#online graduate student speak

[radicalposture]

i downloaded babel to have a nose and do you ever pick up a book and within five minutes you can tell the author is an american who was obsessed with harry potter and is using their literary career as a way to work through the fact that they still love it but they’re not allowed to publicly admit that anymore

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[frownyalfred]

Do you think new league members ever get surprised by the built-in nepotism? Like Bruce being who he is like codified rules of hero title succession (like Dick taking Bruce's place as Batman and with it, all his founder status) or the Flash being a titled with a long history of being passed down. I mean, Bruce is even planning on Dick inherenting the league to become it's leader.

Do you think new members look at the member handbook, in the students, apprenticeship, partnerships, and sidekicks, and go "huh. That seems kinda... rigged??". Because honestly? If you're great, sure you can gain a lot of respect and power in the league but you'll never gain more power (from admin power to social power to beyond) then the founding members and founding membership can be inherited.

It's an interesting question. I can't speak to the canon responses very much, but I imagine it has a lot to do with people respecting the hell out of Dick Grayson/Nightwing and knowing he truly is the best leader to inherit Bruce's role. Batman's motivations in assigning that role to Dick isn't for some personal benefit, or a continued stake he wants to maintain in the League. He's not giving the position to Dick, essentially, to benefit himself or Dick -- he's giving it to Dick because he truly believes Dick is the best person to pick up the cowl after him. If he wasn't, I don't think we'd see Bruce handing off the League and Batman to someone who wasn't ready or wouldn't ever be ready.

I will also note that this 180 on nepotism is a very very new gen z phenomenon. I'm not saying I agree one way or another, so don't reblog saying frownyalfred says nepotism is okay. But also, we need to take a step back and realize that for a very long time in this country's history, nepotism, especially in "family" businesses, was damn near expected. Parents gave their kids their businesses when they wanted to retire. Dads hired their sons in their offices, etc etc. There were shades of nepotism, too -- giving a random son a title he didn't earn, versus hiring your accomplished son who just graduated top of his law school. It's not as clear cut as people online would like you to believe, that all nepotism is horrible, that all positions are unearned if they are given by family/friends, and that the worst thing in the world you could do is commit an act of nepotism and not, like, anything else more horrible. That's a tumblr/tiktok thing, which I feel I'm allowed to call out as a fellow member of gen z.

The Justice League isn't a business per se, but it is still something Bruce built and funds. So while we might see some mutterings about nepotism, yeah, I don't imagine anyone is going to get in Bruce's face and give him grief for giving his 1) highly qualified son a 2) position he trained for, for years that 3) Dick is ready to take when Bruce is done 4) in Bruce's own damn house (satellite).

Looking at hero succession through the lens of nepotism does the characters a disservice, I believe. We're applying a 2020's phenomenon (which is shedding important light on irl inequality and inequity, don't get me wrong) and ideas of "fairness" when the subjects are vigilantes and heroes.

And, disregarding everything I just said, the League itself does things by vote -- voting in Dick Grayson and having those checks/balances to Bruce's own goals is important, which is why he built them into the League itself. He can lobby the League, propose Dick, indicate his own preferences as a voting member, but if the entire Founders' table disagrees with him? His hands are kind of tied.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

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

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

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

a/n: yuhh

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

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

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

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. Not at all–" 

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

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

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

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

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

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

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

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

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

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

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

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

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

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

"There isn't a 'situation'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't owe you shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

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

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

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

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

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

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

Immediately, you pick up. 

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

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

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

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

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

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

“ Would you have answered?”

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

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

“No. Not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

“ ...And? ”

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

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

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

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

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

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

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

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

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

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

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

Oh. You want to kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" –what about you, babe?" 

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

"Uhhh…"

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

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

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

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

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

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

"Back?" You ask. 

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

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

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

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

"It didn't click."

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

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

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

"To doing better ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clamber into the backseat.

��Get in, Ly.”

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

“Did you take something?”

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

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

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

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

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

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

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

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

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

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

“You want to come out to the front?”

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

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

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

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

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

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

Now, he looks up. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, I know…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… What else?” He croaks.

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

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

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

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

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

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

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

“ Faster , please.”

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

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

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

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

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

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

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

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

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[biocrafthero]

"I'd rather have you than three meals a day.": a thematic analysis

In February of 2024, a comic sprung up created by tumblr user Diesel (username rontra) based off of the Persona series. This comic, known under the title of "I'd rather have you than three meals a day." (which I will refer to as "failteacher yuri" for short), follows the story of two characters from the series: Isako Toriumi from Persona 3 and Sadayo Kawakami from Persona 5. These two characters find themselves entangled in each others' lives by complete happenstance, the comedic framing slowly revealing its fangs of intrigue and drama as more and more of both of their pasts come to light. Today, we will be discussing how the author explores themes of self-acceptance and facing one's past.

A small foreword...

As of the time I'm writing this, there are currently only 19 updates out so far of failteacher yuri, with a 20th on the way. I tried not to rush this analysis, but I also got really excited to write it! And also it's 4am!! So if I missed anything I am so so sorry...!!!

Next, I will be partially referring to characters in accordance with this chart, since this is important to the themes of the self in my opinion. Sometimes I don't specify. Bear with me a little please...

The True Self

There is the obvious point to start with, which is Toriumi accepting the fact that she is a lesbian. This is our beginning conflict in the story—quite literally in the very first page of the series—and it is the spark from which this story begins. As the story progresses, she grows more and more comfortable with her sexuality, trying more and more things with Becky.

The opening to #10 puts it quite well:

Toriumi is simply known by that when at work, a formal and polite guise. With her friends online, she's known under her username Y'ko. When fully alone, she is simply Isako. We meet her in the reverse order of this, knowing her first in a causal setting and graduating into higher grades of formality.

On Kawakami's side of things, we see that the idea of the persona is much more literal in the character of Becky. In a way, we meet her in the opposite way we need Isako, the difference between wearing the mask and having nothing to hide behind.

When she isn't under the guise of Becky and known formally at work as Kawakami, we simply are left with Sadayo. We meet her in this order, knowing her first with the mask on, watching it slowly slip as we begin to know more about her personal life.

These lines are neatly drawn for us and the characters at the start, the divide between these social masks cleanly cut. However, as time goes on and the relationship between the two deepen to new depths, the idea of the mask begins to mix with the true self, most notably in Kawakami's arc. As put nicely in #18...

Comparisons to the Satoshi Kon film Perfect Blue have already been made by others, and even though failteacher yuri is noticeably different from the psychological horror story that the film covers, there are those elements of self-identity and the "real you" that make the comparison extremely interesting.

In the comic, it begins to grow increasingly more unclear for our characters which persona they're exactly speaking to in the moment—which words are intended for which mask, both to leave the lips of and fall upon the ears of. Which "you" is the "real you" if they all begin to feel the same—if the lines begin to blur?

The Burden of our Histories

Kawakami is the clear example of the two to start this section out with. The main thing Kawakami is hiding from Toriumi has to do with why she needs all of the money she scrambles for in the first place, which is revealed to us in #17.

Kawakami has a secret to keep, and it's that she has been sending money to a former student's family, the student's name being Taiki. While in the comic it is unclear what may have happened to him, the usage of the word "forgive" implies that he had died, and that incident is either related to or has been blamed on Kawakami somehow.

The family demands money from her, more than her normal teacher's salary could possibly provide, so she turned to working at Victoria in order to make payments on time. With the tolls going up, though, who knows how long she can keep destroying herself...

But, of course, this isn't her only secret that she's kept. In #11, it's revealed that she took the Kanken at Level 1, the highest possible, and consequently the most difficult of all. At first, it's presented like it's an incredible feat, but this perception is shifted by Kawakami's own, believing it to have been something useless for the direction her life ended up going in.

The narration and informative boxes even begin to bend to the character's thoughts, becoming more and more unclear if the information the black boxes give in this update are objective or subjective, blurring the lines.

As much as Toriumi tries to hype up Kawakami and her accomplishments, the latter will simply never be able to see beyond her own self-perception.

Something that I also want to point out is how failteacher yuri utilizes onomatopoeia, creating a sense of pressure on our characters. It's almost comparable to the manga The Summer Hikaru Died, in which onomatopoeia is used to either create or alleviate tension in a scene, the sounds of the environments becoming almost deafening. The specific update from failteacher yuri I want to point towards is #18, which uses the sound of the rain in the background to create a barrier between Kawakami and Toriumi, with a side-by-side with a more recent update of The Summer Hikaru Died:

Kawakami isn't the only one keeping secrets, though. Toriumi, while much more subtle about it, is keeping a key part of her past hidden up her sleeve, and this has to do with the moon. Blink and you miss it, only overtly pointed out in update #13 and then much more quietly in #19, she continuously shows aversion to the moon, specifically the full one.

It's not like Kawakami hasn't caught on, either! During a small scene with Becky talking towards the audience at the start of #15 (the nefarious Becky is known to break the 4th wall), if you look closely, you can see that one of her notes reads "Scared of moon." I haven't played Persona 3 yet, so I can't give any fun lore insights, but what I do know is that the moon in that game is important and that Toriumi likely witnessed something she shouldn't have.

Additionally, there is also all of the stuff involving "A," which heavily has to do with Toriumi's arc of self-acceptance. Likely, something may have happened to "A" outside of Toriumi's control, and thus giving her a lot of complicated feelings about the subject. I personally don't expect a clear answer for what happened to "A," but it's still important to bring up.

Both parties are taking notice of where the other lets a part of their history slip, but neither have enough on them to be able to bring it up reasonably and not sound like they're taking crazy. Although, an inevitable tipping point is bound to be reached, especially with both of their troubles growing and growing. Something is bound to give.

How it comes together, in simple words...

Both Toriumi and Kawakami are dealing with very similar struggles, but they fight themselves tooth and nail on two different fronts, creating miscommunications and conflict between the two of them (and in some cases, outright lying). They are trying to navigate their increasingly dire presents all while their pasts haunt them, figuring things out and what they truly want from both themselves and each orher. What they want may not exactly be what they need, either, leading to further internal and external conflicts.

#13 succinctly states the ideas presented in the whole story so far, along with an amazing visual to boot:

(I can't fit it here, but I highly encourage checking out the tarot meanings from #13 as well, which are linked at the end up the update, which you can view here.)

To put it simply, to lie to yourself and to others means to sacrifice, from relationships to self-perception. The only way to break free is to let go, to be your true self and to accept and face your past. The only way out is through.

[thehelltingvilleclub]

Matt Montgomery - Closet Geek & Closet Freak

An Adult in Eltingville that actually acts like an adult???? WHAT???

Matthieu "Matt" / "Mattie" Thomas Montgomery [02/16/1978] Not Affiliated with TEC - Known Tournament winner amongst Jerry's MTG players. Cosplayer and College student in Manhattan. AOL / Online Users: [MTM_cosplay] | [GoblinHoarder] Theme Songs: Talk talk - Charli xcx | Move Along - All American Rejects | Somebody Told Me - The Killers

Favorite Shit: Trading Cards, Puzzles, Sports cards, Cosplays, X-Men, Monsters, Kaiju, Robots/Mecha, Dr. Who, Rubicks Cubes, Hard Cover books, YAPPERS, Movie Marathons, Beast, Wolverine, MTG, D&D, Cosplay Contests

I don't know how tf to describe this man other than tired and done with everybody's shit and he hasn't been awake more than an hour. He's three years into his bachelor's degree, essentially has 3 full time jobs between cosplay, tournaments, and all of his school work PLUS TUTORING, homie barely has enough time to breathe let alone deal with the TEC. However, that doesn't mean he won't find a way to weasel himself in-- even if its.... by unconventional or rather... *unexpected* means.

Guys I have like no art of him SORRY

Mattie generally only gets introduced very sparingly during 1999-2005, essentially in passing by Jerry or Josh, but he's still present and alive during this time, obviously. Him being friends with Jerry is what gets him to recognize Josh later.

Matt is studying for a Bachelors in English Comp, specializing in Journalism.

Speaking of, Josh and Matt work together at the editors office for the Comic Book News site in the epilogue. It's how they find each other again after Matt graduates and moves back home.

Matt is from northern Vermont, around the Canadian border, and has a bit of a Canadian accent because of it.

Everyone picks on him about it except for May and Jerry, (yes, even Josh, but it eventually becomes endearing to Matt.)

MATT. LIKES. YAPPERS. He doesn't talk much, he doesn't have much to talk about. Books and papers and trying to explain gymnastics routines isn't exactly the most interesting thing in the world, y'know.

He also doesn't have the time to really subject himself to the extreme absorption that Josh and Bill can get with their comics and shows, so.. Tell him about them!

He didn't get access to a lot of the more nerdy, pop culture side of things because of his parents. They had a significantly stronger iron grip on what he and his sister were exposed to, so he never really...

well, he didn't get to express his love for the more geek-y side of life until he moved to NY for college.

He became a professional cosplayer via his roommate forcing him to post, invited to events and photoshoots for his live floor routines he'll do in character, though he almost always wears a full-face mask or enough make up that you can barely tell who he is.

he can't have his sister finding out he dresses up as a blue demon freak in his spare time, yknow? (god she'd bully the shit out of him if she did--)

He's been in gymnastics since he was in middle school, and he's actually quite good; he's on a scholarship at his university, for pete's sake.

unfortunately a bad fall broke his clavicle and made it so he can't do vault anymore, but he enjoys his time doing floor routines and fucking around on the pommel horse from time to time.

Matt also.. is weirdly envious of TEC's... closeness? The fact they barely get along and yet they're all still together, they all still try and see each other or keep in touch..

He's never had that, and it makes him horrifically jealous, but he keeps it to himself-- smile and wave, swallow it down like normal, hm?

please subject him to a movie marathon. Infodump on him everything about whatever you're fixated on. He likes listening to people's voices, so please, just do it. It doesn't bother him at all.

This man has a TEMPER. His mother and his sister have this too, and it is BAD. Matt, however, learned ways to keep his temper at bay and calm down. to an extent. Bill, however, always manages to get his blood to boil by just the mention of him, so maybe... don't

Also, Matt and Pete absolutely bicker. A lot. Matt is constantly showing off that even though he's only an inch taller, he's able to do soOOSOooo much more! and Pete is convinced that Matt isn't actually gay and is trying to steal May away (guys Pete is such a fucking jealous goober I hate him)

Meanwhile literally the only person Matt wants is Josh. Pete should open his eyes maybe but like it's fine.

HOLY SHIT GYUSY

Okay UHM Hi Matt probably won't be talked about much but if you see me Vermont Honey posting it's because I need my comfort ship back okay THanks Also the NSFW cut is coming guys It's gonna have em all And I'll draw Jane and Matt's little sister soon, as they go to school together (Jane absolutely hates her guts OOPS unfortunately she's a bitchy cheerleader so you bet Jane has a voodoo doll of her somewhere in her room).

[sweeter-than-teafood]

Texting

AN: I was inspired by the artifact for Amy and Sitri’s card, and thought up the silliest thing lmao.

Tw: A lot of swearing from these devils. Also, this is going from what we’ve seen from Day 3 of the Unsightly Guy event. So it may be ooc in the future. Or not. Yeehaw.

✨—————————————————————✨

-3am, Gehenna’s Palace-

Bzzt!

A new message? Sitri glared at his phone as the lit screen illuminated his entire bedroom. Who could be texting him at this ungodly hour?

————————————————

-Hell-Oh Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online now)

Status: Ew 2 drinking tea. Can’t b me, I’m manly as fuck.

————————————————

Sitri rolled his eyes at the violent devil’s status. Of course he’d think that, he has no patience to enjoy sophisticated hobbies. He probably couldn’t even pour from a teapot if the instructions were written on the bottom.

He opened the message, expecting to see some pathetic diatribe of how canned coffee is superior and that tea-making yields zero-rizz.

Amy:

Lol, maybe MC would lyk u if u weren’t 2 busy 😭 over their dead gramps. Solomon! Solomonnnnnn… Wot a loser u r! Enjoy ur left hand, buddy! 😂

…

Crunch!

Sitri ground his teeth, pissed off by the message. How dare he! The Descendant of Solomon liked him just fine! Who was he to comment on their relationship, when he hadn’t even met them yet?!

Fingers started typing away with a fury that wasn’t usually displayed by Sitri. He hit send, and decided to head to the tearoom for a cup of black tea to calm down.

-Meanwhile on the outskirts of Gehenna-

Amy smirked at the message he had just sent to Sitri. Sure, he would block his number because that fancy prick had nothing useful to say to him, but sometimes it was fun to unblock him and send an insult just to ruin his day.

Bzzt!

Oh? A reply so soon? Well, whatever it said, Amy was certain that it was complete and utter angelshit.

————————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 New Message-

Sitri (Online now)

Status: Only a fucking idiot would use a stick as a weapon. Have some diversity, you caveman

————————————————

Amy scoffed at Sitri’s status. Of course he’d think that! He thinks he’s hot shit just because he trained in many weapons! But nothing bashes in angel skulls better than what he uses! Sometimes simple is better!

He opened the message, ready to read some sad sob story about Solomon.

Sitri:

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch?

I'll have you recall that it was I who graduated top of our class in the Gehenna Military Program, and how I am an esteemed alumni of the Hades Intelligence Student Program, I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Heaven, and I have over 666 confirmed kills.

I am trained in guerilla warfare and I'm the top pistolier in the entire Gehenna Miltary Forces. You are nothing to me but just another measly target.

I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in this Hell, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over a simple text? Think again, fucker.

As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Hell and your GPS location is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, you lowly maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life.

You're fucking dead, loser. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands.

Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed and armed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Gehenna Capital Military Force and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the country, you little shit.

If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "funny" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot.

I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. I’ll use your tears to steep my tealeaves in, because nothing will bring me greater satisfaction than to see you snivel and beg for mercy. You're fucking dead, you cowardly bitch.

Amy let out a harsh laugh. Did this dickhead get ahold of some dank shit from Abyssos? The levels of delusion were incredible. His finger hovered over the textbar, before he decided against it.

“I have better things to do than to entertain this butler wannabe. Maybe later.”

-Sometime later, in the Palace of Gehenna-

That damn bastard.

>>Seen 16hrs ago

Sitri grits his teeth in annoyance at the ever increasing hours on the small bar. First that meathead talks shit about him, and now he can’t even form a response?

‘He’s probably masturbating to this, that fucking asshole.’

Sitri shuddered in disgust at the mental image and quickly threw himself into his paperwork as a welcome distraction.

-Gehenna’s Outskirts-

Amy decided to finally reply to Sitri’s lengthy text. He ponders for a second; there are so many things he could say to further fuel this tea-drinking bastard’s aggression. But he opts for something simple that will infuriate him.

-Palace of Gehenna-

Bzzt!

Sitri looks up from his paperwork to see his phone light up. He immediately grabs it and clicks on the notification.

—————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online Now)

Status: Bitches b mad lmao

Sitri chose to ignore the devil’s pathetic status for now. He opened the message.

Amy:

Nice CV, loser. Still get no bitches tho.

Sitri stared blankly at the text, before he closed his phone. What a waste of time.

“I’m not even going to reply to that.”

Little did he know, he would pick up his phone ten minutes later to start typing away.

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt4 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

Taking the day to go to the beach you meet someone new...

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Masterlist!

Warning! James is a dick, use of language

“Oh, Flo, where did you go?

Where did you go? Where did you go?”

The song was expected at this point as you ran along the beach. You huffed begrudging, humming along. The song reminded you of America.

The fights kept coming in the few months before you left.

It happened one day, after a day of talking with Sam about trying to start your next book. You had returned home to an upset James. He had met you at the door with a dark look, something storming in his mind that immediately had you asking. Despite your questioning, he remained silent, pacing back and forth before heading to the bedroom and slamming the door shut. 

“You're falling about

You took a left off Last Laugh Lane

Just sounding it out

But you're not coming back again

You're falling about

You took a left off Last Laugh Lane

You were just sounding it out

But you're not coming back again”

You just stood stunned in the hallway before turning with a frown to make dinner.

A few minutes later James sauntered out, a mean smirk on his face,

“You’re fucking him aren't you?”

The question came out of nowhere and you dropped the spoon, 

At first, you thought he was joking and you cracked a smile.

“Yea, me and an aroace man!”

His eyes sharpened,

“I am not joking you little bitch,”

At the term you froze, anger tightening your muscles as you turned off the stove.

“You will not speak to me that way.”

James huffed and then chuckled, he approached you, running a hand down your hair and the back of your head, then resting on your neck. The next gleam in his eyes frightened you and you pushed at his chest but against his height, you had no power. He gripped the back of your neck and pulled you closer, his mouth brushing close to your ear.

“I will say anything I want.”

And with a final warning, he stepped back fingers slightly digging into your hair before he released. 

“You’ll do well to remember that.”

“You used to get it in your fishnets

Now you only get it in your nightdress

Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness

Landed in a very common crisis

Everything's in order in a black hole

Everything was pretty as the past though

That Bloody Mary's lacking in Tabasco

Remember when you used to be a rascal?”

The song finally finished out and you slowed then paused in your running. A sudden weight on your shoulders and in your chest you sank into the sand, not caring about the mess. How could years go to waste? You put your head on your knees. What had you lost?

A love, yes but a vibrant career in one of the best publishing firms in the US. But what of your family, your friends? You disappeared within a week, leaving the only world you knew behind. Despite the state of America, you missed it. You had grown up in your childhood home, worn walls and height lines scribbled into the door frames. You made your first stories in those rooms. 

You close your eyes. After a messy relationship in your late teens and early 20s, you left your hometown. Leaving to a liberal arts college on the East Coast you pursued your masters in creative writing. One faithful day in your first year of your masters you met Sam. He was in an engineering program online but was taking a few classes in the college. You had heard his distress over an essay in the campus cafe. And, as a new 23-year-old master's student eager to make friends on campus. You had approached him, explained your position and he nearly grabbed you and threw his essay at you. What followed was the closest friend you had ever found and 6 years of friendship followed. At 25 you graduated with Sam following and entered the publishing business. A few months in you met James and the rest, 

Well, the rest is history.  

You stare out into the clear skyed ocean. Sighing, you turn your music back on and just stretch out your legs. Turning the music down you zone out. It was a couple of days after getting Simon’s number, Thursday to be exact, and you had driven out to the coast hoping to get some inspiration. But nothing came up. 

You watch the ocean. Now that was something you missed, the sealife along the East Coast. You remember always loving the sea, during the evening taking the boats out to spot blue whales and others. 

You soon became lost in thought and as time passed, the sun grew high towards noon. As your thoughts traced the bottom of the sea a shadow overtook your form and you blinked. A body, you notice, a man standing over you, he was speaking. You pull an earbud out to be met with waves and a deep voice pulls your eyes to a handsome face, and a fishing hat?

“You alright down there?”

You look at him unsure, the combination of casual clothes and a camo fishing hat humors you, and you work to pull yourself up. He offers a hand, and with a good spirit, you take it. He pulls you up effortlessly, muscle flexing in the bright sunlight.

“I’m sorry I was lost in thought.”

He gives you an honest smile that doesn't fully reach his eyes making you wonder.

“Quite alright I understand the feeling. Seems to be a lot.” 

It’s a strong statement that takes you aback for a moment as the man stares out into the endless blue. You take a moment to observe, something in your writer's mind buzzing. The man is a bit older than you, he carried himself well, shoulders back in proper form but there was a weight there. He wasn’t as tall as Simon but nearly there. His blue eyes meet yours again and there is a depth you try to understand. You brush some sand off your legs to break the weight of his gaze. 

You return to his face with a small, shared smile, wondering what he had been through. Holding out a hand you introduce yourself standing a little straighter. Seeing this he nods and grabs your hand.

“Johnathan Price” 

His hands are rough, worn after years of work as the name sparks a flame of recognition. Price sees it in your eyes. 

“Captain John Price?”

He chuckles and releases your hand but you see the change in his form, subtle but tense. 

“Was, retired now. Now how did a lady like you know that?”

You expect the question, and you grin pointing to the hat.

“Johnny goes on and on about you.”

Price relaxes instantly, his smile now reaching his eyes and he chuckles again. 

“Soap, a good man. I haven't checked in on the lad in a while. How do you know him?”

You continue to explain your bookstore and meeting Johnny. As you speak Price relaxes and he mentions to a bench a little across the way, towards the end of the beach. Taking a seat you finish up.

“Sounds like John alright. He not giving you any trouble is he?”

You grin,

“Not at all, I've gotten quite used to him dropping by. He and Simon stop in a lot.”

That catches Price’s ear,

“Simon? Now that is interesting. How is he?”

You find his interest understandable, and you answer the best you can. 

“He pulled quite a stunt to help me, but I've enjoyed him so far.”

“He certainly has a presence, no worries though at heart he is a good man. He left an impact I assume?” 

He says it with a familiar grin, one that tells a history, there is also curiosity there. He raises a brow in expectation which makes you giggle. He looked like a dad, the image of Soap and Simon running around coming to mind for a moment before Price catches the look and raises another brow. 

There is respect for the man in Price's tone and you question how long he’d know the quiet man. 

“A while, a long while. He served as my lieutenant for years. He and Johnny are close. Been through a lot.” 

“I like that about Johnny, he has a lot of stories.” You lean back on the bench to stare up at the sky. Gathering clouds hint at a coming rain blowing in from the sea. You deal in stories but you can’t seem to catch a break, your eyes return to Price to see him observing you with keen eyes.

“Something troubling you?” he asks it honestly and you sigh, feeling the light shine upon you to share. 

“Yea. I am an author without ideas currently.”

Price hums, 

“I see, that's quite the predicament indeed. What’s causing it?”

You sigh again and the weight of the past few months falls upon your shoulders.

Price sees the change in you instantly and you just crack and break down the situation for him. It starts with your masters, to meeting Sam and James, the company, and your first books. You had started with children’s books following your interest in childhood literacy. As you explain the premise of the books, a fond smile lights up your face. 

Of three books, your second was your favorite: It followed the story of a fox kit lost amongst wolves. He was smaller than the rest of the other cubs but soon grew to love his own identity. The Fox’s Den pulled its name from this book. You had based the story on the forest around your childhood home and roaming through the woods while your parents were always too busy to keep you entertained.

With the success of your first books, your manager had insisted on middle-grade fiction and you wholeheartedly agreed. But your old boss at the publisher had dropped the expectation of a young adult or new adult book and you had started brainstorming, but that was when your world came crashing, well, tearing down. You explain this to him. 

“Everything was torn out from underneath you, there was nothing you could do. Your heart was, and I believe, still is in your writing, but everything that has happened has tainted your worldview,”

He pauses to regard the ocean for a moment, the winds blowing in cause choppy waves. 

“Often when things turn against us, or we have our backs against the wall is when we find it from within ourselves to overcome. Be it from within, or I believe in your case, around you. Perhaps you are just looking in the wrong place. Your past consuming you and tarnishing how you are experiencing the present.”

Price seems to be talking from within himself and it makes you wonder. You look out into the gathering storm. The waves cut like sapphire and the distant rumble of thunder. The close wildness of the ocean engulfs you in the moment. You take in the smell of the sea and exhale. Price was right, you had come here for a new life anyway, and you meant to make the best of it. 

Price watches you for a moment,

“I just feel like I am missing something in all of this. Why did it happen?”

Price sets a friendly hand on your shoulder,

“You may never know, but don’t let it consume you, instead revisit your old passions. Take what you remember of home and try to find something here to spark your interest. Besides James sounds like a right nasty bloke.”

Hearing someone older say it makes you feel a lot better. While your friends of course had been on your side it seemed like the entire company had turned against you. All except your manager who had followed you to Sam’s family company. While the boss held no power over you anymore your manager agreed with the sentiment of increasing your output to an older audience. She felt it would be good to expand into that market. 

“You're right.” 

Price’s advice comes at a good time, and he was right. Maybe you were looking too often into the past. Your phone buzzes, and you look and find a message from Simon. You smile, he was asking to take you up on the offer of tea. Price notices and smiles himself. 

“Well, you better get in before the rain hits, dear.”

You put your phone away and nod to the man.

“Thanks, John.” 

He stands up and nods.

“Until next time then.” This is all he offers before returning to his original route. Despite there not being an exchange of numbers you couldn't help but feel you would meet the man again. 

You sit for a moment longer, lingering on the feeling of being understood and the wildness of the sea. But as the wind picks up you receive a text from Sam. He calls a moment later.

“Where are you?”

“At the beach Mom, what's wrong?”

“I’ve got some interesting news. Besides the news says there's a storm brewing and I think you should head home. Your boyfriend is looking for you, he’s been in twice already.”

At that you are at a loss for words, a slight blush coming over your face,

“Come home buttercup before he haunts the place-” there's a pause on the other line, “and Soap says hi.”

You laugh at that, getting up and starting the run back to the car.

“Alright, I’m on my way, see you in a bit Sam, I'll be in a little late.”

“Drive safe. Bye”

With that you hang up and run, feelings of excitement building.

Taglist: @ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost

End chapter 4

[glowettee]

✧ pre-med extracurriculars: for my future doctor angels ✧

hi my lovely pre-med angels!! 🤍 it's mindy hereee!

today's post is extra special because so many of you have been asking about extracurriculars for medical school!! if you know, my ultimate dream is to become a doctor, i'd love to either be a psychiatrist or a cardiologist, so anything medical-related is my favorite cup of coffee!! i'm literally so excited to share this comprehensive guide that will help you shine on your future applications. this post is for you if you're in high school or college, this guide will be your bestie through the journey!!

~ ♡ for my precious high school sweethearts ♡ ~

hospital + healthcare volunteering (my absolute fave!!) • aim for 100-150 hours minimum • try different departments to explore • build relationships with nurses + staff • pro tip: volunteer during summer break for more hours • keep a reflection journal of your experiences • bonus: ask for recommendation letters if you connect well!!

research opportunities • reach out to local universities • email professors about summer programs • join science fairs with medical projects • create your own research project • tip: start with literature reviews if labs aren't available • document everything for future applications!!

leadership + school involvement • start a medical interest club • lead health awareness campaigns • organize blood drives • create mental health support groups • join science olympiad • participate in biology competitions • personal story: i started a "future doctors club" + it literally changed my life!!

~ ♡ for my darling college angels ♡ ~

clinical experience (super important!!) • medical scribing (literally the best!!) • certified nursing assistant (CNA) • emergency medical technician (EMT) • phlebotomy certification + gain a bunch of different certifications online • medical assistant • tip: aim for 200+ hours minimum • pro secret: try different specialties!!

research involvement • join multiple labs if possible • aim for publication opportunities • present at conferences • write abstracts + papers • network with graduate students • maintain good relationships with PIs • secret tip: join journal clubs!!

leadership positions • pre-med society officer • tutoring coordinator • mentorship program leader • research team leader • volunteer coordinator • tip: create new positions if none exist!!

~ ♡ extra special activities for everyone ♡ ~

medical mission trips (life-changing!!)

start a health education blog

create medical awareness social media

join medical podcasting

organize health fairs

volunteer at free/non-profit clinics

shadow different specialists

join pre-med summer programs

work as a pharmacy technician

volunteer at nursing homes

organize medical supply drives

create health education programs

~ ♡ my personal tips + secrets ♡ ~

quality over quantity always!!

maintain each activity for at least 6 months

document everything (literally everything!!)

take lots of pictures (for memories + portfolio)

get contact info from supervisors

keep detailed reflection journals

network with other pre-meds

create spreadsheets to track hours

always ask for recommendation letters

maintain professional relationships

~ ♡ time management secrets ♡ ~

use google calendar religiously

block schedule your activities

don't overcommit (seriously!!)

maintain 2-3 main activities

rotate seasonal activities

leave time for self-care

schedule study breaks

plan one year ahead

keep backup activities ready

remember my loves: medical schools want to see dedication + passion!! don't just collect activities like pokemon cards (even tho that would be cute). focus on meaningful experiences that truly speak to your heart!!

pro tip: start a bullet journal to track your journey!! include your thoughts, feelings, and learning experiences. future you will literally cry happy tears when writing your personal statement!!

also!! please please please remember that your mental health comes first!! it's okay to take breaks, it's okay to say no, and it's absolutely okay to prioritize self-care. you'll be a better doctor if you learn these habits now!!

sending you the biggest virtual hugs + all my love!! you're doing amazing sweetie, and your future patients will be so lucky to have you!!

feel free to send more asks if you need specific advice!! i'm always here to support my precious future doctors and followers i call my sweetheart community!!

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. remember to hydrate, get enough sleep, and take your vitamins!! doctor's orders!! <3

p.p.s. i'll be sharing more detailed guides about each activity soon, so stay tuned my loves!!

btw, if you need personal study advice or anything, submit to glowettee hotline 💌: https://bit.ly/glowetteehotline

[joelswritingmistress]

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 1

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Eventually Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

Abnormal Psychology. It was among the final requirements to successfully complete the Master's Degree I had been working on for nearly two-and-half years.

Slow and steady wins the race. It was a common mantra that I continually used to motivate and justify the turtle-like pace of my educational progress. Working full time and refusing to take online courses were the two main factors contributing to the prolonged nature of my tenure at Woodbridge University. I had nothing against online learning. It just simply wasn't for me. Call me a geek but I genuinely enjoyed the classic classroom setting.

It was mid January. The younger generation of college students were loathing their frigid trek to whatever night classes they had been forced into signing up for the semester before. It was an assumption; though I had been there, done that. I knew what they were feeling on that first night of spring semester classes. As an adult, my feelings had transformed. I was eager.

The seventy-thirty class began right on time and I could still taste the dinner on my breath that I had hurried to inhale in the car on my ride in. The thought exited my mind as quickly as it had entered when the professor walked in, promptly shutting the oversized mahogany door behind him and locking it.

The click echoed off the walls of the stadium-style auditorium and everyone appeared to freeze where they sat. No professor in all of my graduate or undergraduate studies had ever locked the door.

What if there's a fire? That was my first, anxious thought. Again, it swiftly floated away when the finely-dressed stranger before us began to speak. His voice was deep; a bit scratchy. It felt like his vocal chords were made to narrate one of those Planet Earth shows.

"I'm sure you all know by now my name is Dr. Miller. If you didn't know at least that much by now.." He paused as he sat down on the edge of an oversized, wooden desk centered perfectly at the head of the room and removed a pair of glasses. ".. I'd have to wonder how the fuck you made it this far in your education."

My eyebrows lifted at his casual use of profanity in the first introductory sentence. I looked to my left and right, as most of the others in the class did, and amongst the silence there were a few stray chuckles that tested out the room's acoustics.

When I looked back, Dr. Miller was smirking. "Well that woke you up, didn't it?" He rose to his feet again and put his hands out to the sides. "Look.. I know you're all working. Maybe some of you have families. Maybe not. It's seven-thirty at night and you'd probably rather be getting ready to watch The Bachelor with a glass of wine."

There was more collective laughter now and his eyes scanned the room, both amused and almost as if they were searching to see who was smiling and who was still cautious. There was a genuine, curious nature to the way his eyes danced over the crowd.

"This class will be worth your while," he went on. "You're here for a reason and I intend to pump those big brains of yours with all the information I can." Dr. Miller smiled wider now, highlighting a pair of boyish dimples beneath a trim, salt and pepper beard, "Welcome to Abnormal Psychology."

He sure knew how to captivate an audience. The delivery of the first bout of information had me laughing, pondering answers to questions I never would have thought of and desperately scribbling notes down in my yellow, ninety-eight cent notebook as the class progressed.

I was so interested and so intrigued that I hadn't realized that class was on the verge of concluding until Dr. Miller uttered his words of departure. "I'll see you next class."

And just like that, the first Abnormal Psychology class had ended. I sat there for several seconds before rising to my feet, slinging my backpack over one shoulder and then gave a generous stretch toward the ceiling before beginning my slow climb down the wide, oversized steps.

Half of the class had piled out by the time I reached the ground level. I passed by Dr. Miller and, for some reason, didn't have the confidence to look in his direction.

"So, what'd you think? Hooked yet?" His voice cut through the air and more or less grabbed me and spun me around in his direction. I didn't even know if he was speaking to me until our eyes locked.

"Me?" I glanced over my shoulder - another habit that highlighted my inner insecurities. When I saw his smirk, an expression that I knew held all kinds of unspoken wit behind it, I decided to respond. "Yeah."

Say something else. I couldn't think. I never did well with being put on the spot. Still, I was eager to maintain a conversation.

"I'm really interested in Abnormal Psych. I've been looking forward to this class since I started my Master's."

"The delivery.." he went on, "What did you think? Too much?"

"Just right," I responded too coolly. I almost impressed myself. A red blush filtered into my cheeks and the nervous laugh I let out killed any type of confidence I appeared to have going for me.

Dr. Miller smiled and right then I decided that I thought he was handsome. Crimson filled my cheeks a little deeper and I glanced up toward the few stragglers who were still getting their things together halfway up into the seating area. It was my only means of a quick distraction before I turned back to face my new, slightly unorthodox professor.

He hadn't looked away, and I swallowed hard. "Thanks.." It was all I could manage and I gave a fleeting wave before heading out into the hallway.

It was as if I was reentering the world after being put in a trance for two hours.

On the drive home I wondered if anyone else had felt the same effects that I had. Were the other students in my class still thinking about the class like I was? Did they find Dr. Miller to be the perfect combination of intelligent and.. cool? Was cool even the right word?

Smooth, I corrected the description in my mind and then immediately shook my head. What was I even thinking about? I had known the man for two hours.. two.. and here I was passing judgment as if he we had been in each other's company for an appropriate amount of time to match my opinion.

In my final conscious, cognitive thoughts of the night I, again, reflected back on the fascinating opener of Abnormal Psychology and the riveting professor that taught it. No class I had ever taken was ever interesting enough to consume my final thoughts of the day.

Even less, they never made it into my nightly dreamscapes or nightmares. That night, the images that danced their way into the multiple cortexes of my brain where dreams were concocted were a troubling combination of both.

I heard Dr. Miller's indistinguishable voice narrating the ordeal as I was lost in a forest. A sea of fog swallowed me whole though somehow I knew I was visible to something that was out there. It was haunting. I could not pinpoint what my professor’s role actually entailed. Was he trying to guide me? Hurt me? Lead me away from whatever dangers lurked?

It felt all-too-real when his hands clamped down on my shoulders, finally revealing his presence. I couldn't see his face, though I knew the pair of hands belonged to Dr. Miller.

My overemphasized gasp bridged the realms of dream and reality, and I sat up in bed, a cold sweat coating my body as my mind struggled to recognize my immediate surroundings.

“What the fuck..” I whispered to myself, eyeing the red numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand.

3:37. I sighed and laid back down eying the ceiling fan that swirled in circles around me. Yes, I was one of those people who still needed a fan to sleep in the middle of winter.

I closed my eyes again and it was like coming down off a high. Adrenaline made the thud of my pulse pound in my ears, as if actual quarter-sized drums had been implanted there. In that early morning hour my heart palpitated. Half of it was what I could only interpret as misplaced desire. The other half was outright fear. I never fell back asleep.

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

[baedreamverse]

weekly nights — k.sy

seventeen soonyoung head cannon

classmate!Soonyoung in which you met him first year of middle school as the class 'happy pill energy'.

classmate!Soonyoung whom you befriended during sports festival events since you were partners in the one leg race competition.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who you protected over when other students were speaking negatively of him.

"Say that again and see what's going to happen."

bestfriend!Soonyoung who spent days coming over to your house during summer break.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who followed you to the same high school and college since he didn't want to be separated from his best friend.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who encouraged you to join the same dance club as him.

"Try it out for a week and see if you like it. If not, then it's okay. Personally, I believe you're an amazing dancer."

bestfriend!Soonyoung who loves spending time with you but respects you if you needed some time away from him.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who frequently sends messages, pictures or videos of himself in Kakaotalk, especially when he's doing his 'horanghae' agenda.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who bought your ticket to see SHINee's concert together, with the condition of you buying the snacks instead.

"Should we also get that to eat??" Soonyoung exclaimed in excitement, pointing at the food stall.

Shaking your head with a smile, you reminded him how occupied both of your hands were filled with snacks from the food court. "We can't finish all of that, Soon."

bestfriend!Soonyoung who became as the dance club's new president when their senior club president graduated.

"Do you think I'll be able to lead them right?"

bestfriend!Soonyoung who invites you to go bar hopping every weekend together.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who easily gets drunk within four shots in.

"This ice is so cold! It feels so good~" He jumps in his seat, placing his glass on his cheek. "Is it just me or is it hot in here? Or maybe because I am hot."

bestfriend!Soonyoung who goes through many different emotions when he's drunk.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who sulks when you tell him he's a hamster and not a tiger, which you find endearing when he pouts.

bestfriend!Soonyoung in which he becomes competitive in games, just for the fun of entertaining people.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who invites you over to his apartment for a weekly movie night, which occasionally ends with the both of you sleeping on the couch.

bestfriend!Soonyoung in which you go to the dog park together with his dog, Latte, and yours.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who tends to keep to himself about his problems but breaks down once you sensed something was off.

"You always know what to say.."

bestfriend!Soonyoung meets up with you everyday on the third floor of the library to complete assignments.

Soonie : Did you want anything from the cafe? Want me to get your usual snack?

bestfriend!Soonyoung who gets jealous when boys from the dance club flirts with you.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who wraps his arms around your shoulder, intimidating the members who dares to flirt with you in front him.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who tends to impulsively buy you items online.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who deals with your cat behavior, considering he calls himself a "tiger", especially when you randomly bite him out of nowhere.

bestfriend!Soonyoung in which he's technology challenged but still tries his best to play video games with you.

"Can you remind me what this control is for again?"

bestfriend!Soonyoung who tries to tease you but it backfires with him in a flustered position.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who tends to sleep over at your apartment during the weekend after bar hopping.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who likes to cuddle with you whenever he gets the chance.

bestfriend!Soonyoung in which his heart flutters every time you held his hand.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who has affection for you since first grade of high school.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who tried his best to keep his feelings to himself, avoiding the "end" of your friendship.

bestfriend!Soonyoung who becomes wary when you confess that you have a crush on someone.

"Who's the lucky guy?"

bestfriend!Soonyoung who doesn't realize that the guy you admired for years now would be him.

a/n: this short cannon is dedicated for @marriiemeii <3 my hoshi admirer in crime 🐯 thanks for patiently waiting for a while, i'll write more for you ㅠㅠ hope you enjoy lovelies, let me know what you think. feedback is very much appreciated!

☆ pls like & reblog ☆

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for reporting a student over their social media?

I work at a graduate/doctoral school as an instructor. I recently discovered that one of the students that goes there (who I do interact with semi regularly) has social media accounts where he posts very misogynistic and derogatory content about women. I didn't go looking for him on social media it was one of those "a person your friends with is friends with someone who's friends with them" type of thing. Students pop up on my feed from time to time as I do befriend graduated students online (networking and to see where they end up because I'm proud of them).

I would consider myself pretty thick skined, but I was very put off and bothered by his content, especially because the field we are in is at least 80% female. Coming up in the next couple semesters, the students will be put into groups and have to work closely with each other for prolonged periods of time,both supervised and unsupervised (like they will be in these geoups for an wntier year). The idea of having to put this guy in a group with women and forcing them to work closely for long periods of time turns my stomach and makes me nervous for them. And no, putting him in a group of all male students is not an option.

I'm contemplating reporting his accounts to higher-ups for unprofessionalism and ethics code violations (we have policies against hate speech). If the report is accepted and they find him at fault, it would mean him being dropped from the program, and its a mark that would follow him on his record and possibly keep him from being accepted elsewhere. My hang up is, I'm not sure if this would be unprofessional or out of line for me to report. It is on his social media and not in person (free speech and all that you know), and while he has said things that are very off putting about women he has not to my knowlage actully done anything. So basically, I would be risking his future and career over some videos and not something he has actually done, which does give me pause. On the other hand, if the female students he ends up working with were misstreated in any way, I would never forgive myself for not speaking up.

So WIBTA for reporting this student and potentialy screwing up his professional career?

What are these acronyms?

[svt-rosalie]

. . . ♡ ROSIE ! ? 👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏻 TRIVIA ★ ﾟ๑

ׁ ׅ ୨ ❪ profile! ❫ ୧ ⊹ ࣪

© 2024 , svt-rosalie rosalie masterlist!

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie always wanted to become a ballet dancer since she was a child, being an idol was a spure of the moment decision when she saw a video of SNSD performing once.

𝜗𝜚. Her aunt is well known in the kpop community seeing as how she owns the company ‘UTOPIA ENTERTAINMENT’ that manages the groups New Jeans, IVE, and ITGIRLZ.

𝜗𝜚. In 2021 Rosalie did resign a contract with Pledis Entertainment for her career with SEVENTEEN but the company has no power over her solo career, her Aunt’s company controls her solo career.

𝜗𝜚. Jihye does not drink alcohol often, whenever she does she basically has to have a babysitter because of everything she gets into.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie is one of the youngest musicians and first ever female kpop artist to win a Grammy and an Oscar.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie was invited to headline Coachella 2 years in a row but she declined each time.

𝜗𝜚. She likes to play video games so she can collect all the skins. For example, she’s amazing at playing Fortnite and Call Of Duty but mostly just plays for the skins and weapons. (Of course of her skins are pink)

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie featured on Taylor Swift’s album ‘Midnights’ on the song Snow On The Beach. This caused her to get a lot more recognition and attention towards her group once it released. She was even a surprise guest during the Eras Tour to perform the song on stage with Taylor. Rosie said it was one the most surreal moments of her career.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie is Korea’s best friend. She earned this title from bringing friends with almost of the idol/acting industry. She loves making new friends and likes to speak to anyone that will listen.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie likes to speak up often about mental health. In many live videos she’s spoken up about her struggles after her sister’s passing and how she’s been going to therapy since she started training as an idol.

𝜗𝜚. Rosie was a straight a student through her whole career. She carried a 4.0 GPA until she graduated high school and got accepted into a prestigious university where she takes online business classes.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie broke her hip after falling during a ballet performance. She was lifted into the air by her fellow male dancer and his grip slipped causing her to fall on her left hip. She has a some issues with her hip to this day, swelling and pain.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie had a slight school girl crush on Joshua when she was younger and just joined the company. She admitted it once in a live with him and it’s been a running joke in the fandom since.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie wrote her song ‘Good night My Princess’ whilst she was visiting her family. She was having an emotional night and even though she’s an adult she crawled into bed with her parents and they sang a lullaby to calm her down.

𝜗𝜚. Rosie loves sweets. Anything candy she will eat, she has a candy basket in her’s and woozi’s bedroom on her bedside table.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie wants to be a mom someday but unfortunately she is infertile due to some issues with her developmental when she was a fetus. She plans to adopt in the future.

𝜗𝜚. Rosalie was born prematurely. She was born 2 months early, doctors were worried she wasn’t going to make it but she pulled through after being on oxygen for 3 months. She would go to the doctor every month for a year or so to make sure she was doing okay.

𝜗𝜚. Rosie is engaged to fellow band member Woozi/Jihoon. Wedding plans are still the works.

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[truths33k3r4]

Oh and I was wondering - how do the turtles go to school? Is it an online program or taught solely through Splinter? I actually just started an online class and it definitely seams reasonable that this is what they would use, but I also don’t know what year the story takes place in. Anyways thanks!

Hello, Anon!!!

Since I was homeschooled my whole life, (and have NO CLUE what it's like having online classes or going to public school), I decided the best thing for my lil turts would be the same as what I grew up with. :) For the first ten years of their lives, they are solely taught by Splinter. (Whom has gathered as many used schoolbooks as he could from lost and found, discarded backpacks, the library, and garage sales.)

Sometimes the level of the subjects was a bit high for the brothers, but they had to make due with what they had. By eleven years old, the oldest brothers would help teach the younger. (Whether they wanted to or not.) They would share the same books, always using pencils so Splinter could erase their answers and pass it off to the next sibling.

How Each Turtle Sibling Handled/Handles School

Leonardo- He's well versed in Japanese and loves to write and (sometimes) play music. He’s done many personal studies on soundtracks in his spare time. He only became an A+ student when he became a teen and was given the responsibility of his brothers and family. For years prior to becoming leader, he was known to cheat the most out of all his brothers- always looking for the easy way out of work.

Raphael- He hates school. A lot of it anyways.. But history class has all kinds of battles and wars, so he’s cool with that. Just don’t expect him to remember any dates. He was taught how to speak Japanese, but it might as well have been labeled as a ‘cruel and unusual punishment’. He is a sketcher when it comes to his work notebooks. Every page has little doodles of him and his bros fighting enemies or dressed like famous tv characters.

Donatello- He has already graduated high school, going as fast as he could to finish so he could start working. Even with rushing his studies, he was still an A+ student alongside Leo. (Once the leader took his studies seriously.) He is the most versed in Japanese, mostly because he really enjoys learning how different languages work, as well as how diverse different languages handle grammar, spelling, etc. He loved most of school, except for writing class. He’s not the most creative brother, so he found it boring and useless to learn how to write tales or poems. 

Lotus- She was only taught a few things in her earlier years by the kind doctor from her past. __ would smuggle children’s books into Lotus' cell, and would teach her how to speak and sign. She can’t write- yet. But Splinter and Mikey help her to learn how as time progresses. She has a great memory and learns very quickly.

Michelangelo- School is.. fine. Not his favorite, but it gives him extra time to hang out with his brothers. He’s the least versed in Japanese, mostly because he was very little and didn’t understand a thing when Sensei taught his brothers. He can remember some words and phrases, but that’s about it. He wishes ‘Art’ was a class, but Splinter never really found any books on the subject, so he had to go in blind. He didn’t mind though. His best subjects were reading and animal science. He loves to use his imagination, and has a really clear voice, so reading came very naturally to him. He refuses to open a book though, unless there’s pictures inside.

As for what year this story takes place in- I haven't actually decided yet. XD For now, in the current story, I'll go with it's the mid 2000's. (Might change that later- but I'll use it for now.)

Great question! :)

~ Melissa

[ballet-symphonie]

master ballet academy has been getting a LOT of traction online since a photographer began posting videos of their students on instagram - i'm curious to know if you've seen their videos and what you think of their dancers? one of their graduates (maya schonbrun) has just debuted o/o in her very first season at royal swedish ballet??!! kinda crazy stuff. the girls especially look to be very talented

I don't follow them but see clips recommended to me on insta and such. They have talented students and the school collectively churns out some incredible technicians, especially girls but often makes *questionable* coaching and stagings decisions. There's a good chunk of showboating, often at the expense of classical choreography, musicality, and finesse. Not a critique of the students, but more of the choices made by their teachers.

I have seen the video of Maya Schonbrun's debut. Obviously, an incredible talent, and that artistic management trusts her with such a debut in her first year as a professional speaks volumes. In the brief clips I saw, she looked much more mature and refined than the competition clips I remember seeing from her in her final year at Masters.

[marshmallowprotection]

Any hcs of Saeyoung and his days trained by the agency? I saw some pretty messed up ones and it made me tear up a bit remembering that he was just a KID

Saeyoung's time in the agency is far from joyful. It is the worst experience of his life because he sold his autonomy away for the chance to keep his brother safe, and it was for nothing in the end because Rika and V didn't keep their promise.

There isn't a lot of concrete evidence as to everything he went through during his time in the agency, and due to how much he pointedly jokes about his experiences to cope, it's hard to tell the truth from the lie he put in to make you doubt the validity of what actually happened.

So, if anything, I think it's important to point out that the agency did send him to California to study computer science. He went by a solid alias during his time there, Chilyoung Choi, and this is revealed in the diary Rika wrote for the Special Believer box. He went missing before the graduation ceremony, and the newspaper clipping Rika had was proof the agency wiped all the data of him being there which made a lot of students question if he was even there or not.

It seemed like his existence was a question meant for a scary story online about how someone never existed at your school but you all collectively remember this person for some reason. So, imagine that, Saeyoung is no older than fourteen or fifteen, and he's in America, no choice but to learn English and other languages as fast as possible to acclimate and not be suspicious, and he has to remain out of sight at all times as not to make a lasting impression on others, but be good enough to ace all his classes without fail.

He doesn't even get to enjoy the experience of being in school or making friends in school. Sure, it's implied he did speak to others sometimes, but that... that isn't a fun experience. I think that had to be hard on him, because Saeyoung loves to learn and if his life wasn't cruel, he would stayed in college to learn as much as he could for as long as he could. It was another slap in the face that he couldn't live a free life, but maybe, just maybe, Saeran would be able to experience a life like that.

It's a note of contention between Seven and Vanderwood when Seven slacks off. He procrastinates doing much of his work, and I think he does that for a reason. Most of the work he's doing is dirty work that wealthy people want to pay off the agency to take care of so they don't have to worry about getting their hands filthy. That means the work he's doing in the field and through cyberspace aren’t things he’s morally okay with.

After all, if you're going to pay an agency to take care of something for you, you are not a good person, and even if you are, what you're asking for from the agency is more likely than not illegal and would be considered taboo or unforgivable in the public world 9/10 times. For a long time, I always theorized that Saejoong Choi was amongst those who paid the agency, and hot damn, I was proven correct in the RAE. That goes to show how dirty and underhanded the agency is when it comes to work.

Anything for the bottom dollar.

Anything for greed.

Part of the reason why he avoids doing his work until the last minute has to do with the kind of work he's doing. I feel like if his target is innocent and he doesn't want to do what the agency wants him to do, he puts it off as much as humanly possible and tries to find other ways to take care of the problem first.

If that doesn't work, the only reason why he procrastinates is because he doesn't want to go through with doing what he has to do. In the end, he doesn't have a choice, and neither does Vanderwood, they’ve got guns at their heads and that’s why Vanderwood doesn’t fucking ever mince his words and tells him to get over himself and DO IT. He does it, and he long lost the reasoning to tell himself to think about the morality of the situation.

It'll happen to Saeyoung eventually, too.

But, as much as Vanderwood thinks of saving his own ass first, we all know that he covers for Seven, too. As much as he reasonably can in a situation, anyway, doesn't make Vanderwood the best person, but I do think his soft spot for Seven is important because it shows a good reason why some people soften to Vanderwood in the end. He has a good heart underneath everything, and even if he has methods to do things that most people don't agree with, he still wants to look after his brat.

Seven doesn't want to hurt other people who don't deserve it. But, he doesn't have much of a choice given the fact he sold his life away for his brother. He doesn't regret that choice, but he has to live with it in ways he never imagined when he made that deal as a kid. Ways that haunt him every day, even after the agency is dismantled from every angle imaginable.

Now, I think most people are well aware of the fact that Seven has had missions where he has to dress up to get close to his target. There are a multitude of reasons why an agent would have to dress up, and sure, not all of those reasons are horrible, sometimes you need to wear a tuxedo to get into a party. You have to look the part otherwise you're going to stick out like a sore thumb.

But, I don’t think most people who see him dress up think about the implication of his words. This is a snippet from his Diary that you can look at in the RFA box. Saeyoung has been a member of the agency since he was a teenager, and it doesn't blow past me for a second to think about the fact that they'd have him dress up to fill a role to get their targets to drop their guard long enough for the kill.

Saeyoung dressed up as a maid because there was a "maid fanatic." I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't like the phrasing of those words and I never have. There is some creep at the event he attended and the only way he could get close to this creep was by dressing up as a maid to get this guy to look at him. They used the fact that he's a scrawny teenager / young adult to their benefit, knowing that if he is there playing a helpless damsel, their targets will eat it up.

The amount of sexual harassment and WORSE that Saeyoung has experienced is something I don't think he's even begun to unravel. I do think as well that the agency giving him the opportunity to don a new persona on missions also helped him explore his gender identity and fluidity. He feels comfortable as a woman when he's the one who has a say in his look, and while no Saeyoung fan agrees on what label he's comfortable with, nonbinary, genderfluid, trans, or a cis guy who simply loves to crossdress or do drag—it's an interesting to see how we all view his exploration of gender.

I personally think he's genderfluid, and he doesn’t mind whatever pronouns you use for him, but if you deviate from using he/him as your default, God there’s a look of euphoria on his face the likes of which you have never seen before. “Pretty girl” and “Good boy” hit the same for him but the former really makes his eyes sparkle. My headcanon, of course.

Though, I think sometimes he has a complicated relationship with his identity because his self-discovery happened not because he decided to dress up and learn more about himself, but because the agency told him he had no choice but to dress up. He doesn't want his experience in the agency to taint what he sees when he dresses up, which is why I think he does what he does in the chat room to receive compliments now and again from the other members. He ends up fishing for compliments because he wants them to come from a genuine place, not from some creep he has to get rid of for work. 

I think it'll be better for him once he's out of the agency and he can explore his identity comfortably, and his MC can play a role in helping him feel validated in his sense of self, regardless of how you headcanon him. Because, more than anything, I think he deserves to have an experience that makes him feel good when he dresses up, allowing him to overcome the damage the agency did to him and embracing that he can identify and express himself anyway he wants to and nobody can take that from him. 

Most people are aware of the warehouse phone call. He spent days in a warehouse behind enemy fire and the only consolation he won out of that pain was the Honey Buddha Chips they paid him off with for the "trouble". He spent those days thinking he was going to die within an instant, one wrong move and he's dead, and that's one of the hard traumatic events he's gone through that he hasn't unraveled the way he needs to. 

I cannot even begin to imagine how agonizing it was to sit there, no food or water, knowing that if he made a single sound, they would kill him without remorse. 

He isn't just a desk agent who hacks his way into what they tell him to. If they tell him to go out into the field, he has to and that's that. He doesn't have a say in the matter.

He's mentioned visiting Antarctica and I believe a few island nations before. Again, you can't tell for certain just how much he's joking and how much of the truth he's telling you, so you have to take it with the smallest grain of salt and work out the realism. But, it's clear to me in my mind that he's had to travel to places just to take care of a mission and those missions put his life at risk.

He's trained not to defend himself but to attack first. He doesn't keep guns in his bunker but he knows how to use one. He knows best how to defend himself in a fight, considering that the car he used to take you with him was bullet proof, and that's not something you do in the average life. You don't just get a bulletproof car for no reason. You get it because you're scared for your life.

I make it abundantly clear in most of the posts I write about him to remind people just how paranoid of a person he is. It's not healthy, not in the slightest, but if you understand where he's coming from, it makes sense why he reacts the way he does. Saeyoung is afraid of dying and he’s right to be afraid. Not only does he need to be scared of his father and how fast he could be erased, he has to be afraid of all of the people he has pissed off during his time in the agency. He is not short on enemies.

Plenty of people don't like him and that's one of the reasons why he was afraid to let anybody get close to him. It's not that he's afraid of letting himself be loved, although, that is something he does have to learn how to accept, it's more so he's afraid of people being tortured because they love him. Bad people will exploit your weaknesses and if you own those weaknesses close to your heart where anyone can see it, they will know how to hurt you. 

Honestly, there are a lot of things he went through during his time in the agency, things that I don't think will ever be able to account for because it's going to take him a long time to open up about what happened to him. He always puts the needs of others before himself. He's going to get better about that in the future, but you're going to have to be gentle with him as he begins to unravel all of the things they made him do to survive. He's not out of the water yet but at least he's willing to trust his partner with his heavy heart.