#complaining about the plot of professional work

[bucketbueckers]

LAYUPS & LAYOVERS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

wc: 2.9k

content warnings: language, fluff, author is southern and doesn't understand how snow or marketing works, plot where there doesn’t need to be plot

synopsis: It’s Christmas Eve and you’re in Connecticut, exhausted and just trying to get to Minnesota for a work conference. You could cry when it’s announced that all flights are being halted due to the incoming blizzard. Irritated, tired, and overworked, you pray for a miracle, although it takes an unnatural shape in the form of a six foot blonde athlete who’s just trying to make it home, too. Late night airport conversations lead to something more.

notes: merry christmas eve from my delusions to yours! the last chapter of irp was super heavy so here's my apology and christmas gift (do i drop another one tmr...i really dont wanna write chapter 8 😩). i hope you all enjoy this short n sweet lil ramble i threw together and happy holidays 🫶

This can not be your life right now.

It’s actually kind of impressive how all of the stars aligned on this one particular night to fuck you over. You’re not a terrible person. You hold the doors for everyone, give up your seat on the bus for sweet old ladies, and you always allocate a portion of your paychecks to donate to Wikipedia. By all accounts, you should be overwhelmed with good karma, although it seems your luck has depleted on this night and this night alone.

It all started on the 20th when you flew out to Connecticut. You work a cushy job as a marketing consultant for the WNBA, which means you spend a lot of time in the air and across the country trying to unfuck – sorry, trying to optimize and rejuvenate – the state of the league and its teams. It’s a task easier said than done. Nobody seems to want to listen to you until they realize that your master’s degrees in marketing and business analytics actually mean something and aren’t just really expensive pieces of paper that you hang in your office. You spend a couple of days in Uncasville talking strategies to boost ticket sales and to gain more traction; they’re the only professional team the state has – it should not be hard to get people to show up if you can market it right, but here you are.

Connecticut is nearly a bust. It’s cold and you spend two full days in meetings getting talked over by men who think they understand numbers and branding. Then, on the third day, the front office suddenly realizes what you’ve been talking about (this shit was covered in your sophomore year intro to marketing class, but hey, the less people know, the more you get paid, so who’s really complaining?) and the trajectory of your trip makes a sudden turnaround. On the 23rd and early on the 24th, you help the Sun roll out the new optimizations, and what do you know? Ticket sales surge by 17%, including some season tickets, all is well in the world and it’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.

Then, all is suddenly not well and you remember that Christmas miracles are for people not surrounded by idiots. Your boss emails you just before you leave for the airport: The Lynx need your help. I’ve sent you tickets for the first flight out of Connecticut. Meet with them on the 26th. Said “flight” departs from Connecticut at 8:30pm on Christmas Eve, which means you’re not even in Minnesota until 12am if you’re lucky, which means you have to figure out hotel arrangements so you can take a nap because you’ve barely slept in five days, which means you have to figure out how to be nice to people again because the Sun front office has you pissed all the way the fuck off.

So, you’re tired, overworked, extremely irritated, and hungry, although that last problem is solved by airport Subway. You just hope that doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass, either – you firmly believed that you were better off betting all of your money on black rather than taking the chance on airport food, but you didn’t have much of a choice and your stomach was growling. You eat, settling in a chair at your gate, and patiently await for your plane to arrive.

Then, the overhead PA clicks on with some static noise, announcing, “Flight 932 to Minneapolis and all other flights exiting Hartford will be delayed due to inclement weather. I repeat–”

The blood rushes to your head. Your eye twitches. There’s a crying baby somewhere in the airport and you can’t take it anymore. Honestly, what’s stopping you? Flying a plane cannot be that difficult. You’re pretty persuasive. You can tell TSA you’re just young for a pilot and you’re not wearing a pilot’s uniform because it’s Christmas Eve and what are you, the feds? All you’re really asking for at this point is a nap but there’s no way in hell you’re making it to a hotel in these conditions and the chances of you sleeping in an airport with all of your belongings out for someone to grab are even lower.

A commotion towards the check in counter commands your attention. You turn, dreading the eventual crash out of an airport Karen, but it’s better than the crying baby who still hasn’t shut the fuck up.

“Please, there’s gotta be something else you can do,” a tall, broad-shouldered blonde is begging, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “It’s Christmas Eve, I have to get home.”

The lady at the check in counter sounds sympathetic when she responds. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our hands are tied. We can’t send our planes out in this weather, but if it eases up, the next flight out should have you arriving in Minneapolis by tomorrow afternoon.”

You hear the blonde groan, her tone sounding something like, I can’t fucking believe this is my life, which is a sentiment you whole-heartedly agree with. “Can you please lemme know if there’s anything earlier?” she pleads. “Like, if by the grace of God this weather clears and we can leave sooner.”

“Of course, ma’am. All updates will be announced.”

The response is almost robotical, but you can tell the receptionist is trying her best, too, and the last place she wants to be is hanging out at the airport on Christmas Eve. The blonde sighs, thanking her, and from the corner of your eye, you watch her hike her bag up over her shoulder and she moves to sit directly in front of you. That’s when you truly get a good look at her, at the dejected blue of her eyes, the chisel of her jaw, the logo on her hoodie. Paige Bueckers is no stranger to you. You grew up watching ball, so obviously you’re familiar with her game – any self-respecting basketball fan is. But by virtue of your job, Paige Bueckers is a name that makes your marketing heart beat just a little faster. Ever since Dallas won the lottery, you’ve been all over their marketing team. Paige’s entire existence and the chance she gets drafted to Dallas is the sole reason the Wings’ tickets are flying off the shelves. She’s the most marketable college athlete there is right now, one of the top rookie prospects for the league, but one look at her face in person and you’re forgetting all about your job. Her jaw is tight with a simmering anger, and honestly, you feel terrible for her – she already spends so much time away from her family and here she is trying to get out of Bumfuck, Connecticut, so she can be home in time for Christmas.

You find a little bit of bravery when you raise your voice slightly to ask her, “No luck?”

She looks up, glancing at you and taking in your features, and laughing slightly when she realizes you’re genuinely just trying to make conversation and not trying to get a soundbite out of her. “You heard that?” she asks sheepishly, sinking a little in her seat to get comfortable. You pretend to not notice her manspread.

“Well,” you begin, glancing over at the receptionist. “The desk is like, ten feet away.” She laughs again and nods, murmuring touche under her breath. “932 Minneapolis?” you ask, referring to your flight.

Paige nods again, quirking a smile. “You stalking me or sum’?”

You shrug your shoulders, a coy smile on your face. “Just observant,” you quip.

Paige grins fully. “What about you?” she asks. “You work for the league?”

At that, you can’t help your surprise, raising a brow. “How’d you know that?”

“Just observant,” she throws your words back at you. You laugh. “Kidding. I see your ID pokin’ out of your bag. You from here, or they got you workin’ on the holidays?”

“Work,” you respond. Paige whistles lowly. “I’m a marketing consultant. Been up here for a few days working with the Sun, then I’m heading to Minnesota to fix the Lynx’s bullshit.” You blink, registering your words, blushing as Paige laughs. “You did not hear that. I’m usually nicer to my employers.”

“They got you workin’ and flyin’ out on Christmas Eve,” Paige points out. “You should be meaner.”

You incline your head in a nod, huffing. “All of this for office potlucks and dental coverage,” you joke. “Don’t quit basketball.” Paige grins again and you’re suddenly reminded of your manners. “Sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself.” You do as such, only mildly surprised when she stands to shake your hand and introduces herself, too, which is honestly kind of endearing. Then, she plops into the empty seat next to yours, smiling widely.

“So, marketing consultant,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she gets comfortable next to you, extending her long legs across her suitcase. “How often will I get to see you?”

You glance at her, raising a wry eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?” you ask.

Paige shrugs a shoulder, smirking. “A little. Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit. You can see the pride that shines in her eyes. You roll your eyes in amusement, still in slight disbelief, but you redirect back to her question. “Honestly, probably a lot. The league is super messy from a business perspective and their actual marketing sphere isn’t that great, either. As soon as you get drafted I’ll probably have to fly down to whichever poverty team you land at and teach them how to market you.”

“Yeah?” she asks, and despite the tease in her tone, she does seem interested. “How would you market me?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Well…” Paige glances down to her watch, then out the windows where snow falls in heavy sheets. “Looks like a lot.”

You snicker. “Alright. Bear with me, okay?” Paige nods in earnest, her attention fully on you as you begin to ramble. Truthfully, you did like your job when you were able to do it. The issue is and always will be the idiots you have to work with who overlook your credentials. “So, I’m not thinking about your personal brand at all. Like, that one’s already incredible. Your PR team did their big one with you. But the issue with athletes like you, wide-eyed and fresh out of college with an insane resume of endorsements, followers, deals, whatever – the issue is that whatever team you get drafted to is gonna want to rebuild their entire image around you. Think Clark, Brink, Reese, Jackson, Cardoso. It’s textbook – you advertise the person who’s gonna get you the most clicks, the most sales. So, how can we use that to actually grow the game, the league? I’m talking about longevity. There’s so many people tuning in for you that don’t know shit about basketball, and honestly, they’re gonna be scared to ask questions.

“So we push something corny. Social media segments with a catchy name like Ball With Bueckers or some shit where you break down basketball plays, rules, the stuff you’re gonna see and hear when you watch a game. What’s a pick and roll? A screen? Why is she getting fouled for blocking that shot, isn’t that what she’s supposed to do? Education, interest, loyalty, and competition sells. Stories sell, too, which is why the league is still trying to push the Clark/Reese rivalry. That’s old news, though. A more compelling story would have been the Fever/Sun rivalry, especially after the Sun beat the Fever and the Fever hired their coach. Or Fever/Wings, for reasons I’m not gonna ruin your night with.” Paige laughs at that, and you smile, clearing your throat and trying to find your train of thought. “So, when I’m undoubtedly called in to fix your team’s mess, that’s what I’d be suggesting. People already love you. Using that connection to get them to love ball, too, is my goal.”

“You’re really passionate about this,” Paige comments, her lips quirking into a slight smile. You can’t help but preen a little, flushing. “Like, about basketball. You really care about the sport. Feels like that’s harder to find lately.”

“Well, I was too short to play it, so gotta settle for something, right?” you joke.

Paige looks you up and down. You’re wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt from college, but her gaze is shameless, appreciative despite your casual airport wear. She chuckles, a disbelieving noise building in the back of her throat. “Nah. You’re what, 6’5?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Try a foot less. But I appreciate you for believing in me.”

Paige smiles, nudging you a little. “I was serious, though. You’re super passionate. I like that.”

“Still flirting?”

“S’not everyday you get snowed in at the airport with a pretty girl,” Paige says, her gaze warm, and you can’t help but blush again. “Gotta shoot my shot, you know?” She mimes throwing a ball, her wrist bent, and you shake your head fondly. Admittedly, she did have you – hook, line, and sinker. You enjoyed the conversation, her company. There were certainly worse people to be stuck with, but you’re glad it was with her.

You shrug your shoulders. “Shoot away,” you say. Her subsequent grin is wide and you find yourself drawn in just a little further.

She asks you virtually everything under the sun – where you grew up, where you went to college, the team you were rooting for, and you answer. You tell her you’re an Atlanta native, born and raised, although you moved up north to study at Columbia. You were 8 when the Dream was founded and that was your team, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. At 10, you watched them win the eastern conference finals on your birthday and that was easily the moment your life changed. Basketball was your future and that much was certain. She asks how you landed the league job (connections, a thick resume, and lots of persuading), how you adjusted to the constant traveling (lots of caffeine and really good concealer), and the hard-hitting question of, are you satisfied?

For that, you really had no answer. Sure, you’re always busy, and that’s better than the alternative of sitting in your office and watching the seconds tick by. You’re good at what you do and your job makes a positive impact on the league. Your colleagues will be who they are; your work speaks for itself and that’s what you pride yourself on. But there’s always going to be a small part of you that yearns for something more, like someone else to share your life with. Someone who sits, and listens, and engages with you; someone who loves basketball just as much as you do (even if it’s a different type of love), someone who’s steady and spontaneous and adaptable.

Then Paige is smiling at you, her gaze warm and soft despite the below freezing temperatures outside; she’s listening, and engaging, steady, spontaneous, adaptable, and probably the only person in the world whose love for basketball could rival your own. You’ve known Paige for all of three hours and it’s nearing midnight in an airport in Connecticut, but it’s Christmas Eve and she feels so right. You would really like to see where this goes, and judging by the way her fingertips brush your knuckles, you think she might like to see that, too.

The two of you talk all through the night, waiting for the weather to ease up. The conversation never slows and you’re certain you’ve never smiled or laughed this much in a long time. It takes you twelve hours of delirious conversation to realize that your luck never depleted. Paige was your overwhelming karma, sent by some sort of Christmas miracle to answer all of the wishes you’d kept to yourself for years. The stars aligned not to fuck you over, but to trap you in an airport with Paige Bueckers, and you find that she’s possibly the best Christmas gift you could have ever gotten.

When the weather finally clears and your plane arrives, you find that your seats are right next to each other – and, well, fate works in funny ways, doesn’t it? You’re both exhausted, but when she pushes the armrest up and wraps her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into your side, you can’t help your relieved sigh, leaning into her chest. You and Paige sleep through the entire flight. You dream of soft blue eyes, the lingering scent of her cologne, the promise of how this could last.

You land in Minneapolis and you eventually have to go your separate ways. The two of you exchange numbers, saying your goodbyes, although Paige doesn’t let you get anymore than three feet away from her before she’s catching you by the wrist and pulling you into her. Her hands are cold against your cheeks as she kisses you gently, something deep and lingering and a confirmation that tastes like ‘you and I aren’t done here.’ The falling snow lands gently on your cheeks, melting under the heat of your blush, and you can’t help your smile, interrupting your kiss as the both of you dissolve into laughter. Paige kisses you again, something softer that leaves you feeling warm all over despite the chill, and you thank your Christmas miracle for leading you here.

[luckthebard]

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about storytelling vs. gameplay in Actual Play and finally had some solid thoughts coalesce around it when looking at Worlds Beyond Number and Thresher.

Thoughts after the cut:

This is going to be a hot take but I think, increasingly, Worlds Beyond Number is not an Actual Play but a collaborative audio novel/drama. While the margins between those things might seem on some level semantic, I think they’re really key for thinking about how Actual Play is different from other kinds of storytelling media. WBN was originally conceived of and advertised as “like the games you run in your living room” but as it has gone on the podcast has moved so far away from that that it is no longer delivering on that original conceit. This does not mean it is bad! I think WBN is actually succeeding more on a storytelling level as it sheds more of its obvious gameplay. But it’s gotten to a point where the game mechanics are either edited out and therefore not central to what is heard by the audience, or incidental to the story being told, which is driven far more by Brennan as the main worldbuilding storyteller than by game mechanics or player action. When a supposed Actual Play has a key narrative episode that finishes with almost 10 minutes of story narrated solely by the GM with no gameplay rolls or mechanics mentioned, of an epic, hugely narratively important combat, in my mind gameplay has taken enough of a backseat to the storytelling process that the podcast is no longer an Actual Play.

And I think we’ve seen an evolution over time of a lot of Actual Plays de-centering game mechanics or the conceit of gameplay in favor of more crafted narrative beats, to both the benefit and detriment of the stories themselves. In Critical Role for example, C1 and C2 in many ways felt more like a D&D game than C3, if only because of the presence of incidental, seemingly narratively insignificant combat moments. As late as late C2 with the Mighty Nein in Aeor, the players were rolling random encounters that had no relation to the larger endgame plot. This led some viewers to complain about pacing, but made other Actual Play enjoyers happy to the extent it showcased game mechanics and allowed character moments to emerge from the combat mechanics themselves, the core gameplay element of D&D. Contrast that to C3, which very early in the episode count did away with “meaningless” incidental combat and pushed forward with a very clear endgame narrative. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that fan engagement with mechanics really fell off in C3, with less meta about what spell or feat choices meant for character development. Similarly, the sunsetting of the CritRoleStats project, while certainly because founders were just busy and had put years into it already and were ready to move on, also was at least somewhat influenced by having less to work with as gameplay mechanics were emphasized less and less at the table in C3.

If you were to look at a lot of the more professional and academic study and critique of Actual Play, you might be convinced that a move away from centering gameplay and above table mechanics discussions was universally good for the medium, as an emphasis on storytelling over gaming would make it more universally accessible. I would posit though that at least some of this comes from the loudest, most professionally credentialed commentators on Actual Play coming from literature backgrounds, and therefore valuing storytelling and narrative over gaming for audience appeal. But I think that misses the gaming audience of Actual Play, who are less and less catered to as the medium becomes more mainstream.

There’s often not a lot of understanding of the appeal of gaming itself as an object of, especially curative, fan obsession, even as sports fandom exists as a huge example of the wide appeal. I am, pretty loudly, a baseball fan as well as a ttrpg and Actual Play fan. In many ways, these things hold similar appeal to me. I am interested in thinking about the game mechanics and action economy of certain character builds and how they fit into party composition in the same way I might obsess over a pitcher’s ERA and arsenal, as well as what his role is in the starting pitcher rotation or the bullpen. I find the prospect of a matchup between, say, Shohei Ohtani and Zack Wheeler appealing in the same way I’m excited about a mechanically strong D&D party fighting a Beholder. Gaming has long been interesting to people not only as something to participate in, but something to study and analyze. Win scenarios, optimal builds, and gameplay tactics are engaging to viewers as well as players. And I think, increasingly, Actual Play productions either forget this or, if the prevalence of editing gameplay out of edited AP is any indication, do not think the gameplay itself is of value or interest to the audience. Published Actual Play scholarship, in my opinion, continues to make this mistake as well. This has led to an increase of productions which are labeled as Actual Play and ostensibly have a gameplay component but are so far removed from watching/listening to people play a game that it is hard to argue that they are still Actual Play.

Which brings me to Thresher. Thresher was brilliant at threading that needle between production, radio drama vibes, and centered and narratively driving gameplay. I am someone who often complains about Actual Play production and editing doing Too Much but I actually loved the costumes and some of the editing gimmicks on Thresher because all of the storytelling and narrative was still so clearly grounded in the gameplay mechanics. Uses of drive mechanics and character abilities were clearly defined even as the audience could hold their breath in a tense horror atmosphere. Mechanics like Turn the Tide and Jasper’s move as the GM to allow the players to pass him secret notes were fantastic ideas to center player choice in crafting the narrative, and let the players surprise each other, leading to big and exciting moments a the table. The storytelling was enhanced by Abubakar’s above table exclamation of “what the fuck is this??” at the end, because it wasn’t just about the story that had unfolded but that his fellow players had surprised both him and the GM by using their game mechanic options to change the direction of the narrative and the condition of the story. I would love for more Actual Play to remember the value of the audience seeing that or being in on the extra-narrative elements of gameplay that shape story. Not all Actual Play needs to be the same, but I think we’ve lost something in the medium as a whole recently with a shift away from visible mechanics and toward streamlined, almost audio drama style story that just happens to have scaffolding from a tabletop roleplaying game.

[violetwolfraven]

Wait wait wait remember that post about how Team Starkid/the Lang brothers are going to be comparable to Shakespeare 500 years from now and it was mostly played for laughs like yeah lol you’ll need a paragraph of footnotes to explain the zefron poster but like

I don’t think that’s actually far off from how Starkid’s place in theatre history might play out and here’s why. Just hear me out

Why is Shakespeare so popular today when he definitely wasn’t the only playwright from that era? When he’s not even the only playwright from that era from England that we have surviving works from?

Two main reasons:

1) Shakespeare’s work is (relatively) universally relatable. The characters do things that are so fundamentally human. They make jokes at their friends’ expense. They complain about being awkward in front of their crush. They have daddy issues. The plot lines of the plays aren’t too complicated. The dick jokes land whether you’re watching in 1611 or 2024, and they probably still will in 2637. Shakespeare’s works are timeless because he didn’t try to outsmart his audience. He wrote about things everyone could relate to rather than trying too hard to peacock his intellect in front of the nobility. This is not true of every playwright.

2) Shakespeare was really popular right around the time England started colonizing everything in sight. Copies of his work got shipped all around the world, translated into dozens of languages, performed probably thousands of times. Setting aside the moral implications of this, the important thing to note is that Shakespeare was about the most easily accessible English playwright during a time of rapid, intense globalization.

Meanwhile, Starkid:

1) Invests hard in meaningful, relatable character arcs instead of spectacle and expensive sets or costumes. Also, lowbrow, immature humor and dick jokes that make A Very Potter Sequel funny and enjoyable regardless of if you’ve ever seen any other Harry Potter media in your life.

2) Posts professional recordings of their musicals to YouTube FOR FREE, making their shows about the easiest, best quality musical theatre you can get pretty much anywhere in the world, regardless of if your area has an active theatre scene. Proshots from other companies are rare and usually not free. Bootlegs are all well and good, but even if the video quality is alright (and that’s a big if) the audio is usually garbage. Starkid has been posting the best quality free recordings they can afford since 2009, shortly after the birth of social media, another time of rapid, intense globalization.

In short, I’m not saying that theatre historians in 500 years won’t remember any our current Broadway faves, but I am saying that in my opinion, Team Starkid is probably going to be more accessible for the general public. If you’re a 26th century English teacher trying to teach your class about narrative structure in 21st century theatre, what are you going to show your students? A bootleg of Hadestown with blurry video and garbage audio? Or the professional recording of Twisted, parts of which they will probably even enjoy, because even long after no one remembers Disney’s Aladdin anymore, your class of 26th century 16-year-olds are still going to laugh at “No One Remembers Achmed.”

[deesseshesca]

PAC: What’s the key energy I need to channel to make my dreams a reality? (18+)

My name is Bella ... Bella Hadid

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FIRE TO THE MOON

FUTURE LOVE + SEX DOUALA = 40$ (2for1)

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PILE 1

Your spirit guides have a message for you  … are u ready ? Is something huge … ‘’KEEP THEM IN THE MOTHERFUCKING PAST’’. Damm babe, I know violence aint it but I think it is time for you to keep the door of your past closed. You must have repeatedly opened them for all your spiritual team to be this enraged. 

Mind of matter. Lol … Repeat after me: MIND OVER MATTER. MIND OVER MATTER. MIND OVER MATTER. You need to stop letting your emotions get the best of you and nah I am not only talking to the crash out girly. Yeah … you also cinnamon girls, yeah you are bolting up everything acting like you are mysterious but really you are this calm in public because you are planning the downfall of your 5th grade enemies the whole time Miss is about to graduate uni. Now crash out, I did not forget about (I mean how can I forget about y’all …). Out here complain about not being able to work with fake ass bitches … well news flash the world is fake and that's for sure not stopping me from getting paid. The reality is that professionalism needs to win no matter what. Yeah even when the person is bluntly racist, homophobic or rude. I could spit you the ‘’ yeah they don't like themselves that's why they hate so much’’ but in reality who gives a damm. Bitch you wanna be paid or nah. Yeah being disrespected is hard but being broke is HARDER. So pick one, QUICK ! Don't get me wrong I’m not telling y’all to let them walk all over u or becoming  people pleaser but it is time for you to learn how to clock someone tea with class. The cooperation world is not the baddies show, it is all about being able to check someone like a real housewives. You go ahead and learn because you have too much potential to let these hating ass hoes take the best of you. Now back to my no emotion/avoidant/claim to be numb but care more than anybody in the world, you need to let go. What you fail to understand is when you don't let go and old grudges you are bringing this disgusting energy everywhere. In the spiritual world there's door you will never enter because you are obsess about bring that fucking baggage with you. I know you, you know, they don't care. That does not mean you are going to forget but ain't you embarrassed to spend so much time plotting on someone you dislike that much. You be claiming you have opp and people praying on your downfall whole time you are the one obsessed with someone from your fucking childhood. Now who's the real loser. Hey babe, (I am holding your hand through the screen), believe me, I believe you. That person deserve the worst and nothing good for the fuck up shit they did to you. I am only worried about your purpose  being wasted holding grudges on someone that's definitely not worth it. 

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PILE 2 

Go ahead … nah that’s literally your message … GO AHEAD. You are on tumblr scrolling  for messages like your spiritual team ain't give a million signs. Like you did not do a vision board in January, like you ain't confident on what you can manifest and what you deserve but yet here you are waiting for someone to tell you ‘’go’’. Here I am, in all my glory and ultimate power given by the divine : GO AHEAD. Show the world everything that you have in you. You know the plan, you already went over it. It has been years that you were working in the betterment of yourself in private. You did a social media detox, cut all the toxic people, fix your alimentation and work on your mental health. Bravo Babe ! Now go ahead and pop your shit and anybody that tries you, you  better make them regret. You did not go through hell and back for a random Karen to take your spark away. You better defend this beautiful person that you became like the past version of you (or inner child) was supposed to be protected. You got this babe. GO SHINE SUPERSTAR ! 

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PILE 3 

FEEL. You are someone who used to be very talented in  maybe drawing or playing an instrument. You are sitting complaining about how unoriginal you are. Reminiscing about a time where everyone applauded your creative genius. Now you have more skills and knowledge yet you can't achieve the same amount of success. Some of y’all are architecture students, you always dream of doing it. You love it , yet it does not feel fulfilling. Now babe you are grown and you have been jaded by life or you killed your inner child trying to be an adult. Don't worry it all happens to the best of us. Good news I have the perfect medicine, let your heart speak in your art/work. You are on the right path, you are just not connected to it in a spiritual sense that's it. Which makes the whole journey a burden instead of an adventure which translates in your art/work showing that is good but never great enough. Because every touch you make as a creator seems like you accomplish a task instead of diving into your passion. 

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PILE 4 

You good pile 4. You found the key (the lessons) and went through the door ( you are in the process of receiving your manifestation). There's a reality you have to accept in life which is you can’t jump levels. This reality does not please you but good news is not going to last forever. One day this moment is going to be a memory of the past. Instead of hating, let's enjoy what you have ahead of you. While having 100% faith, that in a way or another,  your dream reality is happening is just a matter of when.

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[ribbonsncherries]

The Contract

Warnings: Lots of smut, P in V, Oral (both m and f receiving), BDSM!, Sexual Assault, Stalking, Angst, Alcohol mentions, Dominant and submissive plot, Drug Mentions, Virgin user, mentions of drugs.

Chapter 1

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x inexperienced! User

Summary: When her roommate and work partner gets sick, she is in charge of interviewing famous billionaire businessman Dean Winchester for his new bar's grand opening which leads to a passionate and tumultuous affair where she discovers his dark sexual desires, marked by control and dominance. The one catch? He doesn't do romance.

Based on the trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey.

(3473 Words)

Divider credits: @dollywons, @anitalenia, @selysie

 “Please!” her roommate Jessica repeated yelling at her. (y/n) poured hot water into a coffee mug, placed a tea bag in the water, and began mixing with a spoon. “What did I tell you about yelling? Your throat is already damaged from the yelling at this point.” she scolded. Jessica sighed as (y/n) passed her the mug filled with tea. Jessica pouted as she poured in some honey. “I just need you to do this one thing. One thing.” (y/n) and Jessica are partners for a famous magazine ‘Runway’, Jessica and (y/n) were going to interview famous billionaire Dean Winchester who had just opened a new bar in their city. Dean was a longtime famous topic in Runway cause of the girls who swooned over him since he was single, so Runway only thought of the dynamic duo to interview him the next day. If only Jessica hadn’t become a walking disease. 

“It’s just one interview without me you can do this. Besides I’ve already got some questions written down, just press play on the tape recorder and ask away,” she said. (y/n) rolled her eyes as she drank her tea, “I’m only doing this cause Castiel is going to beat us up if we don’t get this article in.” she agreed. Jessica smiled as she lifted her arms. “Yes! (y/n) saves the day again!” she said before coughing up a storm, “ow.” Jessica thought for a moment and grabbed the laptop sitting across from her on the coffee table, just as she was about to reach out (y/n) grabbed it before she did, “Not a chance. You need to stay and rest, that means no working until you feel better.” Although Jessica groaned she agreed. “Night roomie,” she rasped getting up from the couch and to her room. 

The next day (y/n) got up early and did extra research since she was doing this alone. She quickly called Castiel to inform him that she would be able to do this alone and quickly for the article to get posted and submitted by next week. She dressed up professionally yet comfortably since this was a grand opening at almost 9 in the morning. She dressed up in black dress pants and boots, pairing it with a basic black shirt and sweater. She grabbed what she needed and met Jessica in their living room who was blowing her nose into her tissue. “You're so lucky you get to meet the Dean Winchester,” Jessica complained. (y/n)’s lips curled into a smile as she heated a bagel. “You’re a dork, Jess,’’ she laughed. Before she left (y/n) packed her bag with her media pass, notebook, and tape recorder. As she was putting on her boots Jessica immediately got up. 

“I almost forgot” she rasped. Jessica dug through her work bag and gave (y/n) a piece of paper with questions to ask Dean. “Ask him these would ya.” (y/n) looked up to Jessica while she offered a sheepish grin. “Good luck.” (y/n) thanked her before starting her car. As she headed to the bar nerves were kicking in. She’s always had Jessica by her side so this was strange going to interview someone famous without her. When she pulled up into a parking garage she put on her media pass around her neck and grabbed her bag. As she began getting closer to the bar she saw a crowd of people, especially paparazzi and girls screaming his name. She took a deep breath in and began squeezing her way to the front. “Excuse me!” she called out to the event worker. She flashed her media pass. “I’m here with Runway magazine I think I’m supposed to be-” 

“Media cannot pass this barrier.” The man said. (y/n) puffed her cheeks in frustration. “Yeah, I know I work for Castiel Novak, the editor-in-chief. I know he’s a good friend of Mr. Winches-” 

“Don’t care stay behind the line.” (y/n) groaned out anger and clenched her teeth in annoyance. When Dean Winchester came by the Paparazzi began crowding amongst each other. Everyone shoulder-to-shoulder. She tried to get past through but there was no way around it. As Dean cut the ribbon he saw the commotion going on beyond the bright flashes of the camera pointing at him a woman with a large camera pushed (y/n) to the ground. Dean whispered to his assistant Benny, As (y/n) got up she looked over to the entrance where a man in a suit was looking straight at her. Benny went up to the barrier of media, “Hey, girl in the sweater.” (y/n) looked up and pointed to herself, Benny nodded his head as he made a signal with his hand for the reporters and paparazzi to move, (y/n) now had a clear path and was invited inside by Benny through the back. As she was invited inside she was told to stay there until Dean was available to talk to her. When Benny left she took in her surroundings. It was dark, the light sources only being from the warm lights of the fake candles and rustic chandeliers. She saw many pool tables as well as booths next to it. A bar in almost every corner of each room she was surrounded by. She began walking around slowly clenching her bag, everything was quiet besides the commotion of screaming girls and paparazzi, and the slow clacking of her boots. She approached the pool room where there was a row of 5 pool tables and a bar. Her fingers ran through the smooth green velvet and smooth brown wood. 

“Do you play?” said a deep rusty voice. (y/n) jumped and turned around only to be face-to-face with Dean Winchester. He was tall and intimidating from his broad shoulders down to his dress shoes, His emerald eyes gazed upon her as he asked the question, and she quickly took her hand away from the table. “I’m so sorry, they just told me to wait here.” she smiled awkwardly. Dean could only keep a stern look with a slight smirk while (y/n)’s smile went down as she cleared her throat, “If it’s ok with you, Runway would like to interview you about the grand opening.” she said quietly. 

“I asked if you play,” He said. (y/n) glanced at the pool table, “sometimes, I’m not very good at it.” she uttered. “Let’s take a seat,” he said before leading her to the bar near the pool tables. She sat on the stool, put her hands on her lap, and looked down nervously. ‘Damn he is hot’ she thought. As he came around the bar he said “Cas told me there were supposed to be two of you.” (y/n) almost forgot. “Oh yes, well Jessica came down with the flu and it’s pretty bad so I’m alone for a moment.” she smiled. “Want anything?” he asked as he began grabbing glass cups with the bar logo on them. (y/n) was taken aback, “drinks this early?” she asked him. Dean looked at her while he poured whiskey for himself. “Doesn’t hurt to drink early once in a while,” he said looking up at her with his offer still standing. “Sure, I’ll take red wine if you have it please, and thank you,” she said.

“We can begin with that interview if you want,” Dean said as he poured her wine and slid the cup toward her. (y/n) nodded once more as she began taking out the voice recorder and notes to write along with Jessica’s questions. She began digging through her bag in search of a pencil or pen she had forgotten to pack. “Fuck” she muttered to herself. Dean dug through the inside pocket of his suit and handed her a pen with his company name on it. ‘Winchester Elixirs’. She saw the pen handed to her and gently took it. “Thanks” she mumbled. She pressed record on the voice recorder and set it down between them. She cleared her throat “Um, so, this is for the special article for Runway Magazine, You are young at the age of 26 to have made a popular chain of bars, to what do you owe your s-” “To what do I owe my success?” he interrupted and scoffed. She looked at him awkwardly and nodded “Yep…” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yep…” 

“Okay um… We know that you are a business man but do you enjoy doing things outside of work?” She asked pressing the pen to her bottom lip and looking up at him to answer the question. 

Dean had his hands on the edge of the counter, his grip tensed with his knuckles going white. “I enjoy many physical pursuits as well as managing cars.” (y/n) nodded as she went through Jessica’s questions “You're unmarried- wait no. um… you had a mother that died- oh my god, I’m sorry I didn-” 

“Do you have an actual question Ms…?” 

“(l/n), but you can me (y/n)” she said. 

“Give me an actual question,” he said. She rapidly nodded and brought it down to look at Jessica’s notes. Her head came back up to look at him, and her eyes dropped with sadness. "Um, what is it like being a successful businessman and having to be a family man with your younger brother?"

Dean smirked thinking of his younger brother Sam, "To answer your first question, yes, my mother did die when I was very young. and my brother was only 6 months old. It's hard but. this is our harsh reality, what better way to just drink through it, why else do you think this empire is up and up, causing people to need to drink their thoughts away. Life, death, lousy interviews." he mumbled. (y/n) looked at him with sadness on her face. "Mr. Winchester, I'm so sorry it wasn't my place to ask that," she said. Dean could only look at her, he could tell she was biting the inside of her cheek and gripping her notebook from embarrassment, "Ask another question, go ahead I'm not gonna kill you." he scoffed, (y/n) smiled softly at him as she looked through Jessica's notes once more.

Are you gay?” she asked him with direct eye contact, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes widened, she just asked a personal question which he answered and now it's led to this ridiculous answer. As she looked back at her notes, she chuckled awkwardly “It’s written here I’m so-’’

“No, (y/n). I’m not gay,” he said with a small smirk and chuckle. She smiled “I’m sorry Jessica can be a little.”

“Intrusive?” 

“More like curious.” 

He saw her, the way her lips were in contact with his pen. He looked up and down at her taking in her curves, her hair, her eyes. “Mr. Winchester, you’re meeting is about to begin in an hour.” Benny interrupted. “Cancel it, I’m a little busy here,” he said to him before he left. “No, it’s ok I can leave if you want me to,” she said softly. 

His emerald eyes looked into hers, “I want to know more about you.” his voice rumbled. She drank a bit of her wine slowly, “There’s not much to know besides this.” she said glancing at the recorder and notes. “What do you like?” Dean asked. (y/n) was thinking for a second before saying “I like music. Especially old 70s Rock, my dad used to play a lot on his record player all the time when I was a girl.”

“Let me take a good guess, You look like a Led Zeppelin gal to me…” he said observing more of her features as he thought. (y/n) looked down for a minute before she laughed softly. “Well I like Fleetwood Mac mostly, and Derek & The Dominos. Those are what I’m listening to the most right now,” she said. Dean hummed. 

“Let’s continue,” he said. (y/n) nodded once more and began asking more questions Jessica had written down even though she was skipping most of them. By the time they were done (y/n) cussed at herself for not asking many questions and even the ones she did ask were dumb and stupid almost everybody knew the answer to them before they even saw his response. “Thanks for the drink,��� she said smiling. “I hope you got everything you needed sweetheart.” He said to her. Though she knew he said that to other girls it made her stomach flutter. “Thanks, I think you only answered about five questions,” she said before leaving. “Thank you for your time.” she smiled before leaving the bar. Dean looked down at her bag to see the slip of paper halfway out, so when she turned her head he quickly grabbed the piece of paper from her bag and pocketed the questions, it was then he realized she accidentally took his pen with her. 

When she got in her car she sighed to herself and let out a deep breath. “Holy shit,” she muttered in her head all she could think of was how hot Dean was. The pictures the press took of him were no match for how he looked in person.

When she got home she saw Jessica on her computer with tissues surrounding her. “Jess, what did I tell you about worki-” 

“I fucking love you so much (y/n),” Jessica shouted as the sounds of clicking surrounded the living room. “What?” (y/n) asked in confusion. Jessica looked up at her and smiled big “Dean just emailed me and he answered every question, this is perfect.” She exclaimed. “So…” She said with mischief. (y/n) took off her sweater and threw it on the couch, she looked at Jessica with confusion, “So what?” she asked. 

“What was he like?” Jessica asked with her whole body moving toward her as (y/n) sat down on the coffee table. “Well…he was fine I guess,” she said. Jessica looked at her skeptically, “Fine? Just fine?” she said in confusion. (y/n) scoffed as she began taking off her boots. “Well, he was nice he gave me some free wine. He was very formal…and clean,” she said. Jessica laughed “Clean?” she asked. (y/n) thought about him more oblivious to Jessica laughing. “He was nice, Intimidating…very intimidating. I mean I can understand the hype around him,” she said looking up at Jessica who was grinning at her. “Jess… Why are you looking at me like that?” (y/n) smiled. 

“Like what?” (y/n) rolled her eyes before going to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich. “Whatever Jessica.” she sighed. Jessica was curious one last time and looked him up online. She clicked on images and began scrolling, “But (y/n) you’ve got to admit he is so hot.” (y/n) scoffed “Well, he could be when you're into that…kind of…human.” she said finishing making her sandwich. “By the way, I asked if he was gay. That was so embarrassing. He looked at me like I was a freak.” (y/n) laughed. Jessica apologized. “I'm sorry but hey, whenever we see photos of him he has never been photographed with a woman before so I just thought-”

“Jessica have you ever thought that maybe this guy wants to keep his life private I mean he’s already in the media so much.” (y/n) said. Jessica smirked “Awwe look at you defending him.” she teased.

“I’m going to my room.” (y/n) said with a mouthful of her sandwich. Jessica immediately got up and coughed a bit before jumping in front of her. “Wait, (y/n) I'm sorry. Can you make me some of those too?” she asked politely. (y/n) rolled her eyes before going back to the kitchen to make her a sandwich. “Thanks (y/n). I’ll be right back Mother Nature calls,” she said. (y/n) looked over at Jessica’s computer and saw the images of Dean and his dark blonde hair and emerald eyes, She closed Jessica’s laptop before making the sandwich to try and get her mind off him. 

“(y/n)!” (y/n) turned around to see one of her friends, she smiled as he continued walking next to her. “Hey, James.” she smiled. “So, a couple of friends are going to this photography exhibition and going to dinner afterward. Wanna come?” he asked hopeful she would say yes. He has liked her since she got promoted to their floor with Jessica. “Well that sounds fun but I can’t I’ve got a lot of writing to do for the new Winchester article. So I’ll be in my office all day.” she sighed as she stopped dead in her tracks. James’s face went down slightly “No, it’s fine we can hang out some other time.” he said bringing his arm behind his neck and rubbing it awkwardly. (y/n) smiled “I promise I’ll make it up to you guys, we can hang when Jessica feels better so the whole group can hang. Ok?” she said oblivious to what he was trying to do. James nodded before she walked off to her office. She closed the door and sat down on her desk. She opened her laptop and began writing away. 

It had been a few hours until one of her secretaries called “Hi (y/n), Dean Winchester is asking to see you. Do I send him to your office?” she asked. Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach fluttered once more. (y/n) picked up the phone “Yeah, Jenna send him in, thank you.” she said. She heard the door knock. “Come in!” she said. Dean Winchester came into her office and looked around. He was dressed in a casual red flannel and jeans rather than his usual tux. “Hey, Please have a seat if you want.” (y/n) said, smiling at him. He continued looking more and saw autographs from celebrities and pictures of her and friends. "Did you want a drink? I have some water and apple juice?" She asked politely, Dean pulled out a chair and sat down "No thanks, sweetheart." He said casually

“What can I help you with?” she asked. Dean looked at her like he was observing her. She was worried if she had something on her face or her teeth. 

“Just wondering if you got the email I sent to your partner?” He asked. (y/n) glanced at him from her laptop “Um. Yes she did thank you for that by the way I know her questions were a bit invasive.” she said with her eyebrows up in sympathy. “No, it’s fine I was more than happy to answer them,” he said to her. “Is that it?” she asked politely. “Did you grow up in this town?” he asked her. (y/n) nodded “Yep born and raised.” she said smiling. Dean smirked “I need to pick up a few things, do you know a grocery store near here that sells whipped cream and zip ties?” (y/n) looked at him curiously “Well there’s a grocery store nearby that sells most of those things, it’s actually around the corner of Rose Street,” she smiled “What on earth are you planning? sounds like a torture device” she joked. “Are you baking something?" she asked curious and oblivious.

Dean smirked at her and tilted his head. “Yeah, what would you recommend I get?” he asked. (y/n) thought for a moment leaning back on her chair. “Well, maybe an apron to cover yourself to protect your clothes.” She said gesturing to his flannel. His smirk grew bigger “I’ll just take off all my clothes.” he said in a low rough voice. (y/n) could almost choke from his statement. “Ok…no clothes– I mean no apron…” She smiled and cleared her throat and began taking a sip of her water. “Thanks, how is your roommate feeling by the way?” 

“She’s a little better, right now she's working a little from home but she's having trouble finding a good photo especially the permissions and stuff so-” 

“If she’d want an original I can swing by here tomorrow,” he suggested (y/n) was taken aback. “You would do that?” she asked softly. “Yeah.” It was as simple as that. He agreed and (y/n) was feeling ecstatic inside. Dean took out his wallet to pull out his business card with his number “I’m staying at the Pacifica Lux Hotel call me anytime.” he said before walking out. “Ok bye…” she waved awkwardly. She leaned back against her chair, she mentally smacked her head from how embarrassing that whole conversation was. She took a deep breath before continuing with her work. She decided to wait until she was home to surprise Jessica.

A/N: Hello! I'm already having fun planning this. Fifty Shades is honestly so bad it's good. Trust me, besides the sex scenes, the plot is kind of good, lmao. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for liking and reposting the announcement, especially to my followers! Again, my suggestion box is open for writing new stories between this book's waiting chapters. Thanks for reading. I'll see you all next Friday!

[cuteandhughesy]

Us. | William Nylander

summary: you work as one of the assistant chefs for the toronto maple leafs organization, often taking charge and helping with team buffets and meetings. your job is hectic and crazy and you wouldn’t give it up for the world. william nylander can relate, and his role on the toronto maple leafs is his top priority. when the two of you end up falling for one another - and being pushed away from each other, the job becomes more complicated.

[word count] 5.5k

warnings: SFW! pre-established relationship | angst | brief mean!william | kissing | suggestive themes | read at your own discretion

a/n: based off this request! I went a little off topic with the plot, but the general idea is very much inspired by the anon request! this fic moves between past and present timelines, so if the paragraphs are in italics, it is my way of writing in the past! I hope you all enjoy :)

🎵us. by gracie abrams (feat. taylor swift)

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when you applied to culinary school, you never thought your journey would lead you to your current position. of course when studying to be a professional cook you are aiming to work in the field, no matter the level of hierarchy you end up at - but you never thought you'd get this lucky.

at just 23 years old and 5 months fresh out of culinary school, you were hired to work as one of the assistant chefs for the toronto maple leafs culinary team. getting hired at such a prestigious job at your age was very uncommon, and when you'd gotten the classic you're hired phone call, you initially thought it was your younger brother trying to play a prank on you.

news flash it wasn't your brother and now you're 3 months past your first day on the job.

throughout the first few weeks of your job, you were understandably nervous. your head chef had 30 years of experience, you were cooking for athletes with very strict and varying diets, and you were new. thankfully that very first week, the leafs were on the road, so you had time to train and meal prep in a somewhat relaxed environment.

you spent more time with the players than you were expecting to, which although was surreal was also very nerve wracking, and you were scared one of them wouldn't like the way you scrambled eggs and throw them back in your face. when damien - your head chef - assigned you to work the buffets for team meals, that egg fear became even more intense.

but you were pleasantly suprised with how nice everyone was. you had heard rumors about professional athletes and how they were rude and ignorant, angry if they didn't get their way, but the toronto maple leafs players were just the opposite. sure, some of them were quiet and particular about food, but they are just professional athletes who want to preform their best at any means necessary - you didn’t take offence to that.

in the 3 months you had been organizing and running team meals, you've learned a lot about the players. you've noticed that jake mccabe never fails to tell you a dad joke when he sees you, and how mitch marner always complains about being full but never fails to come up for seconds. you notice how joseph woll is always the last player to serve himself, and how david kampf, no matter how he feels, always smiles and uses manners with him.

but who's habits you've really noticed over the course of your time as an assistant chef is william nylander's. in fact, it's not just his habits that you see, but it's everything else too. the way at breakfast he always struggles between choosing sausage or bacon, and how he's never shy about asking for food he doesn't see on the table - which at first had you taken back, but now it's something you look forward to.

you stand behind the buffet table with ridged shoulders. your eyes are moving over everything at a rather frantic pace. it's your first time on the buffet table and to say you were nervous was an understatement. not only was this the first time you would be seeing the mouths you were cooking for, but it was one of your first shifts out of training.

as players slowly filtered through the doors of the dining room and gathered their serving of breakfast food, you've been consistently on edge. you were constantly checking that everything look presentable and that it was all stocked.

"do I feel like sausages or bacon?"

the question has you snapping out of the frantic organizational process going on in your head. you look up to see a tall, blonde and presumably hockey player. even though you've lived in the city you whole life, you’ve never followed sports. sure you know famous athletes names from the press, but you'd never be able to put a name to one's face.

you blink, "sorry?"

finally the man in question looks away from the meat options and you're immediately taken back. he's very handsome - a mature handsome that has you feeling petite and giddy.

the corner of his lip quirks up. "I don't know if I want bacon or sausage, so I was thinking out loud."

you blush, "oh, i'm sorry. I thought you were talking to me."

"I think i'm feeling bacon." he shrugs, but he makes no move to plate the food, his eyes still on you. "unless you think I should go with sausage."

you lick your lip, moistening the rather dry skin. "well I always think if you're second guessing your first choice, maybe the second choice is the one you're truly needing."

the blond hums thoughtfully, "that's smart." with that he grabs three round breakfast sausages and loads them onto his plate. the remaining sausages slide down from the loss of the ones he took, and your itching to reach for the tongues and adjust them again.

"you must be new."

you exhale shakily, "is it that obvious?"

he shrugs again, a smile still on his round face. he moves onto the eggs, using the tongues to grab some of the over easy style and adds them to his plate. "i'm william."

"y/n." you nod professionally and politely. "i'm the new assistant chef and the new director of  the dining hall and menus."

"so, y/n, you're saying this isn't the only team ill see you?" william is now moved onto the display of fresh cut fruits, and he's taking a dent sized amount of orange slices. you'd think his question was one stemmed from disappointment if it wasn't for william's playful smile and the twinkle in his eyes.

you find yourself smiling as well. "no it's not."

"good."

since that very first meeting between you both, you and william found yourself in this dance of sorts, where the two of you would move around one another in ways to complete the other. you and william just worked.

once you were aware of william's lighthearted, carefree personality, you embraced his teasing remarks and sultry smirks. you'd look forward to taking his orders and serving his food, and he look forward to you as well.

william was instantly attracted and impressed by your work ethic and skills, especially at your age. he had seen chefs in this organization who took years before reaching your levels, and he couldn't help but grow enamoured for you.

what started as friendly banter and conversation slowly evolved into something more flirtatious- intimate.

william would make a point to wait around after meals to walk you out to your car, just so he could chat to you and watch you flush under his teasing words and gaze. he would always spend too much time chatting with you at the buffet table and then have to scarf his food down because time was limited afterwards. william would text you all day; compliments on your food and looks, funny tweets he'd think you'd enjoy, invitations for movie nights, simple small talk and questions.

it didn't take long for that to progress and 2 and a half months into your job, you and william were practically dating.

you never properly discussed labels, but neither you and william harped over it. you were both happy with the right now of it all.

you both decided to keep your relationship separate from your work life. nobody needed to know what was happening between you both, and you were very adamant about that. you didn't want anyone, player or staff member, to treat you differently because you were with william, and he wanted the same.

but it was hard to try and ignore william - it was and always has been. you'd find yourselves locked in knowing stares with one another, and you couldn’t help yourselves from standing suspiciously close while trying to keep your voices hushed and inconspicuous. the accidental not-so-accidental brushing of limbs, sneaky smiles and even occasionally sneaking off to unoccupied rooms to be alone. you and william weren't doing the best at showing restraint and being secretive.

so although neither of flat out told anybody apart of the leafs organization about your blooming relationship, it didn't take much to figure out something was happening between you.

you walk through the training hallways with a determined step. you've finally gotten the menu submission you'd been hounding william for (at work and after) and when he dropped it off to you this morning, you thought you could finally rest and get to work - but no.

he was trying to be funny. instead of properly filling out the required form for the kitchen, he'd chosen to write either ridiculous answers like he preferred ketchup flavoured fruits or overly sexual things like he preferred you for dessert.

with the original forms in hand as well as a brand new set for him to fill out (correctly this time) you continue to weave through training staff as you walk through the athletic department of the arena. you knew that william was in the gym right now, just like he told you when he sneakily kissed you goodbye after giving you his forms this morning.

you should've known something was up when last night william asked if anybody would be seeing the menu submissions besides you, and when you said that it was only for you, his smirk grew.

you enter the open doors of the physical therapy room when you caught sight of his familiar thick head of blonde hair.

you approach william with determination.

a couple of the guys around notice you and they make snickering noises like little school boys do when a classmate gets called down to the office. the sound has william looking up just as you reach him, his conversation with liligren and jarnkrok coming to a stop.

"I need you to fill out a new form." you hand him the blank papers quickly.

williams smirk grows ridiculously large. "why? what's wrong with my other one?"

you sigh, "can you just do it babe-" you cut yourself off as a horrified look takes over your face. williams eyes widen, but he looks rather enamoured with your slip up and that has you feeling even more horrified. "william. I mean william."

jarnkrok and liligren both snicker knowingly, and calle even pats william's back in a congratulatory manner as the two swedes walk away from you.

william takes the empty menu submission form from your hand. "I'll fill this out."

you exhale shakily, "much appreciated."

he eyes you, "even though I think the real reason is because you want to frame the original one in your apartment." william's iconic laugh follows suit, and you find yourself hiding your face behind the inappropriate forms.

calling william babe wasn't even the most damaging slip up that williams teammates had caught you to in, and there were many close calls of almost being caught doing undeniable acts.

"willy," you sigh heavily, basking in the feeling of his calloused, large hands running over ass. "we should stop"

he hums against your neck, not once detaching his lips from there attack on your neck. clearly william has no interest in stopping the exchange between you and to further his point he rolls his clothed crotch against yours once again.

once william found out you were still at the rink after the team finished up with practice, he had practically dragged you away from food prepping and into the first available spare room.

it ended being the staff room, which was definitely a risky spot, but that didn't stop william from sitting you on the lunch table and immediately begin kissing you with need.

after a good 3 minutes of hot and heavy making out, you managed to reluctantly detach your mouths. but that didn't stop william from moving further down your body with his lips - the sucking against your neck a reminder of just that.

"somebody could walk in." you remind him.

"I know." he pants, pulling away and finally ending the assault on your neck in favour of meeting your eyes. you're both flushed and breathless, but the knowing smirks don't disappear off either of your faces.

"I need to get back to work." you slip off the table, brushing his erection through his pants as you do so. william groans out - a combination of uncomfortable and pleasure, his dick twitching in his pants.

you giggle, adjusting your crumpled apron.

just as you do, the door swings open and a confused looking auston matthews enters. once he spots willaim his shoulders relax, "dude i've texted you three times - you're my ride today remember?"

then the scene infront of him clicks, and auston is immediately smirking. the sight of your messy hair and plump lips combined with william's red cheeks and akward hand placement, he knows everything.

"yeah, right. sorry man I was just helping y/n/n with something."

"yeah, for sure."

when auston turns away to leave the room, william following behind him slowly, you make sure to whack william on the arm as he walks by.

all he can do is laugh.

for those weeks of constantly spending time with one another and basking in the honeymoon phase you two so desperately loved, was something that you cherished.

but a week ago, something changed.

it started when one of your closests friends, jenna, had come down from out east to visit. you had obviously told her about the situation with william, and how you two were thriving together in your secret relationship.

"wait," jenna's eyebrows pull together in confusion and her hands shoots out in your direction as if to halt your story. "why are you keeping it a secret."

you shrug, "because of work. we don't want it to complicate anything."

"what would it complicate?"

you open your mouth to speak, but no noise comes out. when you try and think of a reason why your and williams situation has been hush hush, you can't find one that actually makes sense.

jenna continues, her tone gentle. "I love you and i'm so glad you're happy, but I think you should have a conversation with william. it doesn't make sense to me why you guys wouldn't tell anybody about this thing going on, as well as why you haven't put labels on it yet."

your shoulders deflate. you can't help but feel insecure and unsure now about your relationship with william. was he embarrassed of the age gap between you and didn't want his teammates to get on him about your immaturity? did william not want to sacrifice his job with the leafs by putting a label on you? was he worried he'd get in trouble or traded if he was caught with somebody so young who worked for the leaf organization? was he worried about the fans dissecting a relationship between you both and calling him out for dating you?

was your relationship doomed from the start and eventually meant to crumble.

when you started to really think about it, you get plunged into a deep, dark hole of guilt and regret and fear all sourced from your and william's relationship and the secrecy that came with it.

because what if william didn't want a girlfriend out of you because of your age and inexperience with life and he was only looking for a physical partner temporarily.

so your next day at work when william tried to flirt with you while you plated the various salads at the grab table, you didn't give him any eye contact and mumbled some excuse about being really busy.

willy was confused of course, but he brushed off your dismissal. he believed when you said you were busy, and he knows how important your job is to you and he didn't want to disturb you while you're working - but the next day it was the same thing. you were practically ignoring him and when william did come up and try and start your usual fun conversations, you were short with him.

after a few days of the same unbothered demeanour from you, william gave up on trying to crack you. he was clueless on what shifted between you, especially when you won't tell him, so he has no choice but to believe you are no longer interested in him.

and that hurt, so instead of acting like a grown adult and trying to find a solution to this mystery problem, william pretended that he was unaffected by your sudden absence.

——

morgan rielly must be able to sense your shift of energy, and instead of bringing up his favourite taylor swift song of the week (which is obviously a weekly discussion between you two), he only sends you a closed mouth smile as he plates up his meal.

it makes you frown, because you think william must've mentioned something to someone on the team, that now has the once interactive, bubbly roster acting tame and quiet around you.

you almost say something to morgan about his change and plead for him to talk about your favourite blonde musician, but you let him go.

this is what you didn't want to happen. the awkwardness and always having to step around eggshells because of your relationship with william (or currently, lack there of) was something you never wanted for you, william or anybody in the organization.

you never wanted to end up feeling so lost and out of place at work and when it came to william. you can understand your way of dealing with your insecurities wasn't ideal, but you can't help but to shut down when something doesn't feel right - you've always been that way.

but william wasn't helping in any way. not that it was his fault, you can understand that. but you can't understand why he now seems to be showing absolutely no interest in you or why he’s stopped trying.

and you know you should've had a conversation like jenna suggested and figured out the labels and deeper meanings of the relationship you and william have - or had. but you weren’t thinking of having a talk when you were spiralling.

you needed and wanted william to pull you out of that state and reassure, not act like he doesn’t know who you are anymore.

your thoughts are halted as out of the corner of your eye the movement of matthew knies catches your attention. the rookie sends you his usual smile, seemingly unaware of the thick tension weaving throughout the dining area. like usual, matthew loads his plate with mini hash browns, and the normalcy of it all has you laughing.

he looks up at you, a smile widening across his attractive face. amused and seemingly pleased, matthew moves to plate himself up some scrambled eggs, although he doesn't take much because he claims that eggs taste like shit. thankfully, you convinced him to at least take a spoonful at every breakfast.

"I didn't think I'd get to see you smile today. you've been a little off for a few days....are you okay?" matthew's eyes flicker between you and the fruit platter, eyeing your exhausted features.

you're momentarily taken back, blinking quickly to try and see if you're hallucinating what's happening right in front of you. but matthew is very much there and asking you that question. you clear your throat, "i'll be fine, thank you, matthew."

"good," matthew smiles before taking a gigantic bite of some plain toast, crumbs falling over his team branded hoodie. he doesn't seem to mind the mess and he wipes away any lingering toast from his face with the back of his free hand. his warm smile has yet to fade, and you find yourself joining him. matthew continues, "you look so pretty when you smile - I've been missing it these pass few days."

he walks away then, leaving you a flustered and shocked messed at the expense of his flirtatious compliments. you're taken back momentarily, and you're left staring at the spot matthew was just standing in, going over the mini exchange in your head.

you briefly wonder if matthew has always been flirtatious with you, but you'd been too previously distracted with william to notice.

matthew is your age and attractive and still new to the whole sports lifestyle just like you are. maybe matthew was better match for you and trying to build a strong relationship with him was more realistic than it ever was with william.

the warmth of william nose running along your cheek is comforting. the tickling, soothing movement is almost lulling you into a sleep and your eyelids feel heavy as you blink lazily.

against you, william shifts. he shuffles upwards on your mattress, and the soft rustling sound of your crisp sheets follow suit.

your head lolls towards him against your fully pillow and you're met with william's blue eyes twinkling back at you. he's leaning on his palm as his elbow supports his body weight. his hair is still tousled from your hands running through his locks during your previous activities and william also looks a little sleepy.

his flushed cheeks are surely a reflection of yours, and his chest hair is still dampened with sweat - sticking flat against his hard pecks.

"what?" you questions gently, eyeing his sleepy smirk. you turn onto your side and tuck yourself against him. the angle is a little awkward, but you still manage to connect and you wrap your arms around him, letting your chin press in between his pecks.

he looks down at you softly, that same fond expression still there. "I just really like you, y/n/n." william's words are barely audible, and if you had emptied your dehumidifier like you had planned too earlier, the noise would've drowned out his confession.

but you didn't empty it and you can hear every soft word perfectly.

you smile. "I really like you too, willy." to further your point, you press a quick kiss to the skin of his chest. that slaty sweat flavour on his skin is another reminder of what you and william had just finished doing only a few minutes, and that has you flushing all over again.

with his free hand, william gently takes ahold of your face, tilting your head back so you were once again looking at him. you can see the thoughts running through his mind, and when william gently knaws the skin of his bottom lip around his never ending smirk, you wonder if he's also thinking what you are.

suddenly william drops down, and his hands wrap around your waist so he can fully roll you onto your back once again.

you giggle, your legs falling open automatically to make room for william. he leans down and begins to attack your flushed face with quick, loud kisses.

but that's not true - you know that now. it was never hard with william. the rather insignificant age gap between you was never an obstacle and neither was your job position. the only obstacle seemed to be how you were too nervous to put a label on the relationship in fear of ruining what you had.

you think what you and william had was too special to just ignore and give up on - you don't want to give up on him.

a hand reaches for one of the silver serving tongues in front of you, and you look up to find william standing there.

he looks away from you as soon as you make eye contact, and he busies himself by serving himself some of the pork sausages.

you clear your throat nervously.  "hey."

at the sound of your voice, william looks back at you. his eyebrows are pulled together tightly and he analyzes you confusingly. his uncertain gaze has you nerves deepening, but you don't back down - determined to begin the process of moving forward with william.

"hi." finally, he responds. he shuffles further down the table, searching for the fried eggs to add to his new spread. you follow him from the other side of the long buffet table, eyeing him carefully.

"can we talk later?" you words are hushed as you try to not attract any unwanted attention to you both. you're still not sure if william told anyone and if he did, you don't know exactly what he said. so you were still feeling a bit weary of that situation, but you were ready to talk about it and clear your rollercoaster of thoughts.

william almost scoffs, the once usual happy and relaxed laughter you were so used to hearing from him has quickly turned into something more unsettling and your heart just about bursts. "now you want to talk?"

you blink. "I-"

he stops you from continuing, his plate of food long forgotten as he directs his attention to you completely. "because last week when you started acting all entitled and uninterested you didn't even have the decency to give me fucking eye contact. but now you want to talk? why, so you can come up with some excuse and tell me that you like me and want to move forward? well too bad because i'm over it."

you can feel the emotion building thickly in your throat and your eyes start to blur as you desperately try and hold in the waterfall of tears wanting to slip out. "so you don't want to at least talk about this? about us?"

he shakes his head in disbelief, that same scoffy laughter making another appearance. william meets your water filled eyes, and his face shifts. his mouth falls into a straight line and his eyes change to a more somber state. "what us?"

you look away to try and hide the way your mouth trembles with emotion - pain, hurt, sadness, embarrassment. you didn't actually think everything you'd be insecure and worried about would become the truth.

you don't give william the satisfaction of seeing you upset. you turn away and signal to another kitchen personal to take over. thankfully, they make their way over and as soon as their feet move, so do yours and you're leaving the dining area as fast as you can. 

you barley make it through the busy hallway and back through into the kitchen staff room. thankfully because of the working hour, nobody else was in the room because as soon as the door swung shut behind you, the building of emotions all come out and you could no longer stop the flurry of tears.

you cover your mouth to try and mask the sound of the sobbing sounds of heartbreak, desperate to hold on to any dignity you have left.

your embarrassment quickly turns into anger.

william saying such hurtful words to you in a room full of both your colleagues, even if they weren't listening, is just aggravating. even if william never believed that you and him had anything meaningful and he believed your relationship wasn't leading to anything serious, he should of at least had respect for you.

the door opens behind you, and you know it's william immediately. your body reacts to his presence in the way it always has. your skin prickles with pleasure as if it was anticipating his touch and your face heats up further regardless of your current pain.

"please, william if you've come to further embarrass me and make me feel like shit i'd rather you just leave."

you've never called him anything other than willy. when the two of you first staring seeing one another, you told him the name william was too formal for him and willy better displayed his fun and lighthearted personality.

and even though everyone called him by his nickname, something about it coming from your lips was much more intimate.

he shakes his head even though you can't see him. your back is still turned to him because you don't want him too see you so distraught from his words - you can't give him the satisfaction of your raw emotion.

"I didn't mean that, y/n/n." william's words are gentle and full of guilt. "I shouldn't have said that."

you turn, eyes pointed with anger. "no you shouldn't of."

williams face furthers into a regretful expression. "I'm sorry." he walks further into the room, now standing close enough to touch you. but he doesn't try and touch you, and he keeps to himself regardless of how badly he wants to hold you and touch you after days of not.

"I thought you liked me." your words a breathless whine, and you wrap your arms around yourself in search of comfort.

"yeah and I thought the same." he admits sadly. "but then something changed and I don't know what the fuck happened. I felt completely left in the dark because you just completely stopped spending time with me, and talking to me and looking at me. it felt like you didn't like me at all, y/n/n."

you use your shoulder to wipe away the drying tears left sitting on your cheek. the little blush still on your face smudges into your white chefs top, making you look even more of a mess. "I was in my own head," you admit your defeat, "all these insecurities kept getting in the way of what was right infront of me. I thought that you wanted to keep us a secret because you were embarrassed of me - my age and my inexperience were something that you wanted to keep hidden."

you continue, "I thought you didn't want to further our relationship into one that held more serious value- had a title - because you didn't want to build something with somebody so young and lacking of life knowledge and experience. so I pushed you away because I didn't want to end up hurt when you inevitably admitted you could never love me that way - that I was just a fucking booty call."

he shakes his head, lips tugging downwards into a painful frown. "I don't care that you're younger than me and your age has never been an issue when it comes to my feelings about you and our relationship. just because you're younger doesn't not mean that you're inexperienced, y/n/n. in fact you're one of the smartest and experienced people I know."

"so what was it that stopped you from bringing up what this relationship between us was? what were you working towards, willy? when it came to me?"

william almost turns into a puddle at the use of his nickname. he has missed you and your presence so much these past few days of no contact, it's been killing him.

as soon as you walked away from him and his hurtful insinuation back in the dining room, william immediately knew he messed up. not just with the burst of anger only a few minutes ago, but with how he handled the relationship between you two after you seemingly were shutting down and turning away from him.

"when I noticed that something was going on with you and in your head, I should've been more supportive and I should've reached out to try and have a conversation to help squash these fears, and insecurities you were dealing with. i'm so sorry, y/n/n." he breathes out, pausing to collect his racing mind. "I want to be your boyfriend and the entire time we've been together I was so desperately hoping that you would want the same. I don't care if anybody thinks of me differently and I don't care if people think that we aren't good - I think we're great."

"willy," you huff, arms falling back to sit against your sides. "i'm sorry that I shut down instead of just talking to you - I feel so stupid." you pause shakily, trying to blink back the new wave of tears. william reaches out to you then, rubbing his hand comfortably around your hip. it's the comfort you've been missing - craving. you continue, "I really like you, willy. I wish that this never happened between us."

he nods understandably, squeezing the dip of your hip as if to tell you that you're not stupid, it is okay, I really like you too. "where do you want to go from here?"

"I want to...." you pause. "I want to start over. I want to date you for real with the labels and the pictures and everything else in between." you bite your lip nervously, trying to gauge william's face to try and understand what he's thinking. "where do you want to go from here, honestly?"

"I want to pick up right where we left off. I don't want this miscommunication to change our relationship anymore than it already has. the only thing I want to change is that I can call you my girlfriend and refer to you as such all the time."

"I want that too."

"good," william smiles, pressing his body against yours. with the new position, you have no other choice but to bring your arms up around around his neck - not that you minded of course. “I really like us, y/n.”

“I really like us, too.” your confession is a tickling whisper against his lips as william can’t help but let his mouth brush over yours, so close to connecting them together is a much needed kiss.

[wanderinginksplot]

It's time to start treating creators like people.

FUCK, it hurt listening to Anthony Burch talk about the pressures he felt writing the campaign for season two of Dungeons and Daddies, especially when he said it was because he read too much commentary from people online. [Dungeons and Daddies, Teen Talk (Season 2 After Show), 41:18]

Yes, he's a professional writer/podcaster. Yes, professional writers are paid to write. Yes, you can hold them to a different standard... IF you're paying for the product. With a free podcast, we really need to work off of fanfic rules - don't like, don't read. Don't leave 'constructive criticism' unless it's specifically requested. And ALWAYS post like the creator is going to read it on their worst day.

Anthony is an incredible DM who was faced with a near-impossible situation. He had to write an entirely new campaign to be played by unfamiliar characters after an incredibly successful and beloved first season.

Anthony and the rest of the team could have given us a lazy, sitcom-esque second season of the same plot with the original dads, but everyone would have gotten sick of it. You all want to complain about the Marvel Formula, but when someone tries to break out into something new, everyone shits on them online.

So, yeah. It's time to treat creators like people. Especially when they're sharing their creativity and giving you hours of free entertainment.

[papurgaatika]

Keep A Leftover Light Burning

Pairing: joel miller x Ceramicist! reader

MINORS DNI WITH MY WORKS PLEASE !!

A/N: howdy howdy and welcome all now this is a very special fic for @burntheedges for the @pedrostories secret santa event!! I hope you like it and find it as fun as i did. I think this isnt a trope that we see very often, but after a healthy dose of tiktoks (and watching the scene from ghost again) this came into being. As always thank you to my beloveeeeeeed @carlynkurin for beta reading, and peace and love on the planet earth from me, xoxo Remember that TLOU is created by a zionist so please look at the resources at the end of this fic and in my bio on ways to donate and educate yourself!! tags: Ceramicist reader, smut, porn with plot, oral (f! receiving), publicish sex, strangers to lovers, lots of wet clay, joels arms require their own tag Word count: 3.4k Summary: Sarah forces joel to go take a day to himself, pushing him in the direction of your pottery studio. Despite calling yourself professional and priding yourself on your morals, you can’t help but… fantasize about the man in front of you. 

Joel needs to take time for himself. He’s always on, always ready to go at the flip of a switch,  never taking time to sit and breathe. Everyone knows how hard he works, and despite what he says, Sarah knows that he needs to do something calming. Something that doesn’t involve carving wood or going to the shooting range with Tommy on the off chance that both of them are free for long enough. So being the perfect daughter that she is, she enrolls him in a ceramics workshop that she had gone to once. It was a small studio, tucked away next to the Palace Theatre in downtown Georgetown, soft and quaint in the suburbs, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Sarah managed to get a hold of you over the phone and explain the situation, a smile threatening to creep onto your cheeks at the sheer amount of care she had for her father. You tell her not to worry about the price and that you would stay open for an extra hour next weekend just to get him in, a squeal on the other side is all the confirmation you need as you pencil it into your schedule. 

Sunday rolls around and Joel… Well, he was being Joel. Stubborn and groaning as Sarah essentially pushes him out the door to make the drive up IH-35, complaining about “I build things for a living,” and “it’ll be a waste of time.” but Sarah is hearing none of it and one look from her has Joel slipping on his boots. In any other circumstance, he would have praised her for holding her ground, but right now he just sighs and gets into his truck realizing just how much of his stubbornness had rubbed off on her. 

He ends up at the studio just before 5, the sun starting to dip under the horizon, casting beautiful pinks and oranges around the sky. He’s still bitching and moaning as he makes his way to the building, taking a deep breath as he steps inside. You barely even hear the jingle of the little bell above your door, too busy fighting with your sink: now clogged with clay from your last class with 3 kids under ten who didn't understand that when you told them not to dump clay inside the sink. You had meant it. “Fucking thing!” you groan, poking a paintbrush into the drain, hoping to get enough clay out of it so that it would run again. 

Joel stares at you, half confused and half amused with the scene in front of him; your hair a mess, your apron covered in clay and paint, hacking into your sink in ways that he knows won't do you any good. He clears his throat after watching you struggle for about 30 seconds, stifling a smirk when you jump and look back at him. “Need some help? I’m s’possed to have a class now- my daughter-” he shakes his head at the idea of sharing the whole story again “Did I get the wrong time?” 

You look absolutely mortified, dropping the paintbrush in the basin and giving the man in front of you a weak smile “No! No, I just got a little... occupied… you’re on time” You wipe your hands on the front of your apron, not even bothering to attempt to fix your hair, before walking over to greet him. Properly this time. “You must be Joel. Your daughter was very persuasive on the phone.” 

Joel’s smirk shifts into a full-blown smile at the mention of Sarah, the pride he has for the girl shining through. “Yeah, she’s a good one.” he praises. Despite his reluctance to listen to her advice, he knows just how good her heart is, and how much she cares about him. I “Ain't sure what she told ya, and to be honest she hasn't told me what I'm s’possed to be doing here either”

You can't help but smile at his words, the pure adoration for his daughter combined with the slight nervousness in his voice was endearing in ways you weren’t sure how to describe. “No worries, I promise it isn’t anything scary.” You glance around the studio. Outside, the sky had begun to darken, the soft lighting of the different lamps inside the building casting the both of you in a warm glow. The glaze on the ceramics you had on display was a wide assortment of colors: intricately painted motifs, bright splashes of colors, silly cartoons, almost anything you could think of. You pick up a faded apron and hand it to him, watching him stretch as he puts it on. A brief flicker of guilt passes through you as you ogle him, but then you see the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt and the guilt gives way to something primitive. 

He turns back around and you look away with a cough, a slight warmth creeping up your cheeks when he raises his brows at you. “Right um-” you stumble over your words, more unrefined than you would have liked to be “Sorry, sorry. We’ll start with choosing what you’ll want to make. I always recommend something easy, like a bowl or a spoon rest..” you pick up a pencil cup that had been painted to look like a pencil and a spoon rest that was a simple blue color, to show him “I already have the clay prepped so we can get started straight on th-” 

Joel cuts you off as he glances around the studio, pointing at a lidded cookie jar “That one.” His words leave no room for argument but certainly bring questions up to the surface. “I'm gonna do that one.” You had been making ceramics for years, starting with air-dry clay in school, continuing to use the wheel throughout university, and eventually quitting your day job to start the studio. You knew the skill level it took to make a jar, the precision and technique to keep it balanced, and it just wasn’t a beginner project. 

“I'm sorry, the cookie jar?” You try not to let your voice betray your disbelief. It wasn't that you lacked faith in the man in front of you, you made sure to be confident in all of your clients, it was simply an issue of skill. “I don't know if that’s the one for you to start out with, it’s a little advanced-” 

But Joel was having none of it. If he was going to be forced to sit here and make something to “calm him down” then damn it it was going to be something that takes skill and effort. Something that he could bring home to Sarah and brag about slightly. Was it a little strange that he wanted to one-up his daughter and prove that he didn't need to be here? Maybe a little bit, but he didn't dwell on it. “Yes ma'am.” His voice is set in the decision. “I'm sure it can't be that bad, let me at it.” 

Never one to truly tell people no, you simply nod and get the prepared clay out. It was soft and slippery, staining your hands a taupe color as you brought it to the wheel, plopping it down on the wheel, and pressing down on the sides to make sure it stuck. “Alright, so with the jar..” you gesture for him to take a seat in front of the wheel, moving to stand behind him “It’ll be a little bit more involved than something simple, but you're in good hands I promise.” Your words are soft, and frankly, you were excited. You didn't throw fun projects with clients as much as you’d like to anymore, focusing more on teaching the basics, so this was honestly a welcomed surprise. “We’ll just start with getting the basic shape of it, you’ll take your hands like this, and we’ll work it up.” 

You sit on your stool behind him, usually, you’d be able to reach around and help with hand placement but good god was he broad. You adjust and readjust your position a few times, finding it oddly difficult to find the right mix between comfort and functionality, eventually ending up with your legs spread a little bit past their comfort level, so that you could lean over his shoulder and help him with the shaping. You squeeze some water onto his hands, moving them to cup the base of the clay and pop the wheel to life. His hands were big under your smaller ones, the roughness contrasting both the soft clay and your skin. You can't help but feel a twinge of something stirring inside you as you help him bring the clay up and down, your hands guiding his. Joel’s brows were knit together in concentration, both endearing and attractive as you watched him focus on the clay. The movements of his hands under yours were careful, almost hesitant, his eyes peeking back at you every so often for assurance. 

Once the clay was at an appropriate size you moved your hands off of his, the wheel slowing to a stop. You swear that you see his hands twitch to stay under yours, but your mind might be playing tricks on you. “Now call me unartistic but this ain't really lookin’ like a cookie jar yet.” Joel raises his brows, a slight hint of teasing hidden in his southern drawl, and you can’t help but snort at the comment.

“I will not call you unartistic, it isn't supposed to look like a jar yet.” You hum and wipe your hands on your apron “We’ll do the lid to it later, but you have to actually make it into a bowl first.” your thumbs gently press down onto the center of the clay to form a soft dent. The wheel starts back up again slowly and you start to open the center up a little bit. “Right so now you just gotta take your thumbs like I did and- perfect!” Joel manages to press his fingers slowly against the clay, working it open, and god you wished that was you more than anything at that moment. You press on the sponge, the water dripping down his hand and onto the clay, almost sensually. Your eyes are locked on the way his thumb dips into the clay, the way the clay comes up onto his skin. Your mouth is dry, and you cough as you stand up, needing to take a deep breath and try to compose yourself. 

“Everythin’ alright?” Joel's voice rings out from behind you as you move to take a drink of water, and you swear if his voice was just a tinge deeper, you would have choked right then and there. In the rush of getting up, your brain had ceased to realize that moving off the pedal would stop the wheel from turning.

You feel like an idiot. A stupid, hormonal, completely unprofessional idiot. You take a moment to scold yourself mentally before turning around to face him again. “Yeah, yes. Sorry I just realized how thirsty I was, I just needed water.” You move back to your stool behind him, halfway composed, and move to start the next step. If you'd been in front of him for one more second, you would have seen the knowing smile on his face. There was no denying the attraction between the two of you. Pressed up against each other, hands touching, dim light surrounding you both, it was inevitable. You move your hand to show him the right finger position “so you’ll want to take your middle and ring finger-” You press the two of yours inside of the bowl to give him an example and you swear he laughs a little bit. 

“Oh, believe me, darlin” his voice rings out, big fingers expertly finding their way into the exact position. “I know all about this one.” You watch his fingers glide up and down the inside of the bowl, your hand on top of his, steadying his wrist. You bite at your lip, fingers shaking slightly on top of his. Your chest was pressed against his back and you could feel your nipples hardening. You were annoyingly turned on. This wasn’t normal for you, this wasn't something you do, get the hots for a client, but here you were. And with the way Joel's fingers were methodically moving over yours, you were begging that he felt the same way. “Wouldn’t mind showin’ ya all I know about it.” The want in his voice makes you clench subconsciously, your breath faltering for a second. 

You hold your breath for a moment as if trying to make sure you hadn’t imagined his words in a haze of horniness, only to be broken out of that haze when he shifts and pushes his stool back, and turns around to face you. Both of your hands were covered in wet clay and your aprons were messy, neither of which stopped you from pressing your lips against his. You sigh against his mouth as your hand's fist in the fabric of his shirt, staining the fabric with readily drying clay. “I don't usually do this,” you murmur when you pull away for air, your lips swollen and red. 

Joel just grins at your words “S’alright, honey,” his lips find their way to your jaw and move down to your neck, his nose nudging at the fabric of your shirt. “Don't gotta explain anything to me.” His voice is like molasses, smooth and syrupy, keeping you stuck on his every word. You let him move you around, the small wooden stools were less than ideal for either of you. In the mess of standing up and finding a table to bend over your shirt comes off and he groans at the sight of you, his hands grabbing at your waist, staining your skin with water. “Good god… sight for sore eyes…” You can't help but flush slightly at his comment, feeling more exposed while you stare at his fully clothed figure.

 Joel picks up on it, his hands moving from your waist to his shirt and apron, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth when the knotted strings keep him from taking it off. “Let me,” you whisper, reaching around to undo the strings, the fabric of the apron sagging and then getting tossed to some other corner of the room. You stare at him. You couldn't not stare at him. At the hair covering his chest leading down to his belt, the soft yet strong features of his body, at his hand undoing his belt. Your own shorts had been removed, your hands moving to reach into his jeans until he stopped you, a pout and protest forming on your lips. 

Joel just shakes his head at you, picking you up and setting you on a relatively clean table, his body wedged between your legs. “My momma raised me to be a gentleman,” he hums against your skin, kissing the tops of your breasts, nudging your nipples with his nose before giving each of them their own kisses “I didn't take ya to dinner, at least let me get my fill yeah?” Your back fully arched into his mouth as his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles were white. The feeling of his tongue flicking against the hardened bud had you moaning out in ways you had never imagined you would, and you swear you could feel him smirk even as he licked a stripe down the soft skin of your tummy. 

His knees crack as he settles between your legs and the sight of him is so sinful you can't help but moan softly. He raises his brows at you, a warm chuckle leaving his mouth at the sound, his lips pressing against the inside of one of your thighs “Look that good?” His voice is laced with a gentle mocking as he presses another kiss, a hair's breadth away from your aching cunt “think I got the better view though.” You don't even have the time, nor the brainpower, to reply before his lips press against you, a groan vibrating against your skin as he tastes you. “Sweetest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had… could get damn addicted.” 

Your lips are parted as his tongue swirls around your clit, your whines and moans spurring him on even further. “F-fuck joel-” you manage at some point, his broad shoulders keeping your thighs spread apart, despite how much they’d like to clamp around him. He was good at this and he knows that, moaning at the sound of his name on your lips, the words giving him a newfound energy. You feel his warm palms against your thighs keeping you spread open for him, and you almost whine when his tongue leaves your clit, only to cry out in ecstasy when his tongue prods at your pulsing hole. His nose is pressed up against your clit, giving you just the right amount of friction as he gathers your slick on his tongue, cycling between fucking it into you and laying it flat over your cunt. “Joel- joel oh fuck-” Your moans are frantic as he continues to send you closer and closer to that edge, his motions only getting faster as your hand fists in his hair. “Oh my god- fuck fuck fuuuuck-” your legs shake around his head, his hands keeping them apart as he works you through your orgasm, not stopping until you were spent and hazy, laying back on the table with shuddering breaths. 

Your eyes were pressed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of your orgasm, only to peek open when you hear the clink of his belt. His mouth was covered in the sheen of your orgasm, a hungry look in his eyes as he spits into his hand and pulls his cock out. “Tasted like a damn dream,” he groans while he strokes himself. “Gonna remember this forever…” Your eyes are locked on the motions of his wrist, the steady pace, the pearly precum that was leaking from his tip. “Fuckin’ perfect… makin’ me feel like a damn teenager again.” You wait with bated breath as he continues to stroke himself, wiggling your hips in order to entice him. 

 “Joel,” your voice is soft, but so heavily full of need it was almost painful “Please… I want you.” If you were being honest, you thought that it would take more convincing, that you would have to ask more, but Joel was desperate, maybe more so than you were and so when he sinks his cock into your dripping cunt it was ecstasy for both of you. Your eyes fall shut again at the feel of him, the stretch so much but so good. “Oh my god…” you whine, pushing yourself onto him further, your breathing stuttering when one of his hands palms at your breast, the other one gripping your hip with so much strength you think it would leave a mark. 

“That’s it…” he groans, slipping into you all the way. “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, like she was made for me.” His words are punctuated with shallow thrusts that fill you up again and again. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. The feeling of his hips pressing against yours is something you would never be able to get out of your memory. 

You both lay there, bodies pressed against each other, his hips rocking into you slow and steadily, the dim lighting of the studio casting an ethereal glow over the scene. His hips move at a steady pace, keeping you full of him as the coarse hairs around him press against your clit with the right amount of friction. It doesn't take much time until he's panting on top of you, your lips pressed against each other's in a heated kiss as you feel him spill inside you. 

“That was…” you were breathless, his chest still against yours, the rhythm of your hearts syncing up. 

“Yeah…” He grins, pressing a kiss against your forehead gently. “I know I told ya I was a gentleman but, I really would like to see you again… of course no pressure if you don't want to or anything-” 

You cut him off with a small laugh before he can keep going, nudging your head against his. “I want to, Joel.” You smile gently at him “Plus, you didn't finish the jar.” You grin, looking in the direction of the unfinished work of art he had started. “And then I have to fire it, then glaze it, then fire it again, then… well you get the point, I think I’ll be seeing you quite a few more times, Joel.”

A/N: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

READ: This account stands with Palestine unequivocally, and so— I require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE;  HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. Silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist.

PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. 

Thank you for reading, and free Palestine

[babyangelsky]

My Favorite Expressions in Love Sea Ep. 7

On a personal level this week has been a very mixed bag but I know that if nothing else got me, this show got me. It's gonna come in clutch for me every time, spider bites and potential hauntings be damned.

I. Love. It. Here.

Will I ever not take psychic damage from the expression Tongrak makes when Mahasamut tells him that he cares about him? The answer is no. It's wonderful and devastating every time.

"How would you rate me out of 10?" Mahasamut asks while Tongrak's face plots teasing and mischief.

Opening a safe shouldn't look so much like staring down the gallows but here we are. Not being able to see how Tongrak's hands were shaking in a screenshot is a blessing.

The panic and terror on this man's face when he saw the read receipt on his phone is something I never want to see again. My hatred for Rak's piece of shit sperm donor is murderous and profound. How actually fucking dare he put this look on his child's face I'm going to kill him with my bare hands.

Peat's acting is so genuinely good that it hurts me. Tongrak was trembling so much that he was struggling to put the phone away and when he gets back to his room, he practically tries to crawl into Mahasamut's skin to hide and feel safe. Look at him, he looks so tiny and scared and I want to cry.

Let us take a break from the sad with this supremely horny shot of Mook unzipping Vivi's dress. Everyone say thank you.

And pour one out for our girl, as is now a weekly custom. Vivi my girly is dying CONFESS TO HER AND MAKE OUT ABOUT IT.

"I'm not going to the event! >:(" Yes you are, mi alma, look at your face when Mook threatens to quit.

Not pictured: One (1) resigned sigh

The grumpiest kitten in the whole venue.

Tongrak: *complaining* Mahasamut: *heart eyes*

My favorite moment of the face journey Tongrak goes on when he realizes just how good Mahasamut looks and that he will be Perceived and decides to mess up his hair about it. The grumpy kitten is a jealous jellyfish.

It's the fact that Tongrak looks surprised that his fans like his books and have consumed his entire body of work. I'M GOING TO SOB.

The smile is polite and professional but the eyes are sparkly. He genuinely enjoys interacting with his fans.

The proud husband smile means everything to me.

THE LOOK OF ABSOLUTE LOATHING AND DISGUST! INCREDIBLE PHENOMENAL OUTSTANDING.

IF YA'LL THINK I'M NOT GONNA MAKE A SEPARATE POST ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS MAN YOU'RE SO FUCKING WRONG

If I have to have this demonic nasty hell witch on my screen, at least I get to watch her face make this expression after Tongrak calls her out for imitating him because he got it right on the money and she knows it.

Tongrak and the visceral hatred in his eyes said play me another waltz I'm tired of dancing to this one.

God love you, but you look so tired.

This entire scene was more brutal to watch than the fight outside of Tongrak's house. It was obvious that something more was going on from how calmly he was speaking and how non-responsive he became toward the end of it, but look at his hands. Look at how tightly they're clenched. Maintaining his composure while Prin stuck that knife in his wounds and twisted it as viciously as she could cost him, and it would be obvious even if we hadn't already seen them fight.

Tongrak, you're my fighter. He still looks tired because he is, but he also looks like the imperious ice prince he's had to be to survive. Then the utterly dismissive way he turns and walks out and cuts eye contact?

We can barely see Nouel's smile but it's so clearly saying "bruh that's cringe".

He's not just my fighter. He's Mahasamut's fighter, too.

Do ya'll remember how Tongrak was acting when he first brought Mahasamut to live with him and Vivi was teasing him?

Look how far they've come.

I can't quite articulate how, but the way they look at each other has changed, and I don't just mean because they're being lovey in front of Vivi and Mook. There's this undercurrent of sweetness that wasn't there before, even in private. That scene way back in episode 3 where Tongrak told Mahasamut to ask him to stay on the island which had so much softness and fondness to it did not have that same something that's now present.

I'm gonna leave ya'll with that and then go take more screenshots so I can properly scream about Mahasamut. And let me know if you wanna be tagged in these weekly writeups!

[campingwiththecharmings]

for minigirl87

Hi, congratulations 🎊 on your 1 year anniversary. Could I request, please. Poe Dameron and the AU firefighter. I used to clean in a fire station and have a thing for firefighters, plus I could could easily see Poe as a fireman, lol. Take care ❤️

Some Like it Hot

For @minigirl87

AN: Another fic-aversary request! I know you sent this to me via messenger AGES ago and you probably don't even remember doing it but I need you to know that Firefighter!Poe has had me in a chokehold ever since lol. THAT SAID, I have no idea if this is what you were looking for but my muse is a whore (esp for Poe) so here we are. Absolutely shameless smut, very, very little plot. Hope y'all enjoy 😌❤️

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,297 Pairing: Firefighter!Poe Dameron x Photographer!F!Reader Warnings: PWP, p in v, strangers to lovers, praise kink, please let me know if i missed anything. AO3

——————

Somehow, you’d known that it would end this way.  

Well, maybe not this exact way—with you fucking a smoking-hot firefighter in the dark room of your studio—but the second he’d walked into the room, you’d known something was bound to happen. Granted, you’d been thinking more along the lines of a coffee date or, if you were really lucky, dinner.  

The Universe had other plans, it seems (and who were you to argue?). 

His strong fingers grip you tightly as he fucks into you from behind, every powerful thrust of his hips all but knocking the breath from your lungs. A choked moan escapes you as he hits one of your sweet spots, cunt clenching around his (considerable) length and pulling a groan from between his lips. You feel so good, so full, the pleasure zinging through your body as he drags himself in and out of your slick heat.  

You don’t normally do this—this being fucking someone within hours of meeting them, without even knowing their full name—but there’s just something about this guy—Poe—that makes you wanna give him everything. 

It had started innocently enough, just lingering glances and a bit of flirting, but the tension had grown between you the longer the shoot went on. More than once, your gaze had lingered, unable to stop yourself from admiring him—with his leanly muscled body, chiseled jaw, deep eyes, and that stubborn curl that kept falling across his forehead. He could tell you were into him; you’d known by the way he’d looked at you. 

Normally, you were more professional while you worked, more respectful of the vulnerability of your subjects as you shot them. You’ve never felt this before though, this pull, this need, and it surprised you how quickly you’d thrown out all your principles for what you assumed was just a one-time thing. 

“Taking me so well, sweetheart,” Poe slurs, the pace of his thrusts faltering slightly as you flutter around him. “Fuck, feels so good.” 

You can’t help the whine that escapes you at his praise, your fingers gripping the edges of the counter he has you pressed against. You kind of wish you could see his face (you bet he looks stunning when he comes), but he’s hitting you so deep like this it’s a little hard to complain. 

He grunts when you flutter around him again, your fingers aching as your grip on the counter tightens. You’re so close, can feel the tension coiling inside you as he spears into you again and again. You push back to meet him and he moans, his cock somehow reaching even deeper inside you, electricity zinging up your spine. 

“Please,” you breathe, unsure exactly what you’re asking for. 

He seems to know though, adjusting his thrusts so he can lean forward and slip his hand between your thighs, calloused fingers immediately finding and circling your clit. You whimper in pleasure as a myriad of sensations race through you, your arms shaking as your body is pushed closer and closer to the brink.  

“You’re right there aren’t you, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice thick with his own pleasure. “You’re so close, squeezing me so tight—” 

All you can do is moan in pleasure, in agreement, the combination of his cock and his fingers making you feel almost drunk. 

“Need you to come for me,” he pants, more of a plea than a demand. “Need to feel you.” 

Without warning, Poe pulls you up from the counter so your back is flush against his chest. Your mouth falls open in surprise, a noise somewhere between a squeal and moan escaping as he grinds up into you, his thrusts slower now but no less devastating. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, head lolling back against his shoulder as he groans in agreement.  

He’s just as far gone as you, it seems, his thrusts a little sloppier now as he nears his peak.  

“Pussy feels like heaven, sweetheart,” he slurs, his mouth and tongue molten against your heated skin. 

You feel like you're drowning, like he’s suffocating you with pleasure. You need something, something to hold onto, something to keep you grounded. You reach back, plunging your fingers into his soft curls, gripping them for dear life. You’re so close, right there at the edge, the tension inside you wound so tight you feel as if you might burst.  

Another brush of his fingers against your clit is enough to send you soaring over the edge, your body shaking in his arms as your release slams into you. Poe’s groan is choked as you convulse around him, but he fucks you through it, mumbling words of praise and encouragement in your ear as waves of pleasure surge through you (“That’s it, baby, soak my cock. Oh fuck, yeah, just like that, oh good girl—”) 

He stills a moment later, spilling his thick, hot cum deep inside you, his strangled moans muffled as he buries his face in your neck. You relax a little as you come back down, the solidity of his body against yours comforting. You stay like that for a moment trying to catch your breath, the two of you panting and half naked in the middle of the room. After what simultaneously feels like two seconds and an hour, he pulls back a bit from your neck, leaving a gentle kiss at the top of your spine that makes something in your chest ache.  

“Okay?” he asks, his voice soft and a little raspy. 

You hum, nodding as you allow yourself to melt into him a little, your body going limp in his hold. He chuckles softly, tightening his arms around you and pressing another kiss against your neck. For a moment, you let yourself pretend, pretend that the two of you aren’t strangers, that this isn’t a one-time thing, that he’s yours (and you’re his). 

He slips out of you with a hiss, the loss of him dragging you back to reality. Your legs feel like jelly, but you manage to stand on your own, shakily pulling your clothes back on before turning to face him. Considering the position you were just in, it’s silly how awkward you suddenly feel. You lean against the counter behind you, chancing a glance up at him; the soft smile on his lips makes your heart skip a little. 

Ugh, he looks just as gorgeous in the red light of the dark room as he did when he’d waltzed into your studio hours ago. A part of you kind of hates him for it. 

Before you can say anything, he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back, your arms winding around his neck. His hands settle on your waist, pulling your body against his as he licks into your mouth. You moan softly, completely lost in him, in the way he’s making you feel. When you part for air, he presses his forehead against yours, your pants mingling in the small space between you. 

“Go out with me,” he breathes, his nose bumping against yours. 

You huff a laugh at the request (demand?), fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his skull. He smiles again, his lips brushing over yours. 

“Probably should’ve asked that before, huh?” 

You laugh again, still breathless. “Better late than never.”

His laugh is husky and the sound of it makes something warm settle in your gut. “I appreciate you being so understanding.” 

You bite your lip, smothering your smile. “I know you’ll find a way to make it up to me.” 

He hums in agreement, a playful gleam in his eyes as he leans in to kiss you again. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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PART 2

[drunk-on-dk]

[Teaser] Over the Country Club | Yoon Jeonghan (M)

pairing: best friend!Jeonghan x afab!reader genre/tags: fluff, angst, smut (minors do not interact), friends to lovers, a bit of unrequited love, a slice of life au, college au, post-grad au rating: 18+ (minors do NOT interact) w/c: ~3k TEASER (estimated ~15-20k for full fic, currently this may be my longest fic yet and it feels so good to really be writing again) warnings: mentions of alcohol (underage is not condoned), future smut

Summary: Jeonghan and you have known each other for as long as you can both remember. From the years spent working at the country club, to your university days, there has always been this aching feeling that neither of you can quite understand. Someone falls first, but the other falls harder.

A/N: Please let me know your thoughts on this teaser! I've been working hard to get back into writing in the new year and wanted to get comfortable with diving more into the plot. Things may change when the full fic is posted, but not much of what's in the teaser! I hope you enjoy it, and of course please message me if you'd like to be on the tag list for this fic!

I. 4th of July, the Summer Before the First Year of University

Just like every other high school student in your town, Jeonghan and you found part-time jobs at the oh-so-prestigious country club located in the next town over. One could argue it was practically a full-time job since most part-timers worked upwards of 40 hours a week due to how busy the club got during the summers. 

Not that you would complain about the hours; to be fair, you had to save up a substantial amount of money for the upcoming transition to college. The realization hit soon after graduating high school, you only had enough pocket change to fund some expenses,  which was not nearly enough to get you comfortably through the upcoming semesters. You had worked at the club most summers, but this year you took all the hours they offered. 

Plus, you’d be crazy to admit that summers working at the Lakewood Country Club weren’t some sort of fun. Plenty of your peers worked there, including Jeonghan, your longest lasting friendship due to the proximity of living next door to one another and growing up attached at the hip. 

Jeonghan worked as a caddie on the golf course. He’s gentlemanly in appearance, has just enough knowledge about what type of club to use at each hole, and has a never-ending spunk that entertains whatever group of golfers he’s assisting for the day. Jeonghan made decent tips working as a caddie, earning a couple of hundred dollars from some of his return golfers who specifically requested his assistance for an 18-hole outing. One could assume that most members of the country club were very well-off, or at least living comfortably. 

Luckily, you were stationed at the halfway house most days this summer. It’s located in the heart of the golf course, and the club consistently blasted cool air conditioning in the exposed, open bar area that was meant for golfers to stop by. Jeonghan, as scheming as ever, would ensure that his golfers stopped by for a quick refreshment at some point, knowing that he’d get to spend some time with you and help you earn some extra cash in tips from his already rowdy crew. 

You’d mix up some Manhattans or Old-Fashioned’s for the golfers, knowing the usual orders for each club member as if they had been engrained on the back of your hand (in hindsight, a freshly graduated high schooler should not have been pouring alcoholic beverages, but the country club didn’t care - your labor was cheaper than hiring a professional tender and you learned just the basics just fine). Nonetheless, your cocktails were a treat for the golfers who had been drinking beers for most of the course, most of them lukewarm or gone by the time they made it to the halfway house. 

Today is the Fourth of July, marking the mid-way point of your last summer before college. You had made your fair share of tips this summer working at the halfway house, especially due to Jeonghan’s consistent sourcing of clientele at your bar. It was a particularly hot day, one of the hottest of the summer and plenty of customers had stopped by, leaving hefty tips, feeling generous either from the heat or the holiday. 

Jeonghan approached the bar area with a heavy sigh, parking his cart hastily, but still had his typical mischievous smile etched onto his features as a crowd of familiar golfers followed behind him. Your nose scrunched in feigned disgust, a teasing smile mirroring his upon noticing just how tired and sweaty the group was from the relentless summer heat. 

Part of you thought he looked angelic from the way his sun-kissed skin gleamed, but you’d never admit that, nor would you dare to speak those thoughts out loud, not even to your closest friends who weren’t Jeonghan. However, the other part of you remembered he was just your silly best friend who smelled slightly like fresh-cut grass, sunscreen, and a hint of whatever remained of his tropical cologne. 

“The usuals?” You beamed, flashing your best customer service smile at the group, already reaching for the bottle of top-shelf whiskey displayed behind you. You received hoots and hollers along the lines of “Yes, please” from the group. Jeonghan slips behind the bar as you expertly begin to prepare drinks for the parched golfers. Normally, this was frowned upon, but Jeonghan had most of the country club supervisors wrapped around his finger. 

Jeonghan’s quick to sort through the fridge right off to your side, squatting and contemplating his options, but you have to smack his hand away from the cooler once you notice his deft fingers are reaching for a plastic shooter of whiskey.

“Y/N,” Jeonghan practically cries out, whining similar to a little boy being scolded, but he’s just your immature best friend who has a knack for trouble and stealing. You can’t always let him get away with everything. 

“You kleptomaniac, don’t you dare,” you joke, routinely preparing the drinks, laughing at the puppy dog eyes that are flashed in your direction and then back to the cold fridge. You bend down next to him, whispering quietly so that no one but Jeonghan can hear. ��Wait until later, today’s manager has been keeping inventory of the alcohol as if they personally own it all. I can sneak some after my shift when I cash out.” 

Jeonghan’s pout morphs into a smirk, a devious glint in his eyes as he holds out his pinky finger. You comply, wrapping your pinky with his to silently promise that you’ll follow through later. 

“Meet at hole 12? Right at the hill behind the trees? It’s still the best spot for fireworks.” Jeonghan speaks as if it’s a secret mission - as if it’s not the same spot you’ve met to watch fireworks for the last few years working at the country club. 

“Oh, I thought we’d check out the views at hole 17 this year,” you roll your eyes mockingly, Jeonghan knows you’re messing with him, but it’s your smile that betrays your teasing, “Duh, Jeonghan. I’ll catch you there later.” 

“You know hole 17 is where Mingyu and Arin lost their virginity to each other last year,” Jeonghan pokes, settling on bottled water from the fridge and standing back up, towering over your own figure. You feel your cheeks flush, a bit flustered he’d drop that information so casually, and sure as hell hoping he didn’t think that you were suggesting anything. 

You didn’t see Jeonghan in that way, he didn’t see you in that way. Plain and simple. You two were only best friends and that’s how it would always be. 

“That’s gross, Jeonghan,” you scowl, willing away the blush that is still burning your face as you finish garnishing the drinks. “Don’t air out people’s secrets like that. That’s personal. Plus, why would I know that?” 

Jeonghan chuckles, shrugging as he helps you carry the drinks over to the golfers who have made themselves comfortable among the shaded seating outside the bar area, an outdoor fan helping cool them down. They all clamor in delight as Jeonghan and you emerge from behind the bar with the chilled drinks, quick to "cheers" each other before savoring the first sip of their beverages. 

There are smacks and sighs of delight from the group, your pride growing as they approve of the drinks, and gather up some cash for a tip. Jeonghan nudges you, urging you to accept the bills from Mr. Choi, a polite older man who continues to take care of Jeonghan and you each summer. He’s never been creepy, and he tips very well. You still feel slightly guilty each time you accept cash from him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Choi,” you speak graciously, accepting the tip, quickly shoving it into your pocket without checking the amount, and earning an approving thumbs up from the man as he takes another sip of his cocktail. 

“Save it wisely, Y/N,” Mr. Choi chimes, humming in thought, and eyes flickering between where you and Jeonghan stand. “Jeonghan tells me you’re both attending the same university in a few months. Heard you’ve both received a pretty good scholarship, even one from the club?” 

“That is correct, sir,” you nod excitedly. Not only had you both received an academic scholarship from your university, but all your years working at the club have paid off in a way you wouldn’t have imagined, earning a scholarship from the Lakewood Country Club members' foundation. “I am grateful to have received such an award. Don’t worry, I’ll make good use of it. I know Jeonghan will too. You’d never guess, but he’s a straight A student,” you tease, hiding your mouth only for Mr. Choi to see as if Jeonghan can’t hear you, and elbowing your friend in the rib cage, earning a pained groan from him. 

Mr. Choi nods in approval, a smile creeping onto his face as he chuckles at the dynamic between you two. “Glad to know my money is going towards two bright futures.” Jeonghan is pushing your bony elbow away, annoyed at your enthusiasm and teasing, further amusing Mr. Choi. “Jeonghan, make sure you don’t lose sight of Y/N during University, all sorts of partners will be chasing her. She’s intelligent and beautiful. Don’t want her forgetting about you now, do you?”

Jeonghan would groan if it wasn’t for the fact that it was Mr. Choi speaking to him. He has to restrain himself from shoving you away as well, knowing that Mr. Choi has inflated your ego a bit too much with his praise. Nonetheless, Jeonghan plays into it. “Nope, she’s stuck with me, so don’t even worry about it.”

You almost laugh out loud, reminding yourself to remain professional on the course as you fire back. “As if, Jeonghan couldn’t get rid of me even if he wanted to.” 

“Valid point,” Jeonghan grumbles, teasingly pushing you back towards the bar as if reminding you of your duties, sick of hearing the constant praise that only you’re receiving, even though there have been no additional visitors since Jeonghan’s entourage of golfers arrived. He’s quick to enthusiastically round up the crew, realizing daylight will quickly dwindle by the last hole if they don’t start back up soon. “Welp, we better let Y/N continue to work. Ready for hole 10?” 

The men are quick to gather, knocking back the remainder of their drinks, and returning to their carts as Jeonghan helps you clean up the finished glasses, your shoulders bumping into each other as you two push your way back into the bar. Mr. Choi sends a knowing look Jeonghan’s way, neither of you catching it as he wishes you a nice Fourth of July. 

“Thank you, Mr. Choi!” You wave to the man, bidding the rest of the golfing crew a nice holiday as well before turning to Jeonghan who’s finished carrying over the rest of the empty glasses. “Catch you later, Hannie?”

“Of course,” Jeonghan’s eyes lit up yet again upon hearing his childhood nickname, and is reminded of the nearing shenanigans later this afternoon. Maybe he’ll steal some snacks from the members gifting table for tonight. “I’ll see you then stay cool, Y/N!”

“You as well! Make sure to reapply your sunscreen,” you shout back, watching as Jeonghan hops in the cart with Mr. Choi and rolls his eyes at your nagging. Mr. Choi gets one final laugh before Jeonghan drives off, the entourage of golfers following closely behind. 

You’re finishing cleaning up the bar, pulling the cash from your pocket earlier and gasping upon realizing just how much Mr. Choi had tipped you. A five-hundred dollar tip. It was surely the most you’ve ever made in one round of drinks, absolutely unwarranted, and it made you feel a bit teary-eyed. You knew you couldn’t dare to return it, as Mr. Choi would definitely be offended, but you felt extremely lucky to have such nice members visit you at the halfway house, you’d have to thank him eventually. 

The rest of the day went quickly, and, much to your delight, you had made enough tips to support a chunk of your tuition and expenses for the year. Also, your manager had swapped shifts with another supervisor mid-day, who was not as hawklike. 

Leading up to the completion of your shift, you had snuck a pair of alcoholic shooters into your uniform skirt. Even in your attempt to be rebellious, you couldn’t just steal the shooters, using some of your tip money to cover the cost of the alcohol and you felt less criminal. You knew Jeonghan would tease you relentlessly about this if he was here, each shooter was no more than $3 each, but you had a knack for doing the “right thing,” or else you feared karma would get you in the long run. 

Upon reaching the end of your shift, you stopped back at the employee locker room to safely store your tips in your purse. The day had been hot, but it was cooling down now that night was approaching. 

Ultimately, you opt to throw on a sweatshirt, one that Jeonghan had purchased when you two had toured your university, which was the same one that he’d worn so many times that it’s the most comfortable piece of clothing you own. One that he couldn’t deny you of when you begged to keep it, secretly thinking that you looked cute in it even though you were practically swimming in the fabric. Disgusted that he’d even thought that, he dismissed you quickly and said you could keep it. 

The sun was setting minute by minute, meaning that Jeonghan’s shift would be finishing very soon, and you packed away the remainder of your items in your employee locker, double-checking that your skirt still had the tiny plastic alcohol bottles hidden away. 

After confirming you had said shots, you headed out to hole 12 with a spring in your step. It was a meeting spot you and Jeonghan had found your summer after freshman year of high school. There was a hill behind a bunch of trees that overlooked the valley where the main portion of the country club was located. No one was allowed on the course during after-hours, but this spot was so dark and secluded that you two hadn’t been caught yet. It was also the prime viewing spot for the club’s fireworks show, and it was your little secret. 

You were first to make it to the spot, plopping down on the hill and huffing in relief. Your legs ached a little from standing all day. The grass beneath you was dewy from the cool nighttime air, the humid heat from the day settling on the greenery, and it was almost enough to make you feel itchy. However, you don’t mind it, not when you have the fireworks show to look forward to. You would never mind the damp grass, especially not when you had a favorite summer tradition to share with your favorite person, your best friend. 

Jeonghan’s shift ended a bit later than yours, but he didn’t arrive at the spot much later than you. He meant to grab a bag of popcorn or something, but he didn’t want to leave you hanging for too long. 

Jeonghan tried to sneak up on you, but you’re too smart, too knowing of his antics. So when you turn around knowingly, with two opened Whiskey shooters in hand, he chuckles almost maniacally at your annoyed expression that doesn’t fully translate into your impish eyes. You two were one and the same. 

“What are you waiting for, Hannie? These shots aren’t getting any colder. Not when they’ve been in my skirt for the past hour.”

“Eugh, now you’re the one oversharing,” Jeonghan groans in disapproval, sitting down next to you on the grass, and gratefully accepting the shot regardless of your TMI comment. Your knees knock each other as you turn to face him, but a friendly touch isn’t foreign to either of you. “You’re the gross one, Y/N.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle, holding the shot out in front of him and teasingly shaking the plastic bottle. You sing song, “The night’s not getting any younger either.”  

Nodding in acknowledgment, Jeonghan smirks and shares a few words, “Cheers to our last summer before we’re miserable college students. Cheers to fewer hours spent in the heat at this country club. Cheers to our everlasting friendship.” 

With his final words, you’re both knocking back your shots, groaning in unison as the spicy drink burns and settles in your stomach, instantly warming your body at the sensation. Your face scrunches up at the taste and Jeonghan can’t help but laugh uncontrollably.

“Stop it,” you whine, your voice a bit hoarse from the alcohol but smiling nonetheless. “You aren’t any better than me. Anyways, that's enough for me tonight.”

“True,” Jeonghan contemplates, but he’s quick to poke you. “But I didn’t struggle as bad as you did.” 

“Touché,” you hum, nudging Jeonghan’s shoulder excitedly as a warning firework darts into the sky, indicating the show will be beginning shortly. “It’s starting!” 

“Alright, alright,” Jeonghan is groaning at your bony elbow yet again digging into him, but he’s delighted by your excitement regardless, shoving you back as you begin to readjust for the show. “Calm down, it’s nothing crazy.” 

“No, Jeonghan,” you grin, turning your head to fully make eye contact with his wide eyes, joy flickering in your own as you peer at your best friend. “It’s nothing crazy, but it’s absolutely so special because once again we get to enjoy it here together.” 

Your emphasis on the word together almost makes him shiver, a foreign feeling rushing through him as you continue to gaze at him with those wild eyes of yours, gulping as he hesitantly nods, even though he wholeheartedly agrees it is special, but he’s not exactly sure why. “Very true,” and as if on cue, the fireworks show begins, relief flooding through him as you redirect your gaze and squeal in excitement. 

Jeonghan doesn’t understand why, but his heart pounds in his chest throughout the entire show. He thinks maybe it’s the alcohol (you and he rarely have dared to sneak alcohol before), maybe it’s the overstimulation of the fireworks, maybe it’s the thrill of knowing the golf course guards could spot you any year and escort you away, or maybe it’s the way your knee keeps brushing his thigh reminding him of just how close you two are. How much you are together here alone, just like every other summer. 

It’s a feeling he decides to ignore for the rest of the fireworks, letting himself lay back on the damp grass with you and listening as you enthusiastically point out your favorite fireworks, bickering with you when he thinks a different type of firework is prettier. 

It’s a feeling he continues to ignore as the finale comes and goes, chest fluttering at the way your eyes sparkle with golden reflections of the fireworks in the sky, and once again quickly redirecting his gaze to anything but you. 

It’s a feeling he tries his damnedest to ignore as you both continue to lay in the grass post-fireworks. Neither one of you making the first move to go home. Maybe you thought this would be the final moment of normalcy between you and Jeonghan before starting university, knowing that all friendships are bound to change with such a new chapter. Maybe he thought he’d figure out whatever it was he was feeling if he just stayed here with you a moment longer. 

It’s a feeling he struggles to ignore as you both fall into deep conversation. The one shot of alcohol makes you both loose-lipped as you reminisce on embarrassing high school stories. Reminiscing on your shitty boyfriend who broke up with you before the summer. Reminiscing on your years of friendship. 

It’s a feeling he no longer can ignore when you roll over, lips pouting and eyes teary as you start to feel emotional about your recent breakup. Something in him feels like it shatters when you ask, “Have you ever been in love before, Hannie?” 

[crimsoncold]

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE IN THE HOTD FANDOM RIGHT now as someone who is disappointed in the show's handling of team green and really just critical the show's writing in general

Team Green Stans and/or HOTD critics:

"I know I'm going to get a barrage of criticism or even hate/harassment for saying this but...

HOTD's writing is rather biased and strays from the source material in ways that are frequently ridiculous, fails to actually improve the story, and totally ignores the anti-war and the general targ/ruling class critical tone of GRRM's writing.

Yes villain or dark character centric shows can be really good even when the purpose of the story isn't to condemn their actions- BUT purposefully changing an adaptation of a story so that it no longer contains the original message/themes that did criticize the characters and their actions is at the very least a questionable writing choice.

The characterization and the messages of the show are inconsistent in a way that doesn't feel intentional or in order to make a point- instead it just doesn't make sense. ALL characters suffer due to the choices of the writers/showrunners- including team black- but team green is obviously getting the worst of it (seriously its cartoonishly bad). It's all so nonsensical and frustrating that it's getting harder and harder to watch- really at this point its no longer even a fun bad! show that can still manage to be entertaining even when the story itself sucks.

Much like with d&d with the later seasons of GOT it's disappointing to see the poor quality of work coming from paid professional writers, this could have been a show about a tragic and dramatic conflict between characters who are mostly bad people yet are still compelling or sympathetic and instead we got ...well...this."

Some Team Black Stans:

"Come on people HoTD is an adaptation so of course things will differ from the books but the show still stays true to the heart of the book, the changes were not a big deal- in fact some were good choices by the showrunners making more disturbing and violent aspects of the book more palatable for the audience without lessening their emotional impact... B&C was toned down not to whitewash team black but because no one should want to see the multiple child homicides from the book take place on screen...and the violence here really isn't as important to the plot as it was for say GOT's red wedding... toning the violent or horrific nature of these deaths down and having it occur off screen is the right thing to do! It's still sad- and this way we didn't need to traumatize the actors OR the audience!

Really people just stop complaining... both sides of the conflict are presented as EQUALLY culpable and in the wrong as the other side, team green stans are just missing the subtle points being made in the show and are exaggerating when they criticize the writing or supposed inconsistent characterization and accuse the showrunner's of being biased.

These TG stans are just being so mean and should stop criticizing the writers/showrunners-who are just doing their job!- and even if they feel they have to criticize the writing it's really just so inappropriate to ever specifically name the writers/showrunners when doing so! It's one thing for fandom to anonymously criticize other fans- especially since TG Stan's takes are so misguided that they obviously need someone to explain to them how they are misinterpreting things- but criticizing the professional writers and showrunners through tumblr posts is out of line! Its not the writer's fault that Alicent and TG are hypocritical or less likable than TB- that may just be how they are in canon- to say that the storytellers are purposefully changing things to make TG less sympathetic or competent than they were in the books and to set them up as the unlikeable antagonistic opposite to the now more tragic and heroic TB is a ridiculous accusation!"

Other Team Black Stans:

"Daemyra is just the best ship, they have loved eachother since she was a teenager and now after years of pining and being kept apart they are finally free to be together, you never see supportive or healthy relationships like this in asoiaf, we stan a man who will do literally anything and kill anyone for his niece wife.

Lucerys was just an innocent baby when he sliced up Aemond's face, he was just protecting his big brother, it only happened because he was afraid for their lives! Viserys made the right choice not to punish anyone since the team black kids only attacked Aemond after he stole Rhaena's dragon and Lucerys was only using self defense when he used a knife on Aemond. Most especially Lucerys and his mother didn't deserve to be attacked by that bitch Alic*nt. And Rheanyra trying to have Aemond tortured for calling her sons bastards was just her being a rightfully protective mother! Team Green means her family harm and no way will a bamf like Rhaenyra let that slide... this is what a good mother does not like that terrible Alic*nt! Lucerys' death was so tragic can't wait to see a grieving mother get her revenge... TG believes in an eye for an eye don't they? Well how will they like a son for a son?

TG stans keep saying that Rhaenyra is just as violent entitled and problematic as anyone else on hotd! They are so wrong! They are just delusional haters that can't stand to see a woman have sexual freedom and be in a position of power! She is the better daughter/wife/mother and the only people she hates are the ones who deserve it!

See she isn't evil like the Hightowers- B&C was an accident and the book description was exaggerated to be used as propaganda against Rhaenyra- she didn't even know it was happening. It wasn't even team blacks intent to kill little Jaehaerys only to kill Aemond- but he's a kinslayer so them sending someone to assassinate their nephew/brother is totally in the right and not something any character in canon would judge them for!... Rhaenyra is just too good of a person to wish harm on any of her innocent family members. Everything that happened to Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, and Meleys is just so tragic... they are the only true queens in this series ...god i wish all of their pain was only experienced by team green lol.

You know what ...are TG stans children or something? Why do they keep complaining that team green is being unfairly villainized to make team black look better? Don't they know they can just watch a show where the characters are flawed/bad people without needing the story to spoon feed the audience the message that bad people need to be condemned? Why do they take things so seriously? Why is this their whole personality? Get a life and stop overthinking a book/tv show -not everything needs to be deep you know so just shut up and enjoy watching the dragons destroy things.

But for real how can you people stan misogynistic women haters like team green or a trad wife/women for trump like Alic*nt? Like yikes what does your fictional character preferences say about you as a person. Hey EVERYBODY look these weirdos are really out here defending and woobifying violent predatory and sexist characters like team green! This fandom is the worse i swear lmfao."

Meanwhile...

Showrunners/Writers:

"What if the civil war, brutal violence, and tragic kinslaying that happened in the dance of dragons was really just a series of accidents and misunderstandings?

What if Rhaenyra and Alicent were friends who never really hated one another, and Alicent was pining for Rhaenyra's friendship and acceptance for the last 20 years, what if neither of them even wanted to go to war?

Who cares about house stark or the pact of ice and fire, or Jace's interactions with Cregan or Sara? You know what Sara Snow doesn't even exist, Jon i mean Jace would never betray his betrothal/loyalty/vows to his dragonrider soulmate and future wife for some stark girl! This whole stark side plot isn't important lets just go back to the dragons!

What if Rhaenyra wanted the throne because she knew that from her descendants the prophesied saviour/prince that was promised would be born? What if instead of her surviving son Aegon being so traumatized by the horrors of this meaningless war that he actually hated and feared dragons afterward- and supposedly was even responsible for killing the last one- it is Rhaenyra who was actually responsible for saving Daenerys' future dragon eggs- and thus she the one who ensured the return of dragons to Westeros! It will be Rhaenyra through her choices and her descendants that will be responsible for saving the entire realm and defeating the others with dragon fire!

What if Alicent pushing her son to be crowned was all because she was a fool who misunderstood the words of her dying husband NOT because she felt her son was unfairly robbed of his birthright by his father?

What happened with Daenerys in the later seasons of GOT was so unfair- just terrible writing -she NEVER should have been made out to be a mad queen and i bet Rhaenyra wasn't actually a cruel or violent ruler either! I bet it was the men who slandered her, and the men who were pushing for war and violence while all the women were actually trying to keep the peace.

Wait...wait.... What if everything in the book that criticized Rhaenyra was actually propaganda made by her enemies to ruin her reputation!?!!? Yeah B&C and team black arranging the horrific murder of a child? That story was TOTALLY team green exaggerating the violent murder of their child/grandchild. Daenerys I mean Rhaenyra deserved so much better... and all the injustices that happened to her will be the most impactful and tragic element of this show.

What if TG didnt actually have strong bonds with their dragon or spend much time riding them?... just more propaganda! Yes! CGI is expensive so this also means we dont really have to show their dragons unless they are fighting the blacks. Team Black's bond with their dragons is much more powerful and important though so we should still show them spending time together and riding them.

What if the book description of the respect and loyalty team green had to one another and the terrible grief they felt at the loss of their family members was ALSO just team green propaganda? What if Alicent only ever struggled as a mother and failed to connect with her kids and actually didn't even like or respect her children? How many kids did she have anyway? Three? Yeah that sounds right. Oh wait! Wait! What if none of TG got along with or trusted one other? No...no...What if they actually hated and betrayed each other? YESSSS!!!!!!!

Team black and their descendants are the true Targaryens, no one is really interested in the boring team green anyways so at least these changes will make them more interesting and better foils for team black! This type of story is exactly what people want I just know they are going to love it."

NOTE: (because i know idiots will be lurking in the anti tags to complain or harass people)

this is mostly meant to be very critical of the showrunners and somewhat critical of a specific type of stanning behaviour and the weird criticism or harassment that gets directed at people who like team green or who criticize hotd - sure i may be exaggerating slightly for effect but l'm STILL pulling from real posts/comments/opinions that I see from TB stans ...Like sure they aren't putting ALL of this in a single post but collectively this is definitely the type of attitude and language many TB stans have

Fandom is just about enjoying a special interest - I dont actually care about or want to police who you stan or ship. I DO care that some of you purposefully and directly harass real people because you disagree with their opinion on fictional characters and that some of you leave uncharitable, ignorant, critical, or unpleasant comments on properly tagged Team Green/anti or TB critical/or hotd critical posts.

Most of all i just find it really funny the juxtaposition there is between how underwhelming and juvenile the show's storytelling choices are compared to how eloquently, persistently, or vehemently fans will write up either criticism or defense pieces for these characters, this objectively bad show, and it's deeply unimpressive writing... like sure some fans put more effort into understanding the source material and comparing it to the show and some put more effort into criticizing or defending the show,the writing, or specific characters but collectively nearly all of us are putting in more time, effort, and thought into hotd than ANY of the showrunners/writers.

In conclusion Guys just like or dislike whatever show/characters you want...you don't have to justify the things you like by being willfully in denial about what canon sources say/the nature of certain characters/or the quality of the show's writing. You definitely don't need to be disrespectful or attack people on behalf of fictional characters or the well paid hbo showrunners/writers.

[50shadesofoctarine]

Why you should write that AO3 comment:

Hello! I am an AO3 author and professional fandom dipshit. This is an "essay" on why you should leave that comment on the fanfic you just read.

Table of Contents:

"Commenting is too much effort!"

"I don't know what to write!"

Do you want more fanfic?

Fan creators are human beings, not AI content generators.

You can count it as charity work on your metaphysical taxes.

"Commenting is too much effort!"

Yes, writing a comment takes energy. I'm an introvert, I get that. I have two counter arguments to this point.

AO3 comments are not the SAT:

This is a comment from my latest fic, Quantum Entangled.

Three words and a heart. It requires zero consideration, it isn't specific to the fic, it's something you could copy-paste, even. A comment like this is better than nothing. I'll let my reply from AO3 explain why:

"You know what, I appreciate this way more than you'd probably expect. The temptation to lurk is a strong one, both for social anxiety reasons and internet content-consumption culture reasons. But when people lurk, I can't tell that they've enjoyed the story. The more people that lurk instead of interacting, the more I assume that my work wasn't good enough, irrespective of the reader's actual feelings. So this was a very welcome comment to read. Thank you for indicating your enjoyment. I will endeavour to write more stuff for you to lurk on in the future. :)"

A comment like this, one that is as thoughtless and low effort as possible, is still a comment. Something that denotes a reader's interest. Because, and I can't be clear enough about this, I HAVE NO OTHER WAY OF KNOWING THAT YOU LIKED IT. Kudos and comments are my only window into the reader's experience.

Sure, I'd love more detailed and thorough comments on my work, but, if that expectation is the thing that's going to stop you from commenting at all, I'd prefer the bland copy-paste appreciation.

Onto my second argument.

Do you know what also takes effort? WRITING THE DAMN FIC:

You do not get to complain about being forced to type a congratulatory handful of words after reading that 200k slow-burn fantasy au. Do you know how many hours went into that thing? Do you? Because I can guarantee that it was A LOT. All that writers are asking for is a single emoji. A kudos, at the very least. Consider the effort that went into the creation that you've just experienced and give just a thimble full of it back.

Authors lay out a feast for you to devour. They're only requesting a "thank you".

"I don't know what to write!"

Like in the previous example, an AO3 comment can be as simple as three words saying that you appreciated it. Just an acknowledgement that you were there. It doesn't have to be fancy.

But if you want fancy...?

Here's one of my comments, from Tishae's Better Together.

Let me break it down for you.

"Stunning. This au is so well developed. I love how you managed to maintain tension after the point that they discover that their feelings are requited. This was brilliantly paced, and the action (esp the ending) was so engaging."

The comment opens with appreciation. (Think of it as a sandwich with love as the bread. It starts and ends with my enjoyment.)

There are specific details about what I liked.

"If I may ask, what was the crime that the Metatron committed? Maybe I'm bad at reading between the lines or maybe I missed something, but I'm really curious as to what dirt they have on him. Victimless? Bad enough for imprisonment, but not so morally reprehensible as to make Anathema reveal it? Did he embezzle? That's all I can really think of."

Continues with a specific question about the story and plot.

Shows that I was critically engaged and actively considering the story.

You don't have to have questions about every fic that you read, but don't be afraid to ask them if you do. I love it when people ask me about my work.

"Thank you for the delicious food. I honestly thought that you were going to have Crowley's final look be something in grey (black and white being the theme of the show, metaphorically representing separation/binary, so Aziraphale was uncomfortable with it due to the implications. Grey, symbolising unity/shades of grey as an idiom, would then be the biggest middle finger to the Metatron) but I do really like what you came up with."

Gratitude.

Thoughts about how I read the plot. (This is something I particularly love to read as an author. Please tell me what's going on in that funky lil' brain of yours!!)

"I'm hoping this comment provides plenty of dopamine. If the task activation and instant gratification parts of your brain light up, you might be more likely to write GO content again. Love your work, thanks for sharing it. I hope you gain 3 inches of metaphorical dick length. Please keep writing."

Encouragement to keep writing. (This is the best way to ensure that creators remain in the fandom)

A funny comment to sign off.

Now that you know what to comment, let's start on the real reasons why you should.

Do you want more fanfic?

Fun fact! Fanfictious Authoria are a species that sustain themselves entirely on a diet of brain worms, unfinished WIPs, and kudos. As one of the three fundamental food groups, removing kudos from the fandom ecosystem causes a complete collapse of the natural order. In times of unprecedented scarcity, entire populations of Fanfictious Authoria can die out completely. This means that the production of fanfiction, in that particular region of fandom, stops entirely, often causing major ecological damage, and the subsequent deaths of fan species in the same genus. (Like the Fanfictious Artia, or the Fanfictious Editour, both of which subsist on fanfiction based diets to survive.)

In conservation efforts, experts are imploring readers to donate kudos and comments toward any fandom region that they want to stay alive.

But I digress.

When I want more content, I tell the author. Ask and you shall receive; it's the best way to convince an author/artist to make more.

My comment on @mrghostrat's And They Were Streamers

You liked it? Then COMMENT! Not for the author's sake, but for your own. You want to see the ending of a WIP? Well, it'd be a terrible shame if the author gave up on it because they thought no one was reading... They don't know that you enjoy their work until you TELL THEM. They're not psychic, you have to help them hear you. Commenting on the things you like influences the creators of said things to attribute the act of making content (and, notably, making the type of content that specifically appeals to you) with the dopamine hit of reading your reaction. Treat them like Pavlov's dogs. Ring the kudos-bell.

Fan creators are human beings, not AI content generators.

They have real human feelings and real human egos. The contemporary attitude towards media engagement is skewed towards algorithmic, instant, and uncritical consumption. This is pumping straight gasoline into the beautiful lakes of our fandom ecosystem. Fandom cannot afford to treat its creators like mechanical text generators. We are not an unfeeling assembly line, only there to produce content. We are enthusiasts, engaging in our hobby. No fan creator has to show you anything. They are fully within their rights to keep their works hidden in their computer files, never to see the light of day. Every fanfic on AO3 is only there because someone had the grace to share it with you. You are not entitled to an author's work, just as they are not entitled to your kudos. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement. Do not forget your part in this symbiosis.

It's a problem that extends beyond AO3. Tumblr is a less enthusiastic place than it used to be. Fandom as a whole is drifting towards a consumption mindset. I, for one, am sick of it. Reblog things, like them, share them. Make fanart of fanart. Who gives a shit? Do the cringy thing. You don't have to cultivate your blog aesthetic. Be who you are, like what you like, and have enthusiasm about all of it. Fandom should be an expression of radical self acceptance. Embrace it. Leave essays about fics that you liked. Reblog the essays of other's when you see them. Exist in the mutual joy of seeing and being seen. You are not just an external observer, absorbing content from a distance. You are here too. Wave back at us. Say 'hi.'

You can count it as charity work on your metaphysical taxes.

My final appeal is a moral one.

Commenting on AO3 is just a kind thing to do.

You are your actions. Are you the kind of person who does the kind thing when no one is watching? When no one will care?

Fanfiction is a hobby, and I'm not here to guilt you about how you spend your leisure time. I'm only here to say that there is a kindness you could be giving the world.

If you are one of the people that performs this kindness, I thank you.

[aikohellscape]

Im working on this Evo nightsilver fic on and off since 2019. I only really got into it while I was manic. So now I have to go back and deep edit so the characters are more themselves and not just pining idiots right off the bat. I pulled out my sketchbook and have written down the plot so I can see where things are clearly too rushed. I feel bad cuz theirs this one active reader who’s always in my comments (I love her she’s so nice) and now she’s gotta reread all my bullshit if she wants to be up to date. Cuz I’m making major plot shifts to push the actual story line, I’m trying to push myself threw the editing so I can focus on the part I want to work on, Lance, Toad, and Tabitha. So i wrote some small things to help me cope with being stuck editing

Here are some fun little drabbles from my fic:

Toad is 100% the Brotherhood’s biggest stoner and unofficial weed dealer, always carrying pre-rolled joints like it’s part of his daily essentials. He’s got a steady supply from some sketchy high school connections and will smoke just about anywhere, anytime. Lance, being the opportunist he is, bums one off him at least once a week—not because he doesn’t have his own stash, but because why waste his when Toad practically hands them out for free? It’s an unspoken agreement at this point. Toad never complains, and Lance never thanks him, but they both know the deal.

Toad and Lance have a standing tradition of getting their piercings done together, hitting up the same slightly sketchy shop run by some dude who definitely doesn’t check IDs too hard. Lance plays it cool like it’s no big deal, but Todd treats every new piercing like a badge of honor, hyping it up way more than necessary. Meanwhile, Tabitha? Absolutely not. She has standards. No way she’s letting some back-alley piercer with a questionable sterilization routine put a hole in her body. She’s got her own guy—professional, expensive, probably does celebrity clients on the side—and she never lets the boys forget it.

Lance is Peruvian, not that he really talks about it though. Family isn’t exactly an easy topic when you’ve spent more time in the foster system than with the people you came from. Most of his early memories are hazy, blurred at the edges, but one thing that’s always stuck with him is the sound of his mom playing Peruvian cumbia while she cleaned the kitchen. He doesn’t remember much else—what she looked like, the exact shade of her eyes—but he remembers that. The music, the warmth, the way the whole house smelled like lime and cilantro. Sometimes, late at night, when everything’s too quiet, he’ll pull up an old cumbia playlist and let it play low in the background. He misses her. He just… never says it out loud.

Before the amnesia, Kurt had this habit of picking out jewelry for Toad, always keeping an eye out for pieces that would suit him. Toad acted like he didn’t care, like he’d wear whatever just to humor him, but the truth was, he never took off the stuff Kurt picked—especially the little star-shaped septum ring. It was Kurt’s favorite, said it made Toads canines stand out when he grinned, which made Toad show his teeth more often, made him smile a little wider. He’d never admit it, but even now, with Kurt not knowing who he is, Toad still wears it hoping Kurt will remember why it’s important.

Before the amnesia, Pietro barely spared Kurt a second thought. Sure, they argued sometimes—Pietro lived to get under people’s skin, and Kurt, bless his heart, was basically Xavier’s walking, talking success story. Too easy to poke at, too predictable in the way he’d get frustrated, which made it fun. But it wasn’t deep. Not to Pietro. Just another way to entertain himself, another game to play. Kurt, though? Definitely took it deeper than it was meant to be. Maybe it was just frustration, maybe it was something else buried too deep for even him to recognize, but Toad saw it. Saw the way Kurt would get way too in his head after a fight, the way his tail flicked sharply whenever Pietro so much as breathed too cockily in his direction. Yeah, maybe Toad tried to steer him away from that mess, kept nudging him toward literally anyone else, because come on, Speedy was the worst option possible. Not that he was jealous. Nope. Not even a little.

Scott has absolutely no idea what Kurt sees in Toad—seriously, out of all people, why him? But it doesn’t really matter, because here Toad is again, climbing through Kurt’s window like a little goblin, tracking mud onto the carpet, and grinning like he just thought of the world’s dumbest, most annoying prank. And of course, Kurt’s laughing, already in on whatever disaster is about to unfold. Scott can feel his blood pressure rising because he knows—he just knows—that his night is about to be ruined, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop it.

Kurt likes hanging out with Todd because, for once, there’s no pressure to be anything other than himself. Even with the X-Men, there’s always this quiet weight pressing down on him, this reminder that no matter how much they accept him, they don’t have to hide like he does. They get to be themselves without a second thought—he has to put on a mask just to exist outside. But with Todd? There’s none of that. Todd leans into being the scrappy outcast, the guy nobody wants around, and somehow that makes it easier. He doesn’t make Kurt feel like he stands out—he just makes him feel like he belongs.

Jean doesn’t understand why she can’t sense Kurt. Ever since he went missing, she’s tried—God, she’s tried—stretching her mind out again and again, searching for even the faintest whisper of his presence. But there’s nothing. No thoughts, no emotions, not even that subtle, familiar hum of his consciousness at the edges of her awareness. Just a void where he should be. She tells herself it’s fine. That there’s an explanation. That maybe he’s just too far or something’s blocking her. But every night, when she’s alone with her thoughts, the truth slithers in—the one thing she refuses to say out loud. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe that’s why she can’t reach him. She can’t tell the others. If they knew she couldn’t sense him at all, they’d think it too. They’d believe it. And if they believe it, then it’s real. So she keeps pretending. Forces herself to act like she’s still trying, like there’s hope. Because as long as no one asks, as long as no one knows, then maybe—just maybe—she can keep pretending he’s still out there somewhere, waiting to be found.

Back when Toad was living in Brooklyn, he picked up bits and pieces of different languages—some conversational Mandarin from the old ladies who ran the corner store, but a lot of Spanish from growing up around it. It’s not perfect, and his accent is definitely rough, but it gets the job done. Lance loves that he finally has someone who actually understands him when he slips into Spanish, even if that someone is Todd. He also loves to give Todd endless shit for his pronunciation, mocking the way he butchers certain words just to get a rise out of him. Toad, of course, just rolls his eyes and fires back a stream of insults in Spanish, half of which don’t even make sense, but all of which are deeply offensive. It’s their thing.

When Tabitha got her navel pierced, it basically became her entire personality for a solid few months. Every outfit? Crop top. Every movement? Deliberately positioned to make sure people noticed. Didn’t matter where she was—school, the Brotherhood house, committing minor crimes—she was showing it off. It took actual winter weather to finally break her streak, and even then, she only caved begrudgingly. Of course, Lance and Toad immediately seized the opportunity to tease her about it. Every time she wore a normal shirt, one of them would casually go, “Wow, guess the belly button era is over, huh?” or “Damn, we really lost something special.” Tabitha would glare, threaten violence, maybe even chuck a small explosive their way, but the second it was warm enough again? The crop tops were back.

Toad is secretly way more sentimental than anyone would ever guess—not that he’d ever admit it. He’s got this whole stash of photos and videos saved up, just little moments of the people he actually gives a damn about. A lot of Kurt, because, well… obviously. But he’s got plenty of Lance and Tabby too—dumb inside jokes, random nights of them messing around, even the rare, unguarded moments where they actually look happy. And then there’s Pietro. The problem with Speedy is that he’s either moving way too fast for a normal camera or he’s making some deeply annoyed face at Todd for even thinking about taking a picture. The result? Pietro is mostly just a collection of motion blur and irritated side-eyes in Todd’s little archive. Toad hates that his collection of memories is full of useless, streaky nonsense instead of actual pictures, but whatever. Speedy will just have to live on as an artistic choice.

Pietro doesn’t mind when Kurt gets high—hell, he knows now that Kurt and Toad used to get high together all the time, which is honestly kind of hilarious. He even joins in sometimes, though it never lasts long. His metabolism burns through everything way too fast, making him the ultimate heavyweight. Joints and edibles don’t do much for him—he’s more of a dabs guy, the only thing that actually lets him feel anything. Still, just because he’s chill about it doesn’t mean he’s not watching Kurt like a hawk. No way is he letting his boyfriend green out or, worse, try to keep up with Pietro’s freak metabolism like it’s some kind of challenge. If Kurt’s getting too spacey, Pietro’s the one making sure he’s got water, making sure he’s eating, making sure he’s not about to tip over somewhere dumb. He plays it off like it’s just because he doesn’t want to deal with a mess, but the truth is? He’s stupidly protective, and no amount of weed is ever gonna change that.

Toad doesn’t really care what people call him—nicknames, insults, whatever, he’s heard it all—but there’s something kinda nice about hearing his actual name from his friends. Lance only ever calls him Todd when he’s exasperated, usually after Toad’s done something particularly dumb, like, “Todd, for the love of—can you just not?” Meanwhile, Kurt started calling him Todd the second he found out it was his real name, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No teasing, no hesitation—just Todd, warm and casual, like it belonged to him. Tabitha, on the other hand, takes it to another level, dragging it out into Toddy whenever she’s feeling playful—or right before she’s about to blow him up. And then there’s Pietro, who only calls him Toad—except, every now and then, he slips up, a careless Todd tumbling out in a moment where he’s not thinking. Toad never calls him on it, but they both know what it means. He doesn’t need some big declaration to know Pietro cares—he just needs to hear his name.

[cheetour]

The Void Within's dialogue is sloppy to the point of not being fully literate*.

It's been noticed that the rough sketches and the final artwork don't match up in quality, and seem to be declining as the plot goes on. The same is happening to the writing.

This is, I am sorry, a post about the latest major Neopets update. Not only that, it's about the GRAMMAR in the dialogue for that update. Riveting.

I SWEAR I AM NOT JUST A PEDANTIC ASSHOLE, I GENUINELY WANT USERS TO KNOW THERE'S AN ISSUE!

Most people who complain about "incorrect" grammar in games and comics are wrong. Homestuck, Night in the Woods, We Know the Devil, and Captain Underpants all have fine grammar, just stylized.

I really, really, really like The Void Within. I think it's a fantastic idea, and I am determined to enjoy it as much as possible.

I am a professional editor. Noticing this stuff is my job.

Now, PLEASE bear that in mind when I say:

tl;dr: Neopets is asking you to pay money to a product that does not meet the quality standards of a primary school English test for ages 10+.

*I don't mean to use "not literate" as a stand-in for "stupid and bad at writing." Literacy is very complicated, illiteracy is more common than you think, and there is no shame in being illiterate - you can be very intelligent and also have no written or digital literacy. I mean the literal "not able to use written language to its fullest extent".

It's clear whoever wrote the dialogue didn't have a perfect grasp of English punctuation. AND THAT'S FINE. Good writers don't always have good grammar, and you DON'T need fluent English to write good stories in English.

That's why writing, proofreading, and editing are all separate professions, and why a well-run creative project delegates those roles to separate people. They still matter.

People are more likely to notice grammar mistakes the more they read books. Correctly formatted English is how older, less online, and disabled people with visual or linguistic processing difficulties read. Text-to-speech doesn't work correctly on writing without correct punctuation. These are serious professional standards, and they exist for a reason. They're not worthless just because you don't understand them.

A good-quality publisher of books, comics, or video games wouldn't release dialogue like this to a paying audience. They would consider this standard unacceptable. They'd either use correct grammar, or stylized grammar. (Inconsistent grammar, with no logical or narrative rules, isn't a style. They're not choices if you don't know you're making them. They're mistakes.)

To an extent this is nitpicking, and most people wouldn't notice this stuff.

But Neopets is MAKING MONEY. They are SELLING PRODUCTS for this. They have MULTIPLE PHASES of NC Market sales for this plot.

As an educator, there is no way I could show this (perfectly kid-friendly) comic to a classroom of children - it would have no educational value. It's not written correctly or with any obvious care. If they paid attention to it too much, they'd get the wrong idea about the English language!

I think it's fair to say that if you're publishing an official Neopets story, and you want Neopets to be a kid-friendly, fan-driven, story-based brand with a target audience wider than "people who don't really care about whether stories are professionally written", the script should've been proofread.

To give you an idea of how many typos Chapter 3 has, here's one of the dialogue pages with the missing punctuation added; I also took 5 minutes to rewrite each line for coherency.

And THIS is a website showing you at what points in primary eduation we teach children to use commas correcty:

Art is hard. Programming is hard. Hell, good writing is hard. It's HARD coming up with dialogue and a plot that people actually want to experience.

Grammar is boring and sometimes pointless. It's not difficult. It requires only basic literacy. Children learn how to use commas at ages seven and up.

If you don't care about the story you're telling enough to check that it would get a good grade on a child's school test, how can you possibly expect anyone to pay for it? You need specialist skills to code a website or create a high-quality digital graphic, but the only thing you need to get this right is... one literate adult who cares enough to try.

So where are they?

**There is no shame in being illiterate, but there is CERTAINLY shame in selling illiterate writing.

tl;dr: Neopets is asking you to pay money to a product that does not meet the quality standards of a primary school English test for ages 10+.

Finally, here are some browser petsites/RPGs who have never prompted me to write an 800 word critique:

Fallen London

Pixel Cat's End

Lioden

[toomanythoughts4myhead]

A drop of poison goes a long way

Summary: More insight in Coriolanuses work life and the veil of what is going inside his past loves head is finaly revealed. Coriolanus is offered what he wants. Will it be his doom again?

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow and his brain; mentions of attempted murder, shooting, gun violence, prosthetic as result; Capitol people.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/N: I am so sorry it took me this long to write this. December wasn't 🎄Decembering🎄 it was 📝Decembering📝. I hope you enjoy and I will try to be more on schedule. Hope yall enjoy.

[<-Prev. chapter][Masterlist][Next chapter->]

Coriolanus liked to think of himself as a sensible individual by Capitol standards, to say the least.

Then why has he been on the verge of ripping his hair out for the past day and a half?

Ever since Dr Gaul had presented to him his "fixed" songbird he has been in a state of mind unbecoming of the image he has built himself to be. He even had to cancel his lunch outing with Solicis Saddler, a hefty sponsor of the games with an odd bloodthirst for someone who was missing most of his natural teeth and had gotten a tacky golden replacement.

Dr Gaul hadn't allowed for him to take you home or stay long, not that he had been able to protest, eyes glued to your form like ot would set you on fire or make you crawl back in his arms. He didn't want to think about the consequences; he knew he had failed whatever test this was supposed to be. He should have remained stoic and proud, barely sparing you a glance. Instead, he gaped at you, hopefully with a closed mouth.

He had gotten used to troubling his mind with various plots and schemes before bed, usually that kept his mind at bay and away from you. Now, you came back in strutting to render him powerless over his own being. He felt stupid and weak, unsure who to hate more - himself or you.

He decides he hates you most.

After the encounter, he had gotten back in his car and gone to work, collecting himself now that you were out of sight. With the rise of popularity after the 11th and especially 12th game the making of the Hunger Games had become a lot more professional and lavish, the personal had expanded and even changed and added buildings to the office.

As a head game maker, he worked and operated over the main building, the center, and the gem of the whole operation. The building itself was in various shades of whites and blacks, and all in-between, a lot of the structure was from black and white marble with golden cracks. Coriolanus liked working there, in his expensive suits and office at the top of the building, overlooking the whole Capitol. he felt powerful, as he should. He was the one in control.

The main game makers teams were separated and had multiple departments that discussed locations, structures, finances, networking and so on and forth, anything needed for the games to run smoothly and be as entertaining as possible. He was the one who organized meetings and approved ideas and made sure they would also be reasonable by the almost limitless budget. This meant he technically worked only a few hours; the other time, he spent building ties and attending lunches and dinners that would benefit him. Technically, since he is the head and face of the operating, whatever helped him helped the community. So, no one complained or questioned him.

This day was horrible and he breezed by most of it, he felt that on the back of his mind he was reliving this morning over and over and decided its best not to interact with one of his best sponsors when not fully with hus mind. He had fumbled some excuse on his way back from work that he didn't feel good, which was partly true.

Now, the hot water of his shower was burning his skin as he increased it again. He didn't like the burning hot but thus was about discipline. I remember who he was now and for what eh stood. He wouldn't allow you to take this away from him again.

His sleep was troubled and came upon him way too late, his skin felt raw and sensitive from the waterx maybe he shouldn't over do it too much, he wouldn't like for people to notice. His carefully glided back curls were sticking everywhere, and he felt aggitated, but he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. Not uncommon.

° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ ° ❄️ °

In the morning, he felt better. He rose with the same confidence he had adopted and went out for a run. At least his stay in the districts had taught him discipline and instilled the need to train his body, something all the spoiled and often drugged up or obese people of the Capitol seem to lack. It made him stand out, with his sculpted torso and wide shoulders, strong but not intimidating brutishly so, he filled out his shirts and suits in way he never could back when he was barely eating anything with substance.

It had snowed again last night, surely a good fortune. His sneakers left imprints in the still not cleared up paths in the near park, his breath fanned over his face in clouds of white smoke, he could feel the chilling air nip at his sides through the thin running clothes he had. He felt alive.

By this time, his avoxes were up and on the go, tending to the apartment and the his work clothes and breakfast. He knew their routine like the back of his hand, and so they didn't dare step out of it; it felt good. Each day he got the same royal treatment, no back talk (or any talk for that matter), after a while even he didn't have to talk to them, they knew what to do, he would often limited himself to simple commands. It was a pleasant start to his day since he had to deal with pompous arrogant moneybags for a living.

When he reached the street on which his apartment resided the sun was starting to turn the sky redish. He felt a faint sheen of sweat on his doby and shuddered as his body started to cool down from the exercise, what caught his attention was one of his avoxes waiting for him at the threshold of the apartment. Coriolanus raised an eyebrow as he approached, straightening his back and slowing down his breathing. Judging by the unsure look on their face he knew something had gone wrong, they weren't supposed to be here.

"Could you explain to me what you are doing outside?"

The avoxe looked up at him with gaze that held too much fear, sure he had punished avoxes before but not so cruelly. A mere doubling of chores or less food had been all he had done, merely disciplinary shows of power. The same way a dog needs to be taught, so do humans. The avoxe passed him a note, an envelope sealed with red wax in the capitols symbol. A message from the Citadel.

Coriolanus lifted an eyebrow. Receiving mail isn't exactly an out of the ordinary thing, he doesn't think it's really worth it freeze his ass of and catch something over a letter, but his gnawing intuition told him it was something bad. The realization seeped through and he felt an unpleasant churning in his timach as he ripped the envelope and read the letter.

It would hardly be called a letter since it consistented barely two sentences but It made his head spin.

"Take this as an encouragement from the staff of the Citadel for all your hard work. We hope you don't mind we clipped your Songbirds wings a little."

It wasn't signed but it didn't have to be. Who else could have scared his staff this badly but Dr Gaul? The implications of the letter set in and he barged into his apartment way too quickly, almaot shoving the avoxes down the stairs.

Snow fells and littered his floor, making wet spots on his white rug, but it wasn't the only thing tainting his apartment. There on his couch he found you, sitting cross-legged and fighting woth the decorative bouquet of roses on the coffee table. Your gaze snapped to him, watching hiw with curiosity and a startled look in your eyes as he stared back with such intensity it made you feel uncomfortable.

The hospital gown he had seen before had been switched for a creame white knitted dress that reached your knees and black leggings with boots, semi-useful for the weather and surprisingly basic for the extravagant taste of the Capitol. In the natural light seeping from the glass wall your prosthetic arm looked too natural. You looked too natural, unchanged, maybe even bettered by some fancy Capitol equipment.

What surprised him most was the way you looked at him.

He had spend a long time going over all possibilities of interactions between him and you, he had imagined a cold shoulder, yelling, screaming, maybe you would even try to attack him. But you looked at him with admiration, your face brightened as you placed your warm gaze on him. Not lovingly like before, you didn't seem to recognize him fully.

He walked closer until your knees were a hairstarnd away from his thigh and stopped. He didn't know how to react, he could feel the grasp of control he wielded best at his own house. You just had that effect on him, maybe it was the puppy smile on your face.

As he approaches you stand up, now he can clearly see the white bow on your head, truly wrapped like a present for him.

"Dr Gaul sends her warmest regards. And im here to thank you personally for all you have done for me."

Coriolanus despote everything found himself even more confused. Sure, he had done a lot of you: kept you alive during the Hunger games, cheat in the Hunger games for you, carry out some duty in district 12. He hadn't imagined you'd be thankful for it now. His lack of response must have confused you.

"I am so very thankful you saved me from the districts. I would have been left for dead if you hadnt sent your team of doctors to help me." - you add with a sweet genuine smile and loving gaze.

What?

"Well i couldnt leave my girl for dead among these animals. You know I'd do anything for you." - he smiled back and went as far as to gently grasp your hand in a sweet gesture.

He is grasping at loose straws here. It was evident that your memory was very... selective and altered. He could somewhat force himself to imagine that it was all due to the incident, but he knew better. This was all Dr Gauls idea and work. He needed to figure out more of the scenario Dr Gaul had constructed for you. And to find out how.

You seemed to like the gesture, squeezing his hand into your smaller one. Your hands were softer, not calloused or rough from playing guitar or surviving, but soft and inviting. Your nails were even done, he had to give it up.to the person in charge of your presentation, they had truly went all in.

"It all happened so fast, the doctors never filled me in fully of what exactly happened." - he said feigning ignorance and worry.

"It was horrible. After i returned i wanted to see my family so bad, but everyone turned on me. They chased me down through the forest because i had managed to get a glimpse of what thwy want - wealth and power, even if briefly from the Capitol. My own family tried to shoot me." - you said and it visibly made you upset, your voice became more uneven, wobbling lightly with along with your bottom lip.

Your own blood? You had no living family, you'd said so yourself before. It appears the lab team had decided to do this in the most dramatic way possible.

He put his thumb on your slightly trembling chin, running his knuckles over your reddening bottom lip and coo at you sympatheticly, as much as he could.

"My poor girl, im so sorry it took us this long to get you back and kicking. Those people certainly did a number on your poor body." - he ran his free hand up on the prosthetic bicep, it felt colder to the touch, not as squishy as human flesh and fat, but surprisingly close.

You nod into the palm of his hand, looking at him with big watery eyes. This is amazing, Coriolanus thought. He had you right how he always wanted you, under his thumb and eating out of his palm. You were like a frail little fawn waking up after the cruel winter had passed, everything is different but so so familiar. He would be your guide, he will show you the right way, he will be your light and your dark. You will worship and thank him for taking your control and responsibilities away.

All hate seemed to be burried for now, this opportunity made Coriolanus too excited, to have his favorite toy back. You weren't the girl who had sicked a snake on him, no, that girl was dead, trapped in her own body but permanently erased. Whatever he had now was the perfect doll with your face slapped on it.

"Oh my precious lamb, welcome home."

He cooed and tried to keep the sadistic glint in his eyes from showing too much. He put his arms around you, big hands digging into the warm material of your lower back, the rose ring on his pointer finger scraped the material. Your cheek was pressed against collarbone, nosing at his neck. Even a few seconds in his embrace and the sickeningly sweet smell of white roses was clinging to your whole body. Even a few minutes were enough for his poison to take root.

He runs his hands up and down your back, keeping you close. It felt good, to feel your warmth again, it made something tick in his brain whenever he felt your warmer weaker body against his. Call it animal instincts or a sick mind, neither are too far off.

"Ive missed you" he croons in your neck, his nose bumps your pulse point and it makes your head feel lighter. You are alsmot too loat in each other, but the feeling of being watched makes you open your eyes to find a nervous looking older woman. You instinctively true and pull away from Coriolanuses tight embrace but he doesn't let up, his hands just dig deeper into the fat on your hips and sides.

"Where do you think you are running off to? Are you not happy to be mine?" - he asked with a mocking tone but the intensity in his eyes never wavered.

"Corio, there is someone her-"

"Just an avoxe, no need to be shy. She wont say a peep." - replied clamly and stood back to his full height, keeping you good to his side like an accessory. Your face was held to his chest by the back of your neck, the hold wasn't strong but you hadnt tried to break free either. It made your cheeks burn a tad bit. "What seemes to be the problem?"

The woman stood still and pondered how to explain it without actual words but the loud bickering of an old man that could be also drunk and rattle of metal made Coriolanuses breath hitches for a moment.

Solicis Saddler.

He had promised dinner at his penthouse to make up for canceling, to go over the future plans of the games to keep the bloodthirsty man at bay and his wallet open for all gruesome scenes. Judging by his pompous screaming and yelling at his staff he had taken the invitation to heart.

Coriolanus had completely forgot about this. And it made him feel like the ever-growing tower that was his life was tilting, he was getting sloppy. He needed to focus again. He won't repeat the same mistakes.

Pressed against him, Coriolanus could feel you flinch as the octaves kept on getting louder. He needed to apologize to his neighbors tomorrow for all the chatter. He gave your waist a squeeze and kept you locked to him.

"Let him in."

(Not my best but lemme cook chat, i.swear ill do better next time.)