#which I have also sharpied

[batsplat]

always am obsessed with motorsport champions that decide to run the number 1 plate vs those who’ve stuck with their number. because it reveals so much of each of their inner philosophies, whether they are deeply superstitious, or seek a tangible everyday proof of their victory, or concerned with branding/legacies, or trampling the inner critic that believed deep inside of them that they were cut out to be a champion. just so interesting to parse through possible motivations

you're so right anon!!

of course, a big part of it is historical context... you can't really disentangle the choice of whether to run the number one plate or not from the era within which they made said choice. until fairly recently, it was entirely the norm to pick the number one plate - and beyond that, even those who didn't finish in first tended to just adopt the number that represented the place they had finished in during the previous year's championship. so for instance in 1987, gardner was first, mamola second, lawson third, haslam fourth, macckenzie fifth, and so on. in 1988, gardner ran the number 1 plate... mamola 2, lawson 3, haslam 4, mackenzie 5, etc etc. the only champion who broke with tradition was british racer barry sheene (500cc champion in 1976 and 1977), known for being a rebel - and even the styling of his iconic number 7 was apparently a wee bit controversial:

sheene stuck with the 7 both after his formula 750 title and then after his two 500cc titles:

there's some ways in which sheene is kinda the prototype of the modern rider, and he was the first to reap the benefits of having a distinctive number associated with him

in the eighties and nineties, it was all back to number one plates - but then of course another rider decided to break with tradition

incidentally, the generally purported story for why valentino took the number 46 is that it was his father's number. if his autobiography is to be believed, the truth is a little different:

I am Valentino. Graziano chose that name for me because he wanted to honour the memory of his best friend, who drowned at sea, near Pesaro, at the age of eighteen. The fact that St Valentine's Day is just two days before my birthday was also a reason. Number 46 originated when I raced minibikes. I was on a team with two kids from Gatteo a Mare, Marco and Maurizio Pagano. They are the brothers who lent me the Aprilia 125, which I used for my debut at Misano. All three of us had number 46 because we raced in three different categories. They too loved Japan and Japanese riders. One day we were mesmerised by a wild-card entrant at the Japanese Grand Prix who pulled off the most amazing tricks and seemed to have no fear whatsoever. He was number 46. And from that day on, so were we. For me, that lasted until I moved up to the Italian championship and, later, the European series. But when I finally made it to the world championship, I was asked to choose a number. I discovered that 46 was Graziano’s number when he won his first Grand Prix on a Morbidelli 250cc, back in 1979. Which was the year I was born. That’s why I decided that I, too, would be number 46. For me that number represents my career and, partly, my life. It certainly symbolises my massive, incredible, adventure. 

so valentino was only the second premier class rider who stuck with his number. the norm of just following the previous year's standings to choose your number was kinda starting to die out in the late nineties anyway. by 2002, when valentino was defending his title for the first time, if you look down the list it's basically personal numbers all the way. still, valentino was the one to break tradition for champions - the first to do so in a couple of decades. valentino did also know sheene personally as a result of the link through his father, who was a friend of sheene's and had raced him:

^valentino with sheene, valentino wearing a tribute helmet with the iconic '7' on it after sheene's passing (also with the rainbow helmet colours and the word 'pace' or 'peace' on the back during the 2003 invasion of iraq), and valentino's 2005 championship celebrations for his seventh title, his shirt again featuring sheene's seven

hayden didn't follow valentino's example and instead went for the number one plate in 2007. casey made the same choice for the 2008 season, then jorge in 2011... so for a hot moment it really did look like valentino had been just another blip. if anything, the trend was going the other way, with a couple of high profile instances of riders who hadn't won the title rejecting their established numbers:

this particular trend didn't catch on, and from 2010 onward dani decided to just stick with the 26. because all the non-valentino aliens just couldn't stop faffing about with their numbers, 2010 is the only year in which all four aliens are actually concurrently running the numbers we most commonly associate them with

then, by 2012 apparently people were starting to get a bit superstitious about the number one plate. here, from an interview with casey:

the idea is that you can't defend the title if you're sporting the number one plate. which is true! in the 21st century, three guys chose the number one plate, and they defended their titles a grand total of zero times. one bloke stuck to his number, and he defended his title five out of seven times. so yes, it is technically correct that nobody with the number one plate had defended their title, though it is equally true that nobody not called valentino rossi had defended their title. I suppose we'll never know what the bigger factor was

anyways, if picking the number one plate was already a sure thing before, I reckon this sort of silly talk about 'jinxes' would have made casey even less likely to change his mind for 2012. not only is he stubborn, but he also takes an extremely dim view on superstitions

That race was the twelfth in a row that had been won by a rider not starting from pole, which was a new record. People were making a big deal about it and questioning whether, psychologically speaking, it wasn't a good thing to qualify on pole position at all. Maybe to the superstitious riders out there it had become an issue but I have never allowed myself to be affected by outside influences like that and I put an end to the stat by winning from pole in the next round at Laguna Seca in California. It is amazing how many riders have superstitions, which to me are completely ridiculous. Pretty much every one of them has a little mascot or a lucky pair of undies that they once had a good result in and have been stuck with ever since (so to speak!). Superstition is basically just fear and as an athlete my view is that by allowing it to enter your mind you are effectively handing over control. My approach has always been to deliberately tackle it by doing things differently to the last time, just to make sure I don't get into a restrictive habit. Some riders look at their qualifying position and think, I never go well from fifth position, or arrive at a circuit thinking about past results there and say, 'I've never done well here before, it's not my favourite circuit.' You have to be in the mindset that every day is a new day, a new set of circumstances. Every corner is different, every situation is different, and if you are not prepared to open your mind to that then you will always struggle more than necessary. You might have been through one particular corner a thousand times before but with a slight change in temperature, a new bike, a different tyre or a rider trying to pass you on the inside it becomes a completely different challenge and you have to be ready to deal with that.

given that casey is like, neurotically anti-superstition - well, he was probably always going to do the same thing as he did in 2008, but now he definitely would never just stick with his number. unlike jorge... who did change his mind, having run the number one plate in 2011 - but decided against making the switch in 2013. funnily enough, this did not help him defend the title. the eventual 2013 champion ended up also opting to stick with his number... and, well, marc's title defence went a little bit more smoothly. after jorge's 2015 title, he once again stuck to his 99, while marc has used the number 93 throughout his career. by the time you get to 2020, it's easy to have a warped perception of how common it is to keep your number. if you're born in, say, 1997 or later, you think it's basically the done thing to stick to your number, and it's really only a few outliers who use the number one plate. but even in the 21st century... it's really just valentino and marc who were doing it, plus jorge two out of three times. but between the two of them, they sure were winning enough of the titles to make it feel like the established norm

by this point, there really was a bit of a superstition about how the number one plate was 'cursed'. obviously, this wasn't actually a 'curse' as much as it was 'the dominant force in the sport in the noughties decided this number one plate thing wasn't for him and the dominant force in the 2010s who also happens to a massive fan of the other guy also decided not to make the switch either so that probably explains it'. it's not 'you won't defend your title if you're sporting the number one plate', it's 'you won't defend your title if your name isn't valentino rossi or marc marquez'. but obviously, sports drives people insane, so it was always going to be something that prompted a lot of speculation until someone finally managed to defend the plate

following his 2020 championship, mir didn't depart from the new tradition, with a suzuki video to announce his decision:

and fabio did likewise after his 2021 title:

obviously, sticking to their numbers didn't actually help joan and fabio defend their titles, and after his 2022 championship it was pecco's turn to make the choice. pecco went about this in the most pecco way imaginable, with just a touch of public hand-wringing about the whole thing:

just as a quick reminder, before pecco there had been 28 premier class champions. five and two thirds decided against the number one plate - sheene, valentino, marc, joan, fabio, and jorge twice. "I have always been fascinated about riders with number one" describes something that until very recently had been completely normal. not even remotely noteworthy. cheers valentino

eventually, presumably after some extremely extensive introspection, pecco decided to go for the number one plate:

and also this:

and also this (look he's got a lot of thoughts on the matter, please allow him):

and talking about defending the number one:

pecco has continued talking about it sporadically since then. he's spoken about it in the context of defending his title, which as he points out he can only remember marc and valentino doing:

and then the pressure inherent to sporting that plate, from after he'd successfully completed his title defence:

hm. right. let's unpack

the thing about this whole 'running the number one plate' business is that in motogp, each rider's individual choice has to be read with that history in mind. for many years, this wasn't even really a question... it's just what you do when you win the title. sheene was the rebel, the one who decided to do things differently, who wanted to be associated with his very own number. and valentino, who himself knew sheene and was already attached to his own number and has always had a good sense for personal branding, decided to stick with 46. of course, valentino being valentino, he's inescapable enough within motogp that ever since he made that choice, every single champion after him has had to actively make a decision one way or another

so you've got jorge, who had used the number one plate in his title defence during his 250cc campaign in 2007 - and also used it in 2011 as motogp defending champion. he ended up changing his mind for his following two campaigns... remember, he only started using the number 99 in 2009 after his fractious split with his manager during 2008 (see more on numbers lore here). here was what he said about his decision in 2011:

versus his decision in 2015:

jorge in particular does of course have a bit of a complicated relationship with the numbers he's used during his career - and unsurprisingly he's clearly put quite a lot of thought into the whole matter. he's determined to still have the number 99 represent him in some way even in 2011, while also thinking about how he can integrate the number one into his initials - and since it's jorge, of course it's particularly important that his fans approve. he "won't forget" his 99, it was still on his leathers because it's still 'in his heart'... but he explains it by saying he has "earned the right", that it's a "unique opportunity". then, a few years later, his main cited reason for sticking with the number 99 is how it 'represents' him

very much a question of identity, then, something about how jorge made the choice to use the 99 and how it was an expression of liberation for him... he was tempted by the number one once and only once - a statement in itself, following on from jorge's title win in 2010 where the oppressively popular defending champion had been taken out of contention through injury. jorge says he's 'earned the right' because he feels like he deserves it and he wants to tell the world as much. did his failure to defend the title play into his decision not to run the plate again or did he just decide it wasn't really for him after all? did he realise he had grown so attached to the number 99, what it symbolised to him, that he didn't want to give it up again? or did he just realise it was better for personal branding?

last year, here's what casey had to say:

it's fun how the perception of it has changed so drastically, hasn't it? now it's kinda the brave decision to take it... and that's mainly the legacy of two blokes who happened to monopolise this century of racing and decided to make their numbers their own (you may have noticed that there's considerably less material out there on why they made the choice they did). it's gone from something that you just sort of did automatically to something that puts a bit of a target on your back. because that's the subtext, right - everyone wants to 'take the number one plate'... which obviously they do anyway, but all this talk of curses and jinxes attempts to give it a bit of extra weight. is it presumptuous to take that number? valentino and marc made the call to stick to their numbers - and years later it's become a statement to deviate from that path. in that fabio quote above, in context he's really just trying to say he feels like he's the number 20 and nothing other than that - but "I feel like I'm not number one" is still a teensy bit loaded. how did marc's injury affect the choice made by those in his absence?

casey is unsurprisingly very firm on the whole thing, "you are world champion and you should be wearing number one". as if doing anything else is shying away from this duty. defending the title is another "challenge" that he says he likes - almost like a way of putting extra pressure on himself. though in a different interview, casey also says this:

just a number after all, then? it's also interesting how they frame it in different ways, isn't it? for casey it's "recognition" of an achievement, for jorge it's something you've "earned"... and for pecco, it's something you "need to respect". it's about something that puts "pressure" on you... perhaps that's partly because so much of the discourse about the number one plate has become about defending the title (or failing to do so), but pecco discusses it more as a responsibility than something he deserves. you can tell that it's clearly preoccupied him for a while - it's something he's "fascinated" by, he's "admired" people who have done it, he's "always loved it". for both casey and pecco, part of it seems to be about respecting the history of all the blokes who have used the number in the past, like it's an act that pays tribute to that heritage. you'd think this shouldn't have been such a tough choice in the first place, wouldn't you? goes to show how much of a break with tradition it's become - tradition, of course, that was really started by pecco's own mentor. would it be that surprising if that's part of the reason for the reticence? and, at the same time, would it be that surprising that his mentor's long shadow might make him feel like he needs that big and bold number one? what does pecco think it's saying that he went a different way? all this public hand-wringing just because he's breaking a trend

for jorge, the number one plate was a public declaration that he'd made it, naysayers be damned. to pecco, "the number one plate means you need to demonstrate you are number one". it's like giving yourself a point to prove... is it mainly a matter of pride or giving yourself something to live up to? both of them go to great pains to stress their continued attachment to their original number, how they're continuing to integrate it into all their cute designs... and that is something that has changed pretty definitively - not entirely as a result of valentino, but around the same time as valentino emerged as the figurehead of the sport, and he's certainly a big part of it. even the riders who go with the number one still want to have their number and to be known by it. the numbers have become such an integral part of branding and rider identity that riders want to make clear how important they are to them, whether they stick with the number as defending champions or not

at the same time, the fact that taking the number one plate has been de-normalised means that this decision places extra focus on the challenge of defending the title. pecco might not frame his choice in opposition to valentino and marc's to keep their numbers, but he does repeatedly link it to how they alone had been able to win successive titles. for him, then, it becomes an indirect way of living up to a legacy - counterintuitively by doing the opposite of what they did. "since I remember, was just marc and vale have repeated the title" “I thought about it many times this season in all the races we were struggling that the only two riders able to win two years in a row were marc and valentino"... that's what he's trying to live up to, this simultaneous source of inspiration and insecurity. are you lacking confidence if you need to see the number one to believe yourself that you are the number one? or is it conversely shying away from something you have rightfully earned if you can't bring yourself to take the plate? is it an expression of ego if you think your personal number is more meaningful than the number one could ever be? personal branding decisions aside, wouldn't manufacturers much rather you display the number one plate proudly on their bikes?

kind of remarkable, isn't it? it should be such a simple choice... and yet. not only is it now a question of branding and identity, but within motogp it's also become one of how you relate to the legacy of two specific riders. maybe it'll gradually become more common again to take the plate - after all, the curse has now been broken. or maybe it will be the source of much hand-wringing forevermore... we shall see. we shall see

[lothbats9000]

I've added triangle boy to the collection! :D

And here be a little link to square boy if you want it

(Also some progress images and the reference photo :)

[causeimanartist]

I got carded at the mall because Paul Blart thought I was under 18

[limonjarritos]

Do you guys know how insane it is that Rody is biphobic and bi just casually in this story. Like imagine if there was less cannibalism (boo) and the whole game was just Rody fighting his bisexual demons.

(actually he probably kinda lowkey was with how much his mind strays back to Manon when speaking to Vincent, though he's also perhaps that down bad. But still, you know how people will subconsciously play up their opposite gender attraction when trying to fight the same sex attraction thoughts)

[strawberryofdepression]

modified cup

All I added was the gays and the theys

[grinchwrapsupreme]

nothing I love more in a secondhand book than a note written to someone in the cover

[shivunin]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @scribbledquillz! I am still easing back in to writing after my burnout/hiatus, but here is what I've been working over the past few weeks instead c:

The next step on the Fenris scarf is to draw all the tattoos onto the black section with silver Sharpie and then embroider over them. The bottom image is my test piece to make sure this kind of embroidery is something I can do (ignore the variety of stitch types; I wanted to pick one that showed up pretty well and didn't look too messy if I had to turn the work a lot; the one around the border is what it will all look like when done). I found a really really cool yarn to do the embroidered sections with and I'm excited to share that piece when it's all done (but expect it to be a few weeks, because embroidery will take a lot longer than crocheting this did).

I'm pretty happy with it so far! I like the way the favor section turned out and I learned a new stitch for the gauntlet/shoulder bits, which also came out pretty cool. I will take proper, pretty pictures when it's all finished, just like I did with the Cullen scarf, but I didn't have access to the dress form today for this set (so you can enjoy a little section of my library and the pretty table my husband made instead haha).

Thanks to everyone who helped with Fenris's tattoo resources! I really appreciate it.

Tagging back (no pressure, and sorry if you've been tagged already): @greypetrel @ndostairlyrium and @zenstrike

[baravaggio]

gary the pictures I take will never be able to adequately reflect the things I saw with my eyes in the moment

[programmed-and-dangerous]

Shoutout to off brand $18 laptop batteries saving me from both having to get a new laptop and letting me keep my laptop that has dvd/Blu-ray ripping software that works. I tried getting it set up on my desktop but it wasn’t working on windows for whatever reason

[erythristicbones]

usually at work all of the coffee bagging is split between two ppl, i do all the retail and the other guy does all the wholesale. but he's going home for a month on july 14th, which means for that month i will be the only one doing all the bagging

so like on one hand i feel "sweet more money/shifts, maybe i can actually afford that new phone soon" but on the other hand........yeah, it does mean that im gonna have a lot more responsibility on my shoulders alone huh

[adventremnant]

tips that aren't the same list from 2006

you know exactly what dumbass list I mean, and none of that shit is practical, it's giving uwu ana butterfly and we all know it

hi, I'm angel, I'm a nutrition major, and here are tips to keep yourself safe and hide your eating habits that actually make sense. this will not be in any particular order, but

avoid ketosis. i know, i know, you heard it burns fat faster! it also makes you smell like a dog rolled in sharpies and makes you stupid. i'm not kidding, you will be slow as fuck. avoid keto at all costs, carbs are better and healthier than being caught and dumb

take electrolytes and pay close attention to your potassium intake. if you neglect this, you will damage your heart and muscles and run the risk of having a heart attack. i use liquid IV because I have POTS and need the extra sodium, but that brand is also good for ED-havers because it has extra b vitamins

take ultra strength prenatal vitamins. they contain extra folate, fish oil, and dha, all of which are necessary to protect your heart and brain when you're not intaking much food.

For other supplements, I recommend Metamucil to keep your bowels going, iron, vitamin c packets (will make the iron absorb better, I personally use the +immunity ones), b-complex, calcium-magnesium-zinc, and vitamin d. Make sure the b-complex contains b-12. Feel free to send me an ask or dm me for dosages because some of these will depend on where you live geographically or what food you are eating.

find a protein shake you like. I'm a muscle milk bitch personally, but fairlife, premier, etc, are all good. make sure it isn't a meal replacement shake, and make sure it contains at least 20g of protein. these contain vitamins beyond protein that will help you stay healthy. the protein will also keep you full. i recommend using it as milk in coffee because the coffee will also suppress hunger and act as a mild laxative without harming the bowels. don't take your iron along with this, as dairy will hinder the absorption of iron.

don't take laxatives. you're going to give yourself IBD. maybe once a month as an extra cleanout you can do a little miralax, but the natural route is always better. regularly drink coffee and drink specifically senna green tea, they're both natural laxatives. the metamucil i recommend will also keep you going. if you need a bigger laxative effect, blend a whole peeled and seeded orange, a few inches of peeled fresh ginger, juice from a whole lemon, add a tsp each of cracked black pepper and turmeric, blend with coconut water until it's a thin smoothie consistency. drink that, you'll be good.

the best thing you can do for yourself is hide your behaviors behind health food gym girlie orthorexic behaviors. nobody takes orthorexia seriously and they encourage those behaviors. you can cut out whatever the hell you want if you're crunchy and healthy about it.

don't go too crazy about it. old tips would tell you to act like you loved food and it's really obvious. being obsessed with food and cooking is weird and obvious. don't talk about food constantly and make it your whole personality to try to hide, it's bizarre and one of the signs they tell parents to look out for. you have to be nonchalant. food is whatever. you like it, you have favorite meals, but you get tired of tastes quickly, you're picky about textures, you don't like it once it gets cold, etc. it's just fuel and it's meaningless to you. you eat for your health, not for pleasure.

high impact workouts like HIIT and running may not be the best idea. some studies show that high impact exercise stimulates hunger hormones in some individuals. pilates, ballet, and yoga are low impact, high results, and give a very desirable aesthetic. they're also quiet and can be done with a yoga mat and maybe a theraband.

get a job. get a hobby. join a sport. being out of your house as much as possible gives you the largest opportunity for excuses. oh my job catered lunch, oh there were snacks at practice, oh so and so brought something to the knitting circle. this can also be an opportunity to earn or save money (or swindle your mom out of cash by obtaining money for concessions at games and then only getting a diet coke)

if you control your own food, maximize your nutrition. salmon, tuna, sardines. kale, chard, spinach. beans, lentils. berries. protein pasta. pasture raised eggs. the fancy filtered fairlife milk. your body will hold out so much longer if you're keeping it fueled with proper vitamins and minerals.

track your food using cronometer - if someone sees it on your phone and asks, you have a perfect built-in excuse. oh, you don't care about the calories, but it tracks vitamin and mineral intake, and you're trying to make sure you're getting enough of those because you have, say, an iron deficiency or you're worried you're not getting enough omega-3s.

anorexic hair is really obvious. it's from malnutrition and stress. absolutely ensure you're getting enough omega-3s and other fats in your diet (avocados, eggs, oily fish, nuts like walnuts) to avoid the anorexia hair and the sallow, dry skin. this is also why i insist you take vitamin d, iron, vitamin c, a b-complex, and a pre-natal with folate and dha, those will also protect your hair and skin health. also make sure you're trimming dead ends, get a deep conditioner and/or bond repair treatment, do scalp massages, and if it does fall out, start using a mousse for volume and get a cut to maximize volume to hide it.

keep up your oral, skin, and nail health, too. these can also be obvious indicators. if you're taking the vitamins and keeping to the foods i'm recommending, it'll help, but make sure you're brushing and flossing, use the nasty brown listerine, a good dry skin lotion like curel, and a nail oil. keep your nails short if they start peeling, but if they're peeling, you need to take more vitamin d and iron, or you could have celiac disease.

there's no such thing as a broken metabolism, and you can't boost or slow down your metabolism. those are myths. the only way to make your bmr higher is to have more muscle.

extra tip: if you start fainting, tell people you have or think you have POTS. work smarter not harder.

[jikimo-world]

Part 1/Part 2/Part 3 ⬆️/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6

From beginning

Prev/Next

"Please save him from what I could do to him"

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me!

ft; itoshi sae, michael kaiser, don lorenzo

how he reacts to your cheers after scoring the goal last second.

a/n: hear me out on lorenzo guys--like he's lowkey kinda fine…

------

itoshi sae

3…2…-!

“AND ITOSHI SAE SCORES THE FINISHING GOAL! the ending score is 5-4, with Real Madrid snatching the win!”

screams, tears, and cheers erupted in the stands instantaneously. you jumped up, a large ITOSHI sign printed on your long oversized jersey, cheering like no one else in the stands. some of sae's teammates jumped onto him as they cheered, although sae shoved them off before walking away.

his eyes glided across the crowds, hundreds of banners of his name in the stands. his eyes glossed over each of them as if they were nothing, although to him, those banners truly were nothing. without his skill and looks, those banners would have been nonexistent. finally, his eyes landed on something, and his pupils dilated.

there you were.

those banners and screaming fans were nothing, but you were everything. your messy hair and red face and angelically wide smile, much too oversized jersey that in sae's opinion fit perfectly on you. a tiny, barely even noticeable smile made its way onto sae's face. you looked down at him, eyes meeting his.

i’m so proud of you.

you had only mouthed five short words, but a blossoming feeling of warmth bloomed in sae's chest. and in that moment, to sae, there was no crowd, there was no media, there were no interviewers waiting to bombard him with questions, there were no teammates trying to jump onto him.

it was just you and him.

------

michael kaiser

“AND KAISER SHOOTS A KAISER IMPACT AT THE LAST SECOND! the ending score is 3-2!”

fans cheered, haters booed, but screams were unavoidable. flashes were everywhere, pictures being taken of kaiser soon to increase in number once again. kaiser waved a few times before beginning to look around the field, ignoring his teammates telling him about how the media wanted to interview him.

where were you?

finally, his eyes landed. the oversized KAISER jersey that hugged your knees, which had a drawing of a rose in blue sharpie and kaiser's signature on the part of the jersey that covered your heart. kaiser snickered on the outside, though his stomach was doing backflips on the inside. you came! he had thought that you were too busy in college.

kaiser raised his left his to his mouth, kissing his ring finger and blowing the kiss to you. he could see you laugh, which inflated his ego through the roof, before you also kissed your ring finger and blew a kiss to him back. the paparazzi had a keen eye, however, and they noticed it.

now, the mystery of the ring on kaiser's left ring finger has always had different interpretations by fans. after all, kaiser never denied having a lover or fiancée in interviews, as he often just smiled slyly before just simply asking for the next question. but to many other more soccer biased fans, they believed that kaiser didn't have enough care for other people to love. after all, everyone sees how kaiser treats ness on tv.

but the matching shining sapphire gems on golden bands on each of both of your left ring fingers suggested differently.

“i love you!”

kaiser swore that he just felt his heart explode when he heard you yell out those three familiar words with such a beautiful smile on your face.

------

don lorenzo

to most, don lorenzo was an unlovable creature aside from soccer.

completely golden teeth, messy purple black hair, far too lanky for anyone to be comfortable around, eyeshadow, and a small goatee. truly, his looks are unlovable. only when he scores a goal is he the most loved by people. well, lorenzo himself loves it too; more achievements in soccer means more money for him, right?

“ANDDDDDD LORENZO, A DEFENDER AND MEMBER OF THE U20 GENERATION 11, SCORES! the ending score is 4-3!”

lorenzo waved with both of his arms, a smile wide on his face. after a few seconds of his fans cheers, his eyes scanned the crowd, knowing that the love of his life would be in the VIP section somewhere. and he was right, the LORENZO jersey--possibly the only one in the crowds--was quite noticeable on you. everyone knew that you were lorenzo's girlfriend; in fact, in the soccer fandom, it's become a bit of a meme that “if lorenzo can bag a baddie, then you can too.” (affectionately, of course. but you weren't nearly as fond or accepting of the meme as lorenzo is.) after all, who could pass up the opportunity to gossip about how lorenzo's girlfriend is the girl who gave him money and food back when he lived on the streets?

“good job! i'm so proud of you! you did so good!” you shouted, smiling as both of your arms waved above your head. you blew him a few kisses before a smile crawled onto his face too. a few fans next to you whispered about you, but you couldn't care less.

and you know what? to lorenzo, money was worth the world, but you were worth the universe.

[kurohe]

Things you can do to actively participate in the revolution

Here's the list !

I know some of those will look really silly, i promise they are not. And obviously, this is not a checklist, you don't have to do everything. But they're steps that you can absolutely take if you wish to, and they WILL help.

(i am continually correcting things when people point out mistakes. Thanks everyone for your help)

(under the cut !)

1) Let's start off with a very easy one you can do right now: stop using Chrome. It's a google owned browser, and it sents all of your data towards it. Mozilla is a very good replacement, but almost anything will do, really. Also, resign your amazon prime subscription. We revolting against capitalism as a whole, and this is a good first step to not freely give em your data and money

2) Start stealing things from supermarkets and malls. I am not kidding. Little things, that aren't really monitored: a can of food, a lighter, a pair of socks. Condiments are particularly easy to hide in bags or pockets. Steal hygiene products, steal food.

Remember that you should have access to those for free, and you don't because a few rich guys don't want you to.

Additional tip: train station stores are very easy to steal from, because they're so busy. But don't put yourself in danger. Check beforehand if they check bags at checkout, look out for employees that might notice what you're doing. Don't be reckless.

(edit: imma say this, you should read up on what the risks of stealing are, for you and others. Stealing from big stores is IMO always morally right, but it is risky for many reasons. Be careful)

3) In the same line, if you see someone stealing anything from a big store, no you didn't.

4) I know a lot of people are scared of disrespecting rules. By fear of being caught, or by guilt. My advice is: start disrespecting stupid, meaningless rules. I don't have specific exemples, but you'll encounter them and wonder why you're doing that. Stop doing it. This will train you to be able to disobey autority way easier.

5) Put stickers everywhere. If you already have them, go ham. Especially on public property (lamposts are amazing). If you don't, buy them from artists or independant stores, not big brands. If you cannot afford them, remember that you can simply write stuff on an A4 paper and plaster it to walls. Or even post its !

6) Carry a sharpie with you at all time, the big black ones. If you see propaganda, scribble it out. Keep a look out for terfs stickers, maga posters, etc. Also good for getting rid of transphobic and sexist stuff written on public restroom stalls !

7) Buy locally. This means going to the market or small stores, and thrifting your clothes. If you can't for money or accessibility reasons, try trading with your friends, family and neighbours. Get communication going in your circles, and you'll realise there are a lot of things that you can simply trade with or buy from people around you. Like a jar of jam against some eggs, or a pair of socks for a t-shirt you don't wear anymore !

8) Learn how to sew. I know, that sounds dumb ! But i promise you, not only will it be amazing to trade with other people ("i'll sew back ur shirt and in exchange, you give me a can of peaches !"), corporations also haaaate when you know how to fix your clothes. Because they want you to buy more. You'll spend a lot less money if you know how to fix em

9) If you have the space and the money, grow your own food, and share it or sell it around you. Be careful, some assholes will call the FDA on you. Do that with people you trust.

Additional tip: growing vegetables and fruits can be a real nightmare. You can absolutely start by just growing some basil or mint :)

10) Organise. Join leftist groups online, even if it's just to see what's being said, you don't even need to interact. Follow creators, repost and share their content. By doing that, you'll stay informed on group movements like strikes, protests and boycotts, which you can then participate in. It's very important you're connected to other ppl and the movements that are started !

11) Unionize. I'm very sorry I don't know the exact way unions work in the US, but if you can, join one. They will help you in times of needs, especially if you're a student or a worker. If you're not sure how to do that, absolutely ask around to people you know are very active politically, around you or online. People will help.

12) Stay. Informed. Follow independant papers and news outlet. If you can afford it, give them a dollar or two. They are fighting everyday for access to unbiased information for all, and sadly, their independance means that they rely almost entirely on donations and people simply engaging with what they put out.

If you can't access those: do not get your news from TV. Ever. Or anywhere else that has been bought by the far right. Sadly, the majority of TV channels are just the worst.

And, most importantly: fact check. All of the time.

13) Share that information. Talk to those you trust and who are ready to listen to you, and tell them about what's happening. Get angry with them. Revolution stems from people coming together and realising that they're being used and profited off of. Share videos and posts relating to politics, especially informative videos.

14) Go to protests ! If you've never been, i know it can be scary. But you can stay in the middle (don't go all the way to the front, that's where stuff can get heated) and scream and walk with everyone else. You'll meet people who, like you, want things to change. Capitalism wants you to stay as unconnected to others as possible, and that's a great way to fight that.

Sometimes, there are sites that have a planning for all protests happening in a city. Look up if one exists for yours

15) Create and strenghten community. I know i really struggled with this one, because it's so vague. But here's a few places you can start:

-Go and introduce yourself to your neighbours, if you deem it safe. Give them a little gift if you can afford it, like a pack of pasta.

-Make new friends, even if they aren't deep friendships. You need connections. Online or irl, both are fine- don't stay isolated.

-If you already have community, go check on them right now. Ask your friends how they're doing, and if they need anything- ask how they're being impacted by what's happening right now politically.

16) Look for ways to fuck over the institutions in easy ways. One example that went around tumblr a lot is letting dandelions grow in your backyard, because landlords fucking hate it. If you work in retail or fast food, cheat. Accidentally forget to scan the diapers. Put in 7 nuggets instead of 6.

(edit: been told that it's very risky for walmart workers to not scan things, so beware.)

17) Engage in art. MAKE art. Music, shitty paint drawings, craft, anything as long as you're being creative. Share it. If you feel like you can't do that, then support artists. Make a point to look up cool illustrations, and new music. Go to the cinema.

If you're an artist currently in an underpaid office job, please, by the love of god, be creative during office hours. You're underpaid, they do not deserve your full time and attention. Take 30 minutes to write that snippet you've been thinking about.

(and actually, if you're underpaid at all: do the minimum required. So that you can't be fired, but that's it. Any more effort is not worth it. Companies will never be thankful for what you do.)

18) Look up books that your state banned, and go read them. You can get them secondhand, or as pdfs online. (if anyone needs ressources, i will glady look for and share them.)

And, actually, read books in general if you can. Yes, fanfics count !

19) Seek education. There's a lot of youtube channels out there talking about educational subjects in a fun way. Some things the rich assholes who run the country specifically don't want you to learn more about are: biology, history and archeology, social and economic sciences. GO LEARN ABOUT THOSE.

The people in power don't want you to be educated. It's why they eviscerated the education system.

20) PIRATE. I cannot stress this enough, anything you can pirate (that isn't from small, indie creators, except if you absolutely can't afford it) do it. Download music illegally, torrent movies and games. If you want access to academical studies and papers, some writers will give them to you for free if you email them about it. There are also ways to go around paywalls.

21) Don't fall for the traps of "progressive brands". Lately, i've seen a lot of praise for Ben and Jerry's for openly supporting lgbtq rights and being globally anti-trump. They are still a brand. Avoid buying from any big names when you can. That being said, if you have to, check beforehand which ones and what their history is. Some are more evil than others.

Additional tip: a lot of brands you see in stores are actually owned by bigger brands. One prime example of this is Nestle, who are fucking evil, but they own a shitload of other big names. Be careful what you buy.

If none of those are available options to you, please, make sure you have someone around you that will be able to protect you, or a place where you can be safe. Whether you are disabled, a minor, or anything else. Don't put yourself in more danger than is necessary.

22) I hate to say this, but be prepared to defend yourself. Revolutions are never peaceful. You will get in danger. If you can, get in ok physical shape. Learn how to run fast and fight well.

23) Last but not least, be kind. When someone cuts off a woman speaking, interrupt and give her the floor back. Shame those who think it's right to say bigoted shit in public. Listen to those around you. If you can't act, then remember to always have empathy for the homeless, for drug users, for immigrants. Understand they are people just like you. You are not immune to propaganda and prejudice, no matter who you are. Always question yourself and your biases.

(if you've read this far, please repost. We need this to reach as many people as possible)

I want to remind you that you're not alone. I know things seem hopeless, but the simple fact that you're reading this is proof it's not. I don't live in the US, but i'm supporting you as best i can from where i am, and sending you strenght.

If you have any questions, do ask away. I'll end on this image that's very dear to me:

[emiliaoleary]

Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook.  There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way.  The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use.  I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines. 

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran.  If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it.  I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted).  I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.  

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be. 

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

​ It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

[joelscruff]

truth or dare (joel miller x f!reader) 18+

notification blog | kofi | in honor of my bestie han @swiftispunk who recently celebrated her birthday (and in honor of spooky season starting 🎃) i thought i'd step outside the boundaries of what i usually write and try something new. i'd also like to give a huge shoutout to @toxicanonymity whose entire masterlist greatly influenced my desire to try something like this. please heed the warnings!!! and as i said this is my first time writing anything like this so pls be kind 🫠

summary: a harmless game of truth or dare ends with you tied up in a certain mysterious neighbor's garage. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: dubcon (reader is given a choice to leave, but not immediately), dark!joel, age gap (reader is college age, joel is in his fifties), unprotected p in v sex, use of restraints, ropes, spanking, degradation, sir kink, dirty talk (use of 'little girl' as a pet name), face fucking, rough sex, creampie, brief anal play, humiliation, inappropriate use of a household item (he puts a flashlight up her cooch), marking (with a sharpie), size kink (joel is much bigger than reader and can lift her), pls lemme know if i forgot anything word count: 8.3k

Your palms are sweaty, fingers sticking to your skin as you stand at the edge of the property with goosebumps already blooming along your flesh. The air is chilly, that end of summer evening air flooding your nostrils as a car drives past through streams of leftover rainwater, headlights blurring your vision for a moment. It passes quickly and you're alone again, standing on the street corner with a mixture of anticipation and dread filling your trembling body.

Everything had been fine about twenty minutes ago. A typical party with your hometown friends, one last hurrah before everyone splits off for the third year in a row to go back to their respective colleges, back to long lectures and underwhelming frat boys. It had gone the same way it always does when you get together - shots, secrets, schemes. No end of summer party could ever be complete without a game of truth or dare, not for your crowd anyway.

It had started simple. "Which one of us had the best glow-up this year?" "I dare you to text the last guy you slept with." "What's the kinkiest thing you've done with somebody?" "I dare you to show us the last nude someone sent you." Typical borderline adolescent challenges, things you all still followed through with despite being too old for the game - it's the principle of it, to indulge and pretend, if only for a little while, that life is as simple as it once was.

"Who's the last person you had a sex dream about?"

You'd twisted your hands awkwardly in your lap, felt heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. Usually a question like this wouldn't make you hesitate, but the subject of the answer had been a slightly embarrassing one. As soon as the name Joel Miller had fallen from your lips, you'd been met with screams and squeals and excited chatter from every direction.

"He's so fucking creepy though," one of your friends had said with wide eyes, palm over her mouth, "He gives off serial killer vibes."

"Oh please, he's not that bad," another had chimed in, "He's just a loner, kinda mysterious. I see the vision."

"Are we forgetting the part where he's old as hell? Dude must be in his fifties, at least."

"But that means experience."

"It could also mean limp dick."

"You guys are disgusting," you'd moaned, leaning back on your hands, "It was one dream, let's move on."

And they had. Briefly. Until it was once again your turn and they'd all rounded on you with cheshire cat grins and glinting stares. You should have known what was coming when you chose Dare.

"I dare you to go over to his house."

You'd resisted, of course. The dare itself didn't even make much sense; what were you meant to do? Go over and ding-dong-ditch his front door like a twelve year old boy? But it had only snowballed from there, all five girls tossing in their own thoughts and ideas, talking and giggling over each other. "She should ask him on a date." "She should just flirt a little bit, see how he reacts." "She could see how far she can get with him, maybe?" "Oh shit, that's good."

You could have always said no - there was no way any of them could force you to do it, even if it would have ended the party abruptly with grumbled complaints and a slammed door. But the more they talked the more you found yourself listening, letting the concept sink in, the images of the dream you'd had the other night flooding to the front of your mind. Mysterious and elusive Joel Miller, big hands covered in the motor oil he uses to tinker with his truck, trailing his messy fingers between the swells of your breasts...

They'd managed to convince you just by the reminder alone, though also due to the fact that they'd each tossed in a twenty dollar bill and stated that simply getting a kiss on the cheek would warrant a win. The prospect was intriguing; it would be a testament to your own desirability, your game. How far can you get with your quiet neighbor who probably hasn't touched a woman in years? Who'll probably fold the second he realizes someone as young and beautiful as you is interested in him?

"I'll do it," you'd said with a smirk, rising from the hardwood, "How hard can it be?"

Harder than you thought, apparently. Because now you stand a few feet from Joel Miller's house, loitering soundlessly at the edge of his front lawn, hesitating. The sun has gone down, turning the hedges along the side of his property into frighteningly tall shadows, dark and menacing. A light breeze flows past and you wrap yourself tighter in your well-worn maroon cardigan, shivering, staring at your boots and wondering if you can really bring yourself to do this.

It'll be so humiliating if he rejects your advances. On the other hand, will it somehow be less-so if he returns your flirtatiousness and you then have to reject him once you've gotten what you came for? How will that make you look? You're not even really sure why you care - probably because the man has done nothing to you whatsoever, nothing that would warrant such a foolish prank as this being played on him. It makes you feel bad, in a way. As much as you and your friends make fun of him, he really is just a man who keeps to himself - perhaps this is going too far.

You notice light flickering nearby, a reflection of fluorescents in the puddles of his driveway. You figured he'd be in his garage - it's where he spends most of his time, bent over the exposed hood of the truck he's seemingly been working on ever since he moved in at the beginning of the summer. You've never seen him drive it, never even seen him leave the property, but you've passed by the house on more than one occasion. You've seen the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, forearms splattered black and grey, expression focused on the task at hand while sweat drips from his greying temples.

Having a sex dream about him really shouldn't have been that shocking, now that you think about it. The man is a mystery, sure, but he isn't ugly by any means.

You swallow down your qualms, picturing the faces of your friends more than likely smooshed against the living room window a few houses back, watching. As soon as you turn the corner, you'll disappear from view, obstructed by the hedges and the sudden darkness of night. You take one more deep breath, one last burst of chilly evening air into your lungs, and accept your fate.

--

He doesn't notice you walking up his driveway, taking slow and meager steps as you assess the open garage, the truck with its hood popped as usual, the flickering of the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. He doesn't notice you, but you notice him. You spot a pair of steel toed boots and long denim clad legs sticking out from underneath the truck, hear the clink and clang of metal against metal while he tinkers with something down there, unseen. As you reach the garage it becomes apparent that you still have one last chance to end this before it begins, turn around and take the loss.

But you don't.

"Excuse me," you offer in a weak voice, teetering nervously at the edge of the garage door, neither inside nor out - neutral ground.

The clinking stops, replaced by the steady pounding of your heart in your chest, the heaviness of your breathing. You try to loosen your hands from their fisted forms and unclench your fingers, focusing on the stretch of flesh and bone while the legs beneath the car slowly begin to inch forward. He's not laying on any type of support, one of those wheeled contraptions you've seen other people use - no, he's simply got his back to the ground, a back and body that's slowly coming into view.

His black and green flannel rides up where he's been laying on it, as well as the grey t-shirt he wears beneath; as he slides out from under the car you spot a bare sliver of skin just above his waistband, a patch of hair that trails down into his jeans. A lump forms in your throat. When he finally peeks his head out, you swallow around it and try to remember to breathe.

Greying hair slicked back behind his ears, cheekbones smeared slightly with something black, scruff lining a strong yet soft jawline, a plump bottom lip, and those eyes... dark brown, almost black. It's the face that's practically been haunting you all summer, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

His brow furrows as soon as he sees you, "Can I help you?"

It's not the first time you've heard him talk, but it's certainly the first time he's ever spoken directly to you. His accent is stronger than you remember, words slipping smoothly past his lips like butter as he eyes you from the floor of his garage, knees up, hands still hidden in the darkness. A few seconds pass before you realize he's asked you a question.

"Oh, um-" You haven't thought this through very far, that's for sure. What the fuck do you even say? You take a breath and remind yourself that you're good at this, have seduced your fair share of frat boys in the past two years with minimal effort and have never heard the word no. Sure, Joel Miller isn't a frat boy - far from it - but underneath his cold exterior he's still very much a man, and very much capable of falling under the spell of a beautiful woman. You hope, anyway.

"I was just taking a walk," you lie, "Saw your light on, thought I'd come say hi."

He stares at you blankly, like he's unsure exactly how he's supposed to respond - or perhaps he's already seeing through your façade. You take a step into his garage, poised at the edge as you lean casually against the opening.

"Honestly, um-" you push some hair behind your ear and attempt to look shy, though it's not a huge jump from how you're actually feeling, "I've been meaning to talk to you, before I go back to college."

At your words he raises an eyebrow and slowly brings his hands downwards, palms pressing flat against the dark concrete. You watch as he eases himself up and out from under the truck, and god he's tall - tall and broad and huge compared to you, a fact that sends a little flutter into your belly. He takes a step toward the work bench against the wall, eyes still on you as he reaches down and picks up a rag to wipe his hands, big and wide and streaked with oil. You remember your dream and feel a twinge in your underwear.

"Talk to me about what?" he asks, massaging the rag against his fingers.

You shrug as nonchalantly as you can, taking another step inside his garage, closer to where he stands at the work bench. You cross your legs in an attempt to show them off, stretching your ankle toward a spare tire on the floor and accentuating the sheerness of your black tights, the little run that splits the material at the inside of your knee, the hint of bare skin that peeks out beneath.

"Nothing in particular," you say, keeping your voice soft and steady but doing your best to keep that shy girlishness present, "Just... wanted to." You peer up at him from under your lashes and bite your lip, then reach out your hand for him to take. You say your name.

He assesses your hand but doesn't take it, brow still furrowed. "Joel," he replies, "And I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. Don't really have time to talk." His voice is cold and gruff, absolutely no sign of interest or attraction - dammit.

"What're you doing?" you ask, tilting your head.

He continues to stare at you blankly, "What does it look like I'm doin'?"

Okaaaay, then.

You shrug again and take another step, turning to look at the wall next to you. Tools line the shelves, wrenches and screwdrivers and the like dangling rather precariously here and there, smeared in motor oil and dust. It's a mess but you'd be willing to bet that it's organized chaos, that he likes it this way.

"What's this?" you ask, pointing to a particularly large object, something that looks like a mixture between a pair of scissors and a wrench.

"Bolt cutters," he supplies you monotonously.

"Ohh," you say with a nod, leaning a bit into the confused pretty girl stereotype and hoping maybe he's a sucker for it, "And what's that?" You point toward a small cylindrical object, black and tactical, only a few inches long.

"You never seen a flashlight before?"

Oh. Right. "Woops," you giggle, "Sorry."

You turn your face to look at him sheepishly and he's still watching you, big arms now crossed against his broad chest - impatient. Well, this is clearly not working either. He's frowning, eyes so focused on your face that you feel almost naked beneath it, like he's staring into your soul. You clear your throat awkwardly and tug your bottom lip between your teeth, breaking your own gaze away from him and trying to find something else to comment on.

"So you've been working on your truck," you state, gesturing toward the vehicle as if only just noticing it was even there, "What's - uh - what's wrong with it?"

He's clearly not buying into whatever the fuck you're even trying to sell. He remains silent, eyes still on you, and suddenly it's like you've never even interacted with a man before - and to be honest, maybe you haven't. Frat boys are certainly not men by any means, and nowhere near in the same league as Joel Miller by a long shot, probably almost triple their age with a dark and mysterious aura that feels almost suffocating. He just stares at you, slightly unnerving, but also seductive in its own way, almost like he's challenging you.

"What do you want?" he asks blankly.

"I-I told you," your voice is already faltering, losing its flirtatious edge the more you realize how dumb of an idea this was, "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, I got that," he says stiffly, "Why?"

You've already exhausted the avenues you thought might work, which means you've got one last chance before he sends you packing. With bated breath you take the final few steps toward him and - averting your gaze - you reach your hand out to touch his forearm with your fingertips. It's feather light, but you're suddenly very aware of the goosebumps that rise on his freckled flesh, the way the thick hair on his arms seems to stand on end the second your skin touches his. Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

"I think you're handsome," you murmur softly, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks when you realize that it's not a lie. And it really isn't. As your gaze gradually tilts up you catch a glimpse of the hair on his chest, peeking out from under his grey t-shirt. You spot his pecs beneath the fabric of his flannel, see the throbbing veins in his neck, the coarseness of his scruff, the sharp curve of his nose, and those fucking eyes - looking at you with a darkness, a lust, that wasn't there before.

He's not just handsome; he's fucking gorgeous.

"What're you doin'?" he asks you, that gruffness still present but being taken over by something else, something darker.

"Nothing," you breathe, still trailing your fingers along his forearm until they reach its apex and dip into the soft part behind his elbow, damp with sweat. You swallow, throat going dry as you stroke his skin with your thumb.

"Doesn't feel like nothin'," his voice is quieter, matching yours, and he tilts his head slightly as he continues to stare into your eyes, "Why're you really here, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. The word sends a burst of warmth to your chest, a smile to your lips. You unlock your eyes from his bashfully, watching your own movements as you trail your fingers back down toward his hand and wrap them around one of his fingers, so thick compared to your own. You squeeze gently, biting your lip again as you peer back up at him. Here it is. Moment of truth. You tilt your head up slightly, eyelashes fluttering as you lean forward to connect your lips with his.

Except, they don't connect.

Instead he pulls his hands away from you, brings them upwards and wraps them around your upper arms, squeezing tightly. Your eyes widen, confusion flooding your features.

"Turn around and bend over."

"W-what?" Shock doesn't even begin to describe the ice cold feeling that now makes its way through your body, edged with something else - something you can't explain.

"Turn around," he repeats, his big hands squeezing your arms even tighter - relentless, firm - as he peers down at you with a dark hunger in his eyes, glinting black beneath the fluorescents, "And bend over."

He does not give you another chance to obey - you're too frozen in surprise and confusion to do anything yourself. Instead, he uses the force of his weight on your arms to spin you on the spot, shoving you against the work bench. You feel one of his hands move from your arm to your back, pushing hard until you fold, warm cheek coming to rest against the cold wood.

"Wh-what are you doing?" your voice is meager, weak, and you feel him wrap one of his hands around both your wrists like it's nothing, pinning them against your back like they're simply twigs in his wide palm.

"What you're clearly fuckin' beggin' for," he replies gruffly, and you feel his other hand at your skirt, feel the brush of his fingertips at the hem as he reaches upward to grip the band of your tights. Your eyes widen and instinctively you pull back, pull away - he just pushes you back down.

"I'm not-" you begin, shock quickly being replaced with fear when you realize how easily overpowered you are, how fluidly he's able to tug down your tights and expose your ass to him, clad in only a black thong already lost between your cheeks.

"Oh, you're not, huh?" his voice is cold and stoic, angry, "You think you can play games with me, little girl?" His hand comes to rest against the swell of your behind and you suddenly feel his breath above you, hot in your ear, "Tell me why you're really here."

You try to lift your head up to look at him better but he just shoves you back down again. Panic floods your body, mixed with the unmistakable burn of arousal. You feel yourself twitch in your underwear, feel a sudden gush of warmth spill inside the fabric as he begins to trail his finger up and down the thin line of black cotton.

"I-I'm..." You're at a complete loss for words, unable to articulate anything, unsure of what exactly is happening - or about to happen. Two minutes ago you'd been sure he was about to tell you to leave, practically kick you out of the garage himself, and now you're not sure leaving is even a possibility.

He pulls his hand back and you cry out when it comes down to slap against one of your cheeks, a sharp sting and burn you hadn't been anticipating.

"Tell me why you're here," he repeats - authoritarian, firm.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a frightened squeak, something which clearly eggs him on even more. He spanks you again, harder this time, palm flat and wide against your pebbled flesh. The sound that slips past your lips is somehow akin to a moan of some sort, guttural and deep.

"I'll just make it harder and harder, sweetheart," he says then, and the pet name no longer contains the warmth it did mere moments ago; instead it's cold and detached, mocking. You're still reeling when his hand comes down to slap against you again, even harder this time, and your hands ball into fists behind your back as you let out another low moan. More slick gushes into your panties and it's impossible to deny that somehow, despite the fear twinging in your heart, you're so fucking turned on.

"M-my friends," you gasp out, and you feel him squeeze your abused ass cheek which you're sure is already dark with his handprint, "They- they dared me to see how far I c-could get with you."

He lets your words sink in for a moment, squeezing again - tighter, so tight that it hurts. You whimper against the wooden top of the work bench, legs shaking.

"So you came here to get fucked," he finally states.

"N-no, I swear, I-"

"Wasn't a question," he interrupts, and you feel his other hand tighten around your wrists, "You came here to get fucked so you're gonna get fucked, end of story."

"But I-"

Without any warning he suddenly pushes himself up against you from behind, the rough denim of his jeans pressing deliciously up against your exposed skin. You gasp, eyes going wide when you feel the long, thick shape of his dick between your cheeks, huge and hard. He holds it there, his free hand coming down to lay flat beside your head against the work bench.

"You feel that?" he asks, voice suddenly quieter but still full of that ice cold malice, "You feel that cock?"

Fuck. "Y-yes," you breathe, "I feel it."

"You have five seconds before i close this door and stuff you full, understand?" Suddenly all you can hear is the heavy sound of his breathing, the panting of your own, the thud of your heart where it presses painfully against the wood. He's giving you an out.

"I- I-" you swallow, brows furrowing when you feel his hand slacken around your wrists. You could pull away now, yank yourself out of his grasp and sprint down his driveway, return to your friends. Forget this ever even happened.

It's your last chance.

"Five," he begins, breath warm against your face.

Run. Just run.

"Four."

But why?

"Three."

Why don't you want to run?

"Two."

Why do you want to stay?

"One."

He pulls his hand up from the work bench and hits a button on the wall, eliciting a loud mechanical noise to your left as the garage door starts to close. You watch with wide eyes as your chance to leave slowly vanishes inch by inch until it's gone completely, and yet no part of you itches to run, to escape. There's nothing to escape from, you realize. You want to be here. You want him to fuck you.

As the reality of your situation starts to settle, his grip around your wrists tightens once again. You sense him reaching up somewhere above you, and you suddenly feel the harsh texture of what feels like thickly braided rope wrapping around your wrists. The realization that he's restraining you sends another pool of release into your panties, another faint squeak past your lips.

"You gonna stay still for me?" he asks, voice dark and clearer now in the silence of his garage, no sounds of rain or cars to disrupt you, "Huh? You gonna be a good girl?"

"Yes," you breathe, nodding against the wood.

"Say it."

"I'm gonna stay still," you promise, "I'm gonna be a good girl."

He finishes knotting the rope around your wrists, tight and uncomfortable against your skin. He pushes his groin up against your ass again, brings his now free hands downward to reach through your cardigan and squeeze your breasts. Your nipples are hard beneath the soft cotton of your shirt, no bra between the layer of material and your bare skin; he tweaks them in his fingers and you shudder.

"These are mine," he whispers in your ear, scruff nuzzling against the side of your face, "These tits, this ass," he drops his hands from your breasts to squeeze your cheeks again, "and this pussy." His hand drops to the puffy shape of your lips beneath your thong and you whimper. "Understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

You're not sure what he's asking for, what he wants you to say. You take a guess. "Yes, sir," you whisper, and you feel him smile against your ear. Bingo.

He doesn't bother to pull your tights down the rest of the way; instead, he rips them, pulling them apart in his big hands and reaching inside to curl his index finger around the thin strip of your thong. He pulls it - hard - and it rips from you with a rough tearing sound and a painful sting, eliciting a loud gasp from you which he rewards with another spank.

You feel his finger slip between your lips for a moment, gathering some of your release before he pulls it away. "Juicy fuckin' pussy," he mutters, and you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone, vulgar in the quiet room. You have no time to ask about protection, no time to even really process how quickly this is already happening, before you feel the warm tip of his cock pushing against your twitching hole. You gasp again, hands furling under the ropes.

"Shh," he quiets you, stilling for a second, "Don't squirm."

"Sorry," you whisper, tears pricking in your eyes, "I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?" he murmurs, feeding his cock to you in small increments, reveling in the noises falling past your lips. It's so fucking big, bigger than you'd anticipated - it feels like he's spearing you, splitting you in half, especially without much preparation. It stretches and burns, but the warmth of it, the way it pulses as it invades your body, just makes you gush even more. "Hm?" he continues, "What're you sorry for? You sorry for squirmin' or sorry you pissed me off?"

Your eyes roll back as he bottoms out, his pubic hair pressing coarsely against your pussy lips, heavy balls firm to your ass. You try to speak but it's hard to get the words out when you're so full, the wide tip of him pushing into your cervix.

"You a virgin?" he asks you then, voice changing for a moment, like for the briefest of seconds he's wondering whether he should have gone slower.

You shake your head quickly, "N-no," you manage to gasp out.

"Feel like a fuckin' virgin," he grunts, pulling out and then immediately slamming back inside. Your head bumps against the work bench, a groan falling from your mouth as he makes a home inside you. "Christ," he mutters, "Tight little thing. You feel me in your stomach, baby?"

You're not sure he wants you to answer, but it becomes clear when his hand slaps down on your ass cheek again and you cry out.

"Yes," you moan, then quickly amend, "Yes, sir."

"S'what happens when you come in here, actin' like a little slut," he suddenly reaches for your cardigan and yanks it off - it catches on your restrained hands and he simply rips it and tosses it to the floor, "But then again, you're not actin', are you? Huh? What's a slut like you doin' wearin' all these fuckin' layers?"

"I'm s-sorry," you repeat, already mourning the loss of your favorite sweater, now ripped to shreds at your feet.

"Sorry's not good enough, little girl," he breathes, thrusting into you again so hard that you yelp, cheek still pressed into the splintered wood of the work bench, "That's it, fuckin' take it."

He fucks you without any reservations, any inhibitions. Your legs shake and you can hear the slap of his hairy thighs against yours as he pounds into you relentlessly. You have no choice but to take it, the stretch of his huge cock becoming less painful the more he gives it to you over and over, the room full of the wet squelch of your pussy gripping him. He grabs your hips, fingertips digging into your bare flesh as he takes and takes; you wish you could see his face, wish you could see how he looks when he's fucking you, getting his pleasure. The thought makes you whine, tears streaming down your face as your body moves back and forth against the work bench.

It feels fucking amazing. You've never had a cock as big as his before, never been fucked so deep and so hard, like he doesn't care if he breaks you, makes you cry. He hasn't touched your clit and yet you already feel you could come from just this, just the relentless push and pull of his dick inside you. Unfortunately, just as soon as you feel your orgasm starting to build, he pulls out. Your brow furrows.

"Stand up," he orders, "and turn around."

You obey, relief overtaking you as soon as you're no longer bent at such an awkward angle. The moment you turn to face him you barely get a look at his face before he's reaching down and tearing your shirt in half - easily, like it's nothing. You don't even have time to wonder how the hell you're gonna get home with all your clothes ripped to shreds when his mouth is suddenly wrapped around your left nipple, and you whine at the sensation. You peer down at him, biting your lip and watching his wet lips suckle around the hard bud, beard scratching deliciously against your skin. Your hand aches to cup the back of his head but it's still pinned behind your back, tied tight beneath the rope.

"Fuck," you whimper, and his dark gaze flashes up to meet yours as he sucks, the hint of a smirk on his lips when he pulls away.

"Feels good, does it?" he asks, and seeing the words come out of his mouth is somehow more sinful than when you could only hear them, "You like bein' used?"

You nod almost immediately despite never having experienced anything like this in your life - though admittedly you've undeniably wanted to experience this, ached to have somebody take control, tell you what to do, make you do things. It's like you've somehow known subconsciously all summer that Joel Miller could be that person for you, despite never having said two words to him. It was just a feeling, an instinct, and that dream...

"Yeah?" he continues, and suddenly his hand comes up to cup your pussy, thumb finally pressing against your clit. You cry out, tears still trickling down your cheeks. "Said you were in college, right? You take any college dick up here? Be honest now."

You nod again, "Y-yes."

"How many?"

"I... I don't know," you breathe. It's the truth, and you can tell as soon as the words leave your mouth that it does something to him. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, two fingers slipping up inside of you.

"'Course you don't know," he murmurs, pushing them as deep inside as he can, making you whimper, "You wouldn't know, would you?"

Your thighs tighten together - squeezing his hand - and he just smirks again, curving his fingers and making you moan. Your lower back digs into the work bench as he stands, pushes you up against it and peers down into your eyes again with a hunger that's only getting worse. You assess his expression, the pout of his lips as he fucks you with his fingers, the focused lines creased into his forehead. So fucking handsome.

"You're not a good girl," he breathes, nose brushing yours, "Knew it from the day I saw you. You're just made for takin' cock. Am I right?"

"Yes," you whisper, nodding shakily and bumping your lips up toward his - he pulls away again and you can't help but feel disappointed, aching to feel his lips against yours.

"Tonight you're made to take my cock, that clear?" he continues, and you watch as his other hand travels downward to wrap around it - just out of your periphery. He's too close to you, crowded so much in your space that you know he won't like it if you break eye contact. You can tell by his arm movements that he's pumping himself at the same speed he's fucking you with his fingers, inhaling deeply, "I'm gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

"Y-yes sir," you whisper, voice squeaking when he speeds up his fingers and pumps them in and out with fervor, thumb rubbing furiously against your clit. Yet again he brings you almost to the edge and then removes his hand completely, stepping back with a low chuckle when you whimper pathetically.

Your disappointment only lasts a moment because now you can see him, see the girthy length of him that's already been inside of you hanging out of his zipper, glistening with your slick. He's huge, tip dark and intrusive, beads of his own arousal dripping from the slit; your mouth waters. His eyes cast down to where you're looking and he smiles, dark and mocking.

"Never gonna see another dick like this, darlin'," he breathes, "So you better start showin' your appreciation." His eyes glint. "Kneel."

You're practically already on your way to kneeling before he says it, in awe of the sheer girth and shape of him. The second your bare knees hit the cold floor he's crowding you again, hand coming around to hold the back of your head.

"Open wide, baby," he murmurs.

Your jaw drops and he plunges inside your mouth quickly and seamlessly, making you gasp around his length as your eyes widen. You can't breathe, looking up at him with more tears already fogging your vision as he immediately slips into the depths of your throat with no hesitation. You gag, eyes bulging as you attempt to swallow around the intrusion, find your breath, but it's impossible.

"Yeah," he breathes, both of his hands cradling your face and holding you still as he lets his cock sit unmoving in your throat, "Yeah, that's it. That's what you're made for."

He only holds it there for a few seconds but by the time he pulls it out you're gasping for air, coughing and spluttering as tears stream relentlessly down your cheeks. He keeps cradling your face, tuts to himself as you try to get your breath back. The head of his cock bumps softly against your bottom lip.

"Not off to a great start, are we?" he murmurs, "Let's try again."

He pushes his cock past your lips again and you try your hardest not to gag, a little more prepared this time. The pulsing head of his cock situates itself firmly in your throat, the pubic hair at the base tickling your nose while his balls bounce against your chin. You look up at him with pleading eyes, watch as he stares down at you with nothing but malice in his expression, contempt. You're just a hole to him, nothing more.

He pulls out and lets you gasp another breath before he's shoving himself back in, hands moving back to hold your head firmly as he fucks your face. You don't move - you don't need to; he does all the work as he drags your head back and forth along his cock, hitting the back of your throat over and over again until you're gagging and practically sobbing for air. Your knees ache against the concrete floor and you know you'll have bruises tomorrow, know that you probably won't be able to swallow properly for a few days either. Somehow, you don't really care.

When he's gotten his fill he yanks himself out and allows you to catch your breath for a few seconds, throat constricting around nothing while you choke and gasp.

"Stand up," he orders, and even though you're still gasping for air you manage to bring yourself back up, legs shaking. Saliva drips down your chin, drooling from your mouth in long strands, but with your hands tied you can't make any attempt to clean yourself up - he probably wouldn't want you to anyway.

His wide palms are suddenly on your hips, and he picks you up and places you on top of the work bench with minimal effort, arms bulging. You're completely naked now save for your ripped tights while he's still fully clothed, dripping cock still peeking out past his zipper, covered in your saliva. He steps between your legs and pushes your thighs open, then slips inside of you once again in one short push, making you yelp.

"Oh, please," he grumbles, gripping your hips tightly and pulling your bare body taut against him, head hitting his chest, "We both know you can take it."

It's not like you have any other choice at this point. He fucks you harder than he had before, now that he has easier access, can pull you so firmly against him that his entire length is continuously swallowed up entirely by your dripping pussy. His nails dig into your skin as his cock fucks up against your cervix over and over, so relentless it's almost painful. It's overwhelming how huge he is, not just his cock but his body in general, the way he towers over you and watches your expressions as he takes what's now his.

"Poor little thing," he mumbles, bringing one of his hands up to thumb the tears on your face, "Never been so full, huh? It's okay, shhh," his finger finds your lips and pushes against them almost mockingly, like he's chastising you, "Shhh, this is what you asked for, remember? S'what you wanted." You shake your head but he just nods, "Yeah, it is. You wanted that cock and now you're gettin' it."

Suddenly you're being lifted from the workbench, carried in his embrace with his cock still buried deep inside. You cry out, wrists straining against the ropes, itching to wrap your arms around his neck and hold yourself up with more stability. His arms come up to stretch along the expanse of your back, holding you still and pulling you even closer. As if on instinct your legs bend upwards to wrap around his waist, curling around his lower back while he pistons inside of you without restraint, without mercy.

"Fuck," you almost scream, feeling the rough denim of his jeans scratching against your ass, the heaviness of his balls slapping against you over and over again, "Fuckfuckfuck!"

"Yeah, there she is, there's that little slut," he says, a smile spreading across his face, voice somehow calm despite the fact that he's pounding into you over and over, "Nothin' like gettin' fucked stupid to sort ya out, huh? Needed to be punished, didn't you, sweetheart?"

You don't answer, can't answer, eyes rolling back as he fucks you with abandon. Of course it's not a surprise when he lands a hard spank against your ass, grips your cheek tightly in his palm and growls roughly in your ear, "Answer me, little girl."

"Yes," you force yourself to gasp out, head tilting back, "Yes sir, yes."

"S'right," he mutters, and you suddenly feel the pads of his fingers against your clit, rubbing at an aggressively fast pace that sends depraved noises spitting past your lips, "Come on that cock, tighten up that little pussy even more for me, baby, come on."

It only takes seconds for him to make you come, your eyes rolling back as your body shakes and writhes in his grasp. He doesn't slow his movements, keeps fucking you deep and hard as your legs loosen at his waist and you flop like a ragdoll in his arms.

"Chokin' that dick," he murmurs, "Had so many cocks in this little hole and you're still the tightest thing I've fucked," his brow furrows as he watches your face, watches as your eyes flutter open and your jaw slackens, "And what about your other hole, baby?" You feel one of his fingers prod against your asshole, circle the rim as he continues to bounce you up and down, "Ever had a cock in there?"

You tense up a little in his embrace, eyes widening. At your reaction he slows his movements, still holding you upright and allowing you to just sit on his cock for a moment while he continues to prod your asshole, "I'll take that as a no," he mutters, "Think my cock'll fit up there?"

"It won't," you whisper immediately, shaking your head.

He assesses your expression, eyes trailing up and down your face calculatingly, like he's weighing the pros and cons. Your heart stutters in your chest and you feel that fear from earlier slowly begin to creep back into your psyche, hands shaking under the rope.

"I won't," he states, and relief floods through your body; you relax in his embrace, becoming aware again of his cock still buried deep inside you. He very carefully prods the tip of his index finger inside your asshole and your eyes go wide again, mouth opening in protest. "Yet," he amends, smiling coldly at you, "I won't yet. Not today."

He pulls his finger out and walks with you to the work bench again, places you down gentler than before and peers at you with something in his gaze that you can't place, a curiosity that wasn't there before. It's gone in an instant though, and then he's fucking into you again without warning, gripping tight to your hips and slamming back and forth until you see stars.

"You thought this'd be so funny, didn't you?" he growls, looking at you again with that detached contempt, black eyes locked with yours. He brings his hand down and starts rubbing your clit again, not caring that you only just came a moment ago. "Thought you'd come here, have your fun, and leave again. But it's not so funny anymore, is it? Huh? Is it funny?"

"N-no," you gasp out, overstimulated to the point of even more tears as you squirm and writhe on the work bench, pussy aching from the insistent way he's pounding you and the relentless rubbing of his fingers against your clit.

"S'the last time you show up here tellin' lies," he mutters, "Understand me? Any time you come into my house from now on you're gettin' fucked, got it?"

"Y-yes," you cry, hands futilely attempting to ball into fists behind your back, and he shakes his head.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir!" you scream it, and just as the words pass your lips he stills inside of you, cock twitching as he starts to come. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open as his hand sends you into another climax just as he reaches his. Your head falls against his chest and you hear him groan above you, feel the way his cock pulsates and throbs and spits his cum in long and heavy spurts. Your thighs twitch and you feel his hand at your back, pulling you in close as he cups the back of your head.

You stay like that for a moment without speaking, your heavy breaths the only sound in the garage other than the rain now pelting heavily against the door. You swear you can hear his heartbeat.

"Good little girl, warmin' my cock," he murmurs in your ear, and you're still catching your breath, eyes closed, sobs wracking from your throat repeatedly. "Full o'me, huh? You feel all that, baby?"

You can only nod against his chest, wrists still straining against the rope as your toes curl somewhere below you and your body continues to shake. His cum settles warmly deep inside and your eyes roll back a bit when he pushes in further, like he's trying to keep it inside for as long as he can.

"Guess I found a new little cum dumpster, huh?" he whispers, carding his fingers through your hair, "I'll have to say thank you to your friends, or -" he pauses thoughtfully for a moment, "maybe I'll just have to send 'em a little message back with you."

You pull your face back from his chest, peering up at him with tired confusion. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers of the work bench, coming back up with a sharpie. You watch with fluttering lashes, unable to stop him - and not really wanting to - as he uncaps the marker and pushes your hair out of the way to write something across your chest, the cold tip making you jolt slightly.

"Shh," he murmurs, "It's okay, I'll untie ya in a sec."

It doesn't take him very long to finish writing whatever it is on your skin, and then he's slowly pulling his cock out of you. You whimper at the loss, thighs twitching as you peer down and watch his softening length slip past your hole, followed by a steady stream of his cum. He quickly reaches up and pushes what he can back inside, thumbing it back in carefully while the reality of what's just happened really begins to settle. You just let a man in his fifties tie you up, use you, come inside you, and write on your chest.

"Can't have all that slippin' out yet," he mutters, "Now, what can we use?" His eyes dart up to the shelves above you and he reaches up to grab something; when his hand comes back down you see the pocket flashlight from earlier, see the slightly flared base and know almost immediately what he's planning on using it for.

For some reason - whatever reason it is that you stayed here after he gave you an out, whatever reason you really came here in the first place - you don't protest.

He brings the flashlight downwards and quickly removes his hand from your pussy to replace it with the wide end, slipping it inside with only minimal resistance. You whimper and he hushes you, brushing his nose against yours as he assesses his handiwork.

"That should do it," he murmurs, then peers back up at you and pushes some stray hair out of your face "You keep that in there 'til you get home, okay?" His eyes have softened a bit, looking more similar to the way they did when you first showed up - is this the real him? You honestly have no idea.

You don't say anything, just nod slowly, feeling the anxiety from earlier begin to sink in yet again. How are you going to get home when you have no clothes? How are you going to explain to your friends what happened? How can you tell them - or show them - what you let him do to you?

These questions are clearly none of his concern. You watch as he backs up and gestures for you to stand with him; you do, with beyond shaky legs and the cold metal of the flashlight between your thighs.

"Turn around," he orders.

You feel him untie the rope from your wrists, essentially ending your time here - whatever it even was. It somehow doesn't feel real. You let them hang limply at your sides, feeling embarrassment flood your cheeks as you turn back around to look at him. He's watching you with a smirk, arms crossed - his dick is back in his jeans. He looks no different than he had when you arrived.

"Now get the fuck out," he says, dark eyes glinting once again under the flickering fluorescents, "before I change my mind."

--

The air is still chilly. The road is still wet. But thankfully, there are no cars.

You don't know how you manage to get home without anyone seeing you - hunched over, naked in the darkness, avoiding the streetlights, trying to ignore the ache between your legs and the icy intrusiveness of the flashlight still lodged inside of you - but you do. Your palms are sweaty again, heart pounding at the thought of your friends coming to greet you at the door, for the shock and confusion and screaming to begin - but that doesn't happen.

The moment you're back in the house you pull a jacket down from the coat rack and cover yourself, tiptoeing past the living room and waiting to be accosted by the friends who put you in this situation to begin with. Instead, they're nowhere to be seen. You hear the faint echo of laughter from the kitchen, hear the sounds of glass clattering and a fridge being shut. It's like they've already forgotten you even left, like the game meant nothing, and they've already found something new to entertain them, something better.

As if your futile attempt at getting a kiss on the cheek from Joel Miller is already something lost in the past.

And, you think, as you shakily climb the stairs and creep into the bathroom, tear the jacket from your shoulders and stare at your bare chest in the bathroom mirror, see the dark permanent lines that read TRUTH OR DARE...

Maybe that's how it should be.