#me rendering everything else very shit

[teabiscs]

June Ship Poll Third Place - Brooklyn/Garland

just them looking super in love because thats the only thing i really do. happy pride to them i guess.

[roosterforme]

Sugar and Lace | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Bradley had a hot wife. He went wild for you in your work clothes and his worn out shirts. You didn't need any bells and whistles to look sexy, and you never would. But now that he knew what you looked like in a little lace, he needed to have that version of you, too.

Warnings: Fluff, adult language, drinking

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Beer Boy and Sugar! Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (former fuckboy college student Bradley)

This is a one-shot to accompany my fics Old Habits Die Hard and Right Girl, Wrong Time but it can be read on its own! Check out my masterlist

Bradley looked at Jake over his beer, and Jake looked right back at him. The Hard Deck was virtually��empty this early on a Saturday in the middle of the blazing summer heatwave, leaving the two of them very much alone together with their drinks.

"So..." Bradley said, tracing a line through the condensation on his half empty bottle. It wasn't that he disliked Jake. Not really. But he didn't know how many times he could be coerced into hanging out with him for the sake of you having a 'girls day'. It wasn't like he could complain about work to the person who annoyed the shit out of him at work yesterday.

"So..." Jake replied, picking up his drink and chugging it before signaling to Penny for two more. When he turned back, he had a smug little smile on his face that let Bradley know he was about to get annoyed again. "I'm assuming by the way your wife looks and how fucking pussy whipped you are that she has good taste in lingerie?"

Bradley sputtered, almost knocking his bottle off the high top. "Jesus fucking Christ, Hangman. What the hell kind of question is that?" He could feel heat rising in his cheeks at the memory of you prancing around the bedroom last weekend in a lacy tie dye bra and matching boy shorts. Everything you wore was sexy.

"That's obviously what they are out shopping for," Jake drawled, handing the empties to Penny as she dropped off fresh beers. Bradley waved two fingers in a half-hearted salute and then glared at Jake as he added, "Jessica specifically asked your wife to go with her. She told me she's picking out some things for the honeymoon, and you and I both know what that means. They are trying on lingerie." His smirk was back. "Together."

Bradley swallowed hard, digging his fist into his thigh. His teeth were clenched as he said, "Stop picturing my wife in lingerie."

All he got was a jovial laugh in response. "Tell me right now to my face that you're not picturing both of them wearing something tight, cropped and lacy, and I'll stop."

Bradley raked his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the mental image of you and Jessica in a cute little fitting room, laughing together. "God damn it, Hangman!"

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

You and Jessica were crammed into a fitting room together, trying not to laugh at the enormous stacks of cute things to try on. Your pile was on the left side of the decorative bench, and hers was on the right. You knew that Jessica Reed happened to collect lingerie in every color imaginable, but she was on a quest to find some unique things to take on her honeymoon. And you were on a quest to wow your husband with something more than a bra and boy shorts for once. 

Not that he complained. Not that he ever complained. Bradley went absolutely feral for you in your damn work clothes and loafers. He about lost his mind when you wore his ratty, old tie dye tee shirt to bed. He often sounded like he was going to need CPR when you put on his bathrobe and nothing else. It was hard to contain your smile when you just knew that something in this fitting room was going to blow his mind to the point that he would be rendered speechless.

"Try something on," Jessica suggested gently, and you took a step closer to your pile. "Then you'll get a better idea of what you like." 

There was red, green, black, white and pink fabric. There were nightgowns, thongs, bralettes and stockings. When you reached your hand out, you hesitated, confidence wavering. This seemed a lot more challenging than solving a linear algebra matrix.

Jessica whispered, "You'll look beautiful in anything, Advanced Calculus. I can promise you that." When you kind of shrugged in response, she said, "Do you want me to wait in line for my own fitting room so you can have more privacy?"

The two of you already agreed to help each other make selections, and the last thing you wanted was to keep opening the door so everyone else could see you wearing this stuff. "No. It's not that. I just... don't really own anything like this. I mean, I have a few things, but some of this is elaborate." You glanced at her over your shoulder and winced. "And this was supposed to be a shopping trip for you! For your honeymoon! Not for me."

She shushed you and then reached into your pile and pulled out a fairly innocuous looking nightie in a soft champagne color. "Start with this. Then you'll see how hot you look, and it'll be a gateway drug to you starting your own collection that will rival mine."

"I've seen your closet," you muttered, taking the hanger from her and holding the garment up in front of your body. It was pretty. The color even complimented your hair. It was a far cry from what you usually wore to bed, but you'd give it a shot.

When you started to undress, Jessica turned around and played with her phone, which you did appreciate. All of your bumps and lumps would be on display soon enough anyway, but at least you'd have a minute to straighten yourself out. The fabric was cool and slick against your skin, and you shivered as it settled high on your thighs. When you looked in the mirror and turned, you were pleasantly surprised with the result.

"It's not bad," you said, and she looked up and gasped, green eyes wide.

"It's perfect!"

"I wouldn't go that far," you muttered, smoothing your hands along your sides.

"Well, I would. And I'm sure Bradley would, too. Do you want me to take a picture on your phone?" she asked, and you nodded while she posed you with one hand on your hip. "Like I said, perfect," she muttered as she took the photo and then set your phone down again. "Try on something else."

"Okay," you whispered, reaching blindly into your pile and pulling out a black lace corset top.

Jessica jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "I love that one. I picked one up to try it on, too."

"I don't know about this," you said, holding it up in front of the nightie. "Not sure how Beer Boy is going to like it."

"You won't know until you try it on."

With those words of wisdom, you changed from the nightie to the corset, and your immediate thought was how cute this would look under your sweaters and tweed when you were at work. And it would feel amazing. It was snug and sexy, and somehow you felt like you could kick even more ass at work if you were wearing this thing.

"What the hell?" you whispered, and Jessica turned to look at you, clapping her hands once again. "I feel like I have super powers."

"Because you do! Look at you! Please let me take another picture of you to send to Bradley."

This time you posed yourself and turned so your tattoos were visible through the lace cutout on the side. Then you stood there and admired yourself before saying, "I'm definitely buying this. Catch me wearing it to work under my cardigans in the fall."

Jessica started digging into her own pile now as you changed from the corset into a bodysuit, but when she met your eyes in the mirror, she looked like she was going to freak out.

"What?" you asked. "The bodysuit looks that bad?"

She shook her head, and pressed her lips together before almost shouting, "When were you going to tell me you have a math tattoo?"

"Oh," you replied, not sure you'd ever heard her voice reach that octave before. "Euler's Identity? I've had it since I was nineteen."

"I love how you embrace your inner nerd," she said as if she was in awe of you, and you started laughing which made her laugh. "Now send those pictures to your husband and let that man worship you."

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

Bradley had just buried his face in his hands while Jake laughed when his phone went off. You hadn't even bothered to inform him that your little 'girls day outing' was a quest to make sure Jake enjoyed his honeymoon with Jessica. Honestly, Bradley kind of hoped the other man was correct in his assessment that you'd be shopping for something for yourself, too. Not that you needed it. Holy shit, you still looked like the girl he fell in love with over a decade ago whenever you wore his old Grateful Dead shirt or his robe around the house.

But now he wanted something special, too. Why should Jake get to have all the fun when it came to having his partner all wrapped up in a pretty package that was specifically meant to be removed?

"Sugar," he grunted when he saw that you'd texted him. Jake was rambling about something across the table, but Bradley couldn't hear him. He could no longer hear anything. He couldn't process thoughts or form words. All he could do was stare at the two photos you'd sent to him. "Oh, fuck."

In the first one, you were wearing a shimmery light gold colored thing that looked soft. Like maybe almost as soft as your skin. His heart hammered up into his ears as he examined every inch of it on your curves. Your nipples were pebbled against the fabric, and he could practically feel them between his lips. When he swiped to look at the second one, he abruptly stood from his stool with his phone gripped tight in his hand, eyes bugging out.

"Let me guess... your wife sent you photos?" Jake asked, clearly amused.

Instead of verbally responding, Bradley made sure his phone was tipped away from Jake as he zoomed in for a closer look. Holy hell. Your tits were being pushed up in the sexiest black lace he had ever seen. It was sinful, and now he was imagining you wearing it under one of your tweed blazers while giving a lecture. He swallowed hard, realizing he could see the tiniest bit of your tattoos through the little cutout on the side, and he actually whimpered.

"Yeah... she definitely sent you photos," Jake murmured as his own phone chimed. "Oh, Jess just sent me five."

"How did you get five?" Bradley complained, swiping back and forth, desperately looking for more. "I only got two!" 

It was then that he noticed you texted him after you sent the pictures.

What do you think, Beer Boy?

Bradley laughed a bit maniacally. What did he think about the lingerie? Ha! He could barely think at all! He paced back and forth a bit, sweating as he wrote back.

You look fucking hot as hell, Sugar. If you don't bring that black top home, I think you'll break my heart.

Bradley cringed, because now Jake was the one who was whimpering. "They're sharing a fitting room," he whispered, and Bradley's eyes went wide with the realization that Jessica must have taken the photos for you. Then his eyes narrowed as he reached for Jake's phone.

"You better not be able to see Sugar in any of the pictures!"

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

You and Jessica were wearing matching fluffy robes and sorting through everything you'd already tried on.

"You have to get that thing," you told her, pointing to the garters and stockings. "It fits you like a glove."

She nodded and added it to her 'yes' pile. "And you have to get the thong and bustier," she replied.

"I'm already buying four things," you reminded her. The bustier was nice, and your breasts looked good in it, but you didn't love the color very much. Besides, there was one last thing you hadn't tried on for fear of looking or feeling ridiculous, but there was a part of your brain that just knew your husband would love it.

"Missed one!" Jessica said, pulling on the bright pink fabric like she could read your mind. Always the best cheerleader, she held it up in front of your body and nodded. "It's bold, but I think you can pull it off."

You took it from her, but looked at yourself skeptically in the mirror. "I don't know... it's going to look bad. Like I'm trying too hard. I don't know why I even picked it up."

But you did know. Bradley was attracted to you in that dumb tie dye shirt like you were some sort of exotic bird whenever you put it on. All of the bright colors swirled into something that just lured him right to you. Part of it was nostalgia, sure, but you felt like there was something more as well.

"Actually, I do know why I picked it up," you told Jessica, holding the chemise closer to yourself. "Bradley really likes it when I wear his old shirt that I kind of held hostage for ten years. It's vibrant and bright, and I think this is the sort of thing he might enjoy?" You pursed your lips and sighed. "But, maybe I'm wrong, because he also just seems to like me how I am. No frills, you know? He's always been that way."

Jessica smiled. "Yes, I understand. And I hope you realize that you just described a man who is desperately in love with you, not just how you look. Sounds like the kind of man you should spoil a little bit." She tugged gently on the chemise and added, "This is a far cry from a tee shirt, but you won't know how you feel about it until you try it on."

"You're right."

Once you were out of the robe, you pulled the stretchy lace over your body, and gaped at the deep neckline as Jessica tied the satin ribbons around the back of your neck. You hadn't noticed before, but there were some yellow and orange threads woven in, making delicate swirls in the fabric. Almost like a different kind of tie dye. It actually looked stunning on you, and as you turned from side to side, you already knew you had to have it.

"I'm obsessed," Jessica said, bouncing excitedly as she clapped her hands together. "Should I take one last round of photos for you to send to Bradley?"

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

Bradley was lightheaded. He sweat through his shirt, and he had his forehead cradled in his hand as he opened three photos of you wearing something so bright and pink and sexy, he wanted to lick it off of you. Everything was covered up, but barely. In the one shot, he could almost see your ass. In another, he could definitely see your pert nipples. In the other one, he could make out part of your titty tattoos.

It was a good thing Jake was staring at his own phone in amazement, because Bradley was pretty sure he was drooling and incapable of formulating a sentence. He had already written back to you, begging you to buy the pink thing. Telling you he needed it. Letting you know he wanted to peel is slowly off of your body in bed later. In fact, the last thing he sent was 'Buy everything in that whole fucking store, money is no object'. And he meant every word. 

Bradley had been crazy about you for so long, and most of the appeal came from how smart you are and the fact that you weren't fussy. You let him dote on you in your work outfits. You wore his clothing around the house. You didn't need all the bells and whistles to be sexy, and you never would.

But now that he knew exactly what you looked like in black satin and colorful lace, he needed to have that version of you, too. He needed it.

"Since when does your wife have tattoos?"

Those words snapped Bradley out of his lust filled stupor, and his brown eyes bore into Jake's green ones. How did he know about your titty tattoos? When his gaze drifted back to his phone, he turned the screen toward Bradley with a grin. Apparently you had taken a photo of Jessica, in which your reflection was visible in the fitting room mirror. You were wearing a bra, and you were as covered up as you would be for a beach day, but Bradley loathed the idea of Jake having any sort of access to those tattoos.

"Hey!" Jake complained as Bradley snatched the phone and deleted the photo. "What the fuck, Bradshaw? I wanted that picture of Jessica! You could have just cropped it."

"Hey, boys!"

Bradley turned in time to toss Jake's phone aside as Jessica headed through the nearly empty bar with you following behind her. There were two enormous shopping bags in your hands, and you had a smile on your face as you asked, "Ready to go home, Beer Boy?"

"Hell yes," he murmured, closing the distance to your lips and kissing you hard. "Did you buy that pink thing? And the black one?"

His hands wound around your waist possessively, and he got even more excited as you tucked the bags behind your back and whispered, "There's only one way to find out."

Bradley started guiding you to the door. "Yeah. We're going home. Right now." He ran his nose along your cheek and gave you one more sweet kiss before shouting over his shoulder, "Thanks for the beers, Bagman. Oh, and Jessica, I need you to crop your photos better next time you take my wife shopping."

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

I love Beer Boy for making Sugar feel so good about herself every day. She's a badass, and he knows it. I wrote this as a little wedding treat for @je-suis-prest-rachel Congratulations, Rachel! And thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@solacestyles

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@daggerspare-standingby

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@furiousladyking

@godsfavoritebabe

@bethabear12

@halo-mystic

@sherlockstrangewolf

@theamuz

@khaylin27

@glenpowellluver

[yoinkschief]

I did it - I finally did it, I made concept doodles of the different leaders

I've been meaning to do this for a while now, I've just kept forgetting to and then get distracted with much more pressing matters n shit so yk but I decided fuck it they don't need to be good so long as they just get my idea across,,, and then later on when I have the time, energy and patience to I can fully render them

These are all also leaning into who they are in my HCs, simply because I think it's kinda boring to just go "well what if we put person a in person b's body and keep everything else the exact same" like where's the nuance in that,,,

So all the same story beats still happen, just minor differences, like Tord still leaves and has the robot explode causing the damage (but different contexts now) and Tom is still possessed by the rage demon or whateva and Edd still gets powers and Matt still becomes a vampire,, they just are put in different plot points in the story

I don't like the idea of just reskinning characters, yk, if I were to change story beats for things like "instead of matt getting bitten by the vampire bite it was tord" I wouldn't want it to just be the same shit happens because Tord wouldn't react the same way to it as Matt would, yk ?? I don't wanna give the character's the others personalities, just their plot beats

But in this things stay relatively the same

Except in this Tom, in a desperation to live after failing to dismantle Tord's robot in an act of rage against Tord returning and pretending like nothing happened, makes a deal with his more demonic half and gives up part of his soul to live

Edd gets blown up trying to use Tord's robot against Tord's wishes and something something main characters can't die or whatever so he painfully finds out that his "poweredd" powers grant him a very fucked up version of immortality,,, I made it look goopy because I can and I'm madly in love with my partner and they've given me this idea so fuck them blame them if you want

Matt gets no lasting consequences for his actions because he's a vampire and they have MAD regenerative abilities, but he does still blow up but this time when him and Edd are fucking around in Tord's little office ?? whatever the hell it is he has stuffed in his room as a secondary room, yk when him and Edd are touching all those buttons they're not supposed to, that's what caused the robot to malfunction and Matt ends up getting the brunt of it - I mean so does Edd, and since this would be Tom's world that would probably why Matt and Edd's relationship grows sour since Edd got caught up in the blast too n whatnot I dunno I'm mostly spitballing here I haven't sat down and properly thought out these AUs yet so yk

take all of this with a grain of salt this is ALLLL subject to change in the future but for now this is what I have in my head for everything :p

[kashimew]

nsfw, mtf rara(I want her soo bad), it’s pierced, spit-roasting

ooohhh to be stuck all fours between hakari and kirara. It really was only meant to be a casual hangout, you as their third wheel for drinks at home and nothing more. how on earth that ended you up here? who knows.

each mindless, rough thrust from the man behind you only served to push kirara much further down your throat. sinful gagging they could only giggle at. each quick drag of the cold metal on your tongue from the piercing through the woman’s cock had you drooling all around her.

‘hooohh, shit babydoll, you keeping up down there?” hakari groaned, not like you could answer anyways. the grip on your hips nothing less than bruising, his thrusts were no less harsh. rendering you helpless and shaky. no time to breathe or collect yourself.

“you should see her face, always knew you were cute, hunny, but you get- ooooh.. sooo much cuter like this.” kirara sounded so very breathless, as fucked out as you were already, tears welled up in your eyes from how far kirara was continuously hitting down your throat, you were pleasing them so very well, you could hear and see it. kirara’s soft hands threaded through your hair, nearly pulling. hakari’s hips seemed to stutter, but how could he possibly finish before his girls? how selfish.

his much larger, calloused hand shaking its way underneath your trembling body, rubbing figure eight circles with two fingers on your clit, your whole body jolting, resulting in a muffled gasp from your battered throat, quickly pulling off of kirara and panting, head falling downward. hakari didnt stop, only got all the rougher. a small chuckle elicited from his throat.

“ooh no fair, ‘was soo close..” kirara pouted, faux disappointment all on her face. though clearly not all that upset, never did she think she’d enjoy watching her oh-so-lovely boyfriend fuck somebody else into their mattress.

“none of that, don’t leave her hanging. use your hands.” he groaned, ever since you had pulled off from your spot from kirara, all he could hear was the wet, sticky connection of skin and your fucked out breathy moans. your hand shakily going up to wrap around kirara’s cock, a sigh of relief from her as she held onto it, moving her hips sloppily through your circled fist.

all of you were close, hakari’s hips stuttering once again, reaching spots you never even believed were there, your free hand was dug into their sheets, clawing for some sort of relief. hakari really was trying his best to hold himself back, not before you two, never. he sped up the hand he had underneath you, rubbing in an overwhelming side to side motion, that was all it took for you to yelp out into the room, the tightly wound up knot in your abdomen fully unraveling all around hakari. and their sheets.

kirara was quick to follow suit, your hand wrapped impossibly tight around her was more than enough. the room was full of heavy breathing, panting and groaning. with a loud whine from her lips, she had spilled all along your hand and arm, taking almost everything out of her. stuttering hips removing herself from your grasp. letting herself sit back and watch hakari finish himself up with a pleased hum.

“still sooo tight- shit babydoll, do you feel what you’re doing ta’ me?” he groaned into your ear, his hand and kirara’s connected. he didn’t stop moving, so rough and calculated, not like the mindless thrusts he had earlier. with a loud, breathy groan he spilled allll inside of you, stream after thick, buttery stream of release painting your insides, his hand painfully gripping onto your hip as he rode himself out. faint pants coming from his lips, no effort yet made to pull out of you nor any effort to let go of his pretty girls hand.

“you two wanna switch spots?”

[multiheadcanons]

THE MERCS AS MY CLIENTS. WHAT A WEEK ITS BEEN AND AT THE TIME OF WRITING THIS ITS ONLY WEDNESDAY.

scout: shittily bred pit bull mix named bosco. comes in and asks me to shave the dog because the shedding is bad. i have to tell him that’s not how shedding works and i won’t be doing that. he is the only client in this list i would even feel remotely confident contesting with. talk him into the cheaper option; a deshed treatment and regular visits. becomes a good client of mine! doesn’t tip, but that’s okay.

soldier: well bred, if only overweight english bulldog named colonel pigskin. i am to address him with his title or soldier will raise a fuss. brings him in for the works. everything i could possibly add on, add it. and he better have a handkerchief and it better be america themed or so help him god. tips four bucks every time. i keep him as a client because i know nobody else will take him with his insane aura. dog fucking reeks every time. takes three washes to even begin to break the stench. but a sweet dog. bites for nails.

pyro: brings in a small super-mutt on enough trazadone to kill a horse. in the system as a shih tzu named princess. if i can get to the dog while it is still absolutely tripping balls on its traz, it’s honestly not a bad time. quarter inch all over with a short teddy bear head, bob the ears, trim the tail, potty trail. is honestly very cute when it’s done. but it will always be a dog i have to push through. i get two hours before the dog starts fighting. and it’s enough to make me stop services. asks for nail polish. when i accomplish it they tip twenty, no tip if there’s no polish. i do my best to paint the dogs nails. irregular client, but the dog is short enough that it’s not a problem.

demo: beautiful, old scottish terrier named jodie. an honest to god menace to society but i would never ever tell demo that in a million years. she’s perfect and i love her. it shocks him because he’s been fired by other shops. i tell him she’s an old lady with a high maintenance trim and she takes a lot of time. standard scottie trim, long skirt, like barely off the ground. it is an honest challenge and i never think she looks good. demo has never, ever complained, even when i directly ask him. genuinely makes me want to cry because it is a battle when she is on my table. jodie has dementia and does not know where she is half the time, and is blind and deaf the other half of the time, so she is an all day process.

heavy: blue maine coon named feliks. leash trained. the cat looked to be a normal size in his arms. he weighs in at 27.5 pounds. comes in for a bath and a thorough brush, no clippers nor scissors are to even hover around the coat. dude’s like triple my size so i say “absolutely sir, i will contact you when services are rendered.” feliks is in stellar condition. an absolute star when he’s checked in. i take my time, and the cat reacts with little interest in my badgering. which frankly, when you’re that big and a cat, is an honest to god blessing to my arms. yowls in the bath, but does not try to escape. okay with the dryer on a low setting. must be an express, which halves my bookings for the day. when i tell heavy the price the first time he frowns. tells me to double it. he pays that price and leaves no tip, other than i leave room to be taken advantage of with those pricings. irregular client, but faithful. it’s always a joy when they come in, even if he doesn’t know it.

engineer: brings in a shepherd mix named bingo. comes in for an outline trim. bingo has two dew claws on every foot. bingo would be cool if bingo didn’t feel the need to shit fifteen times on my table and then yell at the top of his lungs when i start trimming his nails. bingo would be uber cool then. but instead, three baths and a couple deep breaths later, i send engie a text letting him know services have been completed. i up the price three times during the process, and the man will still tip. a regular client, which i am not particularly pleased with. but he’s cool enough. if bingo can chill out i’ll lower his price. he never will.

medic: brings in a jet black pomeranian named hypatia. i call her nightmare. her and her owner are absolutely horrid. he will not fill out paperwork, we have to physically place ourselves behind his car to get a signature, and he is annoyed about it. brings in a note with chicken scratch of which all that is legible is his phone number and “call for questions, do not text” that essentially sums up to tight outline trim with a full mane. nicer on the phone than in person, but he will spend twenty minutes making sure i know how to do my job. i chalk it up to him being european. picky, so i take my time on her. he never tells me this dog is trained in german, so it is a consistent fight to render services until i just start trying other languages. once i realize she is trained, just not in english, it is an infinitely easier time with her on my table. makes her owner much more bearable, though i am never happy to see him on the books. does not tip, never seems happy with the finished product, but is a regular, consistent client. so he pays well in the long run. if i ask whether he even likes my work he will wholeheartedly say yes, and i’m not sure whether to believe him because his mannerisms never change. but i start painting her nails. that gets a good reaction out of him.

sniper: rat terrier named dog. chill little thing for a rat terrier. face feet and tail, no spray no bandana. does not like the dryer, so he takes longer than he feasibly should for a little rat terrier. that is the most annoying part of his process. will watch whatever show i have playing on my phone while i work. it’s a good distraction. has weirdly human eyes. when i ask snipes about dog he says he found him in a dumpster and tried to foster and failed. so now he’s got a dog. i think it’s funny, and the dog wasn’t horrible, so i give him a discount. tips whatever small bills are in his pocket, so anywhere from two to ten bucks. smallest tip i ever got was a quarter from him. it’s the thought that counts? twice a year client. i don’t even know why he brings the dog in at that point. nice to make small talk with, though.

spy: the most snobbish poodle owner you’ve ever met, but god is the dog gorgeous. snow white coat, feels like a pillow. dog’s name is beau. gets a continental trim with poms on the feet. topknot long enough to reach jesus. this dog takes me all day. and he is the only dog i can put on my books. and spy is never happy with the finished product. there is always something that can be done better. comes in every three weeks and it’s a nightmare. he wants to talk every time to go over notes and fixes. eventually i ask him why he continues to come to me if he doesn’t like my work. he responds “i don’t want someone else; i want you to get better.” which like, so do i, but not with him as the client. beau is an unremarkable dog otherwise. but it is teeth gritting when his owner is in that building. everyone cries when he starts bringing his cat in, too. we fear we may never escape him.

A LITTLE EXTRA

pauling/admin: miss pauling brings the administrator’s nasty, rotten old bichon mix under the alias “fido” every six to eight weeks with very specific instructions. when miss pauling is in the building, it is almost like every animal becomes twice as anxious. and i really wish they would stop coming. i’m almost willing to leave the industry entirely. the administrator sends pauling with pictures of dogs that do not even remotely look like her dog, and i am crossing my fingers and praying i do it close enough that i don’t get a complaint, but that she decides she can find better. flat out refuses to sign paperwork, and we kind of just shrug. i am consistently filled with dread that the dog is going to drop on my table. it’s old enough to drink.

saxton hale: incredibly aggressive belgian malinois named hastings. must be muzzled while handling feet or he will bite. bites at the water, bites at the dryer, whips around when i’m trying to brush, gives me multiple heart attacks. i charge a pretty penny every time hale comes in, because his dog is taking active years off of my life. hale himself is not the worst guy in the world to interact with, and he understands that his dog is a lot to handle; but his dog is a complete liability and he won’t get the thing trazadone. he honestly thinks it’s funny that i am the one who took the dog on. he respects the moxie. doesn’t feel bad if i get bit though.

[neptune-scythe]

ok no longer rendered speechless from Confessions

the thoughts have cooked, and it's the way they made the very conscious choice to include Buck in Eddie's moment of joy, and not just because Buck is fundamentally rooted in every aspect of Eddie's life, especially the good parts

but it's the way they gave Buck a negative experience in that moment.

an experience Eddie could have so easily broken his moment for, to give everything to Buck in that moment and push aside his own needs and desires and existence

but he didn't

he just

welcomed Buck into his moment.

LIKE Y'ALL

Ok ok

the moment of joy, taking just a few minutes to just do something for the fuck of it because it makes him happy is obviously an amazing step that would be enough right there

BUT THEY TOOK IT A STEP FARTHER

they said

not only is Mr. Eddie Diaz taking a moment for joy, he's keeping that moment of joy when he could drop it for the sake of being there for his friend. But instead he's just letting his friend into his moment of joy, he's acknowledging that the two can coexist, both feelings, both experiences ... that there's as much space for him as there is for everyone else in his life

and that's just huge I think

like the episode starts with him saying "I put my desires before his needs" and implying that there is no space in the world for Eddie Diaz and his feelings/desires/needs, and they end the episode with Eddie allowing himself to experience a moment of joy purely for himself WHILE ALSO making space for someone else and being exactly what he needed just by physically being there and existing

because his desires and other peoples desires can be equally important

his needs and other people's needs can be equally important

and someone else said something about how neither of them have to do anything to support each other or provide any kind of service to be valuable

all they have to do is just exist and that is good enough for the other

(I cannot remember who made that post but that shit has been in my mind rent free every since so shout out to whoever that was)

and its just literally that

but also the fact that they make space for each other to exist however they are in that moment

they can be on the complete opposites of the emotional spectrum and sit together in silence and that is good enough

it's more than enough

it's everything

it's all they need

IT'S INSANE

IT'S SO FREAKING INSANE

like imma be so fr right now

I do not believe in love

I don't think there's any scenario where love is eternal and fulfilling and reliable and worth anything

and there is not a single ship or romantic partnership or queerplatonic partnership or friendship or any other kind of relationship that I can't think of a billion ways it would end tragically

except for Buddie

genuinely I cannot think of a single scenario where they would ever stop loving each other or supporting each other or being the most important person to the other

they are just so fundamentally perfect for each other, so engrained in each other's lives by choice

I honestly have no fucking clue what love is, but I think its whatever they have

and low-key if they never become romantic that is a o k with me because that perfect impenetrable bond they have will still be there and that is good enough for me

they're insane

they're perfect

they're so special and unique

no one is doing it like them

nobody ever

I still don't believe that that kind of thing exists in the real world but I will continue to loose my shit over it

[lemonhemlock]

I think a thing that bothers me the most is how fragmented TG (the fandom) is now. After season one, many of us had issues with character writing, but it still felt like we were largely on the same page. Now, some people can accept Aegon got bad writing but not Aemond, Alicent, or Helaena. They are all “good” or “bad”characters depending on how much they hurt Aegon this season. I’m so glad he got the time to be well rounded, and that TGC delivered on all his scenes, but I think people forget Aegon has received some poor writing as well even this season. His whole outburst about Jaehaerys’s death is not about his son, but the impact on his legacy- I thought this very odd at the time, but realize it’s because they can’t have him mourn Jaehaerys for a long time either. Nobody on TG is allowed to focus on this dead child, least of all his mother! Aegon goes out drinking with his friends next episode 😭 seemingly unconcerned. But somehow only Alicent and Aemond are called out for this, when it is a clear problem that Daemon is more affected by this loss than the greens. It feels like such an uphill battle to even discuss the faction and family anymore.

This is such a good point!

I know I am so contrarian about this rn, but I have had some issues in connecting with Aegon's grief scenes over Jaehaerys this season. And it's such an opinion I DON'T want to have, bc I'm fully on the Aegon/TGC bandwagon and I do think TGC is a competent actor.

But it's something about the general clownery of the framing, how everything is gloomy and dark but at the same time no one gives that much of a shit over Jaehaerys? It's very weird to describe. I know Olivia also shows Alicent crying and swallowing sobs and trying to conceal her grief, but, if you think about it, Alicent is just Kind Of Like That in a lot of her scenes anyway. Big doe wet eyes, filled with regret and unspoken emotions etc so that her acting similarly after B&C kind of doesn't hit as much?

And, in that context, having Aegon rage over this event is rendered kind of.....hammy and, honestly, comical. I'm reminded of the scene of the small council where everyone is somber and quiet and he kind of looks like he's pretending to cry. In other moments it's fine but there are frames where I can't take it seriously and it registers in my brain like a parody.

I realise how I sound right now, like I'm not satisfied with the subdued performances, but I'm not satisfied with the expansive ones either. IDK. I have a huge problem with the framing and direction this season, I think it's a huge impediment in making me enjoy the supposedly emotional scenes.

All of this to say that I agree, Aegon has also received some bad writing this season, especially him ALSO being kind of over Jaehaerys the next episode. But people tend to overlook it, because when you draw the line, the writing for him is still so much better than what he got in S1.

And, yes, this is why I can't really join the choir in blaming Alicent and Aemond for how they act with him, because it's not a naturalistic and organic progression, it's shoehorned in with little buildup or motivation and not even drawn to its natural conclusion. For example, Aemond should have been toast the minute Aegon woke up, because Prince Regent or not, Aegon is still the King and has the power to remove Aemond if he fears him. He doesn't have to justify himself in front of anyone, just give the order to arrest his brother and name someone else as regent, then just go back to sleep.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: july 2024

full disclosure: I started out July in a bit of a mental lurch, really feeling stuck in a rut. there are a lot of reasons for that, absolutely none of which need to be shared with the general populace of tumblr dot com, but suffice to say that I was feeling listless and reading was not a high priority. I was pretty content to accept that this was going to be another month where I didn't finish a lot of books. I was too busy for most of June, and now too unfocused and bummed out in July.

and then that ended up not being the case. I think I can chalk that up to three things:

very early in the month I realized that none of the reading I had been planning on getting to was grabbing my interest at all, so I did something drastically different: picked up a YA memoir that I bought at pride on the recommendation of a bookseller. not my usual kind of reading at all, but YA is very readable and memoirs grab me fast because I'm nosy, so I figured it might be great for getting out of a rut. and boy, was I right!

Akwaeke Emezi also has a new novel out, and if you don't know then please note now that I'm a person second and an Akwaeke Emezi fan first. their newest novel was a sinister joyride, non-stop twists and turns that I couldn't put down until I saw the characters through to their bitter ends.

and, of course, over in the Dungeon Meshi manga I got to Mithrun. I've only had Mithrun for a couple of chapters, but if anything happened to him I'd kill everyone in this dungeon and then myself. even if I hadn't been able to read anything else, that would have kept me running back to the library for more Dungeon Meshi.

all of which added up to a fairly voracious appetite for books being reignited in my brain, and my second most book-heavy month of the year so far (still haven't beat May, but there's time). sick!

so - what have I been reading?

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 7-10 (Ryoko Kui, trans. Taylor Engel, 2019-2022) - mannnnn I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said elsewhere, but Dungeon Meshi is so. fucking good. the way that Kui starts to raise the stakes of the story and grow the world beyond the core band of adventurers is so conscientious and well-done, timed perfectly so it never feels like having an undercooked heap of fantasy exposition thrown at you all at once. instead everything proceeds at a perfect simmer, leaving me feeling like the frog in that pot of boiling water who didn't notice how dire things had gotten until it was very suddenly too late and I was screaming bloody murder at a book. things have gotten so dire that I'm yearning for the days when fighting a red dragon was our biggest problem - and yet, through it all, every character remains rendered with humanity and compassion, no matter how scary, dangerous, or outright alien they first appear. I'm not naming any spoilers, but I need [REDACTED] to fix shit ASAP in Vol. 11 and [SUPER REDACTED] is on my shitlist fucking forever. also Mithrun sweetie you're perfect, do as many crimes as you want.

Heart and Hand (Rebel Carter, 2019) - my romance novel of the month, as picked by my lovely patreonites! this self-published historical romance promised some messy f/m/m, following a biracial (half Black, half white) young lady, Julie Baptiste, as she responds to a marriage ad that takes her out west to the fictional town of Gold Sky, Montana. Julie's sort of a standard historical heroine - she doesn't care for the silliness of high society and vastly prefers the company of books, looking forward to becoming Gold Sky's schoolteacher - but her marriage has a twist: rather than marrying one man, she's agreed to marry two, a pair of friends who have been inseparable since they served together in the Civil War. this book is charming, for sure, but I can't help be more intrigued by what isn't there than what is, namely: are these men having sex with each other or not? Rebel? hey, Rebel? why is there no DP in this two husbands mail order bride book? that was, like, he bare minimum that I expected. for the love of god, why did those men never put both of their dicks inside Julie at the same time? why did we spend so much time on emotional conflict that could be easily resolved if anyone just talked to each other when Julie's two beautiful husbands could have been having sex in front of her? HELLO?

also, listen, this is such a nitpick, but I am FROM Montana and it feels personal: I know that the general poverty of frontier life isn't sexy, but god these people are WAY too well off. at one point Julie enjoys some fucking BANANAS, something that I goddamn assure you were not easy to come by in late 19th century Montana. a banana. as fucking if.

All Boys Aren't Blue (George M. Johnson, 2020) - as is proudly advertised on the back cover of my copy, in recent years All Boys Aren't Blue has been the second most-challenged book in America behind Maia Kobabe's Gender Queer. reading through All Boys Aren't Blue it was initially hard to see what exactly was so objectionable, until I realized that a queer Black person living their life with compassion and joy is the scariest thing some of these motherfuckers can possibly imagine. Johnson writes about their life growing up in the nexus of racism, homophobia, and masculinity with wisdom and endless compassion, directly addressing young people who may find themselves in similar positions to offer them assurance that they, too, can be okay. more than anything, All Boys Aren't Blue is a plea for young people to live their lives without fear and shame. it's a beautiful blessing of a book that I hope brings comfort to every innumerable kids who need it.

Little Rot (Akwaeke Emezi, 2024) - how do I even begin to describe Little Rot? definitely not for those who feel squeamish about sex crimes, I guess that's an important place to start. this novel starts with the breakup of a long-term Nigerian couple, Kalu and Aima, and follows both of them into a weekend that starts with drugs and sex parties and spirals increasingly out of control from there, drawing more and more characters into a complicated snarl of money and power. Little Rot has the seedy, lurid draw of an episode of SVU if SVU ever grew up and realized that cops don't do shit, reveling in the nastiest that Emezi's imagined city of New Lagos has to offer. cannot say this book is for everyone - few of Emezi's novels are - but god, it's a thrilling study in corruption.

The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader (editor Joan Nestle, 1992) - this is a massive and fascinating historical document, assembled by Nestle as part of her work with the Lesbian Herstory Archives. within this collection are letters, interviews, academic essays, poems, and transcribed oral histories from all manner of self-identified butch and femme lesbians. while some of the contributors are recognizable names in the history of American queer activism (including Pat Califa, who's a bisexual trans man now lmao), others are women who were just trying to live their lives with as much authenticity, comfort, and dignity as was possible in their time. (although, notably, the vast majority of these women are white, and all but a very few are Americans. racial and cultural diversity is not one of the collection's strong suits.)

the personal narratives span all over the twentieth century, and I was really delighted to see the very frank discussions of what would be written off as "bad representation" by a lot of queer resources today: butches overdosing on toxic masculinity and getting in messy bar brawls, femmes committing outlandish acts of adultery, lesbian sexual awakenings taking place between fairly young children, and one extremely memorable instance of a butch getting unexpectedly pregnant and decided to do a little sex work on the side since she couldn't get more pregnant than she already was. I was particularly fascinated by the many, many accounts of "second wave" self-identified lesbian feminists who tried to do away with butch/femme identities and "politically incorrect" expression of lesbian sexuality altogether (that's everything but mutual cunnilingus, btw) in pretty eerie echoes of contemporary radfem arguments. at close to 500 pages it's definitely better suited to skimming and stopping to read whatever catches your attention rather than trying to read cover to cover, but I think this is a really invaluable piece of history.

American Mermaid (Julia Langbien, 2023) - this was a novel, for sure. American Mermaid is a novel about a broke, anxious high school teacher named Penelope whose novel, also called American Mermaid, is a runaway success that gets optioned for film. Penelope quits her teaching job and moves across the country to Hollywood to work on the script with two dude bros who don't really Get what American Mermaid is about, and set to work turning Penelope's weird, unsexy female empowerment novel into an MCU-style action romp with a hot young lead. the novel's strongest when it's deep in the spirals of Penelope's frantic mind, probing the conflict between her fairly desperate need for cash (she wants to be financially independent of her conservative father, she has good reason to suspect breast cancer is in her future, she wants to start a family someday) and the artistic affront she feels at watching her story be disrespected and dismantled. where it's weaker is in the extensive chapters of the story-within-a-story; while useful for context, I straight up didn't need to read that much of Penelope's novel. and the plot overall kind of felt like it fell off the rails near the end once Langbien finishes making her point about how Hollywood sucks. it's not bad, but it's also just... fine. it's fine!

How to Taste: A Guide Discovering Flavor and Savoring Life (Mandy Naglich, 2023) - how do I put this so nicely? this book is for people who are kind of dork ass losers about food, a group that I do very much count myself as a part of. I first became acquainted with Naglich's work when she appeared on a podcast called the Sporkful, which claims that it is "not for foodies, it's for eaters." I'm a fairly devout listener, and after listening to Naglich describe her efforts to become a master cicerone (one of the world's most elite beer tasters, a distinction that is taken Very Fucking Seriously) I thought sure, whatever, that's a book I can get behind. Naglich is maybe a big more entertaining as a podcast guest than a nonfiction author. in places the book can be dry or roughly constructed in a way that suggests another pass by an editor or maybe a co-writer would have helped. and straight up, there are just weird fucking typos in this book that are like. crazy to me, I cannot believe they got through. the cheap-ass cover art also suggests this was not exactly a high budget production.

but having been very mean about it, there are a lot of extremely interesting tidbits about the world of professional tasting here! it sounds awful and you couldn't pay me to do it, but here's the cool thing: Naglich is extremely aware that what she does is insane and she knows that the average reader doesn't want to learn how to identify where a coffee bean was grown just by sniffing the bean from across a room. what she offers instead are really approachable ways to be more conscientious about how you interact with and appreciate food! and she also shares some really cool info about tasting snobbery that IS bullshit, to help you sort out the stuff that actually matters and emphasize that fun and personal taste ultimately trump any "rules." it's a very dorky book but I, personally, did have a good time.

Sex Criminals Vol 3: Three the Hard Way (Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, 2016) - every time I read another volume of Sex Criminals I find myself thinking "man, hang on, do I ever actually like Sex Criminals? am I enjoying this?" but then I end up placing a hold on the next one. I don't know, it's charming! it's like so very VERY 2010s in its dialogue, by which I mean it's like. you know. it's giving Joss Whedon before we all found out how bad he sucked and collectively booed him. but man, I love a story that's down to get weird, and Sex Criminals is sooooo about being weird. and yet also very normal where sex is concerned! considering this is a series all about people having freaky world-altering powers that activate when they cum, sex is treated as an incredibly ordinary thing, warts and all. I like that! I like seeing that! idk, I don't need every comic to be perfect, as evidenced by the fact that I'm actively enjoying Azrael: Angel of the Bat. sometimes the vibes are just good.

[empty-movement]

May I ask what scanners / equipment / software you're using in the utena art book project? I'm an artist and half the reason I rarely do traditional art is because I'm never happy with the artwork after it's scanned in. But the level of detail even in the blacks of Utena's uniform were all captured so beautifully! And even the very light colors are showing up so well! I'd love to know how you manage!

You know what's really fun? This used to be something you put in your site information section, the software and tools used! Not something that's as normal anymore, but let's give it a go, sorry it's long because I don't know what's new information and what's not! Herein: VANNA'S 'THIS IS AS SPECIFIC AS MY BREAK IS LONG' GUIDE/AIMLESS UNEDITED RAMBLE ABOUT SCANNING IMAGES

Scanning: Modern scanners, by and large, are shit for this. The audience for scanning has narrowed to business and work from home applications that favor text OCR, speed, and efficiency over archiving and scanning of photos and other such visual media. It makes sense--there was a time when scanning your family photographs and such was a popular expected use of a scanner, but these days, the presumption is anything like that is already digital--what would you need the scanner to do that for? The scanner I used for this project is the same one I have been using for *checks notes* a decade now. I use an Epson Perfection V500. Because it is explicitly intended to be a photo scanner, it does threebthings that at this point, you will pay a niche user premium for in a scanner: extremely high DPI (dots per inch), extremely wide color range, and true lossless raws (BMP/TIFF.) I scan low quality print media at 600dpi, high quality print media at 1200 dpi, and this artbook I scanned at 2400 dpi. This is obscene and results in files that are entire GB in size, but for my purposes and my approach, the largest, clearest, rawest copy of whatever I'm scanning is my goal. I don't rely on the scanner to do any post-processing. (At these sizes, the post-processing capacity of the scanner is rendered moot, anyway.) I will replace this scanner when it breaks by buying another identical one if I can find it. I have dropped, disassembled to clean, and abused this thing for a decade and I can't believe it still tolerates my shit. The trade off? Only a couple of my computers will run the ancient capture software right. LMAO. I spent a good week investigating scanners because of the insane Newtype project on my backburner, and the quality available to me now in a scanner is so depleted without spending over a thousand on one, that I'd probably just spin up a computer with Windows 7 on it just to use this one. That's how much of a difference the decade has made in what scanners do and why. (Enshittification attacks! Yes, there are multiple consumer computer products that have actually declined in quality over the last decade.)

Post-processing: Photoshop. Sorry. I have been using Photoshop for literally decades now, it's the demon I know. While CSP is absolutely probably the better piece of software for most uses (art,) Photoshop is...well it's in the name. In all likelihood though, CSP can do all these things, and is a better product to give money to. I just don't know how. NOTENOTENOTE: Anywhere I discuss descreening and print moire I am specifically talking about how to clean up *printed media.* If you are scanning your own painting, this will not be a problem, but everything else about this advice will stand! The first thing you do with a 2400 dpi scan of Utena and Anthy hugging? Well, you open it in Photoshop, which you may or may not have paid for. Then you use a third party developer's plug-in to Descreen the image. I use Sattva. Now this may or may not be what you want in archiving!!! If fidelity to the original scan is the point, you may pass on this part--you are trying to preserve the print screen, moire, half-tones, and other ways print media tricks the eye. If you're me, this tool helps translate the raw scan of the printed dots on the page into the smooth color image you see in person. From there, the vast majority of your efforts will boil down to the following Photoshop tools: Levels/Curves, Color Balance, and Selective Color. Dust and Scratches, Median, Blur, and Remove Noise will also be close friends of the printed page to digital format archiver. Once you're happy with the broad strokes, you can start cropping and sizing it down to something reasonable. If you are dealing with lots of images with the same needs, like when I've scanned doujinshi pages, you can often streamline a lot of this using Photoshop Actions.

My blacks and whites are coming out so vivid this time because I do all color post-processing in Photoshop after the fact, after a descreen tool has been used to translate the dot matrix colors to solids they're intended to portray--in my experience trying to color correct for dark and light colors is a hot mess until that process is done, because Photoshop sees the full range of the dots on the image and the colors they comprise, instead of actually blending them into their intended shades. I don't correct the levels until I've descreened to some extent.

As you can see, the print pattern contains the information of the original painting, but if you try to correct the blacks and whites, you'll get a janky mess. *Then* you change the Levels:

If you've ever edited audio, then dealing with photo Levels and Curves will be familiar to you! A well cut and cleaned piece of audio will not cut off the highs and lows, but also will make sure it uses the full range available to it. Modern scanners are trying to do this all for you, so they blow out the colors and increase the brightness and contrast significantly, because solid blacks and solid whites are often the entire thing you're aiming for--document scanning, basically. This is like when audio is made so loud details at the high and low get cut off. Boo.

What I get instead is as much detail as possible, but also at a volume that needs correcting:

Cutting off the unused color ranges (in this case it's all dark), you get the best chance of capturing the original black and white range:

In some cases, I edit beyond this--for doujinshi scans, I aim for solid blacks and whites, because I need the file sizes to be normal and can't spend gigs of space on dust. For accuracy though, this is where I'd generally stop.

For scanning artwork, the major factor here that may be fucking up your game? Yep. The scanner. Modern scanners are like cheap microphones that blow out the audio, when what you want is the ancient microphone that captures your cat farting in the next room over. While you can compensate A LOT in Photoshop and bring out blacks and whites that scanners fuck up, at the end of the day, what's probably stopping you up is that you want to use your scanner for something scanners are no longer designed to do well. If you aren't crazy like me and likely to get a vintage scanner for this purpose, keep in mind that what you are looking for is specifically *a photo scanner.* These are the ones designed to capture the most range, and at the highest DPI. It will be a flatbed. Don't waste your time with anything else.

Hot tip: if you aren't scanning often, look into your local library or photo processing store. They will have access to modern scanners that specialize in the same priorities I've listed here, and many will scan to your specifications (high dpi, lossless.)

Ahem. I hope that helps, and or was interesting to someone!!!

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Two (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but can you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Series genre: a LOT of tasty angst, tasty smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+ / NSFW / MDNI. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. Posting schedule and series masterlist are here. 

Author’s note: Thank you SO much for the response to Chapter One! And if you're still with it, I hope you enjoy chapter 2! It has been a LOOONNNNGGG time coming! 😆 This one is slightly shorter, with a bit of exposition to bridge between the OG instalment and the meat of our newly embarked upon continuation! The next chapters are where things really kick-off, but I do hope you enjoy this stoking of some tension, and, of course, finally seeing Santiago again - for the first time since the jarring conclusion to chapter one!!!!!! 

Word count: 4.8k for this part 

“It’s okay,” Frankie rumbles, looking at you levelly. “You can ask me about him.” 

You sigh, squirming in place - on the rear porch steps of your sister’s home - as your game is finally unmasked. Your pretense dashed. 

The hubbub of the lazy, Sunday BBQ is nothing but background to you now as Frankie zones in on your true wants, rendering you as an observer - rather than a participant - in the annual gathering you usually draw an abundance of joy from. 

Not so today, despite your best efforts at going through the motions. At pretending like everything is fine. 

Up to now, chatting idly with your bud in this safe little bubble, you’ve cycled through a gazillion conversation starters; each to emphasise just how interested you are in Frankie, and Whatever He Has Going On. Clearly though, you have failed to convince. Your friend simply knows you too well. Knows your weaknesses. 

Your one true weakness. Santiago “Pope” Garcia. 

You look at kind-eyed Frankie apologetically from beneath your lashes, sorry that your flimsy chat has failed to mask your disinterest in... um, whatever it was he was saying. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Cat.” Then, so help you, you ask the question you’ve actually been burning to ask all day. “How’s he doing, Frankie? Really?” 

Confirming the shift in tone, Frankie sets his plate of food aside and nestles his bottle of beer on the corner of the lowest porch step. Now you’re having a conversation. The pilot tents his fingers together in his lap, giving your question the full merit it deserves. “Pope?” 

Who else? 

“He’s… fine,” Frankie nods, studying your face as he says the words. Noticing -no doubt- the way you chew on your lip as your gaze wanders, fixing on the man in question. As you watch him mingle comfortably, effortlessly, amongst the throng of people on the lawn. Making connections, as per usual. 

Your stomach drops. An unease jostles in the pit of you. The niggle of regret. 

You shouldn’t have invited the guys here today. Shouldn’t have agreed to have them be present at your family gathering. Shouldn’t have agreed to follow-up it up with a squad weekend at the beach house - no matter that it’s tradition. But, then again, who were you to disrupt the usual way of things? And, more so, who were you to pretend that you didn’t want to see him again? After all this time? 

In truth, you had wanted nothing else but to see him again. That is, until you had laid eyes on him, and then, very quickly, you had pivoted. Wanted nothing more than to keep your distance. 

Why? 

Because by all accounts it’s true. 

Santiago is fine. 

Santiago certainly looks fine. He looks fine in all senses of the fucking word. He looks as though he’s thriving, in fact. 

Your face falls at the implication: that he’s thriving without you. 

With effort, you hum, schooling your expression into something neutral; however, Frankie’s already on to you. “Is that what you wanted to hear, chiquita?”

You turn your head towards your friend and exhale a small, pitiful laugh. Pondering Frankie’s question, you set your own plate and beer down too – a signal that shit’s getting real. 

Is it? 

Is that what you wanted to hear? 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I wanted to hear, Cat.” With a dejected sigh, you lean your head on Frankie’s shoulder, hooking your arm into the crook of his elbow. “Does that make me cruel? If I don’t wanna hear that he’s happy?” 

Your buddy doesn’t answer rightaway, but he does rest a reassuring hand on your thigh in response, his plush bottom-lip protruding as he pouts – apparently mulling over whether or not to throw you a bone. “Okay. Look,” he begins  - always a soft-touch for you - and you instantly perk-up just a little. “He had a rough spell when you left and-” Frankie huffs out air, shaking his head as though he might have gone too far in divulging already “-fuck, actually, you don’t wanna know.” 

You head snaps up from Frankie’s shoulder as it begins to shake with mirth, your curiosity piqued. 

“What?” you probe, as Frankie turns his head to look at you, a smile cracking his sharp features. Apparently, Frankie has a small part of him which is cruel too. “We stumbled upon his heartbreak playlist. And it was not pretty.” 

“Come on now,” you protest, a little too defensively, your mouth suddenly dry.  “I hardly broke the fucker’s heart.” 

Frankie pumps his eyebrows. Shrugs his shoulders. Then, his bark-brown eyes mist over, just a little. “More likely than you think, chiquita.” 

With that, your eyes flick right back to Santiago’s figure on the other side of the yard, as if trying to reconcile Frankie’s assertion with the reality you see before you. After all, Santiago “Pope” Garcia looks fine. In all senses of the word. 

Right this second, for example, he’s engaged in a highly tactical water fight with your kid nephews. About to enter the killbox any moment, you wager, given that 5 and 7-year-olds don’t seem bound by those pesky rules of engagement. His cargo shorts are – naturally - far too tight, and he’s wearing his crisp blue shirt as though he forgot what buttons did half-way through getting dressed, the fabric split in a deep, plunging “V” across his tan chest. 

Despite all that, however, the thing which captures your attention most, is the beaming, wide-open grin he has painted on his face. 

He looks... 

...Happy.  

Genuinely happy. The bastard. 

This is the first time he’s seen you since he stormed out of your apartment all those months ago. The first chance he’s had to make things right - and he hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Despite being in your family’s yard. Eating your sister’s food. Playing with your goddamn nephews. You broke his heart, apparently. So Frankie tells you. And yet this fucker dares to looks happy. 

So… Is that what you wanted? 

For him to be happy? 

Without you? 

Or… is a small part of you cruel? 

You’re not sure about the answer to that question, but you do know that your eyes turn mildly devilish as they flick back towards your buddy, your voice hushed and downright conspiratorial. All of a sudden, you’re not concerned with being the bigger person. 

You decide you’ll willingly catch that bone Frankie is throwing. “Tell me more about this playlist, Francisco.” 

You need this, you justify internally. You need something. Some sign that Santiago is hurting too. 

You’ve needed this for months, in fact; but, goddamn - you especially need this before you and the squad spends a whole weekend together up at the beach house. 

You need it badly.

Why? 

Because you’re not fine. 

Not fine at all. 

Not fine without him. 

This is your family's yard, and it’s your family’s  party, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him since he stormed out of your apartment all those months ago… and you’re emphatically not happy about it. Have found that, despite what you had hoped for, your reunion hasn’t solved a damn thing. Hasn’t eased the knot in your chest. Hasn’t allowed you to feel any sense of resolution.

“Fuck.” Your eyes brim over with the realisation, wet and glassy, and a tight lump balls in your throat. 

“Come on,” Frankie mutters - softly but urgently - as your eyes begin to swim with emotion. He nods up towards the interior of the house, and you are endlessly grateful when, with minimal spectacle, your buddy bundles you inside, his arm slung casually around your shoulder for comfort. 

You’re not the retreating type. At all. You have always been comfortable running headlong into things that scare you. Even so, it is a marked relief when you do slink inside. A relief that you were able to save face. Keep your pain hidden. But, most of all, it is a relief that you no longer need to suffer Santiago’s abject joy. 

It is a relief in the same way it is to retreat from the blazing sun, and you immediately find sanctuary in the cool, shaded interior of the house. 

Still, given the tumult of emotions inspired by his general proximity today, you are less and less sure that you can handle this trip. 

The only thing pushing you to go through with it, in fact, is the knowledge that there’s one thing harder than being close to Santiago… and that’s being apart from him. 

Perhaps Frankie’s wrong. Perhaps you didn’t break Santiago’s heart when you left. But, one thing’s for sure. Leaving him had certainly broken yours.

Truth be told, even after all this time, you’ve barely begun to put yourself back together. 

You’re in pieces; which - to be fair - is always how Santiago liked to see you, isn’t it? 

A friend. A soldier. A lover.  

That’s the only way you can stand to view him now. In mere fragments. In the shrapnel of stolen glances; because trying to see him all at once? That’s like trying to stare directly at the sun. 

He is too bright for you and it burns. Even with all this distance. 

***

You’re surrounded by laughter and chatter, yet you feel an unease. An unrest in the pit of you. 

Will’s ballcap is tugged down over your eyes under the guise of staying warm - a flimsy excuse, considering the raging fire pit in the centre of you all, acting as the warm sun to your orbits of beer, passed amiably around from hand to hand via the cooler at Will’s side. 

Naturally, the conversation has veered sharply towards the crude - it reliably does when you are and the boys are all together. 

“For real, Pope. Since we’re, uh, sharing,” Tom interjects, already looking far too pleased with himself. “Do you ever play up the knee thing to… encourage women to go on top?” Tom’s question earns shocked titters from Will and Frankie and, despite yourself, a softly exhaled laugh from you. 

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” Santiago asks Tom with an assured grin, and, upon being subject to the group’s attention, he leans forward in his camp chair. He drains the dregs of his beer and tosses the emptied bottle into the gathering pile in the sand, the label already peeled off by his nimble fingers.

Tom presses him for an answer, and you see Santiago’s pearly flash of teeth glinting in the firelight. “Play it up, buddy?” Santiago emits a deep, throaty chuckle which bobs in his corded neck. The sound is echoed by the other boys too, the threshold for laughter pleasantly lowered by the alcohol. 

Their movements are growing increasingly pack-like - a little less measured and a little more instinctual. Less individual and more unified. Moving as a team even as they sit still, with their spread legs and dropped shoulders and dipped chins. Alert eyes glinting in the dark with each lick of flame. Their energy would intimidate you, you think, if you didn’t know them. If you didn’t feel safer here than anywhere else in the world.

Still wearing that grin, Santiago scoops his hand over his stubble, his finger and thumb tracing around his mouth. “It’s practically a pick-up strategy.” His voice is warm sand and it scrapes you. Leaves a mark. 

Frankie titters off to Santiago’s side - a chaotic, beer-addled laugh. To his other side, Will grins too, his laughter striking a robust and deep note, even whilst shaking his head as though he’s somehow above it all. Together, their sounds form a cacophony you can feel deep in your chest - like the rumble of bass from a speaker, or the subdued roar of the ocean. 

If they are a pack, you - for once - are at odds. You feel it now more than ever, and it jars you. You are hyper-conscious that no display of mirth falls from you; and, in fact, the corners of your mouth turn down. 

Instead, you dwell on this roar - this rumble and hum under your skin. If you feel like the tide, like you are being swept up, Santiago is your shore. Everything about him draws you in, and you feel you could wash him away with the force of your need for him. 

Regardless of that, you continue to do precisely what you’ve been doing all night. You try to bury everything. To subdue your feelings. To calm this frenzy deep in the pit of you. In this moment, thinking about Santiago pursuing people other than you - listening to the damn stories - you take that urge quite literally, digging your bare toes deeply and intently into the sand as though you could disappear wholly into it. 

But; even that reminds you. 

Everything reminds you. 

Santiago. 

You’ve thought of nothing else all night. 

How could you? 

And, you feel the lack of him. 

The roughness of the sand against your smooth skin is a poor substitute for the rasp of his stubble. For the grit of his voice against your throat. The warmth of the curling, licking flame is a poor substitute for his body heat. His curling tongue. His fingers. The way you bury your feelings has nothing on how he buried himself in you. 

You fall into memories, tacky and hot, tumbling, and yet Will’s voice rips you abruptly back to the present. 

“How in the hell do you spin that one, man?” he asks Santiago with a genuine curiosity, his ice blue eyes dancing with amusement.  

Santiago risks a sheepish glance at you then, as though sensitive that his prowess with women might offend you in some way; but your eyes simply glance off of his like a flung spark from the fire pit, desperate to turn towards the dark and rid yourself of any heat which he may ignite. Desperate not to linger on the way the shadows and the light pool across the harsh planes of his face. The way his dark eyes are flickering and alive, and entirely capable of burning. 

And so, Santiago continues, relishing his moment. “Come on. It’s easy,” he breezes. He clears his throat, fully readying to inhabit his role. He shuffles in his chair and changes his demeanour, his body language, his voice. Shifting and contorting himself until he is layered with seduction. His frame even grows bigger, bolder, his legs spread. Chin raised and eyes hooded with a slow, sultry blink of those long lashes. 

Even this performance of heat hurts you; burns. Burns brightly enough that you have to look away from him before your skin is singed by it. “Hermosa,” he rasps, voice pleasantly scuffed by beer and smoke, the sound so rough and gritty you swear you can feel it scrape your skin. Your core clenches around the full, deep, dark tones of him, as though they alone could fill you.

The fire throws out careless sparks like cracked whips, and, like them, you cling to a dying heat. This vestige of the way he spoke to you in the dead, dark night at one time, your bodies all salt-slick skin. “You’re right,” he purrs, and you see that his body has shifted - angled towards Tom. 

You feel embarrassed. You feel alight, as though somehow, they could all find you out in this moment. Could sense the wet slick pooling between your legs. Smell it somehow. Like all of a sudden their eyes will converge on you and they will know - hear the flutter of your pulse in your throat. Sense the throb building in your core. Feel you barrelling from dull ache to desperation. 

“About what?” Tom asks, playing along as Santiago sneaks a hand up his thigh. 

Santiago’s smile is lopsided. Charming, but full of challenge. “Thinking that I’m a bad idea.” He’s hamming it up, for sure, but the syrup and grit in his voice is taking you right back there all the same. Right back to between those sheets, and a disobedient heat snakes down your back. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“Well,” Santiago offers with faux regret, voice husky, and you can’t help but lift your eyes back to him. Can’t possibly look anywhere else now. Can’t help but observe the smirk twitching his appealing mouth and the way his thick brow arcs up. “‘Cause my knees are shot from years in the military, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get on top and ride me senseless.” 

God in heaven.  

Looking at him was a mistake, even like this. Even as he feigns seducing Tom, of all people. There’s just something about the rough edge layered into his voice right now. Something about the firelight painting his sharply-angled face with shadow. The flickers causing his smouldering eyes to glint with an echo of that formidable, latent heat. 

You feel this vestige of warmth in you ignite. Feel it begin to blaze and catch. You feel memories of him, his skin, his touch, amassing grain by grain. Ever so suddenly you are the shore now. Parched. A hot, baking expanse seeking its relieving tide. 

God, you want him. 

You feel your core shiver around the memory of him slipped into you, deep and dirty, teeth on your throat, and it’s almost too much to take. 

You need him, even though you’re still so damn angry with him. 

Or… no. No, that’s not it. Yes - you want him because of it. 

You need to fuck the residual anger from beneath your skin, for it has festered there for months now. Months, and you need it to move. Need it to give. Need it slaked and sated and gone. 

It’s not a healthy desire, you think, and you feel a little shame at that. You are grateful then - as Santiago effortlessly drags you back into the inescapable pit of him - that the boys’ laughter tears you abruptly from this impossible yearning. Gives you a lifeline. Reminds you where you are. How far you’ve come. 

You got out. And that meant leaving him behind too, didn’t it? 

“You’re such a fucking dog, man,” Will snickers. 

The chair over, Frankie’s shoulders are shaking with laughter too, his head tipped up to the sky and his eyes disappeared with it. You wish that you could laugh like that. That you could feel light, but instead you feel heavy and sick. 

“That works?” Tom asks incredulously, and you take another hasty swig of your beer, the froth hissing against your lips and a hoppy taste flooding your tongue. You briefly wish it was something stronger.

“Don’t go getting ideas, Tom,” Santiago says smugly, slapping his buddy emphatically on the thigh. “Works when I do it.” 

Oh, you bet it does. You bet it works. 

Tom throws Santiago a stink-eye then, before sitting slightly taller in his chair, his face contorting in a clear attempt to smoulder. “My knees are shot from years in the military...” Tom echoes, trying to inject a similar level of grit into his voice... and, the contrast? The failure? It is… an instant relief. 

Tom’s attempt is laughable, in fact. And so, when your favourite pilot’s dense, throaty chuckle sounds out to your side once more – this time, you can’t help but crack a smile too. Indeed, the laughter which spills out of you is a welcome vent, and so you reach for it wholeheartedly. 

There is an eruption of good-natured, teasing banter from the boys now - and Tom looks miffed that his attempt to tease Santiago has almost entirely backfired. Then, grasping for this welcome escape route a tad too eagerly, perhaps, you submit your own dig. “You might wanna run that script again. Give us a little less of that insurance infomercial vibe next time, buddy.” 

Frankie can barely breathe from laughing now, his hand coming to clutch his belly, and it’s pleasantly infectious. The atmosphere is safe and cocooning and familiar, and for the first time tonight you almost forget. You almost forget the thing that you haven’t been able to forget for months. That Santi isn’t touching you, and that, God; you need him to. 

But then, your relief is snatched from you all too suddenly. “Well sure,” Tom aims, his shot primed to land. “You would know how it goes, right? First hand? Did Pope use that line on you too, right before he and that guy from the bar practically double-dipped you?” 

The group fucking brace. 

You can feel it. 

It’s the exact same energy as when you’ve all grabbed for purchase in the helo or the humvee, right before a collision. The world seeming to flow in slow motion, your stomach being tossed up in the air and rolling as you lurch and sink.  

Most of the time, sure. You pride yourself for being able to take the boys’ banter on the chin. For having a thick skin. For being able to muster a scathing comeback, rolling off your tongue without a thought. 

But this? This has you beat for a second. This has a sinkhole opening up in your middle.

You meet Will’s eyes for a split second in desperation, but he looks at you helplessly, and you know. You know you need to say something. You know you need to, before they witness -before he witnesses- you falling apart. Before you let your silence reveal that you’re not over Santiago. That this hang isn’t ‘just like old times’. Not like ‘before’. That maybe, it can never be how it was again. 

Finally, something comes to you, and you grab for it; once again, a little too eagerly. “At least I got some, Tom. I doubt you could even seal the deal these days.” You push the words out and hope they sound light, even as you feel a tremor in your body. In your throat. Even as you feel Santiago’s eyes on you without looking. Can imagine them, dark and knowing, and worst of all… apologetic. Maybe even pitying. “Oh hey! Just like your ‘career’ in real estate!”

“Ohhhhh shiiittt,” is the prevailing sentiment from the group, hands flung up into the air as Tom realises he’s just been owned by your spectacular throwdown. 

Good, you think. Good. You’re glad the asshole’s getting his comeuppance but, even so, your petty victory does little to fill the hole in your chest, your heart still hammering and your fingers still trembling subtly against the cool, wet neck of your beer. 

To your surprise though, Tom doesn’t even bite back. Not this time, and that makes you feel even more annoyed, somehow. It makes you feel as though your anger is misdirected. As though Tom’s not the asshole here. As though he’s not the dude you’re fuming at after all. 

Still, your comment served its purpose well enough, you think, as steady, safe banter erupts again. You are pleased that you avoided the full impact of this collision, brakes slammed on as you still teeter on the cliff edge; but your heart feels bruised and rattled in the roll cage of your chest all the same. 

Mainly though, you are pleased that you are no longer the focus of everyone’s attention. However, your skin warms when you notice one man’s eyes remain on you, his gaze fixated and hooded and intense, and a shiver of heat dips down each notch of your spine. 

You look away. You tug Will’s cap a little further down over your eyes and you wait. You wait for the topic to shift so that you can excuse yourself without the cause being quite so obvious. You wait, until you can’t take the heat from this fire a second longer. Then, and only then, you make your excuses and dip out, retreating into the empty, quiet shell of the house. 

You pad into the kitchen, the cool interior immediately relieving against your hot skin, gooseflesh snaking down your arms and making your hairs stand on end. The dim light is certainly a respite from the searing brightness of the fire and the sting of the smoke in your eyes. But most of all, of course, it is relief from him. 

Santiago. 

It’s rough. Rougher than you expected. You simply can’t take this distance from him. You’d thought, before, that the miles between you - between here and Colombia - had been hard to reckon with. But this distance? The vanishingly small distance where he’s right here yet has never felt further out of your reach? That’s a thousand times harder. This petty distance – this rupture, this wound – hurts far more, because it feels far harder to heal. Far more festering than a clean break, and seeing him has already torn out every self-applied suture. 

You don’t like that things seem to have been irrevocably changed. You don’t like that your two bodies - which used to be so in sync - are now so awkward around one another. Purposefully aloof, rather than tactile. Remaining so separate, rather than together. 

It has been slowly amassing all day, the weight of this pain. Of this lack. And now, after feeling the absence of his touch so intensely - of that blessed togetherness- ironically, you finally need a moment alone. 

You cross the room and fold yourself over the kitchen counter, hinging at the hips. You rest your head in your hands, laying your forearms flat along the cool, marbled surface. 

For a brief moment, it is even a relief. You breathe deeply. Put him out of your head. But, after only one moment more you find yourself missing the pain. You’ve become fond of it, in a way. You haven’t been able to let go because, in truth, you’ve wanted to feel the continued burn of this loss - like a scar.

It is the only proof you have left that he touched you at all. 

That you came close to having something with him. Within touching distance of it. 

But now… 

You sigh deeply. You hate this torment. You hate not knowing how to be around him. The way the familiar is recast as unfamiliar. Your certainty now uncertainty. Your home now a hotel. 

You’ve spent the whole day so far keeping your distance. Talking only to the group, always some buffer of Tom or Will or Frankie in between you. Always leaving one seat between your bodies. Avoiding prolonged eye contact. Going out of your way to make sure the two of you were never left alone.

Being left alone with him is the last thing you want; and the first, of course. 

And, as if on cue, a low whistle sounds from behind you. You know the sound without looking, and your body stiffens. “An ocean view and now this?” Santiago jokes cautiously as he approaches behind you, clearly faced with a perfect view of your ass as you fold over the counter. “Pretty sweet deal. You should get Tom in on this real estate action. He might actually sell something.” 

Despite everything, all of it, you can’t help but laugh at that. You appreciate the dig at Tom a hell of a lot more than you should, actually. 

“Listen. Are you… alright?” Santiago asks next, much more softly. You hate the way his voice prickles the hairs on the back of your neck; but also, you don’t hate it at all, of course. 

You inhale and stand, pushing your torso up from the counter. You look up to the top of the cabinets, not blinking until the would-be tears have dried, and only then do you turn towards him. 

Santiago. 

Only then do you face your sun, praying that you will not be singed.  

All day, you have had a buffer in between the two of you. Clouds, to dim his brightness. But now, it is just you and him, alone in the kitchen of the beach house. 

This bland domesticity sure is a far cry from the field, yes. From your original shared domain. But, it also serves as an all too painful reminder of the last time you saw him. Of the last time his lips moved against yours. Of the last time, in that kitchen, that he’d had you. Taken you, bunched up naked against the fridge as he filled your slick heat with his fingers. As he kissed you and tongued you and claimed you back, as if he ever intended to keep you. 

It is a reminder of the time he had told you he loved you, and with finality, you had both realised that it still might not be enough.

You turn towards him, finally, and you brace. 

Brace like you’re about to collide. 

Like there will be an impact when your eyes meet.

Your brace like you’re expecting hot tempers, hot feelings, hot words. Wounds splitting and salt being rubbed in. 

Still, that’s not at all what you get. 

Instead, Santiago’s eyes are as wet as your own. All of his boldness and bluster is gone, and he’s standing on the very perimeter of the room as though he is the one who dares to venture no further. As though you might burn him if he gets too close. 

“I missed you,” he rasps, and despite the softness and the sincerity of the words, they feel like a rough struck match against your skin. 

You try desperately. Try desperately to fling this offered spark away before it catches, but it is futile. 

He missed you, and his admission already has you blazing for him. 

He’s standing mere feet from you.

And, despite everything, all you can think about is closing this oh so petty distance. 

[senka-mesecine]

Platoon boys’ go-to meals?

---

― Chris probably has tried and likes food far more refined than he is ever comfortable admitting, especially in front of the (mostly?) working class outfit that is his platoon; that is to say, this boy has probably grown up on high-end, high quality meals and has as such been born and bred on a rather exquisite palette, but in order to avoid being the other or seeming hoytie-toytie he might just front that his go-to is far more makeshift and working class than it genuinely is, going so far as to pretend until artifice and truth intermingle and these crisis poverty meals truly become a staple of his. He might've left for Vietnam enjoying something as obnoxiously fancy as Piedmont White Truffles and returned from Vietnam relishing in soggy bread dipped in the oily residue of canned food (undoubtedly much to his parent's shock).

― O'Neill strikes me as the type of dude whose particular anecdotes just consist of overblown, tall tales and that includes food as well, because say, why wouldn't it --- he could be here relaying all sorts of stories of how when he makes a barbeque, it's to die for, or how he whips up a wicked meal like no other, how the cafeteria chefs and the mandatory rations ain't really hot shit, how he knows the real trade, how his recipes are 'The O'Neill special', but while this is all fine and well that man is never seen consuming anything but a chainsmoked barrage of cigarettes and beer after beer, pretty much living on the two. He never cooks, never eats much of anything else and that probably adds to his already neurotic, anxious, often mean spirited self, rendering his go-to meal (if it can be called that) an unhealthy mix of nicotine and cheap alcohol.

― Bunny's go-to meals are gross. And they're gross for the simple reason that his habits, in general, are gross too, and it very well reflects in the food he consumes, often resulting in meals so nonsensical and eyebrow raising they make not a lick of sense to nobody but Bunny. In general, he eats like an unruly kid left without adult supervision...which is technically true because he is an unruly kid without adult surpervision. So, think, crumble sandwiches where all the ingredients are leaking through as he eats them separately, popcorn poured over with beer, gummy worms where he sneaks in the occasional real worm to prank someone unsuspecting like Junior or perhaps food that is deliberately styled and shaped by him to resemble something crude so he can snicker at the damn thing even as he digs in. Suffice to say, if you skip out on any of these, it is for the better.

― Realistically and tragically enough...an addict undoubtedly doesn't really have a clearly drawn out go-to meal anymore. His go-to meal cancelled out by whatever substance he's hooked on, overriding every other need and craving, taking precedence over everything else. Such is the case for Rhah Vermucci. His food are opiates. Heroin. Weed. Coke. Whatever it is he can get his hands on to achieve a sense of relief and that typical high. If there ever was a time when he did have a favorite meal or a classic go-to, well damn, it is undoubtedly overshadowed by his current addiction to the degree he is never even really hungry and one would say...to worrying degrees, meaning that in conclusion his prefered sustenance are drugs, making him ever more high strung and intense than usual.

― Much like Chris, Mark Wolfe won't say what his actual go-to meal actually is out of fear of being made fun of or alienating the platoon that hardly respects him even further away from himself, meaning that he is likely to go with whatever he deduces is the commonly liked meal amongst the men in order to, in a sense, blend in and gain social points, like a chameleon. He figures the boys like canned peaches? Shoot, he likes himself some canned peaches too and he might casually bring it up as banter during breaks. The men like canned peas and beans? 'Peas and beans, huh, Sanderson? Nice.' he might just casually throw in his comment while doing a routinely, casual inspection of barrack spaces. You won't catch this man ever saying he actually likes Beluga caviar they serve at invite-only officer's bars and country clubs even though it is likely everyone figured as much.

― King can cook. Something tells me that man can really cook. If anyone within The Underground can whip up some surprisingly delicious food from scratch, who understands the usage of spices, who is genuinely joyful, all smiles tendering a cooking pot and feels undeniable pride in what he whips up for everyone, organizing a communal potluck, it is for sure King, dragging forth some recipes back home and legitimately managing fine meals with minimal ingredients on a tight military budget, meaning that his go-to could technically be whatever he can make, which is possibly most anything. He strikes me like the type to make everyone a hearty, meaty stew concocted from canned rations to create the most mouthwatering meal after everyone's reefer binge gets them famished. Baby, dig in!

― Elias likes fruit, plain and simple. Bananas, Mangoes, Rambutan, Dragon's eye Longan, Pomelo, Rose Apples, Guavas, Star Fruit or just flat out chewing sugar cane bamboo on the go, instead of candy. This man can find snacks and meals in the most unlikely places and he can march on for days with minimal or even no rations living off what's available all around him, doing so in stride where others would've faltered and given up, always having some manner of herb, grass or natural ingredient he could be munching on on the go. One could even label this man as vegetarian merely through the accidental choice of him always going for vegetables and fruits growing off the land even though he is not opposed to meat, irregardless of the fact that the optics imply it. I get the impression the man just likes foraging for nature-based sweets, truly having an eye for it.

― Barnes eats anything. And I do mean anything. This man will skin and fry a snake, he will throw tarantula over the fire letting its venom seep out, he will consume insects, bugs, he will eat rations no matter how rancid, he will go starving if he has to, handling the lack of food with a stoic poker face, he will hunt, big game, small game --- he is truly the ultimate survivalist because he gives me the impression of someone who might think being a picky eater or complaining about food is generally weak shit and laughable possibly leaving an empty space where his go-to food would go seeing as how he views meals like sustenance and nothing else; a sort of necessary evil under extreme circumstances rather than something one can afford to form standards around and legitimately; his one indulgence might just be cigarettes and Jack Daniels and even that solely for the locally patriotic stance of the liquor being from Tennessee.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

I'm Setting Off, But Not Without My Muse

I'll Write Your Name Chapter 7

Roy Kent x Latina!Popstar!Reader

4.8k words

Warnings: Language, heavy kissing, pining

Keeley lounged on Roy’s couch, looking comfortable and familiar with crossed her legs and messy hair. She smiled when Roy handed her the soda he’d brought from the kitchen, throwing Roy back to all those lazy days they’d spent together on that couch, days of kisses and laughter and love. Days he missed.

“My sister should be here soon,” he murmured as he threw himself down on the couch beside Keeley. “Remind me what you and Phoebe are doing again?” He resisted the urge to grab her hand or press his palm to her thigh, the way he used to.

Ignoring or missing Roy’s pining, Keeley grinned and sipped her soda. “We’re going to a museum,” she explained slowly. “And we’re going to take turns closing our eyes and trying to draw the art we see. Whoever does the best wins, and loser pays for lunch.”

“Where the fuck did Phoebe get money from?” Roy snorted.

Keeley blinked at him, as if it was obvious. “You, you dolt. Girl’s a little millionaire with all your swearing.”

The sound of knocking at his door stopped Roy from retorting; not that he had a defense, to be fair. His wallet was constantly empty thanks to Pheobe. Maybe the knock at the door saved him from admitting Keeley was right, he thought to himself as he opened it.

Those familiar eyes sparkled at him. “Hey, Roy.” She stepped inside, looking comfortable in a simple sweater and jeans. The moment she saw Keeley on the couch, it was like a switch flipped. Her hand was on Roy’s hip, tugging him to herself so she could plant a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Missed you,” she hummed.

Roy froze. Even after all this time, all the kisses, he still had moments where her seemingly easy affection caught him off-guard, rendering him frozen like a statue. This was definitely one of those moments, with his ex-girlfriend on his couch watching with quirked eyebrows and amused eyes.

Just as suddenly, she stepped back and smacked her palm to her forehead. “Shit,” she chuckled awkwardly, her eyes focusing on Keeley again. “I’m so sorry. I forgot I don’t have to do that in front of you.” She adjusted Roy’s shirt where she’d grabbed him. “My bad, Kent.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Keeley teased, shooting them a wink. “Kiss him all you want. I doubt he’d complain too much.”

“Keeley-” Roy started to growl, wondering if both women could spot his heavy blush and the way his fists clenched at his side.

But Keeley wasn’t focused on that. Instead, she patted the spot next to her, urging the popstar to sit beside her. “So, have you two planned your holiday yet? I know Lanie’s been on your ass about it.”

With a glance at Roy, the singer settled by Keeley, noticeably stiff compared to the former model. “Uh, Roy found some spot in this little lakeside town,” she said quietly. Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound so timid. What the fuck had her so shy? “That’s why I’m here,” she added quickly, eyes on Keeley. “So we can finish planning everything.”

“That sounds lovely,” Keeley said in a soothing voice, almost as though she was trying to comfort the singer. “I think you and Roy-o are going to have a great time.” She shot Roy another wink. “Sounds very romantic.”

Roy cleared his throat. “I think it’ll be a great writing spot,” he said. “She can focus on the album, I’ll get some reading done.”

There was that smile, that small grin that made Roy soften. “I’m excited,” she admitted to Keeley, although her eyes were still on Roy. “If nothing else, it’s nice to get away before the tour begins. Because now, with this album, I’m not going to get to relax much before it starts. At least I’ll get to relax a little on this trip.”

“Or not relax,” Keeley hummed with a wink.

Roy didn’t know what he hated more: Keeley implying he’d be interested in anyone other than her, or feeling embarrassed in front of his fake girlfriend. Probably the latter, he realized when he saw the alarmed look that appeared on that pretty face. Now she was going to spend their little getaway worried that Roy was going to make some sort of move on her, he panicked with silent groan.

Fucking Keeley.

~

“Shit, sunshine, what’s in this one? Bricks?”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the admittedly heavy backpack out of Roy’s hands. “Old notebooks,” I corrected. “I’ve gotta dig through these things to find some usable lyrics, remember?”

Roy’s little grunt was the only answer I got. He loaded my suitcase into his giant black car before taking back the backpack and tossing it inside. He squinted at my empty hands for a moment before gazing back at my house. “I made sure the place was pet-friendly, you know.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, cocking my head. “What, did Keeley make you rent a dog for our vacation? Make us look all domestic?”

“No,” he huffed, obviously fighting the growing curve in his mouth. “For Sydney. I figured you’d be bringing her along.”

My heart melted as I blinked at Roy. I knew he liked my cat- and she, amazingly enough, liked him in return- but I wouldn’t have expected him to include her in our plans. Most of my real boyfriends tolerated Syd well enough, choosing to mostly engage in mutual indifference. Roy, on the other hand, seemed to genuinely like having Sydney curled up in his lap during Scrabble games and was keen to feed her if he woke up before me.

Stupid thing better not get too attached, I thought bitterly as I mumbled something about going to pack Sydney’s things really quickly. He won’t be around forever.

As I gathered some cat food and toys and urged Sydney into her travel carrier, I wondered if I was worried about Sydney or myself. With Roy’s help, I packed the cat and her things into his car, reminding myself all the while that this was a business trip of sorts. We were going for publicity, I scolded myself as I buckled into the passenger seat. This was for work.

My reminders were interrupted when Roy turned on his car and my own voice suddenly filled the vehicle.

The tips of Roy’s ears were red as he quickly turned off the car stereo. “Phoebe,” he mumbled simply. “She always turns it up way too fucking loud.”

I fought the smile that was desperately trying to break through. “Sure, Kent,” I chuckled. “You weren’t blasting my song on your way to pick me up. You absolutely didn’t sing every word at the top of your lungs. Totally believe you.”

Damn, why did he have to wear bashfulness so well? “Fuck off, sunshine.”

Slouching in my seat and defeated by the smile on my face, I turned to him. “What is your favorite song by me? If you don’t mind me asking.”

His fingers tapped the steering wheel as he turned off my street, off on our little adventure. “D’you think I have a favorite?”

“Of course you do,” I scoffed. “I saw the way you sang Our Song. You’re a bigger fan than you let on, Kent.”

“Touche.” He bobbled his head as he stared straight ahead. “You’ve got some really good songs. Nothing New was phenomenal. I’ve listened to it a few times and it just leaves me fucking breathless.” A frown crossed his face. “But it might be Happiness,” he said quietly.

My eyes traced his profile. “Why that one?”

He sighed and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s mature,” he said slowly. “Accepting the end of this relationship, acknowledging the good and bad of it all, hoping for forgiveness that goes both ways.” He sighed. “I’ve got to admit, I used to think you were just… fluff. I mean, Pheebs always likes your sugary pop stuff, that’s what’s on the radio. But after Nothing New-” He shook his head. “I went and listened to some of your other things, and fuck, you’re a great songwriter.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. “And I liked the Gatsby references, sunshine.”

I tried to tell myself that my warm cheeks were the result of feeling humbled by kind praise, not feeling flustered because Roy was telling me he liked my song. “Thanks,” I murmured. I picked at the hem of my shirt. “It was kind of a hard song to write. Emotionally, I mean. But it felt really good once I’d finished recording it.”

“I bet,” was all he said.

The rest of the drive was calmly quiet. I rested my head against the window, watching the city fade away and become green, green, and more green. Roy didn’t say much, other than ask how Sydney and I were doing. After a while, I took out a notebook and began jotting down some words, words that just kind of flowered onto the page before I could even really comprehend what they were saying.

Roy eyed me curiously as I scribbled. “Lyrics?” he asked simply.

I nodded, scribbling down the last couple of words. “Just a few lines,” I admitted. “Who knows if it’ll become anything. But you never know, so I’ve gotta write everything down. Sometimes the silliest little lines can become something special.”

“Read it to me.”

I swallowed hard, staring at the words I’d jotted down. “It’s just a couple little scribbles-”

“Come on, sunshine.”

Unable to say no to his gentle tone, I cleared by throat and slowly read, “Wait for the signal and I’ll meet you after dark… show me the places where the others gave you scars… Now this is an open-shut case, I guess I should’ve known by the look on your face… Every bait-and-switch was a work of art.”

When I dared to look at Roy, he wore a large, infectious grin. “What the fuck,” he chuckled, smacking the steering wheel. “What kind of a mind d’you got in that pretty little head? You just came up with that right now? Out of fucking nowhere?” He let out a sharp breath. “Fucking amazing.”

His words were overwhelming, drawing a deep blush to my cheeks. He sounded so real, so genuine as he praised the couple of lines I’d jotted down. I decided to believe he really meant it. Friends could gush over each other like that- right?

I also decided to ignore him calling me pretty.

“Thanks, Kent,” I murmured, slouching into my seat. “Dunno what it’ll become but…”

“Well, whatever it is,” he said, “it’ll be fucking great.”

He knew he’d guessed right when he saw the smile on her face at the sight of the instrument. She turned to him, eyebrows raised and cat in hand.

~

It was a nice house. Bright and airy with a gorgeous view of a lake, a couple of cozy bedrooms, a sweet little kitchen, and, most importantly, an inviting sitting room with a piano. As soon as Roy saw a photo of the instrument online, he booked the house, figuring it would be a perfect spot for some songwriting.

“There’s a piano,” she said simply.

Roy nodded, warmth in his chest as he took in her pleased reaction. “Figured between that and your guitar, you’d be all set,” he explained. “Is it fine? The piano? I didn’t know what kind you like, or if this one’s any good.” He was blabbering now, suddenly anxious that he’d done just the wrong thing.

But she shook her head, letting Sydney go so she could approach the little bench. She sat and began plucking at the keys, creating a simple little melody that Roy felt like he knew. She glanced at him, the music never stopping. “You ever play?”

“No,” Roy scoffed. “Only thing I’ve ever played is football.” Not knowing what came over him, he strolled over and sat beside her, watching her fingers move with ease over the ivory. “Is this one of your songs?”

She nodded and opened her mouth, letting her sweet voice fill the house.

Roy nodded along. He’d heard this one before; it always sounded so childish when he heard it over the speakers, and half the time he skipped right over it, ignoring Phoebe’s complaints about ever skipping her songs. But maybe it was hearing the authoress in person, or maybe it was how down-to-earth it sounded like this, or maybe it was the way the setting sun was hitting her pretty face, whatever it was, Roy thought the song sounded nothing short of charming.

School bell rings, walk me home

Sidewalk chalk covered in snow

Lost my gloves, you give me one

"Wanna hang out?"

Yeah, sounds like fun

Video games, you pass me a note

Sleeping in tents

It's nice to have a friend

She turned to him, still playing, and nodded to the keys. “You try.”

“Fuck no, I-”

All it took was her raising her eyebrows expectantly, and Roy found his fingers touching the cool keys. She paused, freezing her fingers and nodding down at them.

“Set your fingers like this,” she instructed. When Roy had taken the same position, she looked at his face. “Just copy my movements.”

She moved her fingers slowly, delicately, and Roy did his best to mirror them. He hit some wrong keys, and he was so stilted and awkward, but he created something resembling music. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders started to dissipate, all the embarrassment in his head gone, making room in his brain for the simple melody they created together. A quiet, almost domestic bliss settled over the two of them, the kind of quiet that didn’t need a single word. He tried to remember the last time he felt such a calmness; probably with Keeley. He didn’t realize how much he missed it, just the pleasure of someone’s company.

And Roy definitely wasn’t complaining about the glowing little smiles she offered him.

It was nice to have a friend, indeed.

~

It was the sun, I told myself as I forced my eyes back to my notebook. I was suddenly feeling warm because I was lying out in the sun. That had to be it.

~

The sun felt good on my face, warm and inviting. I was supposed to be diving through an old notebook and searching for usable lyrics, but Roy kept distracting me. Not on purpose, of course. He just stretched out on our picnic blanket, eyes on the book he’d brought along, pausing only to take a sip of beer or grab a piece of fruit to pop into his mouth. But I couldn’t stop glancing over at him. He looked so incredibly relaxed, kind of like he had the night of his championship celebration, and he had this tiny grin on his face as he read, as if he was amused by the book in his hands. And then I noticed his hands, how strong and firm they looked holding the book open. And today he’d opted to wear shorts, showing off muscular legs I rarely got to see.

“Alright there?”

That gruff voice had me snapping back to reality. “Fine,” I choked out, shaking away thoughts that I really shouldn’t have been having. “How’s your book?”

Roy shrugged and flipped through the pages. “It’s good. I’ve read it before, but it’s nice to revisit?” He raised an eyebrow. “Like you and Gatsby, I guess.”

My eyes scanned the cover I hadn’t paid much attention to earlier. “A Wrinkle in Time,” I read aloud. “I’ve heard that’s a good one.”

“You could borrow it sometime. If you want.” Roy grinned. “When you’re not being pressured to write an entire album of love song for a man you’re not really in love with.” He shook his head, missing way I squirmed at the ‘L’ word. “Freaking Keeley, making you do this. You’re a trooper for saying yes, you know that, sunshine?”

“It’s fine,” I assured him with a little chuckle. “Who doesn’t love a challenge?” I paused, picking at the grass at the edge of the blanket. “Speaking of Keeley…” I let out a little breath, suddenly even warmer in the face. “She didn’t, er, send you any messages recently, did she?”

Something in Roy’s face fell for a flicker of a moment before relaxing again. He quickly shook his head. “No. Did she send you something?”

“Yeah.” I rolled my eyes, pretending my heart wasn’t slamming in my chest. “She says we’re both way too hot to be so… chaste when we’re out together.” I offered an awkward grimace. “She wants us to, like, get caught being hot and heavy.”

The choking sound sputtering out of Roy’s mouth had my face burning even worse than it already was. “Oh.” He blinked a few times, the gears in his head almost visibly turning. “Do you… want to make out then?”

Despite the absolute mortification I was feeling, I couldn’t help laughing at his words. “Jeez, Roy, that’s so high school of you,” I managed between chuckles.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he finally joined me in laughter. “Fuck me, that was terrible, wasn’t it?” He shook his head, offering a sheepish grin. “But I mean…” His eyes shifted somewhere over my shoulder. “That papps Keeley tipped off is over there somewhere. Probably has a clear view of us.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless…”

The laughter left my lungs as I looked into those brown eyes, just as unsure as I suddenly felt. This shouldn’t be difficult; we’d been kissing each other for a couple of months now. And I’d filmed plenty of kissing scenes for music videos, I reminded myself. Steamy ones, even. Surely, I could manage to get a little heavy with my supposed boyfriend, couldn’t I?

“Anything for the job,” I joked, suddenly hating the way that had seemed to become our motto.

“For the job,” Roy echoed with a smirk.

Without warning, he grabbed my hips and tugged me onto his lap. A surprised squeal slipped past my lips, prompting a chuckle to rumble in his chest. His hands skittered up and down my back as he smiled up at me.

“This alright?” he hummed. His eyes were on my mouth.

I managed to nod as I rested my hands on his shoulders. “Sure.” I hoped my voice was casual and unbothered.

“Good.”

His lips felt so comfortable against mine, warm and familiar now. I let myself settle onto his lap and closed my eyes, focusing on being as natural as possible. Roy pulled me close, chest to chest, until I felt his heartbeat against my body; he could probably feel mine slamming against my ribs. He tasted like the beer and fruit he’d been enjoying all afternoon, a beautiful, summery combination I wanted to taste forever. Without thinking, I gave a gentle grind against his lap. His grip tightened on me as a curious little hum vibrated against my mouth.

My body was buzzing, on fire, drunk on Roy’s mouth and hands and body. While the little voices in the back of my mind kept reminding me this was an act, this was all pretend, the rest of my mind was screaming Roy’s name, wanting to take him back to the house and make this real.

Taking him back to the house felt like an especially good idea when his hands began to slide down my back, lower and lower.

“Should I…?” he rasped against my lips.

I nodded, refusing to open my eyes and break the spell I was under. “Probably.”

Roy’s hands cupped my ass tentatively, as if he was waiting for me to snap at him; he was probably remembering the night we “met”, where I warned him about his hand placement. Oh, how far we’d come since that night of snarking at each other and trying not to roll our eyes. Trying to assure him he was fine, I pressed down against him again, swallowing back my reflexive groan when I felt the beginning of a bulge against my increasingly needy parts.

Apparently he understood the permission I was giving him, because Roy’s grip on my ass tightened, fingers digging into the material of my jeans. I tried to remember the last time I’d been kissed like this- in public no less. It felt like something was waking up inside me. No, it wasn’t arousal from the kiss, from Roy’s hands on my body like he wanted me. It was a feeling that was settling deep in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that was making itself right at home as a melody and words began to bloom in my mind.

Dammit, it might be love.

~

~

For the last few decades, Roy Kent had spent plenty of time around impressive people. Politicians and rich people who made him want to barf. Actresses and models that looked good on his arm and in his bed. And, of course, some of the most famous, talented athletes in history, athletes he was proud to play against and stand beside. Hell, he was a legend in his own right, something he seemed to conveniently forget.

But he couldn’t help being impressed watching an artist at work, something he hadn’t had the opportunity to witness before now. He was a little nervous for her heading into this holiday, wondering if she’d be able to work under so much pressure. But once they arrived, it was like a dam had broken. She was constantly in her notebooks, scribbling furiously and scrambling through old pages. Or she was strumming away at her guitar or picking at the piano, creating melodies that Roy found himself humming as he relaxed around the house.

She didn’t play much for him, just little snippets here and there that she quickly critiqued and went back to work on. Still, he kept asking her to play him something; but they weren’t ready she insisted. Roy didn’t care; he found himself craving pretty tunes and a prettier voice.

A couple days into the trip, he was in the little kitchen, making some dinner while Sydney padded around, meowing up at him and drowning out the twinkling sounds of the piano. He mumbled back to the cat, reminding her that her owner would not be happy if he snuck her a treat without checking first. But the cat kept chattering, so Roy finally threw his hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” he huffed, unable to believe he was having a conversation with a cat. “Let’s go ask your mum if you can have a bit of fucking carrot.” He scooped up Sydney and let her climb onto his shoulders- a spot he had quickly realized she liked- and made his way into the sitting room.

She looked so comfortable in her sweats, her hair up in a sloppy hairstyle. She was so engrossed in her music, she didn’t notice Roy leaning in the doorway, a ghost of a smile on his face as he listened to her quietly sing.

Sydney’s little meow caught her attention. She stopped playing and looked up at the duo in the doorway, eyes a little wide. “Oh, hey,” she chuckled, smoothing down her wild hair. “Sorry, too loud?”

I spy with my little tired eye

Tiny as a firefly

A pebble that we picked up last July

Down deep inside your pocket

We almost forgot it

Does it ever miss Wicklow sometimes?

They said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

“Not at all,” Roy assured her, reaching up to scratch Sydney behind the ear. Damn cat, interrupting his private concert. “That’s really fucking nice. You should keep going. I’d love to hear it.”

A tiny smile graced her lips when she saw the earnest way Roy was looking at her. “Fine. But you stay over there. I want to pretend you guys aren’t here, alright?”

Roy did as he was told, staying in the doorway as she picked up that sweet little melody and focused her eyes on the notebook in front of her, the words almost indiscernible; she seemed to be able to read the rushed writing with ease.

She took a deep breath and snuck a glance at Roy before continuing to the bridge- her strength as a songwriter, Roy recalled from Keeley.

On the way home

I wrote a poem

You say, "What a mind"

This happens all the time

'Cause they said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was nothing

Her smile grew as she went on, looking less like a glamorous popstar and more like a girl, alone in her room, playing with music as if it was a toy, creating something out of nothing but emotions. It was nothing short of magical, Roy admitted to himself. This album was going to be something special, he realized.

Industry disruptors and soul deconstructors

And smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other

And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more"

To you, I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it

And he’d have to take credit for being its muse.

She looked straight at Roy, not hiding that radiant smile as she sang-

They said the end is coming

Everyone’s up to something

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings

Outside, they’re push and shoving

She played a sweet little outro, eyes still on Roy. Once finished, she offered him a tiny shrug, eyes bright with curiosity. “What d’you think?”

Roy’s in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

They said the end is coming

Everyone’s up to something

I find myself running home to your sweet nothings

Outside, they’re push and shoving

You’re in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

“Fuck,” Roy laughed, finally walking over to sit down next to her, letting Sydney slip down into his arms. “That was lovely. Really lovely.” Before he could stop himself, the question he dreaded asking blurted out of his mouth. “Who’s it about?”

He felt so sure he’d stepped in it when her eyes flickered down, away from his gaze, before looking at him again. “Well, when I originally started writing this one, it was about my mom,” she started slowly. “I had been thinking about this time my parents visited, and we went to Ireland together. It was amazing, getting to show them places they never thought they’d visit.” She shook her head, as if the memories of that trip were fluttering through her mind. Then her eyes found his again. “But it’s also… well, about you, Kent.”

Roy nearly dropped the cat. “Me?” he asked incredulously. “Fuck d’you mean me?”

She chuckled awkwardly, rolling her eyes a little. “What you said about my mind, when I was writing in the car,” she explained. “And how you’ve been just, I dunno, really sweet about everything I’ve been working on here. And, I don’t know, you’ve become a really good friend.” She reached out and placed a hand on his leg, giving a small squeeze. “So I guess this song’s about the people who make me feel safe, happy, despite all the idiots in this world.” She wrinkled her nose. “Does that make sense?”

His heart felt like it stopped dead in his chest. It was such a candid, honest answer- and not the one he expected. He knew she’d have to change lyrics to fit him before finalizing songs, but he didn’t think she’d write about him. Roy wasn’t sure he’d ever been so… flattered? Sure. Flattery. That was the warm feeling nuzzling in his chest, the same warm feeling that was spreading to his cheeks as she blinked at him, waiting for him to say something, probably to assure her that he liked being her muse.

“Oh,” was all that came out of his stupid mouth. “Wow.”

He saw it. He had seen it when he brushed her off the first time she talked to him about The Great Gatsby. He saw it when he walked brusquely out of the room when she first played Nothing New for him in her living room. And he was pretty sure he saw it when he ignored her at the Greyhound’s celebration to pay attention to Keeley.

It was some mix of disappointment and hurt. Something that made Roy wish he was capable of being someone other than himself.

Still, she put on that tiny, shy smile and removed her hand from Roy’s leg. “Yeah,” she chuckled. “Anyway, sorry for interrupting your cooking.” She cleared her throat and stood, scooping Sydney out of his arms. “I better go feed her.” Not quite looking at Roy, she walked out, leaving him all alone at the silent piano.

Taglist: @infinetlyforgotten@ladygrey03@book-of-roses@thatonedogwithablog@misshall14@wibblywobblyvampywolfystuff@akornsworld@itswhateveripromise@purecinnamonextract@oceanncurrent@dearvoidgoodnight@hopefulromances@respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog@hotleaf-juice@emmy2811@captainorbust-blog@preciousbabypeter@shion-ah@royalestrellas@eugene-emt-roe@littleesilvia@teenwolf01@sisinever@yagotgames@queen-of-the-downtown-scene@emmaallisonann@mrdsturd@confessionsofatotaldramaslut@charkachow@mrdsturd@littlepinapple@sunfairyy@shadowzena43@uhmidkmuch@imsoluckyeverythingworksoutforme

[metashard]

Necron .blend and .fbx files, fresh off the forge

We got Orikan (the only one based off an existing canon depiction)! We got Vishani! We got Yenekh! We got Lysikor! We don't have anyone else yet, hope you like one of those flavors.

Questions that have not been asked but which I anticipate:

Textures? I cannot be assed to learn how to export right now. If you want the textures I used for what few renders I've posted, or if the .blend file yells at you for not having a certain plugin, go to Sanctus Library (https://sanctuslibrary.xyz/) and download. Everything I used was from the free version, primarily Smart Metal and Hammered Copper. Vishani and Orikan have textures already set up for Sanctus, while Yenekh and Lysikor do not.

Bones? Bones should work in the .blend. You may have to re-parent the meshes to the armature in the fbx. They don't want to stick when I do it. I don't think that file format likes me very much.

Printing? All models have multiple pieces of floating geometry, as they were designed solely with digital use in mind. I haven't worked with 3d printing before personally, but it shouldn't be too hard to extend the meshes together. Your needs will vary depending on the pose you use, as I don't think most people will be using straight T-poses.

Help me? I have to be awake at 5am tomorrow for work. Help will be sparing.

What can I do? Pose them. Animate them. Crush them in a hydraulic press. Model dicks on them. Model five dicks on them. Honestly, go wild. I don't even want credit for Orikan, seeing as I stole him from James Warshop in the first place. Just don't sell them, physically or digitally. Dishonor upon your tomb if you dare consider it.

I wanted Trazyn. We're fresh out of Trazyn, come back when convention season's over.

Your topology is shit. Yeah, this whole thing started as an effort to practice hard surface modeling. It's better than when I started, trust me.

Please help me. DM me or respond to this post and I'll see what I can do when I get time.

[gwemmieee]

Hey, have you ever examined the deep fear, paranoia, and shame you feel whenever you try to examine or voice something you feel deep down that you're worried someone else might take issue with? Don't you feel bad about all the subtle ways it renders you less able to know yourself, love yourself, express yourself, and advocate for yourself? If you're thinking about all that social anxiety horror that Super Eye Patch Wolf just talked about, and if you're so utterly afraid of standing out or going against the crowd--this is related to that.

It's probably because you think it's good to call someone out before it's proven that they are knowingly and willfully causing harm. It's probably because you think people should be punished if they harm someone period, even if it was by accident or without knowing. Even if it might have just been a misunderstanding and no real harm done was anyone's fault. And it's only fair that the same standard applies to you as well, isn't it?

It's probably because you've internalized that your value as a human being deserving of love and community can be reduced or eliminated if you say something wrong enough loudly enough. It's probably because, even if you do not ascribe to thought crime, and you agree that we should not demonize ourselves or each other for our own thoughts and feelings as long as we put in the work to be good with our actions, you tripped at the finish line when you forgot about the basic fact of human psychology that we can't translate negative thoughts into positive action without being able to speak about it openly in a space where others will truly understand how we feel, and not just skip straight to the part where feeling that way is already cringe before you've actually fully internalized your own growth past it.

It's probably because you have privilege as someone who has ever had access to real friends/family who stand by you no matter what heinous shit you say or do, and that privilege has enabled you to learn a lot very quickly about how to appear as a good person in society, because those friends/family allowed you to actually feel supported as a human being with feelings before you knew better, which is a hard prerequisite to ever knowing better, and you have not examined that privilege.

It's probably because you think you can sniff out who's good or bad just on vibes and act as judge, jury, and executioner, instead of focusing on harm reduction for anyone who you know was hurt and learning some hard realities about human interaction. For example, being ignorant is not the same as acting on that ignorance. Voicing ignorance without aggression and then being willing to learn something is actually a good thing for others to view in public, because it teaches valuable lessons to everyone paying attention, and anyone who feels validated and empowered to be shitty from such an exchange was just looking for an excuse.

I think this knowledge is something that we feminists should stand for. Anti-militancy. I know it's hard to tell here on this gremlin-ass modern internet for many of us due to circumstances beyond our control, but when you actually go outside and have friends IRL, you'll notice that feminine people out there already understand most of this.

Remember when we used to talk about being tolerant of everything except intolerance? Well, this is part of that. You're not supposed to dehumanize someone and ignore their feelings just for sounding racist one time. You're supposed to try to educate them or, failing that, practice harm reduction (which can escalate into a callout if they're truly a bad actor). Punching nazis is for when you literally fucking know that someone is willfully being harmful (perhaps because they're platforming hate). Most of them don't just cosplay as nazis in easy ways to pick out. That's why fascists are so insidious and good at infiltrating spaces. Each of us has a desperate hope that I am the one, it's me, I can be able to know at a glance who is good or bad, without taking the time and effort to get to know them first. And they prey on that. They use that to make us fight each other instead of them.

"Oh, but Gwemmie, does this mean you're defending X or Y person?" I dunno, how does their situation compare to what I just said? This post was inspired by the many times I have been dogpiled and ostracized for openly using language in autistic ways that have been confused for bigotries or insensitivities that just weren't in my speech or my thoughts (usually because those doing the dogpiling put words in my mouth, didn't parse a sentence correctly, or just decided to be ableist and go off vibes instead of what I very openly say). If you come in here thinking I'm making this post to subtweet about anyone else, you're part of the problem.

[folcanta]

so i'm thinking about how allen schezar is consistently passive and constantly late to everything and takes every L on earth without knowing why. he's like a dog running headlong into a wall and not knowing why it keeps banging its head. it's artful. he does exactly what his dad does And what his dad says he regrets doing lol. he tells him straight to his face and then allen repeats him almost word for word later. he gets so confused and dejected and spaced out when he sees hitomi and van working in perfect synchrony, rendering him the biggest third wheel of all time.

this is the kind of hubristic shit-eating bimbo i can mostly only find in live action media! mind you, i know i'm using a lot of rude words here, but my feelings are very very positive! it's really good writing! his drama is compelling! my one wish is that folken got even a fraction of the screentime given to allen, i think it's a little excessive, but as a character i think he's great.

i was thinking about this anyway and reflecting on how i felt as a kid, and then i saw someone say that when they were younger, they didn't clock how "creepy" his behaviour is + the actions btwn him and hitomi or millerna are, and that's fair because, like, they are. and while as a kid it had me at times exasperated, i really do think that discomfort is purposeful. like however you feel about it, it's not a failure of writing but a success of it.

compare this to everything else... by showing how naturally and mutually van and hitomi's relationship unfolds, where they trust each other from the jump so easily that they don't even think about it, and van being so earnest and guileless, and every time hitomi voices being upset with him, his behaviour changes. he apologises. versus how shallow and posturing allen is (folken: this guy is a clay doll and i'm fixing to haunt him) and how he realises "hmmmmmmmmm............................................. oh yeah, maybe i don't like her actually i think i'm just kind of extremely fucked up," and knowing that the series is breaking conventions on purpose, i also think this is on purpose.

they're saying, hey, you're not wrong for feeling how you do. it makes sense you feel that way. and, also, allen is the guy you Think you want, but he's not Good/Healthy for you. he's the Beautiful Chivalrous Guy who actually is very selfish and spends no time on forethought. he's just as obsessed as proving himself through battle as van, but... well i was going to say that his idea of conquest/achieving stability is done thru securing himself socially, but then i also remembered he's a cop forever. which is like, so true. yes. meanwhile van, although he's a king, is half responsible for disrupting the whole system. the fabric of reality. does he stay a king? we don't know, right? lmfao so coooool. AGAIN I HAVE TO STRESS: i think allen is a MIRACLE of a character. bizarrely rare. so subtly done, but not that subtle either. this is a story told very much in contrasts and comparisons, that's why there's so many foils, no? anyway i love that he's here.

but they have no reason to flat-out Tell this stuff to the younger girls/women watching it like some kind of lecture. while the show is an analogue, it's not a stand-in for parents. to do so would be unkind-- because with any part of the narrative, the goal doesn't seem to be to talk down to their audience. it would also stand in stark contrast to everything about the show that's purely implicit. and that's a LOT of things! there are so many subtleties or unspoken truths with visible, definable effects.

what they can do instead, though, is show that neither hitomi NOR millerna is ultimately dead-set on allen. also, folken is 25, right? gaddes is 27, and dryden and allen are both 21? so we have some good comparisons for what other adult men are like lol. i think i said it before, but with hitomi and van, they're so used to being in the position of chasing what they want that they don't realise what they want is to be comfortable and trusting with another person. this they also don't flat out tell us, but it's plainly obvious; think of their conversation in the woods after they leave asturia.

van is aware (perhaps subconsciously) of his feelings first, maybe, but he has no reason to trust his feelings, and no reason to think hitomi will return them. but iirc... lol, is it after allen is like "yeah i asked her to marry me lol" and van is like "ok.jpg" where the next immediate thing is van being EXTREMELY POTENTLY HARDCORE RAW SEXUALLY UNHINGED WHEN HE SHOWS HER THAT HE WILL FIGHT AND KILL FOR HER IN BATTLE LOOOOL? or was that another time. well, the point stands.

anyway. both allen and van have seen what forcible, unexplainable separation from their children does to a parent. but allen says he wants to keep her on gaea, while van promises her From The Beginning that he'll find a way to bring her home. he never wavers in that promise. and he accomplishes it. they both do, together. none of us want it, i know, but he does do exactly what he said he'd do from the jump. and all they have to do is think of each other... right? and they can't not... right? right??? and we can also trust that fanelia, if not the rest of gaea, will undergo serious reform. folken and van both come to understand that their traditions yield only painful results.

with a series operating on multiple different levels, i think i can trust them that the discomfort they allow us to feel is intentional. the kiss between allen and hitomi is uncomfortable and we know that because it's being artificially engineered, chain.mp3 (one of the best moody songs tbh) is spooky, allen is given uncannily human movements lol, hitomi isn't overjoyed before during or after, in fact i'd say going forward she's much more uncomfortable/confused about him in general? and then van sees it and he doesn't get angry, he doesn't say anything, he's just crushed. they're telling us how to feel without telling us. it's awesome.

it makes sense this would miss us at a younger age, and it makes sense that it would hit you with new feelings on rewatch. with how grand and painful and beautiful a series/story it is, and going by the rest of their oeuvre, i'd be disappointed if it were anything else. i think it's pretty special the way this series reveals more of itself to you per different life stages.

[donnerpartyofone]

First I started getting so much spam to my Gmail account that it became unusable; I go in there occasionally and glance around to see if anything "important" jumps out at me, but basically spammers have rendered the email address that they themselves went to the trouble of harvesting totally useless. Now I get so many spam (and/or scam, what's the difference) voicemails that my phone is functionally unusable; there's just no point in trying to keep up with it, I started having the experience of getting new spam messages at the same exact time that I was deleting the last ones, so now I just have to let them pile up and I only listen to voicemail if I happen to specifically notice that I got a desirable call. The degree to which everything is crap now practically forces me to have a Why Fucking Bother attitude about everything, and I have to think this is really bad for my brain. Like it cannot be good to train myself to think that so few things are real or valuable that there's almost no point in even keeping an eye out for something useful.

Because of said damaged brain I'm not positive this is related, but I'm reminded of this specific pro-AI argument I sometimes see that strikes me as particularly disingenuous, the essence of which is: There is already very little way of reliably determining the provenance or authenticity of online content, so it doesn't matter at all if you can't tell the difference between slop and the real thing, and it also doesn't matter if slop achieves an increasing majority, because in any case you shouldn't be so credulous as to assume that ANYTHING you see online is real. Everything is nothing and nothing is everything. We're all trapped in our own subjective realities so nothing matters anyway -- seems to be the logical conclusion of this argument. And that just seems like such a cheap excuse for lazily enabling and/or actively empowering an explosion of unfilterable generative garbage that has changed the situation from one of "Maintain a healthy skepticism about what you see and read," to one of "Everything is fake so who gives a shit about anything, ever, from now on." Like yes, there's been fake-everything since the dawn of photography, but if you're going to pretend that the proportion of what's going on now doesn't matter, I think youre just being an asshole. You're just using any excuse to defend your new favorite toy, and I think you should admit that.

There's probably a name for this rhetorical device that's like when, for instance, people complain that trans athletes are ruining women's sports, but those people don't actually give a shit about women's sports, or women. You're probably thinking of a whole bunch of other examples of this right now. I see this in these online arguments about AI where someone goes "AI is negatively impacting the commercial art industry," and a pro-AI person goes, "That's not even a real problem, if you really cared you'd be complaining about the environmental impact/the impact of bad algorithms on jobs and housing/the polution of real, usable information" etc, which obviously they themselves don't care about or else they wouldn't be using and promoting the offending product. Or like most of the time that I hear someone say that anti-generative art attitudes are ableist, they're not actually a disabled person, or even a person interested in disability. Not that there's NEVER a real disabled person making this argument, but as a member of the general public I hear from them less than from people who are just grabbing at whatever is the most convenient way to stop someone from questioning their favorite thing. And I sometimes wish these guys would stop trying to make all AI critics sound stupid and insensitive, and just cut straight to "Fuck you, I just like it. I don't have a good reason. I know this is causing problems, I just don't give a shit about anything other than my own most immediate experience." But then again that's what we have going on in politics now -- the right has shifted away from even the shallowest most obligatory pretense of civil debate and litigation, which we could previously use to at least slow them down a little, and over to "Yes, we're big stupid evil pieces of shit and we like it that way, so fucking what," and in many ways this has made everything a lot worse.