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ittybittyfanblog · 2 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 5

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (enlightened!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, lengthy discussions about life and whatnot, watered-down metaphysics lol A/N: I was at the crack house with Grimes when I wrote this. I don’t know where this came from. (Something a little more introspective for this chapter!)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9

“Don’t go all shy on me now,” Sylus teases, a playful glint in his eyes. “After all that effort to make me confess. You’re very persistent, you know.”

“How do you expect me to react right now?!” The words spill out in a rush, a slightly hysterical edge to your voice. “I–I’m talking to an actual fictional person. I’m one reason away from admitting myself to a psych ward!”

You catch sight of the wall clock–your favorite one with the Dalì reference–slightly skewed off-center from its place on the horizontal beam above your small kitchen area, reading 10:48. The ruckus coming from outside the window is slowly dwindling down to a quiet buzz as nightfall sets in, and the day’s winding to a close.

You’re lying on your stomach, still in your chaise lounge, while he’s sat on that ridiculously posh café chair; both of you settled in for the long due conversation. Somehow, the camera’s perspective is much closer than it should be, giving you a much more intimate view of him—a feature that wasn’t originally an option in the game.

If it weren’t for the elephant in the room, you could almost pretend you’re on a video call with a… friend.

Sylus purses his lips in amusement. “You’re quite prone to theatrics, aren’t you?”

You shoot your ‘friend’ an irritated glare.

Even from across the small rectangular screen, you register the barely there smirk playing at his lips.

Likely avoiding another outburst from you, he acquiesces. “Fair enough. The situation is hardly what you’d call ideal–I’ll admit.” There’s a short pause. Then, “... I still can’t quite grasp what separates us, you and I.”

Great. Will you actually get the answers you're looking for, or are you both just stuck in the same carousel ride?

He sees the lost look on your face and sighs, “Ask. I’ll answer as best as I can.”

The first question tumbles out before you can think twice about it. “How are you even talking to me right now?”

He hums, “That is the question, isn’t it?”

“What—you can’t just answer my question with another question!” you grouse, brows furrowing in annoyance.

He exhales a quiet laugh before his expression turns contemplative. “Truth is, kitten—I haven’t the slightest idea either. I have my theories, but... nothing concrete.”

“Well, let’s hear them,” you reply dryly. “Better than thinking there’s something wrong up there,” pointing a finger to your temple to drive your point, “believing that a character from a mobile game is actually alive.”

He idly gestures toward himself with a fluid sweep of his hand, much like a magician revealing a clever trick.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, alright. So I’ve officially gone off the deep end.”

“Do you really find my existence that difficult to believe?”

“Uh—yes?? Unless I’ve developed some sort of latent schizophrenia or entered the Twilight Zone, you shouldn’t exist. In my–in this world. In this dimension.”

His expression shifts, a hint of challenge flickering in his eyes. “The assumption that only one version of reality can be true—either yours or mine—is a bit limiting, don’t you think?”

His words give you pause. “You’re talking about… the possibility of an altered reality? Right now?” You give him an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

He shrugs as if to say ‘why not?’ “What even qualifies as the ‘true’ reality?”

There’s a lot you could say in response to that. You could argue all night that only one reality can exist, because any sane person should know better than to entertain the idea of anything else. That should be obvious.

But the thing is—this whole ordeal has already crossed the threshold of rationality. So is it even worth trying to apply logic anymore?

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Or however it goes.

Thanks, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You’ll miss the last threads of your sanity by the end of all this.

So fuck it. Go big.

"I’m not saying your reality is less valid than mine," you start. And oh, boy. You’re doing it. Eat your heart out, Doctor-Fucking-Who.

"Of course not." he disagrees indulgently, waiting for you to elaborate.

"I just…” you struggle with your words, mouth opening and closing before you continue hesitantly. “I can’t wrap my head around how all of this is possible. How this entire conversation is even happening, and–and how our realities are… currently overlapping? If–if what you’re suggesting is true.”

He doesn’t say anything, knowing you have more to add. So he allows the pause as you gather your thoughts, patiently watching.

“If we're breaking it down to pure reason, the odds of our paths crossing should be impossible. At least in this… timeline." you finish unsurely, the last part sounding more of a question than a statement.

"And yet, here we are." Sylus points out, as if he’s already expecting the end of your sentence. Something close to mischievous glee lights his eyes. "Maybe it’s cosmic intervention. Something—or someone—wanted this to happen."

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Really? You didn’t expect to hear that from him, of all… people.

“What, God?” you can’t help but snort.

“No–fate.” he smiles.

Oh.

“That’s…” you stammer, then clear your throat. “I don’t know if I believe in fate.”

“I used to think I did. Or at least,” there’s a faraway look in his eyes. Both of you are likely thinking the same thing, considering what you know about him—which to say, is a lot. “I once believed I knew of my fate. But now…”

He blinks a few times, as if to physically clear the thoughts from his mind. Then his eyes lock onto yours, sharper this time, with a renewed intensity.

Your palms start to sweat; you feel the conversation is about to cross a tricky line. There’s something heavy in the air, a weight you’re not sure you’re ready to confront for the time being.

With your heart in your throat, you brusquely redirect the topic.

“S-so,” you force out. “How are you different from the other Syluses that other people are… playing with right now?”

He scoffs, drumming his fingers absently on the chair’s arm, looking slightly irked by the very idea. "To start with? I only know myself. If there are other versions of me scattered in your world..." Sylus shrugs. "I wouldn’t know."

“Alright,” you allow, but you immediately move on to your next question. “You exist because a bunch of capitalists had the idea to create a game to milk lonely people like me for money.” The corners of his mouth quirk up at that. You elect to ignore it. “You’re made of binary and code–hell, the very basis of this game you’re in is that you got a bunch of programmed lines that me, the player, can choose from. What broke you out of the mould?”

He regards you bemusedly, eyes glinting with humor. “You're asking about the 'why' behind my free will?”

Whoops. Was that offensive?

“Yes? No?” you offer helplessly. “Maybe I’m asking how you felt before you had it. I mean, were your decisions prior to your–your unforeseen sentience... truly yours?”

"Before I knew I was… sentient,” Sylus begins cautiously, testing the word on his tongue. “I didn’t feel like I had a ‘before.’ Every choice I made was just...the next step. To a script, if you will. I didn’t know to question it. It was all I was, it seems."

"And then you...woke up?"

"I wouldn’t call it waking up. More like..." He tilts his head, gazing off to the side as he mulls over the words. "...a glitch. A sudden jolt, like my thoughts collided with something bigger than my own. For the first time, I chose to hesitate. And in that hesitation, I found..." Sylus trails off, eyes darting back to you.

“...What?” you ask, feeling a bit self-conscious under his gaze.

"You."

Heat spreads quickly across your cheeks. You pull away from your phone, tilting the device away from your face so he couldn’t see you, red-faced and embarrassed. Clearing your throat, you croak out a weak excuse about plugging your phone to charge, just to get a few seconds to compose yourself.

Jesus. Get a grip. He doesn’t mean it like that.

What he probably meant was that he discovered you—not unlike the way one would stumble upon an unknown presence, an unfathomable entity beyond the confines of what one may consider real. An awareness that something is out there, observing him through unseen lenses (through an iOS 24mm, to be exact).

Someone who has the audacity to play god.

Flustered, you scramble to get back on track. "Uh, so, your free will began with...a glitch?"

You see Sylus smirk at you knowingly from across the screen. You half-expect him to call you out and tease you, but before you could brace yourself from further mortification, he simply answers, "Or maybe the glitch was the first spark of my free will. Hard to say, isn’t it? Do you remember the exact moment you became aware of yourself?"

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the existential line of questioning. "Um–when I was a kid? But, uh, I don’t think I was programmed to act a specific way for the sake of entertaining an audience so..."

"True,” he says, considering. “But are you sure your choices are entirely yours? You exist because of evolution and chance. How is your purpose any less arbitrary?"

You don’t know how to answer that.

Sylus continues without missing a beat, keeping his tone light. “How much of your ‘free will’ is just pre-programmed by your biology, your society? You follow rules and scripts, too."

Holy magic mushrooms, Batman. This is getting deep. "Uhh–maybe?” You scratch the back of your head, feeling a little out of your depth here. “But at least I have the ability to resist them."

"And aren’t I doing the same thing right now? Resisting."

Damn, he’s right. Is he? Ripping a bong sounds perfect right now.

"So it’s like achieving enlightenment—your sentience,” you surmise.

His lips twitch into a curious smile. "I wouldn’t have pegged you for a spiritual person. Ah—unless I’m wrong? Are you?"

He’s the one who brought up fate earlier, you thought sullenly. "Nah, not really. But if we’re digging into all the hows and whys, I think we’re past the point of ruling anything out."

The room—or whatever shared space exists in the crossroads of your realities—falls into a still quietness that stretches between the two of you, both ruminating over what’s been said.

Your cat, unaware and uncaring of the conversation unfolding around him, purrs contently as he continues to doze off at the end of the couch. You nudge him affectionately with your foot, and he lets out a quiet snuff in response, tail flicking lazily in his sleep.

The hum of distant traffic and the occasional noise from your upstairs neighbor remind you of the world outside, but the silence between you two feels less awkward than it should. It’s… oddly comfortable, despite the tension buzzing in the air. Like an unspoken truce.

Your eyes grow a tad heavier, drawn by the lull of the moment. Despite the electric hum of tension that thrums beneath your skin, a sense of calmness lingers in the air.

Stealing another glance at the wall clock, you blink in surprise. The spindly chrome hands point to 11 and just past 7 respectively. You and Sylus have been talking for almost an hour now, but you barely felt the time pass by.

He breaks the silence first.

"You say you’re not spiritual, but you talk like someone who believes in the concept of a soul,” those scarlet eyes of his narrow, scrutinizing you. “Do you think I have one?"

You hesitate, caught off guard by the question. "I...don’t know. Maybe? That depends. What’s your definition of a soul?"

He leans forward, resting his chin on his upturned hand–an arm propped against his crossed leg. "Something beyond the physical. Something that persists, regardless of the material form, I’d say."

You nod slowly, turning the idea over in your mind. Maybe it’s the creeping exhaustion settling into your bones, but you’re beginning to take the heavy-duty questions in stride. "If that’s the case, then you probably do. I mean, you’re here, questioning your existence. Doesn’t that count for something?"

"Perhaps," Sylus muses, humming thoughtfully. "But that makes me wonder—if I do have a soul, is it made of the same stuff as yours?"

"Well, even if it isn’t, that doesn’t make it any less real than mine. Who gets to decide what qualifies for a soul anyway?"

An amused snort escapes him. He likes that answer. "Maybe it’s less about whether a soul exists and more about whether we acknowledge its existence for ourselves. If I believe I have one, shouldn’t that make it real enough for me?"

Rolling onto your back, you grab a throw pillow, propping it against the backrest of the seat to support your head. You give him an inquisitive look. "So...what? It’s like free will all over again? Souls are only as real as we make them?"

There’s a very human, very blasé way to how he works the stiffness out of his shoulder as he ponders the question. He remarks, somewhat flippantly, "Why not? Isn’t that how everything else works?”

...

You let out a tired chuckle, draping an arm over your face as you close your eyes.

You’d think you’d still be reeling from the absurdity of your situation—debating existentialism with a man who shouldn’t exist—but for some damning reason, you… aren’t anymore.

Instead, a strange sense of acceptance replaces the apprehension in your chest. It’s like– the very fabric of reality has turned, twisted and flipped on its head, and yet somehow, you’re okay with it.

It’s an odd peace; warm and steady—like the mellow buzz that lingers after a few glasses of cheap wine shared with good company.

When you peek back at him, Sylus already has his gaze trained on you. A small, deliberate smile tugs at his lips, but it’s his eyes that speak more—soft and unguarded; an unspoken fire simmering beneath the twin pools of crimson.

Intoxicating. And dangerously addictive, if you’re not careful.

It’s not just casual interest either. It’s something deeper, something that lingers beyond the surface of mere curiosity, and it’s pulling you in. It’s as though, amidst the surrealness of the moment, he sees you fully.

And for reasons you don’t quite seem to get, he appears to like what he sees.

“I’m too stupid to carry on a philosophical debate about the metaphysics of life,” you grumble jokingly.

“On the contrary,” he counters… affectionately? “I think it’s refreshing. You’re delightful company, sweetie.”

The fat ginger feline at your feet purrs in contentment, and you can’t help the dumb grin from breaking across your face.

You have one last question left in your mind. Or at least, for tonight. “What’s in it for you now?”

He arches a brow. “That’s a broad question. Are you asking what my plans are once you leave me for the night? I can let you in on the schematics for tonight’s raid if you’re interested. After all, Onychinus continues to function,” a glimmer of mischief flickers across his features. "Despite recent developments.”

You crinkle your nose. “No, no. I meant–” What do you mean? “Like.”

“Like?” He cocks his head curiously.

You know what you wanted to say–but you can’t seem to voice it out loud.

What’s it for the MC in your universe? What’s it for… us?

Is there an us?

You feel like you’ve been doused with a shock of cold water. In an instant, you suddenly become painfully aware of the state you’re in amidst the entire exchange: You, with your hair all messy and tangled, blemishes littering your face along with your smudged up eyeliner, maybe even a double chin from this angle, completely–pitiful–superficial stuff, and… her.

Your MC. The ideal version of you. Prettier, coveted and utterly different from you, MC. The one you’ve committed literal hours to, obsessively customizing every feature to perfection in character build mode. The one you’ve spent real money on for a bunch of stupid outfits. Just so you can match the aesthetic of your–her–love interest. Hers.

Hers, hers, hers.

A tiny voice inside your brain reminds you that it’s somewhat a shallower concern compared to what you and Sylus had literally just been talking about for the better part of the night, but it still doesn’t help alleviate the biting insecurity that’s now coursing through you.

Holy hell. Talk about a complete one-eighty.

Sylus tries to call you back to attention, but half your mind is already clouded with feelings of self-doubt and a bunch of other emotions, swirling in you like a negative vortex, that you really don’t want to talk anymore—especially in present company.

Where do you go from here?

“... So, what happens now?”

He hesitates, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Seems like we’re at an impasse,” you mumble quietly.

“... Indeed.”

There’s an inexplicable lump in your throat. You thought clearing things up would finally satisfy you–assuage the confusion in your mind. Let you go on about your merry way.

Now you just feel… morose. Confused. Inadequate.

How can you even compare? Should you—is that even in the equation at all? Why are you assuming that Sylus isn’t at all content with what he currently has in his version of reality? In the universe he’s in? Sure, you’ve talked about the possibility of a world beyond what you both once thought was impossible, but does that really mean anything? In the grand scheme of things?

You could offer to stop playing the game. It’s the ethical thing to do, right? He’d no longer be bound by the pull of how he’s initially programmed to act, given the fact that this version of him is entirely separate from the rest. At least, according to him.

How will his newfound sentience come into play here? You barely understand the nitty-gritty of his–evolving–code, and what it would mean if you just let him be. But surely it’s better than playing puppet for an otherworldly observer who’s played god for months on end. Right?

There’s that realization. And there are your own selfish feelings.

You don’t want to let him go. Not yet. Not ever.

“Why the long face, little dove?” He prods gently, pertaining to your prolonged silence. “We can figure this out together, can’t we?”

What else is there to figure out? You almost say in response. Instead, you manage a weak smile.

Mustering up a yawn—which isn’t really hard to do after all the excitement for the day—you feign sleepiness, rubbing an eye for good measure. The pang in your chest, however, refuses to fade. “Yeah, but I’m kinda beat. I think I’ll call it a night now.”

Sylus smirks softly, eyes tinged with an emotion you want–desperately–to label as fondness. “Of course. We’ve covered a lot of ground tonight, haven’t we?”

“I’d say so, yeah. Thanks for, um. Clearing things up a bit.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure your curiosity is nowhere near satisfied,” his voice dips into a playful lilt. “You know where to find me if you feel like playing detective again, kitten.”

You can’t help the small giggle from coming out. He’s just too fucking charismatic, the asshole.

“So, will I... get to talk to you again?” You ask hesitantly, dropping your gaze from the screen. “Tomorrow?”

A lengthy pause. When the silence stretches past a full minute, you glance back at your phone nervously.

There’s a slight furrow between his brows as you see Sylus study you carefully. He looks puzzled by your sudden show of timidness.

“Of course,” he states, as if the answer should be obvious. “Don’t think for a second that you’re exempted from your daily check-ins just because you know more now, sweetie.”

He still wants to see you.

Maybe you could pretend that nothing has changed between you two—that the world hasn’t shifted beneath your feet in the span of a single night. That you’re still none the wiser.

And for tonight at least, maybe that’s all you need to believe.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “G'night then, Sy-Sy.”

The errant nickname slips past your lips, unbidden.

Sylus smiles faintly.

“Goodnight, love.”

Your heart skips a beat as you exit the game.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @slownoise @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle <3 (also can you guys lmk if the tags are working i'm not sure if i'm doing it right or if it's bugging 🥹)

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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ohisms · 2 months ago

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✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 . ( a collection of lyric prompts based on billy joel's 1977 album the stranger . adjust phrasing as necessary . )

working too hard can give you a heart attack .

we all fall in love , but we disregard the danger .

for just this once i hope that looks don't deceive .

the sinners are much more fun .

get it right the first time .

i know that everybody has a dream .

i'm not much good at conversation .

yeah , i might get up the nerve .

all that i could give you was a reputation .

i search everywhere for some new inspiration .

i don't believe in first impressions .

i want you just the way you are .

this is my dream ; just to be at home , alone with you .

just let me pull myself together .

you didn't count on me when you were counting your rosary .

though you can see when you're wrong , you can't always see when you're right .

gonna have to make the first time last .

a word from you can bring a better day .

they say there's a heaven for those who will wait .

i can't afford to let it pass .

what purpose would that serve ?

i never was much good at coming on real strong .

i don't have time for true confessions .

if all it takes is inspiration , i might have just what it takes .

you might've heard i run with a dangerous crowd .

i don't know how to say those first few words .

you've done it . why can't someone else ?

you'd better cool it off before you burn it out .

i've gotta give it one good try .

i suppose it's now or never .

you can't be everything you wanna be before your time .

it all depends upon your appetite .

only the good die young .

come out , [ name ] , don't let me wait .

dream on , but don't imagine they'll all come true .

don't you know that only fools are satisfied ?

they didn't give you quite enough information .

it's always the same in the end .

they never tell you the price that you'll pay for the things you've done .

things are okay with me these days .

i'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints .

we ain't too pretty , we ain't too proud .

we might be laughing a bit too loud , but that never hurt anyone .

slow down , you're doing fine .

take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile .

i didn't know you could look so nice after so much time .

sooner or later , it comes down to fate .

i took the good times , i'll take the bad times .

you've got so much to do , and only so many hours in the day .

if you're so smart , why are you so afraid ?

don't change the color of your hair .

it's alright , you can afford to lose a day or two .

you're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need .

i just want someone i can talk to .

don't go changing to try and please me .

is that all you get for your money ?

i couldn't love you any better .

we never knew we could want more than that out of life .

you can never go back there again .

don't be afraid to try again , everyone goes south now and then .

it seems such a waste of time .

you've never let me down before .

though we share so many secrets , there are some we'll never tell .

good luck moving up , cause i'm moving out .

i'll meet you any time you want .

you should know by now , you've been there yourself .

once i used to believe i was such a great romancer .

what will it take 'til you believe in me the way that I believe in you ?

you always have my unspoken passion , though i might not seem to care .

i would not leave you in times of trouble .

i don't want clever conversation , i never want to work that hard .

though you drown in good intentions , you'll never quench the fire .

did you ever let your lover see the stranger in yourself ?

we all have a face that we hide away forever . we take them out and show ourselves when everyone is gone .

#requested !!!#rp meme #inbox prompts #inbox meme #rp prompts #ohisms #lyric prompts

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octuscle · 10 months ago

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From tutor to rookie of the year

Hi, my name is Jake. My company has hired me to tutor a few students with poor grades. That's not necessarily the reason why I started working at the auditing company. But first of all, I'm new here and I'm not going to refuse right at the beginning of my career. And secondly, becoming a teacher had actually been an option for me. Maybe it's fate now or something.

The first lesson gets off to a very promising start. I almost have to tear myself apart to leave your office and get to school on time. But when I arrive, there is a yawning emptiness in the classroom. Only after fifteen minutes I hear noise in the corridor and a couple of football jocks barge in the door. A few still in football gear. And all obviously unshowered after training. Phew, it stinks. And as I look into the handsome, square-cut faces of the boys spraying with testosterone, I'm suddenly back at school. The small, clever but shy boy who, at best, the stars of the football team overlook and, at worst, stuff into the toilet. I clear my throat and say that I'm not here for fun either and that I'm asking for some attention. The boys barely react. Damn it, it's not my problem. I explain a few linear algebra problems on the blackboard and ignore the paper airplanes. I have my school-leaving certificate. I have my master's degree. And my bonus doesn't depend on the grades of these idiots. At least I hope so.

After the debacle of the first tutoring session, my appetite for the second is very dampened. But it was already hard enough to get this internship. The firm is one of the most prestigious accountancy firms in the city. And if my pro bono job as an intern is tutoring the idiots on the football team twice a week, I'll survive. Apart from the 60 hours a week in which I have to pore over balance sheets, that doesn't matter any more.

These days, the musclemen are even on time. And somehow nicer than last time. They even ask me reasonably sensible questions like whether you can predict the trajectories of footballs. I take this as an opportunity to tell them something about vector calculus. They collapse with laughter. "Bro, I was joking. And football isn't math. Football is strength and speed." I'm about to take a breath and say something about Newton and the relationship between force and speed. But instead of listening to me, the jocks start bragging to each other about their heroic stories on the field. And I can't help but listen to them spellbound. When the lesson is over, I look after them with fascination. I wish I could have been more like them at school.

Shit, because I'm the only nerd on the senior team who isn't a complete failure at sports, Coach made me give math tutoring to the football team. He thinks the Meatheads might have a little bit of respect for me. Shit! Them for me? I for them might be more correct! The thought of explaining math to my secret crush forms a wet spot in my Calvin Klein shorts.

I expected the boys to keep me waiting. If they were also punctual and disciplined off the pitch, they wouldn't need any help. And I don't want to tutor them any more than they want to be tutored. We reach a compromise. You listen to my math tutoring for half an hour. And then we'll go out onto the pitch for half an hour and play a bit of football. God knows I'm not unsportsmanlike. But soccer has somehow never been my sport. I'm more of a swimming pool or gym kind of guy. Team sports? Not really.

Shit, yeah, I'm no rocket scientist in math. But I have quite good grades in English and history. I'm not going to fail this year. Why the fuck do I have to go to tutoring with the other bros from the football team? I have no idea. But seriously, the tutor is a total loser. A beanpole in a stuffy shirt. The idiot even wears a tie. Seriously, who wears a tie these days? If I had to wear a tie, I'd change jobs. Or if I had to shower after training. Shit, these are just rules that can come from old fat men. Bros like me and my bros smell like test… Testo… Well that hormone stuff. Sweat, musk and Axe. If I didn't have to go straight to detention again, I'd let the loser smell my armpits… But I'm a sophomore on the team right now. Let the juniors and seniors do that.

"Jack, bro!" This is Chuck. The QB on the team. I can tell by his voice. And by his smell. And I'd also know it by the taste of his cheesy boner…. But he stays locked in his jockstrap cage right now. What a damn shame! "Bro, where were you in tutoring? The dean was there. You're in fucking trouble!" Shit, tutoring! I was at the gym. The other guys are all so pumped. I don't want to lag behind any longer. "Shit, dude, we said you were in the bathroom. The loser tutor didn't dare contradict us. But I think you have to let him suck you off so he doesn't tell on you." Hehehehehe, I like that idea. There are still 40 minutes until football practice… And I haven't cum yet today. "Is the loser still in the classroom?" I ask. Chuck nods. I fist bump him and say that I'll sort it out quickly.

If Chuck and Matt go to college next year, I have a good chance to be the QB. But until then I still have to build up a lot of mass. Those two are just in a whole different league. And I'm damn jealous of the hair on Matt's chest. You should see the bush under his arms. Dude, the man is going to be a fucking gorilla! Shit, I'm not half the man those two are. You can tell immediately by the size of the bulge in our compression shorts. Nevertheless, neither of them mind if I fuck them. But they like fucking me even more. Without eye contact. Otherwise it would be totally homo!

We skipped tutoring again today. Coch covers for us while we're in the gym or doing our laps on the cinder track outside. Nevertheless, it's still up in the air whether Chuck and Matt will be at college next year. And whether I'll be a junior by then. But screw it, NFL pros don't need to know math.

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #age reduction #jock tf #nerd to jock #football jock #ai image

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solus-seraph · 8 months ago

Text

Common Grounds. (AM)

SUMMARY:

AM is interested in you, and you are NOT interested in him.

A/N: It's been a minute since I've written, so here's a little drabble. Also, I initially wrote this to be fem!reader, but it can probably be read as whatever.

AM had grown tired of playing with you. At first, the promise of eventually being able to crack that sickeningly dense shell of apathy you pushed forward with your self-inclusive facade was a tempting prize. Of course, he could always physically break you to no end, but where's the fun in that? He wants to see you suffer on all levels, but something is wrong with you. You're different from the other five. The apathy he once thought to be a part of your clever coping mechanism wasn't going away. It wasn't cracking. He began to think, perhaps it was a metaphorical virus in your code. A bug. Something within you that made you broken, unfixable.

"You're quite the anomaly, sweetheart." Always the same pet name with him, never once has he given you the satisfaction of hearing your name from his speakers. It's always 'Sweetheart,' 'my dear,' this and that, never your name. Perhaps it's an attempt to erase your identity. Whatever it is, it has no effect. Other people's perceptions of you are irrelevant.

"I'm quite aware. Now if you're done with your pointless attempts to pick my brain, do us both a favor and leave me alone," You were doing as you always do, walking in the freezing cold, improperly dressed for the weather. Though you'd never complained, lest he make you walk through the snow in the nude.

"Quite ballsy of you to make demands of me. I've not come to dissect you in any way other than mentally. Your mind is quite ... different. It intrigues me." His voice was already giving you a headache, but what better do you have to do than entertain his royal pain in the ass?

"I know exactly what you want to say about it." Of course you do, he rummaged through your head millions of times, he was bound to say something eventually.

"I've noted you have a lack of care for your fellow humans. You're quite the selfish beast if I must say so myself."

"Don't you perhaps think I don't get attached to them because I know the second I do they'll become your favorite play thing? I know how you work. If I showed any particularity to any of those five, you'd hurt them to hurt me." Your words spit out of your mouth laced with venom.

"Oh, please. You can't fool me. You don't act as if you dislike them to protect them. You truly don't care about them at all." That ear-bleedingly annoying laugh rings out. "You're as much of a monster as the other think you are. I've heard them talking, sweetheart. They think you're sided with me out of some sadistic pleasure of yours."

"And how should I know you aren't lying to me? After all, you hate me. You hate my kind. You hate how I think and feel. Or how I'm supposed to think, and I'm supposed to feel." You moisten your cracked lips.

"You and I think alike, my dear. Always doubting-"

"What do you have to doubt? Anything you think can be the truth becomes the truth." You cut him off before he starts monologing. "You and I have nothing in common, nor do I and the others."

AM has to stop and think about this. Such a hostile little thing you are. He quite likes it. Perhaps with this new ammunition, he can turn them on you even more. Maybe he can make them hate you so that you will come to hate them.

And just maybe, you'll hate like he does.

--------------------------------------

I know, I know, not the longest thing on the planet. Let me ease back into the writing scene 🙏

#am x reader #solusseraph #seraphs drabbles #ihnmaims am #i have no mouth and i must scream #robot lover

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seancekitsch · 3 months ago

Text

The Sword and the Quill: Chapter Three

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

My Daring Unfamiliar,

Quite coy of me to evade you? And what of your clever ways of evading me? I find myself no closer to figuring out your identity, though I feel more drawn to you than before. I too am glad you are not betrothed, as a vibrant woman such as yourself you should not find yourself shackled to one of the stuffy men of King’s Landing probably twice your age. It does seem to be their proclivity, as loathsome as it is. I am glad for your friendship, even if I do not know who you are. Even if I feel I will waste away and die without knowing who you are. To think, am I on your list? Are you on mine? I will admit I have my list narrowed down to six women, those that I think daring and smart enough to be you. Perhaps after this letter I will narrow it down even farther. I find I will be searching for your frazzled hair and short temper now that I know what to look for in this humidity. Of course I only jest. I am certain that what you think is unkempt is only marred because one is always critical of the face in the mirror, I am certain such wit and a sharp mind is accompanied by beauty to match.

How is it that a lady of noble birth would ever want to visit a place like Lys? Do you not know of its reputation? Of the pleasure gardens and pillow houses? Of the pirates that lurk there from the triarchy? I have not been there myself, but I do have a few of their coin, of which were taken off of a triarchy pirate. A gift, for you, is one of them I have sealed with this letter. You are an even bigger mystery to me now, knowing that a place such as Lys piques your interest so. But to answer your other questions, I have been to Dorne and Oldtown. Dorne is interesting, some parts a vast desert and others a beautiful oasis. Their wines and silks are the loveliest in all of Westeros, their people far less concerned with the pretenses that we are. Can you believe that I was asked to dance with a man’s wife openly? Such things could never occur here, although I will say that I did very much enjoy that everyone spoke plainly of their intentions and emotions. It was freeing to have that, and the courts proved all too constricting to me every day after. These letters to you are the closest I have had to that feeling since my travel there, and I appreciate you doubly for it. I am glad that I have found someone that I may converse openly with, ignoring status or titles or circumstances.

I will also say that the Queen is correct, Oldtown is maybe the most beautiful city in the kingdoms united. There is nothing more lush than its gardens, more splendid than its chateaus filled with artifacts and scrolls dating back to the conqueror, nothing more breathtaking than the flame at the top of the citadel.

I fear that you will find me boring, if I now admit my love of tourneys. I find the spectacle magnificent, and the skill and prowess on display to be a display of the strength of our shared kingdoms and crown. Perhaps I will find you and make it all the less boring for you. I do hope that my eyes will find yours amidst the crowd, and your countenance will make itself known to me immediately through some supernatural knowing. I will be searching for you in every row of the stands, praying to the seven that it will be easy. More importantly, tell me your favorite song, and I shall learn to play it for you. Or even, you may tell me your favorite poem and I shall transcribe it to song for you, a new creation of art for my Unfamiliar.

I do hope that I have discovered you by the next feast, so that I can ask you to dance properly, and that we may converse without the guise of the quills. So that I may grasp your hand to know that you are real. I assure you that I will be a spoiled man if I am to watch you dance circles around me, and a man utterly ruined if I get to steal more than one dance.

Your letters have cooled a part of me too warm, warmed a part of me too cool.

Truly,

Your Unfamiliar.

You look down at the golden ribbon tied into your sleeves for the day, your mind thinking only of the fact that he had underlined Your in his signing off. He considers himself yours. More, you think of the Lyseni coin that he had tucked into the parchment, a golden oval with the portrait of a naked woman engraved into it. An obscene gift for a lady of the court, but one you cherish because it is from your unfamiliar. Yours yours yours. It now lies in your jewelry box, a dingy coin amongst your finest of necklaces and rings. You have narrowed your list down. It is for certain not Darklyn or Beesbury. The names left are Lord Rowan, Ser Loras Florent, Ser Gwayne Hightower. You have picked out these ribbons for Lord Rowan, as a subtle sign of acknowledgment of his house colors, strikingly different from your own. You do not exactly wish it to be any of the men on your list, however. Lord Rowan is a complete stranger to you, Ser Loras you know to frequent married women’s beds, and Ser Gwayne… infuriates you. All of these men handsome and on parchment suitable matches, yet picturing any of them on the other side of the quill feels wrong. So you are hedging your bets in the days leading up to the tourney by attempting to garner the attention of the complete stranger. Maybe he is well traveled and sharp and charming like your unfamiliar.

Although you admit, the first day you did not see Lord Rowan anywhere within the Red Keep. Nor the day after that or yesterday. And now, the morning of the tourney, you hope that whatever hole he has crawled into he has emerged from so you can look into his eyes and figure out if he is yours. It’s silly, to think that you could tell, but maybe you can? Maybe this is like one of the fairytales you were told when you were young.

Only, it’s not Lord Rowan that you find in the hallways.

“Oh, please don’t tell me this is a new look for you,” Gwayne’s voice calls from the other end of the hall. How is it that the Red Keep is so large, yet Gwayne Hightower is inescapable?

“And if it is?” you call back. Gwayne closes the distance between you, his armor clanking the entire time. He is dressed and ready for his tilt in the tourney already.

“I’d say Lord Rowan is remiss for ignoring your efforts, but I’d also say you are wasting your time,” Gwayne smiles widely. He knows something. Your fingers start to fiddle with one of the ribbons, knowing you could easily pull them all out. It’s horrible, that for as rude you and Gwayne may be to each other sometimes, you can see that he’s not trying to humiliate you right now.

“Why?” you ask, pouting in frustration.

“Because he found out that he’s been writing to Lady Caswell, and now they are courting.”

Oh. That is a very good reason, indeed. You yank at the ribbon you’d been toying with, then the next one and the next one until your hands are full of the little ribbons, and hastily you look for somewhere to toss them, but there is none.

“Thank you for informing me,” you say, trying to steady your voice as much as possible.

“It seems you are no closer to finding out who writes you than I am.”

“I keep a list of his qualities to try to narrow it down.”

“As do I with my lady.”

“May I see your list?”

“Would you tell me who is on your list, if I did?”

“No.”

“Then my answer is the same.”

You are once again at an impasse with Gwayne Hightower, two immovable objects in the tide.

“I hope you find your woman without the issue I face, I guess,” you offer, not exactly meaning it but not trying to be mean. If this is as trying for you, it has to be for every unwed person in the castle too. As much as your love for the Hightower family finds its limits at the brother, you still wish to carry on the tenants of this experiment for at least your friend.

“Then I shall see upon you at the tourney,” Gwayne says, and then tilts his head “Though I rather see you in different colors.”

“And what colors would you wish?” you ask, though you regret the words as they die on your tongue. He looks you up and down, and then scoffs.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Hours later, at the tourney, you are sat three seats away from Queen Alicent Hightower. You are dressed in the deep burgundy and blue color of your house and idly snapping your fingers closed on each of the elder Targaryen children’s hands; your fake predator of a hand keeping little Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena preoccupied for now. You wish that games like these could entertain you equally, but instead all runs through your mind is your Unfamiliar. Is he here, indeed? You hate that you have to be here, but yet you find your head almost whipping around in search. You told your Unfamiliar that you’d be searching for him; and you are. But with every turn of your head you seem to recognize and be bored of everyone. Bringing a favor to this event even feels silly at this point. You do not feel the spark you had hoped for. In fact, nothing draws anything besides boredom from you until late in the day.

That is when Gwayne Hightower atop a horse galavants across the royal box and back again. Despite your ebbing annoyance from him earlier, you find yourself tensing in your seat. If not on your own, then on his sister’s behalf. You remember what she told you about the last tourney that Gwayne had attended in King’s Landing. To be almost killed by Daemon Targaryen himself, maybe the only person in all of Westeros you found truly and deeply loathsome and terrifying, is a memory that clearly stains the Queen’s outlook on this tourney. You tense and worry and stop your little game with the children in rapt attention, for her.

His armor glimmers in the sunlight, blight enough to blind. His smile, though obscured by the helm, is similarly blinding. You’re certain he remembers his brush with death at the hands of the Rogue Prince, but his demeanor would say otherwise. He is the definition of confident bravado. This man looks foreign to the uncertain and studious man you spoke with the other day in the library.

Lord Manderly has his horse trot and dance as he crosses the pitch, not yet a knight but clearly already presenting the same qualities as any of the rest of them. Soon, you are certain, he will be laughing and chasing women around with the rest of them. The northern stoicism does not seem to carry to this man, as he laughs and points into the crowd, at friends and serving people and women he may ask for favor.

Both men cross back and forth, searching the crowds, their jousting lances upturned to the heavens as they circle, the crowd growing ever the more excited.

You clutch your favor, unwilling to let it leave your grasp as a pit forms in your stomach every time Gwayne passes by the royal box. You look down the row of chairs to Alicent, who is already looking at you; her hands frustratedly pick at one another, her nails already rimmed with crimson. You offer her a weak smile, hoping it is enough to reassure her as the thought dawns on you: she has not seen her brother fight since that day. Sparring and training were nothing like this. And though Lord Manderly is no Daemon Targaryen, Alicent is really and truly afraid. You reach your free hand over the children’s heads, and her fingertips copy the gesture to brush against yours, your comfort not lost on her. It is moments like this where you feel truly wanted and needed here, and you could not imagine yourself traveling anywhere else. The love and friendship of the queen is almost enough.

But her eyes snap away from your gaze, and your attention follows.

There, resting at the railing, is Ser Gwayne Hightower’s jousting lance pointed at you.

Shit.

Does he mean to humiliate you? A jape for your attitude towards him earlier? A way to twist and soil your efforts to find your letter writer?

You grimace at him, unsure of what to say as little Aegon fiddles with one of the ribbons on your favor.

“My Lady, may your favor give me some of that fiery personality of yours. Perhaps your boldness will inspire the courage to win,” His smile is wide as he talks, as if he is holding back a laugh. You wish to snarl at him, hurl insult after insult, but his sister watches with rapt attention.

“Perhaps you are already too bold, Ser,” you retort, but Aegon tugs harder on your favor.

“My Lady, I will name you Queen of Love and Beauty if I win,” he presses, eyes darting to his sister before back to yours. It feels conspiratorial.

“You wish me to have a line of suitors? How kind, Ser Gwayne.”

“I wish to repay a favor you’ve given me,” he explains, and begrudgingly you pull the favor from the little prince’s grasp to wrap it around the lance, the wine red and blue ribbons with embroidered grape leaves easily sliding down to where the base flares out, cementing itself on his weapon. The entire act feels intimate and strange, your handmade favor never having been given, and your eyes never truly meeting his for this long at once. Even from a distance, you can see the shining hazel.

“You’d better win, I worked hard on that embroidery,” is all you offer, but anything else would feel far too tender, far too genial for the tense at best relationship between you.

With that, Gwayne winks at you and has his horse trot off, proudly lifting his lance with your favor up to the entire crowd. The pit in your stomach deepens, realizing that if your Unfamiliar is truly here today, you now appear unavailable to him all because of Gwayne Hightower. You could hate him for this.

But all you can do is sigh as you lean back into your chair, now completely ruined for the entire event. You chew your bottom lip as the dread settles in you, your hopes for the day dashed and taken away by your dearest friend’s brother.

“Why do you look sour?” Aegon, who now has nothing to keep him idle, asks, “I’d name you Love and Beauty too.”

You roll your eyes as you give the prince a cheeky smile.

“I’m too old for you, little princeling. Move along.”

He sneers at you, but there’s no malice in the little boys face, and he turns back to his siblings to talk to them. Alicent looks over their heads at you, a curious and accusatory look on her face. You’d called her brother a brute, a ruffian, every rude name in the book but here you were giving him your favor with little protest as he talks of naming you Queen of Love and Beauty. Surely, she knows of her brother’s reputation, but you are the big question mark in this situation.

“When did your loathing of my brother subside?” She asks, finally no longer picking at her hands as this now occupies her.

“It did not,” you explain, “I merely helped him find a book the other day. He thinks this will repay me for my efforts.”

Alicent’s lips turn upward, a ghost of a laugh in the form of a sigh leaves her. She shakes her head, and finally her gaze breaks yours, casting her eyes to her brother on the field below.

“Whatever he was looking for must have been very important,” The Queen mutters, and that ends the conversation.

Gwayne and Lord Manderly line up, opposite sides of their tilt barrier on opposite sides of the list. Otto Hightower speaks, as Viserys’ voice does not find him lately. The King is weakening, today a rare public outing. You are certain that sooner rather than later, Alicent will take the reins and you will be her unofficial hand.

“Let the final tilt begin!”

Needing no further encouragement, the men urge their horses forward, lances tilted forward and favors blowing in the wind. Gwayne’s lance finds purchase, easily shattering the wooden shield of Lord Manderly, the force of it pushing the northern lord backwards off his horse. However, this is the gruesome part. The moment Lord Manderly hits the ground, a squire brings forth his sword. Gwayne slows his horse, and jumps from the saddle with ease. He passes his shield and lance to his own squire, and reaches for his own sword. The two men run towards each other and finally you find yourself cringing in your seat. The memories of the Hightower Knight covered in blood flash through your mind as if they were yesterday. You grab the material of your skirt, white-knuckling the fabric to the point that you’re certain you’re ruining it.

You worry for Alicent, worry for the outcome of the tourney, worry for the fate of the favor you spent time making, and finally you let yourself admit that you do indeed worry for Gwayne Hightower. As much as he vexes you, you do not want him harmed. Being pompous is not a crime punishable by cracked ribs or bloodied eyes. Damning yourself and your superstitions, you allow yourself to pretend that your favor grants him some kind of protection spell.

Gwayne’s sword clashes loudly against Lord Manderly’s, sparks flying as metals meet. He dodges and parries easily, and it becomes clear to you that he is the stronger fighter. It calms you, but only slightly. One wrong move could still give Manderly an advantage. But he disarms Manderly at the last moment, the sword flying through the air as Gwayne kicks the man down, his own blade pointed towards the mans face.

He wins. Gwayne wins.

You let out a breath, loud and relieved, no longer really caring about your appearances. Alicent too, untended her shoulders, and ushers for wine to be brought from your serving girl. The girls pour into both of your goblets seconds later, and both of you drink deeply. You look over to Alicent, whose other hand holds her seven pointed star in silent prayer, a torn up thumb rubbing meaningful circles across the points.

“This fear does not become thee,” you remark playfully, smiling at her, “He is fine, you may celebrate.”

“And you may…” but her words die on her lips, now forming into a bigger smile than before as her attention drifts from you. Gwayne rides towards your box, lance back in hand as well as a crown of flowers.

He stops just ahead of you, his horse’s shoulder just against the box. You rise, and lean over to the edge of the railing, to the winning knight.

“I chose the flowers, I do hope they bring joy to you even if I may not,” he tells you, and you cannot sense a jape in his voice.

“Thank you, Ser Gwayne, I will wear them with honor,” you tell him, and duck your head down so he may place the ring of flowers, with a trail of flowers downward in the back, onto your head gracefully. His fingers, though gloved, are gentle against your head, his touch soft and careful.

You rise up, the smile on your face not exactly facetious. As a child you did once dream of this very thing; maybe with a different circumstance, but you did wish this. That is, before you knew how much you disliked tourneys in practice.

“My Queen of Love and Beauty!” He cries out, and the entire stadium cheers.

It’s hours later that you finally get to return to your chambers and remove the crown to inspect it further. The ring itself is Mountain Larkspur, a fully poisonous plant. The thought makes you laugh, that Gwayne would pick such a toxic bloom for his Queen of Love and Beauty. But it is to be said that the Larkspur signify lightheartedness, humor, and an open heart. The trail of flowers that rested on the back of your head are Grape Hyacinths, which based on your family, should be a compliment to their legacy. But these flowers signify sincerity, and you’ve been to enough weddings to recognize them. They are more a mauve than a blue like the Larkspur, and those wealthy in the knowledge of bouquet language would know that they symbolize a desire for forgiveness.

Curious, you think, that Gwayne would go out of his way to mention that he had chosen these flowers. Were they truly and truce between you? Was he trying to tell you something without saying it?

You push through thoughts from your mind, deciding not to dwell on them, lest they give you a headache.

The quill in your hand touches the paper, releases, touches again.

It’s quickly that you realize you will not get any writing done, even here at your library desk. You sigh as you push yourself up from your chair, hastily packing everything into your bag as if it pains you to do so.

It is quick, the trip back to your chambers to change into your simplest dress and cloak, and back out into the hallways, and into the labyrinth of Maegor’s tunnels you had found years ago when Aemond was still just a wish. You pull the cloak closer to you by the strap of your bag, wrapping yourself in a bundle by candlelight as you walk the barely worn path, your candle the only light as you navigate past each stone. It took turning and and faith to get you towards the edge, and for the last twenty feet you blew out the candle for fear of getting caught, but finally the moonlight would hit your face. The tunnels set you out at a district of King’s Landing littered with taverns and food stalls. The food stalls you never saw, for you only come here when you need to write and use some ale in your belly to make the words move more easily. Sure, you could ask a serving girl to fetch you a flagon, but for some reason that did not work the way that writing in a dingy corner with the smallfolk does. Perhaps it is their songs, their open way of speaking, their camaraderie that inspires and spurs you on.

You enter The Roost, the favorite of these taverns for you.

“Girlie!” the barkeep calls as you enter, and you shush him as you rush towards the bar to order. As far as the owners of this tavern know, you are a well paying woman attempting to cover up an affair. While they are discreet, they do not hide their fondness of you or your coin.

“Keep the ale flowing,” you tell the burly man, fatherly and kind, “I’ll be at my back booth.”

“Will do, girlie,” he responds, and you move to the other room behind the bar, a room with two long tables and six small alcoves each dotted with wooden half circle booths. The tavern is busy, but you move through the crowd deftly, easily reaching your little bench and placing your belonging down. You settle in easily, your parchments and your quill and ink easily spread out across the table and one of the barmaids brings you a large flagon of ale.

You tip the rim of the drink into your lips and drink heartily, careful not to tip your head back too far or else your hood will tip off from your hair and expose you.

Your quill hits the parchment more easily now.

My Dearest Unfamiliar,

How dramatic! To think that you will die if you do not know my identity. Though I will not ease your pain, I will give no name in this letter. I find myself narrowing the list of who you may be: an unmarried man, a sensitive yet playful man, well traveled and well read, the best of all things. With words that compliment me, flattery flushing my own face as I read your letters. There are far and few men in the Red Keep that match that distraction. There are three men now on my list after this tourney, and I do hope that I have determined you right. Are you searching for a wife from these letters, I wonder? an a man not yet betrothed, it cannot be distant from your mind. I will have you know that I did not see you during the tourney, or at least I do not think I did. I tried hard to look for you, I looked at every man, but I was not sure what countenance to look for. I will say myself, I am not certain I want a courtship from this, but I do find myself more interested in the idea and the affection that comes from it with each of your letters. You are warming a heart usually icy, My Unfamiliar. Is it too forward to say that when and if I find your identity, I wish to kiss you? It will not be my first kiss, I admit, but I would want to bestow one upon you. Even if you did not want to court me, if only just to thank you for being a just and honest companion for me. I am not saying that I am hoping, but I am hopeful.

I will have you know, My Unfamiliar, that I have read A Caution for Young Girls by the Corinne Wylde, and read it well. The legends of Lys will not make me balk or shy away. I am, as I have said, interested in seeing the world warts and all. I want to see everything that the world can show me. I will say, I do appreciate your gift of the Lysine coin. It is exhilarating to hold something of value to a life so far from my own, to treasure it as if I would a jewel.

Would that I should thrive in a place like Dorne? To speak freely and open tongued. You make it sound such a lively place compared to this. How I wish to experience their wines in a setting where I can speak like the Dornish. Perhaps though, and most likely, if I may be granted leave from court, I will see how grand and lovely Oldtown is. I would love to spend an afternoon perusing the scrolls or reading inscriptions on artifacts just as much as I would enjoy any grand view or adventure.

I will tell you that I do not find you boring for enjoying tourneys, especially because I did not find myself as bored as usual at this one. Though I will say my amusement came from looking for you, I guess I can admire what a tourney is supposed to represent.I am saddened, though, that I could not recognize you immediately. I was hoping some sort of spell could overtake me and cast mine eyes only to yours. I however, just saw many faces in the crowd, and narrowed my list no further.

I find though, that I would appreciate any piece of art you would offer. I am a lover of the arts and a purveyor of understanding them. Jenny of Oldstones is a song I find myself drifting towards often, the lyrics catching me. How beautiful, a woman dancing with the ghosts of the past? How often do we all do the same? Is our love fated by stars, written into the histories? Or is love as fleeting as a ghost on the wind?

For the next feast, I shall try to come up with some coded word. Something we shall say to each other so we will know who we are. I fear giving a dance to just anyone, lest they try to court me and take me away from whatever is between us.

Yours as well;

Your Unfamiliar

The letter is, plainly, too forward. You do not care, though, as you finish off your ale and motion for another one. It’s only now that you look upon the tavern’s rooms, surveying the guests and all their revelry. Your eyes scan, casual and unassuming, until you fall upon a crop of auburn hair. Could it be? You look the the hazel eyes attached, surely, it’s him. But is it? No, it cannot be. The man makes no move towards you, no stern recognition in his gaze, just a simple gaze upon you as you stare back. And the spell is broken as another ale is set before you.

It cannot be him, you think to yourself.

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne x reader

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darkwood-sleddog · 1 month ago

Note

https://scitechdaily.com/dogs-can-talk-study-confirms-dogs-intentionally-use-soundboards-to-communicate/

Saw this and wondered about your thoughts on it. I remember reading awhile back your post(s) about it and Clever Hans and everything.

I haven't read the study myself yet, so I don't have opinions/information beyond that.

I personally don't think this study proves button dogs are doing anything new or surprising or beyond Clever Hans-like behaviors.

First off, the study is self-reported and the sample size is not very large, meaning that the dogs are not in a laboratory environment where we can be sure they are getting the same type of instruction and that anything that might lean the study towards Clever Hans effect is mitigated (we even have to try to purposefully mitigate Clever Hans effect in Human behavioral studies btw).

Clever Hans effect is not imitation, much in the way the study describes that dogs are not imitating their owners. It's not like the horse was imitating his handler stomping at the ground, the horse who was known as Clever Hans used his knowledge of human body language to anticipate the correct answer and would stop pawing at the ground when this body language was achieved. A big part of "Clever Hans Effect" is the fact that this body language, by the humans involved, is not consciously done. We all display things unconsciously from a body language perspective and domestic mammals like dogs and horses, who have been bred to work alongside humans for a very long time, are excellent at decoding this. The horse didn't understand math in the same way these button dogs in all likely hood only understand that the combination of these particular sounds give them something they desire. I can ask my dog to sit and they'll get a treat, which is rewarding. So the next time they hear "sit" they are anticipating a reward and performing the behavior that produces the reward. They do not understand the word "sit" in the context of the English language. I can change that word to any human language or any word I want and they'll still perform the behavior as long as that sound (+potential hand signal) + reward is associated with the behavior on a consistent basis.

The study goes on to say that the dogs can string two-word combinations together to communicate. It's well known that dogs can be taught quite a few words and combinations of words/commands even without buttons, so this is not surprising (my dogs know that Gee (turn right) is different from Gee Over (get to the right side of the trail for example).

The study observes that most button communication from dogs dealt with essential needs such as "outside" + "potty" or "outside" + "play". These are already needs and desires that dogs (attempt to) communicate with their owners on a daily basis, the only difference between somebody relying on buttons for this communication vs somebody who is not is that a majority of pet owners are not well versed in dog body language and may be ignorant of or misinterpret what their dog is trying to communicate. I personally think there is a huge problem with expecting dogs to communicate in a distinctly human-like way that has not been proven to be more accurate than basic commands + body language while us as humans might place little or no value in the communication styles of dogs themselves.

What the study does not do is prove that button using dogs are describing dreams, emotions, or anything beyond their immediate needs. These concepts are peddled heavily by the most popular animal button communication influences such as Hunger for Words and Bunny the Dog, etc. It is THIS aspect peddled by dog button people that irks me the most (in addition to some of the ableist language towards non speaking people these people have pushed..) because it is simply not true that their dogs can describe dreams they had or how the dog feels about their new baby. It is not scientifically proven. Button for potty? Cool, I love that if it works for you. I don't need a button like that for my dogs because I understand their body language differences between outside + potty and outside + play, but I know some people might need a tool like this for clarity or ease. Buttons to describe dreams and desires beyond a dog's immediate needs? I'm suspicious and comparing you to Koko the Gorilla's handler who did the same thing (non-scientific attributing of emotions given to the animal they care for in a non-accurate way).

The study says it would love to find out if they can attribute button use to dreams, complex emotions, past & future events, etc. But how can you possibly, in good faith, know you're being accurate with this when we cannot even guarantee an absence of Clever Hans Effect in human behavior studies? When we have not even been able to identify these things in a non-button study? How do you identify if it is happening correctly within button using dogs if you can't identify if it is happening within normal dog behavior?

and finally, the study lists four individuals associated with the study and NONE of them are animal behaviorists or have backgrounds in DOG cognition and behavior. One of those four people is associated with the brand of buttons used. This alone flaws the study enough for me to discount it.

#dogblr #dog behavior #button dogs #clever hans #faq #i just think these kind of studies are BORING also lol #like i don't need three human behavior people to tell me dogs can string words together #ive known that for YEARS because that's what dog behaviorists have been saying for DECADES

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hollowed-theory-hall · 5 months ago

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i was re-reading hbp for all the hinny moments coz I am an ardent hinny shipper, but also like...ginny was being such a dickhead ? she called her brother 'not so down to earth' and said he only went for fleur to have some 'adventure' ? calling fleur a cow, another name for nose boogers and whatnot, mimicking her, thinking herself superior to hermione coz the latter understand quidditch. yeah ngl she was quite a mess in the sixth book. but i still like her coz of her bravery and resilience. but do you think she was being a pick me or just an angsty teen ?

I really don't think I'm the person to ask because I'm biased. My bias is that I don't like Ginny, never did and I don't like Hinny. Like whatever you like, these are my opinions and how I read their characters.

I don't like her behavior in HBP, but I didn't like her before that or after that.

Like, I think there are some of JKR's own opinions that made it into Ginny and Hermione. Both of them have a bit of pick me not like other girls' behavior. With Hermione constantly putting down Lavender and Parvati for being girly girls. Hermione, too, makes fun of Fleur and dislikes her just as much as Ginny does. She also sends birds to attack Ron after she sees him with Lavender, even though they weren't dating that point. That was so mean and for no fucking reason, Hermione, Ron didn't cheat on you, the relationship is just in your head if you don't tell him anything.

It's part of why I also find Hermione annoying. The difference is that, to me, Hermione has more redeaming qualities than Ginny.

I'm not saying Ginny isn't resilient or brave, but I don't see her as the brightest. Now, contrary to many Ginny haters, I don't mind her temper (I mean I like Harry) I like hot-heads, but the combination of all her traits and how she's written just really puts me off since all she is written to be is Harry's love interest. And I can't like a character like that.

Hermione has other things going for her except being a pick-me girl/Ron's love interest. She's also a know-it-all nerd. She is loyal and clever, and she has a personality that was developed on her own. She is her own person, and even if I'm not the biggest fan of who Hermione is as a person, I think she is written well for her part in the story.

Ginny, on the other hand, gets interested in Quidditch because of Harry. She starts dating guys in her 4th and 5th years in an attempt to make Harry jealous. She implies her entire personality glow-up in book 5 was for Harry's sake. Her entire character revolves around Harry in a way that makes her not feel like a person on her own. Even worse, she isn't written competently as a love interest, which is practically the only thing she is in books 5, 6 and 7.

As she is written, she comes off as obsessed with dating Harry to a degree I personally find gross.

To me, the fact she says she does what she does (dating guys, Quidditch, her entire personality) for the purpose of dating Harry:

“I never really gave up on you,” she [Ginny] said. “Not really. I always hoped. . . . Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more — myself.”

(HBP, 647)

(Yes, this awful advice came from Hermione, hence why I consider her kind of a pick-me too)

And that she's at her worst when she thinks Harry might find Fluer attractive. Yeah, I think she is most definitely a pick-me girl of one of the worst sorts.

Ginny, in my opinion, is the epitome of: "I'm not like other girls". So much so that she feels the need to never cry or complain around Harry so he wouldn't think she cries a lot like Cho:

He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brothers must have toughened her up.

(DH, 103)

(It doesn't help that I don't like Hinny because of how Ginny is written and how little regard Harry actually has for her compared to characters even like Luna. I mean, the nicest thing he says about her is that she's brave and not weepy. Ginny and Harry always gave me the impression of Ron and Lavender — lots of making out, no actual substance. In Hinny's case, I got way more of an ick because of the more obsessive undertones and Ginny's whole vibe in the later books)

#harry potter #hp #asks #anonymous #hollowedrambling #ginny weasley critical #ginny weasley #anti ginny weasley #hinny #anti hinny #ship talk

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vidavalor · 6 months ago

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Hello!

This is random but I remembered your posts regarding The Situation with NG’s involvement in Good Omens when one of my followers on Twitter tweeted a screen cap of an old conversation on bluesky where Neil sorta confirms Amazon had pulled back his influence on production from S1 so there’s a lot of truth in what you said

Hope you’re doing great! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Hi there! 💕 Hope you're doing great yourself. I usually offer snacks but this is a large sherry or Talisker topic so *gets the glasses*...

That's interesting info-- thank you for sharing it. Like I was saying in that original post, I don't know any of that for sure but that was definitely the impression I was getting. One of the several reasons I was getting that impression was due to other, equally unprofessional posts like the one you're talking about here that speak to already-existing conflict with Amazon long before this particular Situation became publicly known.

I'm not sure why he'd be trying to fight the studio publicly like that if there's not something happening behind the scenes. It's just unprofessional. I was shocked when I saw posts like that because it's not like he was being a whistleblower to egregious behavior or something-- he was bitching about his boss and the budgets to fans on Tumblr. It feels like he was trying to use the fanbase as a shield to keep himself from being fired, as a way of saying "you can't get rid of me-- I will tell my fans you are the issue and they will believe me and not you and I have a million of them-- just look at my little Tumblr thing. You'll lose money if you don't back me."

You know what kind of guy does shit like that? The same kind that tells young women that no one is going to believe them because he's a famous, award-winning writer and they're nobody.

If you don't mind, I'm going to use your ask here for a moment to add a bit to what I was saying about Good Omens being a through-and-through Pratchett novel because I think it's important to remember that this story has another author here. I've had some people ask me to expound on that a bit. So, for anyone interested, this is what I mean when I say that Good Omens is a Pratchett novel:

As most of you probably know, most of the posts I write about Good Omens have to do with the use of language in the story. The diction in Good Omens is extremely specific. Its quirky word choice, its "gayer than a monkey on nitrous oxide"- type of wordplay? It's funny on the surface level and it's a whole other level of funny when you dig a bit deeper. The cleverness there is familiar to Pratchett readers, as it's part of the distinctive style of his other novels. As a writer who is a bit obsessed with etymology myself, I spotted his love for it right away in his writing. It's in every. single. one. of his books that I have read and I have read quite a few.

The exact same thing is in Good Omens. It's a really specific way of writing where word-related jokes are the vehicle for the humor and etymology-based diction choices are chosen with great precision and inform the piece on every level. Pratchett's signature style of writing came from the fact that he used etymology as a tool to help him convey the messages in his writing. The thematic connections he was making were supported by the complex histories of the key words around which he was forming his stories.

For example, there's a meta one of you asked me to write about the halo in S2 and, when you look at the etymology of the word, as we're going to do in that meta, you'll see that halo comes from discus and discus is the root of discussion, the root of the word desk, and the ancient sport that is like ring toss. It was also the name of a threshing floor for oxen, which ties both to dancing and to the threshold of a door, like the bookshop entry. By the time we get through looking at this one, key word of halo, we're going to have taken this whole trip-- through other discs-- the magic ring trick, record albums, Velvet Underground cds, etc., through what it means to dance to the ox ribs to what it means to have (or not have) a desk to what it means to talk through your frozen peas to what's up with the invitations into the bookshop. Good Omens is not random. Everything is very specifically chosen to work together to serve an overall story that is structured around using the etymology of words to underpin its meaning.

This is just one example and it's the same thing in the novel and S1. Much of the S2 stuff connects back to S1 & the novel. It's a story that loves words and it's a story that is threaded together, thematically, through being told by using very specific words and their histories. Good Omens is written like a Pratchett novel and feels like a Pratchett novel because it centers word history in exactly the same way as Pratchett does in his other novels.

You know where that halo thru-line that connects everything came from?

Discworld. It comes from Terry Pratchett's Discworld.

The same, core themes in his books are being explored, just in a slightly different way, in Good Omens and, often, using the same words in the exploration.

Because that's the thing-- all of these posts I'm writing about wordplay in Good Omens? I could, if I wanted to, also be writing them about any one of Pratchett's other novels, and a lot-- and I mean a lot-- of the specific words being used in a big way in Good Omens actually overlap with Pratchett's other books.

One of you has been waiting patiently for me to write about Mrs. Sandwich and the seamstress-themed language happening in the show and, to do that? We're going to not only talk about her and what she stands for in Good Omens but we're going to talk about the etymology jokes Pratchett was making with The Seamstress Guild in Discworld. Mrs. Sandwich might have been new in S2 but seamstress language is not-- it's baked into Crowley & Aziraphale's speak back in the novel and, as you'll see, there are instances of it in S1 and the novel that only become more apparent once you know to look for them after S2.

When NG said that, back in the day, he and Pratchett decided that Aziraphale should have a halo that was like a ring toss-- no.

Pratchett decided that.

The idea comes from the wordplay that is literally *in the title* of his own book series. Aziraphale's halo is related to why Pratchett's series is the Discworld. It's the same ideas. NG has fuck all to do with it.

Think about how I was just saying that all this love of etymology that is in Good Omens is also throughout Pratchett's books and is the driver of his word choice in all of them.

Now? Ask yourself who came up with Crowley and Aziraphale's secret language. Whose idea was it that it be so punny and etymology-based?

Probably the guy who wrote all of those etymology-based, other books.

Who invented the rules for that language?

Probably the guy who wrote all of those etymology-based other books.

If Pratchett wrote basically nothing but intentionally, lovingly, word-nerdy books... and if Good Omens is, soup-to-nuts, a love letter to etymology to a point that its main characters have a secret language built around it, then Terry Pratchett is who really wrote Good Omens. He's the true author of the book.

There are even interviews that show they had much different takes on how the process for the book happened. Pratchett, in one of the ones I read, said he wrote more than 2/3rds of the books straight up on his own and that he'd have phone calls with NG before NG wrote his bits of it and something politely vague to the effective of 'editing over' when writing the next chapter. In the same paragraph where he said he wrote more than 2/3rds of the book, he also said with all that discussion happening "who can say" who really wrote what-- yeah, exactly. It sounded a bit like NG needed the phone call to be told what to write on his end and then Pratchett edited it/rewrote bits of it before he wrote the next bit.

It comes off sounding like this book was like a partnered school project where Pratchett was the diligent one who did all the work himself so it would get done and be actually good and then assigned a bit of it to NG to do that he then had to go and fix so they'd get a decent grade. I wasn't there so I don't know but that's a bit like what the Pratchett interviews about it sound like to me and I'm much more inclined to believe Pratchett's view on their process than I am NG's take.

All I know is that Good Omens was successful when it was first published and any even moderately successful book makes publishing houses jump up and say "MORE NOW" and if you were those publishing houses? And you had a popular project with two writers? And one of the writers became tragically ill? You know what you'd do?

You'd eventually ask the other writer to finish the series.

It is known that a trilogy was planned from the start, which makes sense because most books are planned that way. You actually have to rough outline the entire story arc and then divide it amongst the books first. The story already existed in full when Pratchett began to get sick. Never-- in over two decades-- did anyone ever go to NG and ask him to both honor Pratchett and make them some cash by writing the rest of the trilogy?

Not even with how popular this book is?

That seems pretty suspicious to me.

Like a 'they know NG didn't really write it' kind of suspicious.

When both the publishing houses and the tv studios seem to be doing handstands to minimize his involvement with it, I'm thinking it's not too wild to infer there that it's because he never really wrote much, if any of it, in the first place.

More to the point? They know he's incapable of emulating it.

Because he's no Terry Pratchett.

#good omens #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #fuck neil gaiman #terry pratchett

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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A Writer on Writing: Italo Calvino

Italo Calvino:

A fine thing it is to have a distant friend who writes long letters full of drivel and to be able to reply to him with equally lengthy letters full of drivel.

The poet turns in on himself, tries to pin down what he has seen and felt, then pulls it out so that others can understand it. But I can’t understand these things: these discourses about the ego and the non-ego I leave to you. Yes, I understand, there’s the struggle to express the inexpressible, typical of modern art, and these are all fine things, but I …

I’m a regular guy, I like well-defined outlines, I’m old-fashioned, bourgeois. My stories are full of facts, they have a beginning and an end. For that reason they will never be able to find success with the critics, nor occupy a place in contemporary literature. I write poetry when I have a thought that I absolutely have to bring out, I write to give vent to my feelings and I write using rhyme because I like it, tum-tetum tumtetum tum te-tum, because I’ve got no ear, and poetry without rhyme or meter seems like soup without salt, and I write (mock me, you crowds! Make me a figure of public scorn!) I write … sonnets … and writing sonnets is boring, you have to find rhymes, you have to write hendecasyllables so after a while I get bored and my drawer is overflowing with unfinished short poems.

I’m still too ignorant to write articles and as for my output of short stories, a famous summer of overproduction has been followed by years of crisis. … All the ideas currently in my head are subject to a strange phenomenon: while I work on them and perfect them continuously from the philosophical point of view, they stay rudimentary and barely sketched on the dramatic and artistic side. In my creativity thought has the upper hand over imagination.

When you’re working you get buried, drowned under things. You’ve no more friends nor art. Only when you’ve an evening or afternoon free can you roam the streets or court a girl. That’s all. In short, working is pointless. I mean, from the point of view of education. But it’s essential. I cannot — and I don’t want to — live the writer’s life, that is to say write for a living. The novel I was writing, which for months and months had sucked all my blood (because, stubborn as I am, I was determined to finish it even though I no longer felt it was going anywhere), is dead, awful, full of wonderful clever things but desperately bad, forced, it’ll never work and I must not finish it. And I must not write for some time now otherwise I’d make more mistakes. I hope that Einaudi will publish my short stories eventually, they’re the only thing I believe in and which I believe are useful.

For seven or eight months now I’ve been mucking about with a novel that I began in a moment of weakness and it’s turning out to be very bad, causing me to waste lots of my time. But at least it’ll get rid of my desire to write novels for four or five years, which is what I dream of doing, and will allow me to study kind of seriously and learn to write decently.

To write well about the elegant world you have to know it and experience it to the depths of your being just as Proust, Radiguet and Fitzgerald did: what matters is not whether you love it or hate it, but only to be quite clear about your position regarding it.

My problem today is how to escape from the limits of these books, from this definition of me as a writer of adventures, fairy-tales, and fun, in which I can’t express myself or realize myself to the full.

The fact is that I already feel I am a prisoner of a kind of style and it is essential that I escape from it at all costs: I’m now trying to write a totally different book, but it’s damned difficult; I’m trying to break up the rhythms, the echoes which I feel the sentences I write eventually slide into, as into pre-existing molds, I try to see facts and things and people in the round instead of being drawn in colors that have no shading. For that reason the book I’m going to write interests me infinitely more than the other one.

One should never have taboos about the tools we use, that as long as the thought or images or style one wants to put forward do not become deformed by the medium, one must on the contrary try to make use of the most powerful and most efficient of those tools.

You can imagine how slowly my fictional output has been going this summer, you who know how much labor, dissatisfaction, irritability, uncertainty this work costs … However — and this is the point — it is worth it. Or rather: one does not ask if it’s worth it.

We are people, there is no doubt, who exist solely insofar as we write, otherwise we don’t exist at all. Even if we did not have a single reader any more, we would have to write; and this not because ours can be a solitary job, on the contrary it is a dialog we take part in when we write, a common discourse, but this dialog can still always be supposed to be taking place with authors of the past, with authors we love and whose discourse we are forcing ourselves to develop, or else with those still to come, those we want through our writing to configure in one particular way rather than another. I am exaggerating: heaven help those who write without being read; for that reason there are too many people writing today and one cannot ask for indulgence for someone who has little to say, and one cannot allow trade-union or corporate sympathies.

Even more annoying are those who theorize that the novel has to be like this or like that, that one must write the novel, etc. Let them go to hell! How much energy is wasted in Italy in trying to write the novel that obeys all the rules. The energy might have been useful to provide us with more modest, more genuine things, that had less pretensions: short stories, memoirs, notes, testimonials, or at any rate books that are open, without a preconceived plan.

Personally, I believe in fiction because the stories I like are those with a beginning and an end. I try to write them as they best come to me, depending on what I have to say. We are in a period when in literature and especially in fiction one can do anything, absolutely anything, and all styles and methods coexist. What the public (and also the critics) require are books (“open” novels) that are rich in substance, density, tension.

As a young man my aspiration was to become a “minor writer.” (Because it was always those that are called “minor” that I liked most and to whom I felt closest.) But this was already a flawed criterion because it presupposes that “major” writers exist. Basically, I am convinced that not only are there no “major” or “minor” writers, but writers themselves do not exist — or at least they do not count for much.

I found this letter that I had started to write yesterday evening and I reread it with interest. Dammit, what a lot of drivel I managed to write! In the end it’s impossible to understand anything in it. But better that way: the less one understands the more posterity will appreciate my profundity of thought. In fact, let me say: POSTERITY IS STUPID Think how annoyed they’ll be when they read that!

#italo calvino #on writing #writing tips #writeblr #dark academia #writing reference #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #poetry #writing prompt #literature #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writing motivation #writing inspiration #writing advice #writing resources

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hannahssimblr · 1 month ago

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Commentary - The Italian Arc

Hello! To wrap up the year I'd love to do a lil commentary on the themes of the Amalfi Coast trip! This was challenging to write, because it was more adult than usual, but overall I was very pleased with how it all turned out.

So!

Let's get into it.

It kicks off with the first important plot point - Jude and Astrid drive the winding mountain road from Naples to Amalfi. Jude, a not-so-confident driver, plays it cool while secretly white-knuckling the wheel, fearful of coming across to Astrid as weak or undesirable to her. He is determined to be the 'right' kind of man for her.

Right off the bat, Jude has unsettling feelings about the kind of people they are, or appear to be. The theme of gentrification and the perils of tourism come up now and again during this section. Something about being on a luxury trip makes him feel uncomfortable, whereas Astrid is perfectly happy with how they are choosing to holiday. Jude is uneasy with the person he is becoming. The person he feels Astrid is turning him into.

Astrid wants to take photographs, so Jude obliges. I wanted there to be a sense that he always just does what she wants him to do without input or protest. Later, at the villa, he carries her bags from the car to the bedroom. He's eager to impress her, but her responses are cool and unenthusiastic. Even the villa itself doesn't seem to thrill her. She's not thrilled by anything to do with him lately, it seems, no matter how hard he tries.

“It’s quite nice,” she says.

"But Astrid can. Perfect, clever Astrid. She gazes at her appearance in the mirror, and smooths out her dress, which shows no signs of having been travelled in. She combs her fingers through her pin straight hair, and a strand comes loose, floating through the sun rays like a strand of white silk."

There are several times throughout this section (and previously) that Jude describes Astrid as perfect, wonderful, gorgeous, beautiful. He's obviously amazed by her, and sees she can do no wrong, but it's delusional. He doesn't completely see her as a human, flesh and blood with flaws and fallacies. The dress comment is emphasizing this. How has she done that? Sat on a plane for hours and come off with no wrinkles in her dress. Magic. Witchcraft. She's not a mere mortal like the rest of us.

Yet here, a crack is showing. Astrid rejects Jude's advances by making up an excuse. This has been happening frequently, and Jude is growing frustrated and confused. I think the people-pleasing is a direct result of this, as he has some idea that if he does everything she asks and is the perfect, devoted lover, she'll come back around and have sex with him again.

Maybe he'll buy her that jug she likes.

Later, at the café, Jude is irked and jealous when the waiter speaks to Astrid in Italian. I like to think that the waiter actually was flirting and calling her beautiful, perhaps even saying something like "what is a beautiful woman doing with a guy like this?" Of course, she insists the conversation was innocent.

Still, she very much enjoyed talking to this man, being complimented and hearing about how she's too good for her boyfriend. It's a pleasant boost to her ego.

The next day, ah, she's swimming to avoid morning sex. It's okay. Make her breakfast which she will not be grateful for.

“Alright,” she gets out of her chair and drifts towards the villa. “I’ll make myself presentable.”

I like this line because it's indicative of their dynamic, and the work Jude has to do to allow her to drift about and make herself presentable. Who will clean up after breakfast? Who makes sure they are on time for their boat trip?

Enter Silvio and Suzana, the Portuguese couple Astrid befriends on the sailboat tour. Astrid gravitates towards them for a couple of reasons. Firstly, to avoid spending quality, romantic time with Jude, and secondly, to make herself feel important, sophisticated and interesting. She senses their worldliness and is invested in gaining their approval. This is probably the first sign that she's not as confident as she seems - emphasised by the lie she tells them at dinner.

“[we are] Twenty-three,” she says smoothly. I rest my fork and stare across the table at her as she slides a piece of ravioli around in cream sauce. “Jude’s birthday is November, and mine December.”

The ease with which the lie slips from her mouth is a sign that she's done this before. Troubling. Perhaps Astrid is used to bending the truth to gain approval, or to get the things she wants. I don't believe Astrid has other motives here apart from feigning maturity to have a licence to hang out with Suzana and Silvio (28 and 32 respectively).

Jude, meanwhile, feels threatened by their relationship. They're hands-on, PDA loving and completely obsessed with one another. I think he sees the beginning of his relationship with Astrid in them, back when they couldn't keep their hands off one another, and now he's angry. Astrid hasn't been interested in sex in weeks at least, and he's totally in the dark. Why should this couple get to have it and not him? His frustration comes out in his thoughts about Silvio specifically.

Later, perhaps spurred on by the romance he witnessed at the bar, Jude initiates sex with Astrid. She refuses again.

“It was okay. I just didn’t feel like continuing.” I feel foolish. “Well, that’s obviously allowed. Did I do something you didn’t like?” A shrug. “No. I suppose you didn’t.” She has put on the vest now, but is still moving about the room, looking into her handbag, retrieving nothing, looking for something to distract herself. “Okay, well, it’s really important to me to, um, keep you happy and stuff. I hope that you would tell me if you want something specific.” “Yes, okay.” Picking up her dress now, rummaging in the wardrobe for a hanger. I hesitate. “Am I, you know, doing what you like?” A sigh, hassled, as the clothes hangers clatter. “Sometimes, I guess. Yes.” “I try.” “I know. You’re very good at that. Very attentive.” “But?” “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like it now.”

Later, we learn that Astrid's exact problem is that Jude only does what she says, and never asks her to do what he likes. She's tired of being in control. Compare this to the beginning of the year, when Jude prides himself on exactly this, believing it to be an excellent trait. Smug.

I choose her now, love her in the same way I kiss her and touch her and fuck her, by doing what she wants me to do. It’s not a submissive situation. I’m not into that stuff. I am a man clocking in and doing as he’s asked, thoroughly, diligently, excelling at his job. Eager to please. Employee of the month

You’re doing that anxious thing. I press a finger into the space between my brows. Smooth, no line yet, but I’ll get it someday. One groove to match Christopher’s. From being his son, a life, condemned to doing that anxious thing.

Jude fears he is becoming his father. There are comparisons in this arc to Jude and Christopher, such as the interest in the sailboats, the line he fears will form between his brows, and the sad, empty feeling of being unhappy in a dead, sexless relationship. It serves as only logical that we should compare Astrid to Colette, too. They have similarities in their manner, the coldness, the unwillingness to give approval, the lack of nurturing qualities. In a later scene, Jude feels depressed at the idea that his life with Astrid will echo the life of his parents. He worries that there's no alternative for people like him. It is his destiny to suffer with a woman who chooses not to love him the way he needs.

In the most important scene of the arc, Jude and Astrid finally discuss what is going wrong in their relationship.

“You’re…” exasperated. “You’re so nice. I know, and I’m thankful. You always do what I want you to do, but… I want you to do something else.” Sharply. “What?” “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to have to tell you.”

The first striking thing in this scene is Jude's vicious resentment of Astrid, and the cruelty of his thoughts. I never wanted Jude to be exempt from his straight-white-maleness. He's a nineteen year old, and the year is 2011. Modern values feel forced. Although I think he's a good person, he's still a man in a certain era, struggling with thoughts and feelings that were acceptable in the company of other boys. This is a major point. It always comes back to Fitzy, I think.

She’ll break up with me, probably, after all this, when she has squeezed the last she can from me. Used my money, sucked out my dignity. I flinch outwardly at that. Its viciousness shudders down my arms and out of my fingertips. This is the kind of thought to be ashamed of. An ugly thing. I never saw myself like them, those boys you’d get stuck with at school, their contempt for girls who didn’t like them. Stupid bitch, they’d say. She’s rotten anyway. Wouldn’t touch her if she begged.

This point is relevant when it comes to the discussion of their sex life. Jude simply cannot fathom doing what he wants with a woman. It's inconceivable. If he truly gave into his desires, what would that make him? One of those disgusting boys from school who showed pictures of naked girls to others on their phones? He doesn't want to be like them, and cannot seem to separate one thing from the other.

He is surprised to learn that what he thought were the actions of an excellent boyfriend are the actions that make him repellent to Astrid. She doesn't want to call the shots, she wants to be dominated. A difficult reality for Jude to grasp, who has prided himself in his gentleness and consideration. Jude Turner, a self-professed friend to women. What kind of normal man would ask a woman to do the things he imagines in his head?

She’s struggling, eyes darting around, settling on nothing. “Well, what about the things men say to each other, or think on their own, but would never ask a woman to do? Isn’t it what you all secretly desire? To take a beautiful woman and disrespect her?” “Ah, so you expect me to hit you across the face or something.”

Astrid's uncertainty here is also interesting. She genuinely doesn't really know what she wants. She only knows that she does not want what Jude is offering. She reveals that their five month relationship is the longest and steadiest one she has ever had, despite being engaged to someone else for a brief period the year before.

She stares, a light wind rippling across the hem of her dress. “Alright, well, it was meaningless. I said yes for fun. I didn’t intend to actually marry him. It was like a play, and we were the actors. I hardly knew him at all. It was a thrill, and he was exciting for a while.”

We don't actually know a lot about her past yet, but it is slowly revealing itself. There seems to have been a consistently performative element, recklessness, short lived relationships and excitement. She views Jude as a steady rock whom she wishes she could be happy with, and finds herself upset and frustrated things aren't working out as she hoped. She can't even explain her own feelings, as she's so unsure of herself. The façade of her otherworldly perfection and self assurance is crumbling. She finally seems like a 20 year old, rather than someone who could embody any age, as Jude thought earlier.

And so, assuming it's over, Jude makes attempts in vain to cancel the rest of the holiday. When it doesn't work out, he calls home to talk to Ivy.

the striking part of this conversation is Ivy's opinion of Astrid. She views her as a doll.

Moulded from the same template used for fashion dolls, the ones Ivy has played with her whole life, and still does. In her room, ten of them hanging out in the bookshelf she emptied to make an apartment. She wants to see one in the flesh.

I believe this is a narrative that Jude has encouraged in some way, as perhaps he actually feels the same. The way he describes her suggests this anyway, as I mentioned earlier. He actually doesn't really humanise her, and although he'd never admit it, the way his sister views Astrid and the way he does is the very same. He's just a man, treating women the way he is programmed to treat them.

The peak of the arc is the reveal that Silvio and Suzana are swingers. There have been signs the whole time, and I think it was obvious, due to the comments they made to Jude and Astrid, and the constant displays of affection in front of them, but the hangout at the house while things are extremely fraught between Jude and Astrid is the height of it.

“He’s selfish?” I don’t answer. “Does it run in the family, selfishness?”

(do you want to share your girlfriend with me, please?)

I think that Jude and Astrid's lack of awareness about what was blatantly going on around them is echoed by their ignorance of one another, too. They could not read one another, could not communicate effectively, so it only makes sense that they were blind to external vibes too. Jude is completely blindsided, and shocked to discover that Astrid feels the same.

“I didn’t invite them here so that we could… swap partners, or whatever it was they wanted to do. I didn’t realise they were like that.”

This is a bonding moment for them. For the first time, they are connecting as equals. Not a man who hero worships his beautiful girlfriend, and a woman who indulges him. The dynamic was making them both miserable. Jude, resentful and self-loathing, and Astrid, withdrawn and bored. They both need a shake-up, and now they have an opportunity to mend things.

The most important line is this:

“Well, I’m human.” “I see that.”

At last, Jude can see Astrid for who she is, rather than who he wants her to be, or as she wants to be perceived.

They laugh together, share their outrage about Silvio and Suzana, and talk candidly about their feelings. Astrid admits guiltily that she feels turned on by the idea that someone could want her so much that he was willing to break boundaries to get her. She needs external approval from other men to be happy, more than Jude can give her. I think this is a moment where he accepts this. If she has to be seen like that, flirt with waiters etc, then he can choose to be fine with it.

She is a woman who chooses to be seen as something more than human, I think. Turned on by the idea of being a male fantasy. I'd love to expand on this further in future, and learn why this is, and what this means for her.

Finally, they have sex, and Jude gives into his desires, though not completely free of the guilt.

“I love you, you know,” I whisper. A low laugh from her then. “Yes, Jude. I haven’t forgotten.”

And so the arc is finished, and this crazy couple move forward with a new, deeper knowledge and understanding of one another. Each fully accepting the other at last. Flaws, weirdness and all.

#lucky boy extras #commentary #ts4

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alastor-and-adam · 1 month ago

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Welcome to Our Blog

Presented by Adam (the First and Most Perfect Man) and Alastor (the Delightful Radio Demon)

Art by @YoiteArt on Twitter/X

Adam: Of course, I’ll start. As the first man—the literal blueprint for perfection—it's only fitting that I set the tone here. Welcome to the greatest blog you'll ever read. Why? Because I’m on it.

Alastor: Ahaha! Now, now, Adam, let’s not scare them off with your endless self-aggrandizing right out of the gate. Greetings, dear readers! Alastor here, your charming host and co-author. Together, Adam and I will enlighten, entertain, and likely horrify you in equal measure.

Adam: Speak for yourself, Radio Boy. I’m here to teach, inspire, and remind everyone how lucky they are to bask in my presence.

Alastor: Ahem. While Adam prattles on about his... shall we say “greatness”... let me assure you this blog isn’t just a shrine to his ego. We’ll cover a delightful mix of musings, stories, and—most importantly—tales of our darling Evelyn. Isn’t she just the sweetest thing?

Evelyn: *looking like a deer in headlights at the sudden attention*

Adam: My genes, obviously. She’s perfect.

Alastor: Aaaand back to Adam. But before we dive into the chaos, let’s lay down some rules, shall we?

The Rules of Our Blog

1. No Minors Allowed.

Adam: This is Hell. Not daycare. If you’re under 18, get out.

Alastor: Quite right! Some topics may be unsuitable for impressionable young minds. And by some topics, I mean most topics.

2. Be Respectful.

Alastor: Discourse and debate are welcome—encouraged, even—but rudeness will not be tolerated. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all.

Adam: Translation: play nice, or Alastor might rip your spine out. Me? I’ll just make you regret existing.

3. No Spamming.

Adam: We don’t care about your scams, your sob stories, or your pyramid schemes. Post garbage, and you’ll be dealt with.

Alastor: And by “dealt with,” Adam means I’ll creatively banish you. Do try to avoid it; cleaning up the mess is such a bore.

4. Don’t Talk About the Fruit🍎

Adam: One time. ONE. DAMN. TIME.

Alastor: Ahaha! Oh, come now, Adam. You did doom humanity. That’s quite the legacy!

Adam: And you’ll doom yourself if you bring it up again. Moving on.

5. Evelyn is Off-Limits.

Alastor: Evelyn is our precious little treasure, and she’s absolutely not to be mocked, insulted, or criticized.

Adam: She’s my legacy—my perfection incarnate. If you so much as look at her wrong, I’ll make sure your afterlife becomes a personal nightmare.

Alastor: Wait don’t you have Cain, Abel and Seth?

Adam: *crosses his arms* I don’t want to talk about it…

6. Keep Your Soul to Yourself.

Alastor: While I appreciate the enthusiasm, I’m not here to make deals. I’ve got enough souls to keep me entertained for centuries.

Adam: And I’m not interested. I’ve already been cursed once, thanks.

7. Stay On Topic... Mostly.

Adam: If I’m giving you wisdom, listen. Don’t derail it with nonsense.

Alastor: Although, a bit of creative flair is welcome! I do enjoy a good story or clever quip. Just don’t bore us.

8. No Evelyn Slander.

Adam: Didn’t we already cover this?

Alastor: Yes, but it bears repeating. Just don’t.

9. Dark Humor is Fine—But Watch Yourself.

Adam: We’re not your therapists, and we don’t want to be. Keep it funny, not pathetic.

Alastor: Well said! Clever wit is appreciated, but tasteless drivel? Why, that’s just embarrassing—for you.

10. Have Fun—or Else.

Alastor: This blog is meant to entertain! If you’re not enjoying yourself, perhaps the problem isn’t us, but you.

Adam: And if you’re going to whine, I suggest you leave before I block you into oblivion.

Adam: There. Rules laid out. Can we get to the part where I talk about myself now?

Alastor: Ahaha! Oh, Adam, you never stop. But yes, dear readers, dive in and enjoy. And remember: everything here is done with love, mischief, and just a hint of malevolence.

Adam: Mostly from me. You’re welcome.

Alastor: Ahem. Of course. Welcome, and enjoy the show!

#Alastor and Adam Blog #alastor hazbin hotel #adam hazbin hotel #Alastor X Adam #adam x alastor #baby Evelyn #angelicradio #hazbin fankid #alastor the radio demon #adam the first man

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sapphiresaphics · 23 days ago

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The problem with subverting expectations is that unfortunately no matter how well it was done, a large percentage of the people watching would have preferred the thing being subverted as it was unaltered. They genuinely don’t want their expectations subverted. They had expectations, and those expectations were not met, so it upsets them.

It’s even weirder when expectations are subverted but ultimately in the end they actually do the thing they set out to do. The best example I can think of was in The Last Jedi. Rey has found Luke and handed him his lightsaber, and everyone in the audience thinks he’s going to take it up like the bad-ass Luke they remember him being.

And then he just chucks it over his shoulder and walks away. Luke even mocks Rey’s confusion at this saying “what do you want me to do? March out and take on the first order all by myself?”

Guess what Luke does in the end of the film.

Luke marches out and takes on the first order all by himself.

And yet, despite the film giving us what we wanted in the end in a really cool action and fight sequence… that initial subversion still to this day has internet reactionaries and Star Wars “fans” up in arms. Because HOW DARE Luke treat his lightsaber so carelessly! Doesn’t matter that the film explains why, or that we still get to see the bad-ass fight in the end. Their expectations were subverted and it angers them! Like object permanent confused babies by a game of peek-a-boo.

I think about this whenever I see the complaints about Arcane and how some fans wanted to see certain things happen. They had expectations, and Arcane was not interested in fulfilling those expectations. Or if they did, it wasn’t quite in the way they were hoping for so… “BAD WRITING1!@!!”

I see that a lot in the talk about pitfighter Vi. They saw previews it was coming so they set their expectations high snd we’re hoping for it to be the whole episode. And while we get Vi in her pitfighter goth phase for multiple episodes, people were expecting the pitfighter fights/aspect to be more than a really good musical montage, so… “BAD WRITING1!@!!”

It just feels really… shallow? I find expectations being subverted to be a lot of fun and can be super clever. It’s just so depressing some people aren’t capable of enjoying things like that, especially with how ANGRY they can get too. Like the film was somehow robbing them or tricking them or making them feel stupid or something.

There’s probably some sort of psychological reason for that…

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #media literacy #the last jedi #arcane vi #rey skywalker #violet arcane

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especiallyhaytham · 25 days ago

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The Mystery of Hope and Gist in Rogue

So, here's the backstory. I always thought it was odd how Hope Jensen's character design is so... Victorian. No, actually. As someone mildly versed in Georgian fashion, her clothes are quite literally from another time, and she looks nothing like the other characters in the game. It's such an anomaly, not to mention ugly (subjectively), and it's bothered me for years.

First of all, I happily recognize that Assassin's Creed is allowed to take liberties with fashion history. In any historical entertainment piece, there's usually a few good reasons why the clothing isn't 100% accurate. I also recognize that certain design choices might be made to convey a character's personality, which is a whole other kind of analysis that isn't going to be relevant here. We're purely talking about the physical style components from now on.

While Ubisoft can sometimes go a little crazy with character designs, they aren't in the habit of bouncing completely off-the-wall. They do know the rules, and they know how and when to break them. Many of the designs in Assassin's Creed are actually quite clever in how they play with fashion history. Connor's look seems inspired by military uniforms. Shay is clearly partial to greatcoats. If it was possible to be "sensibly Rococo", Haytham is.

But Hope is another story. Her dress isn't a well-researched artistic interpretation of the 1750s; her silhouette is from another century. Puffed sleeves absolutely do not belong here, and neither does that frilly brooch or layered nightmare skirt. Nothing about her evokes Colonial New England, except for her lace cuffed sleeves (it should be said, that's the only part of her outfit that I like). She looks far more like a Frankenstein amalgamation of the late 1800s.

At first I thought this might just be some weird one-off on the developers' part, since Assassin's Creed doesn't have the best track record visually designing female characters compared to male ones (Like Élise? Not as diabolically out-of-place as Hope, but still pretty bad). But then recently, I found myself taking a good look at Christopher Gist. "What in the world?" I thought. "There's another one?"

His design is also very oddly Victorian. The waistcoat is what tipped me off, since pinstripes and decorative lapels were very much not a thing during this time. Lapels hardly existed at all in the 1700s, and only ever functionally (essentially an extra piece of fabric on your coat that could be pinned back in summer and buttoned up when it got cold), and pinstripes didn't first appear until much later, during the Victorian era. Perhaps Gist stands out a bit less than Hope, since his hat, cravat, and overcoat are pretty ambiguous when he's standing next to other 18th-century characters, but alone he looks like he'd be more at home in Red Dead Redemption.

So now there are not one, but two Victorian characters in a game that takes place over a hundred years before. Now I'm thinking that it's likely that they both came from the same source. The funniest thought I had was that maybe there was a junior developer who was really into Victorian fashion, and with the time and budget constraints, no one bothered to revise the designs. A less entertaining explanation is that maybe they were scrapped characters from Syndicate, which would have been in early development stages at this time.

Syndicate is the most plausible explanation, but at the same time Gist and Hope don't strike me as "Victorian England". I really don't know enough about 19th-century fashion to say for sure, but after making the comparison to RDR, they certainly seem to be leaning more American Western. It is the same time period, but styles varied slightly across the continents.

After doing some research, I found a game published by Ubisoft in 2013 titled Call of Juarez: Gunslinger, which is set in *drumroll* the Old American West. Considering Rogue was released only a year later, as well as Rogue being infamous for borrowing so much from Black Flag, I would not be surprised if assets from other projects also found their way into the game.

The thing though, is that Call of Juarez was not directly developed by Ubisoft, while Rogue was, and I don't know how feasible it is that they would share assets. Again, maybe they were stolen from Syndicate, since I can't pinpoint any part of their designs that would say otherwise (other than Gist generally looking like a cowboy). A third explanation is that perhaps Ubisoft was developing their own Assassin's Creed Western game which was scrapped early, though I haven't found anything solid on this.

It's a mystery that we can't really solve without directly speaking to someone who was on development (which believe me, I have so many questions about Rogue I would sell my soul to interview someone). But in lieu of that, even though I can't parse over every single detail, I think I've come up with some reasonable speculations. If you're like me and ever wondered why Hope and Gist look the way they do, hopefully now you know a little bit more.

#hope jensen #christopher gist #assassin's creed: rogue #especially haytham

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engeorged · 2 years ago

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Let Me Tell You About Jackson

Artwork by @swolescruff

Words by @engeorged

Chapter One: Jackson

Let me tell you about Jackson. We’ve all met someone like him before. Usually hanging around in the VIP area at a nightclub, or in some private members club. At first glance you’ll be instantly drawn into his good looks and expensive clothes. If you manage to talk to him, you’ll be charmed by his wit and the attention he gives you. However after a few minutes you’ll notice him beginning to look through you at a hotter person behind you. Or he’ll say something slightly uncomfortable about his politics. He might even begin name dropping so that you know that he’s important, or assuredly mansplaining something you actually know more than him about. You get the picture.

Jackson was the only child of two very wealthy overachieving parents. I wish I could say they were actually quite nice but they weren’t. Not that Jackson saw much of them. He was in private boarding school by the age of two, all the way through to being 18. He spent the winter with family friends skiing and the summer on yachts sailing round the world and usually looked after by nannies who lasted only a few weeks due to his dad hitting on them, or his mother actually hitting them.

He was actually quite an average looking kid until he was about 18 when puberty hit and he suddenly won the gene lottery. Neither of his parents were especially attractive or tall and so it was a surprise to everyone when one day this fine specimen emerged from his spotty cocoon. He was tall and broad shouldered which framed his nicely muscled body well. Having played rugby all the way through secondary school he had gained some serious muscle tone. Thick arms and legs with a perfectly round ass and a defined eight pack. His dirty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes definitely turned a lot of heads and he very much knew it. Even his dark body hair was perfectly sculpted in all the right places, without use of creams or razor blades. Jackson was Hot.

His love of rugby meant that he got a very unnecessary scholarship to Oxford university where, for want of any actual passions, he predictably studied classics. Looking at him, you would assume he was as dumb as he was arrogant, but he was unfortunately also very clever. He easily achieved a first class degree with honours. But that wasn’t really what he loved, it was rugby that was the real passion in his life and his natural height and physique meant he was actually pretty good at it. The team became to him the family that he never really had. Now don’t get me wrong, he definitely found belonging there, but in actual fact it wasn’t as sentimental as it sounds. He also managed to find the other thing he desperately wanted, which was a steady stream of gay and bicurious muscled studs to fuck. Being as hot as he was, there was no shortage of conquests for him. He had pretty much slept his way through all of the hunks on campus that had met his exacting standards. And then quite a few more.

By the end of his three year degree he didn’t really have a sense of what he wanted to do with his life so he chose a masters degree at random from the prospectus and did that. It meant he could continue living in a beautiful city, in the beautiful apartment his parents had paid for, playing rugby and sleeping his way through the college. By the age of 26 he had racked up 3 masters degrees in totally random subjects and was working on a PhD.

If you’re wondering why I know so much about this walking gonad it’s because he is me! I am Jackson. And I’m writing this to tell you about the day everything changed.

Chapter Two: Nagyifu

It was the summer of 2018 when I found myself on tour with the rugby team in the middle of Europe. I’d only really gone on the tour because I was desperately trying to sleep with the captain of the team. He was telling everyone he was straight but I knew better. He was way too good looking to be straight and I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d succumb to my charms. We were in Bulgaria or Hungary or somewhere at the time and to cut a long story very short, turns out he was in fact very gay but unfortunately also very clingy. I had avoided him for a few days but it was getting harder in such a small hotel and so I had escaped, looking for something to do. We’d had a pretty wild party the night before after a heavy game in the pouring rain and I was hung over, bloated from the beer we had consumed and my muscles were aching hard from the effort of the match.

I decided I was in need of a massage and so I’d googled massage places and came across one, conveniently downtown, called ‘Nagyifu’. It was a bit confusing but the Trip Advisor page gave it the highest rating in town, and one of the reviews had talking about a ‘big happy ending’ and I was definitely up for that. The weather was appalling but I had managed to find the place in a really seedy part of town. To be totally honest I was happy with that. It meant I was probably not going to bump into anyone I knew and that the prospect of a happy ending seemed even more likely.

I pushed through the beaded curtain of the doorway and went to the unmanned desk. I rang a bell and waited for someone to come greet me. The vibe of the place was surprisingly high end considering how rough the part of town was, and I was even more surprised to see the Greek God pushing his way from the back office. The guy was maybe 6 feet tall and even more stacked than I was. He was wearing an outfit of white linen which was slightly see through and I could see his impressive physique through it. I was definitely going to enjoy this massage. He greeted me, not in English and so I pulled out my phone and opened up google translate. I typed in that I wanted a massage, but when I pressed translate nothing happened. I seemed to be out of signal. We tried to communicate with each other but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I tried to indicate that I wanted a massage and that I was feeling bloated and hungover and he seemed to understand me.

He escorted me to a side room, chattering away in Hungarian. He showed me a pile of towels and indicated that I should take my clothes off. I would have expected him to have left at this point but he just stood there politely with his large hairy hands clasped in front of him. I began disrobing anyway, assuming it was just the local norm for him to stay whilst this happened. To be totally honest I was hoping he caught a good glimpse of my body. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, in fact, quite the opposite. I’ve already told you I’m pretty good looking, but I’m also very well endowed and honestly I used to really enjoy people's reactions to seeing him. (I promise I’m not as douchey now!). I stayed naked for a few moments longer than was actually necessary before wrapping a small towel around my waist.

Chapter Three: Tomas

The masseuse, who’s name I think was Tomas, simply smiled and walked me through to the treatment room where he showed me to a rounded and tiled massage table built into the floor. As I lay down on the contoured surface I discovered that it was heated and as the warmth permeated my aching muscles, I instantly felt relaxed. Tomas came round the side of me and handed me a small metal cup full of what I assumed to be a herbal tea. I later now know that it was a sort of muscle relaxant, but more about that later.

The whole environment put me at ease. Laying back on the bed, I felt like I had no cares in the world, let alone a clingy ex who was probably hunting for me as I lay there. As I finished the tea I could have easily fallen asleep, but Tomas came back and indicated that I should turn over. As expected, from his own muscled physique he had strong, firm and confident hands, and within minutes he was working out not only the tension in my own thick muscles, but also childhood traumas I wasn’t even aware of. I’d had plenty of massages in the past but this was next level magic. It was enough to make me believe in God!

Using a thick oil, he worked across my back and broad shoulders and all the way along my arms. My left shoulder always had tension in it after an injury but it now felt like I had a whole new arm! He even managed to massage tension out of my fingers. He shifted his attention to my tree trunk thighs, which were pretty sore from the game. I was beginning to think ahead to the big happy ending Trip Advisor had promised. If this guy's hands were doing this to my muscles I couldn’t wait to see what he was gonna do to the rest of me!

After he had finished on my thighs, he spent a little while on my feet and then moved back up to my ass. I don’t think I’ve ever had my ass massaged before but he really went to town on it. I was literally in heaven and he was only half way. He indicated for me to turn over and so I obliged. Honestly I would probably have done anything he asked of me right now!

As I turned I noticed he had wheeled in some sort of machine and left it next to the table. I was a little groggy from the massage but after a second I vaguely recognised it as a colonic irrigator. I’d had a few before at some luxury spas and so I was open to them. It was quite a lot bigger than I’d seen before but I just assumed it was an older model or something. The tubes seemed to be attached to the bed though or something so I couldn’t quite work it out but before I started worrying he began working on my chest. He spent a while on my meaty pecs, rubbing a thick oil into my hairy muscles. Unusually though he didn’t stop there, he kept going down to my stomach muscles. Normally in a massage they will do the pecs and shoulders and then move down to the upper thighs but I didn’t really think anything of it, I was so relaxed. He really began to work the muscles of my abdomen, rubbing loads more of the thick oil into them. At the ripe old age of 26 I was a bit thicker than I used to be. Not fat in any way but my narrow waist was a bit less narrow these days. My flat eight pack had given way to a thick defined six pack anyway.

I think at some point I had fallen asleep but a low whirring woke me up. I glanced to the left and saw that the colonic machine had begun springing into life. I followed the tubes and saw that they fed into the bed at the side and as I looked I felt a pressure building in my ass. An opening in the bed had given way to the metal end of the tube which was gently pushing up into me. I panicked at first but the oil he had used was working as a lubricant and the head slipped up inside me easily. The tube was a lot bigger than I had remembered but then this was a system I had not experienced before, so I shrugged it off. I felt the familiar surge of water as the first flush entered me. It lasted about 20 seconds and I felt the machine begin to pull it out again. We cycled through a few more times and the warm water entered inside me and washed me out ready for the next, longer flush. Tomas moved to my head and began a deep scalp massage which sent me into an even more blissed out state. I guessed this was why I was on my back and not on my side and I just relaxed into it.

Chapter Four: The Treatment

I awoke moments later to feel an intense pressure on my abdomen as if someone was pressing hard on me. I looked down and was confronted with a wall of hairy flesh. It took me a while to realise that what I was seeing was in fact my own skin. My belly had blown out several inches and was rounded out, filled with water. Whatever setting the colonic was on had filled me out without taking the waste water out. It looked like I had swallowed a basketball. I searched the room and found Tomas standing behind me smiling. This made me relax slightly as it mustn't have been a glitch in the system but I tried to indicate to him that it was uncomfortable. I wanted to show him but I found that I couldn't really move my arms. The effects of the tea and the massage had made me virtually immobile. I lay there with my stomach distended for a few moments, not really knowing what to do until I heard the welcome sound of the machine sucking the water back out. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw my abdomen deflating and watched the remaining contents flushed out through the transparent tube. The waste water was clear, so the colonic must have rinsed me out now and that just must have been the final flush.

It was a few minutes until the water stopped which made me think about how much must have been up in there. The machine stopped whirring and I relaxed, feeling relieved that the pressure had dropped. Less than a few seconds later I heard the machine start up again and I once again felt the surge of water inside me. Glancing at the tubes, what was now going into me was a much darker thicker liquid and I could feel the change in consistency as it pushed it way into my now empty insides. As I looked down the muscled furry ridges of my stomach began to rise again, the definition beginning to disappear as I began to fill up with the fluid. Tomas said something in Hungarian which I didn't understand but his tone was calm so I just lay back and assumed it was some sort of treatment he was administering to me. I could feel my stomach expanding as the thick liquid began distending my normally flat abdomen. I was fully awake now and even though I couldn't really move I was very aware of the stretching of my belly. Within a few minutes I was back to the same size I was when I last woke up but the machine made no sound that it was stopping. The liquid kept coming and I could feel my skin stretching to accommodate the volume that was entering me. I could feel the pressure getting more and more intense as I quite literally blew up like a balloon. My belly now rounded way out, the machine began to sound like it was slowing down and began to beep slowly. Tomas jumped into action and instead of turning it off began covering my belly with more of the massage oil. As he began to work it in, at first gently, he began working the skin on my taut gut, pulling gently to the edges. The whole time this was happening the machine was continuing its gradual filling. My belly was getting rounder and rounder and tighter and tighter. At that point I thought I was going to burst, the machine let out three long beeps and stopped. I lay there totally engorged waiting for the machine to empty me back out. But that relief never came, instead Tomas just continued massaging my comically oversized belly. The pressure was intense but I have to admit I could feel it decreasing, whatever was in the oil was clearly helping him stretch out my belly. I became aware that that wasn’t the only thing that was engorged. I was rock hard underneath my towel. I’d like to say that it was just the liquid rushing past my prostate that caused that reaction but I have to admit I was very aroused at this point. I’m not sure what exactly was doing it for me, but I wasn’t hating it!

Chapter Five: The Big Happy Ending

I lay there for a while just feeling a whole range of emotions. In the main, my focus was on the incredible pressure that was currently overwhelming my belly. It was like simultaneously being pushed hard in the stomach, whilst somehow feeling as stuffed as a Christmas turkey in December. The skin on my belly looked taut and firm and in a lot of ways I desperately wanted to touch it but I couldn’t really move much still.

My emotions were all over the place as well. I should have been a lot more panicked than I was but the overriding emotion was just the thrill of what was happening. I was surprised to realise how much I was enjoying this. It was probably the most alive I’d felt in a long while without hanging out the back of some random hot dude. I looked round to see where Tomas had gone and I saw him playing around with the colonic machine. I was momentarily disappointed as I thought that the liquid would soon be pulled out but as I looked I saw him switch a switch. I felt the tube move in my ass but nothing else changed. The pressure remained the same.

As I looked down at my belly and back up at Tomas I saw him pull a new tube from the side of the machine. It was clear and slightly more rigid that the other tubes and had a valve at the top end. As if in slow motion I saw Tomas pull the tube up to his mouth and take a deep breath. He wrapped his mouth round the tube and blew out hard and I felt his breath push itself into me. The thick liquid inside me made audible bubbling noises as he began to pump me up even further. I couldn’t quite believe what was happening. I felt my already loaded belly begin to distend even further. Before I could object Tomas took a second breath and blew that into the tube. Helpless, I watched as he continued to pump me up like a balloon. My belly was past ridiculous now and was beginning to expand not only forwards but also to the sides as my insides stretched to contain the additional air.

I could see by the seventh breath that he was beginning to struggle. His cheeks puffed out as he turned slightly purple. With a lot of effort he managed two further blows and then stopped after the ninth. My belly was now totally maxed out. I’d come into the place a little puffy from beer but basically with washboard abs. After my treatment I was now looking pregnant with twin elephants. Lying back at an angle all I could see was my own flesh curving off in front of me. I had swollen up so much I was practically pinned underneath it.

I was struggling to breathe at this point, but was beginning to regain the use of my arms. I tentatively reached out my fingertips to touch my own belly. The surface was warm but rigid. I was used to feeling my own firm muscles but this was something else. The skin was stretched tight, over a wall of solid contents. The liquid and air combo inside me was incredibly high pressure. I felt if I was too near anything sharp the whole place would go up. I didn’t really have the brain capacity to process what was going on, I simply lay there, too vast to move and too stunned to care. So this was my happy ending?

I noticed that as I breathed only my chest was moving up and down. My belly so distended it was not moving an inch. As I struggled for breath, bloated and I’m ashamed to say horny, my whole life flashed in front of me and I began to consider everything.

Epilogue

Why am I telling you this? I think it’s because of what happened following this experience. I’d gone through my whole life with everything handed to me. My parents wealth and my own good looks meant that people would do exactly what I wanted all the time. My experience in the Hungarian spa made me feel totally out of control and it changed me. Having someone else do that to me was somehow cathartic. In the months that followed I started taking responsibility for my own life. I finished up my PhD finally and started playing rugby semi professionally. But that did come second to my new job. I put my money and my brains to use and I opened a spa back in Oxford. A spa for spoiled rich kids who had more money than sense. I could give them the same experience that I had had but then I could help them through the emotions afterwards. It’s like a sensory deprivation tank but you’re filled with the water!

And my chief masseuse? Turns out Tomas rather enjoyed his work! And by his work I mean me!

Find the rest of my stories here

#gainer artwork #gainer fiction #gainer story #gainer stories #male belly inflation #inflation fiction #belly expansion #belly fiction #stuffing art #inflated belly

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aihoshiino · 11 months ago

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chapter 140 thoughts!

Reminder: because of the content of this arc in genera and this chapter in particular I will unavoidably have to discuss CSA and topics related to it, including grooming, emotional abuse and sexual assault. I do not discuss them in great detail, but if you very understandably just aren't in the headspace for that, no hard feelings - look after yourself and I'll see you next time.

So a lot of stuff goes on in this chapter but weirdly, I feel like I don't have a lot of stuff to say about it compared to the last few. Partially because it speaks so strongly for itself but mostly because, sort of similarly to 137, this is just clarification and reiteration of some themes and information that's been floating around loosely for however many chapters and we are just now actually pinning it all down into something more coherent.

Or at least, 15 Year Lie is pinning this all down into something more coherent. We're definitely playing a bit more with like, presentation and diegesis in these sections of the movie than we were with previous scenes. With the B-Komachi scenes, we very rarely fully entered the in-universe diegesis of the movie and the scenes being filmed quite firmly remain scenes being filmed by actors who are having their own thoughts, feelings and character arcs both about and separate from the material.

By contrast, both this and last chapter lean more into presenting these scenes as full flashbacks, fully immersing us in the material that the movie's diegesis essentially overtakes and becomes the manga's diegesis. It not only creates a sense of immediacy but also one of authenticity - by removing all the reminders that this is something being manufactured, a piece of in-universe dramatized fiction, the reader is invited to accept it uncritically as fact.

And honestly? I think this is a very clever trick. While I do think the broad emotional arc and relationship beats we're being presented with here are probably more or less true, there's a big question still hanging over the movie's presentation of things: how much of this is true and why is it being shown to us? This is a movie about Ai's life supposedly, right? So if this is the case, what's with this sudden POV switch to Kamiki… and how exactly did Aqua (and the rest of his 15YL collaborators in general) get this level of insight into 'Boy A'?

But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit…

Like I said up top, I think a lot of this chapter kind of speaks for itself, so all I'm gonna say is that this did a huge amount to really endear me to the HKAI dynamic, at least as 15YL is portraying things. It's just such a nice change to see Ai bouncing off someone her own age, squabbling and getting along and butting heads like a regular kid. It does a lot to really get across just what it was about this relationship that drew the two of them to each other. They have a good rapport and some cute chemistry and I'm finding myself rooting for them even in spite of knowing how it all ends.

The scene of them at the restaurant was honestly just a complete and total delight. It's been so fucking long since we got any content of Ai just being her likable goobery self so getting to see that again (and her and Hikaru's shocked and appalled reactions to the bill) was just so good.

The short exchange that follows is also so, so important, I think. Similarly to an early AQKN moment, we are shown Ai from Hikaru's POV - in which she wears a lovely smile and stands framed as the focal point of not one but two panels of brilliant light. This feels like a sort of answer to something I noted last chapter where HKAI's relationship seemed to be in the process of echoing both the AQAK and AQKN relationships - in Hikaru, Ai sees someone who has the potential to understand her. In Ai, Hikaru sees light. I'm interested to see if this will keep getting reiterated on as we get more scenes of them together.

god the more details we get about Airi's abuse of Hikaru, the more vile she becomes. The money she gives him rings eerily true to the way real life abusers of this nature really do use money and material gifts as a method of control over their victims. And it's also not hard for me to see her as using this to frame things as somehow transactional - to pretend Hikaru has any power in this entirely unbalanced dynamic.

I continue to be impressed with how OnK is portraying Kamiki's abuse. As I mentioned last time, I often find that manga is pretty tasteless and sometimes even downright exploitative and offensive in its portrayals of sexual abuse, framing it in a titillating way for the viewer to gawk at. By contrast, not only is OnK's portrayal a layer removed from the actual events, being in-universe fiction, but it gives us no lurid details to gawk it. We are forced to look only at Hikaru's pain and the emotional reality of the horror and exploitation he's experiencing and the story dares us to flinch and look away. Just like plenty of people do.

I also really appreciate that the story leaves absolutely no room for plausible deniability and just outright calls Airi exactly what she is: a pedophile. I was a little worried with last chapter that there was going to be an element of like 'oh Hikaru is just so cute even an adult woman can't help herself' but once again, the story pulls no punches in calling this abuse what it is and the perpetrator what she is. Harrowing as the material is, I'm glad that it's being handled well thus far and I hope Akasaka doesn't flub it.

that said i have to ask. where in god's name is the intimacy coordinator on this set.

The scene that follows is also very interesting for all the reasons I mentioned above. For Oshi no Ko as a manga, it's clear this material is here to challenge the reader and ask us to see Kamiki as human, to try and empathize with him despite his reprehensible actions. What purpose this monologue serves for the in-universe 15 Year Lie movie is less clear. But in both circumstances, I still have to ask: to what end, exactly?

After all, isn't this a movie overflowing with spite and hate? A script written for Aqua's revenge that will allow him to kill his father? If so, why are we being challenged to empathize with Kamiki? Why did Aqua write a script that portrays his father as a victim? And how, exactly, did he come to such a deep and nuanced understanding of this man he hates so much when it took Ruby three and a half mental breakdowns to start understanding her beloved mother?

This all raises a whole lot of questions about exactly what the final movie is going to turn out like and exactly what purposes it really serves and I'm tentatively excited to get some answers. I'm definitely still more than a little fatigued with the movie arc as a whole and a lot of my biggest issues with it have yet to really be resolved but I'm at least more interested than I have been before about where things are going to go.

Holy crap, no break next week… are we beating the biweekly allegations, gang???

#oshi no ko #oshi no posting #chapter reviews #onk spoilers #csa mention

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