#full time score prediction

[100percentsurewins]

100 Sure Home Win Prediction

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text css=””] 100 Sure Home Win Prediction Introduction to Home Win Predictions Predicting home wins can be a thrilling part of sports betting, offering both seasoned bettors and newcomers a chance to test their analytical skills and intuition. 100 Sure Home Win Predictions focus on the likely success of a home team in a sporting event, leveraging various factors to…

[postcrashcurly]

A Deep Dive into Curly's Injuries

CW: Medical discussion and graphic themes.

I see a lot of people discussing Curly's injuries in the fandom and I thought that I would take some time to absolutely word vomit information for consideration as someone training in the medical field.

Burns and Calculating Total Body Surface

Starting off simple, we’ll discuss the following burns:

First degree burns only affect the outer layer of the skin (epidermis). Second degree burns, or partial thickness burns, affect both the epidermis and part of the layer underneath (dermis). Third degree burns, or full thickness burns, affect all layers of the skin, fat, and muscle. Third degree burns DO NOT HURT as they destroy the nerves.

Typically you will not see significant 4th degree burns premortem- they are often postmortem and resemble more of a char. The body is basically cremated/incinerated. I'll touch more on this further down.

The rule of nines is the method for estimating the percentage of affected body surface (size of the burn). I used this to roughly estimate that Curly is burned anywhere from 82-91% of his total body surface. We don't see his backside, but assuming he walked into the cockpit before the crash it is POSSIBLE that his backside isn't as burnt.

Note the R-Baux score and prediction of burn-related mortality (TBSA – Age + [17 x R] TBSA: total body surface area R: 1 (Inhalation injury) or 0 (No inhalation injury)

Amputation Possibility and Weight of Risk

While there are a lot of factors to keep in mind when it comes to Curly’s condition and subsequent survival, in order to connect reality and canon the following needs to be considered.

We'll go over two of the most popular interpretations post-crash:

1. Anya performing amputation as a preventative measure.

We have to think about the veins and arteries in the human body when discussing rudimentary amputation.

Note: Arteries carry blood away from the heart to the body, while veins carry oxygen-poor blood back to the heart. Arteries and veins are connected by capillaries. Direction as follows:

Risk to major arteries and veins would potentially result in excessive blood loss (we will focus on arteries since they are larger in diameter and their ability to withstand high pressure from pumping blood). Repairing arteries typically requires surgical intervention.

Curly's right arm ends at the wrist, while his left ends midway up the forearm. This would sever the radial and ulnar arteries.

Curly's right leg ends just below the knee. The popliteal (back of the knee) artery is the continuation of the femoral artery- one of the largest arteries in the body.

Curly's left leg ends about midway down his calf. We can assume that severs the posterior and anterior tibial arteries.

The image below is a quick edit and isn't an accurate representation of location, only a rough diagram.

Note: The legs network of small arteries are available to SOMEWHAT compensate for blood flow if one of the major arteries is damaged, but it likely wouldn't be enough to prevent excessive blood loss.

We CAN consider cauterization in emergency situations; however it would require some ingenuity and a significant heat source. Small tools that could be repurposed to cauterize Curly’s wounds would do more harm than good, and it is likely that Pony Express has banned large, heat producing objects. They ARE on a space freighter with artificial gravity and set oxygen levels, after all.

Lack of proper equipment and medical knowledge would make amputation unsurvivable.

2. Curly's limbs were eviscerated by the crash.

This is where we talk more about the possibility of fourth degree burns and what that means.

Fourth degree burns are the most severe type of burn that affects muscles, tendons, and bone.

Where to position Curly in the cockpit during the crash is… tricky.

It’s difficult to imagine the angle he would need to be in order to sustain full body burns and loss of limbs. This is the part I pondered the most, and I think a good explanation would be electrical burns from the control panel on impact.

Electrical burns are carried by nerves because it is the path of least resistance. Extremities are more susceptible to damage when a current passes through them. (Yes, this means his genitals are gone too. Sorry, folks!) *See article on electric extremity injury under Read More

Facial Injury and Eye Trauma

Moving towards Curly’s face we come back to our discussion of third degree burns, which I’ve explained a bit above. I do want to note that the survival of his left eye interested me the most while compiling this post.

Your eyes don’t melt in extreme heat (goofy ahh Indiana Jones shit).

Your eyes are mostly composed of water, which makes them resistant to combustion. Since we never directly see the eye socket beneath the bandaging it’s reasonable to assume that his right eye is not entirely destroyed but instead severely damaged (flattened, scarred, cloudy). Without eyelids or even eye drops his remaining eye would dry, potentially blinding him if the heat on impact didn't.

Another point of interest is Jimmy manually manipulating Curly’s mouth several times throughout the game.

This rounds back to third degree burns and the damage to the superficial masseter muscle (moves the lower jaw upward – mastication, or ‘protrusion of the mandible’), the deep masseter muscle (retraction of the mandible – mastication, or ‘closing the jaw with force’), the temporalis muscle (mastication, enabling jaw movement for chewing, biting, and grinding), and surrounding tendons.

Knowing this, a ‘slack jaw’ position would cause visible oral damage like dry mouth and halted saliva production. I’ll touch more on this below.

Loss of Skin and Infection

The skin is the largest organ in the human body with a variety of life sustaining functions like protection and excretory function.

In Curly’s condition, the loss of his skin leaves him open to systematic infection. Skin protects against infection by producing antibacterial substances (defensins and cathelicidins), which greatly increase when injury or inflammation are present. Without skin your body's natural defenses no longer protect against bacteria.

Pathological vulnerability is the key factor in this section. A severe and sometimes fatal response to infection (sepsis) would likely occur under these conditions without proper medical care and antibiotics.

Administering Water, Food, and Medication

This section is where some interpretation comes into play.

The average healthy person can survive approximately three weeks without food and 3 days without water (both vary greatly). According to the games timeline he was kept alive in this state for four months, which means that somehow, in some way, they were able to get him enough nutrients for basic human survival.

This was likely in the form of paranutrition bags and IV fluids since Curly does not seem to have the ability to move his mouth or swallow on his own. When your mouth is kept open for extended periods of time you stop salivating as frequently because the act of swallowing, triggered by the build-up of saliva, is no longer happening.

When having medication administered, Jimmy can be seen (or more so heard) shoving the pills down Curly’s throat with his fingers.

I can’t help but speculate that additional damage was done to his esophagus and vocal cords since there isn’t a way to push the pills far enough down to avoid the steady breakdown of the medication in his throat.

Without properly swallowing pills Curly most likely developed pill esophagitis (irritation of the esophageal lining), which causes painful acid reflux.

Speculation of Internal Injury

This is more presumptive than other sections.

Due to previous notes regarding the source and nature of Curly’s wounds, it is reasonable to assume that not only is smoke inhalation a contributing factor, but ash, technological equipment, and shrapnel also run the possibility of entering his lungs on impact.

However, when I was looking into photos of the cockpit post-crash it brought another potential inhalation/consumption risk to mind; the expanding foam.

It is known that it expands to cover potential weak spots in the ship, so the strength of the substance needs to withstand the pressure of space and maintain the artificial gravity. The cockpit is covered in it, so it is possible that in some way Curly was physically in contact with it when the crash occurred.

Whether he ingested or inhaled it something to consider, but externally there must have been some effort removing the foam from his already burnt skin.

So, what does this mean, Leo? What’s your point?

Well, there is no real point to be made. Everyone is going to interpret things differently! I just thought it would be cool to put forth some real world medical knowledge and compare it to canon! I AM STILL IN TRAINING and I have a lot to learn, but I wanted to put something together for you guys! You can take something from it, or nothing at all!

Final Notes:

Realistic Prognosis (prediction of outcome):

Without medical treatment total body third degree burns are NOT SURVIVABLE.

Extended periods of festering and infection would make skin grafting impossible (There is some wiggle room with this depending on how you perceive medical care to have changed- but I do think it's important to consider the limits of the human body).

🖤 If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! 🖤

Thank you so dearly to my love, my life, @13nn0x for the help compiling information and just generally being the sexiest person alive.

Some extra articles to refer to:

Note: Some articles include images but I put a warning on the ones that do.

(CW: Includes Photos) Clinical spectrum of electrical burns - A prospective study from the developing world by Ashok Kumar Sokhal, Krishna Lodha, and Rajkumar Paliwal. LINK

(CW: Includes Photos) Electro-Amputation of Lower Limbs Due to a High-Voltage Shock: Report of an Unusual Case by Suraj Sundaragiri, Senthil Kumaran M, Venkatesh Janarthanan, Chaitanya Mittal, Gerard Pradeep Devnath S. LINK

Ocular Burns by Gregory C. Patek, Amanda Bates, and Allison Zanaboni. LINK

Drug-Induced Esophagitis by Fatima Saleem and Ashish Sharma. LINK

Better among the two for Burn Mortality Prediction in Developing Nations: Revised Baux or Modified Abbreviated Burn Severity Index? by Sheerin Shah, Renu Verma, Rajinder K Mittal, Ramneesh Garg. LINK

[j-jinxee]

Could I request a fic with nijiro or chishiya where reader uses a sex toy or toys on him to make him beg. I love the idea of them being whiny.

[ ⟡​ ] — MAKE ME LOSE,,

NSFW under the cut! ⊹ Chishiya x Reader

[warnings - nsfw, sex toys, begging, public(?), swearing]

A/N - tysm for the request!! hehe I loveee this :3 don't ask me how they got access to sex toys and stuff in the borderland since there's no like, electronic devices kind of yk? Just go w it hehe —★

─────

Chishiya's poker face was one to admire. He had incredible control over his emotions showing, not cracking for anyone or anything. It interested you, his whole demeanour was something no one else at the beach even came close to. The beach influenced everyone to be incredibly care free, dropping their guards and just having a good time, but of course, not Chishiya. Chishiya still kept that same unamused yet intrigued look on his face, he was so peculiar.

Fast forward a few games, you and Chishiya got pretty close. He found you weren't annoying like most at the beach, the way you spoke didn't irritate him at all, plus it was fun having someone around who was actually a challenge. The games got pretty boring after a while, sure you'd get hurt sometimes, but they eventually all got so easy. So you and Chishiya would start placing bets just to spice it up a bit, betting who could get a higher score, who got hurt the least, who predicted which players would die, you know? It was your guys' way of attempting to enjoy the games.

However this type of bet came as a surprise.

"You're so full of it! You would not be able to keep it together!" You exclaimed to Chishiya.

"Trust me I could, it wouldn't be that hard."

"Alright then, let's bet on it." You said with a smile.

His face slightly dropped, you finally got to him. You know he wouldn't be able to keep it together, let alone survive a full game. He'd be too sensitive to focus, because you'd be watching from afar, in full control of a pretty little cock ring he's wearing, vibrations running through his core as he tries not to falter.

Fuck the idea was so hot, and it'd soon be a reality thanks to your betting games. You knew from a friend of a friend that the beach wasn't too far from an adult store, how convenient. Before the next game, you'd taken a little trekk to the store, sure it was creepy and abandoned like everything else in the city, but it still looked relatively clean. Making your "purchase" of the toy, you began your way back to the beach, Chishiya's next game was tonight, so he was just praying it wouldn't be anything in the spades category.

Much to his luck — it was a diamonds game. Fuck, he might actually win.

You two had discussed the "rules" earlier, you'd be in an undisclosed location somewhere near the game arena. You'd also have an ear piece in so you could hear all his pretty little noises, but he'd have to focus completely on the game, no communication was allowed on his end.

He'd win if his poker face stayed strong, basically if no one caught on or asked him about it. He also wasn't allowed to cum, poor baby. However, if you won — he'd have to keep it on all night, all the way back to the beach, in his own bed, everything.

It was some sort of numbers game (think like the king of diamonds except not that serious). There was a screen with numbers 0-100, and a math formula that went along with it. You honestly didn't pay much attention, you weren't playing and were just here to make sure Chishiya doesn't cheat. It was more than likely Chishiya knew where you were, he always knew somehow, and right now you may or may not have been pirched on top of the roof, looking in through the high windows. It was night, and you were in full black, no one else would've seen you.

You decided not to touch the remote at all during the first two rounds, hopefully making him feel the suspense. You doubt it would have any real effect on him, but it's fun to imagine.

"Your move Chishiya, what'll it be?" Another player asked.

His lips parted to begin speaking. vrrr vrrr

You smirked as you saw him hesitate, his mouth closing for a split second before going back to his sentence. You had it on the lowest setting, wouldn't want to ruin the fun immediately.

Your mind started to wander as the game went on, thinking back to all the other pretty toys you saw in the shop. Invasive thoughts clouded your mind, beginning to think about using all the other toys on Chishiya — binding his wrists to the headboard with those hand cuffs, watching hot wax run down his bare chest, fuck. You definitely had to go back.

Two players had already had their heads blown off, three remaining including Chishiya. Your thumb dragged along the buttons of the remote, surprising you with the fact it even worked from this distance. Shiya was beginning to get restless, adjusting his posture, looking around randomly, rubbing his eyes, just trying to feel anything else to take his mind off the pleasure, threatening to spill at any second.

"mm-mmh! shit-" he quietly panted, completely unable to focus. The other players shot him suspicious glances, wondering what was happening to him.

"You alright there?" Another player asked, his expression showing signs of disgust, has he caught on?

Chishiya's little whines did sound very suggestive, even if you were completely oblivious to the situation he was in.

"Hm? Oh- yeah, yeah I'm good" Liar.

As the game continued, Chishiya's moves were less and less calculated. If he didn't get it together, he could actually make a fatal mistake. You decided to give him a break, it was the second last round, and you slowly turned it all the day down to the lowest setting. You could see sweat start to form on his forehead, quickly being wiped away with his sleeve as he proceeded with his move.

Another player was executed, entering the last round. The inconsistent vibrations were starting to make him feel sick, he would've came twice by now if it wasn't for your bet. As he looked back at the screen, his hand went up to select "01" vrrr vrrrrrr

Spiking it up to the highest setting, what else did he expect for the last round? His hand clenched into a fist, his boxers completely soaked in pre, making all the small adjustments feel even better. He resumed selecting the last number, but for some reason changed his answer.

'Player Chishiya selected 00'

He glanced to the only remaining player, giving them a little wave. His expression was horrified, realising he had just lost, and this psycho was- waving him goodbye? Not a second passed before more blood was splattered on the walls, Chishiya had won. Fuck.

You made your way carefully down from the roof, not looking forward to seeing his smug 'I won' face again. You really thought this would break him, sure the other players were suspicious, but they didn't outright ask him about it, you'd lost. However, you were met with something you certainly didn't expect.

Chishiya was barely standing, leaning against the entrance of the game hall with his head angled upwards, bulge very prominent in his pants. Once he heard you approaching, he needed this to end.

"ff-fuck is it over? Please be ove- ah! Does it count? I win right? right?" Holy shit, he was so lost in it. Of course it was over, what was he talking about? He was clearly deluded from all the adrenaline, mixed with pleasure he want allowed to experience, you never thought you'd see him like this.

You decided to play, "I don't know. We could keep going, see if you could last the night, see if anyone at the beach notices."

"Fuckkk- fuck please! No one noticed I- ahhh! I didn't even cum" you still had the ring on full power, getting him closer and closer while he was trying to convince what'd already come true.

"Didn't you? Awh what a good boy. I guess I could let you cum, you've done well enough."

"r-really? Ahh! are you sure? Please end it."

You held his face so gently, attempting to make eye contact as he struggled to keep his open. Calming him with your touch, your other hand slowly went up to stroke him through the wet fabric. "aAH- mmh!"

"I'm sure, you've won. Pretty boy can cum now."

He whined out louder than ever as the most intense orgasm of his life washed over him. Thick ropes of his hot white cum spurted out into his boxers, all his muscles tensing from the pleasure. Nearly collapsing from the pure ecstasy, you turned the small device off and sat down next to him. He was silent for a few minutes before coming back down to earth, his eyes finally opened.

"Fuck, I barely remember the game, or what I was saying. I won again though." He smirked as he looked over at you, there's that smug little cat.

"Yeah, didn't think you had it in you to be honest. So, what's my punishment? Gonna make me eat natto again?" You referred back to the last bet you lost, where he made you eat your least favourite food ever.

The smirk plastered on his face got even wider before he spoke, "no. I thought this time, I'd use your reward against you."

What does he mea- oh.

Before you knew it, you were back at the beach, on Chishiya's bed, wearing a pretty little vibrator that he had control over. Maybe we shouldn't have made that bet.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (i)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky at his little shit supreme, Very Loud reader, images and memes that all have alt texts.

A/N: yes this is literally harmless in a different font. do not ask me if anything doesn't make sense. i cannot explain. i resurface every 3 years to present you with ideas born from menty b's. ANYWAY shout out to my beloved ryan and shane. pls enjoy <3

Bucky doesn’t appeal to the youths.

Apparently. 

On God, he cannot fathom why.

He had definitely left the house in the last six months, maybe. Smiled in at least two pictures that existed on the internet. He even knew what Discord was. Sort of.  

By all accounts, he should be treated as the modern day icon that he was.  

“The youths?” he repeats, the word so foreign on his tongue it felt odd to even say it.

“Your numbers are the lowest of the whole team.” The latest tech-dude, with a tablet twelve models ahead of the one Bucky had in his room, tells him monotonously. “Wilson, Romanoff and Barton score the highest. Everyone else lies around the middle. You are dead-last.”

Bucky has the audacity to look offended. 

“Anything to say?” Their PR head, Maya, asks him, amused. 

He stares, formulating the wittiest one liner he could in three seconds.

“I don’ care,” he mumbles. 

Maya sighs. “Look, the team took the decision together. As far as I’m aware, you are still a member. You need some PR if you guys want to stay in the public’s good books.”

“No one’s gonna listen to me.” Bucky wasn’t exactly the poster child for American values. He couldn’t even vote until three years ago, and that came only after the full wrath of a Steve Rogers descended on the email inbox of the DMV. 

“That’s why it’s important to get them to like you,” Maya emphasizes. “Or the idea of you at least. A very sanitized, corporate friendly version.”

His eyebrow twitches unintentionally.  

“And also you signed the contract.”

Well. Shit. 

Truth be told– and he has openly and rather loudly stated this on numerous occasions even especially when no one asked– he doesn’t understand why they need a PR team. The world has calmed down significantly over the last few years. Bucky hadn’t really been out crime-fighting as much as he was people-watching. There hasn’t been an earth-shatteringly dystopian-level event in the longest time, and there seemed to be a group of spandex-clad teenagers who seemed to do a good job at taking care of them when they did threaten to occur. Go kids.

Even if they needed PR, he could arguably understand the appeal of Sam and Nat and why the people would want to see more of them. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he crawled onto Earth most days of the week. 

“What do I have to do?” he asks ultimately, knowing there was no way to get out of this. “Interviews?”

The intern shares a look with Maya. Bucky shares a look with the ceiling. 

“The team agreed to do a series of videos, each focusing on a different niche,” she begins, “Crash courses on science, pointing out mistakes in spy movies. Once a week.”

Bucky nods along. He can pinpoint Bruce and Nat for those.

Maya stares at him.

Bucky stares back.

“So,” she says slowly, like he’s a moron, “you would–”

“No.” 

The intern sighs heavily like they discussed that this was going to happen. Bucky was getting predictable. This annoys him even further, for some reason.

“Only once a week, and it doesn’t have to be anything crazy–”

“I’m not doing videos,” he interjects. “I’ll tweet a few times. I’ll even go outside. But ’m not doin’ videos.”

A big step was to get the Avengers off Twitter after the regular shit-storm that occurs every time they’d quote-tweet another politician calling them shitheads. Getting them back on seems counterproductive. 

“Fine,” Maya relents, looking at the intern. “We'll work something out.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, and meditating on ways he can weasel his way out of those too.

So they stick him in a couple of interviews.

Bucky, as the recluse extraordinaire that he was, does unsurprisingly terrible at them.

Variety does a piece on him that was supposed to take up 2 pages. They send back half a page worth of usable material and Bucky gets a lecture on how monosyllables don't count as answers.

He grunts in return. Maya’s itch to smack his shoulder with the rolled up draft increases.

They set him up for pap walks. Just him getting fast food for the team, or sitting in the park.

They don’t take into account that Bucky was trained professionally for years on how to hide, sneak in and out of places without a soul knowing he was ever there. 

The paparazzi spend three hours waiting for him outside the pizza place, while he’s been home for two hours with two demolished pepperonis and an order of mozzarella sticks. 

They give him access to his Twitter. 

He tweets some dumb shit and gets shadow banned by that evening. 

Maya is sick and tired, and the interns have shifted three times since the whole ordeal started. Bucky honestly feels a little bad. Maybe he should try to be like Scott, who not only wrote a book, finger-gunned at photographers, did an interview a week, but also agreed to a podcast and a video series about literally anything they suggested. 

“Play nice,” Sam tells Bucky one evening. 

It’s an off-hand comment, not even really looking at him while he says it. 

Bucky doesn’t need to ask what he’s referring to, but he thinks that maybe he has gone too far.

He begrudgingly agrees. 

Therefore, it begins. 

They stick him in the background of a few videos. Just to interact, add his commentary on what was going on, suggestions. 

Then the jokes really start.

“I just don’t got anything to add,” Bucky tries, in a failure of an attempt to justify his lack of contribution. 

Maya only stares at him, but Bucky swears he can hear her curse quietly, even though her lips don’t move even a millimeter.  

He is not put in another video. 

And so he finds himself here. 

In a meeting room that he’s convinced is barricaded from the outside so he can’t slither out the door again. Another intern with pink-tinted glasses that took up half their face.

Maya’s in the midst of explaining to him that sure, his numbers had gone up by a decimal, but that was because people had started editing him into the backgrounds of other pictures for other users to find in a perplexing take on Where’s Waldo.

“Videos seem to be working,” she ties it together. “But we need more than you just standing silently behind Captain Rogers.”

“But it’s working,” Bucky objects. “I don’t see why it has to change.”

Maya sends him a glare. Bucky decides then it’s good to shut up. 

“Are you on the internet a significant amount?” the intern asks. The glasses on their face have changed colours to green. Bucky’s eyebrow furrows. 

“No.” 

For the next thirty minutes, he is subjected to a pop quiz about too many words ending with ‘core’, ‘coded’ and ‘eras’. He’s surprised that he knows what cottagecore is. He definitely doesn’t fucking know what a tomatogirl, nor does he want to. 

“What do you like doing?” the intern enunciates, pulling up a spreadsheet of niches that had built a dedicated community around themselves over the years. “Makeup? Cleaning? Parkour?”

Bucky wonders if they’d really create a montage of him just micro cleaning the kitchen every week. It doesn’t sound half bad. 

Beyond that, the only thing he can think of is woodworking, which Sam introduced him to. While he spends time creating little figures, he wouldn’t say it was– 

“You really are dead silent,” the intern breaks his train of thought, tone almost that of wonder. “Guess the whole ‘ghost story for seventy years’ is more true than I thought.”

Bucky throws him a weary look, and works on unclenching the fist that tightened involuntarily. 

“Was that necessary?” Maya’s voice comes coldly. “Take fifteen. Go find the other one we were supposed to meet.”

While sheepish and somewhat apologetic, the kid still looks relieved to be out of there. To be honest, Bucky isn’t really offended– he’s grown a thick skin over the years. But he also thought the guy was a little shit now. 

Maya turns back to him, but Bucky finds that the table contains wonders far more interesting than the conversation at hand.

“Back to what we were talking about.” She ruffles through something on her laptop. “Puppets? History?”

He wordlessly shakes his head. 

Been the former, seen too much of the latter.

Maya’s head tilts abruptly. “You like ghosts?”  

He wonders if the prior conversation had anything to do with this insightful question. 

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t exist.”

“Really,” Maya deadpans. “Aliens and multiversal baboons are fine, but no ghosts.”

“I’ve seen aliens and multiversal baboons. Never seen a ghost in my life,” Bucky argues right back.

“Other people have seen ghosts.”

“Good for other people.”

The door swings open right as Maya’s eyes narrow at him. Guess it wasn’t padlocked. 

“Whatever it is you think I did, Maya, I didn’t. I think,” you announce in a volume too much for a closed room, stopping when you see Bucky sitting cross-armed and looking delightfully disgruntled. “Oh hey, Barnes. Fancy seeing you here.”

Bucky had met you. The newest addition to the team that had made a grand entrance a couple of weeks ago. He thinks you stay on the floor below him, but he has nothing backing this hypothesis other than the disco funk music that had started appearing at odd hours of the night. 

“Please sit,” Maya cracks a smile at you that Bucky had yet to earn. “Sorry, I know our meeting is scheduled for later, but I figured we could kill two birds with one stone.”

You look between her and Bucky, who hasn’t moved an inch since you got here, much less even said hello.

“You must be really bad if Maya had to call me in,” you tell him outright. “I’m usually like, her last option.”

“Thanks,” Bucky replies dryly. 

“Look, here’s my final pitch.” Maya sighs, before turning to you. “You’re new, and we need something to introduce you slowly to the public.”

“Oh, am I finally getting hard launched?” You grin, and Bucky doesn’t know what that means. “Just imagine me kicking my feet, giggling or whatever.” 

“And he needs… an upgrade.” Maya’s thumb juts out towards Bucky who simply rolls his eyes.

“Right.” Your sight lands on him from across the table. “I’ve seen the memes.”

“What memes?” he grunts, because while the team had definitely seen them, it didn't occur to anyone they should show it to him. He loves them. Really. So much. Die for them. 

You only look too happy to pull out your phone and start typing.

“Do you know what skinwalkers are?” 

“No.”

“That’s what they say you look like, lurking in the back of all your friends’ videos,” you continue, swerving around your phone to show him.

Bucky doesn’t look impressed. He can’t say he blames them either, which makes him inexplicably maddens him.  

“At least they’re calling you their boyfriend,” you add, entirely unhelpfully. “That’s gotta count.”

“Right.” Maya clears her throat. “The both of you–” 

“Are getting paired together, I suppose,” you hum. 

Bucky’s eyebrows pull together. 

He barely knows you. Just a little bit on how you ended up here, that you enjoyed hanging out with the team, figuring out your place in the compound, and were seemingly doing a great job at it. 

You were… loud. And open. 

Bucky feels the compulsive need to compensate for that by doubling down on how silent he could get, as if the two of you couldn’t co-exist in the same space in equilibrium. 

Maya pointedly raises a finger at you. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“For the right price, I will believe in whatever you tell me to.”

Her face lights up brighter than Bucky's ever seen.

“Great.” Maya slams her laptop closed. “See you later.”

Bucky’s left staring as she exits, not even throwing the both of you another look.

“That was quick,” your voice cuts through the silence. “What was that all about?”

 “Don’ ask me,” he grumbles, with a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what was about to follow. 

“Ghost hunting?” Bucky echoes a week later, as expected.

“Yes,” Maya tells him simply. “Two of you. A series based on paranormal activity.”

“I don’t even believe in them,” he reiterates. 

“That’s the point,” she emphasises. “Skeptic and believer. It makes for a good contrast.”

“Why us both?” He hopes it doesn’t come off as offensive. He just doesn’t see why he can’t do this with Sam. Even Clint, if a gun was really pressed to his head. 

“I’m new, no one gives a shit about me,” you say brightly and full of promise. “Yet.”

“Exactly. It’ll be low key. Not an overwhelming number of viewers, no expectations. It’s perfect for launching one Avenger and re-launching another.”

“Sounds rad.” You grin, leaning back as your feet rest on the chair in front of you.

Maya looks relieved for a moment that at least one of you was on board. “No promises on anything. We shoot one video, and if it does well, we stick with it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Bucky argues. 

“Then you have until tomorrow morning to give us another feasible idea,” Maya dishes back.

Bucky retreats into his seat, arms crossed over his chest. 

Truth be told, he considered himself to be the most boring person in the team and though he had made his peace with that, he was sure thar bringing that up now would entail Maya shooting him in the foot.

“Fine,” he agrees and the sighs around the room are loud. 

He scoffs. So fucking dramatic and for what.

“Put her there, partner.” You stretch ungracefully over the large table, sticking out your hand.

Bucky eyes your hand. “Do you even believe in ghosts?” 

“I do now, yeah.” You nod seriously. “Love ‘em. Can’t get enough of them.”

“One video,” Maya reminds him as a balm. “And if it doesn’t work, you’re off the hook forever.”

Off the hook? Forever? For Bucky?

Yay. 

“One video,” he reiterates.

You roll your eyes before smiling when he leans forward to grab it. You yank it up and down clunkily. He blinks at you, letting go slowly. 

“Thank fuck,” Maya groans, head dropping onto the table. 

Your smile is wild. “Guess we’re doing this shit together.”

He doesn’t even have to look very deep in his soul. He already knows he’s going to suffer.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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also i'd absolutely love to make this a community led fic like how harmless was! if you have memes or any paranormal ideas or just any prompts in general, please please send them my way <3

Next part

[rainydayathogwarts]

Ron weasley - Opposite teams

Summary: You play a match against your boyfriend, who's a very sore loser. wc: 2k

Seeing him on the pitch shouldn't have had such an effect on you, especially considering you were playing for the opposite team. The gear looked good on him, and confidence was beaming off his skin, but you were one of the best chasers at Hogwarts, priding yourself on how rarely you missed a shot. "Pull yourself together Y/N!" Flint yelled at your frozen form, still in shock of what had happened. It was all because Ron had flashed you that stupidly gorgeous smile when you were about to score that you hesitated - hesitated enough for him to read your body language and predict your next move, easily catching the quaffle when you threw it. Even your boyfriend had been surprised, well aware of how good you played from years of watching you on the field.

"Wow! It seems as though L/N is too charmed by her boyfriend to get a good shot, this is a new one folks!" Begins Lee, rousing up those in the bleachers. "And it looks like Slytherin Captain Flint is calling for a time out! Good choice I'd say!" It was already embarrassing enough that the entire school knew the time out was being called because you were too hot and bothered by your boyfriend, but your face flushed a dark red the second the Slytherin team turned to look at you in disappointment. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I don't know what got into me, he's just so- I can't be the primary shooter I'm sorry!" The entire team looked back at you as you rambled and you felt your face get impossibly warmer realising you were gushing about your boyfriend to six teenage boys. "I'm sorry." You muttered.

"Y/N's right," Starts Flint again, "She shouldn't be the primary shooter for this game..." His voice trails off and your gaze drifting to where to Gryffindor team stands. You can see them laughing for a moment, and Harry pats Ron on the back - the reason you missed literally couldn't have been more obvious and they were having a field day about it. "Got it Y/N?" Your head snaps back to Flint, looking at you with raised eyebrows. Your face goes blank, your mouth opening as though to say 'what' but nothing comes out. "You'll switch places with Nott as secondary." Malfoy says quietly to you, and you perk up "Yes, got it!" Flint doesn't look convinced, but calls time out to be over anyway, and everyone gets back on their brooms.

"Stay focused or I'll knock your boyfriend off his broom!" The remark is clearly aimed at you, but is loud enough for both teams to hear and you glance at Ron, whose face has blanched at the comment. You turn away from him, trying not to smile, and the whistle blows. Nott scores time after time after time, and you can see your boyfriend's confidence decreasing while his anger increases. Nott passes you, high-fiving you on the way back to his post. "Good strategy change by the Slytherin team, it seems that they're back - OHH AND MALFOY CATCHES THE SNITCH, GAME OVER EVERYONE!" You're relieved to be off your broom when the game end and you sigh deeply, rolling your head in a circle to try and stretch a kink in your neck out.

You finally join your team, earning pats on the back by them, and teasing comments "Well he's not gonna be happy about that one." and "Good luck getting laid tonight." The comments follow you all the way back to your dorm since Pansy walks with you back to the common room. "I don't even know how that happened though! You never miss! Like you can't be so attracted to someone that, well that happens. He's going to be in such a prissy mood, good luck with that."

The party in the common room is in full blow when you finish showering and getting dressed. You're clad in a tight black mini-skirt with a red crop top, something your boyfriend will hopefully appreciate. "I see what you're doing." You're interrupted by Draco, who eyes your outfit once before handing you a drink. "I think you underestimate just how capable I am of getting my boyfriend in bed, Malfoy." He grins, shaking his head "Well if you have the effect on him that he had on you, I doubt it'll take much." You scoff in amusement, the jokes will never end. "Hey if Marcus asks where I am, don't tell him I'm sleeping with the enemy." But Flint is already beside you, muttering "Cheers" under his breath, so you scurry away quietly, starting your trek to the Gryffindor common room.

The Gryffindors' party is completely different. The music in the background is quiet, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team sits together, each player with a drink in hand while they talk. Others seem to be having more fun than them. When Ron spots you walking towards him, he rolls his eyes, clearly upset. His teammates, on the other hand, greet you kindly, some even joking about the slight incident on the field. You stand in front of Ron, putting a knee on the couch between his legs to support yourself when you put your hands on his shoulder, leaning into his body.

Despite Ron's free hand coming to the back of your thigh, he still mutters "I'm not in the mood." though he leans into your touch when one of your hands comes up to play with his hair. You tilt your head down so your lips barely graze his ear "You're so hot when you're angry." Ron stiffens, looking up at you, but your head is already dipping lower so you can press kisses on his neck. He shivers at the cool touch of your slightly wet hair on his collarbone, and his eyes flutter close for a moment. When he opens them back up, Harry is grinning at him and wiggling his eyebrows. Someone wolf whistles, but he doesn't know if it's directed to you. He feels your teeth graze the spot you've been sucking on right below his ear and he sighs, trying to disguise his pleasure as annoyance, pushing your hip away from him.

Yes, he wants you, but he has to at least pretend that he doesn't for a while longer because he's still angry, and wants you to feel as though you need to try a little to win him over. You've played his game before, and you know what follows. When Ron nudges at your hips one more time, you separate from him, tilting his chin up so he can look at you. He's putty in your hands, but you like to give him the illusion of being in control, so when you kiss him, it's a soft, almost desperate kiss. "Ronnie," you plead "Please." And that soft whisper is enough to make him begin to stand up. You back away, pushing your bottom lip forward and making doe eyes at your boyfriend to stop yourself from grinning in accomplishment.

His shoulder brushes past you and he begins walking up to his dorm, but when you catch up with him, snaking your hand in his, he only holds your hand tighter, so you know you've won. Ron's door slams shut behind you, and immediately, hands are on you, pushing you against the door and groping your ass while he kisses you aggressively. The kiss is filled with angry passion, and Ron's tongue is fighting against yours for dominance. Both your arms are thrown over Ron's shoulder in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer to you so your tits are pushed up into his chest. The hands on your ass move to your front, sliding up your crop top and cupping your tits, while Ron pulls away from the kiss to attack your neck.

Moans are immediately escaping your mouth in soft breaths, your back arching into Ron's hands, pulling and massaging at your breasts, teasing your nipples. His teeth bite at your neck, and one leg comes to shove itself right between your thighs and you jerk up, an electric shock being sent right through you. At your loud gasp, Ron looks down to where his leg connected with your cunt, and his hand immediately pushes your skirt up to find that you're not wearing panties. "What a little slut. No underwear under a mini-skirt? You're practically begging." He grunts, and you whine, grinding your pussy against his thigh. "Just for you, Ronnie."

The comment seems to make him happy, at least happier than he was before since he starts working on taking your top off. "Get this skirt off now." He mutters, his attention back on your tits the second they're exposed. Your bra drops to the floor at the same time your skirt does. Ron pulls away from where he was leaving hickeys on your tits, and takes a moment to oggle at your naked body. You falter under his stare, a hand coming up to grab the material of his t-shirt. "Ron?" At the sound of his name, he looks back up, taking an impossible step closer to you and pressing his lips to yours in a slow kiss. "You're so fucking amazing." He mutters between kisses, all of his previous anger seemingly gone "Don't deserve this. Don't deserve you." Before you can react to his words, his hands are wrapping around your waist and carrying you to his bed, where he immediately shuts the curtains of his four-poster.

He wastes no time pressing his clothed cock against your naked, which has you moaning his name, bucking your hips up for more friction. "Take it off, take it off." You beg. He complies, chuckling at the sight of your hips bucking up, but takes his time stroking his cock once it's finally freed. His demeanour completely flips the second he pushes into you; his hips snapping at a faster pace than you can keep track of, his hands grabbing both your legs to pull over his shoulders. The angle is perfect and with the way his cock is hitting the right spot with every stroke, you're sure you won't last ten minutes.

You're tightly gripping the bed sheets and you're almost positive that your eyes are going to get stuck at the back of your head because of how hard they're rolling back. "Mmph, bloody hell you feel so nice." The compliment only spurred the pleasure inside you and you moaned louder, bucking your hips up for something more - anything more. Ron's hand comes down to your clit in a harsh slap, and quickly starts putting pressure on it, watching as you squirmed underneath him at the extra friction. His pace sped up and your legs started to shake on his shoulders, a sign that you were clearly close. Ron's hand begins rubbing quick circles on your clit and hips start erratically jerking into you as he releases his load into you, triggering your very own orgasm.

Ron rides out both your orgasms, stilling his movements when you put a hand on his chest. He pants, his chest heaving with every breath he takes as he takes your legs off his shoulders. "Christ, that was too much exercise for one day." He mutters, looking down at you when you open your arms wide for him. He falls into your awaiting arms and mumbles "Can't sleep. Need to clean you up." You moan, shaking your head at him. "Just five minutes."

[libraryofloveletters]

Chapter One: United Front

Jenson Button x Teammate!Fem!Reader

Warnings: new teams, friendships are being built and brought down at the same time, jenson is a bit unsure how to feel now that the spotlight isn't on him, jealously, championship fights are coming from inside the house, so many feelings, the basis of the story is being built here, the initial sweetness wears off.

Word Count: 2,520

Author's Note: welcome to the new series! I promise I will try to be consistent, I'm excited to see what's in store.

Bound By Fate Masterlist

--

Young and naive; the headline that covered all the front pages from the moment you stepped foot on track.

You, y/n l/n, were all but 22 years old when you had your Formula One debut. Mclaren had been good to you, Ron was more than happy to have you on the team - young, fresh talent, no one does it like you.

The first year had been painstakingly hard, it was a big jump from test driving. A fuck up on a closed track doesn't have a much of an impact as one on a full, live track with thousands of people watching. It took you a few tries - Australia, Malaysia, China, Bahrain and Spain before you found yourself in sunny Monaco.

Your first points, your first podium finish. It was insane to think you managed to get your first points and podium on the same day.

That was the day you knew you were doing what you were supposed to be doing. That you did deserve your spot there and you were going to do everything in your power to prove to everyone that you were worthy of it.

You proved your worth, despite getting a late start on your point scoring, you managed to rack up 73 points over the course of the season. By the end of it, you were all but 4 points short of the championship podium. Speaking of championships, you remember the day as if it was yesterday.

The rain brought a sense of excitement with a tiny bit of fear. You and Lewis were starting P6 and P7 and the current championship contender, Jenson Button was in P12. All he needed to do was score 5 points, needing to move up from P12 to P4. He didn't do it coming in one place short but still winning the championship by a landslide, washing Sebastian and his own teammate, Rubens, out.

When the news broke that Jenson would be moving to Mclaren, you felt every emotion possible; happy, sad, nervous, scared, calm.

You had no idea what you were in for, unsure if you two were going to get along or if he'd be an arrogant stuck up prick. Up until that point, you had very minimal contact with Jenson. A hi and hello in passing, a chat at press conferences; you weren't part of the inside jokes or the hang outs, you were there to race and that was that.

It took only the pre season and before you knew it, the two of you clicked like the last two pieces of a puzzle.

"When your drivers get along, it's easier to work, to fight for wins, for championships." Jenson read the quote from Ron, a bass added to his voice as he paced the length of your hotel room. The two of you had returned from dinner not too long ago; a post podium tradition you've built in a short time.

"He'd be pissed if he heard you," you tell him, sitting cross legged on the bed. Jenson shrugs, tossing the newspaper he picked up from the lobby onto the nightstand, flopping down next to you.

"Oh well," Jenson tells you, looking over at you. "Good job today, I don't think I told you."

You two had come in P1 and P2, Jenson taking second place as he's done the last 3 races.

"Yeah, thanks." You smiled, "you did well too."

The two of you had been in contention for the championship all season, fighting for P1 and P2 back to back all season. This was your second season as teammates and you were having a better run than the first time. The first season, you were close, right behind Sebastian and Mark; you in P4 and Jenson in P3.

It was a year of dominance for McLaren, for you and for Jenson.

Despite what the reporters were predicting, you and Jenson were as close as always, nothing but 4 single points separating the two of you.

4 points was all that separated the two McLaren drivers going into the summer break, you in P1 and Jenson in P2. You had one more race before the break, a chance for Jenson to push himself into the first place spot for the break.

You weren't giving in.

Friends or not, you had cemented yourself in the P1. You belonged there, you worked too hard to let it go. You'd do anything to make sure you stayed there, playing dirty if need be.

--

You and Jenson find yourself sitting apart from each other, Sebastian and Fernando between the two of you. There's a sea of reporters in front of the 4 of you; the 4 drivers in the first 4 slots of the championship.

All but a few points keeping all of you apart, it really was anyone's game at this point.

The first reporter speaks, starting the questioning. "Jenson, as we head into the summer break, do you feel confident that you can secure those 4 points and ultimately beat your teammate in the standings?"

Jenson chuckles, glancing over at you. "It's possible, 4 points isn't a lot but knowing y/n, she's going to put up one hell of a fight."

You smiled at his response, nodding. Sebastian chuckles, nudging you with his shoulder. He knew you just as well as Jenson did, the two of you have had it out on track. You gave it your all every race, you didn't have anything to lose.

The same reporter added another question but directed to you now. "Y/N, with the upcoming race this weekend, do you plan to give Jenson a bit of a break and let him secure those 4 points, or will you be pushing hard to keep your position ahead of him?"

You picked up the mic, "why should I give him a break? I know we're teammates but we're not fighting for the good of the team, we're both in contention as of right now. Both Jenson and myself are here to win, a win is a win. I know Jenson wouldn't give me a break, so I'm not planning on giving him one."

The reporters seem to be eating up the answers from both you and Jenson, the spotlights were on you two. There's a few more questions being asked.

You and Jenson are the picture of perfect teammates, or at least, that's what you want everyone to believe. On the surface, you're both laughing, exchanging inside jokes, and giving off all the right signals of camaraderie. But beneath the surface, something's shifting; something neither of them seems to notice yet.

Small moments linger too long, words are said with just a touch more edge, and there's a tension in the air that no one can quite put a finger on. The rest of the room feels it, though, the subtle cracks beginning to show, the invisible divide growing wider with each passing moment.

It’s only a matter of time before it all comes to a head, and when it does, no one will be able to pretend it was ever fine.

Dismissed from the press conference, you find yourself prepping for the race, going  through your usual routine. You get dressed, pull your hair back into a braid and you get yourself hyped for the race and always, you wait for Jenson, the two of you heading to the grid together.

P3 for you and P2 for Jenson. Sebastian was on pole with Fernando in P4 along with the rest of the cars lined up behind you.

It was windy and grey, you looked up at the sky, trying to see if the rain would come down. Your engineer, Mac, tells you not to worry about the weather. If need be, you'll pull in and switch to wets.

You didn't like this.

There’s a gnawing feeling in the back of your mind, your stomach twisted in on itself. A sense that something’s off, but you can’t put your finger on it. Everything looks fine on the surface, but there's something about the way the air feels thick.

You can’t shake the sense that something is about to go wrong. You just don’t know what or how.

It’s like waiting for a storm you know is coming but can’t quite see. The feeling lingers, heavy, and all you can do is wait for the shoe to drop, knowing it’s only a matter of time.

You look up at the sky once more, the grey clouds rolling in over the Hungaroring, you can't help the unsettling feeling that's creeping up on you.

There's a hand on your shoulder, bringing you back to the present. Jenson stood in front of you with a cheeky smile, "taken up bird watching, y/n?" He asks.

"Shut up," you huffed, smiling at him with your arms folded over your chest. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Good luck." You smiled and Jenson returned the smile. "Yeah, you too."

You put your helmet on, getting into the car. Last minute checks to make sure comms were working and everything was in order. You go over weather changes and the plan with Mac once more before he pats your head, giving your shoulder a squeeze and the grid clears off.

You couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. One last look up at the grey clouds, the fans standing around with umbrellas and ponchos in case of the rain. Your focus on the lights ahead.

3..

2..

1..

Lights out.

It’s been a tough race, the kind that keeps you on the edge of your seat. The three of you, fighting tooth and nail for P1, constantly swapping positions. Every lap felt like a high-speed chase between you, Jenson, and Sebastian. You had the advantage at some points, then Jenson would slip past, and Sebastian was always lurking, waiting for any opening.

The intensity of it was like nothing else, the tension thick with every corner.

Just as the race was reaching its peak, the skies darkened. What had been a perfect, dry track quickly turned into an unpredictable nightmare.

The rain began to fall, light at first, then harder, turning the surface into a slip and slide. Drivers were forced to change, and the pace slowed dramatically. Every move became a calculated risk, and tire management was now as crucial as ever.

With the rain coming down harder, the decision was made: time to pit for wets. The pit crews were ready, and as you peeled off into the pit lane, the world outside seemed to blur. Tires were changed quickly, but it was a crucial moment, getting it wrong could cost you.

When you rejoined, the race was no longer about who was fastest, but who could keep their cool as conditions got difficult.

In the end, it was Sebastian who managed to hold on, keeping P1 until the checkered flag waved. You pushed hard for that last minute move, and came in just behind him to secure P2. Jenson held his ground, taking P3, making it a tight top three right to the finish.

Despite not getting the win today, the results put you in a good spot.

With that P2 finish, you still managed to maintain your lead in the championship standings, staying ahead of Jenson and Sebastian as the midseason break rolled in.

It’s a small gap, but it’s enough.

You head into the break in P1, with the knowledge that you’ve got what it takes to hold onto the top spot. The competition is strong, but the battle is far from over. Every point counts, and you’ve just set the stage for what promises to be a hectic and messy second half of the season.

You all stand together for the photos at the top of the podium, the bright flashes of cameras filling the air. There’s something different about Jenson.

You can feel it, a subtle coldness coming from him, a distance that wasn’t there before. As you glance his way, you catch his eye for a split second, but instead of him acknowledging it, he quickly turns to speak to Sebastian, his attention fully on the German.

The moment is brief, but it leaves a strange feeling lingering.

You tell yourself it’s probably nothing, just the exhaustion from such an intense race. Emotions run high after a race like that, and maybe the tension is just getting to everyone. You try to brush it off, chalking it up to the pressure of the day, the fatigue that comes with giving it everything on track. But even as the photos continue and the celebrations roll on, you can’t help but wonder if something's changed.

The 3 of you together for a photo, covered in confetti, champagne and rain, there are smiles on your faces, your arm around Seb, bottle of champagne in your free hand. Jenson's focus is on Sebastian, he doesn't even so much as look at you.

After the podium, you head straight to the press pen, where interviews are lined up and the usual buzz of reporters fills the air. You and Jenson are across from each other, each doing separate interviews, the distance between you both oddly noticeable now, the tension from before the race smothering everyone in its vicinity.

The reporter in front of you smiles and asks, “How’s everything going? How are you feeling after today’s race?”

You nod, trying to keep things positive, even if there's a strange weight hanging in the air. "I’m good," you say, smiling. "Happy with the points, happy for the team. A double podium is a good result, and we’ll take it."

Meanwhile across the pen, Jenson’s interview seems to take a different turn. When Jenson was asked about his race, he didn't hold back.

“I wish I’d been P1," he says bluntly. "But I’m focused on the bigger picture. The championship is what matters. What other drivers get in the standings? Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

The reporters picking up on the contrast, turn back to him. “Y/N had some nice things to say about your drive today," one of them says.

Jenson barely looks up, his response flat. "I’m sure she did," he mutters, brushing it off without a second thought.

It’s a small moment, but the tension in the air is palpable. Everyone in the room feels it, the growing divide between you and Jenson.

Somehow, you’re the only one who doesn’t see it. For you, it’s just another race, another round of interviews. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more apparent.

You, still smiling, still positive, unaware of the ice that’s slowly creeping into Jenson’s tone. You had no idea what was brewing just beneath the surface. You hadn’t picked up on the subtle shift; the small moments when Jenson used to smile at your jokes, the times he’d offer advice after races, the camaraderie you thought you shared.

Now, it was like you were looking at a stranger.

But it’s clear to everyone else that something’s shifting, and the cracks are starting to show.

---

taglist: @67-angelofthelordme-67 @clementinesjuice @tazskylarstonguepiercing @amelielazozo @percervall @elissa-shelby @that-aesthetic-chic @vi0letblu3s @reiofsuns2001 @23victoria @sebvettelsgirl @Briannash-worlds @Darkomiomi @ru-kru @Myescapefromthislife @mehrmonga @dear-fifi @steamy-smokey @aishisorbet12 @feelslikealbon @kimiracing07

see the masterlist to add yourself to the taglist!

[calvincell]

Critical PSA to Balatro or Mahjong or general Roguelike Deckbuilder Lovers for the amazing looking upcoming game ULTIMAHJONG!

ULTIMAHJONG is in the exact spirit of the likes of Balatro, Bingle Bingle & other casino/gambling-based roguelikes/deckbuilders that have been inundating the indie gaming scene recently and which I’ve personally been happily drowning in! In this case the base game is Mahjong & it’s straight up Riichi Mahjong based thankfully rather than the deluge of puzzle solitaire tile matching games that overwhelm Steam

Currently has playable demo on top of being Wishlistable. The dev predicts a release this year & I’m absolutely purchasing it on day one if for nothing else than to reward a halfway legitimate Mahjong game!

Speaking of the dev, they themselves ran through a few rounds of the early game to show it off:

Don’t know how many this post will reach but I’m happy to do my part to raise the population of Mahjong Enthusiasts out here on top of supporting innovative indie devs & their projects!

EDIT:

My luck finding out about these types of personally niche games seems to remain at an all time high because I’m obliged to update this post with a 2nd Roguelike Mahjong Deckbuilder on the horizon: AOTENJO

Similar to ULTIMAHJONG in intent but with its own distinct style & also has a free demo on Steam to try out.

One of AOTENJO’s major features is the inclusion of multiple regional mahjong variants to enrich the variety of the play experience!

Unlike in the case of ULTIMAHJONG, AOTENJO’s developer XO Cat’s YT channel (under the moniker NonToxicEel), lacks a similar in-depth breakdown of the game’s demo but does have a few videos attempting speedruns of the demo and are still a recommended watch to get the game flow & feel they’re aiming for:

Once again, I happily embrace the Mahjong renaissance we seem to be getting in our post-Mahjong Soul & Balatro indie gaming landscape!

AND UPDATE EDIT!!

Genuinely never expected this post to do so many numbers here on Tumblr but I’m truly glad to see it. Especially since AOTENJO has launched into Early Access as AOTENJO: Infinite Hands!

It’s got a 12% discount from its $9.99 price for these first 2 weeks of its Early Access launch on Steam! Already bought it myself in a hurry & have money set aside for when ULTIMAHJONG decides to finally join us.

[viiioca]

[ day 13 - competition ]

From a collection of letters found in the living quarters of Krile Baldesion during the Eureka expedition, dated around the third and fourth moons of the Seventh Astral Era.

Dear Mistress Krile,

As promised upon departing for Eorzea, I have written to you in what I believe anyone would agree is a timely fashion. The ferry ride was a firmly uneventful two weeks from Old Sharlayan to the grand port of Limsa Lominsa first, where I was not pickpocketed as Master Baldesion predicted, and I was able to arrange another ferry to the small port of Horizon on the coast of Thanalan. (Predictably, I'm in no hurry to return home, not merely because we've hardly scratched the surface as to what possible Allagan wonders we shall find during this expedition, but also because I'm not sure I could stomach another ocean voyage anytime in the next six moons.) I imagine there's little I could describe to you of Ul'dah and its surrounds that you have not already heard from your friend Minfilia, but you'll be disappointed to learn that the coffee she so extolls is essentially a very sweet mouthful of grit and sediment.

From northern Thanalan, I proceeded with a caravan en route through Revenant's Toll and finally arrived at the Son of Saint Coinach's digsite. What words could I possibly use to do the scale of this project justice? There are at least fivescore scholars here, experts and assistants alike in countless disciplines; a score of Ironworks engineers working tirelessly to maintain equipment and appraise the technological finds; a dozen stalwart adventurers hired on as guards and hunters; chocobo hands and their accompanying birds; administrators, cooks, medics…As if that were not enough, we are perched, almost quite literally, atop the ancient beating heart of Allag itself. As vast as these crystal-crusted ruins stretch, there are still more trapped underground, which one can catch a glimpse of from the top of these great canyons that have opened in the ground in the wake of the Seventh Umbral Calamity. "Dizzying" would be the understatement of the era. I have of course worked with Rammbroes previously (you'll recall that he was a great help with my thesis and in fact my appointment to this position is in no small part thanks to his personal investment), but I did not realize that he has called in Cid Garlond himself to lead the engineers on the task to assess and breach the Crystal Tower's defenses. Cid Garlond! One could hardly ask for a more capable mind for what is surely no simple job.

In fact, he has already devised an ingenious method for piercing the first layer of defenses. However, it requires a not insignificant amount of rare materials -- highly refined aethersand of four different elemental aspects, any pinch of which is worth nearly my full year's salary -- and we were already facing a disappointingly mundane roadblock of supply shortages. Rammbroes thus tasked me with following up on various supply leads. I hardly need to remind anyone that this is not the sort of work that I was appointed for, and would have been a task far better suited to one of the graduate students, but I agreed to do it regardless as entering the tower as soon as possible is a foremost priority and I would be foolish to delay it any further on account of my pride.

I had little trouble acquiring the aethersand we needed, but imagine my surprise to discover that Rammbroes apparently did not consider me up to the task, as he sent another to come and complete my work for me -- who turned out to be none other than the Champion of Eorzea herself. I did not expect such a meeting, but perhaps shouldn't have been surprised, as it seems that luminaries are often found in each other's orbits, and Cid Garlond was not only personally acquainted with her but considers her a close ally. Of course, I did not strictly require her help to obtain the final aspect of aethersand, and thought to make a game out of a task that was well beneath both of our stations. And because I know you've read that sentence with your brows knitted in your typical suspicion, I must reassure you that I comported myself with the utmost dignity, and I'm quite pleased that it seems we will have an exceedingly pleasant working relationship for the length of the expedition. She is much friendlier than I'd been given to understand from the (admittedly sparse) tales, and best of all, agreeable to all manner of conversation topics, not the least of which include firsthand accounts of her deeds. I would be remiss in my duties as a historian to pass up the opportunity to collect interviews from a primary source.

We are now in a period of brief downtime as we await Master Garlond's finishing touches. How are matters on the Isle of Val? How fare you and Master Baldesion? I recall him being particularly restless before I left, but I assumed it was related to my deployment on this expedition, as there was much friction between us when I made plain my certainty that the great arsenal of Eureka Orthos will be located beneath the Crystal Tower. Has his mood much improved? Give my regards to the cousins as well. This letter will arrive alone, but when I receive the next portion of my stipend, I shall send back a rather strong tea blend I discovered in Gridania that I believe you will enjoy.

Sincerely,

Raha

P.S. I'm also thrilled to inform you that "NOAH" was immediately accepted as a name for our survey party, and they most certainly did not "laugh me out of camp." In fact, the Champion of Eorzea said she found it charming. I eagerly await your apology.

P.P.S. Would it be possible to include with your reply a dictionary and grammar book for the Ishgardian language? Before you needle me about why I would possibly need them when I'm camped in the middle of nowhere, you should be well informed that there is a chirurgeon in camp now whose mother tongue is Ishgardian, and I thought that it might perhaps make her feel more comfortable among all of us Sharlayans. And no, I've already asked Rammbroes and he's roundly denied me a requisition form, citing "budget concerns" (which I believe to be imaginary). I would make the trip into Coerthas to purchase them myself, but I'm much needed in camp and would be missed if I were gone overlong.

[chussyracing]

I'm not sure if you've done this already, but like the charles wdc chances thing have you had the chance to calculate how ferrari can win the constructors

<3

hiii, i don't think i have the mental capacity to do the full chart of all possible outcomes (since there are exponentially more possible situations when you have two more drivers to count with different combinations), but i can give you a short run down of the most important facts:

Ferrari is 21 points away from McLaren in the standings

They have the same amount of wins - 5 (3 for Charles, 3 for Lando, 2 for Oscar, 2 for Carlos)

McLaren has more p2s with 10 (6 for Lando and 4 for Oscar) vs 4 of Ferrari (3 for Charles and 1 for Carlos)

That means if the points are even, McLaren wins, so Ferrari needs to outscore them by 22 points

Maximum amount of points is 44 (25 for win, 18 for p2 and 1 for the fastest lap)

Some easy predictions are:

if Ferrari get a 1-2 with or without the fastest lap and mcl get 3-4, McLaren will still win (663 points vs 667)

if Ferrari gets 1-2 with or without the fastest lap and mcl gets 4-5 or worse, Ferrari will win the championship (663 points vs 662)

If both mcl drivers don't score, we still need 22 points (or 21 points and a win), so minimum of p5+p4 or better (p3+p6 OR p3+p7+FL OR p2+p8 OR win and any combination for the other driver etc etc etc)

I cannot justify the time and effort to make the full chart like for wdc p2 fight but you are welcome to go for it 😋

[kittenintheden]

Professionals

*boops fingers together and bats eyes @ u*

Rating: E Word Count: 1,650 Content: 18+, roleplay, sex work, biting, blood kink, oral sex, PIV sex

---

Sharess' Caress is busy tonight. A woman stands near the bar, perusing the evening's johns and janes, giving them mental scores based on personality, appearance, and style. She sips her drink, eyes lidded, and turns away a four, then a six, then a seven. She can afford to be picky.

She's making smalltalk with the barkeep when she feels light fingers brush the back of her arms. She sighs and plasters on a smile, expecting another modest offering, but she's met with a full-stop ten. In looks and style, at least. If the personality matches...

"Hello, lovely thing," he purrs, his voice sending a tingle up her spine. "Don't you look delicious. I'm called Astarion. And you are?"

"Very interested in what someone like you is doing in a place like this," she says playfully, lifting her glass to her lips for a sip. The liquor inside stings just right. "But you may call me Lily."

He grins, seductive and predatory, and places a satchel of gold on the bar. "Five hundred gold says I can call you whatever I like, I think. I’ll be honest. I’m a connoisseur, and there are occasions when I’d like to partake in… top-shelf talent. I believe you fit the bill, if my instincts are correct. And they usually are." He tilts his head to the side, daring her to say no.

She gives him a hard look up and down, finally meeting his ruby eyes. She sets her glass on the bar and uses two fingers to nudge the coin purse toward the barkeep. "We've a high-rolling customer," she says to them. They give her a knowing smirk, look over the john, then accept the bag.

"The Chartreuse Room is free," the barkeep says, going back to their mixing.

"After you," Astarion says, gesturing to her to take the lead. She does. As they ascend the stairs, he ghosts his fingers against her lower back. Gentlemanly, one might think, if one’s unfamiliar with the different ways people touch. She is not unfamiliar.

The Chartreuse Room is, predictably, quite green. Bottles of liquor line a shelf on the nearest wall beside a small bar. Lily walks around, trailing her fingertips over the polished wood and leans onto the surface, letting her cleavage rise up enticingly over the top of her corset as she gives him a coy look.

"Could I make you a drink?" she says. She reaches out and teases the neck of the nearest bottle suggestively.

Astarion moves toward her, already undoing the buttons of his beautifully embroidered jacket. He smiles, showing off too-sharp canines. "I didn't come here for a drink, pet. Not of that, anyway."

She shrugs. "Thought I'd offer, nonetheless." She pushes off the bar and approaches, letting her shoulders rustle the strings of glass beads hanging from the ceiling so they tinkle together. She stops in front of him, admiring his bare chest before raising her gaze to his face.

"And what would you like?" she says lowly.

He shrugs off his jacket and undercoat. "Honestly? I'd like to bite. Hard enough to break skin." As he speaks, his timbre drops seductively. Almost like he’s trying to seduce her.

Cheeky man. Cheeky man with expensive taste. She can work with that.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Well. That's not one I get often. But, for such a generous patron, I'll allow it."

"Good," he says. Then he's on her, fast as lightning, a hand on one side of her neck and his sharp teeth piercing through the opposite, a jolt of cold radiating through her nervous system. She gasps and grips onto him, surprised, but in seconds she's relaxing into it, eyes going half-lidded as pleasant numbness spreads. Before she goes weak in the knees from blood loss instead of lust, he pulls away, licking her off his teeth.

Blood play. Unusual, but not her first time.

"You are... fantastic," he breathes, dropping his chin and looking at her from under his brows like he wants to consume her another way. "Now... on the bed, on your stomach."

"Yes, saer," she says, swaying on her feet a moment before walking toward the low, round bed, covered in cushions of varying shades of green. She takes her time, lowering herself to all fours and stretching forward like a cat, her back in a deep arch with her arse in the air before she brings it down. Once she's in place, she hears the beads tinkle as he comes closer, then feels the weight of him on the mattress as he puts his knees on either side of her legs.

He leans down over her, not quite touching, and puts his mouth to her ear. "Call me darling," he says. “And I’ll call you whatever strikes me.” Then she feels his fingers at the sides of her hips, undoing the laces keeping her shorts on her body.

"Anything you like if you keep doing that, darling," she says.

He disrobes her from the waist down, pulling every article of clothing from her with aching slowness. Lily bites her lip, desperate to turn and see his pretty face again, but he paid his fee and he's calling the shots. She feels his weight shift lower, his dexterous hands spreading her open and angling her hips, and then she feels his tongue run along her. Instantly, she arches her back with a groan.

"I think that's supposed to be my job," she gasps, pressing her face to the silken sheets and biting her lip as he continues to work her like an expert. "I feel like I should be paying you. Darling."

He chuckles against her most tender of places, giving her another long draw from behind. "Hush. Let me enjoy my night."

She’s certainly not going to argue. A john who gives back? What a rare treat this is.

His hands draw her closer until he's drowning in her, until he shouldn't be able to breathe, and he lavishes her in a way she knows no other customer down below would ever. As her pleasure builds, she squirms against the mattress and he puts a firm palm on her lower back to hold her still, humming every now and again, the sensation making her shiver and cry out.

"Darling," she pants. "Darling, darling, darling."

Finally, she can tell his collected exterior is beginning to crack. At every cry of the pet name, he goes a touch sloppy. As her peak comes closer, he begins to murmur and pant against her as if sensing her heightened arousal, as if it drives him mad. Finally, she screams into the sheets as she comes harder than she has in recent memory, his mouth relentless until she can barely stand it. She doesn’t even have to act. Not a bit.

Astarion rolls her over, his chest heaving and his chin covered in her slick, and crawls over top.

Her head lolls as she gazes up at him in adoration. "What now, darling?" she whispers.

He goes up on his knees to undo his own laces, his arousal clear and present against the material of his fine trousers. He keeps his eyes on her.

"Now I make love to you like you're the only person who matters, Tav," he says, voice like gravel, and she melts clear into the bed. Whoever Tav is, they must be very lucky, indeed.

He's naked and beautiful, lowering himself over her, kissing her deeply. She accepts, circling his tongue with hers, tasting her cunt and her blood and her passion on him. One by one, he unhooks the buttons keeping her corset on her body and tosses it aside.

Briefly, she wonders how she ever managed to score this big. His hand, cooler than it should be, palms her breast firmly and then he's inside her and she moans like a wanton… well, whore.

Astarion kisses her neck, gentle on her sore spot, and sighs out his own pleasure. "You are perfect," he says. "The only one in the entire place I could ever... oh, you make me lose my mind. Tav. Tav."

She wraps her legs high on his waist, seeking better connection, and he angles himself to draw over the place near her entrance, the one that lights her up, and she clings to him like he's life itself. The range of motion in his hips is absolutely maddening in the very best way. He’s fucking her better than anyone else ever could and she uses every single technique in her book to give it back to him.

They rock and thrust against each other. He kisses her. She kisses back. They climb, and climb, and climb together, reaching for the sky.

Toward the end, his facade fully breaks to pieces and he sobs tiny breaths into her ear.

"Darling," she gasps. "Love me, darling."

"I love you," he says. "Always you."

Their mouths press together in open ecstasy as they come one after another, bursting into delicious, whole-body pleasure.

Astarion all but collapses on top of her, her legs spread wide to accommodate him. She gasps in several deep breaths, coming back to earth. Then she breaks into giggles.

"Stop that," he grumbles at her. "I'm a paying customer."

"Oh, that was good," she says, wiping the corner of her eye. "That was a good one. We have to do that again."

He sits up on an elbow, staring at her bleary-eyed. "How many asked before me?" he says.

"At least three," she says.

"Should've been much more than that," he says. "You're top-shelf merchandise."

She cuffs him upside the head. "Well, someone didn't let the scene go on very long, did he."

"We have the room until morning?" he asks, avoiding her accusation.

"So the barkeep told me when I asked."

"Well. Better make it worth five hundred gold, then, shouldn't we?"

[strawberryblondebutch]

Did you post a starting goalie ranking that I missed?

Not a full ranking, but when someone asked me for my preseason predictions I put Toronto’s goaltending as a question mark. I said it in the replies of my last post, the WCHA (with the exception of Minnesota-Duluth and Ann-Renee Desbiens) is an offense-driven conference, so the goalies who come out of there are good but not elite, because you assume that your forwards will make up for the goals that get let in. As much as I bitch about “Ava McNaughton vs That One Goal™️,” the Badgers are usually scoring 4–5 a game. You can allow one.

Ranking starters only going into this season, my rankings would probably be:

Aerin Frankel (and not because she’ll find me and kill me if I don’t put her first)

Corinne Schroeder

Ann-Renee Desbiens

Emerance Maschmeyer

Nicole Hensley

Kristen Campbell

The top three are easy. Frankel is the best in the game. Despite the heart attacks she gives you, ARD is still elite. Schroeder gets the edge because she’s younger. A healthy Nicole Hensley would be higher, but she, uh. She looks like she’s trying to play through something. Minnesota is also most committed to the tandem, so she’s the least starting of the starting goalies. If I were to go by primary tandem, my rankings are a little different.

Montreal (Desbiens/Chuli)

New York (Schroeder/Levy)

Minnesota (Hensley/Rooney)

Ottawa (Maschmeyer/Phillips)

Boston (Frankel/Söderberg)

Toronto (Campbell/Kirk)

The tandem rankings are one part “how good is your backup” and one part “how much do I trust your coach to actually deploy the backup.” Minny gets a boost here because, for all his faults, Klee does do a good job riding the hot hand on G. Ryan… if you put a gun to his head and asked him to play his backup, he’d tell you to pull the trigger.

As someone who had the misfortune of watching her stand on her head against my favorite college team for years, Söderberg’s regression surprised me last year. I think she’s one of those players who needs regular time to get back into the swing of things. A better 1B than a 2, which she won’t get in Boston.

[prettynice8]

Kinkmas Day 20: Hatefucking

Paring: Katsuki Bakugo x male reader

This guy

Summary: after smashing Kirishima, Bakugo meets up with you to settle the score a little bit more

Warnings: Swearing, kissing, marking, smashing, creampie, hatefucking DUH

Word count: 886

(This is a part 2 to my day 12 Kirishima fic)

You were walking out of Kirishima's room that night at 2 am, wearing a borrowed T-shirt and underpants that you took from him. You two went at it over and over again, with the occasional break that was actually quite nice just talking to him, but not near as good as his dick plunging into you for hours on end. Though it did make you awfully sore. The bite marks all over your neck, the random bruises throughout your body, and not to mention the numbness of your ass.

It was near impossible to get back to your dorm, almost falling over at least 10 times. It was during this when you met that old shit head Bakugou.

"Fucking slut." He spit out at you, voice full of disdain at the thought of you having sex with Kirishima.

"Jealous?" You asked, smirking.

"What's there to be jealous about? Kirishima's just too fucking stupid and you're too fucking easy." He started bitterly.

"You know what dude just fuck off, if you don't like me so much then why are you here standing right next to me talking. Get a life for fucks sake!" You said with an exhausted tone, just tired of his bullshit. He answers by predictably shoving you into the wall and pinning you.

But then he surprises you by gripping your arm and taking you to his room. You don't fight back or anything because at this fucking point you're just too tired to deal with anything.

He throws you in and then closes the door behind him. You walk over to sit on the bed, having been standing for far too long.

"You're such a fucking slut." Bakugo stated, almost sounding disgusted.

"If so, then why did you bring me in here?" You asked.

"Because you being a slut is perfect for me." He confessed before getting on top of you and kissing you roughly, not a sign of romantic attraction in it at all. You reciprocate, already mixing saliva, his tongue dominating yours easily.

He then goes from your lips to your neck, noticing the many marks littered there. He makes some of his own, biting and nipping at your neck roughly, unlike the more affectionate way that Kirishima did, and honestly, you kind of like it this way more. You knew he wanted to fuck you for months now, not even being very secretive about it with the more than necessary attention he gives you constantly.

"I need to make some of my own, just so people know how much of a cock hungry slut you are." He exclaimed before actually tearing off your borrowed shirt, while neatly taking his own clothes off. You do have to admit that his dick is pretty impressive, it's not as long as Kirishima's but it's way more girthy, if that is even possible.

"Fuck, you really are a whore." He said honestly, noticing the bruises scattered throughout your entire body from your previous escapades that night.

"Well, are you gonna fuck me or just stay here talking about much a of a slut I am?" You asked, just wanting this to be over with so you can go to bed. "Even though you're literally the one who brought me into your room, and the one who started to kiss me first, and the one who always walks up to me trying to catch my attention. But no totally, I'm the man whore."

He answers this by flipping you over and sticking his girthy member straight in your ass. It slides in relatively easily, Kirishima's cum being a pretty effective lube. Though he is still massive, and you're extremely sensitive, so it still hurts a decent amount.

But Bakugo doesn't care about that, so he immediately starts slamming into it at full force, not giving you any time to adjust. You scream out in pain, your nerves going haywire from how sensitive they are.

After a few more thrusts from him, it does start to get better. Your yelps of pain slowly but surely, not to your liking, turning into moans of pleasure.

He's pounding like a highschooler would, slamming into you with little technique, just reckless pounding to chase his own sexual needs, not caring much about yours and essentially only using you as a human flesh light. Apparently, you're quite the good human fuck toy, because you can clearly hear his groans that he tries to hold back in vain.

To be fair, he must be doing something right too, because after only a few more rough thrusts, you already climax. Bakugo follows soon after, shooting his load into your already filled ass.

"Now fuck off!" He screamed after pulling out of your ass. Before he needs to say another word, you've already left, taking one of his T-shirts to replace the one he destroyed.

While you're walking the halls with even shakier legs than before, you trip, well almost, because luckily Izuku is there, leaving his room to go to the bathroom, to catch you.

"Are you ok?" He asked, putting you back on your feet, fairly certain on what happened, you two were pretty loud. "If you want you could stay in-"

"Shut the fuck up and get out of my way, I'm done with fucking for the day!" You denied.

THE END

[janamelie]

New Red Dwarf Challenge

Day 12: Favourite Alternate Universe/Reality/Version of a Character

The “Back To Reality” despair squid hallucination-verse and the AU versions of our characters we encounter within.

Yes, I know it’s grim but it also fascinates me.  The episode is of course outstanding in every respect and I realised on a recent rewatch that it’s not actually clear when the hallucination begins - I always assumed it was just before Starbug “crashes” and the “computer game” ends and gives our Boyz an insulting score of 4% just to rub it in even further.

But for all we know, they’re already hallucinating when the episode starts; there is no indication otherwise.  Just another layer of unease added to a truly chilling episode.

It’s been pointed out by others how well paced the episode is - it doesn’t pile on the agony straight away, instead first letting our Boyz take in how different they look physically.  Cat and Rimmer are horrified.  Lister isn’t exactly delighted with his new Sebastian hair but Kryten is mildly pleased to be half-human.  Despite his Billy hair, Rimmer is initially pleased to be human again and almost more importantly, he’s not Rimmer.  

But these glimmers of hope are of course the hallucination setting them up for further shocks.  Kryten is pleased to be Jake Bullet, but Rimmer’s devastatingly accurate prediction that cybernautics is actually traffic control “and you just happen to have a rather silly macho name” brings him crashing back down to earth.  Of course that’s nothing compared to his horror when he believes he’s killed a human being in cold blood.  That’s his reason for suicide and it makes sense for the character.

As does Cat’s.  Duane Dibbley is a brilliant creation, so much so that he’s resurfaced several times both in the show and official merchandise.  He’s a lovably hopeless geek and Cat’s worst nightmare.  I laugh every time he just repeats “Duane Dibbley?” disbelievingly.

Of course this character was given added depth by the revelation (OK, retcon) in “The Promised Land” about Rodon and the other Cats leaving Cat behind for being uncool.  Whilst it doesn’t totally fit with “Waiting For God”, it does make absolute sense that Duane Dibbley would be Cat’s ultimate nightmare.  Suddenly his reasoning isn’t only shallowness but abandonment issues.  Take another look at the orange outfit with puffa jacket he wears in “TPL”.  It’s almost like Cat cosplaying Duane, poignantly suggesting that no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t manage to repress his inner Duane completely.

Talking of repression…  Rimmer not wanting to be Billy Doyle is understandable on a surface level - who wants to be a scruffy alcoholic tramp?  But the rather pat explanation Kryten offers at the end about Rimmer being outshone by “his richer, more important half-brother” doesn’t make that much sense when regular Rimmer has three more successful full brothers (as far as he knows at this stage of the show) and has always used his upbringing as an excuse for his not becoming an officer.

I’m fully aware Grant Naylor weren’t thinking along these lines but within the world of the hallucination, Billy sinking into alcoholism because he’s attracted to his half-brother and can’t handle that for obvious reasons is a logical translation of Rimmer’s subconscious attraction to Lister into the hallucination.

And it also fits for Lister if he returns that attraction.  Lister’s mild pleasure at being rich and having an expensive car is another example of the hallucination setting our characters up for even nastier shocks.  He’s already disturbed and uncomfortable in Sebastian’s fancy clothes (although I personally think Craig looks great in them, but there is no denying, they’re not what our Lister would usually wear.  I say usually because Posh Lister exists).  

Having looked into a monitor and seen the “next players” playing a completely alien version of the show we know where “Dave Lister” is apparently supposed to be a macho arsehole, the next shock for Lister is far greater.  He’s not just a posh rich git, he’s a fascist mass-murderer.

Huge kudos to guest star Lenny Von Dohlen, who chills the blood in his short appearance as a terrifying fascist cop who - wait - is terrified himself, of Lister.  Or rather, of the Voter Colonel.  This scene is amazing, absolutely hooking the viewer into this dystopian world.

But Red Dwarf is of course, ultimately a comedy.  Having pushed its shocks as far as it can, we get the revelation that the crew are hallucinating and the comic relief car chase scene.  And then just as the audience have relaxed, they realise that the crew are still in very grave danger.  

But Hattie’s Holly, in her swansong appearance, saves the day.  Yay.  If she never returns, at least she went out on a high. 

[annieqattheperipheral]

sid wizened old man on the mountain with decrees of his successor? sure not like I'm not already overly emotional about davo this week😭

yohe's dramatic ao3 style is always appreciated

*taps kudos

full article:

Sidney Crosby is famous for many things, one of which is his availability and patience with the sometimes-obnoxious media.

For years and years, I’d see Crosby patiently sit at his locker and absorb questions. One flavor of these questions was more predictable and consistent than the rest. Whenever the Penguins faced a player who had been drafted No. 1, just as Crosby had been in 2005, Crosby would be asked about comparisons to and opinions of the latest hotshot to enter the league.

Patrick Kane. Steven Stamkos. John Tavares. Taylor Hall. Ryan Nugent-Hopkins. Nail Yakupov (remember him?).

Crosby was unanimously the best player in the world at the time but would still be gracious and glowing about the draft picks. He wouldn’t bristle — that wouldn’t be his way. But there was a slight sense that Crosby didn’t really like the questions. He’s one of the least egotistical superstars in the history of the sport, but to be that great, you still need an ego. He knew he was better than those players, even though he respected them greatly. He knew he wore the crown.

In the fall of 2012, Crosby knew full well who his successor would be.

That year, the NHL was embroiled in one of its periodic work stoppages, this one a lockout.

Players were allowed at practice facilities, but team officials were not. Crosby took on the role of media relations director. A day in advance, he’d tell the media what time Penguins players — usually around a dozen — would be working out. One time, in a particularly endearing moment, players canceled the next day’s workout. So, Crosby called me and asked me to tell the rest of the media not to show up. It was a very strange time for hockey and especially for Crosby, who had just lost 100 games in his prime due to a concussion. Now, he was missing more time in his prime because of a lockout.

Also because of the lockout, Crosby had plenty of time for introspection along with his hockey player and media relations duties. He had time to pay close attention to the rest of the hockey world, too, a privilege he typically isn’t afforded in October.

Two hours north of Pittsburgh, a 15-year-old sensation had arrived in Erie, Pa. — Connor McDavid was taking the Ontario Hockey League by storm. I had decided to travel to Erie with Penguins broadcaster Paul Steigerwald on Saturday, the night of McDavid’s second home game, when the Erie Otters were taking on the London Knights.

On the game’s first shift, McDavid split defensemen Olli Määttä and Scott Harrington and then scored to finish off a highlight reel goal.

Dan Bylsma, then coaching the Penguins, was there. Following the game, he chewed out Määttä and Harrington, a couple of Penguins draft picks, for allowing that goal on the game’s first shift. After seeing the interaction, I joked to Bylsma, something along the lines of, “I don’t know, that McDavid kid is kinda good.”

Bylsma looked at me and said: “He’s 15. They shouldn’t be getting split like that.”

I relayed this story to Crosby, who asked if Bylsma really said that. Then he took my side.

“Doesn’t matter how old he is. He’s different,” Crosby said.

Oh?

Crosby always politely answers questions about players, but he doesn’t typically go out of his way like that.

Then it occurred to me that Erie Otters games aren’t televised in Pittsburgh. I had assumed that Crosby had never seen McDavid play.

“Got some time on my hands these days,” Crosby said with a smile. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen highlights of him.”

The greatest player in the world is checking out YouTube highlights of a 15-year-old hockey player?

“Yep,” Crosby said.

Then he said something I’ll never forget. Sensing that he saw something in McDavid that was different, I asked him if McDavid reminded him of anyone. In a non-arrogant way, Crosby quietly said, “He reminds me of me.”

Make no mistake, he admired all of the players who were compared to him. He once told me that, if he could shoot the puck like Alex Ovechkin, he wouldn’t pass as much as he does. I once saw him shake his head when he watched Patrick Kane stickhandle around an opponent on TV.

But he never anointed other players, even if he would marvel.

With McDavid, stylistically, Crosby saw himself. And he saw talent that was out of this world.

Crosby didn’t feel threatened. He understood that someone else always comes along.

I imagine Wayne Gretzky felt the same when he traveled to Laval, Quebec, to see Mario Lemieux play a junior game in 1984. Lemieux, knowing Gretzky was in the building, scored four goals in the first period. At that very moment, months before even winning the Stanley Cup for the first time, Gretzky knew the identity of his successor.

During the 2012 lockout, McDavid couldn’t have known that Crosby was watching him from afar, but he was. There is an understanding, I think, between the all-time greats. They recognize traits that only they can recognize because only they can understand the genius required to be historically good.

We are seeing McDavid take the Stanley Cup playoffs by storm, becoming the first player in history to post consecutive four-point games in the Stanley Cup Final. It’s remarkable. It’s great for the game. A superstar is the center of attention in his very prime, which the NHL badly needs.

So much of Crosby’s prime was robbed by the concussion and the lockout. But his hockey sense and vision were spot on, even when he wasn’t on the ice that autumn.

He always knew McDavid was the successor, that he played the same way, that perhaps his physical gifts even exceeded his own.

He was right. McDavid is in a class with Gretzky, Lemieux, Crosby and Bobby Orr. And now, we wait to see if McDavid can pull off this seismic comeback and win a championship.

Crosby surely will be watching. He always has been.

[darl-ingfics]

Cowboys Cry Too (Part 3)

Fandom: Seventeen

Sickie: S.Coups (torn ACL)

Caregiver(s): Seventeen (Hip Hop Unit focus)

Word Count: 1,792

Notes: Fictionalized account of the weeks following Seungcheol's injury last year. As someone with chronic knee problems, I felt the need to explore it at least once.

Part 1 (RM) | Part 2 (Onew) | Part 4 (Hongjoong) | Part 5 (Suho)

It was the worst pain he’d felt in his entire life. It was supposed to be a simple game, a fun little shoot Carats would get a kick out of. Until all of the sudden, it wasn’t.

All he’d done was jump for the ball. Jumped to keep the other team from scoring. Jumped for a little extra dramatic flair.

Then he’d landed. Landed in the exact one in a million way that broke him. 

Seungcheol didn’t remember much after that. He shrugged it off as a survival instinct; his brain didn’t want him to remember the shock on his friends’ faces, the pain and fear of the paramedic rushing him off the field, the bustle and dead waiting time and medical jargon at the hospital. But he vividly remembered the diagnosis. ACL tear. Eight to nine month recovery. Health hiatus. 

He’d asked the appropriate questions, listened intently, thanked the medical staff profusely for their quick and expert care. He’d also waited for the doctors to leave the room to cry. The manager who’d been staying with him in the hospital had also respectfully stepped out of the room, allowing the leader at least the pretense of privacy to break down, something Seungcheol would be thanking him for later. Fortunately, though, Seungcheol wasn’t alone; his mother had made it to him by then, the one person who he never had to perform for. She’d held him, rocking them back and forth, whispering sweet nothings to him as his body released all the fear and tension and anger and frustration and despair of the last day or so. 

And then he’d gone home. With his mom. To his parents, who had the free time to help him during those early days where the pain was still excruciating. 

A week later, Seungcheol returned to the dorm. To his brothers. A move his mom had been hesitant to allow, knowing intuitively how much pain her son was in and how dependent on others this injury rendered him. She knew her son; he hated asking for help, hated being helped even when he needed it. But Seungcheol insisted. He needed to be home with his friends.

And they needed him. In fact, when Seungcheol returned, they’d prepared a party. He should have excepted it, but the thought and effort brought tears to his eyes all the same. From the handwritten ‘Welcome Home, Dad!” banner strung up in the living room, red and white balloons taped around it, to the ridiculous amount of snacks, to the board games chosen specifically because they could be played sitting down, everything spoke to how much Seungcheol had been missed. And how much he was loved. 

“Hey, hey, no tears,” Soonyoung had chided, seeing the leader’s reaction. He moved forward, gently swiping at the leader’s eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. “This is happy times.”

“You can cry cause you’re happy,” Seungcheol replied, voice thick with the still-impending tears. 

“Then no crying because if you cry, I’ll cry, and I didn’t drink enough water today and can’t risk dehydration,” Soonyoung challenged, cradling Seungcheol’s cheeks before maneuvering around the leader’s wheel chair to push him further into the party. To the waiting smiles of his brothers. 

Brothers who proved to be exceedingly overbearing in the following days. Just as his mom had predicted. 

They had planned a schedule so that Seungcheol would never be home alone. Sometimes it was full units off for a day, others just one member. But no matter how many, whoever had been assigned as ‘caretaker’ that day felt to Seungcheol more like an overenthusiastic babysitter. 

They didn’t let him do anything. He had crutches for a reason, and had told them as much several times. Still, they refused to let him lift a finger without their help. Seungkwan brought him his meals on the couch, hesitant for him to even move to the table to eat with the rest of the group. Jun had started eating in the living room with him, Hansol joining too, and the two of them would take his dishes at the end of the meal. Mingyu or Wonwoo hovered close to the bathroom door when he was in the shower, asking him to leave it open just a crack in case he fell or needed help. Joshua had taken over his laundry. Seokmin would sit with him while Seungcheol was getting ready in the morning or for bed, forcing him to sit and offering to help with the steps that required him to stand. 

The followed him around, watching him like hawks, constantly waiting for him to need their help, to fall apart. They were holding him with kid gloves, like a priceless antique that could shatter if not handled properly. It made Seungcheol feel smothered, infantilized, patronized. And the feeling was suffocating, a permanent weight in his stomach and lump in his throat. 

The worst was the aching loneliness of it all. Seungcheol was forbidden to move from the couch, even when the rest of the group was off in different parts of the dorm. Sure, he was never left truly alone, but it felt to him like whoever had stayed behind did so out of duty rather than actually wanting his company. The worst was when everyone else got to go to schedules. Whether rehearsals, writing sessions, photoshoots, or anything in between, Seungcheol’s heart broke a bit more each time the door closed without him, each time his brothers’ voices faded down the hall. It broke again when they all came back, laughing and chattering about all of the memories they’d made that day that Seungcheol would never be part of. Sure, they’d summarize it for him, keep him in the loop as best they could with videos and reenactments. But it wasn’t the same. 

When he asked Chan to see some videos of their choreography, the maknae physically hesitated. Of course Chan had said he didn’t want to make the leader sad, knowing how limited his current movement was; there was a legitimate, heartfelt reason behind that hesitation. But it stung all the same. 

Soonyoung and Jihoon gave him summarized versions of their schedules, upcoming events, and company happenings. They did it to lessen the burden on him. But Seungcheol felt useless, as if he was absolutely superfluous to the project. 

It made him feel helpless. Out of control. 

And one day, almost a week after Seungcheol’s return, all of these thoughts that had been looming in his head like a raging storm reached a fever pitch. 

“Hey hyung!” Mingyu’s bright voice filtered through the dark clouds for a single second. Seungcheol didn’t look up as his fellow rapper collapsed onto the other end of the couch. Mingyu was smiling at him, but Seungcheol wasn’t looking. Today’s ‘babysitters’ were the rest of the hip hop unit; Wonwoo was currently making lunch for the foursome while Hansol was sat on the armchair opposite Seungcheol, playing a video game. The leader had been watching intently, but his thoughts had escaped him. “How’s it going, Sol?”

“Good. Making progress.” Hansol didn’t look at Mingyu either, fingers tapping away at the controller as he was engaged in some sort of battle at the moment. 

Mingyu didn’t mind, instead shifting his attention back to Seungcheol. His hand gently pressed against the leader’s ankle, the one on his good leg. “And how’re you?”

Mingyu’s voice was so tender, so affectionate, so fucking kind that something snapped. 

“I hate this…”

Mingyu frowned. “What…?” But Seungcheol cut him off, lips trembling as he covered his face in his hands. “Oh, sweetheart,” Mingyu cooed, pulling Seungcheol to his chest as the first sob ripped from his throat. 

Seungcheol could count on one hand the number of times he’d sobbed like this. His entire body shook as all of the pain, the frustration, the loneliness he’d felt poured out of his body. It didn’t occur to him once to be embarrassed of the wailing sounds emitting from his throat, or the fact that he was definitely ruining Mingyu’s shirt with the amount of tears and snot pouring from his face. 

But it also hadn’t occurred to him that Mingyu had been the one to pull Seungcheol’s hands away from his face so that he could press the leader closer to his heart in hopes that it would soothe him. He didn’t notice Hansol pause his game and rush to join the hug. He didn’t notice Wonwoo abandon the kitchen to do the same. Mingyu rocked them back and forth ever so slightly. None of them said a single word, simply letting their oldest brother cry it out. Sometimes, that did more than any amount of words. 

Seungcheol had no idea how long it took for his eyes to stop producing tears. How long  it took his body to stop shaking. How long it took for his soul to go quiet. But even after the sobs had turned to whimpers and then silence, Mingyu kept rocking them. Wonwoo and Hansol didn’t let go. They stayed there, holding each other. 

“Did that help?” Hansol whispered eventually. 

Seungcheol nodded against Mingyu’s chest. “Yeah. It helped a lot.”

“Damn, maybe I should’ve asked how were doing earlier then,” Mingyu joked as his fingers played with the hair at the nape of the leader’s neck. His voice was light, tender, as it had been before. But this time, it filled Seungcheol with joy rather than despair. “Could’ve saved us some trouble.”

“Could’ve saved your shirt too.” Seungcheol sniffled, rubbing his wrist against his nose as he pulled away from Mingyu. Wonwoo was already holding a box of tissues out to him, which Seungcheol accepted gratefully.

Mingyu shrugged it off. “I feel like I owe you a few ruined shirts at this point.”

“Remember when he bled all over you last month?” Hansol spoke up. “After the thorn bush incident? Or when he threw up on you after that carnival ride…?”

“YAH! Why do you always have to bring that up?” Mingyu exclaimed as Wonwoo and Seungcheol laughed. Hansol smirked deviously. “You want me to keep bringing up YOUR most embarrassing moments? Remember that time when…”

As Mingyu and Hansol got lost in their bickering, Wonwoo rested his head on the leader’s shoulder. “Please talk to us, okay?” 

Seungcheol rested his head on top of Wonwoo’s. “Okay.”

“We know things are really tough for you right now, but we can’t read your mind. If you need something, you have to tell us.” Seungcheol opened his mouth to reply, but Wonwoo continued, “And if we’re too much, just say so. We’ve never dealt with this before either. It’s okay to be sad, but you don’t need to be so sad, okay?”

Seungcheol smiled. “Okay.”

[homestuckreplay]

Webcomics at Day 100 #10: The Order of the Stick

Pages read: 9/25/2003 – 4/4/2006 (books 1&2; 301 full page strips)

Reason for selection: D&D is really important to nerd culture (and online culture since 3e), and this is probably the most popular and longrunning D&D webcomic, to this day loved, followed and theorized on by a large fanbase.

Current status: Ongoing with no set schedule, averaging twice monthly updates. Creator Rich Burlew says the current book will be the last, but fans predict the arc will not end until 2031 or later.

Content warnings: frequent misogyny, sexualization of female characters, equating sex and gender, occasional transphobia, sexual humor, occasional jokes about sexual assault and harassment, one joke about slavery, extreme amounts of cartoon violence

Overall thoughts:

I am definitely the target audience for Order of the Stick. As a long time D&D player who also enjoys hearing about games I didn’t play in and likes webcomics as a medium, it’s not surprising that I fell in love with this very quickly, because I’m the exact type of person it’s being written for. As such, it’s hard to analyze whether it’s easy for non-D&D players to get into.

D&D references appear in the majority of strips, typically to 3.5e – the edition released shortly before the comic’s debut, which almost entirely dictates the characters’ abilities and the rules of the world they live in. Most references are still relevant to more recent editions, and the comic riffs on random encounters, initiative order, attacks of opportunity, momentary in-game retcons after remembering an extra feature or skill bonus after the fact, timeskips during travel, rogues stealing from party members leading to intraparty conflict, the ‘all PCs have dead parents’ backstory stereotype, and especially alignment.

The entirety of book two, ‘No Cure for the Paladin Blues’ (so named because it features a paladin dressed in blue), explores alignment in more depth than the occasional jokes surrounding the other topics. Roy, an honorable leader who has sworn an oath but isn’t a paladin by class, and Miko, who is a true paladin and follows her order’s rules to the letter, come to blows over the meaning of ‘good’ and ‘lawful’, whether intent or outcome determine a person’s alignment, and what it means to live in a world where alignment is objective, codified, and detectable. These are ideas that later D&D editions will also question, but not as efficiently as secondary character Celia, a sylph defense lawyer, does in a literal courtroom scene in comic 282.

The D&D references range from these blatant ones, to the more subtle. To zoom in on a moment I loved, strip 214 features a moment where Miko – a party ally, who would be controlled by the DM in a real game – goes against the party’s planned stealth ambush and barges into an ogre camp to confront the leader. This would be really bad D&D etiquette in most games, as a DM would be taking agency away from the players, not allowing them to even attempt a plan they’d worked hard on. But it works well as comic writing, because it characterizes Miko and sets up a new three-way conflict between her, the party, and the ogres.

Establishing characterization is much easier with D&D ability scores and spell lists to lean back on, but Burlew has never made official character sheets for the party to allow the story to come first. Instead, Burlew uses common player character archetypes – a respectable human fighter/party leader avenging his father, a Scottish dwarf cleric who likes ale and can’t roll stealth, an androgynous elf mage who prefers learning about the limits of arcane potential to social interaction, an annoying, pretty, constantly singing and talking when he shouldn’t bard (who surprised me by being dumb instead of horny), a treasure-obsessed crackshot rogue, and a chaos gremlin. XP and level up mechanics provide an easy, in universe reason for characters developing new powers.

I found most characters quickly likeable, except for the chaos gremlin – halfling ranger Belkar is the party’s evil member, generally played for comic relief. However, as the overarching plot is introduced as early as strip 13, and other characters are given two dimensions and ethical beliefs within the first hundred strips, Belkar’s being loved by the party of relatively decent people despite his selfish, violent and amoral actions (stated outright in strip 285) feels out of place and unearned to me. His misogyny and sexual harassment of female characters, also played for laughs, really contributes to this – it’s hard to overlook, especially as it’s reflected by the author.

Burlew falls into common pitfalls when writing female characters – for example, a woman only being taken seriously when she is competent and can out-perform the men, a man needing to experience being treated like a woman in order to respect one, and regularly referring to women as ‘bitches’, ‘whores’, and ‘chicks’. In 2015, Burlew said that he has few regrets about his early work, but that they include ‘[u]nintentional sexism and/or insensitivity to gender issues. Doing my best to fix it going forward.’ This acknowledgement is important to my decision to keep reading.

[Note on next paragraph, added later: I have now been informed that Vaarsuvius is canonically genderqueer, confirmed later in the comic! huge win for representation and on Burlew incorporating reader feedback & thanks to the anon who let me know!!]

Against all odds, the wizard of unspecified gender Vaarsuvius is actually written fairly well. The ambiguity is often treated as a joke, and minor characters will sometimes assume their gender one way or the other – but the other main characters don’t know and are okay with not knowing. They’re respectful and don’t question it when Vaarsuvius doesn’t use the gendered dungeon toilets, and while Vaarsuvius shares a room with female party member Haley at inns while the men all share a second room, strip 225 makes it clear that this is because Haley and V are good friends, not because they share a gender. (As a sidenote, Haley and V’s sweet and unlikely friendship is my favorite dynamic in the comic).

Artistically, the characters are drawn as stick figures (as represented by the comic’s title) with clean lines and bright colors in strips that are typically one A4 page. The first OOTS book was printed in February 2005, with further books released after each major story arc, so Burlew has written the bulk of this comic knowing that it will be collected in print. Likely, this influences the decision to mostly stick to the A4 style, and rarely include oddly shaped strips, animation, hyperlinks, hover text, or other web-specific elements. Important story beats and milestones do see extra-long strips, with the 200th strip covering a long-foreshadowed battle four times as long as a regular strip – with white space indicating the page breaks. Strips may play with panel order while keeping the A4 format, such as comic 242, which uses arrows to indicate that panels should be read vertically, not horizontally.

Character designs are extremely recognizable from the first strip, and the art style gets slowly more complex – while the stick figures remain, backgrounds grow more detailed and shading is introduced over time. With the early strips, the art in print books is (allegedly) an improvement over the web versions, an incentive to buy print copies when the full archive is available for free online.

Most characters speak in white speech bubbles with black text, but there are exceptions – core villain Xykon the lich has black speech bubbles with white text, creatures of pure light have yellow speech bubbles, sylpha and ghosts have blue, and a bastion of lawful good order has red. Lowered opacity speech bubbles with dashed outlines indicate whispering, and (in a more questionable choice) bold lower case speech indicates a character has low intelligence. The different colors are effective at making characters from other planes feel truly alien, and the importance of the speech bubbles reflects the wordiness of the comic – the text is small, speech bubbles are often paragraphs, and even zoomed into 150% I ended up with a bad screen headache after a couple hours’ reading, which makes an archive binge much harder.

OOTS has a reputation for beginning as humorous and becoming more serious and story driven in its third and fourth books. I haven’t reached those yet so can’t compare, but I already find that while jokes are frequent, the story takes precedence when necessary – and like other comics I’ve read, even Burlew seems surprised at how quickly the strip becomes something beyond its original intentions, letting a character say ‘Wow. That’s a lot more planning than I thought this strip had’ as early as strip 60. However, he also says that having the characters leave the dungeon and take on a bigger quest in strip 122 was partly because he ‘was leaving a lot of good jokes on the table by never having them go to town or on a wilderness adventure’, so the ‘plot driven’ and ‘joke focused’ drives are coexisting then. I’m really excited to see how the tone and story develop over the next thousand strips. :D

Relevance to Homestuck:

As best I can tell, there’s no official connection, though there is fanbase overlap. I’ve said before that Homestuck is a precursor to actual play podcasts, and plan to write more about that someday. In its case, Andrew Hussie clearly acts as DM with the command-submitting readers acting as players; D&D mechanics aren’t used, but the dynamic is spot on.

In Order of the Stick, the characters referencing movies, modern slang, current events and 21st century professions is extremely reminiscent of real D&D play, as this sort of humor is common to both regular D&D groups and actual play shows like Acquisitions Incorporated and The Adventure Zone. A pair of lawyers sent by ‘the spooky wizard who lives by the coast’ are introduced in strip 32 and become recurring characters, a reference to Wizards of the Coast, the real world company who owns D&D. The same is true of characters mentioning exposition, sidequests, plotlines, character mirrors, and other concepts that D&D players know about, and therefore put into their characters’ mouths in games.

OOTS characters feel like they have players and the strip captures the experience of the gaming table really well, but readers don’t have much influence, and Burlew is taking on all roles. This is true even when they contradict, like in strip 21, where the character’s actions of killing a chimera go against the DM’s plans to have him be a recurring villain.

Like Homestuck, OOTS begins as a fairly small scale story – taking place in a single dungeon – but expands within a couple of years to include threats not just to the world, but to the very fabric of reality. In a couple of very minor parallels, both feature the dunce cap (HS 746/OOTS 14), the 8 ball (HS 804/OOTS 127), and a plot important meteor (HS 196/OOTS 134). Meteors seem like a surprisingly common feature of webcomics, actually, and I wonder if this was a big part of 2000s culture that I don’t remember. OOTS has a minor character, Banjo the Clown God of Puppets, who appears in several strips including 80 (regular Banjo) and 85 (as the eldritch Banjulhu). His mysterious and unsettling appearances are reminiscent of Lil Cal, and his tentacles of Rose’s eldritch doll. I could also discuss Kickstarters here but I think I’ll save that for a few years down the line.

Scholar Gabriel Romaguera wrote his master’s thesis and part of his PhD thesis on Order of the Stick. I’ve read his master’s thesis in full and really enjoyed his analysis, which is far more comprehensive than my own (though as a sidenote, I do genuinely hope to write a master’s thesis on Homestuck someday). He’s only one scholar, but a lot of his analysis links up with the limited Homestuck analysis I’ve read. Romaguera discusses serial vs archival reading, web vs print versions, and whether the OOTS books can be considered a webcomic.

‘Some of the material is only relevant when read within twenty four hours of the original publication... Readers are supposed to wait for new installments, read them, go over to the forums, reread them to make sure th+at no detail was left unnoticed, speculate what would happen, and continue to wait until the new issue is published and then the cycle continues. This process makes for a deeper connection to the narrative and to the characters as years go by.’ (Romaguera, p.138)

This argument is presented uncritically and unproductively, just as it has been by many Homestuck analysts. While it’s technically true for any serial work, it becomes more true when participation in an active fan community of theorizers, proofreaders, lorekeepers and fanwork producers is seen as critical to understanding the work. From some time browsing the forums, this is definitely true of both OOTS and Homestuck moreso than other webcomics. (It’s also the attitude that made my lab scientist brain go ‘okay, cool theory, but have you tested that experimentally?’) Romaguera goes on to say that ongoing webcomics could be taught in classrooms when teaching students about serial narratives as ‘[t]he serial reading experience is often taught in hindsight and with nostalgia that suggests that current readers have missed out on the original text as it was intended to be read.’ (p.151) I agree and I love this idea more than words can say.

‘This effectively makes OOTS an ongoing trans-media narrative, wherein some parts of the narrative are exclusive to one medium, and some parts are exclusive to the another one [sic]. Readers go through the process of piecing these parts together to make this third text and thus fully attain the narrative. Still, this practice only goes on until Burlew publishes the final book and all of the narrative is collected in one authoritative text.’ (Romaguera, p.139-40)

In most webcomics (including Homestuck), print editions are supplementary, collector’s content. With OOTS, it seems like both the author and fans give the print editions a lot of importance. Once OOTS is no longer serialized, it does seem likely that the print editions, which include entire books of bonus material not found online, will be seen as fully definitive. Similarly, I would call The Unofficial Homestuck Collection the definitive edition of Homestuck, due to its functional flash player, wealth of supplemental content, and options for reading spoiler free. Ultimately, both these works have transcended their original websites in a way few webcomics have.

Continue reading? I think this is my favorite webcomic I’ve read for this subproject so far. I usually would’ve read 2009 strips for a comparison, but didn’t, because I want to experience the story linearly without spoilers. I could get totally obsessed with this. I want to make D&D character sheets for the beta kids.