#of course i go and post it on the wrong account! go read my previous tags if you want to

[magneticecstasy]

clandestine ✤ joel miller part i — new horizons

series masterlist & foreword | ao3

moodboard is not an illustration of how reader should look, just for the ~vibes~

fic summary: it’s september 2016, you're in your final year of sixth form college and joel miller joins the teaching staff as your new history teacher. over the course of the academic year, boundaries are blurred, crossed and ruined when joel begins to reciprocate your insatiable crush on him; what should be so wrong just feels so right.

rating: E | pairing/AU: teacher!joel x student!fem!reader

chapter warnings/tags: (6.5k) this is an 18+ fic so mdni! dubcon (due to student/teacher relationship, both parties are consenting otherwise), age gap (reader is 18, Joel is in his early 30s), power imbalance, inappropriate relationships (teacher!Joel is not a good teacher), fetishization of new-adulthood (if you squint), some pervy!Joel, inexperienced!fem!reader is hornee™, pet names (Joel calls reader darlin’, sweetheart etc.), minimal description of fem!reader where possible, reader has hair and is generally able-bodied, otherwise undescribed where possible.

a/n: ahhhh the first chapter of my first fic finally out!! i won't lie i am so nervous to post this but reading other lovely fics from the pedro pascal cinematic universe™ written by some amazing people has inspired me to write and post my own. any feedback is greatly appreciated, especially as a new writer. i hope you all enjoy the teacher!joel brainrot as much as i do.💞

account tags (let me know if you'd like to be added): @sugadolly can't wait for you to read this! hope you enjoy!💓

Tuesday 4th September

8:44am

The calm corridor echoes with the sound of your shoes hitting the ground hard as you run to your registration period before halting suddenly.

“I’m here, Mrs Marvelley,” you holler at your form tutor as you tumble into her classroom in a rush and fluster. “I’m here before quarter to,” you pant, heavy rucksack in tow, having just bolted up two flights. You arrive just as she calls your name on the attendance register, narrowly avoiding a late mark that you were keen to avoid on your last first day of school.

She rolls her eyes, and mumbles something along the lines of “You’re lucky.”  

Usually punctual to form registration and lessons, you were delayed countless times this morning by classmates wishing you a belated ‘happy birthday’ for last Sunday, your 18th. Born at the start of September, you're among the oldest in your year, one of the first in your cohort to reach adulthood. Many of these conversations with friends animatedly recapped the events of your party the previous Saturday. The gathering was a typical teenage house party: no parental supervision, loud music, junk food, with a few bottles of booze and packs of cigarettes acquired on the sly through nefarious means, with way more people that you’d initially invited. Luckily, your close friends helped with the cleanup operation the next day, and your parents' trust in you remained intact and you stayed in their good books for the time being.

Realising the time, you part ways with your friends, each heading to your respective form classes, a wave of contentment washing over you. Unfortunately, someone had to go and ruin it.

Taunts of ‘look at her, MILF in the making’ , and ‘best time to start an OnlyFans is now, babe’ from a crew of boys you’ve never liked echo down the corridor. Their cruel laughter at their own remarks colour your anger a violent crimson. 

“Oh, get fucked ,” you seethe through clenched teeth, flipping a middle finger in their direction, all the while praying you won’t get caught for the foul language. Turning on your heel you swiftly retreat, eager to escape the confrontation.

A few metres down the corridor, you overhear the boys’ guffaws being cut off by a chastation from a voice that’s foreign to you. Rounding the corridors’ corner, you decide to hang about and eavesdrop on the hecklers’ punishment.

“Now boys, I know y’all don’t know me yet but I don’t think this is a great introduction for my first day here.” The voice is deep, gravelly, laced with an American accent that you guess as Southern—maybe Texan if you had to be precise. Must be someone new, maybe a teacher? A member of Senior Leadership? You’re sure you’ll find out during registration if you were to ask around.

“I-I-It was only a joke, sir,” one of the crew pleaded to him. Not so big and bad now, eh?

“Oh sure , sure.” The voice drawls, laced in sarcasm. “Funny ‘cause it was lookin’ like you were botherin’ a young lady.”

“Oh sir, don’t be like that, it was just banter,” another boy pipes up.

The unknown voice lets out a deep huff. “Do you need your heads checked? Y’all were spoutin’ some real sexist things, and that ain’t a joke, boys — it’s not ‘banter’ ,” the gruff voice now raised, seething. “Seein’ as your ‘jokes’ have now landed yourselves in after school detention tonight, I think ya’ll need to come with me to get your detention slips signed.”

The group of boys groan in unison and you hear one swear under their breath. Oh shit, they’re in for it, now.

“Hey!” The pitch of his speech deepens, harsh and guttural, a threatening aura now looming in the air. “Let’s not make it two after school detentions in a row for insubordination.” The boys are now deathly silent. “I recommend y’all shut your traps and follow me. I’ll email your tutors and let them know why you’ll be late for registration. What a disappointin’ start to the year, boys…” The husky voice trails in the opposite direction, still berating and scolding the group.

You’re itching to text your friends about the clash that just went down, but just as you’re about to hit send, the bell rings for morning registration. Shit. You tuck your phone away and hustle towards your form classroom, hoping to avoid a late mark.

9:03am

Your form group was small, fewer than 15. A few of them were familiar faces from your early years in primary school, while most were friends you had made during your time at the local high school. There were also a few new acquaintances from other schools in the area, including Chelsea, notably absent from your registration period this morning.

Despite only meeting her last year when you joined the college, she’d quickly become one of your closest friends. She was in your History and English Lit/Lang classes so you often spent time together, as well as studying and revising at each others’ houses, and over time your friendship blossomed. The first year of your A-Level courses were a journey for you both: you laughed together, cried together, comforted each other through the meltdowns triggered by the towering workload and disheartening feedback on essays you’d slaved over.

This morning’s registration period is extended by 20 minutes, seeing as it’s the first day back and there’s a lot to catch up on; new schedules to coordinate and potentially revise in the case of any timetable clashes. This was to be followed by a ‘Welcome Back’ assembly held in the main hall of the sixth form college, that you don’t doubt will be boring as hell.

Your head is buried in your new school planner, setting it up for the upcoming year, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you are greeted by the beaming face of Chelsea.

“Chelsea! Hey!” you say, surprised but happy to see her. “Dude, you are so late.” You stand to pull her into a tight squeeze of a hug.

“Babe, I know —my car was being a bitch this morning, took forever to start,” she exhales, exasperated. She breaks the embrace, drops her backpack on the floor and sits at the desk next to you.

“Shows you for driving an absolute shitbox,” you tease, attempting to lean back into the rigid plastic seat.

“Hey, don’t talk about Gizmo like that, it’ll hurt his feelings.” Chelsea throws a mock frown at you. “Not like your hunk o’ junk is much better.”

“Guilty as charged,” you banter, arms up in mock surrender.

“ Anyway …Happy belated birthday!” she exclaims, pulling out a small, colourful badge from her bag. “I know I couldn't make it on Saturday, so I wanted to give you this now. You gotta wear it all day.”

You look at the badge; it is vibrant and cheerful decorated with hearts and stars, with a playful ‘Birthday Girl!’ written in glittery bubble letters. A mix of emotions washes over you. You are so pleased by the thoughtfulness of her gesture—Chelsea was always a giver—but a little embarrassed by the idea of wearing a badge in front of everyone on the first day back.

“Awh, Chelsea, you didn't have to…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“I know, I know, but I wanted to. You deserve a little extra celebration!” she grins, pinning the badge to your blazer proudly.

You feel a warmth spread through you. It is touching to know she had thought of you and made the effort despite missing the actual day. You glance around, noticing a few curious glances from your classmates. Embarrassment mingles with gratitude, and you smile at her warmly.

“Thanks, Chels," you say sincerely. “This means a lot.”

Chelsea flashes a wink. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

With that, you begin recalling the details of the altercation you overheard between the boys and the new staff member. You provide a concise rundown, explaining how the boys suddenly started harassing you, describing how this new, mysterious person defended you after you had presumably left. Chelsea is as astonished as you are to hear the entire story.

“Wait, you have no idea who it was? And he was American ?” Chelsea raises an eyebrow, then narrows her eyes, probing you further for details.

“Southern? I dunno. And, nope, sorry, no idea, hon,” you shrug, “I didn’t think to get a look at him. Didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping, y’know.”

Chelsea ponders, drawing out her words. “Hmm, interesting...”

“Do you know of any new teachers taking over this year?”

“Not a Scooby-Doo clue, mate,” her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. She pauses a moment, lightly tapping the desk with her fingertips and pursing her lips. “ So … Did he sound hot?”

“Chels! You can’t say that!” You gasp, shocked at her question, hitting her arm playfully.

“Oh come on, I just wanna know the deets!”, she defends whilst punching you back in jest. “Did he sound old, young—you gotta give me something to work with?!”

“I dunno how to describe it, umm… he was…” you trail off, replaying the snippets of what you overheard like a movie. 

The voice was a rich, gravelly drawl that sent shivers down your spine. His tone had a weathered maturity, a deep, husky resonance that carried the weight of experience. There was a touch of warmth, even when he was angry, like a low rumble of thunder on a hot summer night, both comforting and electrifying. It was the kind of voice that could soothe a troubled mind or set hearts racing with a whisper. The kind of voice that you were desperate to hear again, that sparked your curiosity.

“It was, like, deeper, husky— I don’t fucking know , Chels!”, you attempt to surmise before breaking out into a giggle and your cheeks warming into a blush.

“A-ha! So, he was hot! You jammy bitch.”

“We don’t even know what he looks like, so we can’t say for definite if he is or isn’t hot yet.”

“Well if he sounds fit, he probably will be.” There’s a proverb in there, somewhere, if you look hard enough.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”, you jest. Chelsea laughs and it’s infectious, both of you giggling at your wild hypotheses.

Your conversation is cut short when Mrs Marvelley calls for the class’ attention. She begins handing out your new timetables for the year, and you grab yours from her eagerly, hoping that it’s not terrible.

“These are your timetables for this year. I’ll give you a few minutes to check them over. If there’s no issues, head up to the main hall for assembly. If there are issues, you need to go down to the admin office and speak to Mr Jones. I repeat, you need to see Mr Jones.” She spots a hand raised amongst the group. “And, no , Dan, he won’t change it so you get Fridays off, no matter how much you beg and bribe him.” A few quiet snickers ripple across the class.

Looking at the timetable, your eyes are drawn to a different set of initials where you expect to find AW, for Mr Walker, one of your lecturers who seemed as ancient as history itself.

HIST/A2

JM

Rm. 93

A few of your other peers also spot the change too and break out into a slew of overlapping speculative discussions.

Is he dead? Wouldn’t surprise me—My sister heard he had to get a hip replacement, second one musta gave out finally—I guess Mr Walker ain’t walking anymore, hahaha, what? C’mon, it’s just a joke, Miss, be chill—Who’s JM? You reckon it’s a guy or a girl? I hope they’re nice, not like Mr Hall. He’s a dick—Can’t believe they haven’t sacked him yet. 

“You good? Everything okay?” Chelsea asks, standing to collect her belongings.

“Yeah, no issues here.” You follow suit, packing your bag to leave. “‘Cept Mr Hall is still teaching History.” 

“ Ugh , tell me about it. Let’s hope this fresh meat isn’t as much of a twat as he is.”

“That’s wishful thinking, Chels, but I got my fingers crossed. Anyway, time for us to be bored out of our minds for an hour. Let’s go.”

10:28am

As you’d predicted, the Welcome Back assembly dragged on for what seemed like millennia. You’d been sitting there that long that your ass had gone numb. Led by the assistant headteacher Mr Faulkner, it was the usual presentation, welcoming everyone back after the summer, a few announcement of extra-curricular activities commencing this week, with some interesting musical performances from the Music students and a refresh of the colleges’ rules, expectations and consequences: 

Try your best.

You are a representative of the College, in and out. Conduct yourselves in a manner that does not put the institution into disrepute.

You are in your last year now, make it count.

Surely, this all could have been in an email . It was basically the same trifle they spouted last year. 

Before you feel yourself fall asleep out of boredom, the last announcement catches your attention, and urges you and Chelsea to sit up in your seats.

“Before we end our assembly today and let you go to break, I have one last announcement—an introduction, actually,” Mr Faulkner announces, wrinkled hands clasped tightly together. Microphone feedback echoes awkwardly through the speakers. 

Shallow murmurs ripple across the hall. In sync, you and Chelsea flash each other a knowing look. This could be the end to the mystery that plagued you both all morning.

“As you may be aware, we had to bid farewell to our longest serving member of teaching staff, Mr Walker. Over summer, he underwent some surgery and he felt that it was in his best interest to retire after an illustrious 45 year career in teaching. He sends his best wishes for your year ahead and apologises for not being able to do so in person. We thank him for his many years at this College and wish him a speedy recovery.”

Chelsea leans to you. “ Jesus Christ, he doesn’t half go on, does he? Just get to the fucking point, man, ” she whispers before Mrs Marvelley quietly shushes her and raises a hand in a silent apology. You chuckle under your breath, silently agreeing with your friend. A shiver of excitement races down your spine, making your fingers tingle, a slow and steady anticipation building within you.

“I’d like to formally introduce you all to our newest member of staff to join our College. He is a former lecturer from across the pond and we are so grateful to have him join our department of Humanities and Social Studies. So please give a warm welcome to the stage, Mr Joel Miller.” A lulled applause breaks out across the hall. Mr Faulkner takes a step back from the mic and your eyes scan towards the front, looking for this ambiguous Mr Miller to join the stage.

And that’s when you spot him. Probably one of the most attractive people you’ve ever laid eyes on. The kind of person that makes your breath hitch, cheeks hot and heart skip a beat. You’re silently praying to a higher power he has an American accent as he climbs the few steps up to the stage.

Time feels like molasses as your eyes drink him in. His hair is a rich brown and pairs deliciously with his eyes, falling across his head in tousled waves. The boyish curls, a little dishevelled, frame his face perfectly and suggest a softness that beckons you to touch them. Though sparse in places along his strong jawline, the uneven growth of his facial hair adds an irresistibly raw, untamed allure, hinting at a blend of tenderness and roughness that you find insatiable. A textured beige blazer drapes over his broad shoulders, accentuating and hugging his physique with each movement. Underneath, you could see a burnt orange button-up shirt, which complements the warmth of his skin. An undone top button reveals a slight glimpse of his chest, firing your desire to see more .

Lost in him, your mind wanders as you envisage how his salt-and-pepper scruff would feel against the soft skin of your cheeks, peppering wet, sweet kisses trailing down your neck and body, and before arriving at the delicate creases of your thighs. Sweat drips down your back as your tummy flutters and tightens, and you cross your legs to seek any sort of purchase to relieve the building pressure in your core, a wetness beginning to pool in your underwear, cheeks blushing at the sight of him. Almost immediately you decide that you want him to absolutely ruin you.

A familiar voice drawls across the hall’s speakers, snapping you back to reality. You glance around to see if anyone noticed your reaction. Thankfully everyone is facing the front, focusing on the assembly.

“Uh, hi folks, thanks for having me,” Mr Miller utters into the microphone, a soft nervous smile blooming across his face. Bingo. Mystery solved at last.

You whack Chelsea in the side in an effort to get her attention and she whips her head round. It's him, you mouth silently, that’s the guy.

“No, shit. I told you he was gonna be fit.”

Saying he was fit felt like an understatement. He was immaculate, a commanding masculine energy radiating from him. To you, he's a masterpiece that's rough around the edges, sultry perfection with a touch of brooding reality.

“I ain’t one for public speaking so I appreciate y’all being so kind in welcoming me here today. And thank you to Mr Faulkner for that, uh, introduction,” he says, a soft chortle escaping his mouth. “I’m honoured to be joining such a prestigious department and hopefully live up to Mr Walker’s legacy. No pressure, amirite?”

He chuckles again, joined by a comforting wave of murmured chuckles from students around you. You’re transfixed, hanging onto every word he says.

“In all seriousness, ‘m looking forward to settling in, getting to teach history, doing what I love — thank you,” he finishes, punctuating the sentence with a slight nod. Taking a step back from the mic to allow Mr Faulkner to finally wrap up the assembly, you choose to ignore the assistant head and pour your focus entirely into Mr Miller.

Head tilting like a curious puppy, you pay close attention as he slides his glasses up his aquiline nose with his middle finger and runs his large hand through his hair, touseling his curls. You begin to fiddle with your delicate chain necklace, fingertips barely grazing the sensitive skin of your neck as a warm giddiness prevails over you causing your cheeks to burn harder. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s perfect.

“What? ” Chelsea whispers, poking her finger into your side. “ What did you say? ”

“Huh?” you murmur. Confused at first before awareness sets in, your eyes widen like a deer in headlights, realising what you’d whispered aloud. You’re about to respond and promise to tell her at break, when Mrs Marvelley's sharp whisper cuts through the air, causing you and Chelsea to freeze in your seats like statues.

“Girls ! That’s enough.” Arms crossed tightly across her body, she leans in to avoid drawing attention to herself as she delivers a quiet but harsh scolding. “Stay here at the end of assembly. You have detention for constant whispering. Now, be quiet . So incredibly rude,” she hisses. 

Avoiding Mrs Marvelley’s scathing eye contact, both you and Chelsea offer mumbled apologies, a mix of sorry Miss and won’t do it again . For fuck’s sake. Detention was the last thing you needed on your first day back.You’re kicking yourself for sitting at the end of the row instead of the middle, where you would have quietly gossiped without getting caught usually.  At least it was only technically 50% your fault with Chelsea involved, when you thought about it. You pray she didn’t overhear you gushing over the new teacher—the thought itself makes you feel nauseous.

The assembly rolls to a close at long last, and students and staff begin to file out of the main hall. In the hustle and bustle, you lose sight of Mr Miller and a feeling of longing waves over you as if you miss him already like a pathetic puppy. Meanwhile, you and Chelsea remain seated, bracing yourselves a stern lecture from your form tutor. You exchange glances every now and again, struggling to stifle your laughter despite your present situation. It’s always funny how being forbidden to speak makes everything seem so much more amusing.

11:07am

Mrs Marvelley escorts you back to her classroom at breaktime and delivers a scorned lecture as she logs the detention on her prehistoric computer, almost punching the keys of the keyboard. The computer was probably as old as you, if not older.

“Girls, I cannot believe that you were being so rude, whispering constantly like that. Every single time I looked over, you were just talking . You’re meant to be the good girls in my form class — really let me down today. Imagine what impression that makes on Mr Faulkner or even Mr Miller who’s new to this college, the pair of you gossiping like that.”

Neither you or Chelsea interrupt her, knowing better to just accept the scolding than to argue back. Admittedly, she’s laying it on a bit thick, it wasn’t like you’d committed any serious infractions or catcalled and harrassed another pupil like some people you know. It was just gossiping. All the same, you feel a pang of embarrassment in the pit of your stomach.

Mrs Marvelley twists her thin wrist to check the time on her watch.

“Alright ladies, you’ve got 10 minutes left of your detention but I need to pop out to speak to someone next door. It'll be a few minutes. Can I trust you both to stay here until I get back?”

You and Chelsea nod without saying anything. Mrs Marvelley leaves without a word and you’re both left to your own devices.

You fidget with a loose piece of thread on the hem of your skirt, running it through and round your fingers before pulling at it to snap it off. Readjusting in your seat, you let out a lengthy sigh. The previous arousal in your underwear feels a little uncomfortable now, both literally and figuratively. It’s not even lesson 3 yet and it’s been a helluva day , you muse.

“Mr Miller got you all worked up, eh?” Chelsea teases, nudging her leg into yours. It was like she read you like an open book.

“Don’t you start,” you warn, rolling your eyes, your slight irritation palpable in the sideways look. But she was right. You’d barely laid eyes on him all of 5 minutes and he was already driving you crazy. “Was it obvious?”, you ask quietly, bracing yourself for the worst possible answer that your new crush on Mr Miller was clear as day.

Chelsea’s familiar hearty laugh echoes through the room. “Only because I know you so well by now. Oh, and the fact you admitted that he was, what was it? ‘So fucking perfect’ ?” She teases, her fingers waggle in the air, forming imaginary quotation marks as she quotes you.

You groan with embarrassment. “I can’t believe I said that, I’m such a dick .” You groan again, louder this time, flopping into a pathetic lump on the desk, head buried into your arms. If the ground beneath you could split open and swallow you whole, you’d welcome it with open arms. You would prefer it actually than being stuck in college for the rest of the day.

Chelsea rubs your back, her hands radiating a warm heat as she circles your upper back, maintaining a consistent pressure. Usually when she rubs your back like this, you’re throwing up into a toilet the morning after a heavy night of binge drinking in a random field somewhere—the session hidden from your parents obviously—but it’s still comforting all the same.

“You’re alright, mate, honestly.” She insists, hands moving down to give attention to your lower back. “Nobody heard ‘cept for me. Hell, I barely heard you, but I got the message.” 

Peeking out of the lump, revealing your flushed face, your eyes meet Chelsea’s. You pout at your pitiful demeanour. 

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

There is one last thing you need to do to feel fully assured of yourself. You offer Chelsea your little finger. “Pinky swear?”

She locks her petite finger with yours and offers a tender smile, gently nodding. “Pinky swear.”

2:04pm

The rest of the day passed without any further mishaps. You had double Spanish followed by independent study and lunch before your last period - History with the enigmatic Mr Miller. Lining up in the corridor, it feels stuffy even when you remove your thick blazer and loosen your tie. The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against your thigh does little to settle the butterflies in your tummy. You’d made a tactical judgement by standing towards the end of the line; you were waiting for Chelsea and you didn’t want to seem too keen. The shrill ring of the bell pierced through the rustle and bustle of the corridor, both clouding your mind so much you barely take notice when the rest of the line heads into the class. Mr Miller is standing at the door welcoming your class in.

His eyes lock with yours and your heart does a flip. As you make your way into class his lips curve into a soft smile, inviting and warm, and you feel like the air’s been punched out of your gut. Shit. You return with a weak smile and enter the room before you pass out.

Usually decorated with replicas of historical artefacts, boxes of old dusty textbooks and old wall displays of work from students who’d long left the college, the classroom was bare, empty like a blank canvas. The desks had been rearranged from rows of tables into groups, allowing for four people to sit. You decide to take a seat towards the front, near to where you sat last year with Chelsea. She trails in not long after you and smiles with a ‘hiya’ under her breath.

“Well, this is different.” She says scanning the classroom, unpacking her bag before sitting in the seat adjacent to you. “Least it’s not as dusty with Walker’s junk everywhere.”

“His stuff wasn’t that bad. It was just too much of it.” You follow Chelsea’s lead and get your equipment out for the lesson. As you’re getting your notebook out, your elbow nudges your pencil case and its contents spill on the floor. 

“Fuck’s sake ,” you whisper under breath. Flustered, you’re about to get out of your chair when you feel a shadow over you.

“S’alright, I got it.”

Mr Miller looms over you before getting down to grab the contents of your pencil case from the floor in one swift motion. Since this morning he’s removed his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The sight of his forearms, tanned, strong and just so masculine , makes your heart flutter, a quiet thrill running through you at the thought of those arms wrapped around you, entangled together.

“There you go, darlin’.” He says, holding them out to you, a soft laugh reveals his smile lines. “Saved you gettin’ up.” Taking the handful of pens out of his hand, you swear you feel electricity in the split second his hand gazes against yours.

“Thanks, sir,” you manage to say without squeaking too much.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” His velvety words dance across his tongue and you almost want to believe that he’s being this hot on purpose to torture you personally. 

Returning to his teacher desk he settles in the leather office chair and begins logging in and setting up his teaching resources. He completes the attendance register with no hitches; apart from the way he says your name has your head spinning. Satisfied that he can start the lesson, he rises from the table and stands near the board, ready to present, clicker in hand. 

“Alrigh’ folks, welcome to final year History, you’ve made it this far.” He leans casually against the wall in the space between his desk and the board before continuing.

“I’ll be level with you. It's period five on your first day back. It’s my first day. Your lil’ brains are probably information overloaded right now bouncing ‘round your heads.” He pauses and run his hand through his curly hair which is a lot more dishevelled compared to this morning. “I’ve had to meet almost too many people to meet within a day.”

He sounds gruff, like he’s worn his voice out from lecturing all day.

“Bet some of y’all are wondering how you’re still upright after the day you’ve had. Hell, I'm wondering how I’m still standing.” He chuckles, a rich, deep sound that seems to vibrate through you. A few from your class join in with a soft laugh. His irreverent humour puts your mind at ease and you appreciate his honesty.

“‘Won’t overload you with too many of the scary details of what’s going to happen this year but we’ll do an overview. That sounds good to y’all?” The class and you let out a mumble of agreement. “Let’s jump in then; this is your intro’ to The American Dream: reality and illusion, from 1945 to 2003.”

For the next half an hour, he shares an outline of what this year’s course will entail in terms of assessment: formative essays every few weeks to check your progress with course content, a historical enquiry assignment due in April, followed by your final exams in June. He goes on to describe some of the key events you'll study this year with confidence: the Cold War, the Civil Rights movement, the rise of popular culture and media, Watergate, the war on drugs, 9/11, and the U.S. invasion of Iraq. It’s quietly ironic that the college has asked him to teach on this module, and you wonder what Mr Miller’s perspective could offer when teaching some of the topics that he’s probably lived through himself.

The broad scope of subjects felt overwhelming looking at them in one go, yet it was the challenge you craved. History as a subject was one of your passions, even when it pushed your limits. A poor grade on a painstakingly crafted essay would upset you, but it didn't dissuade you either; it ignited a fierce resolve to prove yourself. Your old teacher Mr Walker was always so supportive of your interest in his subject, keen to hear your opinions and debate with you. His feedback on your essays was always fair, highlighting both the strengths and drawbacks in your analyses and opinions:

I like the way you’ve considered this, it enriches your main, overall argument. However, in paragraph 7, it feels a little weak and undersupported. Next time, you should consider looking at these sources I’ve suggested and how they may alter your argument. Good work on the whole — Grade: 20/25.

It was a shame that your work wasn’t appreciated by your other History teacher. Mr Hall's biassed grading, favouring certain students with A’s while giving you C’s and D’s, felt unjust. And it wasn’t because you thought your work was better; you’d heard through the grapevine that this particular group would pay seedy websites to produce their essays in all their subjects, slap their own names on the work and submit them. Others complained to Mr Walker about it but it fell on deaf ears, and lacked concrete evidence to prove the plagiarism so the issue never went further, despite it appearing to be an open secret. However on results day, your quiet determination paid off. You revelled in the sweet victory of an A, while the boys, once so favoured, faced the sting of D’s, E’s and U’s. You wondered if you’d be believed now if you brought the issue up again.

Throughout the lesson you earnestly take notes whilst you listen to his lecture, to jot down the important information and to show him that you’re listening intently, aching for a crumb of approval from the new teacher. The way he speaks commands the room, drawing the attention of the whole class, oozing a confidence that only comes with experience. Each word rolled out with a noticeable Texan accent, dripping with a natural, unforced charm. 

The introductory lecture draws to a close, to your disappointment. You could listen to him talk for hours.

“I hope I ain’t completely frazzled your heads, anyone got any questions?” Mr Miller offers a slight smile as he scans the room, his brown eyes meeting yours. For a second you feel his gaze on you, praying he doesn’t see your cheeks starting to warm for what feels like the hundredth time, your uniform feeling unbearable against your skin. As luck would have it, the bell rings, saving you and the class begins to pack up their belongings.

“Oh—before you go, I have this handout you need.” He turns to collect the stack of papers from his desk. In the meanwhile, you put your blazer on and start to clear away your things at an unhurried pace, waiting for everyone else to clear the room before you ask Mr Miller about what happened this morning with the boys. Chelsea’s ready to go, looking at you expectantly.

“Chels, I’ll meet you outside. I wanna ask him something.” She nods in understanding and offers a knowing wink as she leaves. 

The almost vacant classroom suddenly feels stuffy as if it will swallow you whole. Mr Miller has his back to you, shuffling and organising his already messy desk as you approach him.

“Umm, hi, Mr Miller…” you start, nibbling on your lip so hard you almost draw blood. You hear your blood pumping in your ears, heart pounding like a relentless drum.

“Oh, sorry darlin’ I didn’t realise you had a question,” he turns and sits, leaning back in his office chair, relaxed. “How can I help?” A dangerous question for your little wound up mind. I don’t know, maybe bend me over on that desk right there and fuck me so hard I forget my name?

“Uh, no, actually. It’s about something that happened this morning.” You say instead, taking a seat on the edge of the desk closest to his. Mr Miller’s expression changes, a mixture of concern and confusion, unsure of what you’re referring to. Thumbing the sleeve of your blazer, you begin to explain. “I think it was you I overheard dealing with a group of lads being a bit gross this morning…” you trail awkwardly, dropping his eye contact, hoping he catches on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. What about it?”

“I just wanted to say thank you for sticking up for me, I—err—appreciate it.” 

“ Oh… ” Realisation washes over him and he sits up in his chair. “Those boys were bothering you , huh? I’m sorry they were being like that. Ain’t right to talk to a lady like that,” he murmurs, his finger grazing against his bottom lip. The way he says it, dripping with charm, makes your heart swoon.

“You don’t need to apologise for them, they’re dickheads, anyway.” You offer a soft chuckle, feeling a little awkward about the situation.

“Dickheads they might be darlin’, but they needed to learn a lesson on how t’be respectful. Guess they don’t teach that over here.” He shrugs nonchalantly and a slim smile appears briefly on his lips.

Leaning forward in his chair he perches elbows on his knees, his large hands interlaced, he catches your eye and looks at you intently. “They bother you again, you tell me, alrigh’? I will deal with them.” He murmurs, voice deepening, eye contact unwavering. “I’m serious. Any word or comment, you come to me .” 

Shit. I’ll come for you if you want. You swallow hard and you feel slick arousal begin to dampen your underwear again in response to his command. 

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll let you know,” you try your best to sound unaffected by his commanding allure.

“Not a problem, darlin’. Now, get outta here and enjoy the rest of the day.” His smile is like a gentle caress, as warm as his gaze. He rises from his chair to see you out. You hop off the desk, bag slung over your shoulder and walk over to the door.

“One last thing,” he stops just short of the door, his tall frame towering over you. You look up to him; you guess he’s shy of 6 foot. He holds the pink, sparkly ‘Birthday Girl’ badge from Chelsea, still attached to your blazer, like he was inspecting it. 

Your mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape in realisation and you sigh softly, attempting to hide your embarrassed face before meeting his gaze. “It was my 18th on Sunday and my friend got me this because she missed it, and made me wear it all-day.” You let out a nervous laugh, realising how silly the situation was to explain aloud to your teacher.

A lingering smile tugs at his lips, his eyes flitting down and up your body. “Well,” he pauses, his voice dropping to a low murmur, his thumb brushing against the colourful badge before his hand grazes down your arm, sending a jolt through your body. “Happy birthday for Sunday, darlin’, I hope you got everything you wanted,” he coos.

You have to swallow hard to stop yourself from letting out a whimper in response, aching for him to touch elsewhere instead.

Your thoughts are spinning like a record of the things you can’t say right now; I want you for my birthday, that would be the best present. I want you to touch me, suck my tits, fuck me, make me cum before you ruin me. Make me feel like no one else has. I wanna make you feel so good, I wanna be good for you. I’ll be so good, I promise. 

“T-Thanks,” you stutter, breath hitching. You excuse yourself before you let illicit thoughts pour out of you and make your way to the car park to meet Chelsea. Your head is spinning, replaying the interaction over and over; the sound of his gruff voice, the way he looked at you, his light touch over your blazer, the way he had you like putty in his hands. It drowns yet excites you, teetering on edge between being turned on and utterly overwhelmed, the cruel truth dawning on you.

You have a crush on your teacher and you’re probably—definitely—absolutely fucked.

Thank you for reading this to the end! If you enjoyed please extend a like or reblog (with a comment if you'd like, I love reading them <3) to support writers, it helps a ton!💞

[darkbluekies]

Silas asks #6

Previous one

Concept: I've put multiple asks into one post to avoid too much loose posts on my account! This way, you have more to read too<3

Warnings: slight mention of nsfw,

Giving Silas a little forehead kiss rn

good, he needs them desperately

Disrespectfully I’d be all over Silas, giving him the fattest kisses and so clingy to him like a stray cat

Silas simps concern me D:

Silas is bbg. Silas in cat ears.

no.

HELLO BLUE! i have an ask for my silly little meow meow silas 🥰 SO i was wondering 😈 how would he react to darling calling him petnames for the first time?

your what now?

He will love it. Every inch of his body will shiver visibly. For a second, he'll malfunction, but then he'll pull you closer, happier than ever.

"Call me that again."

I’m sorry but I’m a massive massive simp for Silas what’s wrong with me

you uh .... might have to go to a certain doctor to check that out ...

silas cuddles sound so cozy ugh. i love this silly little unhinged fella

same, his cuddles must be heaven. I'd never want to leave.

silas would pay for darlings nails 😌 and he would especially love it if you chose his favorite color. I'm not sure if you've ever brought it up but I think his fav color would be red.. and I imagine he would love it if you let him pick the exact color and design, tho he would find anything cute on his darling regardless 🫶

yes, he would. He would love to pick out the design on your nails so that a little part of him (or a reminder) will always be with you. But if you refuse, he'll let you pick ... as long you're happy, he's happy.

You: Silas isn’t healthy to have a relationship with. Me: *@ him* do you hear these lies?!

IT'S TRUE I PROMISE

Following up on the "Silas as a boyfriend" ask, what would Silas do if the reader was asexual?

He'd be a bit annoyed of course because of his needs that he wants to fill with you but he'd come up with other solutions for himself because you're comfort is more important than him getting laid

[gemsofgreece]

https://x.com/archeohistories/status/1803838446672449797

Αρχίσανε επιτέλους να μιλάνε για αυτά; Καιρός ήτανε.

- REPLY / COMMENTARY TO THE SUBMISSION -

Adding commentary in English because the tweet in the link is also in English. So, I searched a bit about the author, it turns out the study is not even as new as the tweeter account states (yeah I will probably never start calling it x, old habits die hard, let alone that it was a horrible name change to begin with, anyway!). The link refers to a book actually written in 2004 by historian Robert C. Davis,  “Christian Slaves, Muslim Masters: White Slavery in the Mediterranean, the Barbary Coast, and Italy, 1500–1800″. The book is legit and was well received  amongst readers and peer review alike. I had to search all that up in order to be sure what I am posting here, obviously.

Of course, when you’re from any place in the North Mediterranean and have the most basic knowledge of history, you don’t need this book to tell you first that there were massive practices of slavery commited by Asian and African muslims against Southern and Eastern Europeans, ever since the Late Middle Ages, especially and usually through piracy, but not only. It’s a well known fact. I was dumbfounded when I read in the tweet that the previous estimations in the American academic circles were on the tens of thousands. This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. By studying the Modern Greek history alone, literally just early 19th century Greek history - a span of 30 years tops - there were hundreds of thousands of Greeks sold as slaves by the Ottomans. Now calculate this happening in all the north Mediterranean coast - spanning from Greece to Spain - for over 4 centuries. Obviously the reasons or the perpetrators weren’t always the same - it could be Ottomans, Arabs, Barbery pirates, mixed, it could be a market, it could be a war tactic, it could be retaliation, it could be a lot of things. Byzantine and Ottoman Greece was regularly mauled by pirates. In fact, there were also Ottoman Greek pirates, i.e in Mani. My point anyway is that estimating that number to the tens of thousands is ridiculous when that was even too little for a span of 30 years in Greece alone. Then again, I see that this book didn’t examine at all slavery in Greece and the Ottoman Empire. It is more about southwestern Europe. But still the old American estimations seemed - uhm - “diplomatically discreet”. The new book raises the number close to a million in the southwest alone.

I did well to look it up because I read that this book got almost exploited by far right groups who tried to create the rhetoric of an “eye for an eye”, suggesting the West Europeans and Americans were responding with slavery to the Barbery and Ottoman and other muslim slave traders (no, West Europeans and Americans would not go to such lengths for the sake of South Europeans, let’s put it like that, so the whole “white vengeance” argument is beyond stupid, let alone that it remains problematic). I must thus add that: the writer rejected such arguments openly, saying  "Two such enormous wrongs don’t make anything right.“

This is what I hate the most. People end up behaving the exact same way. Abusing history and the objectivity with which it must always be studied in order to serve their political rhetorics and ideologies. We will never learn from past mistakes, it seems as if we are incapable of doing it. You will NEVER see the topics of European / White / Christian people getting sold in multiple hundreds of thousands as slaves by non-Christian - POC (as Americans like to call them) being big in America. Or at least ackowledged and examined beyond academic circles. But this is exactly also what the far right groups attempted; to minimize the horrific, well studied Atlantic slave trade or “excuse” it! The level of bias and all these groups accusing each other of the very things they themselves commit…!

At some point, in one of my posts about Ottoman Greek history where I added some of the living conditions for a Christian far from the cosmopolitan areas of the Ottoman Empire (AKA lowkey almost any place besides Constantinople) - historically fact checked - at some point I got an impressively vile reply from a self-identifying “activist” who cursed at me and long story short they said I was a despicable liar. Of course, by “activist” we mean a muslim person who said their family history was affected by the western colonization, which I respect, but they could not equally respect that people of the same faith as them (not even the same nation!) could be capable of vile acts as well and their activism was limited only to people who had the exact same experience as they did. Everyone else was a despicable liar.  Anyway, needless to say, I wasn’t lying.

And before someone says “oH YoU taLK abOUt BIas buT ALExandER-”. Of course. We have said this a thousand times over. Ancient Greece practiced slavery, not even just to foreigners or POC but also Greeks enslaving other Greeks, like, top THAT. But so did the Sumerians, the Hebrews, the Hittites, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Romans and the Persians at least after the Achaemenid dynasty. You know?

But this is exactly the point and this is ultimately the reason I am personally publishing and commenting to this submission; to make a point that who is an oppressor, a slave trader, a wrongdoer of any sort has NOTHING to do with skin, religion, geography and I can’t believe there are people living in 2024 in advanced societies truly believing this. It is not some genetical trait of white people to be slave traders. The only thing it takes is power imbalance and a little touch of convenient propaganda for any human to commit and normalize the most horrendous deed. If they are morally weak, of course, which is also not a genetical trait and unfortunately it is not rare at all, anywhere in the world.

[lautremonde1]

Please tell me if I´m Tumblring in a wrong way (serious post, I would really like to know)

A Tumblr mutual, who runs a blog I really like, wrote me yesterday asking me if I´m holding a grudge or had anything against her (I think this user is a woman). She thought that I was on purpose liking some of her original tumblr posts, but then going to other blogs to post them. Of course I didn´t do that. Rather, that I found these posts on another blogs, I liked them (and she received the notice of that like, as on Tumblr we receive notice of the likes of the posts we created even if they were not liked on our blog) and I post them (or queued them, as I queue and then random everything). I explained her that it wasn´t like that at all, and that I had nothing at all against her, on the contrary, and I think now there is no problem between us. But I wanted to explain how I proceed here, and I want to be open in case anybody at any moment has felt that I was acting against him or her.

I´m here in Tumblr in first place to relax myself from other occupations, as looking at beautiful things relax me. I´m also here to learn about music, photography, art, literature, that maybe I wouldn´t learn about in other way. In my life outside Tumblr I have also rather intellectual or artistic inclinations, I read a lot of books and magazines, I follow authors (philosophers, essayists, fiction writers, journalists...) and publishing houses in Twitter, I write (I had the luck that different publishing houses thought some of my poetry was not unpublishable, so I have four published books), I´m doing research for a PhD, I have friends with similar interests, but there are always things out of my radar, things that I discovered or learnt about here. I´m also in Twitter to spread some of the things I thought to be beautiful or interesting or thought provoking. By all this, what I mean is that I´m not here in Tumblr to have an argument with anybody. Sometimes I´ve seen that accounts I followed had an argument between each other but that kind of thing never interested me, frankly.

So, when I´m in Tumblr I post some content when I feel some suggestion from it. That may be due to a lot of factors. First, obviously the content, but then, sometimes I see something I don´t post, and that I post later or another day, so a lot of things, like my mood or the other things I´ve been posting that day, or the few ones immediately I posted previously, have an influence too. Also, when I post something, I don´t look at the origin (except if it to discover a new artist). I mean, if I see something in a blog that isn´t a mutual or I don´t even follow, even if the one posting it first was a mutual, I post it from where I found it. I think this sort of offended the person who wrote me, and of course there may be reasons to go to your mutual blog to post that if you see him or her is at the origin. But there are also reasons for what I do. If I saw this at a blog, even if it´s just a random blog, shouldn´t I be grateful to that blog for showing it to me? Doesn´t that blog has any merit for posting something I find beautiful or interesting even if the rest of the blog doesn´t interest me much? I sincerely think the answer to both questions is affirmative. So I post (or rather queue, as I queue everything, and then randomize it with the queue shuffling tool) things from where I found them.

Also, even if there are blogs I follow, and some of them are mutuals, and I´m fond of me, I don´t have a list of blogs I visit necessarily every day. I start posting from the people who posted from me the previous day, both blogs I follow and don´t follow. If someone posted from me, I should be grateful for that, and at least visit that blog. Start from the one who posted from me maybe at 11.59.59, and then I go back in time blog by blog. Maybe I´ll finish with that day, or, if that particular day what I find doing that is not too interesting, I go to my feed. Then, if the same happens, I go to the blogs I follow, but I randomize them. Maybe you know that the list of blogs you follow will be shown starting with last blog you followed at the link https://www.tumblr.com/following?offset=0, starting with the second last one at the link https://www.tumblr.com/following?offset=1, and so on, until the first one you followed. What I do is to randomize numbers with any of the many tools that are in the web for that, and then change the offset number one blog after the other.

So you can see clearly that I don´t have a go-see list of blogs. What I mean is that, even if the origin of a post is from a mutual, I´m not necessarily visiting my mutual later, it even doesn´t depend on me. I don´t like choosing whom to visit, so I let other factors to intervene. What I do with mutuals blogs or blogs I follow in general is that, when I visit them, I stay there for a little bit longer than I do in other blogs. I quit a random blog if I see that it doesn´t interest me after I see a few posts, but a blog I follow is a blog that I´ve been finding interesting in the past, probably in sustained way, so I stay there a little bit more even if at first doesn´t interest me that day. I must also say that I unfollow blogs that for several months haven´t shown any activity (I understand there are many reasons for this, and I respect them, and I will follow them again when they restart, but I don´t like having inactive or dead blogs at the list of blogs I´m following) or that I´ve been visiting several times and I didn´t like or connect with the things I saw (many times I may like the things I know but don´t feel that clic to post them myself at that moment, so it´s not about if I post from them or not). Blogs just change, I´m happy that I follow somebody and somebody follows me, but, in general, I have my friends outside Tumblr (I never unfollow the blog of somebody I´ve been talking with here, if I do it is by sheer accident, if we know each other, even if just a little bit, then there is a matter of personal loyalty, which is very important to me), and I´m here to find things beautiful, thought-provoking, interesting, suggestive, etc.

If you think I´m doing anything wrong, please tell me. I don´t pretend to be offensive to anybody but the message from this user made me think if I´m maybe being offensive or annoying to people without aknowledging.

[runabout-river]

Hello! I'm not one to send messages, but I just saw something on Twitter and wanted to know you opinion. Are theorizing that Megumi's CE will be based on Gashadokuro, a legend from contemporary Japanese mythology. It reminded me that you once said (I think, correct me if I'm wrong) that "it would be cool if CSG was a complete skeleton". Well, this entity is a giant skeleton that can be "invisible" and "indestructible". Anyway, I remembered you when I saw this theory and I would like to know what you think about it. Unfortunately I don't have any more information, I'm sorry.

I searched through my favorite Jjk Twitter account and found the post about Gashadokuro I had read on there once.

Obviously I love this theory especially because it would be an evolution of Megumi's own powers. But I think we'll need to go a little deeper into Chimera Shadow Garden here as well:

CSG is an incomplete Domain

In its first incomplete appearance, it had an unexplained cloning ability

In its second incomplete appearance, it had a construct consisting of vertebrae behind Megumi

Sukuna most likely doesn't have access to CSG because a Domain manifests from the Inner Domain which is basically the soul (just imagine if Kenjaku had access to 4+ Domains)

Regardless of how difficult it is to make a Domain, in their structure they're all nearly the same: shell, barrier, sure-hit. In olden times the sure-hit didn't mean a lethal hit but simple rules everyone in the domain had to follow. The lethal version is more difficult to expand

Some CT come with an integrated Domain Expansion like Hakari's and Higuruma's. Those DE are extensions of the user's base CT. Instead of the base CT being imbued into the barrier of the Domain, those DE act with an evolved form of the CT

It's remarkable then that CSG, even in its incomplete state, has an extra cloning ability. Is this ability also part of the 10ST or did Megumi create the cloning ability out of his own imagination?

On Chimera Shadow Garden itself, that the vertebrae in the background are going to grow into an entire skeleton is a given because they hadn't been there when Megumi first expanded his domain.

But there is also some kind of rope bound around that structure:

...in the form of a firefly. Frankly, I forgot what the firefly meant in the Japanese cultural context but it's bound to be of great importance later on when Megumi is free again.

One theory on the completed skeletal structure I read and want to be true, is that no previous 10ST user was able to utilize it in full because no 10ST had ever managed to tame Mahoraga until Sukuna. The true power of CSG would only come to fruition if all 10 shikigami have been tamed.

This includes the dead ones too, because as we know, their powers can be transferred. But also, are inherited shikigami ever truly dead when the next user can summon them again?

My personal theory, is that the dead shikigami can be summoned in a new form with the Cursed Technique Reversal. Just like Gojo gets Red when he activates Limitless with Positive Energy, Megumi would get his dead shikigami if he activates his technique with Positive Energy as well.

Their abilities would be different then of course.

[sexwithsophie]

Kickstarter Smarter With Sophie: Scamtastic

EDIT: I actually turned this into an article, if you want to read it here: withsophie.co/post/scamtastic

Not sure if this happened to anyone else, but I was approached midway through my failing @kickstarter campaign by someone who presented themselves as a kindly man curious to know why it wasn't doing better when it looked so great. He said he was William La Mont and that as a collaborator on a wildly successful project with Vortic Watches that brought in over $350K, he wanted to apply his skills to help me in my campaign.

His profile appeared to match the collaborator from the actual page, because he has the same profile photo and zero backed projects, just like the William from the campaign.

Plus, it was all searchable from Kickstarter.com, so I knew it wasn't a fake or cloned page. Interested, but broke, I told him I had no money. He said, "Did I ask you for any money?" and acted like he wanted to take me on sort of as a pet project. His apparent previous success was tantalizing!

But things just seemed too good to be true, so I dug a bit. I asked him if he wouldn't mind me reaching out to the project lead, Robert Custer, and he said that he would be happy for me to do so. He even gave me Robert's email address! Only problem? It was a gmail address. So, I found the company website and emailed them directly, as well as emailing the gmail one. WIthin minutes, I received a glowing recommendation for William from the gmail account! A little toooo glowing. It looked like something hot off the ChatGPT presses.

That wasn't a smoking gun in and of itself, though, because Robert wrote as if English wasn't his first language, so of course their writing styles would be different. Still, I decided to find and add both William and Robert on LinkedIn. I figured that if it were really them, they could confirm. If not, I could make them aware of what was going on in their names. This all happened several weeks ago, and Robert just confirmed me as a friend yesterday. I wrote him a message about all this, but still haven't heard back.

I solidly figured out it was a scam though, because even though William's account is private, he wrote to me, so I can see the date he joined KS: March 2024. But look at the date the project he supposedly helped on was closed:

So what kind of help were you providing them five months into the past, sir? As desperate as I was about the poor performance of my campaign, and this being my first Kickstarter, I may have fallen for this guy's shenanigans had I not been a little savvy. I genuinely shudder to think about this dude preying on someone who doesn't happen to certified in the Management of Information Technology.

And how diabolical was this??? This guy either created a fake account and used William's name and image, or he convinced Robert to add him as a collaborator after-the-fact somehow. Can you even do that? And what would he have done? He was going on about doing TikTok and LinkedIn ads, so perhaps he would have asked me to entrust the management of them to him? Or tried to convince me to add him as a collaborator on my campaign, as well?

I don't know, but what I do know is that you need to SAY NO to any and everything that comes to you via Kickstarter's messenger. And report every single last one of those bastards.

____________________________________________________________

If you'd like to learn more tales about what I did wrong so that you don't make my same mistakes, if you'd like to be notified when I give crowdfunding another go, or if you want to learn more about my Adult Lifestyle Programs, CLICK HERE to join my mailing list!

[genericpuff]

Fun fact, the story of Hades and Persephone has actually been romanticized since long before Twilight came out. Never mind antiquity, but in terms of modern media, the earliest example I can think of comes from Hercules: the Legendary Journeys, where the episode that retells the Homeric Hymn to Demeter came out in 1995! And if we do account for antiquity, the Ancient Greeks themselves saw the marriage as ideal and there actually are a few ancient sources that basically have Persephone preferring Hades and the Underworld to being aboveground with Demeter, but it should also be noted that these sources are Roman and not Greek (specifically Virgil's Georgics and Lucan's Pharsalia).

Don't get me wrong, Twilight definitely had a lot of influence here, I just thought I'd point out that this interpretation of the myth has been around for way longer than most people probably realize.

Oh I know, but that's sort of next to the point I was trying to make in that previous post. When I compared it to Twilight I guess like... I'm comparing it to the entire genre and trend of shitty manipulative romances being both romanticized as well as turned into "global phenomenons". Like they were romanticized before but at least they were just shitty cheap books in the back of the bookstore, you know? Now that they're turned into these big Hollywood fiascos, it makes it even easier to normalize these types of relationships and concepts. Even if we look back on Twilight and 50 Shades now and call it out for what it is, there are still a lot of people who absorbed those books/films in incredibly damaging ways (especially younger audiences in Twilight's case). You are what you eat, is what I'm saying. And it's a much bigger problem than LO but I do think LO is a symptom of the problem, which is - instead of stories being written by men through a toxic male gaze in which women are objectified and hypersexualized and men are told not to cry, now we have stories being written by woman through a toxic female gaze in which women are "empowered" by being carried around like dolls by an emotionally stunted man who wants to cry but just whips them in the bedroom instead.

It's still pretty much the male gaze but with extra steps.

IDK if I'm explaining that well though LMAO Obviously I don't want to generalize and reduce the entire dark romance genre to its worst writers but this is why it annoys me to no end that stories like Twilight, After, 50 Shades, and LO keep getting propelled to the forefront of the genre zeitgeist. It makes the people who aren't a bunch of creeps writing their kinky self-insert power fantasies look bad just by affiliation. And it sets an incredibly shitty standard for those who are introduced to the genre through these works.

The reality is (and I'm speaking very candidly here from my own experiences so take with grains of salt if you must, you don't have to agree) being a woman - or being an under-represented minority/individual in general, whether you're LGBTQ+ or neurodivergent or POC - doesn't mean you're magically protected from thinking or writing the same stuff as the problematic majority. You are what you eat. If you grew up consuming toxic heteronormative content (which EVERYONE does because it's FUCKING EVERYWHERE LMAO) then of course you're gonna go on to write the same stuff unless you challenge it in some way, either by reading other opinions that don't "play it safe" just to look good, or reading other content entirely that isn't subject to the norm of "what's popular". Always be willing to broaden your horizons and don't forget - just because it makes a lot of money doesn't automatically mean it's good.

[joyful-joe]

My 2023 art summary. Here's my written rambling thoughts of last year's progress: (spoilers: It's long)

In 2022 I posted about 37 art pieces, I wished I could've beat that record in 2023 but it ended up being about 30 art pieces including sketches. There are reasons for my slow output. A major one being I was focusing on finishing my vocational college which I succeed. The second reason is wanting to continue improving. I feel like each time make something it comes out better than the last one. I don't think that's true for all art pieces I made this year, obviously some are better than others in terms of quality. But I don't think I've ever had a moment were I thought (of a finished piece) to have gotten "worse" compared to previous pieces. I'm glad that I can still keep this positive mindset with me. Of course I couldn't improve that fast without the help on one good friend who helped me each time I got stuck. On one part it's amazing to have someone that's willing to help me even if it might be over done, but on the other hand I'm still trying to be more self reliant which atm I'm getting better at getting out of those situations myself. But occasionally there's nothing wrong to ask for a bit of help. Last reason was I got lost in what my goals were. This art blog started in February 2018, making it almost 6 years now. It started as being a motivational drive to work on art more (since it's been a long hobby of mine) and get better just like the other online artist I admire. Maybe dreaming if I ever got up there with the other I could earn money with doing what I loved. Of course that is still far out of my reach. Account growth has been pathetically slow in comparison to how we see others. But I feel like I have the right to complain of such thing. I know my faults, I'm not really consistent in what I draw and this year felt even more inconsistent. I don't keep up with trends or draw them cus in the end if I look back at them I would only feel shallow, cus it was obviously made to gather (potential) numbers and not be something I really wanted to do. I see other artist that draw way better than me and also under perform when it comes to notes/followers. So maybe it's a bit selfish to complain of such things. But going into the "screw those internet numbers" sort of lead me to ask "okay but why should I keep up? Why not go back drawing whatever and not bother posting it online?" and it goes on and on spiraling down. I questioned if this careless attitude is where I should really be going. That said internet numbers don't really affect me. It's not the end of the world if the fan art doesn't do good numbers. I already tried what I could to improve the number rate and going down this internet rabbit hole of how to get bigger numbers makes it all sound paranoiac (especially on Twitter). But overall 2023 made small achievements. Got at least 2 commissions, one art piece made it into the front page of Newgrounds, some artists I look up to followed me back, posts have gotten in general more attention than last year and the overall quality of my art has improved. It's not much but still small steps in achieving my goals. It's been a good year for me. I'll continue to draw till I drop dead. I'll continue to work on improving my art. I'll continue to explore new ideas even if they're small. I'll draw in different mediums, even if it doesn't help my consistency issues. That's just who I am. I don't expect many to read this but if you did, thank you for reading.

[mad-hunts]

20. what is something your muse wants to tell others, but is too afraid to? 

hey, @absensia! thank you very much for the ask (: it means a lot to me that you'd drop one in my inbox, if i'm being honest!! but of course... i'm incredibly grateful for everyone's submissions in regards to the prompts i posted for barton! alright, so my answer to this one is probably going to be long like the last, so please bear with me while i pour out all of my thoughts as to what i believe barton has wanted to tell people for years. and that is that he might need help — which, considering how much blood he has gotten on his hands + the very poor state of his mind, isn't that unreasonable at all. though barton doesn't want to bring this up to anyone for a multitude of reasons; one of which is because he fears he'll be seen as weak and because he's pretty much convinced himself internally that he doesn't deserve it. though i feel as if most of the time, barton not only feels this irrational as well as powerful hatred towards everyone else, but towards himself, too. which are both dangerous mindsets to be in within their own right.

when you feel like you are completely unlovable but are also so chronically lonely at the same time that you will quite literally seek people out who you know hate your guts, because in a way, seeing them almost validates what you feel about yourself + you also feel so lonely sometimes that you feel like you're going insane ( or more than he already was before anyhow ) ; in barton's opinion, that is probably one of the very definitions of ' something's wrong. ' especially since this has led him down some pretty dark paths before: both with things like self-medicating using alcohol and getting into this relationship with someone that he knows is bad news, but who he believes he belongs with on some degree. this is because they're both terrible, and they feed into each other's desire to receive their own extremely unhealthy idea's of what love is. an idea that love is inherently violent when that is anything but what love actually is.

and barton knows that it's wrong deep in the back of his mind because he is at his absolute worst when he's with this person, but like i mentioned previously, he doesn't believe he deserves any better than them so he hasn't told anyone about what he's been feeling. however, when you disassociate like barton does sometimes in which you genuinely do not remember what the hell happened for a certain amount of time, since your brain is struggling so hard to cope with all of these bad feelings you're feeling and terrible things you're exposing it to that it feels the need to tuck it away somewhere... you should absolutely seek help as he has subtly alluded to how he often feels a few times around his kids, and they were probably the most concerned about him that they've ever been.

but the problem remains that the action of actually reaching out to people feels impossible for barton. both in the way that he wouldn't even know where to begin explaining his feelings into words, on account of them feeling so complex that he feels like he can't even name them a majority of the time, as well as that he was taught that seeking help was something to look down upon by wesley. this is also attributable to the desire that barton feels to appear like he's perfect all the time, as i had highlighted in one of my previous posts on here. and acknowledging that you are actively struggling goes against that, along with the fact that talking to someone is a sign of confidence in yourself. which barton is actually lacking in despite appearances.

though anyhow, i know that this was probably an awfully heavy thing to have to read through, and i'm sorry for that in advance. but barton, kind of like real people, are not the sum of their parts — so i felt like it was important to explain how he feels wholly and without things being sugarcoated / left out. i hope you liked this answer anyhow, though, and are having a great day so far! thanks again for the ask.

[sheizara]

Allis Ith’ren, her lawyer in Quel’thalas, sighed very deeply; Sheizara knew she wasn’t an easy client — she’d gone through three divorce lawyers prior to this point, and her current situation was certainly much more complicated than a legal separation. 

He adjusted his spectacles and tapped his finger on the folder between them on the table in the inn in Quel’danas, “Your official patents of nobility and formal claim to the Tel’vaiel titles and estate are all settled. As I have said in previous correspondence, the issue that lies between you and accepting the property and your place in court is that you’ve lived formally in Stormwind, at times, and presently, under the banner of the Alliance for the last four decades.”

“And the kingdom needs me to renounce them and swear allegiance back, yeah, I know, I did read that,” she leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest, “I didn’t ever formally swear allegiance there, you know. I was sailing on a merchant vessel when the doors were shut behind me, that wasn’t my fault,” she huffed and raised her eyebrow back in challenge when Allis raised his at her tone. “What would I need to do to tour the property before I make my decision?” 

“You would need to apply for a temporary visa, which will have fees assessed. The Regent Lord has a vested interest in repatriating as many of our wayward brothers and sisters as we can in this time of peace; I am happy to begin that paperwork for you, my Lady, if that is what you wish, but know that it may take months to process unless you have a sponsor in good standing with the kingdom who is able to vouch for you throughout your stay,” he paused a moment and took his glasses off to polish with a soft cloth, “It cannot be me, before you ask.” 

Ugh. 

It was Shei’s turn to sigh deeply, “Can you file without knowing who the sponsor is or should I find a sponsor first?” 

“Sponsor first.” 

Ughhh. 

“Right, well, I’ll have to send some letters. I’ll let you know when I hear back and what route we’re going,” she took her folder of tangible proof that she WAS a Lady and DID own property off the table and tucked it under her arm, “I suppose I should keep an eye out for today’s bill, too?” 

He nodded, “Of course, my Lady.” 

***

She’d stayed in Quel’danas for almost a month and had sent multiple letters by the time her target had finally replied. 

Keranna Zerine was an extremely hard to read woman in person, let alone over post. She was from an old noble line that had dwindled down to her alone, and had been the last person to actively manage the Tel’vaiel estate. There was truly no one better to show her the property than— 

“No.” 

Shei blinked at the elder blonde, taken aback, “You came all this way to tell me no in person?” 

“Yes.” 

Audacious, to say the least. “Could I at least make an attempt at convincing you otherwise in order to make the journey worth it?” 

Keranna adjusted the paper sleeve on her cup of coffee, “You may, of course, Lady Tel’vaiel.” 

Decorum above all. Shei floundered for a moment, more intimidated than she had planned to be, “Well. I think you’ll find that I’m great company and from all accounts you ran the estate extremely well for sixty five years, plus we’re family,” technically, by marriage, that was true, “and you’ll be able to tell me if anything’s wrong with it or what problems may arise.” 

“You’re an absolutely awful negotiator, what’s in it for me, dear?” Keranna raised a silvery eyebrow to punctuate her question. 

Allis had helped her with this one, he’d passed a tip along that Miss Pyraelia Sunmote was looking to buy property in Eversong again, “Right. There’s some property between the Mel’marrin and Astal’dris estates going up for sale that was formerly held by the uh…” She winced, immediately realizing she should’ve rehearsed more or taken notes. 

“Astal’mir,” Keranna corrected, “Interesting, I’d heard Idonnis had fallen on hard times.” 

Shei smiled as brilliantly and charmingly as she could, and tried her hardest not to lose her nerve as the elder elf looked her over in the most dissecting way. 

“Fine. I’ll write to your lawyer.” 

Nailed it.

[darkbluekies]

Jerry asks #2

Previous one

Concept: I've put multiple asks into one post to avoid too much loose posts on my account! This way, you have more to read too<3

Warnings: nsfw mentions, drugs, murder

Rahhh i love ur OC Jerry smmm, i wanna squish her like a stress ball and inhale her into my nose 😔😔Im conclusion, i can't wait to see more of Jerry and your writing in general!!! &lt;;33

youwannadowhatnow???? (thank you so much ily)

Bro i am SO in lesbians with jerry its not even funny

Very good >:)

how would Jerry react to reader killing someone out of self defense?(p.s. im lowkey in love with Jerry)

She will be proud over you. All that self defense she taught you actually worked. She's so pleased to know that you can take care of yourself when she's away. She'll comfort you, knowing that this most likely will take a toll on your brain.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay I promise, you did nothing wrong! You did so well. You could even have been harsher if you ask me, but you're so nice, aren't you? The nicest little baby? Come here."

As soon as Jerry puts a colouring book in front of me bam my attention is gone I am drawing I am gone I am happy

Perfect, just like she wants :>

"Giving you a coloring book to keep you occupied" Jerre what the actual f... do you think i'm a child ?! *is absolutely doing the coloring with an offended look*

Lmao coloring books really are fun, i love them so much

She'll come over every ten minutes to check up on you and see how far you've come.

"No need to glare at me when you're obviously having fun, you child." She peeks at the drawing. "That looks good, baby doll. If you finish the entire page before I'm done here I might let you sleep on my arm tonight."

Does Jerry get softer over time? She’s stand offish but we get those moments of softness, when she settles down with her darling and they both trust each other will she be soft or still only fleeting moments?

She doesn't get softer in theory, but you learn how to take her behavior and analyze it. Her cockiness is a part of her personality. it's not disappearing anytime soon. However, if you match her energy she will be much more comfortable. You might even be on the same level with her instead of being her property.

Example:

"I ought to give that son of a bitch a real pounding", Jerry mutters with her arms crossed over her chest.

"You should wipe the floor with his hair", you reply. "Use it like a real good mop."

She scoffs out a laugh. "I should, shouldn't I?"

"If you don't, I will."

You're about to leave, but she grabs your shoulder, forcing you back.

"Not a fucking chance, Y/N", she says. "He would grab your hair and swing you over his head like a damn propeller. I'm not letting him hurt you, you're too important to me. You can help me, but you're not doing anything by yourself, do you understand that?"

"In that case he'll hurt you too."

"I'll be fine." She taps your nods at the man. "If you take his glass, I'll put in the sleeping pills. Let's go, baby. I'm right behind you."

on my hands and knees begging for more information on jerry’s mommy kink

Well ... haha ... Jerry loves to be in control and know that she's the leader of the relationship. Having you call her that makes her feel important to you. Plus it feeds her gigantic ego.

She's the type to want you to call her that among others, just so people know. It makes her feel even cockier.

Of course she mocks you about it when you become shy about it, why wouldn't she do that? The more embarrassed you are, the happier she gets.

BLUE OMG I LOVE JERRY SO MUCH SHES LITERALLY RHE STANDART ‼️‼️

AGREED<33333

jerry stole my heart<3 -💤anon

She will steal more than that, she will steal your entire life

[emailsfromanactor]

A harsh review/account of opening night from The New York Review of Books, mentioned by neither Redfield nor Sterne. I happened across it while looking up celebrities in the opening night audience.

*

The Gielgud-Burton Hamlet: Notes on a First Night Dwight Macdonald May 14, 1964 issue

“fiasco… 2. a complete or ridiculous failure, esp. of a dramatic performance, or of any pretentious undertaking.” —Webster’s Unabridged (2nd. ed.)—

The first disappointment was the audience. I arrived early to find the place swarming with cops like a Hitchcock (or Mack Sennett) film, a hundred and fifty of them the papers said. They were masterfully tough with ordinary citizens who tried to infiltrate their defenses—“You wanna go to the station?” one asked a nice-looking young woman after some previous dialogue I missed; “Yes,” she said bravely, but I was able to create a diversion by pushing past without showing my ticket—and they were apologetically ineffective with more substantial-appearing citizens who had tickets (they never did get them herded into the lobby). All very American, like the TV trucks, the photograph garlanded with cameras, the brilliant lights that flooded on whenever a celebrity was thought to be disembarking from a Carey limousine. The trouble was that, while the mob in front of the theater looked like Celebrities—the handsomely gowned and coiffed women, mostly “of a certain age,” and their flushed, hard-faced escorts bursting impressively out of tuxedoes—they were not and knew they were not and, like the uncoiffed, untuxedoed, unticketed mob on the wrong side of the police lines, were hanging around in the simple, touching hopes of seeing somebody that was. But Celebrities were in short supply: the only ones I can attest to personally were Lillian Hellman (who left in the entr’acte) and Otto Preminger. (“Are we still on speaking terms Otto?” I asked, thinking of the latest bad review I’d given him: “Of course,” he grinned as we shook hands, “But I wish we were on writing terms”; a real pro.) And even if one adds, from the papers—you don’t know what you’ve experienced at these non-events until you read the papers—Dolores Del Rio, Gwen Verdon, Margaret Leighton, Hermione Gingold, Montgomery Clift, and Lee Radziwill, well I mean to say what do you have really? The one big Celebrity we were all waiting for arrived, with a clatter of mounted police and a few screams, at a remote side entrance into which she instantly vanished. She also disappeared, in the entr’acte, to visit her husband in his dressing room, or so I read in the papers. The only interesting dialogue I overheard was between a hairdo and a tuxedo: “Hey, you look great, Sam, all sunburned!” “Yeah, just back from Puerto Rico.”

When I finally gave up and took my seat, I was not encouraged to see the curtain was up on a bare stage. Bad omen; last time was Kazan’s J.B., and here even less promising: a rehearsal stage with position marks on the floor and the lathes aggressively exposed in the underpinnings of the sole concession to stage design: a higher level. The one moment of excitement that has survived for me in our theater all the way back to The Bat and The Unknown Purple is when the house lights go down, the footlights come up, and the curtain begins to rise: a moment of hope, despite all past experience, before the infinite magic of the possible has begun to be ground down by the extremely finite machinery of the actual. We were to be deprived even of this. I thought, but, as with other aspects of this confused, style-less production, it turned out we weren’t exactly. When the house lights went down, the curtain was lowered—surely some kind of theatrical landmark?—to rise at once on the same bleak prospect, this time with Francisco at his post; enter Bernardo. “Who’s there?” “Nay, answer me, stand and unfold yourself.” “Long live the king!” And we were off. In a manner of speaking.

“This is a Hamlet acted in rehearsal clothes, stripped of all extraneous trappings, unencumbered by a reconstruction of any particular historical period.” So, in the program notes, Sir John Gielgud, who directed and who was, I think, chiefly responsible for the fiasco. Charging the customers eight bucks to see a rehearsal may have been attractive as a fashionable gimmick—the medium’s the thing now—or as a way of saving money, but Sir John’s justification is nonsense. There is no escaping history even disguised in rehearsal clothes, since these were different in 1864 from today, while in 1764 they would have been what we now call “costumes.” The only historically “unencumbered” Hamlet would be a nudist one—and in fact I once saw in Paris a scene in which Ophelia, at least, was stripped and unencumbered except for a cache-sexe. And what is extraneous about actors, like the rest of us, wearing appropriate dress (“trappings”)? There is much to be said for a modern-dress Hamlet like the excellent one Basil Sidney did around 1926, as a way of freeing the play from that massively fake Irving-Belasco scenery and those boguslooking halberds and doublets right out of the costume warehouse. There is also much to be said for a freshly interpreted period production like Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, where the clothes (especially the men’s hats) were fantastic and beautiful while the sets had the clear, simple colors of the backgrounds in good Renaissance paintings. But there are no advantages, beside cheapness, in a rehearsal-clothes Hamlet; one would think even an actor might see that. Hamlet is, among other things, a drama of court intrigues, of power politics; it begins and ends with soldiers; when Fortinbras comes on at the end, it is not merely to clean up the corpses, it is also because power too, just can’t be left lying about on the stage. Modern dress marks the social dimension: Fortinbras wears a uniform, the servants livery, the courtiers dinner jackets or lounge suits, the soldiers trench coats, the king and queen formal dress with decorations. Rehearsal clothes, while not a-historical, are a-social. Fortinbras marches in wearing slacks and a sweater; Horatio wears a windbreaker; courtiers, servants, soldiers are indistinguishably casual and tweedy. “Boy, did they need those costumes!” I overheard a girl say in the entr’acte.

In Basil Sidney’s Hamlet—or in Orson Welles’s Julius Caesar ten years later—I forgot the modern dress in a few minutes, but here those rehearsal clothes were always offputting. Especially since Sir John tried to have it both ways: Hamlet conveniently wore an elegantly fitted jersey and pants of deepest black, with gleamingly polished black pumps; Polonius and Claudius wore well-pressed, neatly buttoned suits with neckties; Gertrude and Ophelia semi-formal bodices with long flowing skirts—all of which made the sweatered, tieless servants and nobles constantly puzzling. And the players in the play-within-a-play were elaborately costumed, even to stylized masks. A very peculiar rehearsal.

Sir John also skimped on the cast, an ill-assorted crew who never seemed to be getting through to each other. There were at least four unharmonized acting styles. Traditional Shakespearean: Burton, George Rose’s gravedigger, Eileen Herlie’s Gertrude, Dillon Evans’s Osric. Broadway: Hume Cronyn’s Polonius, William Redfield’s Guildenstern. Indeterminate: John Cullum’s Laertes, Alfred Drake’s Claudius. Amateur Night: Robert Milli’s Horatio, Linda Marsh’s Ophelia. There were some good performances. Rose is still a superb Shakespearean clown (and one of the few times when Burton seemed to be relating to others—and enjoying himself—was when he was matching wits with him) and Cronyn gave a briskly professional, and original, interpretation of Polonius, rapping his lines out like a spry old top executive, full of smug know-how. But he was out of key with the Shakespeareans. The great triumph was Gielgud’s recorded voice as the ghost—what splendid lines Hamlet, Senior, has, by the way, one can see where his son got his flair for self-expression—which was beautifully articulated and cadenced, and at the same time coarse as if the vocal cords were deliquescing like those of Poe’s M. Valdemar: “the sound was harsh and broken and hollow…the voice seemed to reach our ears from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth…it impressed me as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.” The great disaster, even worse than the breathy ranting of Horatio, was poor Miss Marsh’s Ophelia—her mad scene was as embarrassing as if one were watching a pretty young thing really going nuts before one’s eyes. The Times’s egregious Mr. Taubman, while enthusing—I think this ghastly word is justified here—about everything else, did feel obliged to note that Miss Marsh was “in a little over her head as Ophelia,” though adding at once, as if frightened by his daring, “she manages the Mad Scene with a touch of rue.” The rue was all in the audience, however.

I expected Richard Burton’s Hamlet to be tough, virile, even brutal, but, perhaps because Sir John toned him down too much, he proved to be full of boyish charm, if anything a little epicene. He was Mercutio rather than Hamlet, best in the satiric speeches like the “Get thee to a nunnery” one, where his delivery rose to real power at the end: “You jig, you amble, and you lisp…and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say we will have no more marriages…” (Did I detect an un-easy rustling in the audience?) His voice is an extraordinary musical instrument, but he used it with the coldness of a virtuoso; for all the Welsh charm, there was surprisingly little feeling in his performance. Also he seemed to have no middle range, nothing between soft complaint or ingratiation and a full-throated bellow. One cannot perhaps expect any actor to render all the facets of Hamlet, but two are essential: he was a prince and he was an intellectual. Burton missed both. He was without dignity; there was no space between him and the others; he was always edging up to them, shrinking away from them, handling them, bullying them, more like a teddy boy than a prince, shamelessly “indicating” and leaping about the stage. (This must have been Sir John’s directorial fault.) He ruins the play scene, for instance, by swarming all over Gertrude and Claudius, as when Ophelia says of the Prologue, “This brief, my lord”, and he replies “As woman’s love,” actually pointing to Gertrude; and later, after the Player Queen has vowed eternal constancy, addressing his “If she should break it now!” directly to Gertrude. Nor is he convincing as an intellectual. Hamlet is constantly bringing himself up short with self-criticism after he has torn a passion to tatters and split the ear of the groundlings; with Burton, one believes in the latter mood but not in the former. He roars out satisfactorily “Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O vengeance!” but when he goes on, “Why, what an ass am I!” and accuses himself of unpacking his heart with words like a whore and cursing “like a very drab,” in Burton’s delivery these lines are just another kind or rodomontade. I suppose “To be or not to be” is by now a hopeless proposition—the actor must see it approaching as a skier sees himself gliding toward a suicidally steep slope. Burton adopts the modern, sophisticated strategy of trying to throw it away. But it won’t be thrown away.

Apparently Burton felt something was wrong about the first night. He blamed the audience in one interview: “They did not pay attention. They were awed with themselves. There were so many celebrities out on the other side of the footlights they hardly had time to notice us.” But there were not many celebrities, and even if there had been what does he expect if he insists on marrying Elizabeth Taylor? On the radio, I’m told, he was more realistic, blaming himself, which is to his credit, since, with the expected exception of Walter Kerr (and the less expectable one of John Chapman of the News) the critics were as usual—uncritical.

Maybe they hadn’t made the mistake I did of re-reading the text. What a work! There seems to be a tag in every other line, tags that have become mortised so deeply into us we often don’t know when we are echoing them, formulations that have become part of the racial unconscious, of our very language. Only the King James Bible, from the same miraculous half-century, contains a larger stock of wonderful chestnuts. And a central character, direct and ambiguous, crafty and noble, tender and cruel, elevated and ribald, intellectualizing everything and yet also acting out his contradictions—can this hero, who is the play more than any other of Shakespeare’s heroes, and whose motivations and character have been matters of dispute among scholars and critics for centuries, can one reasonably expect any actor to render him fully on the stage, or any company to rise to the greatness of the language—the “big” lines are by no means limited to Hamlet’s part—or any director to make dramatic a work that is essentially literary and intellectual without losing those qualities? Lear’s moral impressionism can be more moving, and coherent, on the stage (the cinema might be an even better medium) than when read in cold print. Or, the opposite case, that tightly constructed melodrama, Macbeth, so perfectly designed for the theater, with a clearly defined villain and villainess, the most “advanced” and realistic psychology (the dialogues between Macbeth and his Lady before and after Duncan’s and Banquo’s murders often sound like Ibsen, or Freud) combined with great set pieces of rhetoric that “work” theatrically and, unlike Hamlet’s soliloquies, don’t require the actor to create a whole personality as a launching-pad. So perhaps no actor can ever give us the complete Hamlet of the text—as no singer can fulfill the impossible demands Wagner made—and perhaps Hamlet will always read better than it plays. Still, Sir John and Mr. Burton might have done better.

[our-magical-world]

How I learned about shifting

I first heard about reality shifting in March 2021.

I was looking for a meditation video on Youtube, because I had started to meditate every night before bed to help me sleep, and I saw a recommended video about "desired reality". Those words caught my attention and I felt called to watch it. I was lucky because it was a video explaining some FAQ about reality shifting, so I learned what it was and some details of the process right away.

And, as I said in a previous post, everything clicked so easily, because I already believed in the multiverse, and I believed someday I'd find a way to go to my fantasy DR. So my first reaction was "is this the answer I've been searching all my life?" I even realized I might have done it before, but I wasn't too sure it counted as shifting (see my previous posts about my earlier experiences).

But, like many people, I didn't believe in it right away (don't believe everything you read/hear online, kids! always do your own research!) and it seemed too good to be true. But I also thought it didn't hurt to try (after I'd researched about it and made sure it was not dangerous, of course). A part of me felt a little ridiculous for believing in it, for laying down in a starfish position and counting numbers hoping for the best, but hey, nobody has to know, right? If it doesn't work, I'll just stop and move on with my life, right?

Wrong.

Because, even if it didn't work at first, I couldn't stop trying. The more I learned about it and heard/read other shifters' experiences and stories and advice, the easiest it was to believe in it and keep trying.

But let's go back to the day I found that video. I think it was a Thursday or Friday, so I spent the whole weekend researching about it (my main source was Youtube, I also did a Google search but I couldn't find much written information like blogs or websites, and I didn't have Tiktok or Amino accounts). And I don't know if I got too deep into the rabbit hole, if it was just self-suggestion or whatever but, even if I wasn't planning to shift yet (I felt like I didn't have enough information, I wasn't ready, I didn't even have a script), the next night I started having crazy symptoms out of the blue. I didn't try or do a method, I just meditated like every night. But when I went to sleep, I started seeing flashing lights, so strong I even opened my eyes and checked if there was something wrong with my lamp a couple of times (you know, when there is a flash of light and you can feel it even through closed eyes, I thought it was that). But no. After a while I realized the flashes of light were in my eyes, or in my head, or whatever. I also felt tingling on my limbs and a slight weight on my head, like someone had put their hand on my head. I freaked out (like many shifters do when symptoms get too wild) and opened my eyes and turned on the light. I couldn't sleep. Was I shifting? I didn't feel ready!

Now I deeply regret freaking out like that, because what if I had ignored the symptoms and shifted that very first night without even trying? We'll never know.

But it was that weird experience that motivated me to keep trying. It took me a while, and for a long time I tried only in the morning, because I got too scared when I started having symptoms at night, alone in the dark. And the first few times I tried to shift on purpose, I got too nervous thinking "what if I ACTUALLY do it??" (I have anxiety, that's why I started meditating in the first place) and couldn't focus or relax at all. After a while I got used to everything and I rarely have symptoms anymore.

[dirtyglitterr]

ꜰᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

Neymar Jr x Original Character Summary: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʙʏ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ? ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʜꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

Warnings: Mature Language

Previous Chapter

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ + ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴍᴇꜱɪꜱ

After the game, which they won—and of course, they did PSG had the best players in the league at the moment on their team. Anto wanted to wait with me, but seeing how tired Lio was from his performance on the field, I'd feel bad keeping them any longer. So here I was waiting outside of the locker room for Neymar, casually pacing back and forth due to the stressful phone call that I was currently having with my other mischievous best friend. "I'm going to murder you, Georgina."

"I have a right to plead my case." She argues playfully, but I'm not buying it. I can't believe I let Anto talk me into this scheme. While my other friend is pretending to be me and leaving God knows who on read. I know I should have said no, and now here I am, waiting for Neymar while keeping this big secret from him about Charles. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong, right? It's just a harmless trip to Monaco with a friend. But then why do I feel like I'm betraying Neymar?

"When were you going to tell me about me finally joining Instagram?" I sarcastically asked her,

"After I got you to one million followers, who squealed?" I rolled my eyes and shook my head at her response.

"I don't know Charles Leclerc maybe."

"Leclerc, why does he sound familiar?" She asked, pretending not to know who he was.

"Oh, come on, you know who he is, Gigi," I replied with a laugh.

"You fucking should you gave him my Instagram without even letting me—the person for who you created the account for—know about it."

"Ohh Charles," she finally said, "he's the Formula One driver you've been obsessing over for months now. Girl, he's sweet; you should've seen the message he sent you. Talk about a crush." I couldn't help but blush at her teasing.

"Yeah, he told me. He said he got nervous about the fact I never responded, so he called me, inviting me to Monaco for the weekend to see the race."

"Look at my baby girl; first she gets married, and now she already has a side piece. I'm so proud." I couldn't help but laugh at my friend's playful teasing. At this point, I decided it would be better to laugh it off because if I didn't, I'd be too crippled by my anxiety to process it all.

"Between you and Antonella, I don't know who to strangle first." I sighed and said, "Send me the login info, please."

"Why?"

"I'm gonna delete it, that's why."

"Please don't; that'll make me really sad." She whined,

I know what you're probably thinking—you're a thirty-year-old woman who needs to join society and enjoy the world—yeah, well, guess what? I'm sure I'll be able to enjoy it just as much without it. "You know I hate social media. I hate having people who don't know me pick me apart." It's not like I'm completely isolated from the world. I have friends who I don't have to worry about fucking my boyfriend, and family who I spend time with and enjoy meaningful conversations with. Plus, there are plenty of other ways to stay informed and connected without subjecting myself to the toxicity of social media. And from the post, I saw today from that Instagram blog, this was the right decision.

"You're the strongest woman I know, babes. Trust me when I say that no one is picking you apart."

"What are they saying?" I asked, curious. "I change my mind. Send me the login info, please."

"Fine." I heard her huff dramatically, "Only if you give me the gossip on your side piece."

"Georgina." I groaned.

"Mia." She mimicked,

"Fine, I'll call you later." I gave in hearing her squeal happily as we said our goodbyes.

"You must be Mia." I turned to see a male figure approaching me, his eyes fixed on mine.

"It depends on who's asking," I confirmed, curious as to who he was.

"I'm asking," he said with a sly smile.

"And who are you?" I knew exactly who he was: Kylian Mbappé—he's also the ass who had a hard-on for giving my husband—I mean, my boyfriend—fuck!

"I thought my face would've given me away."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to know who you are. You're full of yourself, aren't you." I took a deep breath and tried to keep my cool.

"Maybe," he smirked, "or maybe you already had your eyes on another player." And if I did, that wasn't any of his damn business.

"I came to watch Lionel play as well with his wife, Anto," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, I see," he said with a nod. "I noticed you before, but never in his jersey. So you're his girl then."

"Lionel is very married."

"I know I meant Neymar."

I rolled my eyes, feeling annoyed. "Why should it matter to you?"

"He's a lady's man, so it's not common for his plaything to have front-row seats and a jersey."

"Why are you telling me this? Look, I don't know what your problem is with him, but I'm not interested in getting involved in any drama. So unless you have something important to discuss with me, I suggest you leave." Kylian smirked and leaned in closer.

"Because he has a type-short, brunette with pretty eyes and a nice smile." I raised an eyebrow, not sure where he was going with this.

"And what does that have to do with me?" I asked, trying to keep my tone even.

Kylian chuckled and replied, "Well, you fit the description perfectly. You seem too genuine to be in his company."

"So I should be in your company and wearing your number?" I retorted, feeling a hint of irritation.

Kylian simply smiled and said, "At least you wouldn't have to worry about me ever cheating on you."

"W-What?" I stammered, taken aback by his sudden comment.

Kylian chuckled softly and added, "His ex Bruna dealt with a lot but only got half of the story. But me being his teammate and all, it's easy to spot a man whose main priority will always be himself." My heart sank as I tried to process the information. I wanted to always know that whatever was between Neymar and me, I could always trust him. But now I couldn't help but let the doubts creep in. Would he really cheat on me?

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Thanks for reading!

[symetriuk]

Autodesk Cost – Managing your Budgets

Welcome to the second blog in this series based  on Autodesk Cost. This blog is a continuation from our previous blogs featuring Autodesk Build and Getting started with Autodesk Cost.I am going to be discussing  the importance of budgets and how this links to  your coding structure. This may of course, be driven from your accounting or ERP system, but I will begin by describing some of the items you should consider given  the opportunity to specify (or re-specify) the coding structure, and how this can be presented within  Autodesk Cost.

If we start bydefining within the coding structure elements such as cost type, form of classification, project phase, amongst other possibilities, you will be able filter and group your budget overview screen according to any of those segments (that’s what we call it when break down a budget code in Autodesk Cost).

Looking at the image below, I have included some examples of how the budget code is broken down into segments for classification and cost type,  using our master lists of these breakdown structures.

In this next section  this image demonstrates a typical example of the default budget overview within a project, showing a simple list of all budget codes.

In addition,  I have used the CSI segment to group my budget according to the Autodesk Cost classification of each item shown in the image belowFurthermore, the individual columns can also be selected for viewing (or not) depending upon your requirements.

You can also save any of these customised views for easy access and for generating PDF or Excel reports.

As a side note it’s worth pointing out here that the budget overview columns are fully customisable, with the ability to use parentheses and “IF” statements as required.  However, we do not allow you to break any of the default columns, so there’s always a back-out plan if things go horribly wrong!

To sum up, there are many customisation options with Autodesk Cost and Autodesk Build, from simple terminology to creating customised workflows and column settings for your overview pages. It can seem overwhelming to begin with, but here at Symetri we specialise in guiding customers through these challenges to ensure that the solution is configured to your specific needs and requirements, making it truly your solution. Please contact us if you are ready to begin your journey into more effective project cost management.

Stay tuned for the next in the series…

If you would like to understand some of the other great features of Autodesk Construction Cloud, Autodesk Build or Autodesk Cost, you can read some of my other blog posts by clicking the link below.

Autodesk Docs back to basics https://www.symetri.co.uk/insights/blog/autodesk-docs-back-to-basics/

Autodesk Construction Cloud Hidden Gems https://www.symetri.co.uk/insights/blog/autodesk-construction-cloud-hidden-gems/

Autodesk Construction Cloud Hidden Gems 2 https://www.symetri.co.uk/insights/blog/autodesk-construction-cloud-hidden-gems-2/

GETTING STARTED WITH AUTODESK COST

Getting Started with Autodesk Cost | Symetri.co.uk

[intolerancecare]

I hate that people who don't like you keeps on meddling with people that you want to like. Gone.

Stop. You don't understand that I am not tied to my molester and that my family is just my family. I also worked on my own.

Let me guess, you've chosen a rehab man for me right? I am for the likes of them only?

You said in your world, ate also means ate. I am your ate? a big sister? Noona? In my figurative world, it means no. But they said yes.

You know that I'm a rebel, right? They gave me to wrong people; how can I trust that they are right?

You know, I also cried for Carlos. Even though his is just a potential relationship. I was just too excited because finally I can be freed from the people that I really don't like. That Indian named bastard's people. Served to me (Approached me because they think I was poorer than them) They will say because I am not as practical as them? It's because I am dealing with people like them. Sexually active people are successful right? Sex is also a mileage? Names of big people? Those people can talk to them and teach them? Hawkings?

Question? You haven't read my previous entries.

Going back to Carlos, I like the idea that we have common interest. He has skills that I already know and that I can admire, if not the work, at least the effort. Practice makes perfect anyway.

Devils should be clean? Tell me, based on their body and faces, are they the successful type? If they are myth busters, people who broke the norms, What is their output? their proof? Their devilish scheming conniving stories?

I'm thinking of returning the cat that I adopted. I'm done with my literary fantasy. I really wanted the small cat.

There is a student in my previous university who always aced the revies classes and who also aced the board exam. The mock test is always based on Mosby? and other foreign books or old exam. Our reviewers have memorized the pages and question numbers in every test. Our local board was different. The literature was different. It's like reading a Patterson and Nancy drew being the latter. I don't think that girl got an honorary award during graduation. I have a classmate in high school who got a laude award. I can't really comprehend how he was able to get an award like that. I know him. Even his behaviour (which of course reflects his learning attitude) His personality didn't change, so it means he is still the same. Now I am in FEU. Most of the people I know there took NCLEX (they are higher?) I am a fraud now? Like the people I hate? Too much for making me feel a lowly creature. 2 rehabs for my online posts.

I am a trash now.

How 'bout you? How clean are you behind your monitors?

Do you know me?

I failed in call centres? They don't know the answer. They can't tell us. Maybe they think that Americans are depress people who just needs counselling. Why would Americans ask about your knowledge of football games or the name of teams? A cable company need not to answer that. All your ads in US state will tell the game schedules. Wrong? So, we really should know the game? It's the peak season? Not Pay per view. No. A brochure of football teams. Scattered in the office. No schedule written (because it was printed before the season started) Genius? I also met a senior who dealt with customers as if he is a credit card agent. Duh, it was just a cable account. If the customer won't pay, their connection will be cut off. No need to keep their number and call them anytime you want. No dealings are necessary.

Faces of deprived people? Borrowed faces?