#they should do a third version with the “three” of us

[jeffbiblesupremacy]

The most iconic audio - Updated version

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The US Copyright Office frees the McFlurry

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

I have spent a quarter century obsessed with the weirdest corner of the weirdest section of the worst internet law on the US statute books: Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the 1998 law that makes it a felony to help someone change how their own computer works so it serves them, rather than a distant corporation.

Under DMCA 1201, giving someone a tool to "bypass an access control for a copyrighted work" is a felony punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500k fine – for a first offense. This law can refer to access controls for traditional copyrighted works, like movies. Under DMCA 1201, if you help someone with photosensitive epilepsy add a plug-in to the Netflix player in their browser that blocks strobing pictures that can trigger seizures, you're a felon:

https://lists.w3.org/Archives/Public/public-html-media/2017Jul/0005.html

But software is a copyrighted work, and everything from printer cartridges to car-engine parts have software in them. If the manufacturer puts an "access control" on that software, they can send their customers (and competitors) to prison for passing around tools to help them fix their cars or use third-party ink.

Now, even though the DMCA is a copyright law (that's what the "C" in DMCA stands for, after all); and even though blocking video strobes, using third party ink, and fixing your car are not copyright violations, the DMCA can still send you to prison, for a long-ass time for doing these things, provided the manufacturer designs their product so that using it the way that suits you best involves getting around an "access control."

As you might expect, this is quite a tempting proposition for any manufacturer hoping to enshittify their products, because they know you can't legally disenshittify them. These access controls have metastasized into every kind of device imaginable.

Garage-door openers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Refrigerators:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/12/digital-feudalism/#filtergate

Dishwashers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/03/cassette-rewinder/#disher-bob

Treadmills:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/22/vapescreen/#jane-get-me-off-this-crazy-thing

Tractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

Cars:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty

And even printer paper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/16/unauthorized-paper/#dymo-550

DMCA 1201 is the brainchild of Bruce Lehmann, Bill Clinton's Copyright Czar, who was repeatedly warned that cancerous proliferation this was the foreseeable, inevitable outcome of his pet policy. As a sop to his critics, Lehman added a largely ornamental safety valve to his law, ordering the US Copyright Office to invite submissions every three years petitioning for "use exemptions" to the blanket ban on circumventing access-controls.

I call this "ornamental" because if the Copyright Office thinks that, say, it should be legal for you to bypass an access control to use third-party ink in your printer, or a third-party app store in your phone, all they can do under DMCA 1201 is grant you the right to use a circumvention tool. But they can't give you the right to acquire that tool.

I know that sounds confusing, but that's only because it's very, very stupid. How stupid? Well, in 2001, the US Trade Representative arm-twisted the EU into adopting its own version of this law (Article 6 of the EUCD), and in 2003, Norway added the law to its lawbooks. On the eve of that addition, I traveled to Oslo to debate the minister involved:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/28/clintons-ghost/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

The minister praised his law, explaining that it gave blind people the right to bypass access controls on ebooks so that they could feed them to screen readers, Braille printers, and other assistive tools. OK, I said, but how do they get the software that jailbreaks their ebooks so they can make use of this exemption? Am I allowed to give them that tool?

No, the minister said, you're not allowed to do that, that would be a crime.

Is the Norwegian government allowed to give them that tool? No. How about a blind rights advocacy group? No, not them either. A university computer science department? Nope. A commercial vendor? Certainly not.

No, the minister explained, under his law, a blind person would be expected to personally reverse engineer a program like Adobe E-Reader, in hopes of discovering a defect that they could exploit by writing a program to extract the ebook text.

Oh, I said. But if a blind person did manage to do this, could they supply that tool to other blind people?

Well, no, the minister said. Each and every blind person must personally – without any help from anyone else – figure out how to reverse-engineer the ebook program, and then individually author their own alternative reader program that worked with the text of their ebooks.

That is what is meant by a use exemption without a tools exemption. It's useless. A sick joke, even.

The US Copyright Office has been valiantly holding exemptions proceedings every three years since the start of this century, and they've granted many sensible exemptions, including ones to benefit people with disabilities, or to let you jailbreak your phone, or let media professors extract video clips from DVDs, and so on. Tens of thousands of person-hours have been flushed into this pointless exercise, generating a long list of things you are now technically allowed to do, but only if you are a reverse-engineering specialist type of computer programmer who can manage the process from beginning to end in total isolation and secrecy.

But there is one kind of use exception the Copyright Office can grant that is potentially game-changing: an exemption for decoding diagnostic codes.

You see, DMCA 1201 has been a critical weapon for the corporate anti-repair movement. By scrambling error codes in cars, tractors, appliances, insulin pumps, phones and other devices, manufacturers can wage war on independent repair, depriving third-party technicians of the diagnostic information they need to figure out how to fix your stuff and keep it going.

This is bad enough in normal times, but during the acute phase of the covid pandemic, hospitals found themselves unable to maintain their ventilators because of access controls. Nearly all ventilators come from a single med-tech monopolist, Medtronic, which charges hospitals hundreds of dollars to dispatch their own repair technicians to fix its products. But when covid ended nearly all travel, Medtronic could no longer provide on-site calls. Thankfully, an anonymous hacker started building homemade (illegal) circumvention devices to let hospital technicians fix the ventilators themselves, improvising housings for them from old clock radios, guitar pedals and whatever else was to hand, then mailing them anonymously to hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#medtronic-again

Once a manufacturer monopolizes repair in this way, they can force you to use their official service depots, charging you as much as they'd like; requiring you to use their official, expensive replacement parts; and dictating when your gadget is "too broken to fix," forcing you to buy a new one. That's bad enough when we're talking about refusing to fix a phone so you buy a new one – but imagine having a spinal injury and relying on a $100,000 exoskeleton to get from place to place and prevent muscle wasting, clots, and other immobility-related conditions, only to have the manufacturer decide that the gadget is too old to fix and refusing to give you the technical assistance to replace a watch battery so that you can get around again:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/9/26/24255074/former-jockey-michael-straight-exoskeleton-repair-battery

When the US Copyright Office grants a use exemption for extracting diagnostic codes from a busted device, they empower repair advocates to put that gadget up on a workbench and torture it into giving up those codes. The codes can then be integrated into an unofficial diagnostic tool, one that can make sense of the scrambled, obfuscated error codes that a device sends when it breaks – without having to unscramble them. In other words, only the company that makes the diagnostic tool has to bypass an access control, but the people who use that tool later do not violate DMCA 1201.

This is all relevant this month because the US Copyright Office just released the latest batch of 1201 exemptions, and among them is the right to circumvent access controls "allowing for repair of retail-level food preparation equipment":

https://publicknowledge.org/public-knowledge-ifixit-free-the-mcflurry-win-copyright-office-dmca-exemption-for-ice-cream-machines/

While this covers all kinds of food prep gear, the exemption request – filed by Public Knowledge and Ifixit – was inspired by the bizarre war over the tragically fragile McFlurry machine. These machines – which extrude soft-serve frozen desserts – are notoriously failure-prone, with 5-16% of them broken at any given time. Taylor, the giant kitchen tech company that makes the machines, charges franchisees a fortune to repair them, producing a steady stream of profits for the company.

This sleazy business prompted some ice-cream hackers to found a startup called Kytch, a high-powered automation and diagnostic tool that was hugely popular with McDonald's franchisees (the gadget was partially designed by the legendary hardware hacker Andrew "bunnie" Huang!).

In response, Taylor played dirty, making a less-capable clone of the Kytch, trying to buy Kytch out, and teaming up with McDonald's corporate to bombard franchisees with legal scare-stories about the dangers of using a Kytch to keep their soft-serve flowing, thanks to DMCA 1201:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Kytch isn't the only beneficiary of the new exemption: all kinds of industrial kitchen equipment is covered. In upholding the Right to Repair, the Copyright Office overruled objections of some of its closest historical allies, the Entertainment Software Association, Motion Picture Association, and Recording Industry Association of America, who all sided with Taylor and McDonald's and opposed the exemption:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/10/us-copyright-office-frees-the-mcflurry-allowing-repair-of-ice-cream-machines/

This is literally the only useful kind of DMCA 1201 exemption the Copyright Office can grant, and the fact that they granted it (along with a similar exemption for medical devices) is a welcome bright spot. But make no mistake, the fact that we finally found a narrow way in which DMCA 1201 can be made slightly less stupid does not redeem this outrageous law. It should still be repealed and condemned to the scrapheap of history.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[thatfrailsoul]

– If you love me, then love me from the heart

tarot pick a pile reading ( → 1, 2, 3 )

pictures from pinterest → one, two, three

Slow down for a moment. Give your conscious mind a moment of rest, allow it to step back. Instead, listen to your subconscious mind, to that inner voice, to the intuition that is guiding you to the pile in which your message hides. A message about the love that your heart is longing for. The one that you are hoping to find…

This is our third reading from our divinatory jukebox, inspired by possibly one of the most beautiful songs that I've ever heard - "Yağmur Yağar Taş Üstüne" by Mustafa Güzel and Batuhan Fırat (feat. Belkıs Güzel). I'm so deeply grateful for the person that suggested this song and gave us the possibility not only to discover it, but also to have such a deep and tender message through this reading. It is difficult to find the correct translation for this song, but I strongly encourage you to listen and read it, as it is simply magical in the softest way. I will leave you the links that were recommended to me here, in case you would like to listen to it. And if you would like to see a pick a pile reading inspired by your favourite song, you can discover more about how to participate here↓��!

♪♡♪ Divinatory Jukebox ♪♡♪

P.s. This is my first attempt at a longer reading, so if you feel comfortable please let me know in the comments what you think of it! If you prefer the shorter ones, if there is any aspect of the reading that makes it difficult for you to read it, or in case you will take a look at the extended version of this reading, if you would prefer to have something more specific in the additional messages of our readings - I will cherish your opinion and use it to get better with each post!♡

– Pile One,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the magician, the seven of swords, the page of coins

Love… you so often consider it just a feeling. A feeling that after all these years alive you still can really connect only to your own self. To you who seems to be the only one to feel it. To give it. While all that others do is receive it from you. Giving you back some gratitude perhaps, but never something that feels like what you gave them. Nothing that really fills in that part of you that was emptied for them… Making you really wonder if perhaps you got it wrong for all this time, if what you considered love never was it. If you imagined and expected it to be more, made it be more. Giving others much more than any person could ever give you in return, more than you ever should've done…

All that attention, that care, that genuine dedication that you put in, time after time, for every soul that was close, going out of your way to be there, right by their side for whatever might come… But still standing alone when facing your hardships, your difficult moments. Only you on the first line, out there in the cold, just you against this world… You genuinely never thought that this is what love would be. You expected something different from what you always received from others before. A complete opposite of having to do everything on your own, of that fear of what will happen to you if one day things in your life won't work anymore. You thought that it should be different from that because you know for sure that all those years of struggle alone never had even a bit of love in them, not from the people that were all that time around and close to you, but never did anything to help you, apart from telling you that this is how it works and that you should grow and take care of yourself on your own.

You alway imagined it, in those dark and painful nights, a hug, a caressing hand, a soft voice that assures you that everything will be okay, that it won't be forever this way, that you are not alone but you will always have them… So you did your best to be deserving, manifesting those tender and loving ways through your own self. Through the way you looked after others, the way you cared for them. Not only knowing that this is the right way to treat others, the way you genuinely want to be, but that it will be also worth it, that you will one day feel the love you gave, through others that will do the same… But it never came. You never saw your reflection in them, you never saw that part of your heart that you gave away being nourished and taken care of… it was always mostly just appreciated in the moment. And forgotten. Or worst, taken advantage of by expecting or asking more. So after all these tears, all the days dedicated to others instead of yourself, all your prayers for help and support, just a little comfort, that you never received because they are too busy to take a moment to give you back that love that you never declined them…. You started to think that you are in the wrong. That the love you always waited for is just a dream that the real concept of love can’t live up to. No matter how much you can look for it or want it. It is simply not something possible. And you are asking for too much.

{ What this is all for }

the judgement, the ace of swords, the lovers

This world, this life in general… has a really unique way of helping us to learn, of guiding us in or through the right direction and path, of letting us know that everything will be alright… Their language is so different from ours that we really struggle to understand it, those words that come in the form of pure feelings directly from within us. The ones that we should trust the most but never do so. Especially when it comes to love, something that we so much idealise, something that we have so much desire for.

Your heart is so sincerely tired, it went through so many betrayals and wounds inflicted by those that you tried to love. To the point that it simply feels that heaviness, that weight of this experience that you never really wanted to begin with. So you feel like you are ready for something else, for that love that you did all of this for, if it even exists at all. But are you really sure of it..? Of knowing so well the person that you would like to have by your side each day, their character, their behaviour, their values? Are you sure that you really did look for them and not just anyone who seemed to be able to love? Are you sure that you really know your worth and the one of your love, how one must love you in order to really give you all that your heart needs and wants? Or did you think that you knew it before, and now you are settling for much less than you are deserving of, because of the overwhelming loneliness and fear that it will be this way for the rest of your days unless you accept whatever one gives you in return? Are you sure that you are remaining loyal to your own self and your soul, instead of trying to “sell” it to whoever is close and good enough?

Because, even though perhaps you are not doing it consciously, but you are changing. Little by little. Not in terms of who you are, but in the ones of who you allow others to consider you. Leaving it up to them to decide how much you deserve, what is the worth of your love and care that you give them after letting them in, where only the most sincere, genuine and trustworthy should belong. You just give them your all. Every single time. Without any limit or hesitation. Not even when all that you receive is another rude phrase, some judgement, coldness and distance once they got up and healed thanks to your love. You just do it. For everyone. Not choosing carefully, but treating every soul as the right one. And not in a good sense. Instead, you are not listening anymore to your own intuition or feelings, not trusting your own mind that recognises the things that are too off. You are just rushing in this hunt for “the one” as the time passes and you feel more and more scared and alone. You are throwing yourself at every possible connection, all in, wandering each time that it goes wrong what you did too little or too much of. And not realising anymore that it is not about how you love, if it is in the right way or the wrong one… But rather who you choose, even force yourself, to love. And how they are simply not the right one, no matter how much you sacrifice of your own values and preferences, just to make them fit in the place that it is not theirs to hold.

All these bad endings, failures, mistakes that you consider yours to be responsible for… Are just a natural consequence of you settling for less than you really desire and need in order to feel loved. All that sadness, that loneliness… are only your subconscious, your own heart that you willingly ignored at first, but that after some time managed to be heard by you, letting you know that the way you are treated, the crumbs that you accept, will never truly be enough.

Those endings, those coincidences that are never in your favour, those interferences in your connections from the outside world… are just its efforts to protect you and communicate with you, trying to show you that refusing your own standards is not what can help you find them, that right person that you can truly feel safe and understood with… Adapting to another person and changing, it is not what will make them love you like you want. It will only keep you stuck in a play pretend. Put you in situations and relationships that you won’t feel appreciated and cherished in. It will consume you from inside out, slowly but surely, just because that one time you believed more others, than your own self that always knew what was best and right for you, what you really wanted to feel and who you wanted to have with you…

The time already passed, you already got through so much. You can’t do anything about it, and it is alright. But you can do yourself a favour and listen again to your own heart, before following that overwhelming fear and anxiety of being left alone in the cold and the dark. Your heart, your love, they are unique. But not at all the only ones. There is a soul, out there, that is your perfect reflection, someone who resonates so much with your ways of feeling love. And you can and will find them. The moment you stop seeing all that happened and you went through as the mistakes you made, ways that you can be better by being more or less… And start to see them as simply were and when the things didn't feel right for your heart, for who you are. Because those things that you felt the lack of, or perhaps as though it is just too much, are the ones that you need to hold onto, to look for in others. Instead of ignoring them, just so you can fit in the perfect version of love of someone and they can accept you, even though you are not theirs to love…

Although it seems so easy to do through words… We know too well that sometimes it is not enough to just choose to listen to our heart more. It is not always enough when we, in a certain way, forget its language, when we are not able anymore to comprehend it and separate it from the voice of our mind that we learned to follow… For this reason, there is an additional message for you, if you want to, in our extended version of this reading. What you need to know and remember as you continue on this journey, in this search of the right person for you, but also of the confidence and trust in your own heart, that will be the things that will change everything about the situation in which you are now.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

– Pile Two,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the wheel of fortune, the sun, the devil

It happened so many times… So often you felt overwhelmed, completely overtaken, by the life of someone you loved… Their problems, their difficulties, their fears that became yours. Yours to resolve, yours to take care of, yours to endure, even though you never could really influence them, not the things that depended on their actions, their decisions. Not when it was something that was purely theirs to create, destroy and live… It happened so many times, truly. You felt so often the urge to be there for someone, just because you knew them, just because you saw their struggle and couldn't help but to try to save them. Because this is what everyone deserves, yes… But with those that had a special place in your heart, those that you felt so close to you, so needed as the air you breathe, there never was a chance for you to say no. Not when your heart so ardently fought for them each day, no matter if it was your battle, your victory to take or not.

One by one they took a part of your life from you, gladly accepting your love, your support and help. And leaving it all to you, to your heart and mind that never were supposed to live so many lives, go through so many situations and emotions, bear so many consequences that were coming from actions that simply weren't yours. And they took it from you. That time and energy, the courage and strength that otherwise would have gone to you, to your own healing, growth and protection. They took it all from you and, worst of all, they were able to do so thanks to you. You who gave it to them, all that you had, in the name of the love that you felt. You that not even once regretted it. Not in the moment at least…

They took so much from you, making you get used to it, to have so little, to give away so much… That now, for once, you want to find someone different. Someone who will not take advantage of your heart. Someone who will understand that, no matter how much you want and try, it is not the right thing to leave it all up to you, to handle their life… Someone who, for once, just knows more, knows better. Someone who can teach you, gently, softly, as they protect you from your own self, from your own urge to disintegrate yourself for the happiness and safety of someone else.

For once… you want to be overwhelmed by someone's joy, their hope, their desire to be here and to live this life. Their strength to choose to see the best aspects of the things. Their strength to be patient, to have faith, to believe that everything will work out in the end. For once you want to receive that strength, not to give it away. For once you want to be protected, guided, as you trust someone who doesn't expect you to lead the way out of the darkness of their days…

It might sound selfish to some, so entitled to look for someone who has it all figured out, who has better and more control of their life… But you are simply tired. And a little lost, if one can say the truth. Tired of figuring everything out constantly, keeping others above the water, as they push you down, never thinking of the air they are taking away from you. It’s not about an easier life, about receiving constant help or guidance, leaving it up to others to make the choice for you… It is about just wanting to have something that is left for your own self too. A little time, a little love, that you can give yourself without being afraid that in the meantime someone would get upset or hurt. You just want to be able to take care of yourself too, not only of those that you love, of your connections, of your situations, that seem to be destroyed each moment you are not looking after them. You just want to have someone that is by your side, living their life, instead of living yours that becomes so scarily about them, their necessities, their dreams, their worry and losses. You just want someone to learn from, or together, how to live this life in the most right and healthy, loving way. Not to teach it. While you yourself don't have any idea of how you are still here, how you made it until now every day.

{ Will you ever find someone like them }

the justice, the eight of wands, the queen of wands

This new and almost desperate desire in your heart now, might feel a lot like frustration, the last realisation of how things should've been when everything already happened, when it is too late to change them… But instead of a tragic end, it is more of a hopeful and promising beginning. The one that you are creating with your each thought, with each moment of understanding of what it is that you really want to feel, when sharing your love. The taste of it, the feeling, the emotions it can give you. With each found answer in your heart you are changing your life, much more than you expect now. Because it really is all about your choices. Your decision of who you will be accepting into your life from now on.

There is a part of you that is growing, getting stronger, preparing to be vigilant and serious about its duty: the one to protect your heart. One little thought created by the tiredness, the sadness of all that you endured… was enough to move the waves of the whole world, of the reality around you. Of who will be brought right to you, and who will be pulled back, not being the right ones. Changing your connections one step, one person at a time. Giving you back the right to decide for yourself, making you remember that you can in fact do it, you can choose the ones dear to your heart.

And it won’t be delusion, entitlement, selfishness, or any sort of limit that you will put on your heart… It will be just you, all grown up, who will now know that it is okay to not take it all on yourself, whatever and whoever comes, because of the fear of what not doing it will cause. It will be your understanding that people can and will make it through on their own, even if they are so afraid or feel incapable of facing their life right now. And it will be also your acceptance that not every story you hear is yours to live, to feel, to make sure it has a good ending. Not everyone is yours to protect and help. Not everyone has the right to come before your own self.

It might be a change that will take its time to settle in, especially in your heart that is just so full of love. Love that you didn't give yourself for so long, pouring it all in the needing hands of those by your side. But it will happen. It will feel safe and right, to allow yourself to choose how much the realities of others influence your life. And as you will go through it, as you will seek that courage and strength… It will be enough to remember that everything will be okay. Even in those moments of uncertainty, it will be enough to hold on tight to the message that we will receive, if you want to, in the extended version of this reading. A message about how you can and will change your life.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

– Pile Three,

{ The love that you are longing for }

the ten of wands, the star, the death

It is so difficult to need to explain yourself, your actions, your urges, your reactions. It is tiring to open up your mind and your heart sharing them with others, again and again. Just for them to not understand it, to not pay the slightest of attention, to not take it seriously, all those things that are still consuming your soul… It just feels so useless to go through it, to come out of your comfort zone so hopeful that they would be that right person… only to see them walk away, who scared, who uncomfortable, who deluded or bored. Leaving you feeling like a poor seller who is unable to demonstrate the worth of your broken, lived, soul. When you don't even want to do it in the first place. When it is so ridiculous that you need constantly and so fiercely to defend or explain your wounds, as if they didn't already hurt enough.

It just consumes you. Consumes your every desire to go out there, interact and try to connect with people, creating with such dedication a relationship that - you know it too well - will just be destroyed. By your own past, your own frail soul that is too difficult for others to manage, to use or control. Too delicate to do anything with it without hurting it more.

Deep down you know that not every single person you met was truly so evil at their core. But it still hurts you like hell, being rejected, just put aside, simply because of the way you feel so strongly and deeply every detail about this world. Just because you have more depth to your feelings, more power to the emotions that simply overwhelm you, good or bad, every single bit of them that fills you whole. And that you welcome and feel completely, still remembering how cold and dark it was when there weren't any emotions in you at all.

It just would've been much easier, for once, to not have the need to defend yourself, the way you became. If for once the one in front of you focused on who you are now, and not on who you were or who you could become if only you suppress your soul. Because you changed, yes, and it might be sad to not have that spark that others adored so much about you anymore. But the you who survived still and always deserves the same admiration and love, perhaps even more, after all that you were able to endure. This you who is so different is still you. The you who gave you the strength and courage to face it all. The you who shouldn't at all be forced to explain yourself to those that can't even do one thing: just listen to you, hear you truly, at least for once.

Because it is not so difficult, in the end, to just accept someone and love them for the way they are, without any if or but. You know it well, because you always did it and always do with everyone that is close to you. But while they can be themselves, knowing that they will be truly safe with you, their every wound that will be taken care of without any judgement or expectation to receive something in return… You are always asked to be less or more. To hide your pain, to be more joyful. To not react too much to the things that hurt you. To, instead, be more understanding and patient, accepting, of the ways of others. Even though they never tolerate yours.

So you remain here, among so many of them but still feeling so lonely, so trapped, exactly like it used to feel before. You still are being hurt, even though you had so much courage in not hiding yourself, your scars. Even though you learned to have the needed strength to stand your ground when others didn't see that they were stepping on your heart… And you still hope. That one day, somewhere and someone, for once will just feel drawn to you. Not a memory of you or your potential change. Just someone who, for once, is gentle and kind in their ways. Not because you asked them to, not because they were forced by your tears… But just because they are connected enough to their own heart. Enough to recognise the painfully familiar stories behind your tired and scared eyes. Just one person, just one single time would be enough. Just one single moment in which you would feel loved and cherished the way you are, even with all those fears and doubts that everyone has always something to say about. Just one true and genuine connection. One single chance for your heart to find again the hope that you, exactly the way you are now after all your battles, not less not more, will be enough.

{ You are not in the wrong }

the page of coins, the strength, the six of cups

Finally standing up for yourself, taking your defence, pushing back those that don't make you anymore feel safe… it took a lot of courage, especially when every decision that was already hard enough was also met with judgement, with pure rage, just because for once you weren't ready to be there for someone else. But while you thought that the worst part will be this, finding the strength to prioritise yourself, the most difficult part revealed itself to be resisting the urge to take all your words back, bowing your head, surrendering to discourses of others about how you shouldn't ever do that again, and coming back to your old and consumed self, asking it to endure it once again. But this time with the full awareness of how it is wrong, to give away so much of you, remaining with so little that it is never enough to take care of your own heart and mind…

You are resisting it now with all your strength, but the single thought that they might be right, that you are indeed acting too selfishly, is already enough to shake you to your core, to fill you with the pure terror that you might be becoming one of those that hurt you, coming down to their level without realising what you've done.

But you are not. I promise you. There is nothing wrong in putting yourself first for once. There are no mistakes when you are acting from your heart, from the pure desire to protect yourself now that you are realising that it all just has been too much. You are not the villain here, even if perhaps there isn't one among them either. There is no evil in knowing what you deserve and want, and not accepting nothing less from others, even if they so perfectly mask it with words like “It is the way I love”, “This is the best for you, the best you can ever find or hope for”...

You’ve endured a lot, so much that it is truly non conceivable and admissible that someone belittles it. That someone doesn't give it the importance and incredibly powerful and heart wrenching meaning that you surviving all of that holds. Don't stop for them, for their fears that you will change. Because it has already happened, in the good and in the bad. And if someone can't accept and respect the new you, if they, even in the name of their love, can't accept you… then it is okay. There will be someone else. Someone else who will meet you, get to know you, and learn to appreciate and cherish you for the way you are now, not a memory of who you were.

It might be sad to let go of some people, to lose some connections. It might be frustrating to see their absolute conviction that you are the one in the wrong… But you are tired now, you feel weak after needing to fight against them again and again just to protect yourself… so don't waste your last remaining energy on them, on proving them wrong when they already ended this story as it is more convenient for them in their head. Let them go. Let them be. Not to allow them to think that they are right. But for your own self and to give you that space and time to rest and recover, to take care of yourself.

This world is vast, there are so many of us. Remaining now for a moment alone… doesn't at all condemn you to have all the days of your life lonely and cold. It is just a phase, just a precious moment that will sign a new step in your growth, in how much you consider your own worth and protect yourself at all costs. People come and go. Some are good and some are not. But you are unique, you are the only one you have, the most important person that you need to love and take care of. Even if it means to not accept the love of others, simply because it is so different from what you are longing for. Even if it means to reject the company that you so much want, because they never offer it genuinely but only when it is so convenient and needed for them.

Times will change, you'll start new journeys, go through different paths that will align with others, new and completely different persons. And you'll create new connections, better ones. Better because of the ways and motives of those that will come closer. Better because you will be much more rested, healed and confident after this focus on yourself and this pause. Better because there won't be any play pretend, endurance or feelings that will be ignored. It will be better. Simply because you will learn from your mistakes, you will grow. And so will those that you will let go of, but not at your own expense and endurance of the way your heart hurts for them. Because they might not realise it now, they might be so convinced that you are the one hurting them… but you are making the best decision not only for your own self, but even for them. You are giving all of you a new chance. A chance that you for sure will take and use it to nourish a new beginning in your life, new connections that will love you, cherish you, protect you at all costs. Exactly like it should be between truly loving souls.

And if it feels still a little too overwhelming, a little too scary and unsure, the decision to put yourself first… There is a little message about the future, at what it holds, in our extended version of this reading, right here, if you want or feel the need to hear more.♡↓

{ a little message for you }

—

_

[mountainsandmayhem]

Shhh...Just A Little Bit More

Part Three (Spicy Version)

DBF!Joel x Female!Reader - 18+

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 (Soft Version)

Summary: Joel Miller caught you working where you shouldn't be after you promised to quit. Now he's taking matters into his own hands. Word Count 5.7k

CW: DBF!, Dom!, SoftDom!, use of nicknames (baby, sweet pea, baby girl etc.), Sub/Dom, DD/LG, use of toys and a riding crop. no use of y/n. no description of reader except for piercings. Praise, degradation. After care.

AN: THANK YOU for all your love on parts 1 and 2. This is the spicy version of the third part. I'd love to hear which part you liked best!

“Hey, buddy. It’s Joel.”

“Joel?” You can hear your dad’s muffled and panicked voice through the receiver. “Where’s my daughter? Why do you have her phone? It’s 5 am!” 

“Remember that time Sarah ran away to your house and you told me that one day I might be doing the same for you?” 

Your dad is silent for a while, a distorted higher pitched voice filters through before you hear your dad again, “It’s alright honey. She’s with Joel.” He lets out a deep sigh before adding, “I thought we skipped the rebellious phase with her.”

“She’s a good girl. I think she just needs some time to cool off.” Joel says, his voice is friendly and light.

You squeeze your thighs together and nuzzle deeper into Joel’s throat. You know what you need, and it isn’t to cool off. He and your dad have been friends since the day he moved in down the street. You were seven and Sarah was eleven, you thought she was the coolest person on the planet. Wonder what she’d think of you now, cuddled up against her dad after he just edged the fuck out of you after spanking you in an alleyway. You’re lost in your thoughts as Joel talks with your parents for a while.

A sane person would stop being so turned on right now. Fuck, I need Joel. So badly. Maybe I should rile him up some more. 

“I’ll come by this afternoon,” Joel hugs you tighter, bringing you back to the conversation. “Ya, if she wants to, I’ll bring her. She’s ok, just never seen her more - frustrated.” 

You squeeze his side, knowing he’s smirking about how frustrated and needy you truly are right now. He hangs up the phone and brings his lips to yours, kissing you harder this time. You moan into his mouth, hands roaming up his body to tangle in his hair. 

Holy shit, Joel Miller is kissing me. 

As you run your nails along his scalp he lets out a pleasurable sounding gasp and a small shiver racks his body. Oh, he likes that, he likes that very much. 

Got ya, you think to yourself. 

He pulls away to see you smiling at him. “This is why I usually tie naughty girls down,” his voice is completely different from how it was just moments ago; deeper and more commanding. It reverberates through you - right to your pussy. “Because they think they’ve found spots that will get them what they want. Let’s go home now, darlin’.” 

The front door hasn’t even closed before Joel is hoisting you over his shoulder roughly, kicking the door closed as you squeal, his calloused hands gripping the back of your thighs as your stomach rests across his broad shoulder. 

Fuck his ass looks good from this angle. 

“You know I’m not done punishing you yet, right?” He growls, toeing off his boots and taking you to the basement. 

When Sarah was old enough, she’d occasionally babysit you. You remember there being a locked room in the basement, she said she didn’t know what was in there, but you were obsessed with finding out. You asked Joel mercilessly what he was hiding back there and he never responded in more than a grunt or a sarcastic comment like “that’s where I lock up kids who don’t shut up.” 

Joel grabs a key off the holder at the bottom of the stairs and heads straight for that mysterious locked door. The key scrapes against the door knob, you crane your neck to see as he flicks on the light. 

Holy. Fucking. Shitballs. Joel Miller has a sex room. 

“Watch your mouth,” he grumbles as he drops you onto the large metal framed bed. 

Did I say that out loud? 

He stalks away from you towards a large black cabinet, rolling the sleeves of his button up flannel to his elbows. It’s almost concerning how much that simple action turns you on. Maybe you should go back to church, your mom would be so proud. 

You’re intrigued to look around, curious as to what else is around you in this large room, but everything about Joel’s presence draws you in. Freezes you in time. You belong to him, or so he implied when he said he was your Dom now. 

He slides the door of the large black cabinet open just enough to reach in. Your curiosity is bubbling to the surface and just as you’re about to ask he looks at you darkly. 

“Did you come on the drive home?”

Every bump on the drive home had you twitching. You tried your hardest not to gasp and moan but the combination of the gravel road, your insane state of heightened arousal, and the lack of underwear in your stiff denim shorts were all working against you. 

“No, Joel.” Your eyes dance around his hands, trying to see what he took out of the cabinet. 

His jaw flexes, “It’s Mr Miller. Not Joel.” His chin juts towards the corner of the room across from him as he says, “go kneel in that corner. Face the wall and don’t move.” 

You practically leap off the bed and scramble to the corner as Joel mumbles, “So fuckin’ eager,” under his breath. 

On your way to the corner you see all sorts of ropes, chains, paddles and whips hanging from the walls. There's a large wooden x with cuffs leaning against another wall and beside the corner he’s told you to go to there’s a strange looking bench, almost like a gymnastics horse, that also has cuffs. You might be way in over your head here. 

You kneel down in the corner, the carpet is soft and luxurious under your knees as you rest your bum down onto your heels. 

“No, on your knees. Hands above your head on the wall.” Joel barks, making you jump and your pussy flutter. Joel opens and closes some more doors, you hear things being moved around and just as your hands start to go numb above you, you feel his heat at your back. 

“I’m going to finish your punishment now little one,” he rasps. “Have you ever been a sub before?” 

“N-no. Mr Miller. I’m sorry,” you voice trembles. Nervous and excited energy are battling inside you for first place. 

“Don’t be sorry, babygirl. What do you say if you want me to stop?” His strong hands grip your hair, gathering it up in a low ponytail before tying a long ribbon around it. 

“Umm..” you rack your brain. Before his sadistic little countdown he told you to say something if you wanted to stop.

“Cowboy,” you finally say, slightly uncertain until he hums a sultry ‘that’s right’ behind you, his hands grabbing the hem of your shirt before pulling it up and over your head. 

The cool basement air hits your exposed skin and you find yourself arching your back towards Joel’s warm body. Your nipples turn to stiff peaks at the combination of the temperature shift and the anticipation of what’s coming next. 

Your hands fall back to your sides as your shirt glides past your fingertips. Without missing a beat, Joel hits right below your shoulder blade gently with a riding crop. The sound of the soft black leather end against your skin is louder than the pain, but it still burns slightly as you gasp and your arms fly back up to the wall.

“Don’t be stupid, baby. The more you don’t listen, the more I will hurt you. And you are already here because you didn’t listen.” He trails the riding crop around the pink mark forming on your back. “Stand up, but keep your hands above you.” 

You plant one white slip-on van on the carpet and drag the toe of the other as you stand, hands sliding up the red satin wallpaper that lines the room. The soft leather of the crop traces down the black strap of your lace bra, across the back band and then up the other strap. 

“Use one hand and undo the clasp, sweet pea.” You drop your right hand and bring it behind your back. Popping the metal clasp open with a shaky thumb and forefinger. Before you can put your hand back, Joel grabs your wrist and places the crop in your fist before raising it back up above you. His rough fingers graze your back, goosebumps line your skin as your head falls forward and you hum out in pleasure. 

His hands glide around to the front of your body and trail up, pushing under the cups of your bra to squeeze your tits. He stops dead as they land heavy in his palms. 

“Holy fuck, drop the crop and take this bra off right now. Let me see them,” his voice is thick with arousal at what he’s found. 

You do as he says, the crop hitting the soft carpet with a thud. You spin and let your bra fall from your arms. Showing him the golden barbells, and the thin golden hearts that surround each nipple. 

Joel practically snarls as he dives in to kiss you, his tongue parting your lips and making room for him to devour you. “Are those healed?” He asks through the kiss. 

“They’re sort of new,” you say into his mouth. “Six weeks ago.” 

“Fuuuuck, you’re gonna kill me,” his hands hurry to the buttons on your shorts. He rips them down your legs, kneeling in front of you to slide off your shoes. His face is now level with your achy cunt. It’s been throbbing since he spanked you and now he’s so very close. 

He stops to stare at it, then gently uses his thumbs to pull your soaked lips again. He clicks his tongue, “too bad you didn’t listen. She looks swollen and sooo wet,” his thumb barely grazes the wet flesh before he looks up at you as he sucks off the juices. “Mmm - and sweet. But bad girls don’t get rewards.” He lays a quick slap across your clit and you nearly collapse at the sensation. 

The pain. 

The heat. 

The pleasure. 

He smirks down at you as he stands. You crane your neck to look at him, gasping for breath as the pleasure ebbs between your legs. 

“You like pain, don’t you?” He asks. 

A sly closed lip smile crosses your face as you nod quietly. You do like pain, but you’ve never had someone as experienced as Joel before. He spanked you harder than you ever have been before, pushing and testing your limits. While you enjoyed it, and can’t fucking wait to do it again, you aren’t sure if you can handle all these whips, crops, canes and ropes. 

Cowboy. Just say cowboy. 

He steps away, leaving you completely bare in the corner. He stops at the foot of the bed, the things he’s pulled out of the cabinet rest flat on top of the sheets but you can’t make out what’s there. He slides his flannel off and drops it to the floor. You swallow hard at the way his tight shirt hugs his body, you swear you can see every muscle that lines his chest and abdomen through it. He doesn’t leave you guessing for long, one hand reaching behind himself, grabbing his shirt by the nape of the neck before peeling it from his hard body. You squeeze your thighs at the sight of him. 

Joel Miller: Greek God. 

He leans against the tall post at the foot of the bed, crossing his thick arms over his chest. His biceps bulge and suddenly you find it hard to breathe. He is fucking beautiful. 

“Crawl to me, and bring the crop,” his voice is rough as he commands you. 

You get onto your hands and knees and look over at the crop and then back towards Joel, looking up through your lashes. “Think about it for a second,” he says. 

You bend down and pick the crop up with your teeth. “There’s my smart girl,” he praises as you crawl. You’re so wet that your thighs slide effortlessly against one another. You stop in front of him and he reaches down to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. He’s looking at you with an immense sense of pride, you’d do anything to have him look at you like that and when he throws in a warm ‘good girl’ you’re done for. His. His brat. His good girl. His submissive. Just his. 

He takes the crop from your teeth and then walks behind you. “Arch your back,” he presses the leather end into your lower back, guiding you, teasing you, showing you what he wants and how he wants it. 

“Spread your legs, babygirl,” he whispers, again gently pressing the crop to your inner thighs as you spread for him before he slowly drags the soft leather from your clit to your backside. You whimper at the much needed attention. “Good girl. See how much better it is when you listen.” 

You relax your head, letting it fall as you moan. Close. So very close. The leather meets your chin next. “Eyes up, I need you to stay like this for me. Ok?” 

“Yes Mr Miller,” you gasp, holding your head high, looking straight ahead at the metal bed frame that’s lined with hooks and rings. “Anything for you.” 

The riding crop trails down your neck and spine as he walks back behind you. “That right, darlin’?” He says, almost afraid to admit how much those three little words have affected him. You. Offering him anything. 

You let out an agreeable moan before he strikes you twice, each snap of the crop hitting the exactly same spot. 

Joel Miller: Greek God and Accurate Riding Crop Sniper.  

Ok, you’ll have to work on the name. 

The sting takes a bit longer to turn into that pleasurable tingly heat that you love than when he spanked you. Keeping your back arched and head up is already proving to be a challenge, and then he traces your cunt and asshole again with the leather and you’re practically shaking. Closer. Much closer. 

He does it again. Striking one cheek, then the other, quickly followed by a quick slap to the back of your thigh. You cry out in pain, until the leather slides over your soaked clit and the sounds turn downright pornographic. 

“Why am I punishing you?” He demands, tapping your clit lightly and rapidly. 

“I - mmmm - I didn’t q-quit,” you moan. 

“Wrong,” he hits you again. Five quick, sharp snaps, alternating between ass cheeks. Then he slides up and down your folds again. 

Pain

Pleasure.

Sparkling burning heat. 

“M’gonna come,” you mumble and Joel pulls away. You cry out in protest as he lowers himself to the floor, a large warm hand gently rubbing your sore cheek. 

“You come when I say,” his lips land on every spot he’s hit you, but not the spot you need him the most. “Now why am I punishing you?” 

Your mind is mush, overrun by the overwhelming need to orgasm. You didn’t quit. He wants you to and you didn’t. That’s why he’s hitting you. 

“I don’t know Mr Miller,” you whine. His hand trails up the soft skin of your inner thigh, your legs tremble under his touch and you fight against your shaking arms to keep your body how he wants it. 

“No?” He says with a smirk. “On your elbows, forehead on the floor.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say as you get into his new required position. 

“You should be,” he stands and walks towards the bed. Leaving your ass up and on display. “You lied and snuck out, then after your spanking tonight you stayed at work for another two hours. You also used my marks to make money. You, my sweet girl, are a brat.” He’s practically growling by the time he finishes, settling himself behind you. “That’s why I’m punishing you.” 

Deep down Joel knows he should stop. Not for the obvious reasons: best friend's daughter, twenty years younger, four years younger than his own daughter. But because he hasn’t had a real conversation with you yet about your hard and soft limits. Didn’t even ask if you wanted to be his sub. But your smooth little ass is up in the air, pussy glistening in the dim light of his sex room and nothing but your pleasure matters anymore. 

You swallow hard, “I’m sorry for being a brat, Mr Miller.” 

“I don’t think you are,” he says and you hear the distinct sound of a cap of lube opening behind you. “I think that you have enjoyed yourself so much that you’re going to be back on that corner waiting for an Uber to take you to work tonight. You want me to come after you. Because you are a little slut with a very greedy pussy.” 

Something cool presses against your soaked entrance and you cry out as he continues, “so I’ll tell you what. You can go to work tonight, but you’ll have to do it my way,” slowly that cool something slides inside of you, filling you slightly but it’s not enough. “Fuck, practically sucked it in, babygirl.” 

You can feel it, a hard ball that’s pushing right against your g spot, a slender piece staying outside your body for easy removal. “That is going to stay in until I take it out. It vibrates, and if you don’t behave…I will turn it on.” 

His large, rough hands grip you by the hips and pull you back so your ass is flush against his body, his cock stiff as nails under his jeans. “It’s time to get some sleep, sweetheart. Get in the bed, please.” 

“But…” you pout into the plush carpet. “Please, Mr Miller.” 

“What did I say? Bad girls don’t get rewarded. Come on,” he taps your hip. “Bed.” 

You stand up on shaky legs, thankful that the best is only two steps ahead of you. But the toy inside of you has you feeling like a powder keg on the edge of exploding. Joel pulls the covers back and climbs in with you, pulling you in to rest your head on his chest. His arm drapes around your body, the other resting behind his head. 

“How are you feeling after tonight?” He whispers, using an app on his phone to turn the lights off. 

“Horny,” you whisper, burying yourself deeper into his neck. 

“I know. But you know I can’t make you come, right? I can’t reward you for this behaviour.” His lips fall to your hairline, two light lingering kisses melting you further into him. 

“What can I do, Mr Miller?” The moment the last syllable of his name leaves your lips the vibrator comes to life inside of you. “Oh god - thank you. Thank you.” Your body twitches against his, your leg coming to drape across him as you subconsciously hump and grind into his hip. 

“That feel good, baby?” He asks, holding you tighter against his strong body. 

“Yes. Yes. Hnnnng, yes.” You grind harder, your arousal coating his hip and leg, your clit sliding along him with ease now. “Joel, please.” 

Shit. He should punish you for calling him Joel but you’re so goddamn beautiful as you start to fall apart and he can’t hold back any longer. He’s let other subs go days without an orgasm, he’s gotten off to them begging and crying for relief. But you. You sound so damn sweet to his ears and he can’t stand to see you like this anymore. 

He has you flipped onto your back, trapped under his weight before you can even register what’s happening. He’s kissing you deeply, tongue taking what it wants as your legs kick and shake under him. 

“Please!” You cry between kisses. 

His thick fingers sliding between your puffy folds before grabbing the end of the vibrator, you scream out as he pulls the toy from you. 

“Shhh…just a little bit more. I’m going to make it better now,” he says gently, kissing down your neck, swirling his tongue around each nipple piercing. 

“Please. Please. Pleeeaase, Mr Miller. Please. It hurts. I need it, please.” You’re a mumbling mess and the words leaving your lips are practically incomprehensible. 

“I know. Relax baby. Breathe.” He says between kisses down your sternum, his tongue tracing your curves. When he finally settles in between your thighs he swallows hard, he wants to dive right in, make you drench his face as you come. “Look at me, darlin’.” 

His warm breath hits your pussy and you fight your hips from bucking up to his face as prop yourself up on an elbow and try to focus your eyesight on him. You didn’t know it was possible to be so turned on that you practically had tequila vision. 

His voice is serious yet calm as he says, “I’m going to make you come using my fingers and my tongue. Is that ok?” 

You nod your head and a faint ‘yes’, leaves your lips. He doesn’t want to ask permission, and next time he won’t. But right now he needs to know you’re ok with this. 

“Can I lick and touch both the outside and inside of this beautiful, weeping, pussy?” 

It starts to hit you that Joel Miller would never do something you didn’t want and that sets your soul on fire. He cares. About you. Only you. Wants to do things for you. You are not a burden here. 

“Yes, Mr Miller. Please. Touch me.” The room suddenly feels twenty degrees hotter, you can feel sweat beading on your skin. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, sliding his ring and middle finger around your desperate entrance. You cry out, dropping your body to the bed. 

Pleasure. Overwhelming pleasure. 

“No no baby girl, eyes on me.” 

You somehow muster the strength to raise yourself onto shaky arms. His two strong fingers slide deep into your heat with minimal resistance and you immediately start gasping. 

Pleasure. Life altering, heart stopping pleasure. 

“Fuuuuck. Baby. So tight. Have you ever squirted before?” His cheeks are flushed with need. He might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

Your breasts rise and fall with your ragged breaths. You shake your head and moan out a ‘no’. 

He smiles down at your dripping cunt, “I can feel it. Gotta relax for me. Just breathe and let it happen.” 

Nerves flutter in your stomach and then he curls his fingers forward, putting so much pressure on a soft spongy spot that you didn’t know existed until today. On instinct, your knees try to close but his wide frame keeps you open. You yell his name to the ceiling, as all the air whooshes from your lungs. 

“Breathe baby,” he says as he curls his fingers once, twice, three more times. You can hear how wet you are and the pressure becomes unbearable. Stars start to blur your vision, the walls of your pussy squeeze tightly around his fingers and then it’s just a blur. A blur of all consuming pleasure and you turn into a boneless, mumbling mess. 

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Come for me. Soak me. Good girl,” Joel’s free hand pressed down on your mound as a wet heat leaks all over you. “Good fuckin’ girl. Let go for me.” 

You’re not sure if you’re screaming or not, all you hear and feel is Joel. Everything is Joel. Strong hands, deep gravel voice, warm vanilla smell. He’s everywhere and you never want it to stop. 

“Keep going. That’s it. You look so beautiful,” he says, licking a long stripe up your fluttering pussy, drinking and slurping up your juices. “Oooh yeah - gooood giiirrll”

Almost immediately after your orgasm crests it becomes too much. You’re so overstimulated that it hurts and your moans of pleasure become cries of pain. You forget your name, where you are, you even forget your safe word. But Joel knows, he always knows. 

He stops pumping his fingers and says your name, “look at me sweet pea.”

You blink slowly, you’re wrecked, barely able to keep your eyelids open, almost convinced they’ve been replaced with steel. You’re sucking in air, did you not breathe that entire time? 

“Breathe baby, you’re ok.” He says, stilling his fingers until you’re ready. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Miller. I know I called you Joel. I won’t do it again.” 

So fucking cute. “It’s ok, darlin’ girl. I want you to let loose when you come.” He places a few light kisses along your thighs. The sheets and his bare chest are soaked. “I’m gonna pull my fingers out.” 

You fall back to the bed and fist the sheets to ground yourself as he slides his fingers out. “You did such a good job,” he praises as you whimper at the loss of his fingers inside of you. 

He crawls up your body, placing his strong forearms beside your head, moving any hair that has escaped the ribbon from your face. “I’m so proud of you, babygirl.”

“Fuck me,” you mumble. 

He grins down at you. “That’s my little slut,” he says darkly, ripping his jeans and underwear off, kissing you hard and rough - just how you like it. His hard cock lands heavy on your clit and you cry out into his mouth. “You sure about this?” He says cockily. 

“Fuck me, Mr Miller. Please. I need your -,” he slams deep inside you, hips flush against yours. He’s so deep you swear you can feel it behind your navel. The girth of him giving you a painful but pleasurable stretch, “oh god. I’m gonna come again.” 

“Squeeze me, baby. Yell out. Show me what I do to you,” he hooks your knees in his elbows to get deeper. Hips grinding and slamming into yours. “So goddamn good. So tight. Give it to me, little one.” 

The heat in your belly snaps as you come apart for him again. Every muscle goes limp and pliant as he folds you in half, knees practically behind your head like some sort of tantric pretzel. The walls of your pussy clamp down on his dick as cry out in pained moans. Before your orgasm has even tapered off he’s slipping out of you and flipping you around. 

“Hands and knees, like you were on the floor.” He practically yells it at you, like a drill sergeant. 

You don’t have the cognitive ability to even know what your arms or legs are, lying on your belly down in the puddle you created earlier. 

“Can’t,” you moan before the sharp snap of the riding crop hits your ass. Adrenaline spikes as you start to find your arms, bringing them beside you to push up. Another three quick strikes hit your backside. “Fuck. Stop, Joel. Please.” 

He strikes you again. You most definitely do not want him to stop and you already know that he loves when you beg. “It huuuurts,” you gasp as you bring yourself up to your knees. Your all wobbly limbs, like a newborn giraffe, and panting breaths as he hits six quick strikes down your thigh. Crying out with each one, “I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Please just stop.” 

“You should see how your pussy clenches with each hit, my little masochist,” he praises, moving to punish the other thigh in the same way he did the other one. “You could come from this, couldn’t you?”

“No. It hurts. I’m sorry, daddy.” 

Joel stops. The word daddy suspended in the air between you. Fuck, it just slipped out. You’ve never said it to a man before and now you wish you could just crawl into a little hole and die alone. 

“Oh babygirl,” he says proudly, coming up behind you and rubbing his dick up and down your wet pussy. “Do you like that? Calling me daddy?” 

“It slipped out. I’m sorry Mr Miller,” you desperately want to bury your face in the pillows but you keep your head held high, just like he wants you too. 

“Tell daddy to fuck you,” he says, his hand grabbing the base of your tied back hair. 

“F-fuck me, daddy,” you say in the sweetest and most innocent sounding voice you can muster.

With one snap of his hips he’s fully inside of you, his hand pulls at your hair. You scalp tingling and burning, only adding to the pleasure building again in between your legs. 

“You like it rough. Don’t you, little one?” You moan out in agreement, “like it when daddy fucks you this deep. Like it when daddy is in your belly. Don’t you?” 

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.” It’s like you’re a broken record, unable to come up with anything except moans, cries and ‘oh god’s’. 

Joel’s hand moves from your hair to between your shoulder blades and pushes down. A silent command for you to rest your chest on the bed. You do as he says, “good fuckin girl. You want me to fuck you while I use the crop? Is that what you want my little pain slut?” 

“Yes please, Mr Miller,” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets, muscles clenching as you prepare for what’s about to happen. 

The pace at which he’s fucking you continues. He’s fast and rough, his balls slapping against your pussy with each trust. The crop hits the bottom of one of your feet first, then just to the right of your left shoulder blade. 

“Not gonna stop until you use that safeword. Brats don’t get rewards,” He fucks up into you a few more times as he swats at the front of your thigh. 

Blinding heat and pleasure start to course through you as you come again. “My little masochist,” he says again, pulling back to slap at your ass as you come on his cock. Tears blur your vision, you want to stop but you want to make him proud. You feel his dick getting harder, twitching slightly. 

Just a few more minutes, you think to yourself. Until he strikes you harder than all the other times. The sound of leather on your skin fills your ears and you pull away from him, “COWBOY!!” 

You collapse into the sheets as Joel turns away, unable to stop his orgasm and wanting to be respectful of your need to stop. He cums into the sheets with his hand, biting back your name from leaving his lips. 

He turns to find you facedown, red and purple marks already forming. “Baby,” he whispers, his hand coming to caress your lower back. You flinch under his touch. 

Fuck, I went to hard. 

“Shhh, relax. It’s over now. Let me take care of you.” He sees you visibly melt into the mattress, and why wouldn’t you. His voice is soft and gentle as his fingers trail up and down your spine. “I’m so proud of you for using your safeword. Can you roll over for me?” 

You do as he says, using any last ounce of energy to roll over. He shuffles himself to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting your upper body to help you prop up in some pillows, your eyelids are impossibly heavy. He reaches into the small mini fridge that’s disguised as a bedside table and takes out a bottle of water. 

“I need you to drink this, honey. Then I will put some coconut oil on those marks. Ok?” 

You open your eyes as he cracks the water. He looks wrecked. Beads of sweat line his hairline, curls sticking to his forehead, but fuck is he beautiful. 

Joel Miller. Sex God. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks as he slides his boxers back up his leg, his still half hard cock pressing against the fabric. 

You’re suddenly unable to stop from giggling. You feel giddy and drunk as you down the water and say, “I feel fucking amazing!” 

Joel shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “Good,” he says, pressing his lips to your forehead. He pulls makeup wipe out from the bedside drawer and wipes the mascara that’s run down your cheeks. Then he finds himself doing something he’s never done with his other subs. He grabs the coconut oil and reaches a hand out to help you off the bed. 

“Let’s go get some sleep,” he says. Steading you and leading you up the stairs to his room. This is dangerous territory, but he needs to wake up with you. Cherish you. Care for you. Other subs always slept down here. Never in his room and rarely with him. But certainly never ever in his room. 

You follow with shaky legs and nearly collapse onto his bed when you get there. 

“Can we do that again?” You ask as he rubs oil on your tender backside. 

“Fuck yes. But before we do that,” he taps your side and you roll over so he can oil your thigh. “You need to fill out some paperwork.” 

You groan and he lets out a deep laugh. “I promise it’s fun paperwork. Hard and soft limits. Things you want to try.” 

He looks up at you with adoration, mirroring the looks you’re giving him. He nods towards your pierced nipples, “I like those. Very sexy. As soon as they’re healed we are gonna have some fun.” 

You blush, “thanks. You’re - umm, you’re actually the first person to see them.” 

“That right?” He says proudly, lying down beside you and pulling you into his chest. 

“I have an appointment at the piercer next week. Any requests?” You say teasingly as you nuzzle into his chest. Your appointment is to get a second hole in each ear lobe, but may as well have a little fun.

“Hmmm,” he hums, lips grazing your hairline with little kisses. “Belly button.” 

“Oh, I was thinking of doing my clit.” You glance up at him through your eyelashes, bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Fuck me, baby. You tryin’ to kill this old man? I’m gonna have to leave the goddamn continent while that heals.” He pulls you in tighter, pulling the blanket up around both of you. “Get some rest now, we have a big afternoon.”

Taglist:

@corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44 @keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot @lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @baar-ur @jessthebaker @jasminedragoon @koshkaj-blog @pedroswife69 @strawberri-blonde  @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @iloveenya @javierpena-inatacvest @blazeflays @akah565@pinkiec6-rubi @pedroshotwifey @iluvurfather@ashleyfilm @mermaidgirl30

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ i'll be good to you | nanami kento

wc: 1.5k

summary: nanami’s half-hoping you call a fourth time.

contains: implied f!reader but no mention of pronouns, exes, mentions of alcohol, swears, reader wears makeup and heels, drunk calls, a bit angsty and a bit hurt/no comfort but it isn’t all that sad i think

a/n: this ran away from me again! but this is a brainchild from me and @augustinewrites, with song inspos: you were good to me, tequila, bourbon, and already gone

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: calling your ex drunk at two a.m. with feelings still stuck in your throat

you are here -> part 2

Nanami moves in numbers. 

It comes with his personality—practical and efficient, forward thinking. 

Predicting deals from 9-to-5 looks a lot different from dealing deaths by a ratio of 7:3, but the tactics remain the same, the stakes still high; every move is precise and calculated, analyzed to be accurate. 

So he’d known—the day he decided to pick up his blade again was the day he’d deal his final blow—at you, and the relationship you built together. 

A strategic takedown of something he deemed doomed from the start. 

That’s what he wants you to think, at least. 

When his phone rings three times—the first in the middle of lecturing Yuuji, the second while going overtime underground, and the third just moments ago, bleeding out on a bathroom counter, Nanami realizes that the probability of him ever speaking to you again, alive and breathing, is a number he can’t predict. 

So he waits, linen pants and a cotton shirt while sporting a drink by his kitchen counter. 

Strangely, he’s full of hope, half-good and half-bad—that you’ll call back; that you won’t. The line between the two blurs. 

It always has with you. 

A friendly face—that’s all you were supposed to be; his work neighbor a few cubicles down his. It started with polite nods, a few casual waves, maybe even small smiles on a good day. Your schedule was terrible, much like his—one of the first ones to arrive and the last ones to leave. 

Then, you finally moved past just a friendly hello; something about bread, he recalls, an attempt to exchange recipes on sourdough. It started then, with you leaving a cup of coffee on his desk and he saving an ‘extra’ sub for you. 

(Except, it’s never an ‘extra’ with Nanami; he’d never do anything miscalculated.) 

Suddenly, you’re the first face he looks for in the morning, and he’s the last person you check on before clocking out at night. 

For a while, he didn’t know what to call you—a coworker? Friend? Someone he has dinner with at 12 midnight? 

You set it straight after the seventh ‘date’. 

Now, when his phone rings the fourth time, he picks up.

You’re cursing on the line, the sound of metal clinking on tile muffled in the background. 

He waits for you to talk, half-hopeful and half-nervous at hearing you speak. 

You always used to drop your keys by his door—your haphazard way of looking for his amongst five of yours. 

“Shit,” you grumble, the lock finally clicking open. 

He hears your footsteps, the sound of your heels landing as if they’ve been hastily kicked off. 

A party, perhaps? Or a night out? 

There’s a funny feeling that sits in his stomach when he thinks about you coming home from a date, one he knows he no longer has a right to. 

It should be good, he thinks, you’re moving on.  

He stares at his glass, liquor blurring into ice—brown edges fading into something lighter, near transparent. For a moment, he wonders if this was a mistake, if you hadn’t meant to call him at all. He’s considering putting the phone down to save you the embarrassment. 

But—

“Finally,” you spit out, clumsy and a little too honest. 

To anyone else, you’d sound normal, but Nanami’s known you for years, has loved you for just as much, and this sounds a lot like the version of you that’s lost track of how many you’ve had to drink—the same one he’s had to tuck in bed, with your arms clinging onto his neck while dragging him under the covers with you. 

He takes a sip. 

“Was starting t’think you died or sum’in.” 

It’s impossible for you to know the truth, he’s made sure of that—it’s why he let you go in the first place. 

“Someone offered to buy me a drink t’night,” you mumble, wood scraping against your floorboards. The exhaustion in your voice is palpable. 

He has no idea why you’re telling him this. 

“I asked f’r bourbon,” you breathe, shaky, “on the rocks, because—” 

That’s what he always got, what he introduced to you when you asked him why he likes it so much. 2 ounces of bourbon for a ball of ice, with time as an aid, mellowing its intensity to flavors of smoky caramel, vanilla, and a touch of spice. 

He gives a lowly hum, swirling the drink in front of him. 

“Was it good?” 

(The drink, the date. The potential new guy.) 

There’s silence on the other end of the line, too long to be considered thoughtless. His watch counts the seconds. 

“Not as,” you finally answer. 

Another bout of silence. 

He wonders what you look like, if you’re wearing that lipstick you know is his favorite; if you still smell like the closest thing he’s ever had to a home. Do you still keep an extra handkerchief in your purse? That obnoxious cow print he now uses to remind him of the life he used to know? 

You sniffle. 

“You fucked me up, Kento.” 

He knows. 

“How c’n you say this… is what’s best f’me when it hurts this much?” you hiccup, a sob caught in your throat. 

When Nanami ended things with you, he gave himself 30 minutes. Any less, he would have regretted it, and any more, he would have taken it all back. 

“Y’re so unfair,” you breathe out shakier than the last, broken more than anything, “din’t ev’n ask me what I wanted.”

He knows.

And he supposes he deserves this, aching at the way you fall apart on the line.

He takes another sip, longer and fuller, dragging out his gulp. 

“I still love you,” you weep, voice unsteady, “and I f’cking hate you for that, y’know?” 

Your words burn more than the alcohol down his throat. 

His eyes start to sting, brown glossing over. There was a time when your ‘I love you’s’ gave him reason to wake up in the morning; when they got him through the day and lulled him to sleep at night. 

But this one, this time, he knows, will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

(He’s never wanted anything more than to say it back to you, right now.)  

“I apologize.” the words come out stiff, squeezed out as he puts down his glass. 

“I know,” you scoff, managing a chuckle while sniffling, “like that’ll do ‘nythin though.” 

Nanami clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around his drink. You always were the perfect bite to his snark, acknowledging things straight up, as is. 

And you always had a hunch of how things would end up. 

You know that this call is pointless, that he won’t take you back by the end of it. You also know that each and every one of his decisions comes from a series of calculated predictions, that once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it. You know how Nanami works, that he moves in numbers. 

Except, you never know his reasons—that the truth of all this is that he’s sworn to himself that he’ll be good to you. There’s no point being with an empty man, and dragging you into the dangers of sorcery would be cruel, even more unfair to you. 

The line is quiet for a while, filled only with your attempts at steadying your breathing. 

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks, a little out of nowhere but completely in place. 

You snort, pushing back your chair, “Shouldn’t say things like that,” your footsteps are picked up by the mic, “makes it sound like y’care.” 

He hears you gulp a glass down on the line, lips curling into a sad smile. 

“D’me a favor?” you slur, followed by a yawn. 

He hums. 

“Stay on ‘til I fall’sleep?” 

And for once, he doesn’t think so hard about it. This small thing can’t possibly skew the damage he’s already caused you. 

“Okay.” 

A creak sounds from your end, the sofa you both used to spend your weekends on; it’s been thoroughly broken in, love seeping through each crevice and dip. It’s selfish, but he hopes you still feel him through it—giving you a safe place to rest, soft and tender in keeping you close when he can’t. 

You shuffle, pillows muffling the microphone as you move around; then you mumble, sleep-laden, “Don’t forget to turn the lights off.” 

It shouldn’t affect him this much, but the reminder calls back every instance you’ve ever said it to him: whispers over his shoulder, while dragging your feet away from his home office; a peck to the tip of his ear before nuzzling his neck while he reads; a shout from your bed, for him to hear within the echoes of the bathroom walls. 

You both have terrible sleep from odd hours at the office, but nightmares have always persisted with him more. Turning off the lights was a reassurance, a quiet ‘I love you’—a reminder that it was okay to fall asleep, you’d be there when he wakes. 

His eyes zero in on the light switch to his right, humming his response. 

.

The call runs for 31 minutes.

a/n: other tidbits i wasn't able to include—reader is able to hold liquor well, and used to drink with nanami often but doesn't understand the appeal of his preferred drinks; reader is able to go head-to-head with nanami's personality but is also a lot more vibrant and loud; reader also doesn't know about the jujutsu world (in case it wasn't obvious). i also envision nanami becoming less himself towards the end of their relationship, which is also when he starts considering going back to sorcery.

thank you notes: big thank you to @augustinewrites for half-mothering this fic 🥺 what would i do without your sad ideas and songs to match!! and to @mysugu and @soumies for ofc!! listening to me talk abt this all the time lol

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[fremedon]

I did my first phone bank of the season tonight, for my state's senate campaign.

I know we all hate the phone around here. But as a raging introvert with an audio processing disorder, I actually find phone banking hugely easier than almost any other phone interaction (and many in-person ones).

So I thought I'd write up a brief explainer of how it works.

The big thing to know about phone banking is this: It is largely not about persuading people to change their votes. It has three other, very simple, goals:

1.) Gather information to help the campaign determine where to concentrate its resources.

2.) Remind people that there is an election and get them thinking about and making an active plan to go and vote.

3.) Remind people of the candidate's name.

That's it. That's all you have to do. Two-thirds of the time they'll hang up on you and you won't even do that much. It's easy.

So. You sign up by going to the website of a candidate you'd like to support and looking for volunteer opportunities on their website. There will, somewhere, be a place to sign up to phone bank

You can phone bank from home these days; or you can do what I did tonight and go into a campaign office. If you go into the office, there will be campaign volunteers there who can answer questions for you and walk you through what to do, but you will also be within earshot of other people on the phone, so if background noise is a problem you might prefer to do it from home or bring noise-cancelling headphones.

They will send you a link to an autodialer, which you will call from your own phone or computer. The autodialer will work its way through a list of numbers. No one you are calling will be able to see your own phone number; they'll just see the number the autodialer is using.

The system will work its way through a list of numbers and only hand off to you when someone picks up. At this point, the screen will display the following:

1.) The name of the person you're trying to call;

2.) a set of buttons for how to record the initial response: Hung up, Answering Machine, Wrong Number, etc, and some version of You Are Actually Talking To the Right Person;

3.) an actual script for introducing yourself. You don't have to follow it exactly, but you can, and it will give you the points you need to try to hit--for introductions, that's usually going to be your first name, the campaign you're calling for, and that you are a volunteer.

If the call ends here--they hang up; they tell you you have the wrong number--you hit the button that best matches what happened, the call ends, and when you're ready you can tell the autodialer to send you the next call.

If the person is willing to talk, you click the button for that, and the screen will move on to the next page of the script--there will be some amount of information to give out--again, you don't need to read it all--one question to be sure to ask, and buttons to record their answer.

Most of the time, the question is going to be "Are you supporting this candidate," and your answers will be on a scale from Strong Yes to Strong No. For most of the campaign season, people answering either of those will be taken off the call list because they're not likely to change their mind; people who are undecided will keep getting calls. Right before the election, strategy will change from persuading the persuadables to getting out the vote, and then everyone who's already said they're supporting your candidate might get another round of calls to remind them to vote, and gather information about who has already voted and who the campaign should still be calling or sending canvassers to.

Sometimes there will be multiple questions; tonight, we asked three: Are you supporting the Democratic Senate candidate; Are you supporting the Democratic House candidate for whichever district we were calling; and--if they answered yes--Are you interested in volunteering.

You do not have to be able to answer every question or give a persuasive speech to phone bank for a political candidate. Very few people want to have a long conversation with you. If you do get someone who does, you have a script in front of you which contains talking points and often links to further information.

But the most persuasive thing you can do is the thing you have already done just by calling: you've let them know that someone near them, one of their neighbors, a real person with a name and a voice, cares so much about electing this person that they've volunteered their free time to make it happen.

You do need to be polite and positive at all times. That part is not really negotiable. No one that you're talking to is going to remember more than one talking point at most anyway--but they will remember that that nice person from the campaign was so polite and so cheerful. I am a salty gloomy bitch in RL, but my phone-sona brims over with love for my fellow fucking humans.

And you know, I really do feel some of that love, by the end of the night.

If you think this sounds like something you can do, I recommend giving it a try. It's an excellent way to channel your anxiety about the election into action, and it's not nearly as scary as it seems.

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

⤷ Subtitle | Obsessed with you

⤷ Pairing | Yandere Jungkook x Reader

⤷ Genre | Yandere!AU, Dark Romance!AU, Smut (dubcon, noncon), Angst, Kidnapping, Violence, Obsession

➢ Ratings | +18 / M (Mature)

⤷ Summary | If she had paid attention earlier to the sin that dwelt behind those obsidian irises, she would never have trusted it.

If she had noticed earlier the devouring love that dwelled in his corrupt heart, she probably would have fled.

She had done none of that, and now she had to come to terms with her new reality.

➢ Author's Note | This work originated in Italian, so I apologize for any errors you will find, I am not a native english speaker 🥺❤

Also, this does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

➢ For Italian tumblr readers, if you are interested in reading this story, please know that it is already on Wattpad in Italian: HAPPY ENDING ITALIAN VERSION

||𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧||

Chapter One | 13.01.24

Chapter Two | 15.01.24

Chapter Three | 18.01.24

Chapter Four | 20.01.24

Chapter Five | 24.01.24

Chapter Six | 28.01.24

Chapter Seven | 02.02.24

Chapter Eight - The End | 07.02.24

||DRABBLE||

EXTRA 01 | 17.02.24

EXTRA 02 | 02.03.24

||SPIN-OFF||

Happy Ending Series

© | I do not allow republication or editing of this story by third parties, all rights belong to me, anyone guilty of the crime of plagiarism will be reported and blocked. The same goes for the smartasses who will take pieces of my story without my explicit consent.

[sister-lucifer]

A COLLAB WITH @cryptidcircuswrites ! PLEASE CHECK OUT HIS VERSION HERE! 

Genre: Gore smut 

Summary: A mission goes awry and Toby is shot straight through the skull. Tim decides to take the new hole for a spin, and Toby is more than happy to let him have it. 

Content/warnings: OHHH MY GOOOOD DONT FUCKING READ THIS IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, Toby literally gets his brain fucked, bullet hole wound fucking, explicit gore, I cannot emphasize this enough STRAIGHT UP PENIS IN BRAIN SEX, brain creampie, guns/shooting/etc, age gap but everyone is a consenting adult, fake out death, Toby vomits a little at the end, cum leaking out of face holes it should never be in, mirror sex, rough dom top Tim, Tim bullies Toby for his trauma regarding his physically abusive father, use of homophobic language/slurs, degradation, just general nastiness, very mean spirited. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. THIS IS AS DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT AS IT GETS.

A/N: if you skipped the warnings on this one or didn’t read them all the way, go back and fucking look at all of them, otherwise don’t read. 

Breaking and entering. 

It’s a routine for Tim and Toby at this point. 

Tim can brute force open any door, Toby can pick any lock, and both of them have long since shaken off any qualms about taking a life. They’re skilled at it now, neither of them ever leaving the cabin without their weapon of choice. In a line of work like this one, after all, you can never be too prepared. 

This was supposed to be easy. 

Three people in the house, a couple and their third wheel squatting in an abandoned vacation home. Bare bones interior, probably no weapons. 

Probably.

A lot of good ‘probably’ had done them. 

Toby had gone in while Tim stood watch in the doorway, just in case one of their targets tried to run out. His revolver fit into his palm like a glove, his grip confident and ready. He’s done this a million times before. 

Tim can only hear the altercation going on in the back rooms of the house, but he has a good idea of what’s happening. 

The sound of a hatchet coming down onto a throat. 

One down. 

A woman screams. Something knocks over, a shelf or a table. A splatter. Silence.

Two down.

A man cries out. Something hits the wall. Rogers swears. There’s a struggle. A gunshot rings out. 

…A gunshot. 

A gunshot?! 

Footsteps.

Fast, frantic footsteps coming down the hallway. 

Tim readies himself, aiming towards the dark hall with a hand that is far too steady. He’s holding his breath. The steps are getting closer. 

In a split second’s time the last target emerges from the shadows, Tim’s gaze zeroes in on the whites of his eyes and the trigger of his revolver is pulled by a swift finger one, two, then three times. 

The shots ring in his ears as the body falls limply to the floor, devoid of life in an instant. 

Three down. 

But still one bullet unaccounted for. 

“Rogers?” Tim calls into the hallway, stepping over the body without looking down. 

No answer.

“Rogers!” He says again, with more authority this time. 

Nothing. 

That little fucker runs his mouth like an engine at all hours of the day, but now he’s quiet? 

A stabbing pain of fear twists in Tim’s gut. 

Their ‘boss’ won’t let them die, he knows that. The pseudo immortality they’ve been given keeps their bodies functioning and regenerating even after some of the worst injuries one could imagine; he knows that, he’s felt it, and yet… 

This silence is sickening. 

He can’t stop himself from rushing into the makeshift bedroom, heavy boots on the creaky wood floor announcing his presence before he calls for his partner again. 

“Answer me, dammit, Rogers!” 

He looks around the room, scanning the blood splattered walls. Two bodies are slumped against them, opposite to each other, one with its neck severed and the head hanging on by a thread of viscera, and the other with half of its innards thrown to the floor. Neither are Toby, he knows that in an instant. 

Then his gaze trails to the center of the floor. 

The cold washes over him so suddenly he feels faint. He can feel the color draining from his face as he lays eyes on his partner, face down on the ground, a thick splatter of blood painting a moonlit halo around his head. 

Or what’s left of it, anyways.

A hastily fired bullet has carved a path through the boy’s skull and out the other side. 

Clean through. 

Tim’s body seizes with shock, disgust, grief, and everything in between, tensing so suddenly and so harshly he nearly passes out. A hand clamps over his mouth as it opens in a silent scream, a gasp that can’t escape because he can’t breathe. He rushes to the body before he can stop himself. 

“Rogers?! Rogers, get up!” He demands, but the way his voice cracks and trembles shows his true fear. He shakes his partner’s still body harshly, desperate to jar him into consciousness.

There’s no movement. 

Not a sound. 

Tim’s eyes start to wet behind his mask. He shakes harder, even bringing a fist down on his shoulder blade. 

Nothing. 

“This isn’t fucking funny, Toby!” Tim screams, landing a few more punches on his back, “I’ve seen you take worse than this, get up!” 

Not even a twitch. 

The realization settles in like splinters under Tim’s skin. 

He backs away from the body, the room spinning around him. He grasps at his face under his mask, his lungs starting to expand and restrict so fast it’s painful. There’s a searing panic burning the back of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire body. He stumbles back and falls onto one of the now bloodied mattresses their targets had been sleeping on. 

This isn’t happening. 

This isn’t happening. 

He’s not really gone.

He’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone— 

A sudden noise makes Tim jump out of his skin, his eyes shooting up to find the source of the sound. 

Was that a…cough? 

He looks down at Toby’s body. 

It hasn’t moved. 

Maybe it was just air escaping, or some other weird thing bodies do after death. If he didn’t get up already, then he must be…

Tim nearly screams when Toby suddenly splutters and hacks, his body jerking as he fights for air. Tim is frozen in place as he watches the partner he thought was dead slowly struggle to get up, managing to get on his hands and knees. He coughs again, spitting onto the ground and groaning at the unpleasant but not unfamiliar sight of blood. 

“Yeugh…god, it’s in m-my nose,” Toby mumbles with a sniffle, wiping his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t notice Tim as he sits up on his knees, inspecting himself in a way that is far too casual.

…He has no idea what just happened. 

Tim can feel his eye twitching as he stands up slowly, his frenzied gaze trained on the younger man as he approaches. Toby looks up at the sound of the footsteps, and Tim has to stop himself from reacting to the sight. His body trembles as he forces himself to stay still. 

Toby’s right eye is completely gone. There’s not even a shred of the eyeball left, only a pulsing, bloody cavity he instantly recognizes as the entry hole of a bullet. 

Toby blinks up at Tim with his remaining eye. 

“S-Shit, I must’ve passed out when—bitch!—when h-he hit me, heh. What, you-you thought I was—grrrk!—d-dead for real?” Toby asks with a head tilt and an amused giggle. Tim’s eyes narrow. 

Slowly Tim turns his head, following the imaginary trail the bullet would have made based on where Toby fell. 

Right there, lodged into the decrepit wall right next to the doorway. 

The first bullet. 

Clean through, and out the back. 

Toby follows his gaze, squinting in the dark to see whatever it is his senior partner is seeing. 

“…O-Oh shit,” He mutters, “Talk about a-a close—don’t listen!—a close call—c-call—call me!—hehe…”

Tim stares back at him with a look in his eyes that says ‘You have no fucking idea.’

“…W-Why are you looking at me— a-at me like that?”

Tim looks around. For some reason, he’s not sure how to answer that. 

That is, until he lays eyes on a conspicuously mirror shaped object draped in a sheet and pushed into the corner.

Yeah, it’s easier to just show him.

Tim shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks over to the mirror, trying not to rush. He’s annoyed with Toby for scaring him like that and nearly bringing him to tears, even if it’s not really his fault. Maybe startling him a bit will take the edge off that embarrassment. 

Toby’s eye follows him closely as he walks, then watches as his hand slowly raises to grasp the sheet obscuring the mirror. His brow raises, curiosity piqued. 

The sheet is pulled away in an instant. The cloud of dust that results makes Toby cough, trying to wave it away from his face. He squints through the grimy mist, struggling to make out his own reflection in the mirror.

“L-Look, Tim, I don’t know what it-it is that you n-need me to—suck it! fuck you!—see, but I-I don’t— Oh my fucking God?!”

There it is. 

Toby crawls closer to the mirror, his remaining eye wider than Tim had ever seen it and the hole where the matching one would’ve been stretching gruesomely. 

Tim winces. Toby can’t feel it, even if he could feel pain normally all that nerve damage would make it numb, but Tim can’t stop imagining what it would feel like. 

“…Jesus Christ…” Is all Toby can manage as he looks at what remains of his face. He feels around the wound, getting far too close to touching the exposed insides for Tim’s comfort. Toby stares at himself for a long few moments. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

Then Toby turns to his partner, and to Tim’s surprise, he’s sporting the widest, most lopsided grin he’s ever seen, his crooked teeth stained with blood on one side where it runs down his cheek from the wound. Tim holds back a shudder. 

“The fuck you cheesin’ for?” Tim growls, walking around behind Toby to see him in the mirror, “You nearly got half your damn face blown off!” 

“Relax, o-old man!” Toby replies without missing a beat, “In a-a few days there won’t e-even be a— b-be a mark…”

Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. That’s true, yes. An injury this extensive will take a bit to regenerate, but it’ll grow back like nothing happened. Still, Toby doesn’t even seem mildly disturbed. He practically saw himself die, and here he is giggling to himself and moving his face in odd ways just to see the horrid wound contort in the mirror. The quiet squelching noises it makes nearly bring Tim to vomit. 

“…You’re not even a little put off by the fact that…you know. You’re missing half your fuckin’ face?!” 

Toby lets out a sharp laugh at Tim’s outburst, amused by his clear discomfort. 

“Don’t be s-such a—bitch! bastard!— baby, I-I think it’s—asshole!—I think it’s k-kinda cool. Besides…”

He turns to look up at Tim, yellow teeth glowing in the moonlight that leaks in through the busted windows. 

“…I-I got a brand new hole f-for you to try out.” 

Tim gasps in disgust. Before he can think a hand comes up to smack Toby upside the head, though he immediately regrets it when a splatter of blood is thrown to the floor as Toby rocks forward. 

“Don’t say shit like that, you dirty fuckin’ pervert!” 

Toby nearly breaks out into hysterics at that, grabbing his sides as he laughs like a maniac. His tics increase tenfold at the sudden rush of energy, his fingers flexing unnaturally and tearing at his sweatshirt.

“H-How can I not?! You m-make it so f-fucking—fuck! funny!— fun, haha!” Toby replies, his voice cracking as his head jerks involuntarily in all directions.

Tim crosses his arms, huffing in annoyance but not sure what to say. He can feel his cheeks getting warm under his mask. He hates when Toby laughs at him. It pisses him off like nothing else. 

He stares daggers into Toby’s restless reflection as he leans into the mirror to inspect his wound again, mumbling to himself endlessly and doing his best to stay still. 

Toby’s rambling starts to fade out as Tim glares at his mirror image. He can feel something dark bubbling up inside of him, its vines sprawling out and over his body as he marinates in his thoughts. 

He thought he was gone. 

For a second there, he really thought he’d lost Toby for good.

And now here he is, without a care in the world, looking at his own fucking gunshot wound like it’s a new tattoo. 

Someone oughta teach this kid a lesson. 

Tim’s not sure what comes over him, but something, a nagging little thought has settled into his brain and taken root there. It thumps in the back of his skull like a heartbeat under the floorboards. He pulls one of his hands from its glove, looking down at his bare palm. 

“…You think this is all some joke, don’t you?” Tim mutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth. Toby doesn’t even turn to look at him. 

“W-Why are so damn u-uptight, old man? It’s not—grrrk!—it’s not like I d-died. Psuedo-immortality, r-remember?”

“But you could’ve. You know at the end of the day you can’t really trust anything that monster gives you. It would kill you in an instant if it felt threatened or betrayed.” 

“T-The fuck is your— i-is your problem?!”

Suddenly Toby isn’t all smiles anymore. His head jerks to the side violently, pulling a sickening pop from his neck. Tim is used to these mood swings, but that doesn’t stop the heavy tension that settles over the room. 

“Y-You’re always on my back about something, a-aren’t you old man?!” Toby hisses. Tim’s ungloved hand squeezes and flexes at his side. 

“You a-always got something to say about m-me, or what I—fucker! shit!—what I-I think, you can never j-just let me—“ 

Toby is cut off as a high pitched cry is violently forced from his throat, making his body spasm as it dissolves into an animalistic moan like neither of them have ever heard. It feels like every nerve in his body is seizing, splitting apart and contorting under his skin. He almost screams at the feeling, but he can’t manage it. He’s choking on nothing.

There’s a sickening squelch as something is ripped from the back of his skull, and he falls forward onto his hands, dizzy and struggling to breathe. 

“W-What…what the f-fuck…was…”

He can’t even finish the sentence between his inability to process the unnatural sensation that just overtook him and the indescribable feeling still rippling through his body. 

Slowly he cranes his neck to look back up into the mirror. Instantly his eye is locked onto Tim’s, but he isn’t looking back. He’s staring at something else. 

He follows Tim’s gaze down slowly, swallowing thickly with a sudden nervousness. His eye widens as it falls on the thing that has captivated Tim‘s gaze: 

His ungloved hand, the middle and ring fingers now dripping with blood and viscera not his own. 

No. Fucking. Way.

“Did…d-did you just…”

Tim doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to. 

For the first time in a long time, Toby is still. His twitching and jerking ceases, his face halts its uncomfortable wrenching; He’s still, and soundless. 

There’s a beat of silence where they both just stare at Tim’s bloodied hand, neither of them moving an inch. It’s like time has stopped in this instant. Toby can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his brain. Something in his chest is twisting and turning with a burning emotion he can’t quite place yet. 

He doesn’t even have time to process the sudden movement before Tim has plunged his fingers into the wound once again. 

This time Toby is forced to watch his reflection in the mirror as Tim violates the gorey cavity, thick digits rooting around inside his head and shooting a new sensation through him with every touch. His entire body stiffens, his mouth falling open involuntarily as he loses control of it. He can feel his senses being reduced to mush as he groans, the endless sound falling from his lips in unintelligible waves. It’s mindless, desperate babbling, but he can’t do anything else. 

Toby watches the depraved scene in the mirror until his eye starts to roll back in his head, further than it should be able to. Tim watches the hazel iris recede until only white is left. Only then does he finally give some reprieve, yanking his hand back and shaking off the chunks that come with it.

Toby’s head bows towards the ground as he catches his breath, his entire body rocking as he heaves desperately for air. He’s too preoccupied to notice the way Tim is leering down at him, his breathing now hot and labored. 

“…How did that feel?” 

Toby sneers at the question, not looking up. 

“H-How did it feel?! You’re d-digging around—shhhh!— in m-my fucking brain, d-dipshit, how do you— d-do you think it f-feels?!”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I know it doesn’t hurt, so how does it feel?” 

For some reason, Toby doesn’t have an answer to that. He wants to snap back with something witty and biting, to tell him it feels like Hell and back and if he doesn’t stop he’ll scatter his brains next, but…

That wouldn’t be the total truth. 

“…It…I-It feels…” He stammers, unable to find the words. He sits back up on his knees, locking eyes with his partner in the mirror. Tim is silent. He’s anticipating the rest of that sentence. Toby thinks for a moment, a series of tongue clicks in an odd rhythm sounding as he pauses. 

“…It…I-It wasn’t bad, if that’s w-what you’re looking for.” 

Tim’s breath hitches. 

Only Toby could hear a sound so small, yet so telling. 

He has to push this further.

“A-Actually it was kind of…k-kind of good, y-you know? I-I don’t know—rrrngh!—how to explain it, but i-it just…it’s like n-nothing I’ve ever f-felt or imagined, I-I—“

Toby cuts himself off with a gasp as Tim grasps his hair tightly. His other hand moves to his belt. The sound of the metal buckle makes Toby shiver. 

Tim leans down a bit, speaking lowly to his partner. 

“Keep talking.” 

Toby’s stomach flips. 

Tim’s not giving him a choice.

“I-It’s like…fuck, it’s l-like every muscle in my— in my b-body is spasming like c-crazy,” Toby continues, watching with crazed eyes as Tim slides the belt from its loops. He grits his teeth as it clatters to the ground. 

He doesn’t want this to stop. 

He has to keep going. 

“I-It’s like f-fire under my skin, b-but I can’t feel t-the burn…” 

Tim’s hand moves to the fly of his jeans. 

“…I-I lose all control of m-my body, I can’t—fuck off!—I-I can’t even think, i-it just all turns i-into gibberish…”

Tim tugs down his zipper, and Toby can see his twitching bulge straining against his boxers. 

“…It’s l-like I can feel myself l-losing my mind, and I c-can’t do anything— d-do anything about it, I c-can’t even p-put—put it back! put it back!—put together a sentence…”

Tim hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. He starts to push them down. 

“…F-Fuck, Tim, I-I wanna feel it again.” 

Toby clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to break free as he watches Tim’s erection spring free from the confines of his clothes. He’s thick and uncut, throbbing with rabid need. Toby shudders as his partner lets out a relieved groan, breathing hard under his mask. 

“S-Shit, Tim…y-your—your cock! your cock!—n-no! I mean you’re—your cock! your cock! fat cock!—dammit! I-I didn’t mean to s-say that—!”

“I’m taking you up on your offer, Rogers…” Tim growls, cutting off Toby’s attempt to explain himself. He grabs Toby’s head with both hands, fingers digging into the front of his wound on one side and the gash in his cheek on the other. This time Toby doesn’t bother to stop the moan that crawls up his throat as he feels Tim’s cock rut against the back of his head.

“…I wanna give this new hole of yours a proper fucking. What do you say?”

Toby can’t see Tim’s mouth, but he can tell he’s smiling from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his mask. Toby groans at the thought. He can’t stop the crooked grin that spreads across his pale face like butter on a hot pan.

“P…P-Please, Tim,” He whispers, and he knows he’s hit a nerve when he feels Tim‘s grip tighten for a moment.

“…Please what, Rogers?” 

He figured he wouldn’t get it that easy. 

“Please, Tim,” Toby continues, sucking in  a breath and swallowing his pride, “I-I want you t-to fuck me, please—“ 

Tim ruts against the back of his head again, barely brushing his wound. He wants more.

“P-Please, fuck, I-I’m—need! give it!—I’m begging you! I need it, I-I need you to fuck m-my brains out, please!” 

Tim shifts his hips. He’s lining up at the opening. 

It’s working. 

“Please, please, p-please, Tim, I-I want you to f-fuck my brain! I n-need to—fffuck! fuck! fuck!—I need t-to feel it! Please, dammit, j-just fucking—!”

Toby doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. 

Tim shoves himself inside the bloody cavity without warning, forcing Toby’s brain out of the way as his cock enters. The scream that rocks Toby’s body is as lustful as it is carnal and gruesome. He reaches up on instinct and grabs Tim’s wrists, not trying to pull his hands away but holding on for dear life before he loses the ability to move at all. 

“You broke so easy,” Tim sneers as he bottoms out, talking over Toby’s uncontrollable moaning, “What would the others think if they saw you begging for dick like a whore on the street? Huh?!”

He punctuates his sentence with a sudden rut of his hips, making Toby yelp and his body jerk. His nails dig into Tim’s arms, and the pain is delicious. 

Tim studies the scene before him in the mirror. 

It’s disgusting. It’s horrid. He can see the tip of his leaking cock resting inside his partner’s skull. 

He doesn’t want this to end. 

He’s going to relish this opportunity, every sickening moment of it. 

“What would they think…”

Tim starts to pull back, breath trembling at the slick noises from the movement.

“…If they knew I had you whining for me like a dirty fuckin’ sissy?!”

He pushes back in with even more force than before. Blood is forced out the front of the wound, dripping down Toby’s face and onto the floor, leaving a red trail on his skin. His meaningless babbling is music to Tim’s ears.

Again Tim pulls back, faster this time, and pushes in again. He watches Toby’s face in the mirror as he finds his rhythm, completely enamored as it contorts with overwhelming sensations that no human should ever experience. His mouth is hanging completely open, his tongue limp and lying against his chin as he pants and wails desperately like a dog in heat. He’s starting to drool from the lack of muscle control.

There’s something about watching Toby quite literally lose his mind at his hand that makes Tim feel like God. 

“You know, I like you a lot better when you can’t run your mouth,” Tim says with a chuckle. He digs his fingers into the front of the wound, groping around in the cavity and feeling the pulsing meat shift under the pads of his fingertips.

“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell anyone about this, not gonna tell the others you’re a nasty fuckin’ faggot who’s so desperate for dick you’d take it in your brain…at least someone’s finally making use of the lump of meat in your head, eh?!”

He pulls Toby’s skull back on his cock hard and fast, fucking into the hole with more fervor than he thought possible. His arms are bleeding now from where Toby’s nails are digging in, his knuckles locked up as his motor function is ripped to shreds. 

Tim’s eyes trail down the reflection as he thrusts, down to Toby’s body and stopping at the tent in his pants. There’s a painfully obvious stain on his groin now where his erection is straining against the denim of his jeans with wretched need. His precum is leaking through the material in viscous waves, a constant stream of shameful arousal. It looks like it hurts, like his zipper is about to burst, but Tim has no interest in granting him even that small mercy of freeing his hard-on. 

“Damn,” He mumbles to himself, watching the liquid pool where the tip of his partner’s cock pushes against his pants, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just tolerating it to see how far I’ll go, you’re getting off on this shit! You’re a dirty fuckin’ boy slut!” 

He’s getting mean, meaner than he really needs to be, but he doesn’t care. Toby might not even be able to hear him, and even if he can, Tim’s not going to waste this chance while his partner can’t snap back. 

He ruts his hips more intentionally, trying to hit every spot he can. He’s catching on to patterns, that certain touches here or there make Toby twitch or jerk or yelp involuntarily. His eye has rolled back in his head almost completely. It looks agonizing, and it only makes Tim thrust faster. 

“Then again, in that messed up little mind of yours I bet this is nothing. You’re so used to gettin’ beat on this practically soft to you, ain’t it?! Or did your old man slam your head into the concrete too many times for you to know the damn difference?!” 

Tim’s practically screaming at him now, drool running down his chin and neck as he loses himself to the pleasure. It’s unbearably hot under his mask, but he can’t bring himself to release his death grip on Toby’s head to take it off. 

“I should’ve put you in your place a long time ago, lord knows you’ve needed it for who knows how long!” 

Tim angles his hips upward a bit, brushing against a certain spot that makes Toby tense and cry out suddenly. The thing Tim notices most, though, is the way Toby’s cock twitches in his pants. It spurts just a bit, not climaxing yet but getting dangerously close. The stain on the front of his pants is only growing with each passing second that Tim violates his brain.

“Oh, you really are disgusting,” Tim huffs, “You’re really about to cum in your pants, and I haven’t even touched your cock? That’s pathetic, Rogers.”

Tim angles his hips up again just to watch the precum gush from his partner’s tip, his stomach flipping in his gut at the thought that Toby is so, so damn close, but he can’t beg for more or touch himself or even move at all. 

“Nngh…Like hell I’m gonna let a little bitch boy like you cum first, though.” 

He takes a moment to adjust his grip. He’s preparing for the last stretch. 

The speed of his thrusting increases tenfold, completely losing all sense of rhythm. He can feel the pleasure taking him over, melting his resolve and screaming at him to go, go, go, just keeping going, go until you can’t anymore, and that’s exactly what he intends to do. 

“You better take all of my cum, Rogers,” Tim growls through gritted teeth, “Though I ain’t exactly giving you a choice, am I? You’ll take it whether you like it or not…” 

He hasn’t looked away from Toby’s face in the mirror. The sight of it twitching and frozen in a state of screaming ecstasy is like a horrific work of art. Tim’s never going to forget it. He won’t forget any of this. Every second is burned into his brain, and he’s more than happy to keep it that way.

The gory cavity is carved into the shape of Tim’s cock by now, each thrust only feeding the growing puddle of blood and viscera on the ground below Toby. That stain will stay there forever, Tim thinks. A permanent reminder of the debauchery the two of them are so gleefully partaking in. The idea of someone else finding this old house scattered with bodies, walking around and not even knowing the half of what these walls have been subjected to…

God, that’s good. 

The knot in Tim’s stomach starts to tighten. 

He can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can Toby. 

Tim angles his hips in that special way again, hitting that sensitive spot over and over and over again with each frenzied thrust. Toby’s practically soaking himself now, so close to the edge but not quite close enough to fall off, though he runs the risk with each passing second. It’s barely a matter of time. 

Faster, faster, faster, that’s the only thing Tim can think. 

More, more, more, that’s all he can think about.

Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more, more, more more more moremoremore—

“Shit!” 

Suddenly Tim throws his head back with a wild noise, his cock releasing without warning into the bloody cavity he’s been so graciously desecrating. At the same time he brushes that spot again, and it’s finally enough to give Toby his release, too, only a second later. His cum soaks the front of his now completely ruined jeans, the shameful stain running down his groin and thighs. The scream he lets out as his climax rocks his body will haunt Tim’s dreams. 

Tim’s thrusting doesn’t slow to a stop until it feels like his balls are empty. Only then does he finally go still, allowing himself to breathe. He looks up at the ceiling as he pants, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment as his orgasm gradually washes away.

Finally Tim allows his fingers to unfurl, releasing Toby as he pulls his cock from his ruined skull. It comes back soaked in blood and sticky with viscera, taking a few chunks with it. He tries to step back, but Toby’s still gripping his wrists.

He manages to shake him off, only for Toby’s body to go completely limp and fall forward, face first onto the dusty wood floor and into the puddle of mixed bodily fluids. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t move or show any signs of life beyond that. Anyone else would think he’s dead. 

“I’m not falling for that again,” Tim mumbles with an eye roll, using his discarded glove to wipe off his now flaccid cock before tucking it back into his boxers and zipping up his pants. 

He crouches over Toby, grabbing his hair and forcing him up from the floor back onto his knees. All Toby can manage is a pathetic groan. Tim studies his partner’s fucked-out face in the mirror for a moment, watching as the blood and seed lazily roll down his cheek and chin. He can’t help but chuckle to himself.

“…Anything to say for yourself?” Tim asks teasingly, shaking him a bit.

The only response he gets is the sound of gagging as Toby retches. Tim barely moves back in time to watch him cough up a horrible concoction of blood, cum, and God knows what else without being in the splash zone. 

“Goddammit, watch it!” Tim scolds cruelly, “If you hurl on my new boots I’m leaving you like this.” 

He at least has the decency to let Toby finish before scooping up his limp, helpless body. He carries him under his arm like a log, not taking any care to be gentle.

“I’ll get you back home to Eyeless,” Tim mutters, “He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he’ll patch you up good ‘til you’re all healed…” 

Tim tries not to think too hard as he carries his partner out of the house, away from the crime scene and into the endless wooded darkness. 

All is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Tim’s heavy steps on the dry leaves. That is, until what Tim thinks is a muffled giggle sounds from his partner. He stops and looks back, but there’s no more noise. 

Dammit, he thinks. 

Neither of us are going to be forgetting this. 

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

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Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.

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[eschergirls]

And after a few days break, here's the third and final part of the "Let's Draw Manga Sexy Gals" posts (here are parts one and two if you missed it).

These pages are just kind of strange: the arbitrary distinction between "anime" and "manga", apparently anime girls are all just little children compared to manga girls, the differences between male bodies and female bodies, that women apparently just vanish after age 40 (and they become space aliens as teenagers).

But my favourite is the "coke bottle" page where a) that's not what a coke bottle is shaped like, but also 2) the actual woman drawn there is the OPPOSITE of the shape they depict (which again, isn't what a coke bottle is shaped like).

The bottle they drew is wider in the hips than in the chest/shoulders, the woman they drew is wider in the shoulders than in the hips. xD

This feels like another situation where the person writing the text (or who drew that coke bottle) wasn't on the same page as the person doing the figure.

I also love "women can be depicted as four circles", that should be a meme. And the four circles woman looks kinda like a bunny.

Anyway, I hope everybody learned a lot about drawing manga sexy gals.  I know I did.

For those interested in the uncensored versions of the first 2 images, there are links in the EscherGirls.com post.

(Cover and snippets from Let's Draw Manga Sexy Gals by Heisuke Shimohara)

I've included descriptions for text readers in the images, but the longer commentary on each page is too long to fit the description boxes, so I'm including the transcription of just the text below:

Transcription of image 1:

Depicting Softness of Form - Part 1 The bottom line for drawing an attractive woman is to effectively project the softness of her body. No one likes a rock-hard body on a girl! Here are some techniquest o use for bringing out a soft form. The curves of the female form can be represented as four circles. The "coke-bottle figure", long used to describe the ideal female form, is characterized by a small waistline and rounded buttocks.

Transcription of image 2:

Differences Between the Male and Female Form - Part 1 The male and formale form exhibit several distinguishing features. These differences are often exaggerated in drawings. Generally speaking, the male form is based on an inverted triangle, while the female form is based on an upright triangle. Shown below are the three body parts that most distinguish men from women. Shoulders Give this portion some mass. (pointing at male shoulder) Make the neck thin and long. (pointing at female neck) Chest The male chest should have a square, rigid appearance while the female chest should be curved and soft. Waist and Leg Bones Straight waist (pointing at male waist) Slim down the torso for a pinched-in waistline (pointing at female waist)

Transcription of Image 3:

A comparison of Manga and Anime Characters - Part 1 There are too many differences between the two artistic styles of manga and anime to describe all of them here, but we can examine each through erotic illustratoin. Here are some examples typical of this genre.

Transcription of Image 4:

Manga: Mature facial features with realistic eyes, nose and mouth Anime: Eyes are comparatively large in relations to other features. The ears have a simple shape. Comparing Body Proportions: Always keep movement in mind. A typical anime character is designed with simple lines, making it easier to draw in action poses.

Transcription of Image 5:

Facial Differences in Women According to Age A conservative hairstyle with somewhat subdued facial features 30 to 40 years old: Sharper facial features with a more provocative hairstyle. 20 to 30 years old: This face is borderline anime style. Notice how the unnaturally large eyes extend further down the face. 10 through teens: Like an anime character, the eyes are unusually large and positioned just below the center of the face.

[caffedrine]

Chevalier Michel - Beyond the Connection Between the Past and the Present – Event Summary

This is mostly a summary for me - I make no promises on the accuracy of what’s happening. I’m not nearly fluent enough to get half the jokes/innuendo much less accurate plot points.

As usual, Emma brings tea and sweets to the garden pavilion for Chevalier. Unusually, she brings enough for a third person. Once she arrives, she apologizes for making the two wait.

Chevalier and kid!Chevalier do not look up from their respective books. The atmosphere between them remains the same.

It had been surprising to run into kid!Chevalier in but, looking at them side by side, it is clear that this really is the child version of Chevalier.

She explains that she brought Chevalier’s tea without milk or sugar as usual, but maybe kid!Chevalier would like something different? Maybe something sweeter?

Kid!Chevalier tells her that he already said she wasn’t required to behave considerately towards him. Emma agrees that he did say that, but even if it wasn’t required, she still wants to take care of him. She offers some scones that she baked earlier, adding that they would go well with the tea.

Kid!Chevalier does not look impressed.

(Just imagine this but three feet shorter)

Emma gestures at the pile of books that seems to increase every time they are out of her direct line of sight and asks if kid!Chevalier found anything useful. She imagines kid!Chevalier is looking for a way to return to his original time, and she wonders how close he is to finding it.

Chevalier tells Emma that it’s impossible to find. At Emma’s confused expression, Chevalier explains that he has already read every book in the imperial court, and there is nothing about time travel. This is something Emma should have figured out for herself.

Emma asks what the pile of books is for, and Chevalier muses that kid!Chevalier must be bored.

Kid!Chevalier adds that he doesn’t have anything else he needs to do.

Emma is surprised at how calm the child is. On the other hand, there are lots of books that kid!Chevalier has never read, so she hopes that this will be interesting to him.

Chevalier tells her to go ahead and leave the child be. He knows how to take care of himself – he might look like a child but he’s not all that different from adult!Chevalier. Emma is confused, and Chevalier asks if this looks like a normal child to her.

Well, yes. Maybe because she’s spent a lot of time around adult!Chevalier, but kid!Chevalier, despite how well-mannered he is, is still pretty childish.

Both Chevaliers are appalled.

Emma muses that their reaction is the exact same.

Moving on, Emma asks if there’s anything she can help kid!Chevalier with.

Nope.

Emma asks if she can take care of him.

She’s bothering him.

Emma explains that if there is anything that is bothering him, she wants to help him.

Kid!Chevalier ignores her.

Chevalier explains that he’s just not used to being doted on. As a child, there was no one like her who would take care of him, and so he has no idea how to handle her affection.

Kid!Chevalier remarks that his adult self seems to enjoy pointless chatter. Chevalier muses that he might be right. Sulkily, kid!Chevalier doubts he will ever become like Chevalier. Chevalier agrees that the way his life turned out surprised even him.

Awh, adult!Chevalier is eating the scones. Unfortunately, kid!Chevalier shows no interest in them at all.

Suddenly kid!Chevalier asks why Chevalier is eating the scones so carelessly. Chevalier asks if Emma seems like someone who would poison him?

Oh, what about an accidental poisoning?

Chevalier thinks that if Emma was able to poison the scones, accidentally or not, then it’s his fault for not being able to detect poison. However, he is not so unskilled that he would make that kind of mistake.

Chevalier notes that kid!Chevalier doesn’t have that much confidence in his own skills. He recalls that he couldn’t detect poison that well as a child either. But don’t worry, Chevalier had experienced enough poisonings that he can tell these scones are safe.

Kid!Chevalier muses over this information, it sounds like even a monster like himself can grow to some extent.

Emma snaps that Chevalier is not a monster.

Oops, she didn't mean to be so loud. But still, this is a point that is important to her. In a more normal tone, she explains that it's normal for humans to be cautious and grow from their experiences. Kid!Chevalier asks if she thinks he looks like a human child.

Of course!

Chevalier snorts and notes that Emma is a bit simple. Kid!Chevalier snorts and agrees. Emma decides to take this as a compliment from the two of them, her heartwarming at the sound of amusement from kid!Chevalier.

Suddenly, kid!Chevalier stands up from the table, and Emma asks where he’s going. He explains that he’s finished reading all the books here, so he’ll head out to the library. Emma offers to accompany him, but he tells her she is unnecessary.

But what if a book he wants is in a high place? She could reach it for him!

Kid!Chevalier predicts that Emma will fall off the ladder reaching that high book for him. Emma assures him it has been over 16 hours since she last fell. Chevalier laughs at this, startling kid!Chevalier.

He explains that he never thought that he’d be able to laugh like that. Emma explains that she fell in love with Chevalier’s laugh and smile.

Kid!Chevalier shakes his head, this is nonsense. He’s merely a beast wearing a human’s skin.

Emma disagrees, it's more like he’s a human who is wearing the skin of a beast. Of course, the same goes for kid!Chevalier.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is a very strange person. Emma tells him that she’ll consider that a compliment as well.

Kid!Chevalier returns to his seat, and Chevalier asks if he wasn’t planning on getting more books. Kid!Chevalier explains that he has changed his mind, he’s decided he can read books whenever he wants. Then he reaches out, plucks up a scone, and eats it. Emma gushes over him, asking if he minds it, if it suits his taste. He will admit that it is edible.

Emma proffers the jams available, telling him to choose whatever he likes. Kid!Chevalier grumbles that she is something to make such a fuss over jams. Emma explains that she’s really happy, kid!Chevalier looks like he thinks the scone was delicious.

Chevalier agrees, he never objectively looked at himself as a child, but right now, kid!Chevalier’s emotions are on his face.

Kid!Chevalier looks grumpy as Chevalier notes that he just has no experience.

Kid!Chevalier grumbles that they’re acting like he’s just some kid. Emma agrees and asks him to let her pamper him more.

Emma has long believed that the reason Chevalier is the way he is was due to his environment rather than his talent. If so, she wants both the adult and the child to know that someone here loves them.

[discokicks]

EYE TO EYE (FOR AN EYE) - ROY KENT.

(series masterlist!) (AO3!) (series playlist!)

PART FIVE OF ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: well, you've been parent trapped. forced to talk about things you swore you'd never speak of again, you and roy sit down for a chat to appease your fellow coaching staff. meanwhile, in 2012, the english men's team have lost, and you and roy have a chat that leaves you on an... unforeseen note.

word count & rating: 10.2k, R (we're heating up but we ain't there yet)

chapter warnings: swearing, allusions to sa and harassment, some sexual innuedoes, majorly charged eye contact and tension-filled pauses (these fucks are damaged and yearning), WHOLE LOT of dialogue i apologize there's a lot to talk about

author's note: well hello. for those of you familiar with the show victorious, i've been affectionately calling this chapter the 'take a hint' chapter since i outlined this series. there's also a fuck ton of dialogue in this one and can read like a shitty script sometimes, so apologies on that front. sorry this one took a minute, got stuck with it then got busy. hope you enjoy, love you tons! -mags

PRESENT DAY, MID-AUGUST, 2023.

There are approximately four straight minutes of uninterrupted silence between you and Roy before either of you say a word.

The first minute, you believe, is just the two of you actually processing that this is happening. You’d heard the jokes about Richmond being a family, about work-life lines being crossed, about true professionalism being thrown out the window at the sake of having better, stronger connections with your team. However, you never imagined that something like this was on the horizon.

The next minute is spent unpacking the reality of it all. You were here with someone you’d previously sworn to never speak to again, expected to talk about something you swore you’d never speak about again. And it was to be done against your will, at a random pub in Richmond, with your two coaches watching you through binoculars through a window like it was a Three Stooges movie.

The next, you realize exactly what it is you two are expected to talk about. Your Stooge coaches want you to have the conversation-- the conversation you swore to yourself you’d never, ever have with Roy. They want you to just talk about it, like it’s simple. As if it’s some silly little dispute you had eight years ago, not one that could take days to fully get through (and frankly, should probably have some sort of third party involved. You’re not suggesting a version of couples therapy but you’re not not suggesting it). Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about this can be solved in just one conversation. But, you figure, if Roy’s suddenly game to start to get into it, you suppose you should be too.

That leads you to the final minute, which is spent attempting to find the right way to start this conversation, because, truly, how the fuck do you even start a conversation like this? While you and Roy were never inclined to beat around the bush, this is different. It's so, unbelievably different and you don't know how you're supposed to do this. Especially not now.

Throughout this time, you’ve glanced over at Roy periodically, who you think may physically hurt himself with how hard he’s trying to avoid eye contact with you. He’s focused on the TV at the bar broadcasting the highlights from the Richmond-Chelsea game. He’s staring at the bar top. He’s looking up at the ceiling. Anywhere but you and at anyone but you.

After those four minutes, you feel the tension in the air shift. It may just be your frustration at both him and this situation, it might be his own, but you suddenly can’t take it anymore. And to your surprise (and Roy’s, for that matter), you manage to get out the first word. 

“So,” you say lamely, trying your best not to cringe as it lands. “Uh…”

Roy glances over at you, expecting something else to follow. When nothing does, and he sees your mouth open and close, he huffs a laugh. “I bet you’re happy you signed with Richmond now, huh?”

You place your elbows on the bartop, face falling into your hands. “This is actually insane,” you say, words muffled by your palms. “I hated West Ham, but at least Shelley wasn’t Parent Trap-ing his assistant coaches.” You raise your head to look at Mae as she places two pints in front of you and Roy. “Thank you.”

Mae nods at the both of you, eyes narrowing at Roy as she notices his silence. “The offer for double the pay is still on the table,” he tells her.

“Richmond can’t win this year if their coaching staff is fighting like cats and dogs,” Mae replies. “Your money is as useless as your arguing here.”

The bluntness of her statement has you chuckling despite yourself. As Mae walks away from a now scowling Roy, you take a sip of your drink. Then another. Then another.

When you feel Roy’s gaze on you, you turn to look at him. “What? If we’re gonna talk about this, I can’t be sober.”

“We’re not talking about it,” is his immediate response, and he makes sure to keep his voice low, eyes shifting to where Mae is at the other end of the bar. 

Relief rushes through you at the idea that he seems to be on the same avoidance wave. You want to have this conversation even less than he probably does. However…

“They’re watching us,” you say, throwing your thumb in the direction of the window. “If we’re just sitting here in silence, they’re never gonna let this go.” You glance over your shoulder at your fellow coaches watching you. “And something about Beard gives me the vibe that he’s like, really good at reading lips.”

A familiar growl of annoyance escapes him. “Then we’re going to keep our backs turned and pretend that we’re talking to get those fucking muppets off our backs and get on with our fucking lives.”

Your lips purse. "What are the odds I get you to chug this with me?”

Roy huffs into his glass. “About the same as the odds of it coming right back up because of my new fucking acid reflux.”

Your nose scrunches up in a weary sort of agreement. “Ugh. Fair. Where’d that shit come from anyway? It sucks.”

“We’re fucking old, Fourteen,” he mutters. “That’s where it came from. We’re far from what we used to be.”

“Yeah, but you were ancient when I met you,” you reply, earning a deep scowl in return. “I used to be so young and full of life.”

“If by ‘full of life’ you mean doing boat races in a shitty pub in London with a bunch of degenerate athletes—”

“Oh, my God. Grandad. The kids got off your lawn in 2012, stop bitching,” you say as you bite back a laugh. When Roy rolls his eyes, you point at him. “And by the way, I vaguely remember you joining us in one of those boat races, so I don’t want to hear it from you.”

Roy scoffs. “I did it to shut Rivera up,” he replies, shaking his head. “Terrible fucking influence.”

A fond smile grows on your lips at the mention of your friend, remembering the state she’d been in that night. It was the night you’d won the Gold at the Olympics, and Mel had taken it upon herself to peer pressure your entire team not just to go out, but to start at a pub and start the celebration with that godforsaken game. To this day, you’re still not sure if she remembered leaving the pub.

“She’s the worst,” you agree, though your tone says differently.

A beat passes between you, a question hanging in the air as if Roy’s unsure if he should ask it. If he’s allowed or entitled to know the answer. He asks it anyway. “Where did she end up?”

You answer after you swallow the sip of beer you’d taken. “She and Paige are somewhere in Surrey. And I’m still trying to figure out the geography of this place, but I know that it’s kind of close to here, which is nice. They’re supposed to come for our first home game with their son.”

“Fucking crazy that they’ve got a kid,” Roy says. “I remember when she was making a fucking fool of herself in front of that girl.”

“You’re telling me,” you grin. “Luckily it worked. It helped that Paige was in love with her the entire time.”

That comment is met with silence as Roy seems to only be able to offer a nod in response. The following quiet is less awkward, but everything still hangs in the air. It weighs down the space that stands between you two and makes your chest ache. You don’t know how to continue. You don’t know what to say.

You feared this exact situation with him. Just the two of you, sitting in a room with each other, running out of talking points. No team to comment on, no coaches to add input, nothing left to expand on. Only the memories of your past and a million unspoken paths to go down— ones you had no interest in uncovering.

The TV in front of you transitions to Zava’s press conference, and suddenly, thankfully, you’ve got another thing to talk about. “You’ve never said your opinion on Zava.”

Roy’s brow pinches. “What’s there to say? He’s fucking good. He’ll help us be better. I didn’t think he’d go for us but I’m happy he did.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” you say with the roll of your eyes. “I’m asking for your opinion. Not Coach Kent’s PR response.”

He takes a brief pause, then scowls and looks down at the bar top. “I think he’s a self-involved, strange little prick. I think the shit he does and wears fucking odd, and I think the hero-worship our team’s got for him is going to be a problem.” Roy shrugs. “But he’ll help us win games.”

You find yourself nodding along. “Do you think we actually need him?”

Roy’s gaze slides to yours in interest. “I take it you don’t?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your body slightly to face him. “I think he’ll help us win,” you agree, putting your chin in your hand as you look up at Zava (who’s holding a Richmond jersey with a smile) on TV. “But I’m afraid he’ll mess up the team dynamic.”

“How so?” he asks.

“Well, I’m assuming all future plays are going to be made around him,” you say. “Pass to Zava, get it to Zava, put Zava in a position to score. You guys have never done that before. You’ve never just focused on making everything work around one person.”

Roy’s eyes narrow. “We’ve done it with Tartt.”

“You’ve made plays for Jamie. But you’ve never relied on Jamie to be your focal point in every play of every game,” you explain. The intrigue on Roy’s face is something you haven’t seen in a minute. You continue, “Jamie’s your best player. Every team needs to have their best player. But that’s why, I think, Richmond works. Because you’re a team. You’ve got Sam, you’ve got Isaac, you’ve got Dani— everyone’s good at what they do and they know how to fill their role to work together.” You shrug and reach for your pint. “That’s how you’ve won in the past. I just think it’s dangerous to have the team play around someone else instead of playing as a team. I don’t think it’s sustainable.”

These points of yours are met with a quiet that tells you he’s considering your words. Not so much evaluating as he’s just… taking them in. It feels good to be heard. Not to be dismissed or waved off, told that your input would be considered as it had been for the last three months. 

You’re not sure if Roy’s going to respond to any of your points until he says, “Stop saying ‘you have.’”

You blink at him, not expecting that at all. “What?”

“You keep saying ‘you’ve.’ ‘You guys.’ ‘You’re.’ You’re distancing yourself from the team.” He shakes his head. “You’re a part of this now too. Richmond’s yours as much as it’s mine.”

“Oh,” you say. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride wash over you. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

Roy sighs. “You should have said something if that’s how you felt.”

“And what? Ruin the fun of the Zava train? Potentially be the reason we don’t pick up one of the best players in the league?” You scoff. “Pass. I don’t have the seniority to make a move like that.”

“You still should have said something,” Roy presses. “Ted would have listened. We would have listened.”  

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.” You wave him off, shrugging. “He’s with us and I’m sure he’s going to be great and help us win. I’m just being weird about it.” Roy looks as though he has about a million things to say to that, but he chooses to bite his tongue instead. At his silence, you add, “Be nice to Jamie if he asks for extra training.”

The scoff that leaves his lips is loud. “I’m as nice to Tartt as he deserves.”

“I’m serious,” you say through a chuckle. “Don’t shut him down if he asks. He needs someone in his corner.”

“And it can’t be you?” he asks.

It’s an innocent enough question, asked with a bit of levity and a teasing glance. But it makes your stomach churn. The memories of West Ham, the sessions you did, Tom’s new comments, everything— and it all hurts. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop hurting.

Any trace of humor drained from your face and in an instant, Roy knows he said something wrong. Stupid, he thinks. Fucking stupid. You’d gone quiet when he last asked you about this. He should have known better. Watched his words more carefully.

“No,” you reply softly. You take a long sip. “I’d prefer that it wouldn’t be me.”

Well, now Roy feels like an asshole. Once again, he wants to ask. He wants to understand exactly what happened, understand who or what has affected you like this. He has his assumptions (ones that go into dark places he never even wants to consider for you— seriously, he’d fucking kill someone and wouldn’t blink), but if you can’t or won’t talk about it, he’s not entitled to know. He’s not entitled to know anything. Your relationship’s never worked like that, even when you were on good terms. There was no pressure, it all always seemed to come out when you were comfortable. It had never been like that before. That’s originally what drew him to you. That’s why he stuck around.

Roy knows if you do decide to talk about it, it’ll be on your terms. And while he doesn’t like it, he respects it. He respects you.

It’s why he chooses to move on to some other topic instead of pressing you. “Whatever they say about your press conference,” he begins, shaking his head, “fucking ignore it.”

It’s a clunky transition and it catches you slightly off-guard. The leap has you suspicious that Roy might know more than he lets on about your situation, but you don’t dare say anything about it. “They?” you ask.

“The media,” he expands. “The football fans. The pricks online. They.” He shakes his head again. “They don’t fucking matter. If they knew any better than you did, they’d be where you are.”

They’re kind words filled with a rough reassurance that he’s mastered. To hopefully get rid of (or procrastinate) the heavy feeling in your chest, you wave him off. “I’m used to it,” you say. Roy frowns at you and you shrug, “I commentated a little bit for ESPN after I got hurt. I did one Men’s game and made a joke about how much you guys overreact when you get fouled to get a call. Twitter ate me alive. I still get threats about it.”

Roy inhales ruefully, humor written across his expression. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing I haven’t said to you a hundred times,” you reply casually, hearing him huff once more. “I think it was something about how you guys have to be getting paid extra by the Club if you promise to make a scene when you’re hit.”

“You weren’t far off," he chuckles.

“And I still stand by it,” you tell him, leaning in as his lips pull into a small grin. “Though I’m not sure I should be talking to you about playing up a penalty.”

Roy’s brows rocket up. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that i’m sitting next to the only person in AFC history to ever get two red cards in a game,” you reply, and the instantaneous scowl that forms on his face makes you chuckle. “I don’t think there’s been a question about if you’ve ever actually hit someone.”

“Those calls were bullshit,” he mutters.

“Roy, you tackled Man City’s best midfielder and took out both of his legs. And then you kicked a different guy in the chest.”

“He ran into my foot.”

“There is literal video footage of you looking him in the eye and saying, ‘that wasn’t an accident, I kicked you in the fucking chest.’”

He stares at you for a moment, then shrugs. “At least I broke a record.” 

You nod at him. “And we’re all incredibly proud of you.”

That smile of his returns and you can tell he has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “You weren’t so fucking innocent out there either.”

A faux affronted sound leaves you. “I was an angel.”

“Right,” he draws out. “You never got into it with anyone, Mean Fourteen.”

Your nose crinkles. “I liked it better when you hated that name as much as I did.”

“It’s grown on me. Mainly because it’s right.” When your frown gets deeper, he continues. “Even before the Cup at those Olympics. You were fucking tough out there. They could never get you to stay down.”

You rub your finger against the rim of your glass as you glance at the the highlights of the recent Arsenal game on screen. “Damn right. Got tackled into oblivion by Caroline Singer at the 2012 Semi-Finals. Launched me ten yards and dislocated my shoulder. Got up the second after and had my shoulder set in time for overtime.”

Roy chuckles lowly. “I remember that game. You hit a full fucking Locust in the air when she sent you flying,” he says. “You deserved that one. You were a fucking menace to her all game.”

You gape at him. “I deserved that?”

“You did. If I’m Singer and I’m being marked by someone like you during that game? I’m breaking your fucking jaw.”

While you scowl at the idea that you ‘deserved’ that, you find yourself having caught something much more interesting. “Also, rewind. Full Locust?” you ask with a leading sort of intrigue. “Like… the yoga pose?”

Roy’s hiding in his pint again, trying his best at indifference. “Is that what that is?”

But you know him better. A wide, disbelieving grin pulls at your lips. “Roy Kent, do you do yoga?”

“No,” he immediately replies, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh, my God. You so do yoga.”

The scowl on his face is deep. “Fuck off,” he says. “What the fuck is wrong with yoga?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you respond, laughter dying down despite the smile that remains on your face. “I love yoga. I just never imagined you’d agree.”

“Well, I fucking do.” There’s a beat, and for a moment, you think he’s going to end it there. But then, “I do it once a week with some local mums in their sixties.”

Your mouth begins to part as you stare at him, grin widening. Your laughter starts back up in an instant. “This is the best day of my life.”

(Roy can’t exactly understand what compelled him to admit that, or why he’s indulging in this conversation with you, but there’s a small, suppressed piece of his brain that knows he did it to hear you laugh some more.)

“I have—” you pause to breathe. “—so many questions.”

Roy’s hand shoots up as Mae passes by to ask for another round. “No, you don’t.”

“How did this… come to be?”

He’s scowling, but chooses to answer with, “I was newly retired and borderline suicidal. I found their flier and called Maureen instead of the hotline.”

Your elbow’s now perched on the bartop, chin resting in your hand to stare at him in awe. “Is this, like, at a gym? Is it at one of their houses?” You gasp. “Do you host yoga?”

Roy looks as though he’s regretted every decision that’s led him to this moment. “We alternate weekly,” he mutters. 

“Shut up. Tell me you guys hang out after. Like you grab drinks or do a book club or something.”

His hand goes up once more in Mae’s direction. “Yeah, gonna make that two, Mae.”

“Shut up,” you repeat. You don’t think you could be smiling any harder. “Do you drink rosé and read Colleen Hoover?”

“No,” he says, pointing at you like you should know better. When your brows go up, he shrugs. “We drink rosé and watch Lust Conquers All like respectable fucking adults.”

You do the math in your head and gasp again. “Does that mean you watched Jamie’s season?”

Roy’s lips twitch upward. “Yeah. Watched him be a proper fucking twat,” he says, then glances over at you in curiosity. “Didn’t realize you got that over in the States.”

“Jamie’s season was when it started getting popular there,” you reply with a shrug. “All my friends were in love with him.”

Roy’s brows shoot up. “Not you?”

A snort escapes you, and you shake your head. “Uh, no. ‘The island’s top scorer, sexually’ wasn’t exactly my speed.” Roy’s smile grows at your poor impression of Jamie. “But they were into it. They freaked out when they realized I’d be working with him.”

“Not your speed,” Roy repeats, taking a long sip of his pint. His interest appears to be piqued. “And what speed is that?”

You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you try to play it off with a roll of your eyes. “You know what my type is.”

That smile of his stretches into something more resemblant of a smirk. “It’s been eight fucking years,” he replies, feigning innocence. “Types change.”

“I guess you’re right,” you say, fully ready to play along and be just as much of an annoying jerk as he’s being to you.“Right now, I’m regressing to my French swimmer phase. Going pretty well, actually.”

“Oh, is that right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer, biting back a grin. “Actually been talking with Luca for the last couple of weeks. It’s like we never left London.”

It’s Roy’s turn to roll his eyes, but it’s only half directed at you. “He was a fucking prick,” he says. 

“He was not a prick,” you reply. “You just didn’t like him.” Your eyes narrow, turning to face him with that same sort of feigned innocence he had. “Remind me why you didn’t like him again.”

“Because he was a fucking prick,” he repeats. “Fucking twat wouldn’t even watch your games. Couldn’t handle you winning something when he wasn’t.”

The scoff that escapes you is loud. “I forgot about that,” you mutter. “He was a prick, wasn’t he?”

“Fuck yeah, he was.”

You shake your head, raising your glass to take a small sip. “Whatever. Wasn’t like I ended up spending much time with him anyway.”

Roy’s lips quirk up into that same smirk, but there’s more behind it. “No, you didn’t.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks at that, and you continue to hide in your glass. Asshole.

Luckily, Roy seems to have more to say on the topic of Luca. “He was never your speed,” he tells you. It’s a matter-of-fact musing. “He wasn’t in your fucking race.”

You spare a glance in his direction. “No?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says as if he can’t believe you even had to ask. “You were riding light years ahead of him. He couldn’t keep up.” With a soft scoff, he adds, “Not many people can.”

That warm feeling returns and it spreads down your neck. You suddenly feel yourself getting shy. “Maybe I should slow down,” you attempt to joke.

Roy’s shaking his head before you can even finish your sentence. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You don’t mean to do it. It’s completely unconscious, almost like an instinct. But you ignore the way that that makes your entire body go ablaze and look at him. You hold his gaze for a long while, longer than you have since you started at Richmond. And he stares right back at you. 

It’s hauntingly familiar and paradoxically comfortable. You don’t know if he meant to say that or if it just slipped out in the moment, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you. Even if he didn’t mean to let something like that out with that sort of sentiment, he’s owning it. It warms your heart and makes your stomach flip upside down.

It’s so fucking confusing. But then again, this entire thing has been confusing. You had been sitting here for just about a half an hour, and half of those minutes were spent going back and forth in the way that you used to. You didn’t think it’d be so easy to fall back into that with him. To talk to him like that again. To banter with him. Even to fucking laugh with him.

That realization makes you feel as though you’ve been dunked in a pool of cold water and allows a weird, foreign feeling to settle in your chest. You’re angry at yourself and at him for slipping back into it so effortlessly. You hate how easy it is and always has been with him. But you also miss it. You’ve missed this. You missed him.

It’s an absolutely horrendous, life-altering realization and it slants your world sideways. You despise yourself for it. It’s something you force deep down into yourself, hoping it dies a quick and painless death, but you know that it won’t be the case. Not if he’s still around. And not if you two continue like this.

Luckily, for both of you, the television at the pub chirps out a loud noise as a penalty is called for the game on-screen. You two snap out of it, promptly tuning in to distract yourselves from whatever the fuck that was. Old habits were easy to fall into. They were dangerous. You couldn’t wait to pretend like that never happened.

However, something still lingers. Something sits upon your tongue as you watch the scene unfold on-screen, as the medical and physio team run out to help the injured Arsenal player who’s clutching at his knee. You can’t explain your motive and you don’t completely understand why you feel the need to keep this conversation going, but you want to extend that same kindness to him, with something you’ve been holding back for years. So you do.

“I almost called you,” you tell him. He glances over at you, brows raised in question. “The game you got hurt. I was watching. And I sat on my couch for two hours trying to figure out if I should call you.”

Roy blinks, absorbing this, then turns away. He swallows thickly before bringing his glass to his lips. “Glad you didn’t.”

It stings. Like, really stings. You nod, trying not to show just how much, but your voice still comes out dejected. “Oh,” you say. “Right.”

Roy sighs at your tone. “No, it—” He wipes a hand down his face and the pint in his other lands on the bartop with a thud. “If you’d called that night, it just… It would have… complicated a lot of fucking things for me. And I might have—” There’s a brief moment where he meets your gaze, but he quickly drops it. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Oh,” you repeat, but it’s quieter. Your focus is drawn to your glass. “Right.”

That dreaded silence returns and it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced with him. What did he mean? What would he have done? What would you have complicated for him? The way he speaks gives you a pretty decent idea of how drastic his actions would have been, but you can’t figure out what he means. 

Would he have lashed out at you? Would he have wanted to see you? Would he have even picked up the phone if you had called? What did he mean?

You have millions of questions you’re too scared to ask, and you bite your tongue for fear of actually speaking them aloud. Roy doesn’t seem to like this and really doesn’t seem to like your answer, or lack there of (but truly, what exactly were you supposed to say to something like that?). You’re not sure if he thinks he upset you or made you uncomfortable, but when he speaks again, he’s taken on a bit of a softer tone.

“Just so we’re clear,” he begins. “I’m… happy you’re here.” He says it slowly, as if he’s testing out each word. “I’m happy you joined Richmond despite… well, fucking everything.”

You swallow hard, awkwardly shrugging. “I didn’t have a lot of other options.”

He gives you a look that tells you to stop being a smartass. You know it well.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he repeats, more sure this time. “I’m happy to see you again. But it…” Roy trails off, eyes locked on the bar top. “It’s fucking… strange. It’s strange to be here with you after I swore you off for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “It is.”   

“And I— I’m trying to be better at this,” he continues, still refusing to look at you. “Talk like this with someone. Be fucking open, or whatever. So, this is me being open.”

It takes him a minute to collect his thoughts, and you give it to him. 

He scratches at the inside of his wrist. “All of my past… relationships were…” He trails off like he can’t find the right word.

“Fleeting?” you try, earning a glare in response. “Transactional?”

That look in his eye doesn’t falter. “I’m trying to be open here, for fuck’s sake,” he grits, though the slight whine in his voice makes you chuckle. However, before you can apologize, he sighs. “But, for lack of a better fucking word, yeah. That. Nobody stuck around and there was no… love lost or-- fucking whatever. And if it did end poorly, I didn’t have to worry about seeing them. I could ignore them or get a fucking drink thrown in my face and it’d be… done. It’d be over.” Roy shakes his head and takes a long sip of his beer. “I didn’t have to be around them, I didn’t have to see them, and I certainly didn’t have to fucking work with them.”

There’s a beat between you. It’s brief, but it gives you time to absorb this, and for him to take a breath. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he’s looking at you. It’s a gaze that’s warmer than before, but there’s still that distress there. The confusion. Sadness.

He continues, “I really thought I was never going to see you again. And I had, I don’t know, fucking resigned myself to that idea? I’d come to terms with it. So, being here?” That’s when he decides to meet your eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck to do. I don’t know how to act around you. Not when I’m still so… fucking angry with you. Not when you’re so angry with me. I’ve never done anything like this—” He motions between you two. “—and I don’t know how the fuck to do it.” 

It’s a lot to take in, but you do so while nodding slowly. He doesn’t know how to do this? He doesn’t know how to act around you? This is confusing for him? 

It wasn’t a contest, but you’d argue that, given everything, you were in the worse position. You were joining his team, a team he’d clearly nested into and made a life for himself in. You had been forced to ignore everything he’d done to you for the sake of your career because you truly had nowhere else to go. How the hell did he think that you were or would be doing any better than he was? Did he really think you were dealing with this in a healthier, more stable way?

After you’ve collected your thoughts, you ask, “You think that this is easy for me? I’m fucking drowning here, Roy.” Your voice is gentle, and almost immediately, you can see the tension in his body resolve into something more open. “I think we’re the first people ever on earth to be put in this fucked situation. It’s like some sick psychology experiment.” 

“Sad fucking excuses for lab rats we are,” he mutters. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “What does it say about us that we agreed to it?”

“It says we’re masochists, Kent,” you say, and that smile grows as he shakes his head. You motion to the window where Beard and Ted still stand, taking turns with the binoculars every so often to check in on the two of you. “Who else would just go along with shit like this?”

Roy turns to the window. “Fuck. I forgot they were out there,” he mutters in disbelief.

You salute to Beard and his binoculars and he pulls them down to nod at you in response. “We’re sick, sick people who’d rather be uncomfortable than give this sport up.”

Roy huffs a laugh. “Cheers to that.” 

He tilts his pint to yours and it feels like a peace offering. It’s like you’re finally on the same page about something for once. When you clink your glass against his and sip with him, it ratifies that agreement. You bite back a smile.

“But there’s some truth in that, I guess,” you continue. Roy’s brow pinches. “I couldn’t give this up. I would rather be uncomfortable with this than let go of this opportunity. Because, I…” You take in a deep breath, scoffing softly as you release it. “I really thought I blew it. I thought my career was over after West Ham fired me. I didn’t think anyone was going to want the girl who couldn’t even last three months at an AFC club.” You can feel yourself getting choked up and you blink away the telltale burning in your eyes. “And then out of the blue, like a fucking miracle, Rebecca’s at my door asking me to join Richmond. So… yeah, Roy. This is so fucking weird. And you’re right, I’m still mad at you. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you did. And I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.

“But this… this job, West Ham… I couldn’t allow my career to end like that,” you say, and your chest starts to tighten again. Fuck, was it always going to be this hard to talk about this? “You were right when you told me I couldn’t let them take what I love away from me.” Your voice is quieter when you say, “I can’t allow someone to dictate my career for me. Not again.”

You see Roy’s eyes close out of the corner of your own. His head bows ever so slightly and as he mutters, “Yeah. That shouldn’t happen again.”

Now you feel like the asshole. You know it’s deserved, but the somber, regretful note in his voice makes your perpetual guilt complex rear its head. You’re getting emotional whiplash from the highs and lows of this conversation and you wonder how much time has really passed by. You can’t tell if it’s been twenty minutes or an hour. 

But, however long it’s been, you think it’s a miracle that you’ve been able to get to this point with such little time.

“I’m not…” The words get caught in your throat and then escape like a sigh. “...ready to talk about what happened yet. I don’t know when I’ll be able to, but it’s certainly not now. I… It’s too hard to, I don’t know, look at you and talk about that.” You look wearily over in his direction. “And I don’t think— I can’t be your friend,” you tell him softly, watching as he bows his head. “Or be whatever our coworkers want us to be. I’m not… I don’t think I can do that yet. And I think you feel the same.”

There’s a long, pregnant silence, one that drags out and makes everything between you two feel heightened. Then, Roy nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Not yet.”

You figured as such. It’s almost reassuring to know that you’re at the same point. However, after this conversation, after sitting here with him, forgetting about everything for just a moment to laugh and joke around with him for the first time in years, you’re comfortable enough to say your next words.

With a deep breath, you tell him, ”But, whatever comes before friends. Whatever that is, I’m willing to give it a shot.”

Roy’s eyes meet yours. He lets that statement sit with him, absorbing it, then stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. It’s as if he wasn’t expecting you to say that and can’t believe that you did. 

You’re not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing until he clears his throat and says, “You are?”

It’s something soft and sincere, asked with an uncharacteristic hesitance. “Yes,” you say. “Are you?”

You’re sure you’re imagining it, but you swore you could have seen the beginnings of a smile twisting at his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’d really fucking like that.”

Unconsciously, you feel yourself copying the smile you’re positive was an illusion. “Good,” you say gently, turning back to face the TV above the bar. “Would have been really awkward if you’d said no.”

Roy’s laugh is one of surprise. “God-fucking-forbid things were awkward between us.”

“I’m just saying,” you insist with a shrug. “I wouldn’t have known what to say if you’d said no. Finish my beer in silence and just get up and go. Hand in my two weeks and head back to America.”

“Leaving two teams in under a month would have been a league record,” he notes, lips quirking as you narrow your eyes at him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have stayed just to spite me.”

“You’re right,” you agree almost immediately. “I’m much more vindictive than that.”

It’s then that Roy grins at you, and the look in his eye sends you right back to 2012. “Damn fucking right you are.”

You toe the line between hatred and acceptance as a familiar warmth spreads across your chest and makes a home there.

This, you know, will be impossible to shake.

LONDON OLYMPICS, EARLY AUGUST, 2012.

so sorry to see you boys lose, says the text you send to Roy after their penalty-kicks loss against South Korea. devastating way to go out. not sure if this is a bad time, but i do believe there was a standing deal that whoever lasted longer in the tournament got whatever they wanted from the other?

It’s a rather brutal text, especially after a loss like that, but you don’t care. He was so sure that your team was going to be knocked out before he was. It felt good to be better than him at something for once.

You’re sitting in your Olympic dorm room, perfectly happy to be alone for the night. After your win against New Zealand last night, you’d spent the night celebrating (or what constituted for celebrating in the Village, which was just staying up with your girls and watching bad British made-for-TV movies) and had not had a minute to yourself since. You were unfortunately a person who needed their alone time and having a career as time-consuming as soccer made it virtually impossible to not have people around you at all times.

Mel was out for the night, having gone upstairs to find Paige (the UK women’s team had lost in a gnarly game against Canada last night), taking advantage of the circumstances to ‘comfort’ her. Or, whatever Mel constituted as comfort.

(“She just so sad,” Mel had said, lacing up her shoes. “I told her I’d come up and cheer her up.”

“And how exactly are you doing that?” you asked skeptically from your bed. “You have horrendous bedside manner.”

“I’m going to figure out a way. I hate seeing her sad,” Mel said innocently. “Do you think restaurants deliver here? Maybe I can get her something to eat.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, she’s gonna be eating something, alright—”

You’re cut off by a memory foam slide slipper being chucked straight at your head.)

There was no way Paige didn’t see through her or what she was doing. However, it helped that everyone could see that she was totally into Mel, and you were thankful that your best friend’s mega crush wasn’t unrequited. Extremely thankful. Mel did not take rejection well.

Speaking of rejection, you think, as you feel your phone vibrate on your chest. The text from Roy stares at you from your phone screen and you can practically hear his words as you read them.

That was the deal if one of us won the tournament, he tells you. You’ve still got two games to go, Yank.

It’s the type of response you expected, but you’re unsure of the validity of his claim. i recall that deal differently.

His reply is lightning quick. Of course, you do. Your memory’s as shit as your jokes.

someone’s sounding bitter, you answer. i can hear you pouting all the way from chelsea. 

You don’t get a response for a moment, and for a minute, there’s a small part of you that thinks you actually may have pissed him off. There’s no way that he’d get upset about something like that, would he? You know how much he cares about football, but the Games are mostly just… fun. For the men’s side, at least. It means leagues more to the women.

However, before you can get too in your head about it, your phone starts ringing in your hand, Roy’s name popping up on your screen. You press your lips together to keep yourself from smiling too hard.

“Hello?” you say, the humor in your voice evident.

“I don’t fucking pout,” is his greeting, which earns him a soft chuckle.

“The fact that you’re calling me to whine isn’t making for a compelling argument,” you reply. 

“You know,” he begins, and the sudden accusatory inflection in his voice has you pushing your lips together again, “you’re being really fucking mean to someone who’s got the power to run you until you pass out tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, I’m terrified. Tell me, are you going to be breathing down my neck now that you’ve got nothing to do?”

“Thin fucking ice, Fourteen,” he warns, but you swear you can hear his smile. “One more fucking word and I’ll replay footwork day.”

That has your mouth shutting almost immediately. “Okay, now you’re actually scaring me.”

It’s then that Roy laughs, and the sound sends a rush through you. It’s such a rare occurrence that every time you hear it, it feels like an accomplishment. 

“I’m sorry you lost,” you finally say. “That was a tough game to watch.”

“Tough fucking game to play,” he replies through a sigh. “We shouldn’t have let it get to that point.”

You tilt your head back against the pillows stacked up behind you, attempting to get comfortable on your horribly uncomfortable, tiny bed. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought you played well.”

There’s an uneven beat of quiet and the line crackles. “Yeah?” he asks. His voice is calmer and slightly warmer. You’re not expecting it. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You had a couple of good shifts in the second half. That last pass you sent up the field would have been an insane assist if Lowell didn’t miss.”

You hear him sigh. “That wasn’t Lowell’s fault. That sweeper was a problem for all of us.”

“Didn’t say it was his fault. We all miss,” you state. “I’m just saying if it had worked out. That would have been crazy.”

“It would have been,” he finally agrees, which you know is the closest you’re going to get to him complimenting himself. “You play Monday, right?”

“Yup. Canada. I’m supposed to be in charge of taking care of Caroline Singer which should be, y’know, a joy.”

Roy snorts. “She’ll start swinging at you before the half.”

“That’s the goal. I’ve been told to piss her off as much as I can.” Before he has the chance to make the layup joke you’ve just handed him, you beat him to it. “Which shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I’ve seen her play,” he says. “She doesn’t do well when she’s flustered. You’ve got a talent for getting in people’s heads. We can work more on that tomorrow.”

You grin. “So, no footwork?”

His voice is a low growl with a lilt of a chuckle. “Don’t push it.”

There’s a moment that passes between you two where you know you’re both smiling, sitting on the phone in your respective make-shift Olympic homes (one, much nicer than the other, you’re sure), knowing that this conversation is probably over for the night, but finding that you don’t want to hang up. It’s an odd, giddy sort of feeling, one you haven’t felt in years. You never expected to feel it again here, of all places, with fucking Roy Kent, of all people.

You don’t know exactly what possesses you to ask, but the question floats out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Are you really going to stay in London to train me until we’re out of the tournament?”

It was something he’d implied during your practices and once joked about, but he’d said it enough to make you think he was serious. When you’d once questioned him about it, he’d said something along the lines of making sure he saw through his investment or wanted to see your deal through. He’d called himself a man of his word, which you also had questioned, but again, it felt like he was incredibly serious about this. 

His answer catches you off-guard, but you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything less.. “I thought you were winning the fucking thing.”

An abrupt laugh leaves your lips. “Roy.”

He sighs again and then replies with something more in-line with what he’d said previously. “I made a deal with you. We’re seeing this fucking thing through.” There’s a noise on his line that sounds as though he’s shifting. “And besides, you’ve got what? Two games left if you make it to the Gold round?”

“When we make it,” you correct.

You’re nearly positive that he rolls his eyes. But, he says, “I’m sticking around.”

The sentiment of it all fills you with a warmth that travels down your body. You’re still not sure what this is. You’re not sure why he’s doing this. You don’t completely understand why he seems to like you, why he’s sticking around to train you, or why he chose to train you in the first place. Everything about this is so out of left field and nothing about it makes sense. You couldn’t have predicted this if you’d tried.

There’s nothing about this situation that you completely understand, but you know one thing: you’re starting to become grateful it did.

You don’t question him. You don’t ask the things that are swirling around in your head, and you don’t verbalize anything you’ve started to feel the last couple of days. Instead, you just say, “Well. I suppose if you insist.”

He makes a low sound, something that you may think is a laugh of disbelief. He’s quiet for a second as if he’s going to say more, but he clears his throat instead. “I’ll let you get to bed.”

There’s a brief moment where disappointment swells in your chest, but you quickly shake it off with a silent scolding. “Yeah,” you agree. “Probably a good idea to be asleep when Mel gets back.”

“Back?” Roy questions. “Where’s Rivera?”

“Consoling Paige,” you say, air quotes implied. Roy huffs. “She’s consistent if nothing else.”

“She’s fucking relentless is what she is. I’ve never seen someone pine so hard for someone who clearly fucking likes them.”

You shrug, but then realize he can’t see that. “Mel’s not the make-a-move type. She’s more of a let-me-stare-at-you-and-telepathically-tell-you-I’m-in-love-with-you type. Which I get. But it’s still frustrating.”

There’s a beat between you, one that has you raising a brow. “You're not the first-move type, huh?”

Blood rushes to your ears and it spreads down your neck. His tone is leading, and it sets off every siren in your brain. “No,” you get out, and thankfully it’s more casual than you thought it’d be. “Never been my thing.”

“Huh,” Roy muses. “Good to know.”

Your stomach churns in anxious anticipation, once again not completely sure what he means by that. You’ve got an idea, but Jesus, he loves to be vague. You would have never pegged him to be coy.

Before you can respond, he’s speaking again, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Fourteen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He then hangs up on you, leaving you stunned with your phone in your hand, mouth slightly ajar, and the best kind of nerves coursing through your body. 

You can’t help but laugh at it all.

PRESENT DAY. (MID-AUGUST, 2023)

You awake to your phone ringing on your bedside table next to you. It’s a call that’s earlier than your alarm, one that has you throwing your arm to the table, slapping your hand around blindly to find it. 

Once it’s in your possession, you crack your eyes open to see Mel’s name on the screen. Your interest is piqued enough to answer. “Hello?”

Your greeting comes out as more of a groan, but you think Mel gets the message. Either that, or she doesn’t care. Because she leads with, “You want to tell me why I’m getting Twitter updates about you and The Dark Lord hanging out at a bar like it’s 2012?”

You open your eyes, squinting at the sun that’s peaking through your window. “Roy and I are relevant enough to be getting Twitter updates?”

“After that press conference you gave? Uh, yeah. You’re a bit of a celebrity to the football side of Twitter,” Mel says, sounding only slightly incredulous that that’s what you choose to respond with. “You’re relevant enough to have people spamming this picture someone took of you two last night.”

You hum. “How do I look?”

Mel scoffs. “You look incredible. The Dark One looks scary.”

“Scary how?”

“Well, he’s smiling for one, which is always a jumpscare,” she says. “And you’re smiling back at him which is even more horrifying. So, you know, just a scary photo all around.”

A huff of a laugh escapes you, and you put your arm over your eyes. “You wouldn’t believe why we were there if I told you.”

“It better be some fucking Twilight Zone, cosmic occurrence, because that’s the only explanation I’ll accept as to why you’re laughing with each other.”

“Will you take Coaches Ted Lasso and Beard Parent-Trapping and holding Roy and I hostage until we talked out our issues?” you offer.

You’re met with approximately thirty seconds of silence before Mel responds. You can picture the perplexed look on her face as she asks, “Do they understand the depth of your issues? And that trapping you at a bar without a neutral third party and law enforcement present is an outlandish and potentially fatal situation?” 

“We were actually very civil,” you reply casually. “Found out he does yoga now. Watches Love Conquers All.”

“Hmm,” Mel hums. “Does he do that before or after his day job of kicking puppies and burning down orphanages?”

The laugh that escapes you is involuntary. “Mel,” you whine.

“I’m glad you’re laughing. Because I’m certainly not,” she says, and the tone of her voice tells you you’re about to receive the scolding she clearly called to give you. “Because it sounds like you’re back on the Kent Train and I’m going to have to pick you up when he inevitably fucks you over again.”

“I’m not ‘back on the Kent Train’ or whatever the hell you just said,” you mutter, turning to lay on your pillow. “You knew that working at Richmond meant us working together. I knew that. Our coaching staff is insane, but they have a point. We can’t work well together if we’re fighting and not getting along.”

Mel scoffs. “You can work with people you don’t like. It’s called being professional. The only thing you have to be on the same page about is the team.”

“Richmond isn’t like that,” you tell her. “It’s unlike anywhere I’ve ever played or worked. These people are a family. And not in like, a corporate ‘we’re a family here’ way. They all really care about each other and spend Christmas together and do karaoke together. It’s actually really sweet.”

“And what? You’re scared they’re not going to accept you if you don’t join the cult and sing kumbaya?”

You shut your eyes in frustration at her words. “No, Melanie,” you say, and the edge to your voice has her scoffing again. “It’s not about joining the cult. It’s about the fact that I refuse to lose another job. Especially not this job. I can’t imagine any other club being as warm and accommodating as they’ve been. And frankly, no other club wanted me after the shit show that was West Ham.” Mel’s gone quiet and you exhale in resignation. “So, yeah. If that means I have to be friendly with Roy and sing their song, then fucking… hand me the guitar, I guess.”

Once again, Mel’s quiet. You think she’s hung up on you until you remove your phone from your ear and see the call time’s still running. It takes a moment, but she finally, finally releases a long and heavy sigh that lets you know she’s back on your side. “I just don’t want to see him hurt you again.”

“He won’t,” you say without hesitation. “I won’t allow him to. I’m never…” You shake your head. “I’m never going back to that. We’re colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You can hear her shake her head against her phone. “I really wish I believed that.”

“I mean it,” you insist. “You have full permission to kick my ass if anything else happens.”

Finally, you get something like a laugh from the other line. “Gleefully holding you to that.”

“I know you are.”

“Haven’t kicked your ass since 2015,” Mel says, sounding almost rueful. “I miss it. You’ve ignited a fire in me and it’s burning.”

“Does Paige know about your thirst for violence?” you ask. “I can’t imagine she wants Oliver exposed to that.”

Mel scoffs. “Not only does she know but he knows. I passed it on to the little fucker,” she mutters. You note the hint of pride in her voice. “Speaking of Roy, Oliver’s finally old enough for the baby leagues and he pulled a very Kent versus Man City move in his first game. Scuffed up the poor kid’s leg and everything.”

You snicker and roll on your back, eyes cast up to the ceiling. “I cannot possibly imagine my sweet baby boy doing anything of the sort. It must have been someone else,” you tell her. Then, you chuckle again. “Roy and I actually just talked about that game. He still refuses to admit that he did anything wrong.”

“Glad to see nothing’s changed on that end.”

You suppress a smile, but your voice comes out as a warning. “Mel…”

“Hey, you can be nice to him all you want,” she replies. “Never said anything about me having to.”

Fair enough. You know that this is the best your going to get from her, so you let it slide. “You’re still coming to the game this week, right?”

“Recent events have given me second thoughts—” Her response is cut short by your groaning, and you hear her sigh on the other end. “Of course, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss your first home game for the world. Or any home game for that matter,” she says. “I do draw the line at away games, though. Don’t love you enough to drive that much.”

“Understandable. And we’re still on for dinner after?”

“If you’re paying. That AFC coaching salary better join us at the table.”

You roll your eyes. “Good to know where your priorities lie.”

“I’m joking,” she says, but the way that the volume of her voice increases tells you that she’s not saying that for you, but for her wife, who must be in the room. When she speaks again, it’s much lower. “I’m not joking.”

“Oh, I know,” you respond. “Tell Paige I say hi.”

“I’ll do it when it’s less suspicious.”

You grin, shaking your head. “I’ll see you on Saturday, asshole.”

“See you then,” she says. However, before you can hang up, you hear her voice calling your name once more. When you put your phone back up to your ear, she says, “Please. Please be careful. I mean it.”

Her soft worry holds a certain weight that makes your eyes screw shut. “I will. I promise.”

“Okay,” Mel replies, a little more certain. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too,” you say. “See you Saturday.”

And with that, you hang up on your best friend, letting your phone fall onto your chest with a strikingly heavy thump, letting each and every one of her words sit with you as you pretend that the new pain in your chest doesn’t exist.

The next morning, Ted Lasso gets to the Richmond Coaching Offices early. 

He’s even earlier than you, something of which has proven to be a difficult feat, as you’re typically stationed at your desk reviewing film before anyone else has even considered coffee or put on a shin guard.

But today, he’s done it. He has no idea when you’re going to be in, but to be on the safe side, he figures he should be quick. The wrapped book is carefully grasped in his hand, making sure not to fold or crease the bow he tied around it as he opens the door to your and Roy’s office.

It’s only when the book is placed on your desk that he realizes he forgot to write the message he’d planned on the outside of the wrapping paper. His face scrunches up as he scans your desk for a pen or some other writing utensil, but comes up empty. 

He then turns to Roy’s desk, hoping to find something there. Sliding over, he gives the tabletop a once over, frowning as he realizes Roy’s got nothing too. It’s then that Ted remembers something.

Roy kept pens and dry-erase markers in his top drawer. Ted only knows this because three days ago, he saw Roy pull one out to chuck at Jamie as he barged into your shared office unannounced. He figures he can let that one slide if Roy forgives him for going into his desk.

Ted pulls the drawer out to find Roy’s neatly organized stash of utensils, grinning as he picks up a pen. However, before he can shut the drawer, something catches his eye.

There’s a frame shoved into the back, showcasing a photo Ted had seen from afar on Roy’s desk a million times but had never looked at close up. It’s of Roy, who’s wearing the closest thing to a smile that Ted’s seen on him, his sister, and… you.

You’re positioned in the middle, grinning from ear to ear with your arms tight around both Roy's and his sister’s shoulders. It’s an older picture, one taken at the high-top table of a bar. Both you and Roy are younger, and while Ted can’t figure out the exact time period of which this was taken, something else catches his eye.

It’s something small, probably something that would seem insignificant if he didn’t know you two. It’s your hands. While your arms are draped around Roy and his sister, his hand is covering yours.

It’s something that could be considered friendly, but Ted gets the feeling it’s not. It’s only then that Ted feels as though he’s looking at something he shouldn’t and closes the drawer.

With the pen he was looking for in hand, he returns to the book he’s left for you and scribbles down the message he wanted.

No— I must keep my own style and go on in my own way. —Jane Austen.

He only hopes Persuasion isn’t too on the nose for your situation as he slips out your office door and into his own.

TAGLIST: @dark-academia-slut @tegan8314 , @csigeoblue , @confessionsofatotaldramaslut , @thatonedogwithablog , @hawkeyeharrington , @jamieolivia27 , @seatbacksandtraytables , @luvr-bunnyy

[anachronisims]

How to EFFECTIVELY Use Empty Standby List to Reduce Flashing and Crashing

This tutorial is for TS2. Obviously. This is virtually the last "chapter" of advice for the Pink Flashing Survey Report (still forthcoming as a single readable thing but posted in bits and pieces over the last six months). PS it's a lonnnnnnng post. Ctrl+F "tldr" for the very short version once you open the cut.

"Part 1" of the Empty Standby List ("ESL") tutorial was already written comprehensively with screenshots by Digi at her wordpress. Following Digi's tutorial will get you set up with ESL as a routine automated background task your computer runs, typically every five minutes.

@gayars set up two instances of the routine, each running every five minutes, staggered two/three minutes apart. In other words, task 1 runs at 12:00, task 2 runs at 12:03, task 1 runs at 12:05, task 2 runs at 12:08, etc. However, I found that this negatively impacted the graphical performance of my game, notably by having the ESL task window flash over the game window, which I had never seen before, nor since reverting back to a single 5-minute task routine.

Anyway. Go do Digi's tutorial if you haven't already; I'll wait.

Background on Why this Matters

So, now your computer will be wiping the standby memory every five minutes. The thing is, this won't be able to have much impact on your game unless you wait to let it wipe before you do a major loading action.

Major loading actions are, in general order of strain (most to least strenuous):

Loading a full neighborhood.

Loading a large (3x4 or bigger) populated lot.

Loading a large unpopulated lot.

Loading actual CAS, if you have a lot of non-defaulted CC.

Loading a medium (3x3) populated lot.

Loading a medium unpopulated lot.

Loading a small (2x3 or smaller) populated lot.

Loading a small unpopulated lot.

Loading CAS catalogs from within a lot (e.g. using FFS clothing tool, "Change Appearance" on the mirror, shopping for clothes/trying on clothes on a community lot).

Turning up your lot view settings (generating other lots' lot imposters within your current lot)/panning the camera around.

You should already be doing at least all medium- and large-lot loading with the Lot View Settings Juggling Method, and “uint LotSkirtIncrease” removed from your userstartup.cheat - otherwise whenever you load a lot you are compounding the strain by also having the neighborhood load at the same time.

Using Resource Monitor Effectively

If you watched the Jessa Channel tutorial on flashing, she recommended downloading a third-party RAM usage monitoring software. This is unnecessary. For purposes of reducing your crashing, all you need is the native Windows program "Resource Monitor" that she also recommends.

To open it:

Click the Windows symbol/start menu.

Begin typing "Resource Monitor."

Click Resource Monitor when it shows up.

Once it is open, get to the useful information:

Click the "Memory" tab.

Make sure the "Processes" and "Physical Memory" subs are fully open, as above.

Sort by "Commit (KB)."

Each time you reopen Resource Monitor, it should restore your last view settings, so you won't have to repeat these steps.

While Resource Monitor is still open, "Pin" it to the taskbar so it will always be readily accessible.

Right-click the icon on the taskbar.

Click "Pin to taskbar."

If it says "Unpin from taskbar" you have already done this step :)

Now comes the monitoring part. You will focus on the dark-blue "Standby" block of the bar graph on Physical Memory.

Every fifth minute, when the ESL task runs, this will flash down to 0 and then pop up to about 30-75, depending on what you are doing. It will go higher faster if you are doing stuff, obviously, and hover pretty low if your computer is just sitting still. TLDR the remainder of this tutorial: only take stress actions when Standby is below 100.

As we all know too well, TS2 has a 4gb RAM limit. The problem is, TS2 seems to count the memory that is in standby, too, not just the committed/working set. Thus, before you take a major loading action (that is going to push up to 1.5gb into Standby), you need to wait for Standby to wipe so the game doesn't accidentally think it's using more memory than it is. Got it?

This is how much RAM my game is using when my neighborhood opens, pretty closely zoomed in on any particular lot. If it is zoomed out further - like a whole city block - both committed and working set are easily over 2.2gb. When I pan around the neighborhood, it continues going up. Portions of the hood that go back out of view seem to get relegated to standby, but yes, my game has crashed just from looking too much at my neighborhood from too wide an angle. Unless I slow down and let ESL run before moving on to the next section.

Six months of diligent Resource Manager monitoring has resulted in substantial reductions of crashing and flashing on my first hood view load and first lot view load. It is not 100% guaranteed, but it cuts it back to Very Playable Levels. And when I have tested the theory by purposefully not letting ESL run before a stress point, it always flashes and/or crashes within the next couple minutes.

SO! Here's what I do when I'm launching my game.

Because of overheating concerns, I always fully shut down my computer when I'm not using it for more than an hour. If I have been playing and experience a flash or crash, I will restart before trying again. @infinitesimblr, a survey Respondent who reported virtually no flashing or crashing despite a vast CC catalog, also recommends restarting between using Bodyshop or SimPE and the full game. I have found it may make a difference with Bodyshop (which I use too rarely to make a pseudoscientific claim) but that I have found basically no impact going from SimPE to the game. YMMV.

Immediately after Windows is done loading, I open Resource Monitor and wait a few minutes. Often background updates begin running and the Standby bar goes crazy - sometimes filling up the entire available RAM - and I just let it sit and do its thing. (Usually I start the computer right before my kid's bedtime so I am not actively waiting on it or anything. Go take a shower or make a sandwich or drink some water, like you did in the old days when the game itself took 20 minutes to load.)

Once the standby bar levels out and is consistently peaking no higher than about 250mb between ESL wipes, after the next ESL wipe, I will launch the game. (Usually between logging into Windowsat the beginning of storytime and checking Resource Monitor before we go do tuck-in, it is reliably hanging out below 100 unless a big TS4 or Windows update was downloading.)

Reminder: do not delete thumbnails anymore prior to launching the game. I also have turned off RPC's clear caches option and have observed faster loading times with minimal increases in crashing.

After the neighborhood selection screen comes up, wait for ESL to run again before opening your neighborhood.

If you have continue to have more than VERY sporadic hood load flashing after taking these steps, you should try launching into a subhood if you have one, then pivoting to the main hood if that's where you're playing that session after yet another ESL wipe. If that doesn't help you simply need to thin out your hood or accept the flashing. (I ended up deleting about 25% of my deco trees and 10-15 outer-lying lots that will be re-placed in a subhood.)

After the hood is loaded, navigate to the lot you want, but DO NOT actually load that lot until ESL runs yet again. Ditto for CAS - Do not select "Create New Family" until ESL has run again.

Play should be proceed as normal at this point. You probably don't need to alt-tab back to Resource Monitor again unless your sims are going traveling or you are changing play lots.

BONUS TIP #1: You can put a shortcut to the ESL routine on your desktop and push it manually (just double click the icon) if you don't feel like waiting once the game is loaded. I have had imperfect results with this vs. just waiting the five minutes, though, because the game wants to run through some stuff and flush it. But it's an option for you to experiment with.

BONUS TIP #2: If you have a really deep clothing/hair CC catalog, try to avoid using the FFS clothing tool option where you select every outfit for the sim, and their hair and makeup, at the same time. Instead, choose individual outfits by type and use the regular mirror option to change appearance (or SimBlender has it, I think, so they can do it where they already are).

[hainuwelle]

The third man theory

Note: This theory takes as starting point Aurora's Fun theory. It states that the invention in which Gaster fell was a new version of a warp door that would have allowed the monsters of the underground to escape to a timeline in which the war against the humans never happened. If this experiment were to work, it would have allowed for a happier ending than the True Pacifist one, because more accidents and deaths would have been prevented.

Sadly, Gaster's experiments went wrong and he was scattered "across time and space". The only other time in Undertale this expression is used is when we call Papyrus in Sans's room, the one that gets us lost in a seemingly endless darkness when we enter it, with a door that suspiciously looks like Mystery Man's grey door and Deltarune's warp doors. This key expression used by Papyrus tells us Gaster's creation and untimely demise should have something to do with these doors.

If this theory is correct, the invention in which Gaster fell would have been under our nose the whole time.

With the FUN theory video in mind, something about Mr. Elegance's dialogues caught my eye.

Evidence 1 - Mr. Elegance, if we didn't previously talk to Jigsaw Joe:

Evidence 2 - Mr. Elegance if we previously talked to Jigsaw Joe:

For a flaming teleportation door one would assume to be magical, the vocabulary used to talk about it sure sounds mechanical and mundanely machine-like : « Fix up », « working on it », « got this door workin’ », « it might break », « fixed that door », « it should work without any issues ». Intriguingly, it looks old, and yet, it is new to the Darkners, who have never seen it before. Is it really Darkner technology?

Of course, to an experienced Undertale player, it looks familiar, similar to the one to Sans's room.

This brings us to my question: Why did Toby Fox add these two different Mr. Elegance dialogues about this door? What purpose do they serve?

It can't be to alert the player that they could malfunction if we haven’t previously talked to Jigsaw Joe, since they always work properly regardless. It’s not like this triggers a side quest asking you to talk to the puzzle man if you don't want a 1/6 chance of the door teleporting you into the void. And they don't serve a comedic purpose either. There is no joke, no punchline. So why warn us about the breaking hazard, if the warp doors never break in the first place ? Why specify that 3 people are needed to get them to work smoothly?

Because this isn’t really about the Scarlet Forest shortcut. The door might not break in the game, but it might have broken somewhere else. This is really about what went wrong with Gaster's experiments.

Time to bring in evidence 3:

First, let's note that this tweet isn't exactly talking about the same situation as in evidence 1 : Mr. Elegance talks about a door that two people got to work and that might break, while Toby Fox talks about a machine that's already broken and that two people could never repair.

However, evidence 2 tells us that when three of them worked on it, the machine should work without a problem. So if we assume that these dialogues are really about the creation that led to Gaster’s demise, this means that the reason things went wrong is because one person was missing.

Two people worked on the machine instead of three, which led to Gaster's disappearance. Yet, we know that two people were trying to repair the machine once it was broken. This means that after Gaster's disappearance, the missing person came back.

Now let's imagine that Gaster formed a trio with two other colleagues that we'll name X and Y. The Royal Scientist is working on a door-shaped machine that would free the monsters from their imprisonment. As the fate of the Underground lies in his hands, a lot of pressure is resting upon his shoulders. The role that X and Y had in this creation is unknown. Gaster could have even built it on his own. But thanks to Entry n°17, we know that shared his experiments with two other people. And thanks to the Japanese translation, we know he was rather close to them.

After the construction of the machine, Gaster and X try to get it to work, but without Y. Maybe they walked away from the experiment, maybe the other two didn't trust them enough, we don't know.

Despite this, they manage to make it work with just the two of them. However, what Mr. Elegance predicts happens, and something goes wrong. Two people just wasn't enough to assure that the machine would work properly. It's too unstable. It malfunctions. Gaster falls inside, is shattered across time and space, and the machine breaks.

Now let's come back to the end of Toby Fox's tweet. ”Neither of them could fix the machine, no matter how hard they tried. No one can." Notice that "neither of them" means precisely two people.

After the incident, Y comes back, but Gaster disappeared. The trio is now a duo. Y and X do everything they can to repair the machine, but can't. No one can. Because Gaster, the person necessary to its reparation, is no more.

If this theory is right, what are X and Y’s identities? And why was Y absent during the creation of the shortcut door machine? A lot of questions have yet to be answered...

[loolilyumm]

I CARE SO MUCH ABOUT YOUR CAP 3 PLEASE MORE IF YOU WOULDNT MIND???

JUMPING UP AND DOWN IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED I WILL SO HAPPILY YAP ABOUT HIM

THIS IS AGENT THREE! Most of the people in the NSS call him “Three” or “Captain,” but his real name is Reese.

(SIDE NOTE- I really have to do proper character sheets for them. Please stay tuned for that!!)

He was 15 when he was hired by Cuttlefish and 17 during the events of octo expansion. Now he is a mature 20 year old inkling. So so mature.

He mains the E-liter and typically uses chargers or shooters.

Despite his “cool guy” persona, agent 8 brings out a different side of him… the loser baby side…!!! In Splatoon 2 When the two of them fell underground, Reese was actually the one to find 8, and he had to rescue her from sanitization chambers (you know, the octoling selection screen at the beginning of octo expansion?) but couldn’t save her in time to restore her memory. But she was (relatively) okay! And since then he’s been really protective of her. 8 was registered as a test subject and Reese had to stay behind and watch as she went through rigorous testing.

At that point Reese was really descending into a dark place after realizing that he wasn’t really the big hero he thought that he was. But 8 helped him through it and they formed a really close bond deep in the underground. (Cuttlefish was also there third wheeling. LOL) Reese started to feel flustered and shy around her. He’d never felt that way before, and definitely didn’t expect it. And it CONFUSED HIM!! He was like wtf? Why is this happening to meeee waahwaahhhhh ueueueuee

And then y’know……the rest is history! The blender incident happened and it was the scariest moment of his life. Reese was about to lose the only two people he had ever cared about. He has a tendency to throw himself recklessly into dangerous situations, so he just THREW himself at the blender and well. It worked! In my version, he never got knocked out, and he travelled upwards with 8 and cuttlefish until about the 4th phase. Then he and cuttlefish got separated from 8 and attacked by Tartar - that’s how he was brainwashed.

The battle between agent 3 and agent 8 was BRUTAL. Reese harbors extreme amounts of guilt for what went down - he blames himself a lot and thinks he should have been stronger. 8 got really hurt but she managed to save him and THEN save the whole world. #girlboss! Period.

The two of them are working through the events of octo expansion together! If you want me to yap about 8 too I will gladly do that. (Also maybe I should write a fanfic about it. I am cringe but I am free.)

Cut to 3 years into the future - During splatoon 3, Reese becomes captain of the NSS. He doesn’t think he deserves the title but is honored to accept it.

The new agent 3 that they recruited reminds Reese a lot of himself. Her name is Margot. She’s the quiet kid that he used to be. He sort of takes her under his wing and teaches her how to defend herself and her comrades. She is like a younger sister to him. They bicker and bond just like siblings. I LOVE THEM.

I actually haven’t really thought through what happens during the events of splatoon 3. I’m running with the idea that agent 4 and agent 8 go missing during the events of side order. (I know it’s all virtual but like I might add other things to it IDK IDK) I don’t really know yet. But Reese is a good captain and he can find them ☺️☺️

BUT YEA. AFTER ALL THT IS SAID AND DONE - they’re the NSS! And they are all besties.

Thank u for coming to my ted talk.

[acowardinmordor]

You Left Me - You Miss Me - 4

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Hi, time for more, arguably making things better, but also arguably making things much worse.

----

There was a diner a block and a half from their apartment. Steve found it when the sky opened up during his jog one morning. Snow, he could have handled, he was dressed for it. Slushy sleet mixed with hail was another matter. He ducked inside to hide until it passed, chatted with the owner for a bit, and brought Robin with him the next day because they had an amazing spread of waffle toppings, including crumbled bacon, and Steve knew she’d go crazy about it.

He was correct, and it was their go to spot, not just for breakfast. 

At the end of January, Rebecca sat down to join them, and handed Steve an application. 

Steve was already working at a JC Penny in the stock room, and picked up a few hours at a roller rink filling in when someone called out. They had enough money to live. Not decadently, but they could cover all their bills, and keep gas in the car, and buy supplies for Robin’s classes.  

“Uh, Rebecca, I’m- thank you? But. My memory sucks, and my hearing isn’t great, and if someone starts getting rude, I’m going to get rude back to them, and --”

“This is a diner, hun,” she stopped him, “You write the orders down, you can always tell someone to say it again, and the fact you can shut down anyone that gives you lip is why I think you’ll be good at it. Like I said, it’s a diner. We don’t have to be all sunshine and daisies here.”

“I’m working at another--”

“Over at the mall and the rink, I know. And I know you’re free Monday through Wednesday mornings. And,” she stressed, “staff gets free meals and first dibs on the day olds.”

“Dingus!" Robin gasped and grabbed his arm. "Do it, do it. Stevie. Please, oh my god, please, you have to take it. You can bring me the brioche buns. And that apple butter. And that thing with the nuts! Steeevveee, don’t you love your soulmate? Please? I cou--”

So Steve took the job, and worked a few mornings a week. By the third week of February, he stopped feeling like he was going to fuck up any second. He understood why Rebecca liked his ability to get bitchy in the face of difficult customers, and he and Robin had cupboards well stocked with random take homes. 

He liked it. Starting at five in the morning took some getting used to, but he was done by one, and traded off with a middle aged mom named Susan after the lunch rush settled down. Was it a ton of money? No. But he got more tips than he expected to, and the brioche really was delicious. 

The last week of February, he was working alone on a Tuesday, at the start of the lunch rush, expecting Susan to arrive soon, and an easy day. 

“Be with you in a minute,” he called to whoever just came inside, bussing half a dozen empty plates from table two after dropping off more creamer at table four. He looped back, ducking behind the counter to put the plates on the pass through for Nick to grab. 

He dropped the entire stack before he got there.

His hands clenched down, his muscles locked, and even though it should have made him hold harder, everything slipped, and either shattered on the tiles or banged into his feet.

Jim Hopper winced from his seat at the counter. “Sorry, kid.”

The couple of other diners glanced up to check on him, and John looked around the window from the kitchen. Steve didn’t move. Couldn't. Could barely breathe.

“Is it back?”

“No.”

His exhale shook out of him before he shoved down the panic.

“Then whatever this is can wait.” 

“I’m just here to talk.”

“And I said it can wait.”

He swept up the broken dishes, shrugged off John’s silent offer to throw Hopper out, and reminded himself there was no reason to think that the Upside Down was back. That meant this was going to be more awkward and less dangerous, and he was going to hate it, but it was still the better version of the day. 

“What’ll you have?” 

“Kid, I’m here to talk cause I didn’t think you’d want me at your place.”

“And I’m at work, and this is a diner, so what’ll you have?”

“Steve--”

“I’ll bring you coffee. I’m not talking about this while I’m working.”

“Coffee’s good. When are you off?”

Steve gave his bitchiest smile, didn’t answer, and went to seat the couple that just walked in. 

The lunch rush was a mercy. Susan handled Hopper, and gave him the iciest service anyone had ever gotten under that roof. Hopper took it gracefully, but he didn’t shift, or push, or give any indication that he wasn’t willing to sit there til midnight if he had to. 

Normally, Steve would get some lunch to go and head home. If the weather was bad, he ate at the booth in the corner to wait it out. With the way his stomach was twisting, unable to separate Hopper from what his arrival could mean, he wasn’t going to keep food down. He filled a glass of water, then silently gestured Hop to follow. 

“Good to see you, Steve,” he said when they sat. “You and Robin doing okay up here?”

“We’re fine. Why are you here? If it isn’t something to do with, you know, then why are you here?”

“Maybe I just came up to check on you.”

“Did you?” Steve snorted into his drink when that question made Hopper’s face twist up. “So what is this?”

“I am here to check on you. There’s something else, but I came here because I’m checking on you. Me and you weren’t all that close, but you had Mrs Buckley give me your info so I’d know where you were.”

“Yeah, in case of an emergency. And you said there wasn’t any emergency. Plus, you had my phone number, so you could have called, which would be way less weird than showing up while I’m at work, you know?”

Hopper scratched at his cheek. “It’s not an emergency compared to all the reasons you wanted me to be able to find you, but if you ask those kids, this may as well be the end of the world again.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah, well. Henderson is gonna get himself arrested if he keeps trying to steal the mail and find something addressed to you. Max keeps pushing El to try and find you. The only reason they haven’t gone completely crazy is because of the Buckleys telling them that you’re fine. She gave me your address and number, and she talked for a little bit about the kids.” 

Steve smiled at that. Mrs Buckley had never talked a ‘little bit’ about anything in her life. Either she was holding the line on being rude to anyone that might bother them, or Hop was pretending he hadn’t listened to a solid hour of rambling.  

“Still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Want to ask if I can -- shit, I don’t know. I can route mail back and forth so they never have your address or something. I’d rather give them your info so I don’t have to be involved, but I already know you won’t agree to that.”

Steve ignored the pause that Hopper left there. Conversation and good manners said he should concede to something so he wouldn’t inconvenience the man too much. The last month with Robin supporting his choice kept his mouth shut. She’d be pissed at him if he folded, and worse, she’d help him get through all the pain it caused if he did talk to the kids again. Then he’d feel guilty and sad. 

“Alright,” Hopper grumbled, “Didn’t think you would, but you know how those kids can be. Can’t fault me for trying.”

“So, we’re done? You sat here all this time just to talk for three minutes?”

“Almost.” 

“So….” At least Steve could enjoy the fact that neither of them were enjoying this.  Hopper winced a bit before he spoke. 

“I didn’t tell any of the kids I was coming up to see you. None of them knew, and none of them are gonna know. Didn’t even tell Joyce why, just that I was driving up to Indy. Already had a plan in case they tried to tail me up here. So, had a surprise this morning when I got to my truck. it might change your answer.”

“Didn’t know you were so dramatic about stuff.”

“Side effect of two hours with that surprise, I guess. Eddie Munson came up with me.”

Any of the kids would have hurt. 

Henderson might have made him cry. 

Eddie Munson? That didn’t make sense. 

They weren’t friends, never had been. The Upside Down meant they were connected, but they were never more than acquaintances, even when Steve was desperately trying to keep them all close. Sure, he’d taken over as the chauffeur for the kids, and everyone’s new best friend, but that didn’t explain why he’d bother to come up to talk to Steve. 

“What the hell? Why?”

“He asked.”

“And you said yes.”

“He said please.”

That was not the whole story. There was something getting skipped over, left out. Hopper tolerated Munson, but he wouldn’t do him a favor if there wasn’t some kind of monster involved. 

“Wait, you’ve been here for two hours.”

“Yep.”

“Did you just leave him in your truck this whole time? That front came through overnight. The high is thirty four today.”

“Yeah, I did,” Hopper said flatly. “He told me he wanted to come up so he could talk to you. Told me a little bit about why. And I said yes and I let him come, but I told him that I was gonna talk to you first. If you said no, he was gonna stay in that seat clear back to Hawkins, and keep his mouth shut about this whole thing.”

“How’d he know what you were doing?”

“No clue.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“Not gonna say it for him.” Hopper shifted towards the edge of the booth. “So, want me to tell him to buckle back up, or tell him to get his ass in here?”

A quick consult with the imaginary Robin in his head left him just as confused, but curious as hell. He agreed, and fidgeted with a napkin, struggling to think of any reason why Eddie Munson would want to talk to him, or what the hell he said that the kids hadn’t that convinced Hopper to drive him up. 

Stuck in his head, Steve jumped when a mess of a man in denim and leather slid shivering into the seat opposite. The scars on his face and hands were less vivid than they were last time they saw each other, but they still worked as a thermometer. Steve's did the same.

“Why the hell were you sitting in the cold, man?”

Eddie blinked, and froze where he was rubbing his hands together trying to get feeling back. “Hopper took the keys.”

Steve’s turn to blink. This was the guy taking care of his kids. 

“Susan?” He called, gesturing for two when she lifted the coffee carafe in a question.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Dude, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here or why you care or what the hell is happening, but I’m not gonna let you sit there shaking cause you’re a dumbass who doesn’t know what gloves are.”

Steve watched packet after packet of sugar pour into Eddie’s, while he stirred a splash of half and half into his own cup. Eddie took a gulp, hissed at the heat, and clutched at the mug, eyes glued to the nicked surface of the table. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For rotting your teeth out? That’s your choice, Munson.”

“No,” Eddie insisted, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry about the kids.”

Steve took a breath, took a sip, took another breath. “Look, man, that’s not on you. You play D&D with them, and you like all their nerdy shit. I was -- They grew up. We got through everything, all of that, we won, and they grew up. It’s not your fault that they like you more than they liked me. So, thanks, I guess, but--”

“Steve. No. They didn’t. They -- those kids did not suddenly grow up and decide they didn’t like you anymore. You are their favorite person anywhere, ever, you will be for the rest of eternity, and they don’t understand why no one will tell them how to reach you. They put on a really good show about being mad about it, but, come on, you know what they’re like. They want to apologize cause they know they hurt you, and they want to fix it, and just, you gotta let them try, Steve. You gotta let them talk to you. They miss you so fucking much.”

“Look, I know how they get, and I know how dramatic they are, but it’s still not your fault--”

“It is. Steve. It is my fault. That’s - That’s why you have to talk to them. Cause they didn’t grow up and get over you or decide they didn’t care about you. Those kids are crazy about you, and they never stopped, and they’re hurt right now cause they don’t understand why you left them, and you gotta fix it with them, please.”

Something pinged weird in his ear when he heard the way Munson’s voice cracked. Not just worry, not just helping, not just caring about the kids. Guilt. He was taking the blame for it, even though that didn’t make any sense. The kids were - brats, gremlins, terrors, the most stubborn people he’d ever met, and he knew Nancy Wheeler. If they wanted to be around him, they would be around him. 

It wasn’t Eddie’s fault, or anyone’s fault. It hurt like hell, and Steve wished it wasn’t true, but this was just life. Kids grew up, their interests moved. Friendships changed and ended. 

But that crack of guilt…

“How is it your fault and not theirs that they stopped wanting to ever see me?”

Eddie’s hands stopped shaking from the cold before he got the coffee. 

His hands were shaking again.

Trembled in the time between Steve asking, and Eddie managing to respond.  

“I, uh, I asked them to.”

----

Don't be too mad at him yet. He has a lot more to say.

Part Five >>>

[rjalker]

Well, have some memes about it.

Feel free to add your own versions of the characters. In fact, consider this an art prompt.

[ID: Three versions of the "I think we're gonna have to kill this guy" meme, showing different versions of A Sphere and A Square from Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions, with A Sphere saying "I think we're gonna have to kill this guy, Square", and A Square replying, "Damn.", while text below him indicates he is staring at Ladd Ehlinger, the creator of the 2007 Flatland film. In the first version, the Sphere is a literal blue sphere with lighting on top and shadows underneith, and A Square is a thin line through the air with a bright point in the center. In the second version, A Square is the same, but the Sphere is now more cartoony, with thin black arms, a light green surface with soft lighting and shadow, yellow eyes, and a blue tongue visible as he speaks. The third version has the characters as they appear in the 2007 Flatland film by Ladd Ehlinger. The Sphere is yellow, with protruding red eyes, and a red mouth that goes across his whole front half, like a Pac-Man. A Square is now visibly a Square, with a blue eye on his perimeter that frowns upwards, with dark insides with lighter squiggles. End ID.]

Yeah unfortunately the creator of the 2007 Flatland film is literally a racist misogynistic conservative. So racist in fact that youtube has actually had to restrict videos he's made because they're that blatantly racist. He has literally compared government-funded healthcare and free lunches for school kids to slavery.

You are not a bad person for watching or enjoying his movie, but you should be aware of what kind of person made it, because his bigotry is in the movie, and the way he chose to gloss over and ignore all of the politics of the original novel.

These characters are public domain. They do not belong to this racist misogynist. They belong to all of us. You can design your own versions of the characters in any style you want and do literally anything you want with them.

How about to spite the conservative bigot, everyone takes this as a challenge to create their own designs for these characters, in this meme format, and add them on here?

If you cannot make your own image description, I will make one for you as long as you edit it into your original post.

Flatland is public domain and can be read and listened to and watched in so many different ways. Here is a post linking to a few of them.

Also, you don't have to draw A Square and the Sphere if you don't want to, you can do any Flatland or Flatland-Adjacent characters.

You can start your image description out with "The same meme format as above, but now..." And then describe what the characters look like in your version.