” Askjem explains. “That site likely has two or three outhouse locations prior to World War l. The outhouse spots filled up at a rate according to family size. I dug one farmhouse site that had six outhouses in a 10-year span. Folks went into the outhouses and threw away bottles: medicine, opiates, beer, whiskey. It was convenient and private, and had a soft landing, and got covered quickly. Even now, the bottles often are still preserved.”

“Generally, these houses also had a burn pit and/or dump pit. In the early days, they burned all trash in the stove for heat. Also, homestead bucket wells were filled up with trash and bottles once they were replaced by pump wells. Cisterns also were eventually filled up, but most of those are associated with houses in town.”

And the sites remain, he emphasizes, hiding intact relics beyond the reach of farm machinery or tillage equipment.

X Marks the Spot

Location. Location. Location. Other than a tip or invitation, how does Askjem find dig sites?

X marks the spot, at least in the county courthouse or public library. He spends winters poring over early property transaction documents. “I look at lot sales. If several lots sold for $100 each in 1880, but one sold for $1,000 in 1885, the price climb tells the story and likely represents a building location.”

“I also read old newspaper archives, looking for hotel or business advertisements,” Askjem continues. “Then I can look up the proprietor’s name and keep tightening the scope, narrowing down the exact building location.”

“Every single house is different, but generally, in the countryside, outhouses were 30 paces out the back door. In the city, where most lots were 140’ long, outhouses could be as close as 5-10 paces.”

Confident of a site’s potential, Askjem first asks for permission to dig from the landowner. “Property owners are always so kind to me and I don’t hide anything I find. They’re curious about what is in the ground, just like anybody else.”

Second, he grids out the site. “I put down markers 2 paces apart, maybe 20 paces long. I push probe rods into ground and feel for compaction differences. Depending on the location, I’ll call in and have utility lines marked out for power and gas.”

Decked in Levi’s and a tank-top, it’s time to tunnel.

Claustrophobic Comfort

Shovel in hand, Askjem descends into a layer cake of dirt: black topsoil to brown-colored clay to telltale ash to a use layer containing treasure.

“Generally, I go deep to find old items in quantity. The earliest bottles were used to the last drop by farmers and thrown out empty. Therefore, when they froze in brutal Dakota winters, the glass didn’t break from liquid expansion.”

As Askjem extracts glass vessels from the dirt and grime, his encyclopedic knowledge registers with each find. He recognizes the type, manufacturer, and age. Ink bottles, hygiene bottles, medicine bottles, beer bottles, soda bottles—and far more spill from the holes.

“I find patented medicine bottles across the country, but my favorite are soda bottles because they are unique to their locale and have character. The old soda bottles are usually marked with the bottler and town name because they were returnable.”

The outhouse pits are typically 6’-deep at home sites, with an average size of 6’-by-4’-by-3’. “I’ve dug ghost towns, dug saloons, train depots, and pool halls that were 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 8’ deep. I remember a hotel pit that was 20’-by-20’ and 8’ deep. There was a military fort with pits behind the barracks that was 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 13.5’ deep: That was a week’s worth of digging.”

Askjem’s subterranean realm provides no comfort to the claustrophobic. At 8’-9’, he braces the holes with woodwork. “I’m in a solid clay base that doesn’t cave, but I have a healthy respect for the ground’s limitation. Sometimes, it looks like I’m digging a rabbit hole.”

Preserved in nature’s freezer, the artifacts unearthed by Askjem often are in phenomenal condition.

“Pieces of newspaper can still be read; bottle labels are legible; white lime used in decomposition is visible; and undigested seeds are everywhere. Even 120-year-old human waste sometimes is perfectly preserved and still smells like hell. I wear a hydrogen sulfide respirator in those cases.”

“It’s all there; almost like it was dropped yesterday.”

Ghosts in the Ground

In 2022, Askjem began chronicling his digs via a YouTube channel, Below the Plains, and soon captured millions of views. At two posts per week, he gins footage at a steady rate to feed the algorithm, a tough task considering the ground in his geography is frozen from mid-November to mid-May.

Additionally, Askjem has written two in-depth books (Nebraska Soda Bottles 1865-1930 and A History of North Dakota Bottling Operations 1879-1930) and has more on the way. “I put the bottle prices in the books because they can sell for a whole lot and I always tell the landowners. Listing prices draw criticism, but that’s important to me because it helps preserve the item, and preservation of history is what drives me.”

Covered in dust or mud at the end of each day in digging season, Askjem is highly respectful of what he finds—almost reverent after 1,800 digs. “I appreciate everything I uncover because it represents a part of someone’s daily life and existence. There’s nothing wrong with coveting bottles, but I’m really in those holes for the moment of discovery.”

Even when not digging, Askjem is on the move, surfing on the coasts or river diving for lost cargo. In the decades to come, will he continue burrowing into the past? “Twenty years from now, I hope I’m still digging and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now.”

“There’s not an infinite amount of lost bottle sites, but there’s certainly an incredibly high number,” he continues. “There were 300,000 homestead farms in North Dakota with a minimum of one well, one outhouse, and one trash dump. And that doesn’t include towns where most of the population lived. There are millions of these sites in North Dakota and far more in other states.”

Respect to a freewheeling hunter like no other. Bottles draw the eye, but ghosts draw the heart: “The moment never gets old when you uncover a bottle and find that history,” Askjem adds. “Never.”

By CHRIS BENNETT.