#metaphorically banging my head against the wall

[whsprings]

trying to resist checking my weight because it is 6pm and it won't be accurate and will just freak me out but also...

[rewormer]

a commission - sometimes I struggle with pinks, but I had a good time with this one!

[zyrafowe-sny]

Dear brain,

I don't know if it's you mixing up words or autocorrect, but please proofread better regardless.

[luffysprincess]

I just feel so frustrated rn!!

[royhasissues]

They put this better than I did

#going back to my 'marius' vampirism is a metaphor for the lasting trauma of sexual abuse' idea#marius is my roman empire

So I did a funny joke post about Marius and this was one of the tags left on it and I'm so sorry prev but you've activated my trap card because I've thought so much about this topic, but have felt too afraid to talk about it unprompted lol. But I am going to spew my guts about how I feel about this symbolism so cw for talks about SA and victim blaming. Cause I have for sure thought about this a lot and gotten sort of heated about jokes about Marius just being a dumb horny knight when he's a whole ass victim of significant trauma.

(tag credit goes to @royhasissues, hope it's ok to post your tags)

So, I loove Marius and one of the main reasons for that is his relationship to trauma and what that both symbolizes for his character as well as how it determines his actions and emotional stability as of episode 32.

Marius Renathyr was someone who thrived off of structure, order and discipline. He was clearly a highly religious man and had followed his religious and orderly tenants to the letter for most of his life. A young Marius was focused on things like war, helping to defend his people and more specifically, protecting his king and best friend from forces that wished for their ruin. As such, I cannot imagine a young Marius really had any type of experience with relationships aside from platonic and brotherly relationships he had built with fellow knights or Victor. So already we have a young inexperienced knight going off on a quest where not only is he leaving the shelter of his kingdom for the first time, he's also on a time limit in which his success or failure could determine the future of an entire kingdom of people.

Then, vulnerable and half starved, he stumbles upon the Duchess who not only takes advantage of his physically weakened state; but also takes advantage of his emotional and mentally weakened state. Lilith as a temptress of course could tempt a young knight, and then to curse him with vampirism after tricking him into sleeping with her is back to back traumatic events - the vamprism something that could be interpreted as a punishment for failing his tenant of chastity. Something that I found interesting too is not only is his kingdom's symbol a rose, but it also is the same symbol as The Duchess - it brings to mind the idea of "deflowering" as a symbol of lost innocence.

From there, he has fought against his vampiric instincts which he viewed as a curse and a punishment for his weakness when in reality, it was not weakness at all. And the way some people react in a sort of joking or unserious way to his attitude towards sleeping with someone, his concerns of being trapped in a power scale imbalance with a strong and powerful woman also shows how his character reflects victim blaming both from others but also internalized victim blaming. It is why I think the scene of his friends trying to convince him to sleep with the Inquisitor only for Yorgrim to shut it down and back Marius up is such a powerful scene because it showed how some of his friends did not understand the level of trauma he had experienced despite how he bares literal physical reminders of the trauma he had experienced decades prior and how it still weighs so heavily on him.

Not to mention how Marius' bloodlust and how his aversion to getting too close to people - particularly Lethica who he shows clear romantic feelings for - is also symbolic of his trauma reactions. He is unable to allow himself that sort of closeness or intimacy with another person, even if there is no sexual motivation or undertones about their interactions, it's still a fear response of wishing to avoid any possibility of being harmed once again or lashing out due to that trauma.

And mind you, this is all worsening for him around the same time he comes to realize he's lost his connection to his God, his king and best friend he went on this quest for is dead, 2 of his closest friends are also dead, and many other awful horrors have befallen him and his group, it makes sense why his emotional and mental stability have started crumbling so drastically. And then, when he is at his lowest, who swoops in to whisper false promises and telling him he can be strong once more, protected once more, that this all can be worth it if he just listens to her? The one being who gave him this trauma in the first place. She swoops in and talks to him tenderly, who caresses him and tells him it'll be ok, that he can be what he was once more, that she will help him if only he listens to her and stays with her and loves her and nobody else. Nobody else. There's a lack of clarity, a lack of stability, of rational thought. Marius entrusts himself to her now because it's hard escaping from your abuser when they act like they're your protector instead.

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[blues-stories]

I haven’t really worked up to smut but I’d do have an interesting head cannon for the boys when they’re doing the ✨Devils Tango✨.

Imaging The LADS men loosing control of their Evol during sex:

Xavier:

Picture this- the room is starting to heat up as you and Xavier are frankly going at it like bunnies. You’re Exhausted, Over Stimulated, and quite frankly SORE from the positions he’s manage to bend you into. (Who knew you were so flexible? You sure didn’t) And right as he’s pistoning into you for the umpteenth time, you start to notice a….Subtle difference…At first.

One second he’s panting and sweating as he hovers over you, your back flush to his chest, and the next he’s become a Mother fuckin glow stick.

It only gets brighter as he keeps going, chasing his high until eventually- once he does cum- You’re literally getting flash-banged from the bright flash of light that emits from him. Alarm clock? Needs to be reset. Lights? Three bulbs busted from the surge of power. Xavier? He’s finally dimmed down as he collapses onto of you, mumbling about replacing everything tomorrow.

Rafayel:

Once again the scene is nothing new. This time you’re on top of him as he sits on one of the blush sofa like chairs in his studio, Hands digging into your hips as he guides your movements. What started as you taking control quickly turned into him guiding your body like a puppet on strings….Not that you particularly cared though.

He’s got you bouncing and grinding faster- HARDER even as he tries to pull you and himself over to that metaphorical finish line- and my god would you both be finishing. His face is getting flush- his skin scalding hot to the touch, so much so that you’re starting to get more and worried..

Poor Rafayel is so lost in the moment that he doesn’t notice the fireplace starting to roar to life, nor does he notice the steam rising from his body…It’s mere moments until he locks you on top of him as you both reach your high, his finger tips feeling as if they’ve scaled you in the process….Unfortunately the burned cloth of your Hunters uniform and the very mild Hand prints on your hips do nothing to help his case.

He makes whispered promises to you to buy a new uniform and soothe the marks on your hips with some aloe… (I imagine them as sunburn marks instead of actual burns)

Zayne:

Ironically his and Caleb’s are the one that started this rant.

THIS time you’re not at home like the others- you’re actually at his office (Very original I know) And the scene is shocking to anyone that knows Zayne.

You’re laid back against the desk as Zayne stands between your legs, a hand on each thigh as he keeps you nice and spread so you can really take all of him…Now zaynes Evol acting up isn’t exactly a new thing, but what you’re starting to see now is DEFINITELY different.

Soft grunts can be heard from him with each thrust he gives you, his once warm hands have now gone cold- bone chilling so as that feeling seems to spread throughout his body…Up his arms and onto his chest, down his stomach and- oh god it’s like you’re being fucked by a icicle…To make matters even more complicated, Ice and frost start to spread toward the ground- coating the floors and crawling up the walls with how intense things are getting…

And the moment- the second he does finish deep inside you? The door to his office has frozen shut, and a big fat glob of snow seems to come raining down onto you…Zayne tries his best to hold it together as you sit up with snow flakes on your lashes, a slightly red and runny nose, and a big dollop of snow on your head…

He assures you it was an accident as he oh so kindly starts to dust the flakes from your hair, already planning your care plan for when you inevitably catch a cold from him…Of course that can wait till AFTER he’s done with you though…Now that the door is frozen shut, why waist this opportunity of alone time?..

Sylus:

Sylus has you under him with his hands pinning yours over your head, his fingers intertwining with yours as he ruts and grinds into you. That luxury mattress and bed frame he brags about? Absolutely rocking with each thrust of his hips, the post probably putting dents- if not HOLES- into the wall.

Now Sylus’s Evol is unpredictable- more so in the sense that it possibly can do just about ANYTHING- so if he were to ever loose control, who knows what’ll happen…But you know who’s about to know? You. At first it’s minor really- that familiar red and black mist oozing off of him as it slowly surrounds both you and Him- spreading like vines across the bed in a slow and meticulous manner…

Too lost in the sauce- Sylus keeps thrusting and thrusting with his eyes pinched tight and his teeth bared, a low growl leaving him as he buried himself to the hilt inside you and blows his load…You soon follow after… However instead of the usual blissed glow on you face, he finds your brows knit and mouth forming a thin line on your face. The reason? In the midst of his high, all those stuffed animals that had littered your shared bed had gotten wrapped up into the mist, squeezed so tight until they simply burst into energy…

His mumbled apologies do little to sooth your anger- Especially as he mumbles about replacing your limited edition stuffy you oh so proudly had displayed…Sure you had won the war against being single, but my god had it come at a cost…

Caleb:

This fucker right here-

Unsurprisingly, you were sprawled out on the soft sheets of your bed, hands fisting the pillow you lay on as Caleb’s head is tucked happily between your thighs..He’s been at it for hours- and despite your pleas and protests, he hasn’t stopped yet.

Caleb’s favorite place is between your thighs, making you squirm and fall aprat all from his tongue alone…He loves it so much actually- that he’s lost count of the amount of times he’s gotten off just from watching you writher in pain and pleasure…Just like now as he feasts on you, ignoring your words along with the rest of his surroundings while he feeds…

Unfortunately, despite that coil in both your bellies growing tighter and tighter, you can’t help but watch as the stuff on your bedside starts to shake…It’s small at first, a few pens on your night stand, then your dresser- then all the furniture in the room starts moving as if there’s a earthquake….But Caleb’s eyes are on you as he eagerly and hungrily awaits you to reach your peak…

Just as you do, the bed as well with the rest of the furniture are lifting off the ground, the entire room looking like something out of the exorcist movie…Your climax crashes over both of you with a wave as you arch your back- Caleb spilling his own release on to the bed in the process…And just as quickly as it happened, everything in the air seemingly drops back to the floor with a loud thud, your own body sitting up from the sudden falling sensation, and the sound of something very fragile shattering…

Not even Caleb’s cooking will be enough to calm the rage that comes with shattering your entire collection of little baby figures you’d worked on these past few years…But hey- at least you both came right?…

[whsprings]

me: the only reason I'd drink that boost is to make you happy and I can't do my recovery to please other people

therapist: very insightful, but my happiness is not dependent on you drinking the boost. my suggestion is that you drink it, but emotionally I do not care.

me: (so I'm not drinking it.)

[vbs-akito]

.okay well this one was a hit. i am metaphorically blasting kikuo and muship with you all.

i need to lay down face first on a wooden floor and blast my concerning vocaloid songs playlist and let the music consume me. i'm doing so well tonight

[burts-baked-bees]

Okay?

OPLA Sanji x Fem!Reader

{masterlist for OPLA Sanji ongoing story}

Tags: Slight angst to fluff, slight pining, Sanji and reader are close friends and have truama bonded, Sanji has no clue he's in love with reader the poor sap

CW: Launguage, mentions of abuse, slight WCI spoliers, mentions of drinking

“I swear I��m one shift away from throwing myself in the godforsaken ocean.” Sanji huffed angrily as he threw himself down in a nearby booth. The Baratie had cleared out for the night leaving the cooks to clean the line and the waiters to clean the dining room, but halfway through the dreaded cleanup Sanji had both metaphorically and physically thrown in the towel. The dish cloth he had been holding went flying across the room as he put his feet up on the booth he was in and groaned indignantly.

“That old shitbag won’t so much as let me breathe on the line! I’m a cook! Not a fucking waiter!” He yelled, turning his head back towards the kitchen, as if Zeff could hear his complaints.

“You think maybe it has something to do with the fact that you call him an ‘old shitbag’?” A voice came from the other side of his booth. A small smile curled his lips as he sat up some and peeked over the rounded edge of the red leather seat.

“Oh I’m sorry, did I interrupt your nap time madame?” Sanji laughed as he took in the sight of Y/n laying on her back with her eyes closed in the opposite booth. “So sorry for the inconvenience, but aren’t you meant to be cleaning tables?” He teased as Y/n cracked an eye open and glared at him.

“Aren’t you?” She asked with a sly grin, earning an eye roll and angry huff from the blonde.

“Seems the only thing I’m meant to do is slowly die from boredom in this trash heap of a restaurant.” Sanji sighed as he fell back into his seat, pulling out his lighter and messing with the lid. Y/n laughed softly before sitting up and resting her arms on the dividing seat. She placed her head atop her arms and looked at him with a mock pout.

“Awww is the best chef in the East Blue all bummed that his dad doesn't like his cooking? Again?”

Sanji snapped his lighter closed and raised a finger at Y/n, pointing aggressively at her with a snarl.

“I am the greatest chef in the East Blue. Even if that geezer can’t see it.” He stated, earning a chuckle from Y/n as she sat up and raised her hands in surrender.

“Easy now, no need to shout at a lady.” She cooed as Sanji chuckled and gave her an angry smile, hanging his head.

“How dare you throw my own principles back in my face.” He chuckled as he began fidgeting with the silver ring on his finger. Y/n sighed and rested her chin on her folded arms again, smiling softly at the mop of blonde hair in front of her. She reached over the divider and brushed some of his hair from his face, earning a soft hum from Sanji as he closed his eyes.

“I think we both know he’s only doing and saying these things because he wants the best for you. Though I’ll be the first to admit, his way of going about it is absolute shit.” She laughed as she watched his lips curl into a smile. He looked up at her, her fingers brushing against his cheek as he moved.

“Yeah, I know…” He sighed as he leaned his head back against the wall. She pulled her hand back and looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “But you're a stowaway as much as me.” Sanji joked, “And yet I’m the one being treated like a sniveling child every fucking time I step foot in that kitchen.” He huffed as he looked over at her through his bangs. She chuckled as she hung her arms over the back of his booth and cocked her head to the side.

“My dumbass thought I could be a pirate and got stuck here paying off a debt cuz’ my ship damaged the hull of this ‘trash heap of a restaurant’.” She fired back, using his own words. He opened his mouth to speak but soon closed it again as he shook his head.

“Yeah that was pretty dumb.” Sanji joked as he pulled his jacket off and tossed it to the seat beside him. Y/n gawked at him before laughing and reaching forward to hit him softly on the shoulder. He leaned away from her and shouted

“Oi! Don’t damage the goods!”

She looked at him with mocking wide eyes and barked a laugh,

“Both Patty and I would have to disagree with you on that one, lover boy.” She snarked as Sanji rolled his eyes. A calm silence filled the space as Y/n sat up on her knees and looked at Sanji. She could see something was going on inside his head, and she knew him well enough to infer that he wasn’t going to say a damn thing. She studied the way his brow furrowed and noted how his eyes seemed more gray then blue in moments like these.

There was a profound sadness in him that she had only caught glimpses of in her three years aboard this ship. A profound sadness that he had more or less shared with her one drunken night in the bar when they should have been sleeping. A profound sadness that she wished every single day she could lift from him. The two sat in silence as the ship rocked softly under them; Y/n felt compelled to speak, to do anything that might help ease his overactive mind.

“Still, knowing what I know, having Zeff treating you like this can’t be good for the ole’ psyche…”

Sanji tensed up slightly at her words and Y/n mentally kicked herself for making that insinuation. She wanted to help him, but after the words left her mouth she felt a heavy guilt fill her bones. She watched as he shut his eyes and took a deep breath before smiling ever so slightly.

“Trust me, love. I may complain like this from time to time-”

“Almost ninety-five percent of the time."

“Ooookay. Almost ninety-five percent of the time, but nothing is worse than… what I came from.” He gave her a somber smile and pulled out his lighter again, flipping the lid open and closed in an almost rhythmic pattern. She returned his sad smile and pushed her baby hairs from her forehead.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.” She spoke softly as she looked out at the empty dining room; the tables were cast in an eerie candle light and the china adorning the tables glimmered like stars. Sanji looked at her, as her attention was placed elsewhere, and smiled fondly. He felt a warmth rise in his chest as he took in the curve of her profile. The slope of her nose, the length of her eyelashes, the round of her cheeks. The candle light of the empty room cast dancing shadows on her face that made her look otherworldly; he felt his smile, and eyes soften as he looked at her.

“Y/n I wouldn’t have told you about my shitty past if I didn’t trust you to check in on me like this every now and again.” Sanji spoke softly as Y/n turned her gaze back to him. She was almost stunned to see the expression on his face. The look in his eyes was, most of the time, reserved for the elegant ladies that entered the restaurant day in and day out. And yet here he was looking at her like that. She brushed the fond gaze off and swayed her head back and forth while giving him an apologetic look.

“I know, but it’s still not my place to dredge up old memories of abuse when I don’t even know the full story.” She responded, playing with the ends of her uniform shirt.

Sanji smiled at her and leaned forward in his seat, one hand braced himself on the seat top while the other reached forward and pulled her towards him. Y/n closed her eyes as she felt his lips press against her forehead.

“I appreciate you checking on me. It shows that you care.” He said softly, his words muffled seeing that his lips were still connected with her forehead. She smiled softly as he placed a loud exaggerated kiss to the skin there before pulling away and holding her face in his hand. “Okay?” He asked with a huge smile. She laughed at his theatrics and moved to stand up, leaving Sanji sitting alone in his booth as he looked up at her standing form.

“Whatever you say-” She began as she reached out a hand to help him up. He took it with a laugh and allowed Y/n to pull him to his feet. “-My favorite Baratie waiter.” She finished as she dropped his hand and started walking away from him, stifling her laughter. Sanji stood there with his jaw dropped as she walked away from him, his shock soon turning into a smile as he watched her shoulders shake from holding in her laughter. He let a chuckle slip out as he pushed up his sleeves and made a beeline for her.

“How DARE!” He yelled as he grabbed her from behind and lifted her off the ground slightly laughing as she yelped and then dissolved into laughter when she broke free. She began running to a nearby table to put distance between herself and him as she pointed at him,

“Not fair!” She yelled, watching as Sanji pointed back at her.

“Don’t you dare get me started on ‘fair’!” He responded as he laughed.

____

Zeff stood in the doorway to the kitchen watching as Sanji ran around tables with that wannabe pirate waitress. He observed in silence as the pair laughed and threw dish towels at each other instead of cleaning tables.

The small boy he once knew, terrified of making connections with those around him due to some dark past he kept to himself, was smling and laughing as he chased around what could only be discribed as a friend.

A small smile curled his weathered lips as he shook his head and walked away, the sounds of youth fading into nothing.

“Not bad, little eggplant… Not bad…”

[anamericangirl]

Sorry I just need someone to rant to about this after this stupid post (https://www.tumblr.com/obsidianwitch/722286326987276288/remember-kids-the-largest-form-of-theft-in-this?source=share) came across my dash.

Why do people try to advocate for shoplifting??? Why do people never think of the bigger picture (i.e. the store closing because it’s no longer profitable, which means those low-wage workers lose their jobs and those “poor, poor shoplifters” now live in a food desert)?!

There’s nothing wrong with being sensitive to people using food stamps (or the electronic equivalent)! But why insist on taking stupid, apathetic attitudes towards your job?!? Would you want your waiter/waitress not caring if you get the right food at a restaurant?? Wkdplcjrbdocnfhgsjslmfnwmztxhyuqiqn

*cough* Sorry. (I am banging my head against the metaphorical wall.)

It's because they don't actually know what they are talking about. They are not living in reality. They don't believe in personal responsibility and it's always "society's fault" and they have to play the sympathetic part but they are sympathetic to the wrong people.

Shoplifters aren't stealing because they are poor. They're not Aladdins stealing bread to feed their poor starving families. They are stealing because they can. Because they make a profit off selling stolen merchandise and because there are little to no consequences for shoplifting anymore.

And allowing people to shoplift has negative impacts on entire communities. Common items are now getting locked behind glass and require an employee's assistance to access because of shoplifting. Stores are closing down and moving out of communities that need them because of shoplifting.

And no a shoplifter might not drive down an employee's hourly wages but living in a community that tolerates shoplifting will likely mean that employee will soon be out of a job because the business will lose money and will no longer be able to afford operating in that location.

And equating shoplifters with people on foodstamps is beyond stupid.

Never listen to anyone who tries to excuse shoplifting, especially if their reasoning is "iT wOn'T rEdUcE yOuR wAgEs" because they are telling you they lack the ability to understand repercussions.

[blood-starved-beast]

This conversation drives me insane cause of course it's such a them discussion. Of course only workfocused Melinoe and Hades would agree the Mission is more important than actually bonding as long lost family members. Somewhere, both Persephone and Zagreus are metaphorically banging their heads against the wall.

Also "ensure all my reagents are in order" - Mel that's a very autistic response you've got going on there. He's not asking about the small details that you're doing there bruh.

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Ed: Izzy, Izzy, Izzy… Look out there. Those clouds. Do they look like Frankfurters to you?

Izzy: They look like clouds, Boss? Can we just focus on…?

Ed: Yes, yes, they look like clouds because they are indeed clouds, but if you just put some fucking imagination into it, man!

Izzy: [long pause] I suppose they look like sausages…

Ed: Frankfurters, yes! Exactly. It’s like pulling teeth with you sometimes, man.

Izzy has worked with Ed for years and still doesn’t understand his mind works best in simile or metaphor; that he needs a certain level of creative social interaction to keep him sane, that the bouncing of an idea helps consolidate things in Ed’s mind.

Yet we see Ed give Izzy every opportunity to interact. Ed already knows the answer really, and the significance. He’s trying to build rapport, include Izzy; but also feel this is a team effort, that Ed’s not carrying the safety of everyone alone. He’s trying quite naturally to share the load with his First Mate.

Unfortunately, Ed’s met with barely-veiled disdain - ‘They look like clouds, Boss.’ Even if Izzy can’t understand what’s being asked of him, he could ask questions for clarification, or even, I dunno, just agree and trust Ed’s judgement. But he’s not bothered because he wants to focus on his plan, the one that’s better than his boss’s who he says rather contrarily, is ‘the most brilliant sailor [he’s] ever met.’

We hear Ed’s frustration, and the key word ‘imagination’ clarifies much of the issue. Izzy has none, or doesn’t care to cultivate any. Imagination isn’t for real men. Having a plan involving firing canons at a superior vessel is the done thing, apparently.

When Izzy does finally give in to his boss’s Very Silly Game™, I find the answer irritating. He uses ‘sausages’ instead of ‘Frankfurters’. It’s a way of agreeing whilst not agreeing. He’s diminishing Ed’s observation. He won’t use Ed’s word, his more imaginative and precise word, a very particular type of sausage. Izzy’s being blasé, truculent, even. Imagine an AU: ‘Does that look like a car to you?’ / ‘I suppose… it looks… like a vehicle.’ It’s the response of an adolescent. The use of ‘suppose’ has tone as well. Ed’s response reveals years of frustration. ‘Pulling teeth’ is being kind. Feeling you want to bang your (or Izzy’s) head against a wall is a more appropriate response.

— -

Ed: What’s that painting? What is it? A grain tower?

Stede: Oh, it’s a lighthouse. I should’ve been one for my family. And guided them.

Ed: Hmmm… well, technically, you’re supposed to avoid lighthouses, so you don’t crack up on the rocks.

Stede: I never really thought about it that way.

Ed: Hmm… no one does.

Together: We need to be a lighthouse!

I still don’t know what to make of Ed who sees lighthouses possibly daily, and thinks he’s viewing a picture of a grain tower. But it reinforces abstract thought and lateral thinking. Ed often doesn’t see what is there; he sees beyond, creative alternatives, the non-obvious answer.

Stede could’ve given a taciturn response, ‘Oh, it’s a lighthouse.’ If he’d stopped there, they would’ve all died, probably. But because Stede is open and conversational, he goes on to explain why he has that picture, and the symbolic importance of it.

This then allows Ed again, to offer an alternative interpretation - you’re technically supposed to avoid lighthouses. But Ed only gets there through the openness of the interaction, the to-ing and fro-ing.

And Stede’s reaction is important also. He doesn’t dig his heels into a rigid interpretation of what a lighthouse represents. He doesn’t say, ‘I suppose’ or ‘Why are we talking about this when we’re all about to die.’ He says, with genuine surprise and curiosity ‘I never really thought about it that way.’ Stede has an adaptable mind. One willing to learn and see things from a different perspective even in the worst moments. Which is why what happens next happens.

The joint ‘We need to be lighthouse!’ reveals a lot about where these two are already heading. The camerawork is phenomenal, moving between the pair, but also blurring background and foreground, bringing Ed, then Stede into focus. They have an already-developing symbiotic relationship. Furthermore, Stede, the new kid on the block, the one who’s apparently a bit of an imbecile, comes up with the plan the same moment as master-strategist Blackbeard. And that means something. That means a lot actually.

It’s very clear what we are meant to understand about the characters. The juxtaposition of Ed and Izzy’s relationship to that of Ed and Stede’s shows how starved of an intellectual and creative equal Ed has been for years… possibly since forever. They come up with a plan that’s equal parts ridiculous and sublime - a little bit like them, really. And it works! - because of respectful reciprocal conversation. The outcome will always be one of my favourite scenes.

[thebardbullseye]

The Thesis of Citadel Wizardry

I have been banging my head against the metaphorical wall for a while now trying to figure out what it is about Wizardry and the Lingua Arcana that resonates with me deeply. It goes far beyond the set dressing of the story (which I also love deeply). It is the core, fundamental idea of What Wizardry Is.

Wizardy in Umora is IRL philosophy and metaphysics: which are concerned with the study of the fundamental nature of reality and knowledge. (NB: there are many ways To Know outside of formal philosophy education.)

Wizards are the only Intelligence based casters in D&D, and in Umoran history did not exist until a couple hundred years ago. There is a lot to be said about what that means wrt Empire and the imagery and consequences of that, which are beyond the scope of this post.

Three concepts emerged in the founding of Wizardry: the Lingua Arcana (language of magic), one specific kind of magic: Conjuration (helpfully also a school of magic in D&D), and the idea of the Greater Binding and the Binding of Spirits. Why these three ideas in particular and what do they mean for the Philosophy of Wizardry?

Wizardry is to take that which is Formless of Spirit and thus unknowable, to give it Form, to give it meaning and understanding. To Summon it, to Conjure it, and to Bind it to the Real, yet also to Know and Understand its Nature.

Citadel Wizardry is to give it a Name, to add to Language in order to further define, refine, restrict, control, and diminish it from its Unknowable and Formlessness. To Bind a Great Spirit is to Know and Understand something Great.

Citadel Wizardry was combined with and furthered through Empire, and this has brought about great harm to the Spirit and knowledge-gathering itself.

(NB: much of "modern" science is deeply entwined with the imperialistic and colonialist tendencies due to the historical foundations upon which it was built. IMO, science/bio-"ethics" does not do enough to recognize nor address this fundamental problem. This is a much more complicated idea than can be untangled here, but I thought it worth mentioning as an IRL parallel.)

So, this begs the question: Does knowing this damn the pursuit of knowledge obtained through imperial means to always be harmful? Remember to be wary of questions that provoke binary responses.

Instead, there is a better question to ask: How do you, as an individual, right the wrongs of a broken system? Look at Suvi as a character and at her story. It is plain as day. Clearly written in the Sky.

Here's the common thing among the many different ways To Know and Understand: there are some things that you know and understand both deeply and innately but cannot put into words. Perhaps these are one's values or philosophies or ideals; whatever you call them, these things are Formless. But there are some things that you understand facets or pieces of that you name and point at to be able explain and bring about and manifest that deeper understanding. There is connective tissue here; this idea that Reality is simultaneously and paradoxically made up of individuals and groups (particles, atoms, molecules, chemicals, organs, people, groups, (eco)systems, the world, the universe), and that reality is Beyond Number; it is both Formed and Formless.

This is why it has taken 46 episodes and as many or more hours to take the implicit and make it explicit in this thesis of the show. It must have the slow, methodical study, space, and time to breathe: to examine and understand the facets of the diamond, all of the moving parts, to see the shape of the diamond itself, and to stop the machine of war.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

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

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.2k

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

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.  

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s. 

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures. 

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one. 

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door. 

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

 "Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door. 

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear. 

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore. 

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less.  All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain. 

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes. 

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over. 

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth. 

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused. 

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic. 

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard. 

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it. 

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you? 

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face. 

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words. 

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of. 

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat. 

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand. 

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following. 

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second. 

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it. 

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused. 

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot." 

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen. 

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible. 

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal. 

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't. 

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire. 

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks. 

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?” 

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!”  It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.” 

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time. 

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

_

_

_

[sillydeimos]

so some ppl are curious on my 'deimos transgender allegory/metaphor' thoughts so yeah i can elaborate on them

obvious as hell disclaimer: my trans feelings/experiences aren't going to match up with everyone elses' and im not saying that all of this is definitive proof that hes trans or that every trans person feels this way, its just a headcanon. obviously i know i dont need to specify that but some ppl are crazy

so a lot of people see deimos gaining the rocks as a form of body horror, and sure that does make sense... but it's not really body horror if the person doesn't seem to mind it. i mean maybe the rocks were startling for deimos to feel at first, but he's a lot more confident with them i think.

'auditor hell', where hank and deimos (and sanford?) both wound up in the series, SEEM to prey on the persons' fears. or at least do things to them that seem far more personal. (i.e, deimos seeing sanford die, and seeing his own body with the atp engineer mask on.)

since we don't fully know where the posters in hell originate from or who made them, we can just assume that they manifest based on whoevers there. to give them warnings, to mock them.

deimos is ~canonically~ the shortest member of status quo (or at least compared to sanford and hank, we don't know how tall he is compared to doc) and seems to be shortest then the average guy. this poster could tie into deimos' height dysphoria (which yes is in fact a real thing), and it literately manifests into making the aahw soldiers he fights into giants.

he specifically gets rocks embedded in these places: chin, chest, and hands. i feel as though these are places where people fixate on and feel dysphoric over, but these rocks give him (literal) chiseled features. they're sharp, angular, and perceived as masculine. and it's very euphoric for him, he's a lot more confident in how he moves around then he has been the entire dedmos series.

he even gets to experiment with fashion again by putting on those big agent shades.

this journey of euphoria and confidence does come to a screeching halt when one of docs' fellows shows up and literately jams a. thing into his chest that anchors him, it's very invasive for deimos and he then views it as a threat, and kills the guy.

and the biggest thing too, doc giving deimos an injection. now obviously, sure, it's probably adrenaline or something- whatever it is, i'm sure he wouldn't be able to get access to t-shots in. y'know, hell.

it's still a nice visual and it gives room for thought. doc probably has all kinds of medical supplies and could help deimos with his shots. (and yes obviously you don't inject them into your HEAD but this is a headcanon and also doc is insane)

this is kind of unrelated: i feel like there's many interpretations you could have over the things we see in dedmos adventure, not even related to what i'm talking about.

like this grunt we see, banging his head against the wall and appears to be doing some kind of menial desk job, and deimos literately comes out of the guy via the chains. i feel like this grunt was how deimos felt for a long time when he worked at the aahw. delegated to a dead end job where he wanted to fuckin' bash his brains in.

but that's not related. anyways. thanks for listening to my thoughts............ or maybe i'm crazy and i'm actually way off about EVERYTHING wouldn't be the first time uhhhh anyways ty.