#gets bashed for 'ugly' style

[supernotnatural2005]

The Arrangement - Part Five

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: The party is in full swing, everyone is having fun, until they're not. You let jealousy get the better of you, there's a mystery man and Dean is there to tug you right back into his arms... and bed.

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT!(18+ONLY!!!) Swearing, jealousy, mutual pinning, these two are idiots. A little cameo crossover 👀

AN: Welcome to Chapter five, the arrival at the party. Things are definitely starting to shift, whether they can actually make it through we'll have to see. I hope you enjoy ☺️

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist < Catch up here

The party was at one of the most upscale venues in town—an old historic building that had been renovated into an elegant event space.

The second Dean stepped inside; his senses were overwhelmed.

The place reeked of money.

A massive chandelier hung in the centre of the grand ballroom, casting a golden glow over the polished marble floors. The walls were lined with intricate mouldings, and soft classical music played beneath the hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

Dean’s eyes immediately landed on the buffet.

And damn. They did not cheap out.

A long table was spread with an assortment of high-end appetisers—perfectly arranged charcuterie boards, little bite-sized hors d'oeuvres that looked too fancy to actually enjoy, and a seafood station with cocktail shrimp that Dean was definitely coming back for.

“Wow,” you murmured beside him, taking it all in. “Roman really went all out this year.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Yeah, no kidding. Bet he blew half the budget just on the napkins.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you stepped further inside.

Dean followed, but not before grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He handed one to you with a smirk.

“Might as well make the most of it.”

You took it, clinking your glass against his before taking a sip.

As you took in the beautifully decorated room, your gaze swept across the scene, but Dean’s? His drifted right back to you. Just for a second. Just long enough for that all-too-familiar flutter to stir in his stomach—the one he kept pretending didn’t mean anything.

“You made it!”

Dean’s gaze broke away just as a blur of red came barrelling toward you. Charlie. She pulled you into a hug first, then stepped back with a low whistle, eyes raking over you in pure admiration.

“Holy shit.”

Dean had thought the exact same thing the moment he saw you.

You waved her off, a bashful smile tugging at your lips as your cheeks warmed. “Oh, please. What about you?”

Charlie beamed, twirling slightly to show off her dark-green Gatsby-style gown, the sequins catching the light. A matching headband sat atop her perfectly curled red hair, pinned into an elegant bun.

“I know, right?” She grinned. “I figured if I’m coming to this thing, I might as well go all out. Look.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a long cigarette holder, playfully pinning it between her fingers like she belonged in the 1920s. “I don’t even smoke.” 

You couldn’t contain the snort that escaped you, Charlie giggling along too, before her attention flicked past you, her smirk widening.

“Oooh, look what the cat dragged in.” She eyed Dean up and down before giving an approving nod. “Damn, Winchester, you actually clean up nice.”

Dean huffed a chuckle and pulled her in for a quick hug. “S’good to see you, kiddo.”

And just like that, another reason why this complicated mess you’d gotten yourself into, reared its ugly head. Your friends weren’t just your friends. They were Dean’s, too. Your lives were so tangled together that if—or when—this thing between you inevitably crashed and burned, the fallout was gonna be devastating. 

Which is why you couldn’t let it. 

“No offence to the overpriced champagne, that’s probably worth half our rent,” Dean muttered, nodding toward the bar, “but I need something stronger.”

“Agreed,” you and Charlie said in unison.

You couldn’t help but let your eyes linger on Dean as he weaved his way through the crowd. He looked Goddamn edible. But the sensation of being watched made you shift uncomfortably. Turning back, you found Charlie’s sharp gaze locked onto you, her lips curling with curiosity.

“What?” you asked warily with a nervous chuckle.

Her smirk deepened. “Something happening here?” She gestured between you and Dean with a flick of her finger.

Your stomach lurched, and your grip tightened around your champagne flute. “What? No.” You shook your head, too fast, too defensive.

Charlie’s expression screamed bullshit.

“You know I call it when I see it,” she sing-songed, arms crossing over her chest.

Your mouth felt dry, and the bubbles from the champagne burned a little more than they should as you took another sip. With a sigh, you lowered your voice.

“Just… don’t say anything,” you muttered, glancing back toward the bar, where Dean was now getting served.

Charlie’s brows shot up; interest piqued. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“We slept together,” you admitted quietly. “Multiple times, actually.”

Her jaw dropped. “For real?”

You nodded.

Her face lit up like you’d just handed her the best gossip of the year. “That’s amazing! It’s about damn time you two admitted—”

“We’re not together,” you cut in, before she could continue down that road, and her excitement dimmed, brows furrowing in confusion.

“We’re just… sleeping together,” you explained, trying to sound casual, as if your heart wasn’t in a vice just saying the words. “No strings, no expectations. We both agreed—”

Charlie scoffed. “You?” She pointed at you incredulously. “Miss ‘Hopeless Romantic’ agreed to a no-strings thing?”

You plastered on a smirk, covering the raw edges with bravado. “I’m the one who suggested it.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced. “You sure that’s what you want?” Her voice softened, her gaze knowing. You weren’t exactly the casual type. Sure, you’d dated, but it was never just for the sake of it. You always wanted something real.

But you just shrugged, still wearing that practiced smirk. “Dean’s not looking for a relationship, and neither am I right now. It works for us.”

Liar.

Charlie pressed her lips together, clearly holding back more opinions, but she let it drop. At least for now.

And when Dean returned, drinks in hand, she didn’t say a damn thing.

But the look she gave you said it all.

This was going to end in flames.

And tonight it was you being burned, because you were in hell.

After some casual conversation between the three of you, more drinks, and even a couple of twirls on the dance floor, you spent the latter half of the night watching the women from HR fawn over Dean like he was a prime cut of steak in a den of hungry wolves. And worst of all? He didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, he was currently leaning against the wall, deep in conversation with a woman you knew to be Carmen. She was nice enough—you’d exchanged a few polite greetings in the elevator—but that was about the extent of your interactions.

Your fingers tightened around your glass as you watched her laugh at something he said—too exaggerated, in your opinion. He wasn’t that funny. And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, her manicured hand squeezed his bicep. That was the last straw.

Charlie had abandoned you to use the restroom, leaving you with no distractions other than to sit and watch Dean practically fall in love with another woman right in front of you.

Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic. But he looked interested, and it made your stomach churn.

Deciding you’d tortured yourself enough, you pushed to your feet and manoeuvred through the crowd toward the bar. More alcohol seemed like the only logical solution.

Except, before you got there, you walked straight into someone solid.

“Oh—sorry,” you blurted, glancing up and took a pause when you were met with a pair of striking blue eyes.

“You’re alright.” His voice was smooth, paired with a friendly smile that only made him look more devastatingly handsome. He was about Dean’s height, maybe a little broader—the type of guy who looked like he worked out seven days a week. His sandy-blonde hair was short and styled, and his jawline was something out of a damn movie.

Hot damn.

“I, uh, don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” he mused, and you had to give your head a little shake to refocus.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you either.” You countered with a small smile. “Do you work for Roman?”

“I do—part of his security team.”

“Right.” You nodded. “Well, I’m about fifteen floors below where you’re probably stationed, so I guess it makes sense we haven’t crossed paths.” Roman enterprises was a fortress and you tended not to wonder often in fear of getting lost.

He chuckled in agreement. “I’m Steve, by the way.” He extended a hand, that easy-going smile still on his lips.

You slid your hand into his, warmth seeping into your fingers. His grip was firm but not overbearing.

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself.

Steve’s smile deepened, like your name was the best thing he’d heard all night. And despite yourself, you swooned a little.

"You know, I've realised I don't really know a whole lotta people here," He chuckled with, what appeared to be, a nervous hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Can I get you a drink? Maybe make a new friend?" He smiled shyly, his demeanour too sweet to come off as anything other than genuine.

You hesitated, your mind caught in a battle with itself. Steve seemed nice enough, but despite the storm brewing inside you from watching Dean with someone else, the last thing you wanted was to drag someone else into your mess. But then again, who said it had to be anything more than two colleagues getting to know each other?

Before you could even make up your mind, a warm, familiar hand settled against your lower back—possessive, grounding.

“There you are.”

Dean’s voice was low, tight, and when you turned, his green eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on Steve, sizing him up with suspicion. A tense, unspoken shift settled over the conversation.

“And you are?” Dean asked. To an outsider, his question might’ve sounded like casual curiosity, but you felt the rigid press of his body against yours, saw the tight clench of his jaw.

“Steve,” the blonde replied, offering his hand once again.

Dean took it, shaking firmly, his brow arching slightly. “You serve?”

Steve looked mildly surprised at the question but answered without hesitation. “Two tours in Iraq.” His posture straightened.

“My dad was a Marine,” Dean explained, his voice more neutral now. “Got used to military handshakes.”

Steve nodded in understanding.

Dean, however, wasted no time getting to his real point. “You mind if I borrow her?”

The question was phrased politely, but there was nothing optional about it. You glanced up at Dean with a frown, but his eyes never left Steve.

To his credit, Steve backed off with a friendly nod, though you swore you saw a flicker of disappointment in those piercing blue eyes. “Of course. It was nice meeting you,” he said, sending a small parting smile your way before disappearing into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, irritation bubbled up inside you. “What? You get bored flirting with the desperate housewives of HR and remember I exist?” you snapped, folding your arms across your chest.

Dean blinked at your hostility and then frowned. “I wasn’t flirting.”

You levelled him with a look.

He sighed. “Okay, maybe a little, but it was all innocent, I swear" He added at your disbelieving look. "It's not my fault you ditched me to schmooze with your boss.” He gestured vaguely toward the other end of the room with a huff.

“This is a company Christmas party, Dean. Of course i wasn’t going to ignore my boss when he asked me a question.”

Dean looked genuinely baffled. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly having a great time. Those women are nuts.”

You snorted. “Didn’t look like you were having a bad time with Carmen.”

Dean frowned, as if trying to remember who that was. Then, realisation dawned. “Oh—her? Only because she seemed the most normal out of the bunch. Until she asked if I wanted to take her into the coat closet so she could ‘suck me off.’” He quoted with wide eyes.

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head.

Fucking HR.

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Look, I can be an ass, but I’m not a dick.” His voice softened slightly as he leaned down, waiting until your eyes met his. “I came here with you, and I intend to leave here with you.”

The warmth in his words settled deep in your chest, more powerful than you wanted to admit.

You were starting to sound like a broken record, but you’d never battled with your feelings this hard in your entire life. You felt like you were all over the place, an unsettling reminder of just how dangerous this thing with Dean was. But you were an idiot—hooked, unable to break free from the line he’d cast around your heart.

After a beat, Dean stepped closer, his presence calming the storm inside you, even if just for a moment.

“What do you say we get out of here?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His hand slid around your waist, his warm palm flattening against the small of your back as his other hand trailed slowly down your arm. “You’ve been driving me crazy in this dress all night.” His voice was husky, rough, his breath hot against your skin.

Your breath hitched when his teeth grazed your ear.

“What about Charlie?” you asked weakly.

“What about her?”

You both jumped apart to find Charlie standing there, arms crossed, an infuriating smirk on her lips.

Dean cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were, uh, just thinking of calling it a night.”

“Dean’s been traumatised by the HR department,” you added with a snicker.

Charlie’s smirk widened. “Ohhh, so you’re the ‘green-eyed hottie’ Janet was talking about in the restroom.” She tilted her head, as if piecing things together.

It was almost comical the way Dean’s eyes widened in fear.

Ignoring his discomfort, Charlie waggled her eyebrows. “Man, she wants to do some naughty things to you.”

Dean visibly shivered. Janet was thrice his age, twice divorced, and way too handsy for his liking.

You chuckled and patted his back in mock sympathy. “Want to grab a cab with us?” You directed at Charlie.

“Nah, you kids go on ahead. I’ve got myself a ride home.” Charlie smirked, glancing over your shoulder.

You followed her gaze and spotted Dorothy from marketing, who was smiling back at her.

Turning back to her with a knowing grin, you nudged Charlie playfully. “Look at you, player.”

She swatted your hand away with a laugh, and then you pulled her in for a quick hug. “I’ll see you after the holidays.”

Charlie squeezed you back before turning to Dean. “Of course. See you later, bitches.” She flashed Spock’s signature salute before disappearing back into the crowd.

By the time you returned home, you were beat. Socialising in large groups wasn’t your forte and the night had been a roller coaster of emotions from start to finish.

Dean followed you inside, the silence from the cab ride stretching between you. But beneath it, a flicker of heat still simmered, unspoken yet undeniable. The weight of his gaze burned against your skin, heated and roaming, darkened with something primal.

You barely had time to breathe before he stepped into your space, backing you up until your shoulders met the wall in the foyer. Your pulse stuttered, shallow breaths mingling in the charged air between you as he braced a hand beside your head, leaning in close—so close his breath ghosted over your lips, warm and teasing.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was rough, hushed, wrecked. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and devouring, before they flickered down to your parted lips.

The heat between you coiled tighter.

“Thinkin’ I’d rather fuck someone else,” he rasped, his mouth brushing against your jaw, then lower, his breath fanning over the sensitive skin of your throat, “when you’re right here, lookin’ like this.”

Your body arched instinctively as his lips found the rapid pulse at your neck, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss that sent a shiver through you. His hands found your waist, fingertips pressing in just enough to ground you, to claim.

The scent of you filled his senses, sweet and intoxicating, and for a moment, he just breathed you in, savouring every second, every sharp inhale, every tremble.

“Dean.” Your voice was a whisper, wrecked and needy, and that was all it took.

A growl rumbled low in his throat as his hands slid up, cupping your face as his lips crashed into yours—hungry, desperate.

Your hands fisted the lapels of his suit jacket, simultaneously pulling him closer and using him as something to keep you upright. He groaned into your mouth, deep and raw, before shrugging out of it. The soft fabric pooled onto the floor as his fingers worked at his tie. His gaze never left yours as he slipped it free, the silk sliding through his fingers with an easy grace.

Then, with a smirk laced with something deeper—reverence, need—he reached for your wrists, lifting them above your head. You gasped, breath hitching as he looped the tie around them, binding them together with a care that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Trust me?” he murmured, voice rough yet achingly soft.

You swallowed hard, nodding, and he rewarded you with a slow, lingering kiss. Then, shifting your arms around his neck, he lifted you, strong hands supporting you as if you weighed nothing. Your heart pounded against your ribs as he carried you to your room, bridal-style, his gaze hooded as he laid you down onto the bed.

Dean hovered over you for a moment, drinking you in, his expression softer now, full of something raw and unspoken. His fingers traced down your arms after lifting them above your head, and then over your ribs, as if memorising every inch of you.

“You are…” he shook his head, almost in disbelief. “God, you’re beautiful.”

He knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles, lifting one delicate foot. With careful precision, he slipped off your heel, pressing a warm kiss to the inside of your ankle before trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up the curve of your calf. He took his time, savouring, breathing you in before repeating the same attentive worship on the other leg, drawing soft sighs from you with every touch.

By the time his lips reached your knee, your thighs trembled, anticipation coiling thick in the air. His hands slid up, skimming over the fabric of your dress before gently pushing it higher. His breath stuttered when he caught sight of the red lace hugging your hips, his fingers tracing along the delicate fabric with raw hunger.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest as he lowered his head, brushing his lips over you through the lace. The heat of his breath sent a shudder through your body, and when he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the dampening fabric, a gasp escaped your lips.

“Oh, fuck.” You panted.

Your hips lifted instinctively, searching for more, but he took his time, savouring the way you writhed beneath him. His fingers then hooked into the waistband, peeling the lace down your thighs with aching slowness. He kissed each inch of newly bared skin, pressing his lips to your hip, your inner thigh, before finally settling between your legs.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something dark and wicked flickering in their depths. “Keep ’em there, baby,” he murmured, nodding toward your bound hands still obediently resting above you. You nodded, biting your lip, your cheeks flushed, breath coming in heavy with anticipation.

And only then, with the lightest brush of his tongue, did he taste you—his eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring the most decadent thing he’d ever had.

Your fingers curled into fists, silk tightening around your wrists as your back arched off the bed. His mouth moved slowly at first, deliberate, savoring every sound you made like a man starved. He groaned against you, the deep, satisfied rumble vibrating through your core, as if he could do this forever.

And then, suddenly, he pulled away. You whined at the loss, but Dean’s gaze was alight with something new—a desire, a thought, a wicked idea that was his alone in that moment. He kneeled beside you, rolling up his sleeve with slow precision before running his warm, calloused palm up your inner thigh. Higher and higher, until his fingers traced along the seam of your soaked pussy.

You moaned, hips shifting instinctively toward his touch, desperate for more. But then he stilled. His thumb lazily stroked your skin as his gaze found yours, dark and unreadable. “I wanna try something,” he husked, voice thick, rough like gravel. His eyes burned into you. “You trust me, sweetheart?”

It was the second time that night he’d asked, and once again, your breathless “yes” came without hesitation—because you did. More than anything.

His pupils dilated, his Adam’s apple bobbed with a slow, deliberate swallow, and then—finally—he eased a finger inside you, achingly slow, curling it just right. Your breath hitched, thoughts dissolving into pure sensation. And when he pressed another in alongside it, stretching you, filling you, working a steady rhythm, your body clenched around him, lost in the intoxicating pleasure only he could give.

“So fucking tight. So wet,” he groaned, voice thick with lust, his darkened gaze locked on the way his fingers disappeared inside you.

His free hand slid up your stomach, palm pressing down just above your mound—grounding you, holding you in place as his movements grew relentless. The wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filled the room, each slick thrust of his fingers working you open, drawing you closer to something deeper, something more intense than before.

A new sensation coiled low in your belly—hot, insistent, unfamiliar. Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flickering through the haze of pleasure, yet your body chased it desperately, caught in the war between holding on and—

“Let go,” he murmured, his voice rough, but beneath the command, there was something else. Something deeper than lust. Devotion. “I’ve got you.”

A sharp cry ripped from your lips as his thumb found your clit, circling, teasing, pushing you past the edge. The pleasure built—stronger, overwhelming, impossible to fight. Your body tensed, the sensation cresting into something too big to contain, and then, with one final flick of his fingers—

You shattered.

A gasp tore from your throat as your release gushed from you, pleasure crashing through every nerve, leaving you trembling and wrecked beneath him. Dean groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his grip tightening as he worked you through it, his hand and arm drenched in your pleasure. He watched you fall apart like it was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.

And when you finally slumped against the sheets, spent and shaking, he leaned down, brushing a kiss over your quivering stomach. His lips curled into a soft, satisfied smile as he made his way up your body, pressing slow, reverent kisses along your skin before claiming your lips in a deep, lingering kiss—one that felt like more than just pleasure. Like worship.

“Holy shit.” You gasped as you broke apart, chest heaving, body still trembling in the aftermath. “I’ve never done that before.” A breathless chuckle left your lips, but when your gaze flickered down to the large, dark wet spot on the sheets, embarrassment flared hot across your cheeks.

Dean groaned, low and appreciative, pressing a kiss to your jaw before nipping at your neck. “Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice was rough with awe, and before you could dwell on your shyness, he was coaxing that fire right back to life.

He settled over you, not even caring about the dampness soaking through his trousers as he rocked against you, grinding his hard length against your bare, oversensitive core. The rough fabric, straining against his arousal, created delicious friction that made you gasp, hips tilting instinctively to chase more.

“Dean, please,” you begged, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling into his hair as his mouth sealed over one of your hardened nipples through your dress. The teasing drag of his teeth sent a shiver down your spine, but just as quickly as he started, he pulled away. His green eyes burned into yours as he ran his hands up the length of your arms, lifting them once again above your head.

You sighed in frustration—until his lips were on yours again, kissing you slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs as he expertly undid the knot around your wrists. The moment you were free, your hands were on him—fisting his hair, deepening the kiss, tugging impatiently at his shirt. A silent plea.

He took the hint. Sitting back on his haunches, he made quick work of the buttons, slipping the fabric from his shoulders. You barely gave yourself a moment to admire the sight before you were sitting up, hands moving to his belt and zipper with urgency.

Dean stood from the bed, shoving his pants and boxers down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and aching, the tip glistening with precum.

Your mouth watered. A fresh wave of heat pooled between your thighs. Fuck.

Shuffling to your knees, you moved to the edge of the bed, hands trailing reverently down his stomach as you pressed your lips to his. One hand wrapped around his length, your grip firm but teasing as you pumped him slowly.

“Shit.” He exhaled sharply, head dropping to your shoulder as he let himself feel, his body shuddering beneath your touch.

His cock twitched in your grasp, his skin hot, his breath uneven as your strokes grew bolder. “Can I taste you?” you murmured against his skin, voice soft but dripping with want.

Dean shivered. Straightening, his hand cupped your jaw, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip before you parted your lips for him, sucking the digit into your mouth. You held his gaze as you swirled your tongue around the pad of his thumb, and his breath hitched, nostrils flaring as his cock throbbed in your grasp.

His voice was hoarse, full of raw hunger. “Fuck, yeah.”

A triumphant grin tugged at your lips as you began your descent, kissing down the column of his throat, over his chest, lingering at the hard ridges of his abdomen. His muscles tensed beneath your lips, twitching slightly as you traced the sharp definition with your tongue.

By the time you reached your destination, you were lying on your stomach, feet kicked up behind you in an almost innocent contrast to what you were about to do. Your hands glided over his length once more, appreciating the heat, the weight of him in your palms.

Dean groaned, his head tipping back, fingers flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to touch you.

And then—without warning—you took him into your mouth.

“Jesus—fuck!” He choked on air, his hips jerking instinctively, his body betraying him as he twitched against your tongue. His muscles went rigid, thighs trembling as you guided him deeper into the wet heat of your mouth.

You hummed in satisfaction, sending vibrations down his length, and his hands finally found their way to your hair, tangling in the strands with a strangled moan.

Dean’s grip in your hair tightened, his breathing ragged, his control hanging by a thread. He groaned, head tilting back as he fought the overwhelming pleasure, but you didn’t let up. The slow drag of your lips, the way your tongue teased him—it was too much. His hips jerked instinctively, pushing deeper into your mouth, and a strangled moan ripped from his throat.

“Shit—wait, sweetheart—” His voice was rough, breaking apart with every shaky inhale. His hand trembled where it cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if he wanted to savour the moment, but he was losing himself too fast. “Fuck, I need you to—”

His restraint snapped. In one fluid motion, he pulled you off him, his chest heaving from being so close to the brink and denying it.

You sat up, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, satisfaction glinting in your eyes.

“That good, huh?” you teased, voice breathless, sultry.

Dean’s nostrils flared, his gaze dark and hungry, his jaw clenching—then suddenly, his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was desperate, messy, his tongue claiming yours with the same hunger that had his hands roaming over your body.

His grip was everywhere—your waist, your breasts, your ass—before he spun you, pressing you back down onto your stomach.

Your cheek met the sheets, your body arching instinctively as his weight covered you. His chest was hot and solid against your back, his breath ragged at your ear as his hands smoothed down your sides—slow, deliberate, possessive.

“Fuck, baby…” He groaned, trailing his lips over your shoulder, his teeth scraping your skin before his palms slid over your hips, over your ass, spreading you open. He exhaled a harsh, shaky breath, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he rasped, as he ran the tip of his cock through your slick seam, teasing—just for a second—before he pressed forward, sinking inside in one long, devastating thrust.

Your mouth fell open on a sharp, breathless moan, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he filled you, stretching you perfectly.

“Oh—oh my God—Dean—”

A low, feral sound vibrated from his chest as he bottomed out, his body flush against yours, pressing you into the mattress.

And he didn’t hold back. 

He fucked you hard, the force of his thrusts driving you into the mattress, his hips slamming against yours, skin meeting skin in a sinful symphony.

“Jesus—” Dean groaned, his forehead pressing between your shoulder blades, his arms trembling as he caged you beneath him.

Your teeth sank into the fabric beneath you, muffling your cries as he pressed down, his weight anchoring you, moulding you into the mattress. The feeling of him inside you—deep, unrelenting—had your body trembling, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

His fingers sought yours, interlocking as he braced himself above you, his other hand gripping your hip, holding you close as if letting go wasn’t an option. The slick sound of skin against skin, the quiet whimpers, the desperate gasps—all of it built into something overwhelming, something unstoppable.

“Come on, baby,” he groaned, his lips ghosting over your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. “I can feel it—so close—come for me.”

The second his fingers swiped over you, pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, dragging you under. A sharp, broken cry tore from your lips, your body seizing, trembling, your walls pulsing tight around him as you shattered.

“Fuck—” Dean choked out, his rhythm faltering as you milked him, his grip on your hand tightening, his body trembling above you. With a ragged, shuddering groan, he buried himself deep, spilling inside you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you moved—just tangled limbs, heavy breaths, and the aftershocks still rippling through you both. Dean pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, placing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin as he tried to catch his breath.

Eventually, you groaned at the weight pinning you down, and Dean carefully pulled out of you, rolling to your side, blowing out a breath. His racing heart was still on the come-down, his sweat-slick skin sticking to the sheets beneath him.

You felt weightless, like your limbs were made of jelly as you remained sprawled out on your stomach. Dean turned his head to you, an amused, proud smirk tugging at his lips.

“You good, sweetheart?” he hummed, then thwarted your butt cheek with a light smack, making you jump and gasp.

You lifted your head, sweeping your hair out of your face, looking thoroughly wrecked—hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red, the smear of your lipstick only adding to the effect. It was a look he secretly stashed away as one of his favourites on you.

“I don’t think I can walk,” you huffed, a giggle escaping as you tried to move your legs. Dean watched your half-hearted attempt, barely lifting your foot an inch before snickering.

“Hey, it’s not funny,” you protested, swatting his chest. He flinched but didn’t stop laughing. “I can’t sleep in these sheets,” you grimaced, feeling the dampness beneath you.

“It’s fine, you can sleep in my bed.” He suggested casually. You paused. Sleeping together, as in actually sleeping, wasn’t part of the arrangement. It was too intimate. The first night you’d slept together didn’t count, you’d both passed out. 

However, this time you could chose, and your heart was screaming at you to say yes, which is why you knew you should say no. 

“I can hear you thinking." Dean hummed and looked at you with a knowing smile. “Look, considered it a small clause, sleeping together after sex is just part of the aftercare; in this case, paralysis.” Dean bit his lip to contain his laughter, but it was no use at the deadpan look you gave him. 

“You’re actually a loser, you know that?” you muttered, shaking your head. You attempted to rise again, but your lower half wasn’t cooperating, so you flopped back down, frustrated.

“C’mon,” he said, calming down a bit, “It’s just for tonight. Then tomorrow you can wash your sheets, and presto.”

Just because it made sense didn’t mean you had to like it.

“Okay, fine,” you relented, missing the wide grin spreading across his face as he sat up. He helped you roll over and then scooped you into his arms effortlessly, just like when he’d carried you in here earlier.

You tried not to look at him on the way to his room, tried not to notice how his body felt against yours. He settled you at the end of the bed and grabbed one of his shirts for you to wear. For once, you didn’t argue. The change in temperature between rooms was stark, instantly pebbling your skin.

Dean also slipped on a pair of sweats, and you had a feeling he picked the grey ones on purpose. He then went into the bathroom, coming back with a washcloth so you could clean yourself up a little. That you were grateful for. You then tossed it into his hamper and let him help you under the covers. 

“Thanks.” You muttered softly, and Dean smiled down at you before walking over to the other side and settling in himself. 

He kept his distance, something you were both grateful for, but also hated.

The space between you felt like a void, the warmth of his body just out of reach. It was ridiculous—you were just tangled up in the most intimate way possible, and now you were suddenly hyperaware of the gap between you.

Dean lay on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. His breathing had evened out, but you knew he wasn’t asleep yet. You weren’t either. You were too busy thinking, overanalysing.

You turned your head slightly, stealing a glance at him. The dim light from the hallway cast soft shadows over his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the freckles on his nose. He looked—peaceful. More peaceful than you’d seen him in a long time.

Something tightened in your chest.

You sighed, rolling onto your side, trying to ignore the pull in your stomach, but Dean must have noticed because his head turned toward you, eyes lidded but alert.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice was raspy, deep from exhaustion.

You hesitated before answering. “No.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, then, without a word, he lifted his arm in silent invitation. You should’ve said no, should’ve turned over and forced yourself to sleep. But your body betrayed you, dragging yourself closer until you could rest your head against his shoulder, his warmth seeping into you instantly.

His arm curled around you naturally, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your arm. You could hear his heartbeat, slow and steady beneath your ear.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whispered, more for yourself than him.

Dean let out a small huff of laughter. “No. Of course not”

And when sleep finally came, it found you tangled up in him, your fingers resting over his heart, his arm holding you like he didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

AN: So how did you feel about the continuation? Did I surprise you? Did you think it'd be all angsty? 👀 Maybe there's still time for that... 🫣 Also I'm curious to see who you think Steve was based off... 😜And as always feedback is much appreciated 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell @nancymcl @happyfxckinghorrors @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @fangirlingfromdownunder @cevansbaby-dove @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy @impala67stellawinchester @bonbonnie88 @youroldfashioned @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes @rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @kayleighwinchester @amberlthomas

Next Time...

Dean sidled up next to you as you began resetting the table for the next game, leaning in close enough that you felt the heat of him at your back, the scent of his cologne—spicy, with deep, woody undertones—wrapping around you. “I didn’t take you for a dirty player, Singer,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp against your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, but you masked it with a smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You kept your tone coy as you finished racking up the balls, then turned to squeeze past him, pressing your ass just a little more firmly against his front. The low sound he made—half a groan, half a curse—was deeply, deeply satisfying. You didn’t turn around as you sauntered off toward the bar, but you didn’t need to. You knew damn well he was watching, that he was still standing there, fists flexing at his sides, teeth clenched.

[viccyfics]

Could you do “Don’t think I don’t notice you yawning.” Prompt with C.B and Electra?

Thank you for the prompt!

(prompt list)

READ BELOW THE CUT OR ON AO3

It was a well-known fact that Electra liked to talk, especially about himself, and if CB could go back in time he’d stop himself from asking Electra about his wigs...he would. But he was so curious, and now, two hours later, he didn’t care anymore.

He didn’t care about what they were made from, or where he bought them from, he didn’t even care where he had worn the special ones, CB just wanted to know why he had so many considering most of them looked identical, and there was no way Electra was getting into that many accidents and losing his hair that meant he needed to get a new exact same wig…right?

CB had to resist the urge to bash his head into the nearest wall, or Electra’s chest plate which was showing just how fast his heart was racing with excitement.

“See, the gradient shift only shows up under ultraviolet lighting,” Electra said, gesturing wildly with a hand like this was some sort of dramatic stage performance. “Which is critical for black light parties, it goes great with that neon set I have.

CB blinked. “You have sets? Like matching wigs and outfits?”

Electra paused like CB had just asked if water was wet. “Of course I have sets. What do you think I am, uncoordinated?”

CB narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re… something.”

“I just like to have options. For my mood, or aesthetic, or weather patterns.”

“You have weather wigs?”

“Who doesn’t?”

CB groaned, rubbing at his eyes, “Most people, I’ve never worn a wig in my life.”

“And that’s why you look like that.” Electra retorted, gesturing to the ginger curls on CB’s head like they had personally offended him, "And I look like this."

CB didn’t flinch, he didn’t even blink, he just stared, as if his soul had quietly left the building twenty minutes ago and left his body behind to suffer.

Electra, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the multiple wig-covered shelves, “Now, for rain, I usually go with a synthetic blend, something that doesn’t frizz, I hate frizz, you should deal with your frizz, and for snow, I have this faux fur number with little crystal flecks in it. Just subtle enough to say ‘elegant,’ but bold enough to scream ‘I’m still the moment, and it keeps my head warm which is always nice.”

CB leaned back against the wall, ignoring the comment about his hair instead, trying to calculate how long he could pretend to be unconscious before Electra bothered to check his pulse.

“And the wind, oh, wind is a whole different category. You have to plan for movement. That’s where aerodynamics come in.”

“Wigs don’t need aerodynamics,” CB mumbled, mostly to the floor.

Electra gasped, “You poor, sheltered freight car, I can see why you want to know so much, you're tired of feeling ugly."

CB let his head fall back against the metal wall with a hollow clunk. Maybe if he hit it hard enough, he could dislodge his curiosity before it ever formed again.

Electra kept going. “There’s an entire section of my closet dedicated to just kinetic styling. Some are even motorized.”

“Are you telling me… you have remote-controlled wigs?”

Electra grinned, “Oh yes. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a wig that fluffs itself on cue. Or flares out in time with the music-"

“I’m leaving my body,” CB said flatly. “I am actually astral projecting. I can see myself from above, wow this room is disgusting from this angle."

“Oh be quiet, I wasn't being rude to you like this,” Electra sighed, “Now, where was I? Oh! The sea-breeze set. That one’s designed to stay locked in place even in a Category 3 hurricane. It’s the one I wore when we went to that coastal track in-”

But then Electra paused, turning slowly, his eyes wide in horror as he watched CB through the mirror on the wall, “Don’t think I don’t notice you yawning.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” CB groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I know,” Electra spat, “I saw your back molars, you really need to learn how to use a toothbrush.”

“I just ate,” CB muttered looking back down to the floor, his eyes growing heavy, wow Electra really was exhausting him.

Electra sniffed, offended. “That’s no excuse. I just ate too, and I still manage to keep my teeth sparkling.”

“You don’t even eat real food,” CB mumbled, folding his arms and slumping further down the wall like he was trying to merge with it. “You take power naps and slurp electricity like it’s soup.”

“It’s called being efficient. and maybe if you put half as much effort into your appearance as you do into sulking, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

CB cracked an eye open, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you knew how to answer a yes or no question in under an hour.”

“That’s not how passion works, CB.”

“It’s how conversations work.”

“You know, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

CB let out a noise somewhere between a quiet grunt and an offended whimper, “I’m lucky you haven’t suffocated me with one of your wigs.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me. I have a model that can deploy smoke for dramatic exits-”

“Why?” CB cried, interrupting the Electric Engine, flinging his hands up. “Why does a wig need a dramatic exit?”

“Because I do. And if I’m leaving a room, I’m not just walking out. I’m making a statement. Even my hair should mourn my absence.”

CB’s head thunked back against the wall again. He was sure if he stayed there long enough, the wall would eventually absorb him, like osmosis, or something, he never paid much attention in school.

“And before you ask,” Electra added, already back to sorting through a collection of brightly coloured, suspiciously identical wigs, “yes, there is a mourning set. Black velvet, with a touch of lace. Worn exclusively at funerals and breakups.”

CB looked at him, deadpan. “You have a breakup wig?”

“I have three. Different levels. One for rage, one for devastation, and one for ‘I’m doing great, thank you.’”

CB let out another yawn, all he wanted to do was go home and sleep, and not have to deal with Electra's dramatics.

At Least Electra was his only friend with such a strange collection, next time he wanted to see a room like this he’d go and see Turnov’s knife collection, that was exciting, especially when he let CB play with them.

[sunflowervoltwentyeight]

Happy 28th! Here is my December 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!

Shake Me Down by AGreatPerhaps12 / @agreatperhaps12 (208k)

Harry's new to college, fresh out of Catholic school and conversion therapy camp, and Louis runs the campus LGBTQIA organization.

Knock Knock, I Love You by beautlouis / @thelovejandles (86k)

“Well,” Louis says, searching for something to relieve this tension. “I think if a bloke gets kicked out of his stats exam for a knock knock joke, he deserves to hear the punchline, yeah?”

“Oh!” Harry says, beaming. “I forgot where we left off, what was it again?” He looks overjoyed to be exchanging a shit joke.

“Ah, you said knock knock, then I said who’s there, and then you said Noah,” Louis supplies helpfully. He hates that he's actually curious about the rest of the joke. “So, Noah who?”

“Oh,” says Harry, in a much different tone, dragging out the syllable. He looks bashful now. Louis cannot keep up with this boy, it's going to kill him. “Right, well.” He shuffles his feet. Fuck, what kind of knock knock joke gets a boy nervous? “Noah a good place we could get something to eat?”

[Harry and Louis get kicked out of a statistics exam for passing a knock knock joke note, and subsequently fall in love. Harry's a virgin, there's a cat, a hot cocoa date, a lot of sex, even more knock knock jokes, and everything is lovely and happy.]

Do You Still Remember Feeling Young by Kleep (14k)

Harry and Louis are in the kitchen, just putting the finishing touches on dinner when Lucas comes home from work. What that really means, is that Harry is cooking and Louis sits at the kitchen island drinking a beer, watching Harry cook, happy the task is back in Harry’s hands.

In the back of Louis’ mind, he knows that if Lucas was intending to talk to them tonight, dinner is his opportunity. While nervous, Louis hasn’t mentioned the impending talk to Harry even once tonight.

When they start eating dinner he tries to be the very picture of cool, calm and collected. Louis has only taken about 3 bites of his meal when Lucas finally brings it up.

“You know how I wanted to talk to you guys, right?

Louis isn’t sure if he should put his fork down for this and give Lucas his complete attention, or just keep eating and let Lucas have the space to say what he needs to say. He decides on keeping it light, casual, nodding in Lucas’ direction.

Sip it Slowly and Pay Attention by vintagehistories / @vintagehistories (12k)

“So I’ve got a guy I think you might like,” Louis says. He’s standing in the doorway of Harry’s office, drinking from what is most definitely Harry’s mug.

“You’re going to set me up?” Harry asks, rightfully wary. He can’t imagine that this could end well.

“Don’t look so afraid.” Louis takes a sip from his mug, wincing as it burns him. Harry rolls his eyes. He’s always warning Louis to be more patient before he loses all his taste buds. “I know you better than anyone else. Who better to set you up on dates than me?”

“I guess you’re right,” Harry says, still slightly hesitant.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Louis, but. He doesn’t trust Louis’ taste. Louis has about the same track record with men that Harry does, if not quite as extensive.

or, harry is a guidance counselor, louis is an english teacher, and harry just wants to go on one successful date

Just You and I (A Starry Sky) by justanothershadeofblue (zjofierose) / @justanothershadeofblue (7k)

"getting accidentally pregnant by his childhood best friend-with-benefits" was definitely not on Harry Styles' holiday to-do list - but apparently it's what has happened, so now he has to figure out how to tell Louis without ruining Louis' birthday, their family holiday, oh, and literally everything else about their lives. Oops?

Part 18 of zjo's winter holiday smorgasbord

Day Two: Ugly Sweater by 28goldensfics / @28goldens (4k)

Christmas Countdown Day Two: Ugly Sweater

Harry’s family has been bugging him to bring home a boyfriend for the holidays. So, when his best friend Louis is the one to suggest they go together, Harry is both thrilled and terrified to see how his hidden feelings come through.

Part 2 of Larry Xmas Countdown 2024

I'm Falling Again by jaerie / @jaerie (3k)

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, looked down at the screen of his phone and pressed call once again. The bright smiling faces of Louis’ contact photo stared up at him, his own cheek pressed up against Louis’, the tips of their noses burned a rosy red from the hot Jamaican sun. Just like the last three times, his call went straight to voicemail, driving home the fact of just how badly he’d fucked up.

All The Way Home I'll Be Warm by justanothershadeofblue (zjofierose) / @justanothershadeofblue (2k)

Harry & Louis jokingly send out holiday cards together as friends, and now everyone is congratulating them for finally getting together. A 5+1 fic, for Christmas.

Darling (adj.) by StarryDay13 / @daydreaming-sunflower (1k)

darling (adj.) 1. dearly loved, favourite 2. very pleasing, charming

– or in harry's safe place he is alone (unless)

It Was Always You by Worldsofdreamers / @defences-down (1k)

It's their first Christmas living together, and Harry has been trying to figure out how to talk to Louis about his feelings for weeks.

He could never have expected what would happen next.

One Heart, One Soul by princelyharry (princelythv) (1k)

When their Silver Wedding Anniversary came up, Harry and Louis were interviewed by Vogue. Telling them their journey of being in love and through the ups and downs of their marriage.

[romanticfatale]

Not to be a gatekeeper and a hater but all the “goth” men’s waistcoats I ever see are made of the worst and ugliest fabric I’ve ever seen and look immediately cheap and costume-y from twenty miles away.

Don’t look for “goth” fashion, brands take advantage of trends and give you cheap garbage that a million other people have already for way too much money. Look for clothes from “normie” brands or thrift in the colors and prints you want.

Talbots has excellent trousers, Robert Graham has nice dress shirts, tapestry waistcoats are much more unique and much more durable than the same-pattern shiny jacquard you see everywhere, especially vintage tapestry since it’s less likely to find someone with the exact same one in this day and age. 70s and 80s vintage wear from US and Germany I’ve noticed have lots of lovely prints. Thrift stores, Goodwill, secondhand, Craigslist, Marketplace etc can have great finds for cheap.

Don’t overload with prints. If you have a bold printed vest, wear a more subdued shirt or non print shirt. If you have a bold print shirt, wear a more subdued vest which lets you wear print or non print trousers. You could also not wear a vest and go with subdued trousers with a print shirt or vice versa.

Likewise don’t be afraid of prints. They can be kind of easy to go crazy with but they’re great statement pieces if you do florals or other non-standard imagery. Windowpane, houndstooth, plaid, gingham, dots, etc are all pretty standard and can look good together if color coordinated well.

Over saturated colors can be an eye sore. Very vibrant red on very pitch black can look kind of ugly if you don’t really style it well. That doesn’t mean you can’t have saturation, you just have to be mindful of your statement pieces if you want to look nice or cool.

Likewise, every time I hear someone say men's fashion is boring or sucks or that trying to get into fashion is impossible bc it’s expensive or considered "gay" I want to gouge my ribcage.

There are definitely aspects of fashion industry that are intended to be gatekept because society sucks but you don't have to trap yourself in a hell hole coveting your own Tyler Durden. You can get into fashion as a man without "looking gay" or feeling like you’re incentivizing queer bashing if you live in a dangerous space.

A "not gay" outfit that fucks: plain red t-shirt, matching red sweats, any white sneaker or shoe for cheap, a white jacket, a cheap chain necklace. You can wear a hat or a bracelet or earrings or a watch if you want. You can do white and red nail polish if you're feeling saucy (and safe). Red x White is a really good casual streetwear color combo that can be both bold or subdued and be safe for men.

You want to be more goth or punk? You can find either cheap graphic t-shirts to buy or collect old shirts that are falling apart at the seams and cut out all the designs and sew them onto your pants or a vest or a jacket. Libraries sometimes have sewing stations or classes. a cheap thing of thread and needles are found at the dollar store.

Are you mostly "goth" because you're afraid of color but want to try? Introduce one or two colors at a time. Red always fucks with black. red pants x black t-shirts. Red anime shirt x black goth pants. Dark red button up x black goth pants. Red shoes x black outfit. Red scarf with an enamel pin x black button up. Red jacket x all black outfit.

Poshmark, Mercari, eBay are great places online to find luxury clothes for surprisingly cheap, but you also don't have to find "luxury" clothes to have a decent wardrobe.

If you have bleach you can print and cut out cool designs from the library like skulls and bats or whatever and bleach goth stuff into your clothes. Wear safety pins as a necklace. Day-After-Halloween sales are an old school goth tradition. We used eyeliner and eyeshadow for our lips. Cut a tie in half and add a zipper. Cut a slit into pants and add zippers where they are. Zippers are just really fun for general, cheap "punk" looks. DIY is pretty standard for alternative subculture anyway. I have jeans I use for painting that are just stained with a lot of paint. It looks fun and cool to wear with other crustpunk styled clothes.

If you like women’s trousers but hate tiny pockets, use a shitty pillow case and cut out a pocket pattern from it (a rectangle the size of 2 phones or 2 hands), cut the seam of the current small pocket, and sew the new fabric into the old one for an extended pocket. If the trousers are light colored, try light colored fabric so it doesn’t show through.

There are ways to feel good in your clothes for cheap, free, and safe. I love trying to help so please feel free to ask for any advices.

[demaparbat-hp]

I just wanted to say, your art is top notch!! And that I also wanted to say, REALLY ENJOY HOW YOU DRAW SCARS/SCARRING.

I’ve seen few ppl capture that detail on how skin melts from high temperatures. How it also heals as well and if your not careful with the healing process, can also lead to being restricted (skin tightening. Tendons/muscle tightening). Though how you draw it is really good! The skin tightness, the bumps, the sagging and what ppl say/call “lazy eye?” With the eye lids. (I apologise in advance if that offends anyone!).

ITS BEAUTIFUL. Idk how to say it but ITS BEAUTIFUL! I personally never see scars as bad or ugly. Zuko looks even more handsome and pretty in your style, He’d be bashful seeing how you captured the essence and style tbh.

Sorry if this was random 😭 love your zutarra and Zuko drawings! Have a great day/night!

Omg thank you so so much!!!

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love Zuko, his character, his growth, his personality, and I love his scar. Getting it right has always been really important to me.

I've studied burn scars because I wanted to get it right, because this is something that matters to so many people, and I wanted to respect that. Zuko is beautiful. His scar is big, painful and jarring, and beautiful. (And isn't it also poetic? That in order to understand the warmth of fire he had to burn first.)

I'm so glad you feel that way about the way I draw his scar, its shape, its history. It means a lot to me ❤️

[foxgirlchainsaw]

Touhou: Literally All Of Them, Part 1

Hey there! This is a new series of reviews I'll be doing of Literally Every Single Touhou Game, from the PC-98 era all the way up to the most recent release. This is, notably, my first ever time playing any Touhou games. Our first game on the block is;

TOUHOU REIIDEN ~ HIGHLY RESPONSIVE TO PRAYERS

Highly Responsive to Prayers is, predictably, kind of rough and bad. Don't get me wrong, it's not *unfun*, it's fun to waste time for like 10-20 minutes on, but it's not the kind of thing one could make a series out of - thankfully, ZUN did not do that.

Anyway, HRtP is a fun, kinda short, break-out style game. It's gameplay loop is simple enough. For four stages, you as Reimu bat around a yin-yang orb either through fired cards or through hitting it with a stick. You're trying to bat the orb into these cards floating in formations around the stage in order to flip them over - once all of the cards are flipped, you win.

On the fifth stage, you fight a boss of some sort, which gameplay-wise is more familiar to anyone who's played a danmaku game. It's still the same yin-yang batting gameplay, but you have to repeatedly bash your orb into the boss, who fires simple bullet patterns at you as you try.

Overall, I'd give Hightly Responsive to Prayers a 3.5/10. It's kinda bad, I didn't end up having the fortitude to beat more than one path, and it's a little ugly.

While I'm glad ZUN dropped this style of gameplay in favour of turning Touhou into a danmaku series, I *do* think this kind of gameplay is worth revisiting in the modern day. It'd still not be superb, but I think there's interesting ideas in there. Doubt it'll happen though.

[extraordinaryhistories]

#22 - 'Far Physician's Son' (non-album track, 2001)

Somewhere early in his career, Sufjan Stevens discovered something incredible: acoustic guitars could be strummed. Before this point, Sufjan did one of two things on the acoustic. He would fingerpick, which made up the bulk of his nascent folk material, and it sounded great (just as it would later in his career, when he became iconic for this sound.) Or he would bash. The sound he gets out of his guitar on a song like ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ isn’t a strum, it’s an attack, ugly chords getting hammered out of his guitar. There was rarely an in-between. If you want a soft song, you pick; if you want a loud song, you bash. Such was the binary along which he operated for a while.

Then something changed. There was a realisation. There was no need for all this abuse; just sit with it and strum. Listen to the word escaping from the guitar – strum. Listen to all the beautiful resonances. Listen to the syllables as they play across the strings. Listen – really listen – to how the sound fills the space. Listen to six notes interacting as they choose. And then: out of it let music pour.

When Sufjan finally lent himself over to this most traditional of folk guitar styles, he created some really gorgeous work. His feel for writing chord progressions was developing rapidly, and that’s essential for strummed guitar, one of the more direct ways of conveying complex harmonic movement. Suddenly he was evolving out of elementary uses of the instrument, like those we see on ‘Happy Birthday’; the melodies were now being supported with a harmonic framing that served as the yin to their yang, a complementary – but slightly distinct – source of light and colour. A less immediately evident source of the refinement of Sufjan’s music, but one that’s present nearly everywhere, if you care to look for it.

Find it, if you will, in ‘Far Physician’s Son’. This song’s provenance is typically obscure: it was released with three other Sufjan songs on 8.21: A Blue Bunny Compilation, and if you haven’t heard of it, it’s because just about nobody has. On it you will find ‘Woman at the Well’, an early version of ‘Year of the Ox’, and then this, sandwiched between a tinny slacker rock song and a long slab of musique concrète. Listening to it in sequence is quite striking. Sufjan spent about fifteen years of his career (up until Carrie and Lowell) relishing in the fact that he was sort of uncool, an oddball English major writing knowingly kitschy songs based on musical tropes that were very much not in vogue, certainly not in the indie sphere. 8.21: A Blue Bunny Compilation is the perfect microcosm of what Sufjan was becoming as an artist. In the midst of all this wild laissez-faire experimentation comes this, a precious, beautifully-performed folk ode to Jesus. Not quite the recipe to win the alternative glitterati over, is it?

So yes, like ‘Joy! Joy! Joy!’, like ‘Woman at the Well’, like ‘God’ll Ne’er Let You Down’ and a host of others, ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is orthodox in just about every sense. The one daring element here is the time signature. It is our second-ever Sufjan song to feature 5/4 metre, and he continues to demonstrate here his natural gift for making non-standard timing sound like nothing out of the ordinary. This is one of those uncommon songs in five that sounds as effortless as the flowing of a stream – it might take several listens (around five, in my case) before you pick up on any strangeness at all.

We can attribute that effortlessness to the guitar playing. There’s that word – strum ­– wide, yearning chords, played at a confident pace, that fill up both channels with their close-miced honey. The assuredness of the rhythm draws the ear away from the metric oddities perfectly, make it sound orthodox despite being anything but. This is the first time an acoustic guitar has sounded this rich on a Sufjan song, and thankfully by no means the last – but songs like these are the origin point of so much of Sufjan’s later sophistication. The arrangement here is otherwise remarkably tasteful. Some flutes here, some vibraphone there, all following the vocal melody, nothing feeling garish or out-of-place. ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is not a song designed to challenge you. Sometimes, orthodoxy can be undervalued.

Thus we are encouraged to focus on the symbiosis that underpins all the finest Sufjan songs: the slow-dance between lyrics and melody. Predictably for this man’s early work, ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is a song about Jesus. (As an aside, I have at times theorised that Sufjan was considering a full-blown career pivot to Christian contemporary music around the turn of the millennium, given how nearly every vocal track written between A Sun Came and Michigan is explicitly religious. Religion as a thematic focus came back in a big way on Seven Swans, of course, but there it is treated with more complexity and metaphor than ever before. Early throwaways like ‘Far Physician’s Son’ accept the premise of God’s fundamental goodness without question. Simplistic? Yes, but then again, so many beautiful things are.)

‘Far Physician’s Son’ is a mostly straightforward song that references a passage in Luke 4, where Jesus goes to the synagogue of Nazareth (‘Went to Galilee / With the scroll again’) and announces himself as a saviour – the man who will save humanity from the ills that befall them (‘Heal the poor and stung / Steal the hurt and hung’.) The song emphasises Jesus’ fundamental humanity, and thus his staggering glory; he is ‘Joseph’s son’, child of a common man but saviour of the wider world. Again, there’s not much to this one, but there doesn’t need to be. Jesus’ goodness – his ‘is’-ness – is self-evident. It is written that the person who speaks to God in a few honest words is blessed over the person who speaks to God with ego and articulation. No more words are really required in a song like this than the repeated refrain, the ideological core of the song that inhabits its latter half: ‘he will arise, he will arise’.

It's that phrase, and the melody attached to it, that always beguiles me when I listen to ‘Far Physician’s Son’. This is a feathery song, with lighter-than-air melodies and effete instrumentation – and yet we find this great counterweight at the end of the song, ‘he will arise’, repeated ad infinitum, with its doggedly deep and flat melody. It takes me out of the song sometimes. And yet there is a keen reason to it. ‘He will arise’ is the final truth of the New Testament, the promise and end state of Christianity, the thing above all things. Of course it has to sound weighty. Of course it has to read like a mantra in the context of the song, Sufjan singing it over, and over, and over. It’s only logic. It’s only everything.

Addendum: literally mere weeks before I wrote this, a Sufjan show from the year 2000 was unearthed, and a rendition of ‘Far Physician’s Son’ was in it. A pretty standard version, but a version nonetheless. Massive news for annoying people.

[kob131]

Lily Orchard and Pokemon: Gen 1

Because the only response to this video should not be a four hour react stream highlight reel.

So Lily Orchard made a retrospective video on Pokemon...9 months ago that has risen back into prominence due to a Youtuber making a video on it, criticizing it.

It's also, again, a four hour video that's just a highlight reel of him reacting in real time to the video. Personally, I can't stand this kind of video so...

Here's what I have to say.

<---------------------------------------------------------------------------->

"Gen 1 bashing is done without merit!"

Lily argues that people bashing Gen 1 are doing so without any kind of merit, pointing out people complaining lacking features, having bugs and not having story. This she counters by saying "Pokemon story bad."

... I know that sounds reductive but the reason why I am saying this is because A- I already know what Lily thinks about the story of the game she's hinting at (Gen 5) and I can tell you she's not putting very much thought into this and B- that same foreknowledge and the fact that one of images she's using to represent this is a meme basically mocking people for preaching about Gens 4/5. ... So knowing her, she's just doing this to be contrarian.

This is a problem in her video because in her introduction, the thesis statement of this whole essay she is writing: she states that the goal of this video is to look back at the games and judge them as they hold up. Yet here she is shrugging off VERY big issues that seriously date Gen 1 and make it age horribly, which should be a major factor in Lily's assessment...because at best, she's being contrarian.

... That is not a good idea.

"*Insert her recaping the journey of Gen 1*"

Yeah, this is why I decided to take on this task. I already know most of Lily's video is going to be her detailing her playthrough of the games. This means fuck all to me for the most part as an autist I already have clear memory of all these games even years away from playing them so I can skip most of her video.

But this does mean that unless you're familiar with how arguments are structured in Youtube videos, like me- you'll have to wade through Lily's crappy attempts at a comedic retelling of the games to know what she thinks. Which makes a fucking four and a half hour long video draaaaag.

"See? Gen 1 doesn't hold you by the hand and lets you just fuck off!"

The idea here being that Gen 1 is good because it doesn't hand hold the player. Issue is- This is the first Pokemon game. By all accounts, because this game is introducing a rather new take on an underexplored gameplay style, tutorials such as these shouldn't be optional. Especially since money is so limited early in the game so you can't easily get more Pokeballs after wasting your supply on experimentation.

Having a quick catching tutorial showing that you need to weaken a Pokemon before catching it could alleviate any confusion. Pokemon can only get away with this due to it being so easy. ... A flaw that is going to rear its ugly head later on. She also ignores why the tutorials are so quick in the earlier gens- the tutorials became longer because they were integrated into the story and used to demonstrate characters. If you don't have a story or proper characters then of course the tutorials will go by quick. It also means there's less to stimulate the brain to encourage people to keep playing.

Pokemon's gameplay, minus any discussions of difficulty, has never been the most engaging. Turn based gameplay's flaw is that's very static and slow, meaning most of the time the act of playing the game doesn't stimulate. This is usually subverted by fancy animations, challenge or, in Pokemon's case- entertaining characters and self expression. The extra length of the tutorials is a side effect of the game's compensating for their less stimulating gameplay.

"See, early game bug types aren't bad! Poketubers are wrong because my Butterfree never lost a battle!"

This kind of exposes another issue of Lily's- she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about.

She takes issue with people calling Pokemoen like Butterfree bad by brushing off their complaints of 'Butterfree has no STAB moves!' by pointing out coverage and status moves. But she completely ignores that people brush off Pokemon like Butterfree for having no STAB moves because, since you have 6 slots on your team, it's pretty easy to get a diverse team that can cover whatever Butterfree does but through STAB. Psychic moves? Alakazam or Hypno. Sleep moves? Hypno, Venomoth or even Parasect. Stun moves? Literally any Electric Type.

Then we have her overlooking another aspect of Pokemon: Base Stats. For those who don't know: Base stats are a set of numbers that dictate what number a Pokemon's given stats are. Things like IVs/Evs/DVs and Natures act as multiplers to a base stat. So as you could guess- a base stat is the building block of a Pokemon and dictate how it plays. Butterfree's base stats in Gen 1 are (HP/ATK/DEF/SP.ATK/SP.DEF/SPD) 60/40/50/80/80/70.

For reference, Charmeleon has 58/64/58/65/65/80. A non-fully evolved Pokemon has roughly similar stats to a fully evolved Pokemon. And this is all exasperated by how easy the game is, because Butterfree's status move pool? Largely inefficient because if you actually know what you are doing- you will be able to KO a Pokemon faster through simply attacking with a stronger Pokemon than disabling it then attacking. And most gamers will default to the most efficient solution. Hence Butterfree's status as a bad Pokemon.

"See, the game is trying to tell you how good status moves are by enforcing it through Brock and Bide!"

Yet another case of Lily not knowing what she's slathering about because A. The actual effects of status moves don't matter, just that they don't deal damage. A better case would be a leader that uses status moves to their advantage.

And B. Lily says that Bide I'd the perfect move for Onix. ... Bide, a move that deals damage based on the amount of HP lost, is perfect for 9nix, a low HP and high defense Pokemon...meant to lose as little HP as possible.

Lily literally posts Onix's stats to prove her point when said stats contradict her.

"Blue isn't a mean rival! He's just a friendly rival and gamers praise Bianca and Cheren just cuz they suck off the player!"

What the fuck, where did that Cheren/Bianca stuff cone from?

Okay first- Blue starts the game by going "Gramps! I'm fed up with waiting!" and "Heh, I don't need to be greedy like you! Go ahead and choose-" and "WHAT? Unbelievable! I picked the wrong Pokémon!"

Blue is quite clearly not intended to be friendly nor likeable.

Second- People like Cheren and Bianca because they go through arcs related to the themes of Gen 5, with Bianca's desire to travel leading her on a journey of self discovery (truth) and Cheren learning that his valuing if strength may have been wrong (ideals). Do they say tge player is great at battling? Yes...because from the story's perspective, you are going X-0. They're reacting to this fact instead of shrugging it off.

"Lavender Town has no value aside from creepypastas and showing how weak Ghosts are to Psychic in this gen! It isn't that creepy!"

... Uh, Lily? You didn't bring up how you can only identify the ghosts after beating Sliph Co, who are so scary you can't even fight them. Or how the trainers in the Pokemon Tower all act very weird, almost like they're possessed. Or that the Tower has a fucking purifying circle 8n the middle. Or...you know...bringing up the fact called DEATH in this very kid-friendly world.

You uh...you do know what a 'retrospective' is, right?

"The game expects you to face challenges in order despite being open world!"

Lily, the game is not open world. You are still going through strict paths with locked off sections. This comes with the implication that you will be facing challenges in a linear order. You not understanding what the game actually is does not make it bad.

"See? Butterfree isn't bad! It's my best Pokemon!"

Lily, these games can be beaten by a six year old. I beat them as a six year old.

That means nothing.

"Ugh, Sliph Co is soooo bad! It's the worst in the game because it's obtuse and you can just exit to heal up! Rock Tunnel is SOOO much better for being challenging!"

... Lily, Rock Tunnel is full of dead ends and unlike Sliph Co- YOU CAN'T AVOID ENCOUNTERS UNLESS YOU STOCK UP ON REPELS.

You can also exit Rock Tunnel to heal too. No, 'challenge yourself by not exiting' is not a justification. You're just not thinking.

'Psychic types are only strong in theory! Status moves exist so do neutral hits! Super Effective STAB isn't the only path!"

But they ARE the most efficient. And for the average gamer, efficiency is king.

"You can crumble Alakazam with physical hits without super Effective hits!"

*proceeds to spend her entire footage locked in a Fly V. Recover loop when a Butterfree STAB could solve this*

Also gotta love that she goes off about Alakazam not having the tools to deal with Physical attacks...as it uses a move to halve Physical damage (Reflect).

And finally- She is using Sabrina as her example. Who is operating off Gen 1's wonky AI and keeps using Psywave. In the hands of, you know, a real person or a better AI who understands basic elements of the game- Alakazam can easily wreck teams with hard hitting Psybeams. And Alakazam's poor Physical Defense doesn't matter here because it's SPEED makes it so it will hit first and managle a team before they can counterattack. This is where Lily's refusal to understand competitive bites her. THIS is the issue people have.

"Nobody likes going through Seaform Islands!"

Okay this is another issue with Lily's video here: She doesn't engage with content that isn't directly in her face. Later she'll talk about how she doesn't care about things like cut mechanics and that she's focusing on gameplay but part of Pokemon's gameplay and the reason people like it is the sense of discovery you get from exploring the game. Like say...finding one of a kind Pokemon that are relatively strong but are hidden away in sections that are optional (Moltres, Articuno, Zapados and even fucking MEWTWO).

Like...the fuck Lily? All you're doing is just making a truncated let's play by this point.

Side note; Some of Lily's jokes do land at times. Like her commentary on how Giovanni acts after being defeated. Though she does call him 'elderly' strangely enough.

Also I JUST caught some of Lily's gameplay footage. Her Primeape's moveset is Submission, Strength, Rock Slide and...Thunderbolt. She wasted her Thunderbolt TM on a Pokemon with rock bottom Special...when she had fucking Rock Slide.

This is the woman talking as if she knows the mechanics of the game.

"Gen 1 and 2 are so good because they allow for player freedom unlike later Gens like 3 and 4 where GF TELL YOU how to play instead of letting you play how you wish!"

Hey remember earlier when Lily talked about how the game was supposedly 'open world' but complained about how there was a strict recommended order based on the badge numbers on the Trainer Card?

How the fuck is it that much different than just enforcing the order? Not to mention that, considering how fucked Johto's level curve is- that making a firm order where you can more easily control the difficulty is probably a GOOD thing.

And that's where Gen 1 ends. Overall- rather shallow. I also expect to be covering more Gens in posts since problems like these tend to be recurring issues and don't require being brought up all the time.

It's not as painful as Lily's usual stuff...but I feel that will change soon.

[glitchybuggaming]

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[bogunicorn]

like tl;dr from my last post but i would absolutely be interested in reading/writing a re-telling of veilguard that has more darkness and grit and more and bigger consequences to rook's actions, but not from a place of "i hated it and i'm fixing it" that inevitably layers misaimed personal grievances and bitterness into it that asks me to kind of passively agree that the devs are cowardly, cruel, bigoted cretins whose work must be scribbled with red pen by Fans Who Know Better. it's the same reason i tend not to be charmed by "deconstruction" narratives that are actually just bashing the genre they're deconstructing, or movie musicals that feel ashamed to be musical theater, or the "wow THAT just happened" style of a lot of late stage marvel/pixar projects that are trying to pretend they're not in the same sandbox as the lamps they're hanging big, embarrassed, bitter shades onto

i'm in fandom because i like things, and creating art from places of bitterness has its place, definitely. but i find that letting that bitterness and disappointment be the main driving force of what someone puts into fandom spaces tends to go sour incredibly quickly. anger, offense, and bitterness can very quickly turn into emotional poison that demands more and more and more of itself to keep the wheels turning, and i've just been Very Online for far too long not to see how ugly that gets and how little i want it to be a regular part of my own experiences.

i don't read fic to "fix canon" or replace it in my mind; canon and fanworks are two completely different mediums, beholden to two very different social structures and general purposes, and there is a level of mess and complexity that fanworks are afforded because they're made for free and by a very limited number of cooks in the proverbial kitchen. being realistic about canon when it's being produced in an extremely corporate environment, enjoying it for what it is, and then engaging with or creating fanworks that get to be more complicated or darker or meaner or whatever is kind of a value neutral thing? and i don't feel the need to ascribe the very real critiques i do have of veilguard onto the malice, cowardice, or stupidity of the small handful of bioware creatives that i know the names of because, like, i don't need to and i don't think it's a cool thing to do

but, you know, i'm also the kind of person who immediately identified DA2 as The Best Dragon Age Has Ever Been and hasn't wavered from that opinion in over a decade, and have never and will never expect the series to hit the kind of vibe that only a criminally short development period, a shoestring budget, and the second draft of a script that had minimal corporate oversight aside from the money people saying "we can't afford that, change it" can produce. i guess in that light you can say my expectations were "low", but frankly i just think they were realistic lmao

[moltengoldveins]

hey um… I dislike being political on the internet, but like…. If you only draw one kind of person, or your art style really only manages to portray one kind of face or body type or ethnicity with any sort of accuracy or beauty, that’s… it’s not necessarily a moral failing every time, but it is a failing. It’s a lack in your skill. It’s, at bare minimum, a sign that you have not been exposed to a broad range of art and people to draw from in real life. It’s possibly a sign that you haven’t actually learned to draw from reality and instead are photo-bashing together a thousand other art styles who Also only draw one kind of person in your head and creating from that, not from reality. the same way that someone who learned to draw cats from Warriors fanart as opposed to real cats can really only draw A Few Cats In A Few Ways and then recolor them.

Digging a little deeper, it might also be a sign that you are failing to actually see the world around you. Those people are beautiful. Ima stop you right there, because whoever leapt into your head? Them too. Because they’re human, they get the privilege of being beautiful for free. Really, the only thing that can make someone hideous is if they do something to distance themselves from their humanity. Which means that, in most cases, if you cannot see them as beautiful, you are the one failing.

Usually, you’re doing so in one of a few ways: you do not know what is beautiful, you have not learned how to see beauty around you and then replicate it, or you are only willing to see beauty where you already think it exists. This is not meant to be a curse upon you and your bloodline: everyone has these three problems in some respect, because we’re finite and flawed and fallen. But it is meant to make you think about yourself. Why don’t you draw old people as they are, and find them beautiful? Why don’t you draw children? Or boys playing in the mud? Or girls climbing trees? Or people of different races? Or people of different backgrounds? Mothers? Fathers? Grandparents? Siblings? Teenagers? The impoverished? When you polish these people to make your drawings ‘pretty,’ what are you removing, and why? What about those things are ugly? Why? This isn’t just about thinks like wrinkles or distinctive racial features: what about acne? What about fat? What about the space they take up? What about the stains on their clothing? The scar on their chin?

Again. No accusation, just a genuine desire to help you self reflect: why do you draw what you draw, and why do you Not draw what you don’t? What does that say about you, positive or negative? What have you done well? What have you portrayed honestly? Where could you improve?

There is always space for growth here, and a good place to start might be to go find a reference picture of someone who looks nothing like your art style, and draw them as well as you can. Eventually you’ll find them beautiful, but that can come later. For now, we practice! We learn how to draw strong noses or big lips or narrow eyes or wrinkles or children or eyebags or curly hair because we are kinda bad at it right now :/. And we know going in that the first few attempts aren’t gonna look great. They might even look ‘racist.’ But that’s ok! Not doing something edifying for the fear of looking racist is the surest way to never actually learning love and acceptance and respect.

Let’s be honest: maybe you don’t find black people beautiful. I’m serious: maybe you think they’re just strange looking, or you grew up told that they were only ever poor, or that black skin meant someone was unsafe. Maybe you genuinely just kinda think Asian eyes look weird and you’re absolutely dead certain the internet would crucify you for it if it came out. That’s not ideal, but it’s not necessarily abnormal either: humans don’t tend to find foreign things beautiful right away, especially if they’ve never encountered anything like them before or they’ve been taught that foreign things are bad. The important thing is the acknowledgement that that impulse is wrong, the desire to improve, and the willingness to work on that tendency over time.

People fail to recognize good or true or beautiful things sometimes. That’s ok. We dust ourselves off and keep trying, because even if we cannot see the beauty YET, we know it is there, and we are looking for it. Art is out creative reflection of truth and goodness and beauty. Learning to make it more true can only help you improve. Hope y’all are having a wonderful day, and drinking water 💜

[warningsine]

In the second-season premiere of GLOW, which hit Netflix June 29, Ruth Wilder (Alison Brie) surprises her boss, frustrated filmmaker and wrestling-show director Sam Sylvia (Marc Maron), with a dinky promo she filmed at a local mall during a free afternoon. The assembled wrestlers love it, as does network rep Glen (Andrew Friedman). But Sam doesn’t. He yells at his employees, who are all young women: “Who here is confused about who the director is? Really? No one is confused? Because I’m fucking confused.” When Ruth attempts to shield the others from responsibility, he directs his ire at her. “Are you making a move on my job, Ruth? . . . Honey, I don’t need your help. I need you to be a fucking actress . . . You’re not a director just 'cause you take a fucking camera to the mall."

When Reggie (Marianna Palka) interrupts to defend Ruth’s work—and points out that time in the Season 1 finale when Ruth covered for Sam—he immediately, inexplicably fires her. Ruth follows him to his office, and tries to talk him out of the decision. “I had ideas,” she says defensively. “O.K., well, put ’em in your diary,” he responds. “You’re all replaceable. Even you, Ruth.”

Throughout all of this, Maron is fantastic in the role of Sam. His character is a frustrating and frustrated creative leader, well-intentioned but constantly angry, obsessed with his own narrative of failure. Maron’s performance is magnetic; it’s as if every scene bends toward his all-too-period-appropriate aviators and his Burt Reynolds mustache.

In fact, he’s so good as the show-within-a-show’s demanding, exploitative creative lead that he might just be GLOW’s stealth protagonist—which is a problem, because GLOW, created by showrunners Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch and executive produced by Jenji Kohan, is supposed to be an ensemble comedy about a diverse group of women. Brie frequently uses the word “empowering” to describe the show and its ethos; recently, she called GLOW a “feminist oasis”. In Season 1, it was: Ruth, a protagonist who became a heel (wrestling jargon for “villain”), was an unexpected kind of female character—an unlikeable heroine discovering her talents and herself through an athletic, muscle-bound medium. The show’s premise offered its characters some combination of grit and glitter as a means to liberate themselves from the prison of oppressive history—a cathartic, rare feat, still, for women on television.

In its second season, though, the show never quite seems to know who it’s about. There is hardly a plot to be found; wrestling is no longer in the foreground, and what wrestling we do see lacks the convincing stunts or arresting ugliness of the genre. That cadre of diverse women is mostly shunted to the background as well—Ellen Wong and Britney Young get little screen time; Sunita Mani and Sydelle Noel have more material, but their stories still feel marginal. And they rarely, if ever, interact with the lead performers. (That these actresses all play characters whose wrestling personas are racist stereotypes does not help the overall effect.) Instead, the show ends up focusing on easier stories: material about the white male billionaire Bash Howard (Chris Lowell), for example, and Sam’s evolving relationship with his daughter Justine (Britt Baron). The family plot is an opportunity for Maron to play Sam as an abrasive, gruff, good-hearted dad with an unconventional but perceptive parenting style. Both Bash’s and Sam’s story lines are fine, but they take up precious space—and have nothing to do with wrestling or women.

Perhaps this shift wouldn’t rankle quite so much if Sam weren’t such an unrepentant asshole, specifically toward women. After dressing down Ruth in the premiere, Sam spends the next several episodes punishing her—alternating between refusing to give her airtime and giving her the worst spots in the show, and eventually doing what he can to sabotage her flirtation with the new cameraman, Russell (Victor Quinaz). Five episodes later, he apologizes, after Ruth attends a screening for one of his long-forgotten films—an action that essentially reinforces his superiority as a director.

She sits a few rows behind him, wreathed in apologetic smiles. He disdains her careful management of his feelings, calling it “creepy.” Eventually he apologizes—if one can call this an apology: “I’m not angry with you. I’m an insecure old man. I get defensive. Sue me.” Three episodes after that, Sam tries to kiss Ruth.

The show has no trouble casting Ruth as the creative punching bag for Sam’s on-set tantrums, the subject of endless put-downs about her looks and personality. Ruth and Sam appear to be engaged in an abusive dynamic, but GLOW doesn’t quite seem to know that, or care. Worst of all, in its second season, the show trades Ruth’s dignity for Sam’s interiority; by the end, our supposed lead has almost no substance to her character, aside from her constant, painful drive to matter. Brie throws her all into that aspect, but there’s no masking that Season 2 of GLOW has become a show where Ruth Wilder waits for Sam to do something mean to her, before quietly picking up the pieces.

In the show’s defense, there is a subtler story being told here. Ruth’s victim complex is activated by both Sam and Debbie (Betty Gilpin), her former best friend; she’s primed to fall into a relationship where she's taken advantage of. If the show is purposefully trying to explore how Ruth keeps falling into gendered traps, there’s value to that story—especially if its gentle rendering indicates how insidious these complexes can be.

GLOW nods toward this interpretation most obviously in the fifth episode, "Perverts Are People, Too," which we might as well call its #MeToo episode. In it, Ruth takes a business meeting, only to find herself targeted by a studio executive hoping for some flirty “fun” in his Jacuzzi bath. She flees, terrified, before realizing that this experience reflects the dynamics of her industry more broadly; the episode ends with a subtle, profound moment in which Ruth, surveying the male fans crowding around her co-workers, is forced to reckon with an existence built on female theatrics for male consumption.

But Ruth’s journey is separate from Sam’s, and what’s perplexing about the sexual harassment episode is how a plot point designed to critique the patriarchy ends up mainly serving to paint Sam as a good guy. Two episodes later—during the screening, right after Sam’s non-apology—Ruth tells her boss what happened to her. He emotes more than she does: “Fuck that guy! What a fucking sleazebag dickhead!” By the end of the season, Sam has been reborn as both a benign but curmudgeonly white knight whose fondness for strip clubs ends up delivering the team to a much-needed gig in Las Vegas, and a good dad who finds a new way to understand and communicate with his newfound daughter.

But while Sam’s being offered up as the moral guy, the I’d-never-harass-an-employee guy, he already has harassed his employees. He’s tried to kiss multiple women who work for him; he’s withheld advancement from Ruth out of petulance; he ignores Debbie as nothing more than a pretty face when she tries to assert her role as a producer. Maron himself has admitted Sam’s complicity to Deadline: “Can this guy be an asshole? Yes. Was he a guy that was possibly guilty of transgressing in the way of the casting couch, or showing favor to women professionally for sexual attention? Probably. I think that’s sort of established at the beginning. This guy’s no saint, but he also shows up for these women.”

In a way, the suggestion that Sam’s not that bad reveals something significant about the insidious reach of the patriarchy: you can be the guy who knows what bad behavior looks like, and still be complicit in it. It makes sense that Ruth is too naive to see this, and even that Sam’s too deluded to admit it. But it doesn’t make sense that in a season driven partially by a harassment story line—as part of a show ostensibly about women’s empowerment—GLOW would avoid acknowledging Sam’s previous behavior, to the point of failing to honestly reckon with his flaws. Hints of that reckoning are present: it’s significant, if opaque, that Ruth realizes falling for Sam is a bad idea, and instead throws herself into the arms of age-appropriate, respectful Russell. But diminishing her story to the status of background noise—while building up Sam’s backstory and screen time—is an astonishing disservice, both to GLOW’s characters and audience.

In the very first episode of GLOW, Ruth’s terrible, desperate audition for the titular wrestling show becomes sublime—and successful—when Debbie walks in, clutching her infant, screaming obscenities because she’s discovered that Ruth slept with Debbie’s husband. Debbie hands off her baby and steps into the ring; Ruth’s mimicry of aggression turns into a frantic, failed attempt at de-escalation. Debbie slaps her full in the face, and eventually pins Ruth to the ground; a smear of blood disfigures Ruth’s face. On the sidelines, the girl who will eventually become Fortune Cookie (Wong) asks, “Is this real?” The girl who will become Melrose (Jackie Tohn) shrugs: “Who the fuck cares?”

This might be a more prophetic line than GLOW intended. The show tends to skim the surface of its heavy subtext, and is quick to turn drama into a punch line, regardless of where the drama comes from or at whose expense the comedy hits. The show wants to nimbly engage with this stuff, and sometimes it’s able to. But either GLOW can’t see itself clearly, or it’s not communicating well what it’s trying to be about. Take that pilot scene: as Debbie and Ruth fight, GLOW superimposes what Sam wants to see, or what he thinks he can make happen, over their very real angst. In his vision, which is shot as a fantasy wrestling sequence, Debbie thrusts her crotch into Ruth’s face, and gyrates her spandex-covered behind in a slow circle for the audience’s benefit. By the time Sam snaps out of his reverie, the fight is over; he, and the viewer, have missed much of the real conflict in order to look at the manufactured version.

Similarly, in spending so much time inside Sam’s mind, GLOW is missing out on the stories right under Sam’s nose. They’re there—if he, and the show, would care to look.

[wellthatwasaletdown]

His dad doesn’t have a lot of hair & I can see that being Harry one day so it’s more genetics than anything & he can’t help that.

Yes he can. He's milioner and getting hair implants isn't big thing for him. Look at Andrew Garfield - he looks amazing now after he got his hair done.

Why should he have to? Maybe he likes the way he looks. It's not as if he's ugly. At least I don't think he is. And even if he was, it's his hair. His life. I don't think it's very nice that so many people keep attacking his looks. I didn't think that was why this page was created.

I created this as a place for former Harry fans who have recently been turned off by his promotion and solo rollout and are now just confused and want to have open discourse about it. I accept submitted posts and will post anything that is not derogatory or rude.

I came here bc I was turned off by Harry's behavior & hated that he had changed so much. He would say one thing & do another. But because I had been a fan of his for so long, I was having a hard time walking away. I needed to talk to other people that were feeling the same way I was. To process how I was feeling. That's how I found this page. But I'm not into bashing someone's looks. I think it's rude & mean spirited & says a lot more about you than it does Harry.

I think looking older is his goal./////

He has succeeded! When your daily vitamin is coke, 47 is the new 29.

If what you're saying were true & Harry Edward Styles was 47, he would be considered the youngest looking 47-year-old. I mean, seriously. He looks his age or early 30's. If that. Quit being mean just for the sake of being mean & because you hate Harry.

.

[edmarsthings]

Ahhh the "edvin is bad looking" anons have finally found my blog. // Honestly him and Felicia are at the same lever of average. I get surprised when Edvin fans bash Felicia looks when they stan Edvin. The lack of self awareness

Edvin has misses because he lets bad stylists do his hair and his outfits. Felicia can't look good even when she is best dressed. Why? Cuz she doesn't have the personality to back it up and because she doesn't know how to wear her clothes. She also has started ruining her face with fillers and other procedures that she didn't need at such a young age. It has started to make her look older than she really is.

And you guys only started calling Edvin ugly when he wasn't a teen anymore. When he started growing up and getting more adult features. Changing his style and exploring like any other 20something year old. And that's another problematic topic to discuss.

[destinyc1020]

Timothée fans drag him for his latest style too! This is not the Timothee we know from red carpets. He has went from a man on the "best dress list" with his chest out and only a necklace on lol to....this. Whatever this is. We already had to adjust to missing the curls now he letting his stylist dress him like a damn fool....like Timothee don't know fashion?! He absolutely does. Some of us fans that hate his relationship think he is doing it on purpose...being in his ugly era. Because he definitely can out bad bitch his "girlfriend" if he wanted.

Delusional I know but HEY...we are in the trenches in these Timothee streets right now. Gotta cling to something.

😂

OK I'm glad it's not just me who's looking at him sideways with this style of dress lol. 🤭 Thanks for that laugh girl lol. 😅

You know, one thing I've always appreciated about you Timmy stans is that you all are NOT afraid to drag the man if needed lol. 😆 And nobody gets bashed or called a fake fan for doing so either lol. It's like, you all can love the man, yet still point out his flaws or things you DON'T like about him, and keep it REAL without him having to be perfect or seen as an angel all the time lol. I've always appreciated that lol. 😅

There's nothing wrong with telling it like it is (how you REALLY feel) when it comes to your faves. It doesn't make you any less of a fan. Obviously, you don't want to just keep beating a dead horse, or getting into hater territory, but being honest about your faves doesn't make you a "bad fan". Nobody is perfect imo. 🤷🏾‍♀️

I'm not feeling the styles, but this Bob Dylan era will be over soon (thank the lord! Lol 😂), so maybe he'll go back to his usual style of dressing. 👀

[swynlake-rp]

OTMS

MUN: S! Members shouted S out for their diligent commitment as one of the first Wrimo finishers and how nicely all of their tasks complemented each other! We loved getting this extra insight into S’s characters!

CHARACTER: CASS! So we’re all totally in love with Cass, right? Cool cool, just checking. Members praised L’s deft navigation of the epic highs and lows of date auctions from Cass’s perspective and her heart-wrenching wrimo tasks. What a queen! 

THREAD: THE ONE WHERE AL AND VIXEY DID A THING! Al and Vixey’s big surprise at the wedding was unforgettable, and watching them handle the fallout is truly such a fun ride. As one member put it, “It's great energy and funny and fun to read.” We couldn’t agree more! 

TASK: EVERYONE’S WRIMO! Another year of all of us being blown away by one another’s talent and creativity! A few notable highlights that y’all wanted to shout out: G's fashion task, C’s Lost AU, C's ten birthdays for the ten short paragraphs task, E's comment section task, L's Mim/Milo crackship, and S’s Forgotten Realms AU!

And a special shout-out to everyone who completed WriMo!

And another shout-out to our inaugural KUDOSVEMBER CHAMPIONS: L AND L! Thanks for all the love, y’all! And let’s keep the Kudos flowing into the new year!

BOARD UPDATES 

VOTE! Time to head on to the polls… yes we know we have the same number of candidates as we do open spots, but this is just for #vibes.

TASKS

RP QUESTIONNAIRE: It’s back! No, there is no word count required :) Find the questions at this link!

XOXO, SANTA: Make your character’s holiday cards! Are they dressing in ugly sweaters? Doing a formal photoshoot with the family? Or is it just their pets? Write out what they’re putting in the cards they send out this year! 

EVENTS

DEC. 4 - 11: ELECTION BALL! A lovely event to celebrate the winners of the Town Board election… and mourn the losers. You might notice that this is a little later than we specified on the Election document… because we realized we wouldn’t know the results!

DEC. 11 - 18: CHRISTMAS TREE LIGHTNING! A Swynlake tradition where the entire town comes out to light the Christmas Tree in the park. Full of vendors and winter fun! Enter a character here for a chance to get to light it up. Canonically Dec. 13

DEC. 13: LAST DAY OF SCHOOL!

DEC. 18 - 25: MAGNIFICO’S WINTER SOLSTICE SOIREE! A winter solstice soiree hosted by Salvador Sanchez at his mansion to celebrate the holiday. Canonically Dec. 20 to 21 (overnight).

DEC. 18 - 25: GEORGETTE’S LUAU HOLIDAY PARTY! Aloha snowbirds! Even though we can’t escape the cold doesn’t mean we can’t turn up the heat! Canonically Dec. 21

DEC. 25 - DEC. 31: GINGERBREAD REVEAL! Come down to the Swynlake General Hospital on Boxing Day to celebrate the winners of the Gingerbread Competition. (Gingerbread houses will be on public display from December 18th until the New Year.) Canonically Dec. 26 

DEC. 29 - JAN 5: NEW YEAR’S EVE ACTIVITIES! 2024 might be coming to an end, but the fun in Swynlake is just beginning! Join us at…

THE ACORN DROP: A family-friendly event in Main Street Park to ring in the new year! 

PIXIE’S NEW YEAR’S EVE BASH: An all-night party welcoming 2024 in style!

BIRTHDAYS

Characters:

Nick Wilde – December 1

Vidia Wind-Whistler – December 2

Samuel Smiegel – December 3

Keaton "Buster" Palmerteri – December 5

Gem Morey – December 6

Devyn Morey – December 12

Jeremy Johnson – December 13

San Mononoke – December 17

Lord Milori – December 18

Jake Rogers – December 20

Elsa Sommers – December 21

Hunter Belos – December 25

Camilo Madrigal – December 28

Wolfgang Amadeus – December 29

Remy "Bones" Bonhomme – December 30

Kristoff Bjorgman – December 31

Menodora "Moon" Butterfly-Johansen – December 31