#wrongfoot

[wordsenglishmoribund]

Wrong-foot [ロング・フット]

1. (sports) To cause a competitor to move or put weight on the wrong foot, as by making an unexpected move.

2. (transitive, tennis) To play the ball in an unexpected direction,

forcing (the opponent) to change direction suddenly.

3. (transitive, by extension) To catch (someone) off balance, off

guard.

4. (transitive, by extension) To place (someone) at a tactical

disadvantage.

#Wrongfoot#MorEnglish [See: Wrongfoot] #MoribundInstitute#LearnEnglish

[puppppppppy]

AND I MET THE CHANGE GOD TOO. OKAY. COOL OKAY

[attachablepenis]

is there someone out there thats super emotionally intelligent than can take my long winded pretentious metaphors and convert them into 'sad' and 'hurt' and 'hungry'?

bc if so i think we could have a great symbotic relationship. my contribution would be crayon drawings and cat pictures and also i love you

[grison-in-space]

speaking as an instructor, student aziraphale is unspeakably worse: all you have to do with a baby Crowley is dangle a new loop of complexity in front of him that's moving in the direction you're trying to herd the class, and he'll usually not only leap at it but drag some hapless fraction of the class with him. Baby Crowleys are easy. They engage with you, they ask questions, and they usually lunge at any interesting setup like a particularly enthusiastic baby reticulated python spotting a nice warmed-up rat dangling on the feeding tongs. All you have to do is make sure the bait is where you want it.

by contrast a baby Aziraphale that is willing to talk in class--they're usually not without an external prod--will get the bit between his teeth, balk the entire class, and transfer his suspicion and confusion to everyone around him. If you're particularly unlucky and not rock-solid in your confidence on what you're teaching, this can include you, the instructor--and once everyone is uncertain of the groundwork you're trying to build concepts on, it's a pain in the ass trying to move anyone forward until you can unstick the Aziraphale. Sometimes they realize they've out-thought themselves and clarify the problem and we can all move forward, but otherwise it's usually going to be a function of figuring out where they're stuck and rasping over the snag until they pop free and can start following again.

Managing an Aziraphale confident enough to speak up and stubborn enough to keep going through his crisis of understanding is hell, especially if you're not actually all that confident on the material. The problem is that they won't move. It's like trying to talk a donkey down a spiral staircase: that donkey's not going to take a single step until it's sure that it's safe to do so, and the more you push the less safe it feels...

(Spoilers under cut for S2.)

The Metatron certainly thinks he's being very clever by recruiting Aziraphale to "reform" Heaven's ranks as top archangel, thereby recruiting whatever powers he has to Heaven's "team" while also providing plenty of room for the Metatron to bog him down with bureaucracy and difficulties. After all, he can hardly cause so much trouble if you gum him up with wrangling the Heavenly Host, right? Lots of things to do! He'll never catch up! The remaining archangels can furiously thwart him at every turn, and he'll never make any progress that way!

It's not like he can mess up the whole system just by balking and asking questions, can he? The Metatron knows more than any mere Principality, after all: the Metatron is the Voice, metaphorically the Teacher that conveys God's Miraculous Knowledge. At least, the effable parts of it. Right? This is a trap for Aziraphale, right?

Right?

It's also interesting thinking about who precisely is Metatron's counterpart: is it Beelzebub, as in the book, at which point Metatron is currently technically operating unopposed? (Beelzebub having, of course, conveniently fucked off with Gabriel.) Or is the Metatron's equal Satan himself, with God Ineffably never saying anything while her Voice and Adversary theoretically duke it out over the bones of Earth?

crowley and aziraphale are both the worst guy in your intro to philosophy class but for different reasons

[kamil-a]

Wrong the answer is three cause an old friend of my that I only knew from a dream I had when I was three told me

/j

oh. i knew that /L (/lying)

[indigosabyss]

@manchetehouse suggested that Tommy (Shepherd era) had his time manipulation powers, and knew about it too, but kept it hidden bc of the experimentation he was put through at the juvie. And I just??? Love that theory so much.

It recontextualizes Tommy's general demeanor from being overconfident to literally knowing what happens in a small timeframe ahead of the present. It explains how he's able to run to and search an entire country before Billy is even able to teleport to it. It highlights his moments of confusion and wrongfooted-ness, like when he ended up in Hell. It even adds impact to the point in YA v2 where the Patri-Not cornered him, and he cried as he tried to escape.

Those aren't moments where he got overpowered because he was weak, it's where he let down his guard.

Screaming crying gnashing my teeth his existence is a special type of hell.

[rimbaudsleg]

Wrongfooted

[lassieposting]

Sauron, flopping down beside Galadriel: There you are! How is the fairest being in Eregion this evening?

Galadriel, fondly, lips twitching: I don't know, Halbrand. How are you doing?

Sauron, wrongfooted and a little bit choked up: I'm fine.

[boo-its-stress]

So I had a silly little idea about what if Danny was ghost king but he didn’t actually have to be in charge because he is baby. You don’t put a baby in charge you put an adult in charge until baby is ready. Vlad would be the most qualified. But he’s Vlad. So. It needs to be somebody else. Batman. I’m talking about Bruce Wayne. Death touched and not ready to rule the infinite realms in his stead. I’m full of big thoughts on this but instead of organizing them and sharing them I wrote a little Blurbo.

Bruce was on the bat computer writing incident reports on the night’s patrol. It was a quiet night and it looked like everyone might get at least 4 hours of sleep tonight. Well, quiet on the streets of Gotham. The cave was very much not quiet as Tim seemed to have had the stupendous idea to intentionally rile Damian up. Idle hands may be the devil’s playthings but apparently an Idle Tim was more likely to lose all sense of self preservation. He wasn’t too worried yet, he could hear Dick trying to keep the peace which had about 50/50 odds of working.

The sudden silence was the absolute worst thing he could be hearing right now. He spun around in that chair as fast as bathumanly possible and stood up. Prepared to deal with an attempted fratricide. But what he saw froze him in his tracks, though not quite as literally as everything else. Damian was frozen mid leap towards an equally frozen Tim who's laughing face was in the midst of shifting towards regret while Dick was reaching out to catch him. He was instantly on guard for whoever had done this, it would be an unlikely coincidence for him to be the only one (or even one of many) left unfrozen if this was a global event that had nothing to do with him. No this was likely a deliberate act but the question remained if the intent was hostile or not. Not that it really mattered because they froze his boys and he would not be relaxing until that was undone.

He felt a presence above him and threw a batarang even as he was turning to face them. And the batarang passed straight through a floating blue humanoid. A being who radiated an aura of power that was only somewhat ruined by the pendulum clock in their chest and a total lack of concern for the weaponry thrown their way. There was a beat of tense silence before they shifted into the form of a child and gave the impression of raising an eyebrow despite not having any above the unsettling wholly red eyes “Did I catch you at a bad time Bruce? I can come back.” And just like that his guard was up even further. An intruder in the batcave with this kind of power and he knew his name? That could not mean anything remotely good. He was mentally preparing alternative methods of attack should this turn to violence, as most forms of physical attack would be useless depending on what form of phasal shifting that just was.

“Oh there’s no need for any of that Bruce. I’m just here to congratulate you on your ascendancy to Kinghood.” That left him wrongfooted and before he could even muster up a response and begin with any proper Questioning, the being continued. “Well, King Regent at least. The rightful ghost king is still a child and you possess the familial relation necessary to stand in until they’re ready to ascend the throne. Should you choose to refuse this position you have 30 days to find a suitable replacement and contact the high council of the infinite realms with this information.” And just as suddenly as the… Ghost? Just as the possible ghost had appeared, they were gone.

All at once life returned to the world and there was an audible thump as one Robin collided with another. But it was Dick who screamed. For if one were to view things from his perspective, Bruce had teleported from across the room and he thought he was immune to the Batman jump scares now! With Dick and Tim briefly caught up in their own individual terrors it was Damian who noticed something was wrong. He shoved Tim aside with contempt, rising to his feet and dusting himself off as if he felt especially dirty after the physical contact he himself had initiated. “Father? What is it?”

Bruce let out the slightest huff of relief at seeing his boys in motion once more, most wouldn’t notice it at all, but the collection of current and former robins were not most people. They were all at attention, waiting to be told and willing to resort to trickery if he wasn’t in a sharing mood. “Something was in the bat cave.” All three stiffened, knowing this was serious. He returned to the computer to begin a profile on the (man? Ghost? clock?) and also to avoid looking his children in the eye. No need to give away how badly this had shaken him. “They were capable of freezing time selectively. And froze all of you while we spoke. Possibly everyone else. Oracle, is it still 1:27 outside the batcave?”

He could hear rapid fire typing before she replied. “Matches up with the time in Gotham and there’s no noticeable time delay between here and anywhere else on Earth. I’ll have to get back to you on if we fell out of alignment with other planets, but I can tell you there’s no gaps in the footage in the batcave either, it… it looks like you teleported.”

Well that was not comforting news in the slightest. Whoever this was, they were incredibly powerful. Possibly capable of stopping all of time with (hopefully) no consequences. Looks like he might actually have to take what was said seriously. For such a powerful entity would have little reason to lie about such a thing. But could he really? He might have had a few close calls with death but he was still living? His heart was still beating? How could a living man be the reigning king of ghosts? Even as a regent? And regent to who exactly? A child? Is that by human or ghost standards? Bruce seemingly didn’t qualify as a child but would Dick? The ghost had said familial relation which was incredibly vague and unhelpful. Did his adopted children count or was it only Damian? Could it possibly be some distant cousin? He didn’t know and unfortunately he had no leads to speak of. How was he even supposed to contact this High Council of the Infinite Realms? He got the sinking suspicion that was the point. That he wasn’t being given a choice in the matter.

His eldest broke him out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder, reading what he’d written before locking eyes with him. “And what exactly did he want to talk about B?”

He couldn’t help the slight downturn of his lips as he answered, “Apparently I’ve been named the Regent King of Ghosts.”

And with the widening of Dick’s eyes and a muffled curse from Tim as he missed a step and collided with a table he couldn’t help thinking he was right. The intruder hadn’t brought anything good.

When he later called Constantine asking if he knew how to contact The High Council of the Infinite Realms and the man promptly swore before hanging up? He was absolutely sure he had found himself tangled up in something that was bound to cause him at least one headache in the near future.

When he found the first green sticky note that appeared between one blink and the next he was ready to have words with whoever put him in this position. He sincerely hoped the King he was playing regent for wasn’t Jason.

[puppppppppy]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Awright I'm gonna get my take in on the current round of CJ discourse, because I do think I have a couple things to add! I'll be super clear upfront that I don't really care very strongly about Jack in any direction, he's a convenient character from Ed's past but that's about as far as I think about him.

So, Jack is the only character who we explicitly know has known Ed since he was very young, and the only one confirmed to be with him back in the Hornigold days. It's for this reason alone that I tend to take the information he tells us about Ed at face value - not because I think he's an honest character, but because he's the only window we're provided into that time of Ed's life. We can assume Jack also got into piracy young and he's been through the exact same grinder as Ed; this is one of the reasons that Ed takes it so hard when Stede kicks Jack off the ship. He feels like Jack and himself are the same genre of person - if Stede doesn't like Jack, then he'll realize soon he doesn't like Ed, either.

If he and Ed have had a sexual relationship in the past, I think that's so much more interesting than assuming Jack is lying. Ed and Jack very explicitly are not friends. Jack talks about his "dalliances" with Ed so dismissively. I think it's much more interesting to look at this with the takeaway that Ed's past sexual relationships have been emotionally unfulfilling and do not allow him to be vulnerable because that informs our understanding of Ed later (for example, that can be a fun wrinkle into how Ed brings up the satisfying, intimate sex he had with Stede during his panic in s2e7).

Another function Jack serves is he pushes the atmosphere on the Revenge closer to what it would be on a typical pirate ship. He's constantly making cracks at the crew failing to act like "real pirates," making Stede feel left out for not enjoying such rowdy, dangerous games. This is very useful because it cultivates an atmosphere designed to drive a wedge between Ed and Stede. For Ed, these games are nostalgic. When Jack makes him uncomfortable, it's quickly followed by Jack suggesting another game. When Ed tries to apologize for one of their activities hurting Stede's feelings, or when he tries to encourage Stede to join in, Jack is there to distract Ed and make him feel, in turn, that Stede isn't just rejecting the games, he's rejecting Ed.

It highlights one thing we know about Ed: he's very, very good at conforming to what's expected of him in any given situation. He can be a people pleaser, and he very obviously just wants Stede and Jack to get along and feels stuck in the middle. I'm not saying he doesn't hurt Stede in this episode, but I am saying that when Jack is creating an atmosphere that feels like a more "typical" pirate ship, and Ed leans into the behavior that he feels is expected of him, it leaves him easily confused and upset when Stede obviously isn't enjoying it. We see unusual lack of regard for others from Ed in this episode (like him shouting "that's what you fuckin' get!" at the Swede after the Swede gets hurt), and it stands out because it's not how Ed normally acts, only adding to the guilt Ed's going to feel that makes him leave with Jack.

Neither Ed nor Stede are trying to hurt each other in this episode. Ed is falling back on old behaviors, and when Stede says he doesn't like it, the fact that he still sees Jack as being so similar to him makes him take it as a personal rejection. I don't think Ed's intentionally trying to make Stede feel singled out or bullied, and it's not Stede's fault he's not enjoying what's going on, but Jack is a very, VERY good manipulator and he's set up the perfect situation to make both of them feel wrongfooted with each other. He's not just manipulating the two of them, he's orchestrating the entire vibe of the ship to make Stede feel left out and make Ed blame himself when things go too far.

[takeariskao3]

Let’s say hypothetically AG Ginny met TPFY Ginny (for simplicity lets say at the last chapter you’ve posted or you can pick a different timeframe) what advice would they have for each other when it came to their relationship with Harry? Do you think AG Ginny would wonder if she missed out on the single life? Do you think TPFY Ginny would regret not admitting her feelings to Harry sooner?

lolololol i imagined the two ginny's meeting up to go something like this:

but then i thought about it some more, made myself laugh, and so obviously i had to write it

Ginny lifted her teacup from its saucer, feeling every bit the fourteen year old she remembered herself to be.

The girl--no, scratch that--the woman sitting across from her, while looking identical, had her beating back a stampede of imagined deficiencies and insecurities. It was enough to give her a complex.

The Other Ginny looked positively effortless. Picture perfect. Her lace-up booted legs crossed lazily as she lounged back in her chair. Her long hair fell in waves around her shoulders. The dress wrapped around her waist accentuated each dip and curve. And the knee length dragon-hide leather jacket looked like it cost more Galleons than Ginny could even fathom.

As a result, her trainers and lopsided ponytail felt horribly inadequate.

"Have you tried having it out?" the Other Ginny asked with a quizzical tilt of her head.

Ginny remembered the row in the Burrow's kitchen and nodded. "I s'pose it helped. Forced his hand in a way, but truthfully... I'd rather not spend every minute of every day shouting until he pulls his head out of his arse."

The Other Ginny shrugged like she couldn't quite relate, then her gaze turned sharp.

"Have you tried fucking it out?"

Ginny choked on her tea, sputtering so much she had to hold a napkin to the lower half of her face to retain the illusion of dignity.

"No," she gasped once she could breath through her nose again. "Of course I haven't."

"Sorry," the Other Ginny grinned like she felt anything but regret. "Didn't mean to offend your sensibilities."

"It's not-- I can't just--" Ginny struggled hopelessly, attempting to backtrack on her complete lack of composure. "I'm not sure how effective that would be."

Propping her elbow on her chair-back, the Other Ginny raised an eyebrow. "You'd be surprised."

Ginny's eyes widened in shock. Or awe. Or perhaps both. "Is that what you did?"

"Fought first," the Other Ginny clarified. "Then fucked."

Her breaths shallowing out, Ginny gaped in stunned admiration.

"Look," the Other Ginny leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. "You're almost twenty-two, right?" Once Ginny nodded, she continued on in the same remarkably matter-of-fact tone, "And you're married. All his nonsense will quite literally vanish if you just start acting like it."

"But he--" she started to argue, but the Other Ginny cut her off.

"He's probably convinced you're somehow better off without him."

Ginny froze in her chair as the last three months of hazy wrongfooted-ness were thrown into sharp clarity. As the epiphany crashed through her, the Other Ginny's gaze remained steady, if a little pitying.

No, not pitying. Sympathizing.

"You..." Ginny croaked, her throat going dry. "Are you speaking from experience?"

The Other Ginny's face fell, her first real show of desolation since they'd both shown up here. "I have my suspicions. But that's all they are. We haven't actually gotten there yet."

They both looked around the cafe, at the cream paneled wainscoting and the mint green wallpaper. At the vintage tile floors and the antiqued mirror ceiling. The room fogged at the corners, and the white swirl out the front windows sparkled in lieu of sunshine.

"How long have you been here?" Ginny asked quietly.

The Other Ginny sighed. "Off and on for... two years?"

Swearing under her breath, Ginny slumped down in her chair.

"It's not so bad," the Other Ginny lifted a shoulder. "Tea's good. I just wish we could be here together, you know?" A smirk lifted one corner of her mouth. "I sort of miss him."

Ginny's mood grew ever darker. She couldn't help but imagine her Harry finding a way to avoid her even if they were stuck in this in-between place together.

A clatter from the far side of the room startled them both and they glanced around to see a third Ginny nearly knock over the makeshift hostess stand.

"Sorry I'm late!" she called over, tossing her hair over her shoulder and straightening her jumper. Which was inside out. "I got stuck... Er-- Well, I got stuck."

The Third Ginny hurried back to their table, plopping into a chair and grabbing an egg-and-cress sandwich from the tray.

The girl was clearly starved. That, paired with her greasy hair and heavy eyelids, had Ginny and the Other Ginny watching her in muted fascination.

After practically inhaling three sandwiches in a row, the third Ginny finally deigned to acknowledge the both of them.

"So, what have I missed?"

The other Ginny rolled her eyes. "It seems like we're the ones who've missed something."

The Third Ginny frowned. "How do you figure?"

"You stink," the Other Ginny clipped. "Like sex."

"Oh," the Third Ginny shrank back with an abashed smile. "That."

Ginny sat up straighter--settling in for the wildest conversation of her life.

[torchstelechos]

Hi! I was looking at your blog and I was thinking about my own emotions during the game and...

My memory is not the best, but I remember that during the first conversation with my friends at the end of Act 2, I... Could really sympathize with Siffrin. Understand what drove him to do this

I mean, when all these characters started talking about how they would all go their separate ways, how they would "abandon" Siffrin (and us as a player by proxy), how they would all go home and just... Leave us aside, just asking to "drop by" sometimes?..

I felt like I couldn't let them go so soon.

And I should clarify, at that point I didn't know that Siffrin was the one causing the time loops, but something deep inside me already knew, so I looked at Mirabelle's game sprite and said "no, you're not going to be let go that easily, that's not going to happen" with tears in my eyes, because I hate saying goodbye, and I felt some... Strange resentment that they wanted to leave so soon, from Siffrin, from me

For me, that ending was unacceptable, unsatisfactory, and I was actually glad that the loops continued, even if it meant that Siffrin and I'd failed our "defeat the king, break the loops" mission, because it meant that I would be stuck with these characters for a while longer

And maybe Siffrin was also happy about it on some level, and I was actually on Siffrin's side here

It's just interesting how Siffrin and the player are so deeply connected on some level that you can feel a similar spectrum emotions that made Siffrin create this loop in the first place

It's interesting how the game pushes you to feel like you're in Siffrin's shoes when the characters talk so much about "going home and asking to visit sometimes" which felt like "leaving you behind"

So when the game told you that Siffrin is the reason the loops continue... I understood it. And even supported it

Hahaha... I hope it didn't sound like a crazy person xd

Good mood!

Howdy!! Happy you liked the stuff in my blog, i have a lot of emotions about the game and the character interactions. Which is why!!! I loved the very in depth description of your emotions about the games character stuffs!! I think its fascinating how well the game can connect the player to Siffrin, especially since the game holds no reservations in telling you that "No. You are not Siffrin. Siffrin is part of this world and you are not" which might sound harsh but it actually makes it very satisfying when you as the player can help Siffrin get his wish in the end. We aren't Siffrin, but we are helping them, and sometimes that means getting really emotionally invested in the same goal.

When I first started the ISAT experince, it was strange how much I felt connected to Siffrin because at first it is very much Oh! I did not feel this with SASASA! So,, its strange how much the different circumstances of the two games can change the outcome of the player's feelings. Going further into this, I did start with SASASA and then went into ISAT which informs an experience that I had not anticipated. With Loop, we were not there from the start and we as the player are only helping right at the end which makes it hard to connect to the same degree as Siffrin but we still care very deeply because of what we have seen. Loop is already knee deep into Act 4 mental anguish, we have no lead up, no build up, just that they are there and we have to help them. And then we fail. But we only find out in ISAT that we fail!! So, at first you can brush that aside as, We can do better! We can help them more than we did before! Then we get into ISAT and its,, different. Because now we know Siffrin from the start instead of right at the tail end of their spiral, we know how important everyone is to them, we know that its going to hurt when Siffrin gets to the end and loops back. We already know.

We have these preconceived conceptions of how this is going to go, but at every step we are wrongfooted because the game cares. Siffrin forgets the parties names, but Loop instantly goes to fix this and we the players can relax. We have someone to talk to! Who knows whats important and helps us get more into what Siffrin thinks because now we have a variable! The others stay the same for countless loops but then we see more of them and suddenly we're right there with Siffrin, we didn't know this about them. We couldn't know this about them until now! But then it grows stale, because now we know. We know, because we are learning with Siffrin. Then we have to focus outwards instead of inwards, because we love them all so much! We care about them! ...and then it doesnt work and suddenly we have to figure out why we're stuck. And it hurts because it starts getting obvious WHY its happening and,, we dont want the characters to leave just like that! There isnt any release of emotions! We didn't help Siffrin like we wanted to! We can't help Siffrin! Only the party can, and from the previous loops we know they'll leave us.

We're stuck forever, and thats horrible. Because Siffrin is losing things he can not lose without it becoming SASASA, and we know that. So when Siffrin starts to lose it, it hurts but at the same time its amazing! Something new! Something changed! Maybe this time, we can help Siffrin! Even if Siffrin is wrong, maybe this time. Except the house is changed, the ending is changed, the party has changed, and Siffrin has changed. And suddenly the thought of explaining hurts, because its the end. The real end!! And we have to be the ones to press the dialogue! We have to be the ones to press attack! We have to help guide Siffrin to their ending! And we do! and its amazing! The party is going to stay with Siffrin, even for a while longer! ... We wont get to see it, but thats okay because we're just here to help Siffrin.

And then we go to the favor tree to let Loop know.

And suddenly it becomes clear we failed someone.

But without them, how could we have saved this Siffrin? How could we have led them to where they needed to go? How could we have broken the loops without them?

We failed the Star, but we saved the time traveler who can help the Star in our stead.

I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT HOW THE GAME PROGRESSES AND HOW WE THE PLAYERS ARE PART OF THE ROYAL WE UNTIL WE NO LONGER CAN BE WITH SIFFRIN OR THE PARTY AAAAAAHHHHH.

Anyway thanks for sending this ask it made me go crazy with how I see the player in relations to Siffrin and Loop <3

[reallylilyreally]

Last line tag

ta v much @swifty-fox because you know for suuuuuure i always want to be sharing shit.

Bit more of the as-yet-untitled BabeRoe part of mine and @escrivoir's go farther in hope universe...

He winds the bandages neatly as they come off, trying not to wince at the way the dried blood pulls the skin, because while he's got no idea whether he'll ever get a chance to boil and dry these - seems unlikely - he knows better than to waste cloth. Gene's nearly finished, down to his ankle, when the sharp sound of a nervously cleared throat pulls him out of his focus.

It's Heffron again.

“I don't-” Gene starts to say, and Heffron cuts him off.

“-need help, I know,” he says, with a big shit-eating grin he could have stolen from Guarnere or Penkala or any of the other asshole idiots Gene is probably not going to be able to save. “But you do need pants. And bandages. And clean water.”

Gene stares at him, and Heffron raises an eyebrow and tips his head down at the foxhole as if to say can I? Gene shrugs, and that seems to be enough for this kid, who's come from nowhere, and now slides down into the dirt next to him.

“So,” he says, and unbuttons his jacket to reveal a neat stash of items. “Pants, bandages, and hopefully clean water.”

Completely wrongfooted, Gene continues to stare at him. “You rob a supply post?”

“I'll never tell,” says Heffron, deeply serious tone and same unsettling grin. “Need anything else?”

“Just some damn sleep,” Gene says, before he can catch himself.

Heffron looks at him, grin gone, really looks at him. “On it, Doc,” he says. “Fix that leg up and get some shut-eye. I'll keep the kids off your lawn.”

And then before Gene can think of anything to say to that, he's hauled himself up out of the hole and disappeared off into the dusk.

tagginggggg @whirlpool-blogs and @sweaterkittensahoy and @euph0riacc because i'm hungry for the vastly diverse array of wordsnacks you provide

[robthegoodfellow]

I Just Wanna Cheer

Crying, Creampie, Virginity Kink for Days 21/22/23 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental use of sex toys, praise kink, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamic, role playing, you know the drill—now with emerging feminization kink

(roommates in love, kink experimentation, billy gets boinked, nsfw)

Handy Links to Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 (kill me)

.

It was his own fault for trying to cancel on Robin again—having assumed, now that she knew about his and Billy’s fledgling thing, that she’d be more understanding of his needs.

But no.

Eyeroll audible over the phone, Robin had offered a different option. Just bring your boy toy along if it’s that much of a burden to leave his side. There was a loaded pause during which Steve scrambled to recall whether he’d told her that particular part of their fledgling thing, then she continued, blithe and cavalier. That is, if you can stand to keep your hands off each other’s dicks for a couple hours. Speaking over Steve’s choked bluster: It’ll be a struggle, I know. But I believe in you. Stay strong.

So he’d called Billy up after, risking Madam Manager’s ire for lingering too long on his lunch break, and caught him right before he left for class. Billy had gone quiet, digesting Steve’s rushed explanation—drinks at the Taproom around eight; you, me, and Robin—and then cleared his throat. Like, us all hanging out as friends? he asked. Or…? And Steve froze, wrongfooted. What—uh, whatever you want, he said, clumsy. She knows. I mean, not everything—just that we’re… uhm. Sorry? he added, wincing, and Billy mercifully jumped in, put him out of his misery. It’s fine. I’ve been talking to Heather about us. I needed someone to… He trailed off, and Steve breathed a sigh, grinning with relief as he nodded. Yeah. Me, too.

Billy had already showered and eaten when Steve got home—tilted his cheek for a drive-by kiss as Steve passed him huddled in the corner of the couch, psych notes open on his lap. Hadn’t moved even after Steve had finished stuffing his face, washing up. What should I wear? Steve called as he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, and Billy glanced over—locked on Steve’s hand, the fisted terrycloth at his hip. Understandably, it took Steve a moment to absorb Billy’s reply: I was gonna ask you the same question.

And Billy—never asked Steve for fashion advice. Which meant he had something else in mind.

They were late meeting Robin.

.

“You live literally down the road,” she exclaimed when they arrived at the Taproom, flushed from power walking and also other things. Steve’s buttons were misaligned on his shirt, and Billy’s hair gave off the distinct impression of having just rolled out of bed. Distinct and—accurate.

“Couldn’t find my wallet,” Steve lied, gentle arm at Billy’s waist to guide him into a chair. 

Billy sat. Carefully.

“Well, I hope it turned up,” Robin said, unconvinced and unimpressed. “Because first round’s on you.”

“Everyone’s usual?” He stooped, arms looped around Billy from behind, and—lightly pressed on his abdomen, encouraging him to lean against the chairback, relax from his prim perch. “Okay?” he asked, when his boy swallowed a whimper, red flooding his cheeks. Billy nodded, and Steve kissed his neck, the skin feverish under his lips. “Good.”

They explained away Billy’s spacey distraction easily enough—big psych test on Monday���but by the second round, with Billy shifting every minute, rocking in his seat ever so slightly, his eyes glassy, lips parted, Robin was growing concerned.

“You sure you feel alright?” she checked, then squinted. “Or feeling too alright?”

Steve cut in, scooched his chair alongside Billy’s, their legs flush under the table.

“He hasn’t been sleeping well,” he said, drawing Billy to slump against him, corralling with the comforting palm on his shoulder. “You need to go home, babe?”

Billy huffed, hearing the subtle taunt. You give up? Give in?

“M’good,” he insisted, wagging his head. Unseeing, unblinking, he fumbled for his glass. Tossed back the rest, ice cascading toward his mouth. He slouched into Steve’s touch, crunching cold loud between his molars. Hidden, insinuated a hand around Steve’s thigh and underneath—cinching him close. If he traced upward not too far, he’d bump the bulge straining Steve’s zipper. One glance at Billy’s lap revealed he was in even worse shape: a patch of wet seeping through pale blue denim. “Robin’s turn to buy.”

.

Lucky for them, Robin caught the eye of the Gina Gershon type behind the bar—got her number, the promise of a good time after her shift—and around the fourth round, Robin went to fetch tequila shots and never came back. 

Sloppy steps to the exit, clinging to each other’s waists, and the muggy summer night welcomed them to the sidewalk, chatter and cheesy pop muffled beyond the door. 

They cut a crooked path toward the apartment, breathy silence broken by the odd chuckle or hum, speech smothered by the pulsing weight of expectation that had settled all around.

They were going home, and Steve was gonna fuck him. Shove inside, push to the root and hammer his hips until he spilled, until the swollen hole oozed white, until he—

Billy was whining in short throaty bursts by the time they reached the stairwell, stumbling now and then, relying on Steve to half-haul him up the last flight. Please he mumbled, the moment their door clicked, and Steve wasn’t sure where the surge of macho muscle came from, but next thing he knew he’d hefted a clinging koala into his arms, gripping just below the ass, striding to his bedroom, wet lips mouthing Steve’s neck with every step.

Part of him wanted to throw Billy down, watch him bounce on the mattress, but he didn’t—or he would, but not now, not when his good boy had been squirming for so long, desperate to wring some relief from the toy wedged snug. No, he lowered him gentle onto his back, lovely legs hugging Steve’s hips, dangling off the bed—Billy’s hips lifting the moment fingers fumbled at his button, tugged at his zip.

The lube was within reach, right where they’d left it, when they’d overindulged before rushing out the door, Steve slicking up the small plug and working it in, pulling a new pair of pale pink panties up long, bronzed legs, then selecting a pair of jeans, a tank cut so low around the neck, hanging loose about the ribs, that it barely covered his nipples. 

Steve had taken it upon himself to carefully tuck the front of the tank into the waist of his jeans, the way Billy liked, and now took it upon himself to untuck, pushing the tank up as he yanked the jeans down, fingers hooked in a back pocket. 

He left the jeans balled below Billy’s knees, allowing them to part wide and meanwhile keep his ankles tied. Bending low, Steve ran his nose along the obscene jut of cock beneath sticky satin, breathed heat through the fabric—pressed his face into Billy’s crotch when he writhed, moaning.

“Here’s what I want,” Steve said, peering up—a strange vantage point: the heaving hills and valleys of Billy’s abs, his pecs, the underside of a tilted chin, the shifting rise of biceps, arms flung above his head. “I want to pull down the back of your panties. Check my good boy is ready for me.”

“Ready,” Billy panted, hardly more than a wheeze. “M’ready, ready. Please.”

“Haven’t gone past the middle plug,” Steve told him, all regret—as though breaking it to him gently, and Billy sobbed. “But,” he went on, shushing, sneaking to fondle the base of the plug through silky smooth pink, cup the shivering curves of his ass. “You promise to tell me if you want to stop, and I’ll fuck you now. Fill you up. And if it’ll make my good boy happy, we’ll plug him up after. No leaking.” Billy was begging under his breath, babbling yes, please—please, yes. “Promise?” Steve prompted, reaching for the lube as he sat up, propped against the edge of the mattress.

Billy promised, tears already eeking down his temples, wetting his hair. Steve watched them drip as he slicked his fingers—used his dry hand to inch the panties down, the front drawn taut as the back pulled, clearing the rise of Billy’s ass to sit bunched below.

He didn’t tease his boy too much: traced up to stroke the stiff heat straining satin, brush the twitching length with his thumb, then drifted back down to caress the protruding flat of glass. One mild tug, and it slipped free on a gasp. He let it thunk on the carpet at his feet.

The hole that kissed blind fingertips was still fluttering from the sudden loss—seemed to suck him in, inflamed greed, taking two easy, then three. Billy’s face was twisted, eyes closed, his lashes wet, hips grinding into the touch as though searching, feeling his way in the dark. A whine puffed past slack lips, desperate—almost forlorn.

“Okay,” Steve breathed. Withdrew, grappling clumsy for the lube, slicking his cock where it bobbed by the bedspread, trailing drool. “Okay, baby.”

His forearm hooked shaking thighs, dragged Billy closer, ass almost hanging off the bed. Steve gripped himself mid-shaft, thumbing the crown, and nudged forward, catching on the rim that still seemed too small, impossibly small.

Billy sighed, set one hand on Steve’s forearm, the cross bar holding him steady—coasted down the arm to link their hands, and Steve bowed his head, suddenly swamped. Just—overwhelmed.

He pushed, steady pressure, and it was like with the plug, where resistance caved to a gobbling grip. Pushed and the slicked crown was swallowed up by clenching heat. Paused to breathe, a returning squeeze to their linked hands, then sank further—this stuttering plow that deepened with the duet of stuttering breaths.

Steve was lost in it, so consumed by the sensory influx—the salty musk of sweat and precome, the lungs bellowing in his ears, the thundering throb of his pulse where they were joined, where they were holding on, nerves alight, a smolder about to catch and roar—so consumed that when he bottomed out, flush with Billy’s ass, he kept going, rocking into him, lifting, Billy’s knees curling toward his chest, where the flimsy tank still lay, askew.

“Good?” Steve asked, throaty, and Billy’s eyes rolled in his head as he laughed, weak, lips barely hitched. Slowing, Steve circled the rim that clutched him, as though measuring—assessing. Feathered his touch from thin skin smooth and slick to the peach fuzz of Billy’s ass check, tickling, and grunted as the convulsive clench. “Fast or slow?”

His boy didn’t answer with words—maybe couldn’t—just a bobblehead, like Fast? Yes. Slow? Yes. Yes. Yes. So Steve gave him both, grinding into him torturous slow, adjusting until he nailed the spot that made Billy squirm and mewl, then let loose. Jackhammered, and when Billy's blushing wet cockhead peeked from the pink frilly waistband, smearing his abs, Steve smirked, mindless except for one driving thought: I want to feel him come on my cock.

Reaching down, unsteady, Steve tucked him back out of sight. Stroked him lightly as he said it: “Cream your panties for me, Billy.”

And god, Steve loved to watch him lose it beneath him, give in, crack open, but to feel it from inside...

Milking me, he thought, jaw slack, launched into sweet blue nothing. Fucking milking me.

Barely caught himself from faceplanting with an arm made of noodle, panting fit to die. The sweet blue nothing blinked at him—so pretty, heavy-lidded.

All Steve could do for the moment was blink back.

.

You knew you had it good when waking life was indistinguishable from a wet dream. The hazy cloud of ecstasy that lured Steve from sleep in the wee hours of the morning resolved into recent memory as he squinted, absorbing the smells of Billy embedded in the sheets—registering the absence of Billy’s sounds. His warmth. Steve pawed at his eyes, unsure whether the emerging snapshots, burning to the touch, were real or fantasy.

…Billy, after Steve had emptied into him, placidly rolling onto his stomach, presenting his ass for inspection upon request—humming long and low at the probing touch where he was swollen, pucker red and shining. A more insistent prod, and a pearl of white bloomed.

Distantly, he heard water running in the pipes. Billy—in the bathroom?

Middle of the bed, Steve had murmured. Lay on your tummy. And Billy army-crawled to obey, his ankles shackled by the mess of denim. Steve opted to leave them for the time being.

Billy had dropped flat with a whooshing sigh, head fenced by sprawling arms, legs akimbo, and Steve crawled to lie alongside, propped on an elbow. For a while, he just studied that face—the rosy cheeks, the pink lips gently curled in blissed satisfaction, eyelashes dark and clumped from tears. 

Need anything? Steve asked, quietly mesmerized, brushing back a lock of tawny hair. Or want? One blue eye had cracked open, bleary, exhausted. And yet—his hips twitched, bare ass still exposed, satin shoved low. He wanted Steve to keep his promise: no leaking. 

Steve’s bedroom door creaked open, and moments later the mattress dipped under a heavy form, blankets shifting as Billy settled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, voice scratchy. Half-awake, he rolled, slinging his arm around Billy’s back.

Billy yawned an incoherent confirmation. “Took care of business.”

Steve traced to the base of his spine, absently curious, and ran a finger down his crack. No plug. “All clean?”

“Mhmm.” Arching, Billy pressed into his touch, then resettled with a tired chuckle. “So you can mess me up again.”

Steve snorted—gripped an asscheek, meaning to claim a squeeze before he withdrew. But then… he forgot to do that last part. Drifted off still fondling Billy’s butt.

.

To make up for the delayed festivities due to socializing the night before, they’d resolved to shack up all of Saturday. A few hours of drinks sets us back, what—three or four orgasms? Steve estimated, and Billy had scoffed, let out a loud Hah! For you, maybe. At which Steve had swooped in, herding him against the wall to nip at his throat. I’m sorry—was that a complaint? Shivering, tilting his chin for more, Billy clung to his ribs. No. No complaints.

Which is why Steve was a little put out to realize he’d slept until nine—that Billy had let him, moreover, because the rest of the bed was cold and empty.

And then the buttery cinnamon sugar hit him upside the head, beckoned him upright, nose in the air. Heard the telltale clinks and thunks of Billy puttering at the stove, and couldn’t help but smile. 

Smiled while he pulled on some sweatpants, a worn tee. Smiled as he brushed his teeth, took a piss. Washed his hands. Smiled as he wandered to the kitchen, itching to wrap his good boy up tight, kiss his neck, his cheeks—

The smile didn’t slip, but it… froze solid, along with the rest of him, at the vision that greeted him: Billy halted in front of the fridge, limned in morning sunlight.

Billy with his hair piled atop his head in a messy bun, wearing one of those close-fitting crop tops that he knew drove Steve crazy. His gaze dropped to the rumpled tube socks, trailed up the bronzed curves of his calves, his thighs—to the green pleated hem. Of the skirt.

The cheerleading skirt. The cheerleading skirt that Billy was wearing, in the kitchen. That he had worn while baking cinnamon buns. And making coffee.

Steve had completely flatlined, but all it took was a puff of sound—a nervous muffled squeak of a thing—and his attention swung to Billy’s face. To Billy’s bottom lip, drawn between his teeth. To Billy’s big blue eyes, slanted brows. Hopeful, but—uncertain.

“What—?” Steve tried, shaking his head, and at least tacked a grin to his bafflement. “How…?”

“Borrowed it,” Billy said, fidgeting. Cautious smile. “From Heather.”

Bless Heather for all eternity. Forever and ever. Amen. 

“You look—” He couldn’t seem to move, but that was fine. Billy was coming to him—a certain slink to his stride. Steve rallied. “You look—so good. So, so, so—”

Billy set his hands on Steve’s waist, toying with the thin cotton. “I was thinking we could play… like we did that time with the spies? Only…”

His good, good, genius boy.

“Only… jock and cheerleader?” Steve finished, and Billy ducked, bashful—except not his usual bashful, but extra bashful, like he was putting on a show, like he was… a blushing, bashful, virginal little—

Billy leaned up. Kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. Instinctive, Steve palmed the back of his head, fingers buried in blond, and pulled him flush.

“You wanna be my good girl today?” he whispered, lips brushing Billy’s cheek—pressed a kiss there when Billy nodded. “Whatcha wearing under that skirt, babe?”

Billy giggled—quiet and flirty. “Breakfast first.”

Steve nipped his ear. “And then a snack?”

“Down, boy,” Billy scolded, swatting his arm. He turned and walked away—the sway deliberate, as confirmed by the cheeky wink thrown over his shoulder.

.

Now with next chapter: He Loves Me, Loves Me, Loves Me

[demihualian]

Hua Cheng kneels in front of Xie Lian, ready to be accepted or rejected. His question hangs in the air between them.

And Xie Lian frowns. "You mean it, right?"

"Gege - what, of course I mean it!" Hua Cheng exclaims, wrongfooted. He had prepared for Xie Lian to accept him wholeheartedly, or for his stomach to turn at the thought of marrying a ghost king, but not... this?

"It's a joke. Did I shock gege?" Xie Lian quotes, eyes narrowed. "San Lang, last time you took it back before I even had a chance to answer. You even laughed at me."

"..." Hua Cheng gapes at him.

"So, San Lang, my answer... is no," Xie Lian decides.

Hua Cheng goes still, then nods his head, stumbling to his feet. He had expected this, so why does he feel this way...

"San Lang? San Lang! Don't cry, don't cry! I was joking this time! San Lang!"

[Written for the prompt "quote" over on Mastodon]