#Funk Pattern

[singlecelledbutch]

aaauaooooooaaa i love thinking about them and drawing them sm,,,,, they mean the world to me <3

also i love @flamingoinkart's hc sm that space kickers have patterns n stuff,,, it's so fun but I never draw them consistently so maybe I should make a ref or smth

[melchinafan]

SKILL UNLOCKED, KNITTING ABILITY LEVELED UP

So I've been knitting a fair bit as of late, all sorts of shenanigans and funky little things and a thousand fancy plans. Only some stuff finished thus far, but a fair bit of learning new building blocks going on.

And in a fit of pique while trying to get some ridiculously tiny dense pointy picots out of a purlwise cable cast on base, being mad that my normal purling (wrapping the yarn counter-clockwise) made the yarn have to cross SO FAR to get back up to the needle, I just...crossed the yarn up clockwise instead, and it was so much better. Distracted from the picot situation by how well it worked, I wondered why it's not the norm, did a quick search, and...

Found I had accidentally stumbled upon combination knitting? Which (for flat stockinette and the like) involves purling clockwise, and then knitting through the back loop to untwist those stitches. And it has FIXED my purl tension! The left side of my flat stockinette no longer gains a giant, sad loop! (Hell, I think that selvedge might even be neater than the right side now.) And I still don't necessarily like knitting ribbing, or how it looks vs. other, funkier options. But a quick test of normal vs. combination ribs side-by-side? Hot damn, that combo rib looks GOOD.

...Now, to get back to seeing if I can wrangle those picots to do what I want, without resorting to smaller needles...

[chick-it-out]

🥁🔥🥁🔥🔥🥁💥🤸🏻‍♂️💥✨️🕺🏾💥

[keeps-ache]

why's all the colorful stuff always in the kids' options oTL

[sewingsillythings]

Aaah my vintage 30s patterns finally came but the delivery guy missed me so I have to go pick them up at the drop off location tomorrow

[asyourshadowfalls]

ooh! rediscovered the will to live by thinking of a new crochet project! a sun hat!

[flovey-dovey]

Would anybody mind telling me what the everloving fruitcake this double-up is expecting of me because I'm running out of hp potions over here (it was a 5 btw)

[cumironi]

hi I see you want a request! hb some angst to comfort !drunkgojoxreader where he always shows up drunk confessing his feelings but then acts normal when he’s sobered up. Reader is tired of mixed signals and ends up going on a date with someone when gojo happens to visit sobered up

you can do whatever you want if u happen to be inspired! Hope this helps you get out of your funk

“OH, MY LOVER IS DRUNK” : GOJO SATORU

you and him, you were supposed to be best friends— supposed to. but neither you nor gojo can't keep the feeling of falling. he tries to deny the feeling so hard that he has to drown himself with alcohol, the thing he loves the least, just to forget the feeling, only to come back to you every time he is drunk.

w/c 4.5k

warning : drunk! gojo satoru, non-sorcerer gojo!, angst.

p.s thank you for giving me a chance to write you something, and I'm sorry it took me long enough to write this :'), but i hope you enjoy it! (i don't think i make this angst enough for my liking)

fanart credit to the owner.

it was a tranquil night, the moon casting a soft, ethereal glow through your apartment windows, bathing the room in a gentle light. though the clock read 3:00 AM, sleep eluded you, your mind too restless to find peace. lying on your cold bed, you stared at the ceiling, each pattern and shadow playing tricks on your eyes in the dim light. the blanket was draped neatly up to your stomach, its weight a comforting presence against the chill of the night.

your hands lay flat on top of the blanket, fingers nervously tapping the back of the other hand in a slow, rhythmic cadence. the silence of the night seemed to amplify every tiny sound: the soft rustle of the sheets, the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment, the almost imperceptible hum of the city outside. despite the stillness, a storm of thoughts churned within you, each one keeping you wide awake and alert, as if anticipating something just beyond the horizon.

you were anticipating something, no— more likely, someone. that someone, neither your boyfriend nor your anything, he just likely is a more sinister thing, disguised as a best friend, unfortunately. sinister thing, you describe him, where a silver thread lies between you and him— a bright and bold, tale of your love, gojo satoru.

he is, my sinister thing’ you thought.

you were adrift, suspended in the air, with no destination, no specific place to call home. you existed in a state of limbo, neither firmly standing nor lying down, hovering in a liminal space. your presence was neither filled with love nor marked by the experience of being in love.

you were perpetually caught in a paradox, always existing in a state of “neither,” but never fully reaching a place of clarity or resolution. your existence was defined by an absence of definitive states or emotions, perpetually undefined and drifting, forever caught between the edges of presence and absence.

it was always waiting, waiting, and waiting.

just like how the night before, and before, and right now, waiting in your bed for him to knock— and when he does, you, mindlessly, like you're in ecstasy running a little by little in the middle of the night to open your door, without realizing there's another door you open— your heart.

stumbling, drowning in a sea of alcohol he hates, gojo satoru walks in. and you, like the idiot you are, guide him to your barely-fits-for-his-over-six-feet -ass couch, comfortably lying him there.

“careful,” you whisper through the night.

your warm hands meet with his cold ones, gripping you as if he's holding on for his dear life. you drape his body with a blanket, big enough for you to shield not only his physical form but also the emotions he holds for you, hidden beneath the warmth, hide his love for you, not that you need to know. gojo‘s blue eyes are warm, and dull as they indulge softly in the moonlight and gentle glow from your little lamp on the cover of your living room, appear soft and subdued.

you find yourself seated on the cold, hard floor, while gojo stretches out on your couch, facing you with a look of serene contentment. his handsome face is illuminated by a crooked yet mesmerizing smile, a testament to his charm even in his inebriated state. his hands, chilled and seeking, grip yours with a familiar desperation, yearning for the warmth you effortlessly provide.

this nightly ritual has become a part of your routine—gojo, drinking away his soul, stumbles through your door, his steps wavering yet purposeful. he collapses onto the couch, and you remain on the floor, the quiet observer of his vulnerable confessions. as he speaks of his love for you with a fervor that seems to swell with each passing moment, it’s as if he fears losing you with the break of dawn.

he loves like you’re the very essence of his existence, the heartbeat of his every moment. his affection is a force that shapes his world, a flame that burns eternally in his soul. to him, you are the embodiment of all his dreams and desires, the one who makes every day brighter and every night more meaningful. his love for you is not just a feeling but a profound truth that defines his very being.

when the alcohol fades and his clarity returns, he resumes his usual demeanor, leaving behind only the tender echo of his heartfelt declarations and the gentle imprint of his touch on your hands. he pretends, gojo satoru likes to pretend.

“always so beautiful,” he whispered, his smile fading as his eyes wandered over every contour of your face. he traced the delicate path of each freckle, every mole, and the subtle lines that marked the passage of time, memorizing every exquisite detail in his heart. his cold hand gently cupped your cheek, sending a chill across your skin that mingled with the warmth of his gaze, as if he were imprinting the essence of your beauty into his soul.

he draws your entwined hands closer to his chest, where his heart, in truth, has always belonged to you. from the very first moment you met, it was never his alone; it has been yours from the start. as your palm rests against his chest, you can feel the soft, steady beat of his yours heart, buried beneath his flesh—an intimate rhythm that pulses with calm and a tender, unselfish devotion.

a small smile graces your lips as you rest your chin on the couch, gazing deeply into his eyes and letting yourself be enveloped by their depth. “i’m in love with you,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with intoxicated. “so in love that i can’t remember a time when i wasn’t, as if my soul has adored you since the dawn of everything,” you listen to his heartfelt confession, witnessing the gradual collapse of his defenses, and your eyes shimmer, heart-shaped.

gojo chuckled softly, his voice thick with intoxication. “do you recall the first and last time we made love? your lips on my neck, since that day, your mouth has been nothing but heaven,” his words tumbled out in a drowsy, slurred cadence.

you, too, remember that day with crystal clarity; it is etched deeply in your mind, an indelible memory that clings to your thoughts like a cherished, haunting presence. each detail, every sensation, has become a permanent part of you, woven into the very fabric of your being. the memory of his touch and the sweetness of his kiss linger, a profound and enduring echo that remains with you always.

you still can feel his touch on your skin.

“of course you don’t know,” he whispered, his voice heavy with the weight of intoxication, as his thumb traced gentle patterns across your cheek. “and i’ll gladly take the blame for that,” he continued, his words slurred with inebriation, “i-i kissed your hair while you slept in the morning,” his giggle, light and childlike, bubbled up with a carefree delight. “i wonder if you ever knew.”

you shake your head gently, a small, small smile touching your lips, just a little. you wouldn't dare to open your mouth, oh, you wouldn't dare. to speak would risk breaking the spell of his drunken state, causing him to sober up and retract the love he has so freely and vulnerably shared. the thought of him withdrawing those tender confessions and retreating into the safety of his guarded heart is a fear too profound to bear. because at that time, it's all you have, his drunkenly confession.

so you remain silent, savoring the warmth of his affection as it envelops you, clinging to this fleeting intimacy as if it were a precious secret. afraid that when the dawn’s approach looms, threatening to sweep away the ephemeral beauty of his heartfelt revelations, leaving only the ghost of his love behind.

it's a frightening, haunting, spine-chilling sensation that grips you, filling you with an aching dread, so you remain silent. because maybe, in those three am confessions are your only salvation. just like a dark mirror to cinderella’s tale, your reality is sinking down from the ceiling, swallowing you whole when he sobers up when the sun hits your cheeks warm.

“oh, god, i love you so much. . .” he whispered, his voice laden with vulnerability as he clutched your hand tightly, pressing it against his chest. “this love i feel—it terrifies me. i'm scared for the love i have for you, it seems so powerful, like it could burn me alive or utterly ruin me. even so, i know that i’ll let it be, but fuck. . . i'm so scared.” his breath was uneven and strained, each gasp revealing the depth of his fear.

his eyes, gleaming with the weight of his emotions, flickered with a poignant brilliance before finally closing. as he drifted into unconsciousness, the full embrace of the alcohol took hold, and the tender confessions of his heart were swallowed by the enveloping darkness.

you remain in quiet contemplation, letting his heartfelt words gently seep into your thoughts. you extend your arm along the edge of the couch, laying your cheek softly against it as you gaze at gojo’s tranquil, slumbering face. his lips, tender and slightly swollen, and his cheeks, flushed a soft, rosy hue reminiscent of crushed cherries from the effects of the alcohol, form a serene portrait of vulnerability.

in the gentle light, his features are softened by the peacefulness of sleep, creating a stark contrast to the emotional intensity of his earlier confessions. the calmness of his face, so vulnerable and exposed in repose, contrasts beautifully with the passionate turmoil of his words.

as you watch him, the room seems to hold its breath, enveloping you both in a tender silence that honors the depth of the moment. the delicate interplay of light and shadow highlights the serene beauty of his sleep, allowing you to cherish the profound intimacy of this quiet, shared space.

when the morning comes, he'll sober up, and the alcohol will have faded from his system, washed away by the sunlight along with his love for you. he'll blame the alcohol in case he said anything foolish, and you? oh, you would find yourself blaming the moon, even the sun, because it's breath away the day for night to come, for casting hope into your soul, into your heart, and also crushing it at the same time in the harsh light of dawn. leaving you to grapple with the fragile hope that was both a blessing and a burden.

it was cruel, worse than cannibalism. you could have borne the agony of having your flesh consumed, but not the ravaging of your soul and heart, oh please, not my heart’ you would plead into the darkness as night falls. you were scared too, not because of loving gojo satoru, loving him is as natural as breathing, but because of the depth of your devotion— you are scared your devotion would turn violent. your devotion would make you believe him like a god, and he'll betray you like a man.

yet, despite the pain, you find yourself eternally awaiting the arrival of night, longing for those confessions whispered at 3:00 AM, even knowing they will leave you shattered by morning’s light. each dawn brings the same heartache, and today is no different.

you awaken to the insistent chime of your notification, your eyes fluttering open to the stark emptiness of your apartment. the couch where gojo once lay is now vacant, the space where he slept cold and unwelcoming. the blanket he used before now wrapped around you, carries no trace of his warmth. the comfort it once offered has dissipated, leaving behind only a hollow chill and the echo of his absence.

your grip tightens on your phone, the pressure biting into your hands, but it’s a mere shadow of the pain coursing through your heart. suddenly, the dam within you gives way, and a torrent of tears spills down your cheeks, cascading like a relentless river. the exhaustion of navigating gojo’s endless emotional games weighs heavily upon you, a suffocating burden that leaves you breathless.

you don't want anything, the only thing you want can't be bought with money. if i ask for your heart will you give it to me?’ you mock yourself. what a fucking loser.

“oh god. . .” you whisper, forehead touching the floor as you wailing in silence.

you feel foolish for clinging to the hope that, perhaps this time, he might remember, that he might repeat the tender words of the night before. yet, as each morning dawns with the same emptiness, your heart aches with the weary realization that your hopes have been in vain, leaving you to grapple with the sorrow of unfulfilled dreams.

the evening was settling into a serene quiet, your apartment softly illuminated by the warm glow of your lights. you were almost ready for your date, anticipation mingling with a sense of hope as you made final adjustments to your outfit. watching yourself in the mirror, you realize how dull your eyes are, losing their spark. after everything, you decided to bury your feelings beneath your flesh until only you know your love for gojo satoru.

a knock at the door disrupted your preparations, and when you opened it, gojo stood there, sober and uncharacteristically subdued. his eyes, usually brimming with playful energy, now reflected a deep, almost mournful sadness.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer just like always. he glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the subtle details of your evening preparations—the carefully chosen attire, the delicate scent of perfume, and your eyes, those bright, beautiful eyes.

you moved through your bedroom, selecting accessories and adjusting your outfit, each motion a quiet ritual in the evening’s anticipation. gojo watched from the doorway, his gaze fixed on you with a deep, almost reverent intensity. his silence spoke volumes, a contrast to the usual banter that characterized your interactions.

gojo’s voice, tinged with an unexpected vulnerability, broke the silence. “where are you going?” he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of concern and hurt.

you hesitated, caught between the desire to protect both his feelings and the truth. his gaze, usually so playful and intense, now bore a raw, wounded quality. the gravity of the question hung heavy in the air, and you could feel the weight of the decision you had to make.

“i’m—” you started, but the words caught in your throat. you could see the hope flickering in his eyes, mingled with the pain of realization. you knew that this was more than just a casual question; it was a plea for understanding, for clarity amid his confusion.

he took a step closer, his usual nonchalance replaced by a genuine yearning to grasp the reality of the situation. “i just want to know,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “where you’re going. what’s tonight for you?”

you looked at him, your heart aching with the weight of his unspoken fears. the room felt charged with the intensity of the moment, every detail amplified by the quiet desperation in his voice.

“i’m going out with someone,” you finally admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “tonight is… it’s meant for someone else.”

the words hung in the air, their impact palpable. gojo’s face fell, the light in his eyes dimming as he took in the truth of your plans. he nodded slowly, the understanding settling over him with a heavy sadness.

“i see,” he said quietly, a bitter edge to his tone as he took a step back, giving you space. “i didn’t realize…” the finality of his words and the desolate look on his face were almost too much to bear.

you hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but before you could answer, his gaze wandered over you with a mixture of admiration and sadness. “you look…” he started, his voice faltering slightly as he struggled to find the right words. “you look really beautiful tonight.”

his eyes roamed over your outfit, the careful details you had chosen, and the way the light caught in your hair. there was a softness in his gaze that spoke of more than just physical appreciation— it was as though he was trying to hold onto every fleeting moment, every detail of this evening as if to etch it into his memory.

“you always look beautiful,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “but tonight. . .. tonight it’s different. you’re. . . breathtaking.” the sincerity in his words was palpable, mingling with the unspoken sadness in his eyes. he didn’t move, didn’t retreat from the moment. instead, he stood there, quietly observing, letting his admiration and affection fill the space between you.

“i didn’t mean to intrude,” he said softly, his gaze never leaving you. “i just wanted to see you one more time. before you go.”

the room felt heavy with the weight of his gaze, the emotional intensity of his words. you could feel the ache in his eyes, a mixture of admiration and longing, as he took in every detail of your appearance. the compliment, so genuine and heartfelt, seemed to hang in the air, a poignant reminder of the affection he still held for you.

“it's okay,” you nodded softly, gazing at him from your mirror with a little smile, kissing your lips. the date was meant to be an escape, a chance to move forward, but it felt like an endurance exercise.

your date was polite and engaged in conversation, but there was an undeniable disconnect. every word spoken seemed to drift past you, a mere backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts that consumed your mind. the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the casual chatter all felt hollow, lacking the vibrancy you had hoped for.

as the evening progressed, the sparkle of the city lights and the charm of the venue did little to lift the weight on your shoulders. the conversations felt superficial, the moments fleeting and unremarkable. you smiled and nodded in response, but your thoughts were miles away, tangled in the memories and the lingering presence of gojo.

you couldn’t help but replay the images of that earlier moment—gojo’s earnest eyes, the softness of his compliments, and the way his gaze had followed you with such unspoken longing. his presence had imprinted on your heart so deeply that everything else seemed to fade in comparison. the way he had watched you, the tenderness in his voice, and the painful silence after he had left all resurfaced in your mind, casting a shadow over every interaction of the evening.

the date dragged on, each passing minute feeling like an eternity. you forced yourself to remain engaged, but the thought of gojo’s unspoken words and the gentle way he had looked at you overshadowed everything. you were caught in a cycle of longing and regret, unable to escape the grip of your own emotions.

as you stepped out of the restaurant, the cool night air was a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of the evening. your mind was still heavy with the weight of the date's emptiness, and the city lights seemed dimmer as you walked towards your car.

just outside, by the entrance of the restaurant, you noticed a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost. gojo stood there, his posture relaxed but his eyes scanning the crowd with a determined focus. as your gaze met his, his face softened, revealing a mix of relief and something deeper.

there you are, beautiful, mellow you. walking alone looking pretty in that silk dress that you should be wearing for him, not the other man, him. seeing you so breathtakingly beautiful makes gojo satoru want to crash into every piece of you, and fuck, he swears to god, that's how stars are born.

“hey,” he said softly, pushing himself off the lamppost and walking towards you. the usually playful tone in his voice was replaced by a sincere warmth. “i thought i might catch you before you left.” you stopped in your tracks, a flutter of surprise and emotion rising within you. “satoru, what are you doing here?”

you're in front of him, eyes glimmering under the lamppost and the moon. gojo wants to run, to bury himself under the ground, or just tell you to stop looking at him with those eyes. stop touching me with your eyes’ he thought.

“i-i. . .”

even so, his eyes never leave yours, shaken as he tries to swim into your orbs. how its color slightly changes under the lamppost makes it even harder for gojo to speak as if the ground is a new language for him, and suddenly, he forgets everything he knows about gravity.

“please love me. .” he whispered, throat dry.

for a brief, electrifying moment, your eyes widened in astonishment. your heart is pounded with a frantic rhythm, faster than the fall of distant stars, yearning to escape its confines and find its way into gojo’s hands. it ached with a longing so intense that it felt almost unbearable.

the pain of desiring something so profoundly—something you’ve never truly known—made you question why your heart should yearn for a home it has never experienced. yet, despite never having been there, it cried out with an ineffable need to be held by him.

it was always his and never been yours since day one, but he already holds onto your soul with an unrelenting grip and your heart— your only refuge, is all you ever had to keep living. you can't live your life if all you ever had is just merely flesh and bone.

“satoru, are you drunk?”

“no—” he shook his head, fast enough to hold both your hands and bring them closer against his chest, where his heart was beating faster, also begging to be handed to you. “i'm in love with you, y/n. i'm sorry i always pretend like i don't remember in the morning, but please. . . i don't dare to, maybe if i love you less it would be easier for me to talk, but fuck—”

he paused for a moment, and in that suspended breath, your only fear was the possibility of him retracting his heartfelt confession. the weight of his unspoken words hung in the air, and you found yourself dreading the loss of such a precious revelation. the thought of him pulling back, of his feelings fading into silence, was the only shadow that cast fear over your heart.

so you shook your head, “no, don't stop,” you plea.

gojo swallows his pride, he feels pathetic. but he would bear the life long of feeling pathetic if it is meant to have your eyes on him, to have your skins and bones knit with his then so be it. “i love you—oh god, i fucking love you, in the purest, chaste, most victorian sense,” he says, laughing softly. “even a mere glimpse of your ankle might be enough to drive me mad.” you can’t help but chuckle along with him.

his hands enveloped yours with a desperate intensity, holding them as if they were the very essence of his longing. “i love you,” he breathed softly, his voice mingling with the whisper of the night breeze. “i want every single one of your tomorrows.”

he guided your hands closer to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to your wrist, his touch both tender and reverent. his eyes locked with yours, revealing a depth of emotion that seemed to illuminate the darkness around you. the moment his lips left your skin, the faintest trace of coldness lingered, as if the warmth of his affection had left an indelible mark.

with a gentle but purposeful motion, his hands slid to your waist, drawing you nearer. his touch was both firm and delicate as he turned you around, guiding you until your back was nearly pressed against the lamppost. the soft glow of the streetlight bathed you both in a halo of light, casting long shadows and highlighting the closeness of your bodies.

in this intimate cocoon, the world seemed to fade away. the chill of the night, the warmth of his breath, and the quiet intensity of his gaze created a fragile moment of connection. his presence enveloped you, a promise whispered in the night air, as if he were claiming every future moment with you, even as the night deepened around you.

“please. . ..” he beg.

he leaned in, his face inches from yours, until his lips lightly brushed against your own. “please, love me,” he whispered once more, his voice tender and pleading. his warm breath caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

the proximity of his lips, the softness of his words, and the gentle warmth of his breath all combined to create a moment of intimate vulnerability. his plea hung in the air, laden with the depth of his emotions, as he sought to bridge the gap between your hearts.

as the world around you seemed to slow, gojo’s gaze lingered on your lips with an intensity that made your heart race. his fingers, still resting on your waist, drew you even closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. the soft glow of the streetlight cast a gentle halo around the two of you, accentuating the intimacy of the moment.

with a deliberate tenderness, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. the anticipation built like a quiet storm as his lips inched closer, brushing against yours with a delicate, almost reverent touch. the kiss was soft at first, a gentle exploration that spoke of deep longing and unspoken desires.

his lips moved with a slow, deliberate grace as if savoring every second of the connection. the initial softness gave way to a deeper intensity, his kiss growing more passionate as he pulled you even closer. the world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sensation of his lips pressed firmly against yours. his hands cradled your face, his touch gentle yet insistent, guiding the kiss with a blend of affection and need.

the warmth of his kiss seemed to infuse every part of you, a melding of hearts and souls that transcended words. when he finally pulled away, his eyes still locked onto yours, there was a look of profound contentment and vulnerability. the kiss lingered in the air between you, a testament to the depth of his feelings and the fragile, beautiful connection that bound you together.

as you slowly pull away from the kiss, your lips linger near his, you meet his gaze with a fierce resolve. “if you ever mock me or play with me,” you say, your voice steady yet charged with intensity, “i swear to god, satoru, i’ll fucking hunt you down.” the words hang between you, your breath mingling with his, a silent promise of the depth of your commitment.

gojo’s eyes spark with a playful glint as he hears your words. with a mischievous smile, he leans in, giving your lips a series of soft, teasing pecks. “i won’t,” he replies, his tone light and teasing, but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “i promise.” his playful demeanor contrasts with the intensity of your threat, yet his gentle touches and warm gaze convey a deeper assurance.

[florad0ra]

Finished the Trolls world map rug! 34" by 43", made with burlap, acrylic yarn, and felt 🌍🎶 WIP shots under the cut

I had to smoosh the map a little to make it all fit in my tufting frame, but I think it looks good still. Started with details like rivers and country's checkered pattern so I could carve the yarn on the frame and separate the colors more distinctly. At some point between filling the frame and putting felt details on, I retufted the top of classical much shorter and picked out a lot of the star tufting in funk so I could make them more defined in felt. After being stored away for the holidays, I pulled it out the other day and did a little more carving, added a few more felt details, and lint brushed the whole thing. I've never mixed tufting with felt like this, so I'm glad it all worked out!

Tbh I sort of wanted to use this as a set piece for an world tour inspired MV I've been rolling in my head for forever, but I'm just happy this is finally done 😂

[bittertasteofhoney]

Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 10

Fight a Little Harder

Summary: Roberta attempts to pull you out of your Joel-induced coma with a trip to the Tipsy Bison.

|| angst, jackson!joel, jackson!joel x f!reader, age gap (but legal!), reader is afab, physical violence, graphic language||

Notes: Oh boy did I make some peeps upset on my last update…so to continue to say I’m so sorry and grovel at your feet (like Joel really should), here is a super quick update! Thank you for sticking with this fic and showing support even though it is frustrating atm! I promise, more smut, banter and tension is coming your way lovelies.

(Also def still need to edit this so please ignore any typos or weird edits!)

The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and The Last of Us franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.

Previous Chapter.

For days, you walked in a daze. You couldn’t get his empty words out of your mind. You knew he was lying to you, but whatever lie he was telling himself won out in the end.

You did the bare minimum - went to work and home. You didn’t stop by the mess hall or volunteer to deliver rations or welcome packs. The only people that really saw you were your coworkers. You were a shell and you kicked yourself daily for letting Joel make you feel this way.

Anger now filled your evenings. Where did he get off deciding when your age difference was a problem? He seemed just fine when he was buried between your legs and when you spent every single night together. He was happy. You saw it in his eyes. So why the hell did he do this?

You knew he had to have heard something around town, but the obstacle that kept you in a roadblock was why he didn’t just come to you about it? Of course, you were bothered by the careless things people were saying but every night that he walked through your door and made you smile proved them wrong.

But now? Was it all true? Your inner demons were fighting each other for dominance, and it was leaving your mind in a fractured place.

After the fifth or sixth day watching you slumped over that week’s produce almost mute, Roberta finally lost all her patience. You were wrestling with a turnip plant when her shadow covered you.

“You’re really pissing me off.” You looked up at her in confusion, adjusting your hat to meet her eye. She was backlit by the midday sun, but even you could see the disappointed look on her face and those green eyes narrowed at you.

You shook your head in confusion as a response so she continued. “Don’t get me wrong. I want to wring Joel’s neck, but I’m also mad at you for letting a guy affect you like this. He isn’t worth all this moping if he was stupid enough to let you go.”

You sat back on your heels and released a deep sigh. “Trust me, I know. I hate who I’ve become but…what happened between us hurt, and I’m not ashamed to say my ego is bruised and I’m hurt and confused and…” Your voice caught and you took another intake of oxygen to steady yourself. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we were something special.”

She just stared at you, letting you speak. “And it just came out of nowhere. I know people were talking-”

“Fuck those morons.” A clipped laugh escaped your lips at her interjection.

“They didn’t know the whole story. I can see how it looked to the outside, but that night when everything changed. God, Roberta. I’ve never felt like that. It was…”

She held up a hand with a disgusted look on her face. “I really don't need the details. He made you happy. I got it. But he’s still an asshole for doing this. I don’t care about his reasoning.”

You nodded and dug a finger into the dirt, tracing a pattern.

“So, the only natural thing we can do to get you out of this funk? We gotta get you drunk, my friend. Andy is watching the kids tonight so I’m intending on drinking until I can’t feel my feet. ” Another laugh escaped you. “Your ass better be at the Tipsy Bison tonight at eight or so help me, I will drag you all the way to the bar top.”

She stomped away but for the first time in days, a small smile ghosted your lips.

Once eight rolled around, you already had a tumbler of whiskey in your hand and a gaggle of coworkers surrounding you in the warm-lit bar. You distractedly swirled the liquid in your glass when you felt a nudge and looked up to Roberta frowning at you. You flashed her a smile to appease her and spun around on your chair to motion to Tommy who was working the bar that night.

The second he caught your eye, he bounded over and gave you a wink. “How’s my favorite ray of sunshine doin’?”

You shrugged and swallowed what remained in your glass, sliding it his way. He grabbed a bottle from behind him and topped it off. “Just peachy. Thanks for asking.”

He leaned on the waxed wooden counter and you tentatively met his gaze. He looked at you for a long moment before simply saying, “He’s a goddamn idiot for hurtin’ the both of you.”

You barely had a chance to react or ask him more about what he meant when a rowdy group entered the bar. You took a healthy swallow of your refreshed glass when a whistle rang out across the crowded space.

“Sunshine! Just the girl I’ve been waiting to see.” Confused, you spun back around and wished you could take the action back when you met the searching eye of Roddy.

Roberta immediately grabbed your arm to move you away when you patted it to tell her you were fine. At least for now.

You felt Tommy stiffen behind you. He was the first to speak. “Roddy, you ain’t supposed to be in here and I suggest you turn your ass around before openin’ that big mouth of yours.”

Roddy threw his hands up, smirking to himself. “I mean no harm, Tommy. I promise. I just had a question I wanted to ask her.” You moved to stand, and he took a step toward you. Roberta shot him a murderous glance and he just laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me I had to basically be an octogenarian to even interest you? I didn’t realize soft dicks were your thing.”

You looked at your shoes, feeling your cheeks heat. Joel maybe wasn’t your favorite person at the moment, but his dick sure wasn’t soft.

The entire bar was watching your exchange. You felt Roberta’s hand on your shoulder.

“Roddy, get the fuck out of here. Nobody asked for your bullshit.”

Once again, Roddy pushed forward and Tommy hopped over the bar to put himself between the two of you. “You better not fuckin’ touch her.”

The asshole just kept laughing with his eyes glued on you. “Tell me, was it good? Did you enjoy that old man fucking you? Or was it him who enjoyed having you sit back riding his cock while you-”

Someone grabbed Roddy by the collar of his jacket, yanking him back and hauling him to the floor with a loud grunt. That someone was a person you didn’t even notice sitting in the corner of the bar accompanied by Maria while Tommy worked his shift for the night. You also somehow didn’t notice those chocolate brown eyes clocking your every movement from the moment you walked in.

Hell, you would’ve been surprised to see how long he held himself back before he just couldn’t take one more word out of that asshole’s mouth. And when your eyes clocked Joel on top of Roddy, the wave of deja vu that hit you was lethal.

His fists were flying at a rate that seemed humanly impossible, and you barely registered your choice to launch yourself toward the fray until you felt a strong pair of arms holding you back. You screamed his name and other townspeople in the bar tried to intervene, but no one could get close enough to stop those fists from connecting with Roddy’s cheek, ribs, mouth and nose. They just kept coming.

You screamed his name again, and for a brief moment, he paused but the sound of your scared voice only renewed his anger. You fought against Tommy and finally found a break in his grip. Instead of once again trying to intervene like many expected you to, you beelined for the door.

You ran outside and paused when your feet hit the packed mud, heaving in breaths. You leaned forward on your knees and tried to breathe deeply, but the tears finally came. The words Roddy said and seeing Joel for the first time since he broke things off hit you like a brick wall. The tears turned into soft sobs and you brought a hand to your chest as you heard another set of feet barrel outside.

You spun around and saw Joel standing there, panting and spotting yet another bloody lip. At least Roddy is consistent.

Your breaths came quicker and soon, you too were panting in anger. He opened his mouth to speak but you stole his moment away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

You closed the space between you and shoved him. “Why are you doing this?!”

Joel’s eyes were dark and angry, and even he couldn’t keep that from his voice. “Like hell am I going to stand around and watch while he talks to you like that. That little shit has no business-”

“No! You have no business.” Your hands were flying in vague gestures as the adrenaline and anger flowed through you and demanded to be emoted. “How can you tell me you want nothing more to do with me? And that I make you feel dirty. Then, turn around and waltz in with your fucking white horse?”

He just looked at you with angry eyes and you couldn’t stand it. “Say something!”

He brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed it, trying to control his own emotions. He’d never seen you this angry. Hell, no one had.

“Why did you treat me like I didn’t matter to you if you’re going to continue using your fists every time someone is nasty to me?!” He still couldn’t speak.

“I’ll give you this, Joel. At least you're consistent in your bullshit. Because none of it makes any sense. In theory, you shouldn’t care if what we had together felt so wrong.”

He stepped forward without thinking and bracketed your shoulders with his hands. You shoved him away again.

“No. You don’t get to do that anymore. You don’t get to touch me.” Your tears were coming in streams and covering your face in a wet shine. You touched your chest again to still your breath and the hiccups that were puncturing your words. “None of it makes any sense. Unless you lied to me.” You hated that your voice cracked.

He took a step back and whispered your name. You shook your head angrily. “Did you lie to me?”

His eyes pleaded with you to do something but you didn’t know what because the coward couldn’t even speak a goddamn syllable other than your name. “Is it because of what people were saying? Does small-town talk really matter that much to you?”

He just shook his head.

“Well, whatever it was, it sure made that decision a quick one for you.”

Again, he whispered your name and tried to close the gap between you. You let him, briefly. You met his eyes and wanted to fall back into time before any of this happened. You just wanted your nights back with him. You wanted him back.

“I’m sure you’ll get over this quickly, too.” You tore his arms off you and stormed down the road and back to your home that was no longer a place he could escape to.

As soon as you were out of sight, Tommy slowly walked down the steps and turned to his brother with a hard look on his face.

“You deserved everythin’ she threw at you. You’re a goddamn coward, Joel. You don’t fuckin’ deserve her.”

Next Chapter.

Tag List :) @silksepia @hello-nah817 @longlivetheloneliness @keseqna @millers-girl @treacherqus @lemonboi @spnfic85 @secretlettersfromyourlove @nosebeers @boscogirlsworld @aleemendoza2425-blog @puppi-sonnenschein

[oopsiedaisydeer]

dolly meets chris for the first time

fluff, minor angst, party, mentions of bruises, meet cute sorta vibes

word count - 2k (oopsies)

She really wasn’t sure why she came tonight.

Her friend had promised her that tonight would be fun, “chill and lowkey” were his words, and she’d held out the hope that just maybe, maybe he was right, speaking the truth. Really, she had. But from the second she stepped through the front door — music thudding through the floorboards, strangers crowding too close, that sharp tang of weed and spilled beer in the air — she knew she’d made a mistake.

An uneasy chaotic vibe lingered in the walls, buzzing under her skin, setting her already-anxious nerves on edge. A group of guys slouched on the couch looked like they belonged to another world to her entirely, the kind that dealt in shady glances and unspoken threats. One of them sized her up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

She kept walking, head down, heart fluttering in her chest like a moth. The kitchen was quieter, though not by much. No sign of her friend, but she stayed anyway… lingering by the fridge, fingers curled around a red cup of something sweet and vaguely fruity. Might as well wait a few minutes before she dipped.

Chris had been in a funk all night, muscles wound tight, almost ready to snap at any given second. He had been hiding in the upstairs ensuite for twenty minutes now, pacing, chain-smoking the last of his cigarettes, and regretting his entire life. Now he was stuck there because he was pretty sure someone was getting busy in the room adjacent.

Not that he really cared about walking past them — he didn’t — but he knew that there was someone out in the hallway waiting for him, and he really didn’t want to run into him anytime soon. He’d never known sleeping with a girl to get him in this much trouble. But Chris guessed the usual rules didn’t apply when you go to bed with the sister of a guy who had already had it out for him since second grade. 

He hadn’t even expected to run into him tonight, parties around this neck of town usually being more relaxed than the ones he usually ended up at. 

Chris craned his ear to the door again then, and when he heard no moans, he peeked through the door to confirm they were indeed asleep. He slipped past the couple and back out into the hall, which was empty, save for a girl lingering in the entryway.

Great, Chris thought to himself, all I gotta do is slip past this chick out the back door and I’m a free man.

Just as he was making his way towards the kitchen though, the girl turns her head, and past her he sees the very man he’s trying to avoid. Standing in the kitchen. Shit. He hasn’t noticed Chris yet, too busy talking with one of his buddies. Stupid pretentious prick. 

He needs something, some safe way outta here, because he really isn’t in the mood to get his shit rocked by a guy who’s almost a foot taller than him. He ducks instinctively back into the shadows of the hallway, heart hammering like the first time he ran a red light.

As he’s stood stock-still in the hallway, blue eyes glancing around frantically, trying to come up with a plan, he notices the girl again. He hadn’t meant to look at her twice, but she hasn’t moved since he came out of the room, perched just inside the hallway to be out of view from the rest of the party. What’s she hiding from? Chris wonders. 

She looked like a girl who didn’t belong here, not in this place full of loud boys and things that were bound to be broken by morning.

And Chris couldn’t stop staring.

She’s very pretty, that’s for sure, way out of his league too. Long hair tied back in some fancy do, with a ribbon adorning it. She looked like something someone had taken care of once — and maybe no one had in a while. She’s wearing a sort of white frilly blouse with too many buttons, and the skirt she has on has got a lovely pattern… covering what seems to be an even lovelier ass. 

Goddamnit I need to quit being a perv and get the fuck out of here, he thinks to himself. The girl glances back again then, this time her eyes finding his. He swears he gets put in a kind of trance as her beautiful eyes and long lashes study him, no expression on her face but still, her glance washes over his entire frame, and he wonders maybe if she can see his very soul. Probably not anything interesting about his soul though, as the moment’s quickly broken when she turns back around.

A weird feeling settled in his chest then. The party noise blurred. The air around her felt... different. Calmer. Like the world quieted itself just a little to make space for her. 

Chris shifted back a step, debating it. He didn’t want to scare her off. She looked like the type of girl who’d vanish at the first wrong move — and he’d made a hell of a lot of those tonight already. He told himself to just leave. Slip out the side door and be done with it.

But she had turned her head. Slowly. Like she’d felt him watching. And their eyes had met — if only for a second. And something in her gaze had hit Chris in the ribs. Not like a punch, but soft and unsure, steady. She looked at him like she was trying to figure out whether he was real, or trouble, or both.

Minutes went by like this. And then Chris swallowed, watching, unblinking, as the girl turned and vanished from his sight. He stood there, motionless, like he’d just missed a train he didn’t know he wanted to catch. Before he could talk himself out of it, he moved.

Scurrying after her, Chris all but forgets the reason he was so afraid to leave the hallway in the first place. The girl slips through the crowd in the living and dining room, her smaller frame making it that much easier for her as Chris struggles to keep up. He finds her again at the door though, where she’s paused to put on her jacket. He gets frozen again, watching her, how doll-like she looks, hair tucked into her scarf, blush-ridden cheeks.

Finally, courage seems to find his tongue, and Chris tries his best to sound confident, charming even. “Hey,” he smiles, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

She hears him before she sees him. The steady sound of boots behind her, slow enough to not spook her, loud enough that he probably wanted her to know he was there. She tightened her grip on her coat sleeve, heart doing this weird fluttery thing like she’d just stepped onto a train she wasn’t sure was hers. And then, “Hey,” said a voice, a little raspy, low, but still kind. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

She turned, not too fast, and there he was, closer now. Hoodie a little wrinkled, bruising faint along the side of his jaw, hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked… tired. Kind of strung out, but not in a scary way.

She looks up at him then, a surprised expression twitching on her lips, as if she’s confused he’s speaking to her. He takes this as an opportunity to move closer, stepping towards her until there’s barely a metre between them.

“I’m Chris,” he said, sticking his hand out, and then smiled like maybe he hadn’t done that in a while. “And I really hope you’re not leaving. I only just got the guts to say hi.” With his other hand, he reached out gingerly, like he might fiddle with one of the buttons on her coat, then seemed to think better of it, hand dropping back to his side.

She blinked, and cautiously, she took his hand. It was warm, a little rough, and when he held it, he didn’t try to dap her up or do some flirtatious thing. He just… held it, gently, thumb rubbing over the back of her hand.

“I was just—” she started, gesturing behind him, then shrugging one shoulder. “Not really my kind of scene.”

He let her hand go, real slow, like he was trying to be respectful or something. And then, with a crooked little half-smile, he said, “Figured as much.”

That made her laugh. Just barely. Like a puff of air she hadn’t meant to let out.

Chris noticed. And smiled wider.

“Would it be weird if I asked if you wanted to hang out?” Chris said to her, the words tumbling out of his mouth all in one breath. 

“Um,” she bites her lip, not quite sure what to do with the moment at hand.

Then quickly, Chris steps closer, reaching out as if to take her hand again before stopping mid-way. “Not in like a creepy way. Just… I dunno. I’ve had kind of a shitty night, and you seem like someone who’s not gonna make it worse.” He smiles as he says this, awaiting her response patiently.

That made her tilt her head at him. The honesty caught her off guard. He wasn’t trying to impress her. Wasn’t performing. Just… asking. Just another person who didn’t want to be alone.

He really did look like a guy her mother would tell her to stay away from. The barely faded bruises, the posture, the too-casual clothes, they all seemed to scream trouble. But up close, his eyes didn’t match. They weren’t cold or cocky. They were just… tired. Honest. A little hopeful. A nice blue colour. It hits her all at once then — that this guy, standing in front of her, he’s just a boy.

Just a boy with sharp edges and soft eyes, pretending he wasn’t hoping she’d say yes.

“Okay then,” she said, surprising herself. She didn’t usually do this, say yes to strangers with bruised knuckles and sleepy eyes. But something about Chris felt like a detour worth taking. “Yeah. I could do that.”

His face lit up like he hadn’t expected it. Like he never expected good things to land on him.

Chris grabs his coat then too, walking to the wooden door and opening it for her. The girl steps forward, flashing another tight-lipped smile of appreciation at him. It’s been a long time since Chris has felt more like a gentleman than a stupid flirt. Maybe tonight was a sign that his luck was changing. 

He shut the door behind him, and shoving his hands in his coat pockets, spoke again, “I think I’m going to call you Dolly,” he tells the girl, who looks at him all confused, brow furrowing. He smiles, heart warming at her innocent gaze. “You look like one of those old dolls. You know with the button eyes and the ribbons and the plaits.”

She wasn’t sure if she liked being named after something so delicate. But something about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean it as an insult, like he actually meant precious, made her cheeks warm.

“You like McDonald’s chips?” he asked as they stepped out into the night.

She glanced at him. “Are you asking because that’s all you can afford, or because you think it’ll impress me?”

He snorted. “Definitely the first one.”

She smiled. “I like them anyway.”

“Well, I think we’re going to be great friends, then, Dolly.” Chris smiles at her, nudging her slightly with his arm.

They walked in step, slow down the cracked pavement, their breath curling like smoke in the cold air. The street was quiet, just the occasional hum of a passing car, or the rustle of a tree losing its last few leaves. 

And all night, Chris kept glancing over at her, like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there.

dividers by @enchanthings ꨄ

a/n: this took a whiiiiile to get right, but i rlly hope u like it!!!!! hopefully setting up for some future fluff/angst so that this au isn't all smut lmao

thank u so much for reading!!! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated 💌

[hahahafangirl]

your suo analysis is really good, im reading it again to really let it soak! do you have more thoughts on how suo and kiryu parallel, or maybe they're more perpendicular? I think it's interesting how they have similar vibes but opposite reactions: both blunt but one leans more "kind" (suo), and the other leans more "rude" (kiryu). suo fakes the funk a little, and kiryu doesn't (and sakura just doesn't know how either way, really ends up being both)

Hiii!!! Thank you so much for reading, and sorry for the long wait; I got a little bit too into this and has formulated a plan for a more thorough analysis, but I can show you what I have for now-- very interesting parallels between these two "polite" and "courteous" young men, indeed!

What particularly sparks my thoughts is your suggestion that they are "perpendicular", and of course the observation that they are similar vibes but opposite reactions. The nuance in how they "fake" their funk is interesting too, and I think in general I can make these observations:

They both have traditional and rebellious components, but are opposite in each category.

How Kiryu's backstory was developed is likely very informative of how Suo's backstory will be developed

To start off, I think it's interesting how Kiryu and Suo are both... similar and very distinct (lol, what a helpful sentence). At the first glance they are both gentlemen. one more layer down, both rude (to the people they do not respects) and very scathing. What's more, they both "play up" their acts/performance to hide something underneath (Kiryu in his arc, Suo... as we suspect from his social evasion).

Yep, this is just straight up disrespectful, lol.

Nice, but how nice? Not at all.

Another thing is that they are both incredibly caring and emotionally intelligent people (we have a whole stock of 'em in Wind Breaker! yay!). Kiryu is also incredibly straightforward and bold, much like Suo is, though I think he smooths his words over less:

He respects Tsugeura, but will gladly tell him off.

Kiryu doesn't hate Tsuge! He is just very straightforward!

And, if protecting the girl isn't telling enough, he cares for her safety, even if he doesn't express it-- like how Suo naturally prioritize keeping non-combatants safe.

And it was Suo, who is equally emotionally intelligent and has equivalent battle-sense, who knows what Kiryu is doing and addresses it.

Thematically, what is interesting is where Kiryu or Suo rebels and the other don't. Let's start with Kiryu: He is very much gender-rebellious: pink, long hair, patterned shirt (nothing strictly gendered, mind you, but they are not considered so in the general cultural climate). This is supported by his character profile, where he hates "close-minded" people. In the KEEL arc, ch 48 - 49, he was directly insulted for his "gender performance" (borrowing the term from Judith Butler and gender studies in general)

And Kiryu unrepentantly re-enforces his own gender rebellion

Oops, split end~

Later on, we see that while Kiryu enjoys this act, he especially put it on with the explicit intention of rebelling against his father. He plays it up where appropriate, but I think Kiryu genuinely enjoys the act-- like how he joined Furin for the rebel and ended up liking it for what it is at the end of the day.

On this aspect of appearance and gender performance, Suo is the direct opposite: he dresses conservatively, have short hair, and in general has the very air of a traditional, polite young man

Even his earrings, the only thing that may be argued as "not masculine", are antique -- thus likely gender-accordance. This is the friend you'd bring home to grandma!

Unexpectedly, then, Suo's fighting can be taken as more rebellious/less traditional, while Kiryu's is traditionally learned. Though he has a teacher, Suo's fighting style is a hodge-podge of different styles; having a self-taught teacher also likely means they have the space to innovate the forms as appropriate, outside of the usual wagon wheel track:

(As a side note on this, for a hodge-podge style of martial arts, Suo has really good forms; which makes sense. You can't really do much if you don't have a good basics lol. Then, you can do whatever the hell you want.)

Meanwhile, Kiryu "submitted" himself to the family traditional training, which he hated, for the purpose of defending Akari

I just realized that the purpose of learning martial arts is for "rebellion" in Kiryu's case, and self-defense/offense, in Suo's case -- quite a traditional reason to fight. Again, the two of them opposite in forms and intentions.

I'm sure there are more things, but maybe I will see them as I mull over the text a little more... it also would help if Suo's backstory is soon, lol.

As for the next thing, i.e. how can Kiryu's arc inform Suo's arc progression? My primary basis for this is how Kiryu's arc was introduced in KEEL, where mid-fight, we begin to learn tidbits about Kiryu's personal philosophy. Here, the theme of "Rebellion" (also the title of chapter 48) was introduced; specifically, as the only information we knew then, it refers to (Kiryu's own) "gender rebellion". The chapter also supplied a concrete visual of who the rebellion is for

While Kiryu, in his earlier arc, talks a lot about being popular with girls, we may assume that it is pertaining to his interest in dating/being popular with girls his age. Only later on does it have the explicit intention of making girls comfortable, regardless of whether he wants to court them or not (notedly, he never was shown actually courting a girl-- it was a ruse setup to contrast Kiryu's actual character).

This is very similar progression to Suo's fight against Oobiki in KEEL, where, also mid-fight, he begins to reveal his/his master's philosophy regarding teaching, in the titular chapter "Discipline":

Also the first visual of (presumably) his Master, in a similar narrative role as Akari-- but further away. Will this distance becomes relevant, perhaps?

(Also, funnily enough, I was about to make the argument that Suo is not verbally as scathing as Kiryu, but then this chapter reminded me that he absolutely can be, lol. And at the same narrative stage (during KEEL), Kiryu also delivered his most scathing line!)

So I suspect that just like the theme of rebellion being subtly subverted from Kiryu's gender performance -> respecting women and making girls comfortable, which was previously hinted by the subversion of Kiryu's dating a girl -> he was keeping her safe, we can expect that the theme of discipline as training and passing down your teachings, respect ("How are you supposed to act when you go barging in to another person's home?"), will be satisfactorily and subtly subverted in some way. I don't have an orientation for how it will be subverted just yet, but I bet it will be as good and satisfying as Kiryu's arc (regardless of how angsty it will be lol). We probably can take a stab at guessing, since Kiryu's subversion was also foreshadowed. Given that Suo is now Nirei's master... there is already a subversion from learning how to defend yourself -> "but if I were to teach you," ... learning how to defend yourself and deal damage... Perhaps a conflict or innovation from his master's teaching? Many, many possibilities are ahead!

Thank you so much for the insightful ask, and I hope you found my answer interesting!!

[letmesniffurdaddysfeet]

Forbidden Desires - my boss - Part 2

My heart seized. His face was unreadable as he turned the balled-up socks in his palm, thumb tracing the tell-tale slickness. I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, calculating, assessing, deciding how to proceed.

"Care to explain this?" His voice was even, but held a new, unfamiliar note—something dark and electric...

My mouth opened, but no words came. My vision tunneled, the edges of the hotel room blurring as I stared at the evidence in his grip. I tried to stammer out an apology, some excuse, but the words caught, shriveled, and died in my throat.

He tossed the socks back onto the bed, still staring straight into me. "I've worked with a lot of people, but I've never had anyone pull a stunt like this," he said, stepping closer. His presence filled the room, his bulk and heat looming until I couldn't ignore the way my own body responded, shame curling in my veins.

“Lock the door,” he said. His voice was low, uninflected, but it vibrated through the air like the thrum of an engine waiting for a signal.

My hand shook as I slid the deadbolt home. For a moment, all I could do was stand with my back to the door, staring at the pattern of the carpet as if it might open up and swallow me.

He didn’t move. He just watched. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the silver in his beard catching the light. When I finally turned around, I could see what I’d missed before: the tented front of his suit pants, the unmistakable outline of arousal. There was no mistaking it—he wanted this, or at least wanted to see how far I’d go.

“Well?” he said, voice dropping even lower. “You going to stand there all day, or are you going to come over here and finish what you started?”

A fiery flush consumed my cheeks, and my legs trembled beneath me, yet I forced myself across the room, my gaze locked fiercely with his. With a commanding nod towards the floor, he barked, "You really like socks, don't you? Let's test that. Get down on the floor this instant."

I dropped, knees thudding against the utilitarian hotel carpet, pulse roaring in my ears. My boss towered above, and from this vantage his presence became a horizonless sky, heavy and suffocating, yet captivating. He cocked one foot up, slipped it from his loafer, and planted the broad, tan, sweat-shiny heel directly against my cheek. The force of it tipped my head so the threadbare carpet mashed against my lips, which parted involuntarily to inhale the deep funk of his skin.

Above me, he chuckled—a sound not unkind, but so deep it vibrated my ribs. "That's what I thought," he said, and levered his foot back, nudging my chin upward, demanding eye contact. I met his gaze through the haze of desire and humiliation; his pupils were blown dark and wide, and the bulge in his tailored pants looked ready to split the zipper.

He pressed again, not gently, this time smearing his thick heel down my jawline to rest atop my mouth, sealing it. The arch of his foot flexed above me, veins and sinew shifting as he bore down. Every atom of me thrummed with the need to yield further, to be pressed flatter, to be broken to his rhythm.

He leaned forward, the press of his weight sinking me into the floor, and let his toes splay over my lips. The sweat reek was impossible to ignore: not the sour gym-rot of panic, but a thick, animal brine, like sun-warmed leather and the ghost of cigarettes, with a coppery tang that rose off his skin in waves. My tongue flicked out, instinctual, desperate for his taste or some wordless approval. He grunted, not bothering to disguise the shiver that rippled through him.

"Jesus," he said, voice hoarse, "you like that, don't you?"

I nodded as best I could, face pinned, his toes grinding my lips open. The taste was a shock: bitter, salty, tinged with the oily tang of the sweat, but something in me twisted around it, a raw, animal hunger that made me want to gulp down every drop of his scent and grime. My cock throbbed so hard it hurt, and a whimper escaped me, muffled by his sole.

He rolled his foot, pressing the ball against my mouth until my nose flattened into his sole. My hands went to his ankle, gripping him, desperate for leverage to push deeper, harder, to bury myself in the dense funk of his skin. He let me, even flexed his toes so I could get at them, and I licked frantically at the crevices, dragging my tongue from the webbing to the callused pads, almost sobbing with the need to be closer, closer.

"Open up," he said, and his big toe forced its way between my lips, invading the warmth of my mouth with impatient authority. The texture shocked me: callused, thick with months of unfiled skin, yet I found myself slavering over it, chasing every hint of his sweat. I heard myself moan, a small pathetic sound, but he only seemed to relish it, grinding his heel into my jaw and twisting his foot so his toes stretched deep, nearly choking me.

Another toe joined the first, then another, until I was gagging on the width of him. The taste of flesh, sweat and musk filled my mouth, and the sheer brutality of it made my head spin. Each new inch scraped my tongue raw, and I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to crawl inside his skin, to merge with everything that made him so confidently, casually powerful.

He shifted his weight, letting his toes rest on my tongue, then pulled them free with a wet pop. His foot hovered above my face, slicked with saliva and shining in the yellow lamplight. I stared, breathless, as he flexed his foot and smiled—really smiled, the edge of a dimple digging through his beard—and for a moment I felt like a dog who’d just learned a new trick and craved the reward. He must have seen it in my eyes, because his own gaze softened for a second before hardening again.

“Take off the other one for me,” he said, voice flat, as if he were assigning a spreadsheet. He propped his foot on the bedspread, the second loafer dangling from his toes, and watched as I fumbled at the heel, lips trembling, tongue already desperate for the taste of him. I pulled the shoe free, and the stench hit me like a wave—richer, almost cheese-like. I pressed my face to the arch, inhaling greedily, and for the first time noticed the thick black hair that bristled across every inch of his sole. He watched the realization dawn in my eyes, and a slow, evil smile creased his face.

"Didn't think I'd be that furry, did you?" he murmured, flexing his toes so that the wiry hair quivered beneath my tongue. "Go on, see what a real man's foot tastes like."

I did as I was told. The hair tickled the roof of my mouth, tangling between my teeth, the taste saltier, more intimate, than anything I'd ever known. Every swipe of my tongue picked up a new note—damp cotton, acrid funk, the lingering trace of some dry cologne that clung to him like memory. But most of all, the tast of manliness. The hair on his instep was matted with sweat from the day, and I mouthed it, suckling at the skin until he exhaled a sharp breath, a low involuntary groan. The muscles in his calf tensed, bracing for the next assault.

He braced his heel on the mattress, raking his hairy shin against my cheek. "You really are a nasty little pig, aren't you?" His words should have humiliated, but instead they ignited something reckless and consuming. I pressed harder, digging my tongue along the deep-set creases, nose buried in the thicket of his foot hair, until the only thing I could taste or smell was him. My hands floated up to the cuff of his slacks, pawing at it, desperate to feel the bristling hair beneath. He let me, rolling his shoulders back, arms folded across his chest in silent appraisal as I debased myself in the arch of his foot. Fingers trembling, I clung to the meat of his calf, tracing the coarse fur upward until I reached the hem of his pant leg.

His eyes flicked downward, following my need. "You really want it, don't you?" he said, something softer threading through his tone. "You want to see what kind of man I am under all this."

I nodded, throat tight. I wanted it so badly it hurt. I wanted the rest of him—the dense thatch of body hair beneath his shirt, the musk that clung to his pits and groin, the cock I’d only glimpsed bulging in the fabric, never revealed. My lips worked up the length of his shin, tongue flicking at the salty skin

until my mouth reached the cuff of his pants. I hesitated, but he seized my chin and tilted my face up to his. His eyes locked on mine, a flicker of amusement melting into challenge. With one motion, he undid his belt, the metallic click reverberating through my body. He popped the button of his slacks and shucked them down, inch by inch, never breaking eye contact.

What spilled into view was pure, unfiltered boss—thick thighs dusted with steel-wool hair, and above them, a bulge that tested the taut limits of his white cotton boxer briefs. The fabric, already grayed at the seams from sweat and wear, was stamped with the faint shadow of his cock, thick and meaty and snaking down one thigh. The air changed, heavier, charged with funk and pheromone. I felt my knees dig into the carpet as he stepped out of his pants and planted himself before me, legs braced wide,looming and omnipotent, the pivot point of my universe. His cock twitched against the cotton, already leaking a dark circle of precum, the head oversized and swollen beneath the fabric. Sweat stains radiated from the base, and I could smell him from where I knelt—musky, animal, barely contained.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and yanked the boxers down. They bunched at his knees, then slid to the floor, and I was met with the full, obscene spectacle: his cock, thick as my wrist, curving up from a tangle of grizzled hair. The shaft was ruddy and veined, the head flushed and slick. His balls hung loose, heavy and veined, dappled with coarse hair. The scent hit me in the gut, a mixture of sweat, dried piss, and that same pungent, chemical masculinity that seemed to emanate from his every pore.

I didn't wait for instruction. I leaned in, mouth open, tongue straining for first contact. The taste of him—raw, brackish, utterly indecent—exploded on my palate, and I latched on with a hunger that bordered on worship. His cock was so thick I could barely take more than the head without gagging, but I fought through it, lips crammed tight around the corona, tongue swirling, desperate to give him every atom of pleasure I could muster.

He hissed out a breath, the force of it rattling through his chest, and buried his hand in my hair. For a moment he let me set the pace, let me suckle and lap and savor the salt-slick skin; then his grip tightened and he shoved forward, ramming his cock until it battered the back of my throat. My gag reflex kicked and my eyes watered, but I kept my lips locked, refused to be driven off him, even as my lungs screamed for air. He groaned again, and the sound was so deep and guttural. His hips rolled in slow, inexorable increments, feeding me inch after impossible inch, until I was choking on the taste of him, airless, eyes streaming. He fucked my face with a steady, relentless rhythm, like he was proving a point or breaking in a new piece of office furniture, and the pressure of his hand at the back of my head told me escape was not an option.

He held me there, buried to the root, until I thought I would pass out; then he yanked me back, strings of spit and precum lashing my lips, before hammering home again. The world collapsed to the mechanical clench and release of his cock in my throat, the scrape of wiry pubes against my nose, the searing humiliation and exaltation of being used. I wanted to sob, to beg, but the only sound I could make was a frantic, breathless gurgle, a desperate attempt to draw breath around the thick, pulsing shaft jamming my windpipe. My boss just laughed—a low, incredulous rumble—then pulled out and slapped his cock wetly across my cheek, smearing it with saliva and precum.

"Not bad," he said, voice softening just a fraction. "You want more?"

I nodded, dizzy and trembling, tongue lolling out, begging without words. He obliged, sliding his cockhead across my lips, letting me taste the sticky residue before plunging back in. This time, he held my head with both hands, guiding me, facefucking in short, savage thrusts that left my nose mashed against his belly and my mouth stretched to its limit. He grunted with each stroke, sweat beading on his brow, chest heaving under his shirt.

The taste, the smell, the relentless invasion—each second stripped away a layer of my self-control. I wanted to please him, to impress him, to make him proud. I bobbed my head in time with his thrusts, drool spilling down my chin, the slap of his balls against my throat only spurring me on. His hands never left my head, alternately petting and dominating, like I was some prize beast performing as expected.

The rhythm built, relentless, inexorable, a piston-pulse that erased thought and time. My own cock throbbed untouched, leaking against the roughness of the hotel carpet. Suddenly, his grip became punishing, his fingers digging into my scalp as his hips jerked forward in short, brutal snaps. He held me flush to his groin, his cock crammed so deep in my throat I felt the pulse of his heartbeat through the shaft. The world went white at the edges.

He threw his head back and growled, "Fuck, gonna—" and then he was coming, thick ropes of it blasting directly into my esophagus.

The first pulse hit so hard it rocked my head, his cock swelling to impossible girth as the hot, viscous load flooded my throat. He didn't let up; if anything, he jammed my nose deeper into his groin, sealing me there until I had no choice but to gulp down every gout of cum he pumped into me. My eyes streamed. My chest ached with the effort to breathe. But I swallowed, over and over, feeling each obscene spurt coat my insides.

When he finally released me, I collapsed backward, coughing and gasping, cum and spit leaking from my numb lips. He stood over me, breathing hard, his cock softening but still glistening with a final smear of white. He made no move to cover himself. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. The only sound was my ragged breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioner.

He looked down at me, a new respect—or was it ownership? …

[bananadramaaa]

i see your zoot suit angel dust and i raise you 1970s funk angel dusk

(also you have combined my two fixations, hazbin and historical fashion so thank you thank you thank you!! your work is amazing!!)

Aw, thank you so much🥺💜 Though I don't quite get the difference between the funk 70s (more patterns and sparkles???) and like the usual ones, so Angel just in some of the 70s outfits 😅

[tmbgareok]

Looking back, is there any songs where you feel that the demos were better than the final, at least in one way, shape or form?

JF: there are usually qualities in a demo you want to hold on to, and usually some qualities you want to bury immediately. From very early on we tried to figure out ways to export specific unique things in demos that seemed impossible to reproduce in the "real studio". Nowadays there can be a lot of elements made before tracking with the band that carry on to the end--either home made drum patterns, strange but solid electronics sounds or vocal performances, or even just handclaps or percussion made in a home recording environment. Preserving the funk, as it were.

[chunkfunkgunk-offishal]

Today on CHUNK! FUNK! GUNK! We rate

the MORAY EEL:

8/10 Chunk

10/10 Gunk

8/10 Funk

It’s been a long time coming, and anyone who’s been following this blog for any amount of time is well aware of my obsession with these funny wiggly boys.

Moray eels. My beloveds. Look at that girth, high chunk. The slime layer that makes it so that I cannot hug them without a proper wetsuit or fabric layer, absolute gunk. The big squishable cheeks, the weird sticky-out-y tube nostrils, the two mouths, incredibly funky.

Overall: 10/10

Everyone has a selfish dream of what they would do if they won the lottery. Mine is simple: buy a giant saltwater tank and fill it with 3 giant moray eels. (Preferably of different colors/patterns so I can tell them apart)

Everyone also has a dream of channeling their inner Disney Princess with a wild animal: I want to hug a moray eel.

It was my birthday on the 18th, so as a gift to myself, I rate my beloveds.