#the BANTER the SPORKING

[abelllia]

For some reason I can't help but imagine/hc Sasha as a huge capital W Weeb. Initially my thoughts were "Huge Royalty Isekai Manhwa Reader" but I don't think those really caught on in the English-speaking internet until 2017? Not sure.

Sasha would have her pulse on the latest releases and their ratings of whether they're garbage or not. She'd have stacks of manga at home and engages in online discourse about it to "de-stress" (only riles her up further lmao because dear god anitwt is something else). Her watchlist is ten miles long. I think she'd like Shonen but also enjoy Shojo.

Martin I'd also think would be into anime but only older stuff like Sailor Moon and Voltes V. (Imagine Sasha comes in the archives one day with limited edition merch and Martin just *gasps* and goes "Is that the Sailor Moon 20th Anniversary Watch???" "YES!")

Tim would only know newer releases that he binges with Sasha but he would know enough to have favourites. Would bicker about it with her.

Jon would only know what Tim and Sasha would force him to watch. He is, at heart, a grandma after all. If he ever got really into it I think he'd be a huge fucking snob and would have the ability to make hour-long rant reviews decimating whatever new harem-isekai manages to play on his tv (plus he'd go all out on eviscerating the needless fanservice much to Tim and Sasha's delight).

I just like imagining them all as dorks. Sasha in particular. I think it would be hella endearing. Me projecting once more? Most likely ngl.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith knows his nerves must be leeching off him, because the rest of the team is overcompensating. There’s an abundance of chatting and banter, way more than usual, enough that Keith can recognise the oddity even though he’s been gone for two years. It might just be everyone’s relief after finally getting to sit down and be calm after rushing to foil Haggar’s weirdo clone plan, but Keith’s pretty sure his team has noticed his strangeness, and is trying to make him comfortable again. The thought makes him smile despite his anxiety. He’s missed them.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Pidge pointedly clearing her throat and using her spork to point at Krolia, who’s been about as anxious as Keith (only for her that manifests as looking like she wants to kill small cute things).

“Are you finally going to tell us who Tall Dark and Gorgeous is?” she asks, because she is the least subtle and nosiest person in the galaxy and Keith honestly should have expected it. His face flames, and his mother raises an eyebrow, while the rest of the team snickers.

Shiro tries his best to appear a little more adult. “If you wouldn’t mind introducing us, Keith.” He smiles kindly at Krolia. “You were amazing out on the field, we were really grateful to have you. Sorry for not getting us all introduced earlier.”

Krolia nods at him, smiling in an awkwardly reassuring way. “Of course, Black Paladin. There were bigger things to focus on handling.”

She returns to her food too after speaking, clearly done her piece.

Keith grimaces. He was hoping she’d introduce herself, but it looks like he’s going to have to. Fuck. (He’s not sure why he’s so opposed to it. It’s nerve-wracking, though, introducing his actual mother to his family. To his brother, his almost-father.)

“Um, Krolia, this is my family.” He points to them all and names them, rolling his eyes fondly at Lance’s wink and finger guns. He even introduces Lotor, even though he still maintains that they are not friends and Prince Hairdo has a lot of making up to do. “Everyone, this is Krolia.” He looks directly at his brother, taking strength in the man’s encouraging expression and addressing him directly. “She’s my mother.”

The entire table goes dead silent. Small conversations abruptly halt, the sounds of eating cease, silverware freezes where it was scraping on bowls. Complete and total silence.

Shiro’s face goes from encouraging and open to shocked to shuttered, jaw set and eyes narrowed.

Keith’s anxiety skyrockets. He sees his mother tense from across the table, and feels Lance go rigid beside him.

This is worse than what he expected.

“Your mother?” Shiro clarifies, words careful and controlled. He’s the first to return to movement, scooping goo into his spork almost robotically.

“Yes,” Keith says hesitantly. He doesn’t understand his brother’s reaction. He had expected some hesitance from Hunk, who is wary of newcomers, and maybe some understandable discomfort from Allura, but not…

Not Shiro. Not Shiro who is great in a crisis, who is the king of diplomacy, who has always supported Keith.

The rest of the team slowly follows Shiro’s example, returning to their meals, but there’s no more jovial conversation. All eyes are avoiding the brothers, but ears are open, movements slow and quiet so as to not miss a word.

“Hm. Interesting.” Shiro takes a bite of the goo, slowly chewing and swallowing, looking forward like he’s really contemplating. Keith watches every move carefully. “Where’d you find her?”

His tone is almost pleasant, conversational, but there’s something off and plastic about it. Forced. Like he’s talking about a volatile creature Keith has dragged home that he’s trying to be cool about, not the parent Keith has been searching for his whole life.

Keith glances surreptitiously at his mother, but she only shrugs at him. “On the space whale. Well, at the Blades, technically. She was assigned the mission with me and we both got stranded.”

Shiro makes another hum of acknowledgement, nodding to himself. He pokes aggressively at the bowl of green gelatine. “That’s wild. I would have guessed you’d have found her in a jail cell for tax evasion or something, since she seems to be the type to avoid responsibility.”

Keith blinks in shock. Two seats down, Hunk chokes on his water, and Coran thumps his back to help. Every other jaw is dropped in shock, heads swivelling from Shiro to Keith, at a total loss.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Keith says harshly. He glances at his mother, who quickly hides the hurt on her face with a carefully practiced mask of indifference.

“Oh, nothing,” Shiro says, distractedly pushing around his goo. He sounds blasé, unbothered, but Keith recognises this tone of his, as rare as it is to hear it — the passive aggressiveness, the snooty way he speaks when he’s too furious to even yell, and just wants to make everyone around him feel stupid. “I just figured the person who abandoned her infant son without so much as a note is someone of the more irresponsible and immature variety. That’s all.”

Lance, who has never been capable of handling tenseness, stands abruptly and starts gathering the bowls and utensils of everyone at the table, regardless of whether they’re finished. Keith watches distantly as he quiets Pidge’s whining, firmly telling her to get up and bring it with her if she needs.

“She’s my mother,” Keith says through grit teeth. He pulls his gaze away from the red paladin, glaring at his brother. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Shiro finally looks up from his stupid goo, baring his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile.

“Thrilled,” he drawls.

Quietly, Krolia stands, pushing in her chair and following the rest of the team to the door. In the back of his mind, Keith wonders if it would be better for her to stay, but dismisses it just as quickly. Better for her not to hear whatever Shiro’s problem is. She walks out the door without so much as a glance backwards, and Shiro’s gaze follows her out with a sneer. Lance shoves the rest of the reluctant team out of the kitchen doors, then glances back one more time, brown eyes big and reassuring, smiling sadly before closing the doors quietly behind him.

When Keith finally returns his gaze to his brother, his eyes are wet and there’s a lump in his throat. Hurt swarms his chest as much as anger.

“You’re being a dick,” he says. His voice cracks several times as he says it.

“Oh, well, fuck me, then,” Shiro says, violently pushing his chair away from the table and stomping to his feet, grabbing his bowl with his prosthetic so tightly it cracks. He barely even glances at it, fisting the pieces and storming over to the kitchen to toss them. “Here, let me pretend.” He turns back to face Keith and forces a smile on his face, mockingly sincere. He reaches over and yanks Keith bowl away, with his flesh hand this time, and all but tosses into the sink.

There are small smears of blood on it, from the shards of porcelain that dug into Shiro’s flesh hand. Keith’s own hands shake. He scoops his and Shiro’s sporks into his hands, squeezing them tightly, and walks carefully to the sink. He resists the urge to fling them right at Shiro’s head, instead forcing himself to set them gently among the rest of the dirty dishes and standing next to his brother to rinse what he washes. He says nothing as Shiro roughly scrubs the goo pot — they’ve discovered it tastes sort of better hot, so they take the time to cook it — and practically slams it into Keith’s sink.

“Could you tell me what your fucking problem is,” he grits out. He can no longer stop his tears and they drip down his face, down his nose, over his lips, down his chin and disappearing into the dishwater. Every time he swallows, it’s bitter with salt.

“Sure,” Shiro snaps. “I have a couple questions first.”

Frankly, Keith wants to tell him right where he can shove those questions, but he wants this to be resolved more than he wants to be angry.

“Fine.”

“Great,” Shiro says with a relish, and Keith regrets it immediately. “She recognise you the second she saw you?”

Keith swallows. He has to try three times to speak, to force his voice above a whisper. “No.”

“Huh. How long’d it take her to realise?”

Keith hands shake so bad he has to set down a cup lest he drop and break it. He doesn’t want to answer. “Some time.”

“Crazy. Bet she told you she’d been looking for you, huh?”

“Stop,” Keith whispers, choking on a sob, but Shiro plows right on.

“Told you that finding you was all she ever wanted? That she’s so glad she can finally see you again?”

“Stop.”

“That you’ve turned into a fine young man she’s proud of?”

“Shut up!” Keith shouts, and the words hurt on their way out of his mouth, shoved past the giant lump in his throat. He gasps for air and can barely find it, lungs heaving, hurting everywhere, heart feeling like he’s being squeezed. He can no more stop his sobs now than he could stop a star from imploding, and they tear out of him, leaving him aching and shuddering and shaking. “Stop. Stop. I don’t know why you —”

“I’ll tell you why,” Shiro snaps, dropping the last dirty dish and gripping the sides of the steel sink so hard it warps under his prosthetic. “You remember when you showed me those pictures of your dad and his crew? When you were thirteen?”

Keith nods, sniffling, wiping his eyes with wet hands. He hears metal creak, hears hands being dried on a dishtowel, and a long, heavy sigh.

“I picked him out immediately, kid,” Shiro says quietly. Some of the overt cruelty has faded from his voice. He just sounds tired, now; bitter. “You didn’t need to point him out to me. I barely even needed to look at it. I knew who your father was immediately.”

Keith sets the last dish on a drying rack and takes a step back, leaning away from Shiro and pointedly looking away. “So?”

“So — ”and Shiro’s voice sounds almost gentle, now, apologetic, although to Keith or for Keith he’s not sure — “you look just like your Pa, Keith. You are his spitting image. The only difference is your eyes, and your height.” He glances at Keith and then snorts softly. “Well, not the height anymore.”

Keith doesn’t smile back anymore. He hears what Shiro is saying and he hates it, hates him a little for bringing it up.

“She had no reason to expect it was me,” Keith argues.

“And no reason not to recognise you if she was really looking,” Shiro retorts. “If she was exactly what she said she was, she’d recognise you.”

Keith scowls at him. His eyes still burn with tears. “I was wearing my Blade uniform. And she hadn’t seen me since I was a baby.”

Shiro’s face has started to return to the anger it held before, the frustration. “That’s the fucking point!” he shouts. “She left you! Without so much as a goodbye, or even a note! Just a cryptic knife that did nothing but confuse you!”

“There was a war to fight!”

“And she had a kid to raise!”

“What was she supposed to do about Blue, huh?” Keith demands, pushing off the counter and throwing his hands up. “Let Zarkon find her? She had to protect the universe!”

“She had to protect her fucking kid.”

“One kid is not worth more than the entire universe!”

“You are!”

Keith freezes. Shiro barely notices, face twisted in rage so badly that he’s barely even looking at Keith, fists clenched hard enough to creak, fury radiating off of him.

“What?” Keith asks in a small voice, but Shiro plows on.

“You’re her fucking kid. You come first. You come before any other kid, you come before her mission, you come before the fucking universe. That’s how having a kid works. They’re the priority. And anyone who leaves their family behind like that is unforgivably despicable.”

The truth comes crashing down at Keith all at once. He looks at his brother with wide eyes, unclouded with his own hurt, and sees for the first time all the pure hate and rage and pain — not directed at Krolia, not even a little, but sharpened to a point and shoved back into himself.

Anyone who leaves their family behind is unforgivably despicable.

The words ring through the room. Keith hears them repeat a thousand time in three seconds. A million different memories whirl through him at once, all tinged with a pain and a border of abandonment; memories he hasn’t let himself touch since he got to space.

“I don’t blame you for Kerberos,” Keith says quietly. He waits a beat. “I never have.”

Shiro says nothing. His expression is frozen, body unmoving, but his dark black eyes — the eyes that chose him first, that followed him with pride, that were the first to look at him softly when his heritage came out and everything went to shit, that he used to cry and sob and beg to have so that Shiro could be his brother in more than name — are wrought with pain. His face does not crumple, but his eyes are like shattered volcanic glass, and slowly they fill with water, and a drop escapes the corner of his almond eye, dripping slowly down his cheek.

“How can you ever forgive her?” he asks, near silent, voice rough as sandpaper and twice as painful.

How can you ever forgive me?

Keith chokes back his tears and meets his brother’s eyes head-on, determined and steady and loving as Shiro always has been when Keith was the one shattering.

“Easily.”

Shiro swallows. It’s loud, deafening in the silence of the room. The sound of it, the knowledge that Shiro is pushing his pain down but it’s coming up anyway, makes Keith’s chin tremble.

“I don’t deserve easy.”

“You deserve whatever I want to give you.”

Finally Shiro breaks, and sobs. And sobs and sobs and sobs. His cries seem the yank the life out of him, drain himself of energy; his knees hit the floor with a crack and he crumples at Keith’s feet.

“Forgive me,” he begs, like he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Keith gently kneels next to him and reaches out, almost afraid to touch. “I already did.” He reaches out finally and holds his brother, his big brother who was stronger than his body and bigger than his dream and catapulted Keith up to the stars with him, and holds him together as he cries.

“I forgave you before you even left,” Keith whispers, when Shiro’s sobs don’t sound so painful. He squeezes tighter, because he’s almost worried that he needs to keep Shiro all together. “So did Adam.”

The mention of Shiro’s…whatever Adam is to him makes him cry harder, but Keith pushes on, sure that he needs to know.

“The day you went missing, he broke into your apartment. Went looking for the rings. He never took it off after. Never stopped looking for you, either. He forgave you, too.”

Shiro cries something, too warbled to make out, but Keith can make a pretty good guess as to what it was.

“You do deserve it,” he says firmly. “You are not a monster. You are not undeserving of our love, Shiro, of any of our love. We have always loved you as you are. Don’t rob of us the chance.”

“I don’t actually hate your mother,” Shiro whispers.

Keith laughs wetly. “I got that one, dumbass. Use your words next time.”

Shiro smiles slightly, wisely not agreeing. They both know he won’t. They both know this will probably happen to him again, and probably Keith, too — they may not be blood brothers, but they’ve always been alike anyway. Neither has ever been good at expressing themselves, at letting themselves be vulnerable.

But Keith holds his brother tighter, and thinks of their family who loves them with all their shit, despite it and because it, and thinks that they’ll make it through anyway.

[captain-hawks]

till one of us caves

atsumu miya x f!reader

In which Osamu asks his brother to keep you company while you're closing the shop alone one night. And it wouldn't be an issue...if Atsumu wasn't the bane of your goddamn existence ever since your stupid drunken hookup years ago.

wc: 3.7k

c: 18+, smut, enemies to lovers speed run, the complete and utter defilement of onigiri miya (sorry osamu), miscommunication, fingering, unprotected p in v, atsumu is down so bad and also he's an idiot, protective!atsumu, miya twin banter, best friend!osamu

“Absolutely not.”

Osamu pauses in the middle of counting cash at the register and glances up to follow where your narrowed gaze is focused—a head of blonde hair on its way through the front doors of Onigiri Miya. 

“I didn’t want ya closin’ alone,” Osamu replies, returning his attention to the stack of bills in his hand. 

“Hey dickhead, I hope yer feedin’ me for this!”

Instant headache. 

Instant fucking headache. 

You let out a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re only leaving an hour early. I can handle this alone, Osamu. I promise.”

Osamu closes the register, turning around to look at you with his arms crossed. “It’s a Saturday night. I don’t like you dealin’ with the drunk stragglers by yourself.”

Glancing around, you pick up the only vaguely threatening object within arm’s length—a plastic spork. “I know self defense.”

Raising an eyebrow, Osamu glances from your face to the small utensil clutched between your fingers. “Wouldn’t be the first time Tsumu’s been stabbed with a spork,” he mutters. 

“Fooooooooooood,” said twin dramatically whines, plastering himself across the counter like a fainting Victorian maiden. 

“Get yer sweaty ass offa there,” Osamu grunts, snapping a rag against Atsumu’s arm. 

He yelps, muttering something under his breath before finding a normal sitting position on the stool. 

“Alright, now get outta here so you’re not late for your date,” Atsumu chides, running a hand through his hair. 

It’s obnoxious, actually—the way he still manages to look infuriatingly attractive even with his sweaty bleach-blonde hair sticking up in every direction, his face still flushed and voice a little hoarse from practice. At the very least, he had the decency to toss on a clean black tee with MSBY emblazoned in large gold letters across the back. 

You hate Atsumu Miya and his stupidly perfect face. 

And his calves—who the fuck has calves that nice. 

You also hate Osamu, your best friend and boss, for unceremoniously dumping your least favorite Miya into your lap at 8 o’clock on a Saturday night. 

“It’s not a date,” Osamu yells from the office, walking out with a jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Looks like ya showered for once today, dirtbag,” Atsumu shoots back, mouth full of rice. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“Choke,” Osamu deadpans as he heads for the door, “…but not in here. Don’t have time for all that paperwork.”

Atsumu salutes his brother as you stand in the middle of the shop with your hands wrapped around the broom. 

“Can’t promise what kind of paperwork you’re gonna have to do after leaving us alone together,” you mutter. 

Osamu leans in, patting the side of your face. “Just promise me you’ll mop up the blood.”

—

You’ve known the Miya twins for years now, though it was Osamu that you first became friends with after a shared class in your second year of university. 

Atsumu was more like the miserable cold that you accidentally bring home from vacation. 

The miserable cold who you’re instantly, stupidly attracted to from the moment his brother introduces him to you. Who you end up drunkenly making out with in bed after a party one night. 

Who passes out midway through and disappears before you’re awake the next morning.  

Who had a fucking girlfriend at the time, unbeknownst to you. Knowledge courtesy of Osamu, who nearly undeservingly took a textbook to the head when he told you. 

Who, to this day, three years later, has never even acknowledged that it happened. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t been harboring a stupid crush on him for months. And if perhaps you’d been a little more drunk, enough to forget the taste of his lips, the press of his fingertips into your hips. But naturally, that little hiccup drove an irrevocable wedge between the two of you, leading you to regard the blonde Miya in a perpetually antagonistic manner until the end of time. 

Such is life.

“I think you might rile ‘im up better than even I can nowadays,” Osamu had observed once, after Atsumu balked in aggravation when you returned from picking up everyone’s fast food orders and handed him a kid’s meal instead. 

Atsumu, never one to back down from a challenge, met your piss poor attitude in spades, going so far as to barge in on your dates on occasion, plopping right down at the table and obnoxiously stuffing whatever appetizer was in front of him into his mouth like you’d invited him. 

—

Surprisingly, despite the restaurant’s minimal square footage, the two of you manage to avoid one another for the next forty-five minutes—Atsumu quietly sits at a table watching game replays on his phone while you wipe down the counters. 

You almost forget he’s there, until the bell above the door dings to announce what’ll probably be the last customer of the night. 

And—fuck. 

Osamu kicked this guy out last week when he wouldn’t take no for an answer after you refused to give him your number. 

“Hey pretty girl,” a tipsy voice slurs as the man settles down at the counter. 

“Sorry, we’re about to close,” you tell him, not looking up from the pile of receipts you’re sorting on the other side. 

“S’not why I’m here,” he chuckles. 

Take a hint, buddy. 

“We’re closing soon,” you repeat firmly. 

A hand grasps your wrist, and you yelp as he murmurs, “What’re you doing after this?”

“Get your fuckin’ hands off of her, and get the fuck out,” a cold voice interrupts. 

A hand clamps down firmly on the man’s shoulder, and you watch the pain flit across his face as fingertips dig into his collarbone. 

“Now,” Atsumu adds, his voice so harsh it brokers no room for argument. 

You may call yourself an expert in Miya antagonization. But as you look at Atsumu’s stormy, furious expression, the tense set of his jaw, you realize that you’ve never seen him truly angry. 

Not like this. 

The man quickly gets up from the stool, putting his hands up in front of him as he stumbles backward and says, “I didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Atsumu replies, his voice low. “I’m sure my brother was a real nice guy when he told ya to leave last time. I ain’t nice. Don’t fuckin’ come back here.”

The silence is deafening when the front door swings shut, broken only by the sound of Atsumu twisting the lock into place and flipping the sign to CLOSED. Your heart, meanwhile, is frantically pounding in your chest. 

Atsumu wasn’t even here when that happened last week, which means Osamu must have told him for whatever reason, and…

“You alright?”

Atsumu interrupts you from your thoughts, and you glance up to find a disarmingly concerned expression burrowed into his features. 

“Yeah…thanks,” you exhale, quickly turning around to busy yourself with anything but staring at the downward curve of his lips. 

You have all of ten seconds to yourself before Atsumu comes to stand beside you behind the counter, idly tidying a pile of napkins as he explains, “Samu was worried that creep might come back, so he was gonna cancel his plans tonight so you wouldn’t be alone if he did. I told him I’d come make sure ya were alright.”

You’re not sure why, but suddenly, you’re angry. 

You’re really fucking angry.

Maybe it’s because you’re a little raw in the wake of the adrenaline rush from that uncomfortable encounter, a little shaken by the stranger’s boldness and the way Atsumu stepped in without a second thought.   

Maybe you swear it looked like Atsumu was about to reach out to you afterward, his hand falling back to his side in an aborted gesture between one breath and the next. 

“Since when do you care if I’m alright, Atsumu?”

Atsumu startles beside you. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you led me on years ago and nearly fucked me at a party—you probably would have, if you didn’t pass out in my bed halfway through taking off your pants. You disappeared the next morning, failed to inform me that you had a girlfriend, and then conveniently acted like it never fucking happened.”

He stares at you, mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry, I what now?”

You turn to face him fully, crossing your arms, an incredulous look on your face. “You’re joking, right?”

“Was that…oh….” Atsumu scratches the back of his head, trailing off. “That’s the night I blacked out.”

“I mean yeah, you were kind of trashed.”

“No, like that’s the night that made me realize I had to cut back on drinking. I’ve got no memory of what happened. Zero. Haven’t drank that much since.”

“So was it not concerning that you woke up in my bed?” you ask, brows furrowed. 

“I hardly knew ya back then. Didn’t even know that was your dorm room, and you were hoggin’ all the covers. Couldn’t even see yer face before I panicked and crawled my hungover, half-dead ass back to me and Samu’s.”

Well, this is certainly news to you. 

“…and Osamu never told you.”

Well, why would he, after you spent two hours bitching to him about it and then threatened to never speak to him again if he made the situation even more embarrassing by telling Atsumu you were upset. 

“Nope,” he replies, popping the p for emphasis before sobering a bit as he says in a more serious tone, “I’m sorry. For doing that to you, and for forgetting that it happened.”

You reach out, punching Atsumu in the shoulder. 

“The fuck was that for?” he exclaims. 

“So why have you been such an insufferable jackass all these years?”

Atsumu raises his eyebrows, looking affronted. “You haven’t exactly been a ray of sunshine either, sweetheart.”

Well, true. 

But still. 

(You try to ignore what the stupid pet name does to your heart, which is currently in the midst of a traitorous backflip inside of your chest.)

“At least I didn’t barge in and ruin your dates for no reason,” you glare. 

“That was like, twice,” Atsumu defends himself. “Maybe three times.”

You stare at him. 

“The fourth time doesn’t count, that guy was a dickhead. Samu wanted to punch ‘im, too.”

“You ate an entire basket of breadsticks.”

Atsumu shrugs, taking a step closer to you. “They’re bottomless for a reason.”

You’re not sure when it happened, but you’re pressed up against the prep counter in the back of the shop, and one of Atsumu’s hands is resting on the cool metal surface beside your hip. Not quite touching you, but you swear you can feel the heat of him all the same. 

“You ruined my dates for breadsticks?” you ask quietly, holding his gaze. 

Atsumu’s thumb twitches, and you feel the featherlight touch through your jeans. “I ruined your dates because I was jealous.”

Blood rushes in your ears, your mind struggling to comprehend the rush of emotion flooding through you. Embarrassment, elation, shock, annoyance—and something else, something with a darker, richer edge. 

Something that has the next words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them, “Did you think doing that was going to make me take you home and fuck you instead?”

Atsumu has the decency to flush, but he only further closes the gap between your bodies, his nose brushing against yours as he replies, “I hated how much you hated me. And I hated how much I still wanted you.”

“You’re an idiot, Miya.”

He laughs. 

He laughs, and it’s a low, rich sound that dances down your spine and curls up low in your belly.

“Yeah, yer probably right,” he exhales, his breath hot against your lips. “I should probably find another tactic.”

“I’ve heard drunken hookups work wonders,” you sigh, voice tinged with sarcasm. 

His free hand comes to rest on your other side, effectively caging you in. “I’d have to be a fuckin’ idiot to fumble the bag with you twice.”

“Who said I’m still interested?” you reply, putting an inch of space back between your mouths, if only for the sake of your own sanity. 

Atsumu hums. “I do have eyes, ya know.”

You don’t miss a beat, “Maybe I’m secretly dating your brother, and I just objectively like the look of your face, as his twin. Like a natural, biological reaction.”

“Yer not datin’ Samu,” Atsumu replies evenly. “He couldn’t handle ya.”

You glare at him. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Atsumu smirks at your indignation. “You’re outta his league.”

“And what exactly is my league?”

“Some stupid, sweaty pro volleyball player whose got it pretty damn bad for ya, who would settle for a hate fuck at this point if that’s all ya wanna give him.”

You know Atsumu clocks the way your breath hitches in your throat, the slight widening of your pupils that you can’t disguise at the bald, shameless truth of his words.  

The look on his face is so ridiculously endearing, you want to kiss it right off. 

Pushing yourself upward with your palms, you sit up on the counter, and Atsumu shifts forward to stand between your legs.

“Osamu would kill us.”

His nose caresses yours again, and he rests one hand on the side of your face. “For doing something other than fightin’? He’d throw a party.”

“For turning Onigiri Miya into a house of ill repute.”

Atsumu chokes.

“But there’s just one little thing, Atsumu,” you continue. 

“What’s that?” he asks carefully, each word a huff of warm air dancing across your mouth. 

You exhale, shuddering at the feeling of Atsumu’s other hand idly tracing the exposed sliver of skin between your t-shirt and jeans. “Can you handle me?”

Atsumu’s thumb skirts across the bottom of your chin before he leans in, mouthing his next words against your lips, “Have I ever told you how hot it is when you’re mean to me?”

Your answering laugh is swallowed by a kiss, an all-consuming kiss that has you gasping into Atsumu’s mouth as he licks his way into yours. 

There’s no preamble for the way Atsumu’s tongue dances across your own, the thorough way he tastes you—the groan that rumbles in his throat as you take his bottom lip between your teeth.

Kissing Atsumu Miya is like setting a wildfire loose in your chest, all the oxygen swallowed up by his greedy, hungry heat. Your nerves thrum, the vibration rattling to the tips of your toes, and you’re helpless to resist the urge to pull him closer.

The second one of your legs begins to hike up around Atsumu’s waist, he grabs both, urging you to wrap your thighs around him, and he groans into your mouth as you find yourself flush with the solid proof of his arousal.

“Ya have no fuckin’ clue how bad I’ve wanted you,” he murmurs, drawing a keening noise from your lips as he hotly mouths his way down the side of your neck.

On the court, Atsumu Miya is an indomitable force. He’s unwaveringly confident and effortlessly sure of himself as a setter, always in control.

The crowd falls quiet, the ball follows his trajectory.

It’s a practiced dance, and he’s the conductor.

But here, pressed up against the counter in his brother’s restaurant, with your fingers tangled in his hair and his warm, soft hands sliding up beneath your shirt to clutch your waist, there’s a lawless, frantic edge to him. For every precise, focused move—like a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear that he somehow just knows will make you gasp, and the dizzying way he cups the back of your head when he kisses you deeper—you can feel the wild, barely-restrained desire in the unfiltered chorus of groans you’re not even sure he’s aware are falling past his lips.

It’s slipping—his control.

And you don’t want him to stop.

“Atsumu,” you whine into his mouth when he finally, finally slides a hand up under your bra, cupping your breast and teasing at your sensitive, pebbled nipple.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing his way around the curve of your jaw, only pausing to help you in your endeavor to take off your shirt.

He wastes no time in unclipping your bra, his deft fingers making quick work of the clip, and his expression is nothing short of lustful reverence when he takes in the sight of your naked breasts before him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly, taking a breast in each of his palms while he leans in to press a kiss to your sternum, and whatever you were going to say promptly exits your mind a beat later. Wet, hot heat engulfs your nipple, and you glance down, nearly choking on your own spit at the sight of Atsumu sucking on your breasts.

Rocking your hips into him, you let out a breathy whine at the feeling of his hard cock pressing into your cunt, the fabric of his athletic shorts doing nothing to hide his thick, throbbing insistence. 

Atsumu moans against your tits, and the filthy, wet sound of him shamelessly lapping at them sends a fresh gush of arousal between your legs, your underwear now soaked with it. You reach between your bodies, doing your needy cunt no favors at all when you feel just how thick Atsumu is as you wrap your fingers around him.

“God, I’m gonna fuckin’ come if you keep doing that,” he lets out a low, ragged sound caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh.

“I’d rather you come somewhere else,” you tell him, pulling down his shorts and boxers to let his flushed, leaking shaft spring free.

Atsumu takes your face in both hands, kissing you hard and filthy as he unbuttons your pants, sliding them off along with your underwear and leaving both in a forgotten heap on the floor. And when you wrap your legs back around him and rub your slick folds down the length of his cock, you’re already dangerously close to coming from that alone, too. 

He slides a finger into you, muttering a string of expletives under his breath when he feels the sopping squelch of how wet you already are for him. One digit soon becomes two pumping in and out of you, and while it’s still not enough to quell the greedy desperation he’s ignited, he’s barely begun rubbing circles into your aching clit when you’re already shaking in his arms and moaning in the throes of your climax. 

And then he’s stroking himself, groaning softly, like he thinks this is what he has to do now to take care of his throbbing cock. 

Like you’re satisfied already, as if you’ve somehow had your fill of him.

As if two fingers between your legs would ever be enough to encapsulate all that you want of Atsumu fucking Miya. 

(And really, it’s a lot, quite frankly. Now that you’re finally ready to admit it to yourself.)

“Fuck me, Atsumu,” you plead.

He pauses, chest heaving, voice rough as he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Please,” you exhale against his lips, and his mouth slots against yours as he notches his shaft at your entrance and sinks his cock into you.

Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you’re reduced to moans and whimpers while he stretches you open as your entire body floods with pleasure, your mind hazy with desire. Once he bottoms out, you feel so full you want to cry. You want to keep your legs wrapped around his waist and cockwarm him all night. You want him to fuck you stupid. You want to ride his cock until you both can’t move.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, hips rocking as he thrusts in and out of you, your walls fluttering with pleasure at the rhythmic push and drag. “Wanna take you home and do this again and again.”

“Me too,” you tell him, and you can feel the way his cock throbs inside of you at your admission, his fingertips tightening around your waist.

“Good, ‘cause I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, grinning against your mouth. 

The pleasure is rapidly building up inside of you again, the filthy slide of Atsumu’s tongue in your mouth only further fanning the flames, one hand trailing back up to tease at your hard nipples.

And you want to tell him, “Same,” because you’re dangerously close to the edge already, years of studiously ignored desire all spilling over into a crazed, insatiable need that’s making your pussy throb.

But instead what you whine is, “Harder.”

Atsumu groans, the noise nearly as lewd as the continuous sound of his cock pumping in and out of your soaking wet cunt, the only warning that he heard you before he picks you up off of the counter, plunging right back into you the moment you’re lying flat on the floor.

With the ground beneath your bodies for purchase, Atsumu begins to roughly pound into you, the fingers of one hand tangling with your own as the other trails toward your clit.

You moan his name repeatedly, like some fucked up carnal prayer on the floor of Onigiri Miya, and as he rubs circles into your swollen clit and whispers your own name just as desperately, you come so hard everything goes white, every sensation in your body drowned out by the sheer downpour of pleasure that you’re uncontrollably shaking with. Atsumu follows suit a moment later, pulling out of you and furiously fisting his cock until hot, thick spurts of cum are splattering all over your chest, groaning as he watches his seed paint your tits.

And just because you’re fairly certain what it’ll do to him, you reach down and swipe a glob off of your nipple while you both try to catch your breath, holding eye contact with him as you lick the cum off of your finger and swallow it. 

Atsumu’s lips part as he stares at you, eyes widening a little bit before he looks down at his cock, which is already twitching again with interest. 

–

Later, when you’re both lying tangled in Atsumu’s sheets, his phone lights up on his nightstand—

Samu: congrats Samu: there is literally a security camera in the shop Samu: also you’re disgusting you own a whole fuckin apartment to fuck in Samu: die slowly

-

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated<3!

[wisteriagoesvroom]

hello hello! Are you still doing fluffy prompts? If so may I please ask for cuddling in a bathtub or something?

I'm not annoning I have no shame or dignity left

so your idea spurred another idea. it is tangential, but i hope it still delivers on the Soft Vibes. thank u for prompting 🫂

don't take too much (off of me)

📝 1.3k words 💟 lestappen 🟢 rated G 🔗 also on ao3

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not.”

Charles twirls the scissors between two fingers, hoping that his posture is authoritative enough that Max will quit squirming in his chair. They are in the middle of lockdown and neither is sure when their tentative friendship turned into this – at first it was innocuous knocks on the door to play FIFA, then it was to borrow a jar of pesto here and there. Then, trampling into each other’s apartments. Max knowing to wipe his shoes on the carpet, Charles helping pick up cat food on his regular run to the grocery store (in line with lockdown mandates, they’re only allowed to go to the store twice a week.)

And now they are here. Max sitting on a dining room chair, leaning back, a makeshift cowl around his shoulders that Charles had stolen from his maman’s salon. Max tries not to twitch or move, knowing that the process of hair cutting is a delicate process. Sure, he has sat for a haircut many times before, but never under the hands of this erratic ball of energy that is Charles Leclerc, who is currently brandishing a blade like a child would a spork.

“Do you trust me, or not?” Charles says. Indignant.

“I’m here, am I not?”

“Unhappily, it seems.”

“Kerel. You have wavy hair. You look like a Disney prince. Me? One wrong move of the scissors and there will be memes in my name.”

“But it’s kind of fun when they are making the memes about you. No?”

Max glowers. “It is when they’re nice ones.”

Charles makes a noise between a snort and a guffaw. Charles perched on a stool behind him, so he can’t see the other man’s expression. But when Max looks to the corner of his living room, Max can see Charles’s face in the reflection there. Just a sliver of his face, in profile. Max expects to find Charles’s eyes crinkled, maybe teasing. Max is used to it, after all. Being the an easy target, a convenient villain. Because a lion never roars back. Not outside of the track, anyway. Even if he sometimes hides in his apartment with his cats and licks his wounds instead.

Max’s shoulders tense, hackles up. But Charles’s eyes are very soft. The punchline never comes.

“Well. I think you very handsome, Maximilian.” Charles says.

Oh. Max’s throat bobs. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s been called many things in the past. Handsome isn’t necessarily one of them. And somehow it has a greater weight, a different bearing, when it comes from Charles. Because Charles is someone he’s begun to acknowledge that he cares about, perhaps a great deal.

“And now! We are doing the short at the sides and long at the top, oui?” Charles says. Snapping straighter in his makeshift hairdresser’s stool, energy whipping through him like lightning. Changing the topic as if he hadn’t just confessed to Max the very same thing that Max has been thinking about Charles for weeks – or if he’s honest – years, now.

“Whatever you do, make sure it’s tidy, yeah?”

“Come on mate. I am always careful.”

“Like you were when you drove into the Copse wall.”

“That was an isolated incident. Due to a combination of unexpected mechanical factors.”

“Pfft. Okay. Save that response for Sky.”

“You’re nearly as annoying as them, sometimes.” Charles says, frown gentle before he lifts the scissors again. 

Comfortably back in their banter-y element, the chatter continues. Charles is careful about his work, the blades moving slowly and carefully. And what Charles lacks in finesse he makes up for in social skills, clearly inheriting this from his parents. Talking and filling the silence comfortably, wandering from topics as diverse as sailing on the Monaco coastline, to David Guetta’s recent bizarre fundraiser video, to the latest model of automatic cat feeder that has become available on the market. Charles’s fingers brush his jaw occasionally to adjust the angle, scissors glinting in the afternoon sun. Max deliberately avoids eye contact, only glimpsing at him occasionally to share a laugh. 

At the end, Charles uses a towel to brush the loose hair off Max’s neck. They both get up to stand at Max’s living room mirror, surveying Charles’s handiwork. Their reflections loom large, shoulder to shoulder at the same height. Besides, Max isn’t really looking at himself, and neither is Charles, either.

“It’s good, yes?” Charles says. Low, conspiratorial.

Max’s grip tightens on the towel that he’s holding. His pulse etches up. The whole afternoon has been gentle touch, contact that aches because the pandemic has made him even more pathetically wanting than usual. Contact that he’s been trying very hard not to think about or keep for more nefarious purposes later. 

The other man's gaze is warm in the mirror. Max thinks of fresh cut grass at Imola, his favourite corner in Silverstone.

“Yes.” Max says. It’s good. The haircut, him, them. This strange rhythm they’ve found together. The quiet space of each other’s apartment, each other’s company, temporarily safe from the world. The trust offered to one another: enough to let them run you into gravel and trust that it was worth the fight. Enough to hold a blade in your hand and only let one other person in the world come near you with it. Risk, and promise.

Then he’s turning towards Charles. Charles mirroring him. The light is bright and the sky blue in the window, but all Max can see for a moment is Charles’s face, his half open mouth ripe like a plum. The scent, this close, of Charles’s carrefour laundry softener and woody aftershave.

And they’re leaning towards each other, a boundary they might finally cross, let the cards fall where they fucking may, when—

A yowl. A screech. A mighty crash. 

“Sassy!” Max says, practically jumping out of his skin.

Both men whip around at the source of the noise. Sassy’s frozen on a shelf, a beige mass with yellow eyes. Paw half up, looking guilty – if a cat could look guilty– at a trophy that he has just knocked off a counter. Jimmy, on the other hand, is absolutely nowhere to be seen, already having escaped the scene of the crime.

Max groans into his hands. But then Charles is laughing, an asthmatic penguin noise that Max has really come to like. It melts the fire in Max a little, amusement tempering his frustration. (The trophy is not the source of Max’s current frustration, but Charles does not need to know that.) 

“I shall get the broom.” Charles says.

“Thanks.”

So the moment passes. They clean up. On their hands and knees, near, but not touching. The broken trophy is the one he got for his overtake on Nasr in his first year in F1, and offers a chance for them to reminisce about their races. For Max to joke a little about whether Charles will get his first WDC when the pandemic is over, both of them excited about the future, a future with both of them in it, still trying, still racing each other to the brink. It’s much easier to do this, than to talk about the almost-kiss, or break the seal on this moment that they know won’t last forever.

Debris cleared, and the cats shooed into the study, Charles mentions that he should go return his equipment to his mother. They stand at the doorway for a moment that stretches too long.

Max doesn’t know how long they have. Of this, of each other. Of being left alone, of the world not encroaching with cameras or demands for explanations or labels for what they are. Of getting to know each other not as competitors, but on their own terms, in their own time.

But for a long time, Max will always remember this moment. The two of them, a dining chair. His crazy cats, Charles’s toothy smile. Their partial reflections in the mirror, an afternoon unfolding with potential.

A warm hand on his back to let him know he’s cared for, and looked after.

[baflegacy]

just thought. of a very silly fic.

basically amangela trying to decide whose last name they’ll be taking when they get married. starts out as playful banter off-set that snowballs into them filming a challenge pit just for the sake of trying to win for “best last name”. everyone thinks that they’re doing it to see what last name will spork get. it all ends with angela accidentally revealing during the shoot that they’re engaged which why they’re fighting over last names.

(they go with giarratana lehan-canto anyways.)

[helix-studios117]

Halo Reloaded: Crush

The mess-hall is bustling with activity today, and the members of Blue-Team found themselves huddled around their habitual haunt - a sturdy table that had borne witness to countless debriefs and offbeat conversations. Today's topic, however, veered into uncharted territory: the quagmire of relationships.

Fred kicked off the discussion with a lopsided grin. "So, anyone fancy a bit of gossip? Who's caught whose eye around here?" His attempt at casual conversation felt as awkward as a Warthog trying to pirouette.

Kelly, whose reflexes were only matched by her wit, snorted in amusement. "Fred, since when did you turn into a tabloid journalist? Planning to start 'Spartan Weekly'?" she teased, eyes glinting with mirth.

It was Linda, often as silent as a shadow, who dropped the conversational grenade. "Well... I've been thinking about John," she said, her voice as calm as a sniper's breath, yet the words landed with the impact of a plasma grenade in the room.

Fred's fork froze mid-air, a piece of synthetic steak dangling forgotten. "John? As in Silver-Team's John? The baby-faced, 'all-rounder' who's more vanilla than the ice cream they serve here?"

Kelly leaned forward, her smirk widening. "Yeah Lyn, John's as plain as they come. Sure, he's good at staying alive, but let's face it, we're Spartans. We're all good at that. He's like... if 'generic' had a face."

Linda's gaze, usually reserved for scanning distant horizons, held a far-off quality. "There's something about him, though. He's like a 'human Swiss Army knife'; not flashy, but he gets the job done. Every time. And that's... kinda hot?"

Fred chuckled, setting his fork down. "Well, when you put it that way, he's like the poster boy for reliability. And in our line of work, that's more attractive than a fresh coat of paint on a Scorpion tank."

Kelly, always one to add flair to the conversation, twirled her spork. "In a world where everyone's trying to be the hero, Johnny is just happy being a solid, dependable cog in the machine. It's endearing, in a 'bless his heart' kind of way."

The trio continued to banter, the conversation meandering through the many quirks and qualities of their fellow Spartans. It was moments like these - where they could peel back the layers of their armor and be more than just soldiers - that added a dash of color to their otherwise monochrome lives.

[random-iz-stuff]

Here’s an idea: Somehow, Zim gets split into two different Zims. Could be because of a plan gone horribly wrong, could be because of a plan going horribly RIGHT, but Zim gets split into two different Zims, one that has all of Zim’s defects and one that has all the parts of Zim that are considered perfect by the Empire’s standards.

Zim A (contains all of Zim’s defects and non-perfect parts), is very different from the Zim we all know. Firstly, he has no real interest in conquering Earth. Zim A, having Zim’s ability to go against the Empire but none of Zim’s endless patriotism, just wants to do what interests him, which just so happens to be scientific work, his original job before joining the military. He also puts his own well-being before the Empire.

Zim A also contains Zim’s creativity, imagination, moral code, ability to treat short/defective Irkens like people, ability to view Gir as more than just a SIR Unit, mental illnesses, and anything else not usually found in a fully functional “perfect” Irken

However, Zim A seriously struggles with motivation and keeping himself focused, as that kind of stuff is found more in regular Irkens and therefore went to Zim B. Zim A also lacks whatever little impulse control Zim had and as a result, Zim A can be extremely chaotic and is near uncontrollable in most circumstances.

Zim A also got all of Zim’s trauma, as lasting trauma is considered a defect. Miyuki’s death, Spork’s death, Foodcourtia, it’s all here, and Zim A doesn’t have Zim’s usual coping mechanisms of denial and repression, as that went to Zim B.

In sharp contrast to Zim A, Zim B (Contains all of Zim’s attributes that are considered “perfect” by the Empire) is so different from the usual Zim that he’s almost completely unrecognizable. He does exactly what he’s told to do by the Tallest and does it as efficiently and effectively as possible, with no room for screwing around. And as far as he knows, he was told to conquer the Earth as an invader.

Zim B is what Zim would look like if he was completely functional, without even a single defect. Effective, powerful, and absolutely will not go easy on anything, especially since Zim’s moral code went to Zim A. Dib is screwed going up against him, because in a fight, Zim B will just bust out the guns immediately and shoot Dib point blank. No room for banter or gloating. Only efficiency. You’ve heard of Duty Mode Gir, this is Duty Mode Zim.

However, Zim B doesn’t have any of Zim’s creativity or his ability to think outside the box. Like most fully functional Irkens, it’s extremely hard for him to think of outside the box solutions, especially trying to do so quickly.

Zim B also wants Zim A dead, as Zim A is defective and defective Irkens must be given trials and deleted.

Another difference between the two Zims is their speech patterns. Zim A speaks almost just like how regular Zim speaks; using first and third person interchangeably with no real pattern and speaking exclusively in first person when being serious or focusing on something. The only difference is that Zim A never goes quiet when they’re being extremely serious or emotional like regular Zim.

Zim B speaks exclusively in first person at all times and rarely if ever yells.

Both Zims share some stuff as well. They have the exact same intelligence, strength, military training, memories (with the exception of only Zim A having traumatic memories) and a few more (mostly physical) things.

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (3-9 Dec 2023)

just fucking spatchcocked him

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😊 The Late Mrs. Willoughby (Mr. Darcy & Miss Tilney #2) (Claudia Gray, author; Billie Fulford-Brown, narrator) - another perfectly serviceable, decently entertaining historical cozy mystery feat. Austen characters and their progeny. Plot's pretty basic but it's still cute to see Jonathan Darcy (autistic king) and Juliette Tilney (mom's adventure sense, dad's common sense) solving murders again. The 'obstacles' to their romance are typical for a series like this but still annoying [tbh in more deft hands they might be more angsty and less annoying but it is what it is]

😍 The Charming Man (Zenaidamacrouras1, author; Late_to_party_81, artist) - 65K, shrinkyclinks no powers AU - just a delightful fic with adorable art (TEXTILE ART!) - I'll let the author's summary speak for itself: "Tldr: Steve has an eventful three weeks. Longer version: Steve Rogers is quite happy with his pleasantly simple life working as a graphic designer, chatting with his best friend Sam who has the desk next to his, eating the same gluten free sandwich for lunch every day, and staring out his office window hoping to catch a glimpse of The Charming Man walking by. Unfortunately, life has a tendency to get complicated without our permission, particularly when Steve begins to suspect that a certain evil corporation is doing criminal things that decidedly grate on his nerves." Great banter/hilarious lines - even the secondary characters get great lines plus some fine quality angst.

😍 Proper English (England World #1) (KJ Charles, author; Bella Lowe, narrator) - reread, love love love. The origin story of fluffy Fen & practical Pat getting together and solving a country house murder.

😍 Think Of England (England World #2) (KJ Charles, author; Tom Carter, narrator) - reread. Another country house mystery featuring blackmail and treason being resolved by Daniel Da Silva (poet & spy) and Archie Curtis (blond viking himbo, about to have a gay awakening) with secondary but crucial support from Fen & Pat

😊 Lessons In Chemistry (Brenda) - 42K, stucky no powers college AU - I’m not often in the mood for a college AU but this hit the spot

💖💖 +46K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

Cupid's Rugby Ball (softestpunk) - The Sandman: Dreamling, 5K - h/c meet cute with instalove, as is only correct for this pairing 😆

you'll never be blue ([currently anonymous]) - The Cabots (Cat Sebastian): Peter/Caleb, 3K - "Caleb and Peter, adjusting to living together." Perfectly captured the character voices! {written for the Fic In A Box 2023 exchange, authors not yet revealed}

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

D20: Fantasy High: Sophomore Year - e4-7

Dirty Laundry - s3, e7

D20: Burrow's End - "Evolution and Revolution" (s20, e10)

D20: Adventuring Party - "Welcome to the Honk Honk Club" (s15, e10)

Dimension 20 Interview: Siobhan Thompson Talks Jaysohn's Near Death In Burrow's End & Fantasy High

Doctor Who: The Star Beast (2023 special #1)

Doctor Who: Wild Blue Yonder (2023 special #2)

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

⭐ Welcome to Night Vale #239 - Sister Cities: Vermillion Falls

What Next: TBD - They See You When You’re Shopping

Desert Island Discs - Lea Salonga, singer and actor

⭐ The Sporkful - Rise Of The Foodie Bro (The Year In Food 2023)

Cautionary Tales - The Dunning Kruger Hijack (and Other Criminally Stupid Acts)

Wiser Than Me with Julia Louis-Dreyfus - Julia Gets Wise with Amy Tan

Vibe Check - Nostalgia, Ultra

99% Invisible #562 - Breaking Down The Power Broker (with Conan O'Brien)

Endless Thread - "Extremely Online" with Taylor Lorenz

Ologies with Alie Ward - Syndesiology (CONNECTIONS) with James Burke

NPR's Book of the Day - Norman Lear's memoir recalls a life and career that shaped American television

Cautionary Tales - Demonizing Dungeons & Dragons

⭐ Switched on Pop - Hear the Year: The music we loved in 2023

One Year - 1990: Bush vs. Broccoli

Song Exploder - Raye - Escapism (feat. 070 Shake)

Today, Explained - Get the lead out

What Next: TBD - Spotify Unwrapped

Today, Explained - Are movies too long now?

Dear Prudence - My Friend Won’t Stop Buying Me Gifts. Help!

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Super Museum

Wait Wait… Don't Tell Me! - Fred Schneider

Strong Songs - The Band: The Last Waltz

Endless Thread - What Is That?!

⭐ Cautionary Tales - How the Radium Girls Fought Back

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

'90s R&B Girl Groups

Presenting Etta James

Pop Motivation

Victoria Monét

Troye Sivan

Laufey

[dangermousie]

I would like to order a salty no. 3! (tropes, authors, actors)

Mmmm, our kitchen is at your command. Here is my salt shaker and it’s BIG!

Actors - I used to love Xu Kai but after the triple horror of Court Lady, Ancient Love Poetry and that esports mess with Miss Wooden Tree with Boobs, my eye starts twitching when he's mentioned for a role or even when I see a promo picture of him. He might go back on my good list at some point (I mean, I used to dislike Zhang Zhehan only to fall like a ton of bricks after WoH - great timing!) but right now any time I see his face twitch twitch twitch.

Hu Yitian is like a male Cheng Xiao - cannot act. His face doesn't do it for me either so I am just happy he mainly does moderns.

Cheng Xiao is the worst actress I've ever seen in a cdrama, which is saying something. She must have a hell of a sponsor but maybe they should stick her on a runway instead and not make me want to spork myself. She also keeps getting cast with fave after fave, as if she's on a mission to prove these men, who normally have great chemistry with anyone, cannot be defeated by her woodeness. When I think of the fact that she is about to be on my screen opposite Luo Yunxi, I begin to comprehend the cruelty of the universe.

The only good thing about the utter destruction of Zhang Zhehan (a topic I am not going to get into unless I rage stroke) is that there are two less Ju Jingyi dramas circulating out there. The only reason, she’s not the worst is because Cheng Xiao exists.

Dylan Wang and his handsome sheep face and his wooden lack of acting and the insane fact that they keep insisting on casting that man with the ultimate handsome miquetoast vibe as some violent, powerful, scary antiheroes, makes me long for...I don’t know what, but not a Dylan Wang drama. To paraphrase Groucho Marx, “whatever he is in, I’m against it.”

Wu Lei - he’s a decent enough actor but whoever thought he had the vibe for a powerful, wild, death on the battlefield barbarian general in The Long Ballad is the same person who keeps casting Dylan Wang as a badass. It burns my brain!

OK, switching to Korea. Kim Jung Hyun should make a comeback. He’s mega talented and his agency clearly leaked stuff to punish him for wanting to leave. Also, I don’t care how unprofessional he was - he was clearly having a mental heath crisis and was in an abusive relationship. Also, I don’t care if an actor is a bad person - his ex is a dumpster fire but she’s a good actress so she should act. I’d rather have a terrible person who can act (Lee Byung Hun), then a sweet person who can’t act (Taec.)

I am not sure if it’s an actors thing but whatever - people who ship actors in real life are insane and one of the reasons China had an excuse to crack down on fandom. (I don’t mean fun banter but people who genuinely believe X x Y are secretly banging. It’s called ACTING, people!)

Tropes: I love wrist-grab, noncon, amnesia, noble idiot, fakecest etc - all the tropes fandom hates either because they are overused or because they are problematic. I want my life to be original, wholesome and conflict free. I want my fiction to be the opposite.

Whoever makes period stories where the characters are modern characters in period garb should be set on fire.

Authors: Meatbun is one of the best authors and probably in Top 3 novelists I’ve ever read and people who do not appreciate 2ha (unless they cannot read it due to literally being triggered) have bad taste. And before anyone jumps down my throat for being an illiterate, I have been reading all sorts of things for decades, and was reading Euripides and Livy by third grade, took whole classes on scholastic writing and 16th century English poetry, can and do read books in three languages, and read an insane amount of both Russian and English 18th and 19th century novels.

Also, while I don’t want to compare average danmei and average het web novel since I don’t think I’ve read enough of either (I probably read over 100 web novels total but I think I’d have to read way more), a good/well-regarded danmei is way better than a good/well-regarded het web novel. I’ve never found the latter that made me really emotionally invested or one that had a wow plot.

On non-web novel front, Victorian novels and novelists were amazing. Also the whole worship of Hemingway spare style is stupid - Hemingway could get away with it because he was Hemingway. Your average author would vastly benefit from adding color to their writing.

People look down on romance novels because they are for women. Nobody looks down on those stupid spy thrillers which are equivalent for men.

If you haven’t read Jorge Amado, you wasted your entire life.

The end.

[vitanitf]

stats --

name: caelan abiodun leu

faceclaim: mason gooding

age: 22 years

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: bisexual, biromantic

birthday: july 28th

zodiac: leo

abilities: power fists, enhanced agility 

occupation: cashier and stocker at a record store

traits: satirical, arrogant, protective, aggressive, unfaithful

likes: music, parks, buffalo chicken pizza, record players, tequila, remixes, brick structures, bbq chips, flirting, earbuds

dislikes: being irritated, therapy, itchy sweaters, ants, long nails, rain, swimming, cinnamon, sporks, orange juice

biography --

caelan was a good kid. scratch that, he was a great kid. when he was small, he always followed the rules set in place. he always offered to help out, didn’t complain about chores, or anything for that matter. he was always smiling. always using his manners. but he was so angry. it started out small enough. he’d get frustrated and sigh dramatically. he’d start kicking rocks along the sidewalk. slamming his bedroom door when the slightest thing pissed him off. it escalated into his teen years. yelling, throwing objects around his room. a fist through the wall was the tipping point. it was when everyone seemed to realize that something had to be done. the rage was almost to be expected; he was half vitani’s child, after all, and his father was much worse. vitani began to wonder if she’d done something wrong. for cae and yara’s childhood, they’d been overly protective. taught them how to take care of themselves, made sure they knew the world was not a friendly place, but they had tried so hard to stop the two of them from being jaded the way she had been. elias was the answer. maybe it wasn’t the best answer or even a right answer, but vitani was at their wit’s end, and it was the town that had helped her the most. most of caelan’s live had been spent moving around. never settling into a town for very long before they were gone again. fake ids, made up pasts. he didn’t understand what they were running from, he and yara weren’t allowed to know anything. they were just expected to go along with it. but he was getting older and angrier, and he didn’t want secrets kept from him any longer. california wasn’t his first choice of places to be, but at least it was somewhere he could settle for once, and it was clear that vitani wasn’t just suggesting the idea. their mind was made up. practically against his will, he packed what few belongings he had and moved to the apartment that had been rented out for him halfway across the country. he started anger management and group therapy because he’d promised he would. he might’ve been a dick sometimes --- most times --- but he was a man of his word. over time he found a job working at a record shop to cover his personal spending habits, and he actually began to appreciate the town for what it was. that didn’t mean he started doing better, though. it would take several hands to count the amount of fights he’s gotten into, random houses he’s woken up in after blacked out nights of binge drinking, careless hookups and school suspensions. he’s trying to do better, he really is, but he’s began to wonder if any amount of love and support will ever be enough to fix him.

connections --

babysitter: vesper vasilikas. the only one that was allowed to watch the kids when they were little. also the only one he trusted to call to bail him out of jail when he was arrested a few months back. she’s family. cousins: all of ‘em. vitani always enforced the idea that family is important. he cares about his cousins, but he couldn’t say they’re close. it’s not because he doesn’t love them, it’s because there’s some sort of wall getting in the way of him being close to anyone. *coworker: any gender, any age. they work together at the record store. they could get along and goof off on the job or hate dealing with each other, however we wanna work it. *enemy: any gender, any age. he hates them with a burning passion. it doesn’t take much for him to dislike someone, but he really wishes they’d just fall off the face of the earth. *ex fling: any gender, any age. he’s hooked up with a lot of people, so your character can definitely be on the list. ex on bad terms: january jones. because caelan is not a good boyfriend, and he’s sorry. but he’s also probably not all that sorry. sorry. *ex on good terms: any gender, any age. they’re still friends. maybe friends with benefits sometimes. it was probably nothing serious, because he doesn’t really do serious. but they had fun, and he still likes talking to them from time to time at least. frenemies: artemis zervos. he cares about art, he really does, and he appreciates the banter. whether he’ll admit that or not is a different story. kind of ex: perry van dort. they weren’t exactly official, but they were something. as opposite as they were, it somehow worked. he has no hard feelings towards perry.  parent: vitani leu. caelan loves vitani, but the overprotectiveness is annoying, and he’s bitter that they practically forced him to move to cali. he doesn’t understand why they won’t just be upfront with him instead of keeping him in the dark his entire life. *ride or die: any gender, any age. give him someone he can wholeheartedly trust and drag along to anywhere. someone who joins in on the trouble instead of trying to talk him down. we’d say bad influence, but let’s be honest, cae’s the one doing the influencing. sister: yara leu. his baby sis. he’d do anything for her, but her positivity can be a bit annoying at times. would he change it for the world, though? no. she deserves to be happy. he just can’t see life the same way.  therapy ‘friend’: amira foxworth. possibly one of the few reasons he always showed up to group therapy. they’ve been hanging out outside of sessions with other people, and he always ends up just wanting to talk to her.

* open connection, this could be you !! hmu.

[setyourphaserstoslutty]

People who like Spork love romance and tenderness

People you like Quodo enjoy banter and a Love hate relationships

[nat-roman0ff]

the rest is history

the rest is history

requested

---

word count: 2,390

warnings: banter, terrible memory and uncontrollable fluff.

---

 Shawn remembers the day you first met quite fondly. You, however have always remembered it a little differently. Shawn swears it was his charming nervousness that swept you off your feet immediately. Meanwhile, you were convinced for the first half hour you were talking to him that he was a serial killer; all awkwardly charming, never taking his eyes off of you. Not to mention the glasses that looked like they were decades too old for him to be wearing.

 It was something the two of you could never agree on exactly how it happened. And now, at your engagement party in front of all your friends and family, you were about to share the story of how the two of you first met.

 “That is not how it happened, Shawn,” you roll your eyes. 

 You can’t stop staring at the shiny engagement ring on your finger. Shawn’s cheeks are pink from champagne, and he gulps down the last bit in the flute before turning back to the crowd of people sitting before you.

 “No, no, no,” he waves his hand, “I wrote a song about it! Of course I remember what happened.” 

 Your friends and family laugh around you, and you grab the microphone from Shawn’s hand, “he really does think that he knows everything. For inquiring minds; this is how it all went down.” 

---

 Of course it had to be raining today. The one day you had off from work, the one day you had to get all your errands done, the one day you had to yourself. It’s Sunday, mid summer, and it’s hot and humid as Hell outside. The rain is probably a much needed break in the unbearable weather, but it was just so goddamn inconvenient. 

 You’re already running late, this was of course after the hot water in your apartment stopped working halfway through your shower, getting shampoo in your eyes, stepping in cat puke, and burning your thumb while making breakfast. 

 It was barely noon and you already wanted this day to be over.

 You luckily leave the apartment in one piece, your umbrella barely keeping up with the pouring rain around you. You skip through and over puddles and thank yourself for wearing rain boots today. The first stop of the day was the local book store and coffee shop. It was your favorite place to go, especially when you were feeling a way about life and wanted to unwind. 

 Really, you were just avoiding your responsibilities for the day.

 It’s crowded when you get in. There’s some type of poetry reading happening that has everyone’s attention. You step to the cafe side and wait in line, trying to catch up in the group chat between your friends. Someone’s someone broke up with them and they were ranting about the reasons why. You lock your phone and slide it in the back pocket of your jeans, not bothering to even start with all that drama. 

 “Next,” the drone barista says. 

 You approach the counter, “hi! Medium iced coffee with almond milk, please.” 

 “It’s a grande,” they reply. 

 You raise an eyebrow, “huh?” 

 She points to the board behind her, “it’s not a medium, it’s a grande.” 

 “It’s a whatever I want to fucking call it because I’m the one paying,” you retort. 

 The person behind you in line snorts. You look back and he’s covering his mouth to stifle a laugh, a bemused expression across his face.

 The barista rolls her eyes, “whatever, that’ll be $4.” 

 “It’s normally $3.50.” 

 She squints her eyes, “there’s an upcharge for almond milk.” 

 “Yeah, I know. It’s supposed to be $3.50.” 

 She groans, “ma’am, if you’re so pressed about fifty cents then you probably shouldn’t be in a coffee shop.” 

 “I am not hard pressed for fifty cents,” you plant your hands on your hips, “and I don’t appreciate your attitude. But fine, it’s four dollars,” you mimic in a snotty voice.

 You reach for your wallet in your purse - only to realize it’s not there. 

 “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, “forget it, I must have left my wallet at home -” 

 “I’ve got it,” the guy behind you places his card on the counter, “I’ll take a medium black hot coffee.” 

 The barista rolls her eyes, “it’s a grande.” 

 The guy smiles, “I know.” 

 She turns to make the drinks and you take a step to the side, “thanks,” you mutter, “I’ll have to Venmo it to you or something.” 

 He shrugs, “don’t worry about it.”

 You’re both silent as you wait together at the end of the counter for your drinks. He adjusts the glasses on his face and you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen him somewhere before but can’t make the connection where. There’s an S-shaped curl that hangs in front of his face, like it’s meant to be there but really isn’t. 

 The barista practically slams the drinks on the counter before muttering, “have a nice day,” in her droll voice.

 “It must be exhausting to be that miserable,” You mutter under your breath.

 He hears you and chuckles, blowing on the little hole in the top of his coffee cup. 

 “Sorry, I’m not usually like this, I swear,” you apologize, “it’s just been a day.” 

 “It’s eleven thirty in the morning,” he deadpans. 

 Your eyes narrow, “it’s been a rough morning.” 

 You slide into the seat of the small bistro table beside you and take a sip of your coffee, “oh course this has fucking cream in it. Stupid Bitch -” 

 “What are you doing here this fine Sunday morning?” He asks, grinning across the table from you.

 You glare at him, “honestly? Nothing. Avoiding life probably. What about you? Frequent the bookstore often? I feel like I’ve seen you before.” 

 “Probably have,” he says, “I’m Shawn,” he reaches over the table to shake your hand. 

 “Charmed, I’m y/n.” you return the handshake, “why are you drinking hot coffee on a ninety degree day, are you a serial killer?” 

 Shawn bobs his head from side to side, “surprisingly no, although I do share many of the same qualities as most.” 

 “That’s unsettling.” 

 He leans forward, “I’m also really bad at flirting.” 

 You grit your teeth, “oh ouch, that’s what that was? Oh honey…”, you place your hand over your heart.

 Shawn bows his head, “that bad, huh?” 

 “The serial killer vibes were high, I thought you were going to stab me in the neck with a spork or something.” 

 “You’re funny,” Shawn replies. 

 “It’s mostly a defense mechanism,” you pip.

 He raises an eyebrow, “from what?” 

 You take a sip of your drink, “guys in bookstore coffee shops that act like serial killers. Those glasses are straight up Jeffrey Dahmer style, my friend.”

 “Are you always like this?” He asks.

 Your brows scrunch together, “like what?” 

 “You just...I don’t know. It’s like you have an answer for everything. You always have to be the one that has the better last word.” 

 You scoff, “okay, Weirdo. You’ve known me for five minutes.”

 “Maybe I’ve known you your whole like and you’re now just meeting me.” 

 You lean forward and he follows, “you see, that is some shit a serial killer would say,” you reach for your bag and stand, “have a nice day, Weirdo. Thanks for the coffee.” 

 You’ve almost reached the other side of the bookstore when you pass the magazine rack. A familiar face graces one of the covers; it’s Shawn. That little aha! moment happens in your head and you pick up the magazine, holding it in your sightline to compare to Shawn who is still sitting in the coffee shop section of the store. 

 You look back and forth a few times before deciding to go back over. It doesn’t take long for you to cross the length of the store back to him and return to your seat. 

 “I know who you are,” you say, plopping your coffee and purse on the table. 

 “Now who’s the serial killer?” Shawn quips.

 “You’re the Shawn Mendes,” you wiggle your fingers for extra emphasis. 

 Shawn gulps, “you didn’t have to use the spirit fingers.” 

 “I’ve been to one of your concerts. My sister got so excited when you came on stage that she threw up all over herself and we had to go home. I want my seventy-five bucks back,” you jab sarcastically.

 “Only roughly eighteen more coffees to go,” Shawn winks.

 You fold your arms across your chest and lean back, staring at him, testing him. You have so many questions and you’d never met anyone famous before but he just seemed too goddamn normal to be a celebrity. Maybe that’s why people liked him so much.

 “Now that that’s over with,” he starts, “what do you want to do next?” 

 You purse your lips together, “sometimes when I need a good pick me up, I head to the Health and Wellness section to find the sex books and laugh at them.” 

 Shawn snorts, “what are you, five?” 

 “Are you in or not?” 

 “I was going to be in regardless of what you said I just didn’t want to be the one that made the plans,” he confesses.

 You stand and roll your eyes, “c’mon!”

 A half hour later you’re in the stacks of the Sex Health section and trying to stifle your laughter with your hands. It’s childish, and ridiculous but you can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. You also can’t remember the last time you heard a book title as hilarious as Penis Genius.

 “I want that tattooed on my forehead,” you giggle. 

 Shawn covers his mouth with his hand, “I’d pay you so much money to do that.” 

 It’s then that you notice how close together your bodies are, your knee is resting against his thigh and his shoulder brushes yours every time he takes a deep breath. You feel oddly relaxed around him, like you’re spending time with an old friend instead of someone you’ve barely known an hour.

 The laughter dies down and you catch him looking at you. It’s not an uncomfortable glare, it’s not like he’s staring to try and figure out what you look like under your clothes. He’s watching to mark your tics, to memorize the wrinkles in your face and searches his brain to try and find a way to describe the color of your eyes. 

 Or, at least years later that’s what he’ll claim he was doing.

 It doesn’t make you uneasy, and you find yourself drifting closer to him despite the already limited space between the two of you. Your faces are so close you can feel his breath fan your skin, his eyes closing as he draws nearer. 

 “Do you always wear these glasses?” You ask, plucking them off his face.

 Shawn’s left stunned as you lean away from him and put on the frames, “dude they’re fake?! Worst disguise ever, Mendes.”

 “Oh so now we’re on a last name basis?” He asks.

 You nod your head and push the glasses up the bridge of your nose, “guess so. Why do you wear them?” 

 “A defense mechanism,” he deadpans, but can’t hide a creeping smirk.

 “From what?” 

 “Folks tend to stay away from people who look like they’ll axe murder their whole family.” 

 You suck the last of your coffee from the straw, “that’s very true.” 

 “I’m glad it didn’t work on you though,” he smiles.

 Your heart is still fluttering from the almost-kiss. You can see the red in Shawn’s cheeks deepen, like he was embarrassed at what almost happened. You’re not usually this flighty - to meet a stranger in a bookstore and decide to try and make out with them within the same hour. It just felt, different with Shawn. It was a type of comfort with another human being you didn’t know existed. 

 Soulmates, is what he would end up telling you on your first anniversary. 

 “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” Shawn asks, pulling the glasses off of your face and putting them back on his own. 

 “I did.” 

 Shawn raises an eyebrow, “and now what?” 

 “Want to come over?” You blurt out, “and like...I don’t know watch a movie or something? It’s a shitty day out,” your eyes avoid everything but him, “sorry you probably already have plans-” 

 “I’d love to.” 

 You look up and he’s grinning wide at you, his honey brown eyes sparkling and that stupid little S-curl that you’ll eventually grow to love handing in his face, “really?” 

 He nods, “of course. Only if we get to watch shitty scary movies though. Truly the best thing to watch on a rainy Sunday afternoon.” 

 You clutch your chest, “be still my cold beating heart, I wouldn’t have suggested anything less.” 

 Shawn chuckles and stands, offering you his hand. He pulls a little too hard and you crash into him, causing him to stumble backwards into the bookshelf. Once he steadies himself he wraps an arm around you.

 Neither of you speak on your way out. Ever the gentleman, he holds the door open for you when you leave. It’s raining harder now, and the two of you do your best to huddle under your small umbrella. You walk the couple blocks to your apartment not really saying much. There’s a weird anticipation in the air and you keep catching him taking fleeting glances at you when you aren’t paying attention. His pinky hooks with yours a couple times. It’s not quite to hold your hand, but more so to say hey, I’m here. 

 When the two of you reach your building, Shawn stops you before you take the first step onto the stoop. 

 “What?” You turn, he has his hand on your arm. 

 He takes a step closer, the step helping the height difference between the two of you now at face level. Shawn lets the umbrella drop but you’re too focused on the intensity in his eyes to care about getting soaking wet. His hand is gentle as it holds your face. 

 “I’ve never met someone like you before,” he says, the rain causing his hair to stick to the sides of his face. 

 “Ditto.” Is all you can manage. 

 Shawn leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss, and the rest is history.

[niqhtlord01]

Rooster Teeth Mortal Kombat Championship Presses on!  Things have been getting a bit tense behind the scenes for Yasamin and Yang. Incidentally, when the Union Spy learned that the Blues tank Sheila was in fact a smart tank he promptly attempted to steal it. Unfortunately just as his original mission went he failed to gather basic information on how to drive the damn thing prompting Sheila to then kidnap him and take him on a joy ride. (For her at least, pretty sure he’s gagging on exhaust fumes at this point)  Miranda: *Strider walks in, Miranda jumps out of the cockpit.” Velvet: I’m sorry, but could you do that again? My lens cap was on.  Miranda: I’m not some model for you to gawk at.  Velvet: *Copies Scythe* I know. You’re not nearly as good looking as Coco.  Glynda: *Strides in and snaps riding crop* O’Malley: Am I meant to be afraid of a dominatrix with a bad attitude? Glynda: I’ll make you pay for your flippant tongue. O’Malley: *Loads rocket launcher* It’s no fun for banter if you just prove my point.  Nemesis: *Nanotech cloud appears and forms Nemesis* Yang: How am I supposed to punch a cloud?  Nemesis: After I rip off your arm, I’m sure you’ll think of something.  Yang: *Cocks shotgun wrists* I’d like to see you try.  Ruby: * Whirlwinds in with raining rose petals* Caboose: We meet again cookie thief.  Ruby: You shouldn’t have hid them from me.  Caboose: *Pulls out a spork* I hid them so well even I don’t know where they are, and that makes me very angry!  Adam: *Lands on the ground, rolls, then draws sword* Kaikaina: The all black look is kinda hot.  Adam: It symbolizes all that my people have lost. Kaikaina: *Draws dual smgs* uggggh. They should call you “The Desert” because you just dry things up.  Doc: *Walks on stage charging plasma pistol* Valentina: Ah Doctor, I find myself in need of your services.  Doc:  If it’s cutting things off or sewing things back on then I’m your man! Valentina: *Draws knives* And here I was worried I’d have to go back to Tijuana for service.  Sheila: *Rolls on to the stage* US: *Attempts to jump into cockpit, but Sheila swats him away* Sheila: Did you honestly think that would work?  US: *Stands up and stretches* It wouldn’t have been the first time I tried something crazy.  O’Malley: *Walks on stage loading rocket launcher* Cammie: You know you’re a fucking psycho right? O’Malley: A psycho with a rocket launcher you may note. Cammie: *Nugget hops on her shoulder* Right, forgot about the rocket launcher. Tyrian: *Walks in laughing, wrist axes opening and closing* Grif: How do you put pants on with that tail? Tyrian: That’s the first thing that comes to mind for you?  Grif: *Shrugs* It’s the only interesting thing about you.  Weiss: *Falls from the sky jumping off her magic circles before landing* Caboose: Are you after my snacks as well magic lady?  Weiss:  I don-  Ruby: *Shouts from crowd* Beat him and I’ll leave you alone for a whole week! Weiss: YES! I AM HERE FOR YOUR SNACKS BLUE PERSON!  Jaune: *Strikes dramatic pose with sword before the sword falls out of his hand.* US: Your name reminds me of someone from my world.  Jaune: Really? Did their story have a happy ending?  US: *Coin turns into nanotech* That depends on how well done you like your steak.  Yasamin: *Walks in cracking neck* Tucker: Baby are you gravity, because I’m falling for you.  Yasamin: That would be the cliff I just threw you off of for such a bad pun. Tucker: *Draws energy sword* Playing hard to get, I like that.  WFL: *Walks in dragging chainsaw, sparks flying everywhere* Sarge: Son, I’d suggest you get a real weapon instead of that over-sized lumberjack thing-a-ma-jig. WFL:  This is all the weapon I need to cut up my enemies.  Sarge: *Cocks shotgun* You can cut people up with anything but you don’t see me bringing a spork to a battlefield.  Nora: *Smashes through nearby wall with hammer* Donut: Love the light-ish red you’re rocking. Nora: You mean pink? Donut: *Draws battle rifle* No, I mean light-ish red!  Church: *Looking down sights of sniper rifle* Rufus: I’m told you’re an artificial program.  Church: I was having mixed feelings about beating up an old man, but you’ve just helped resolve those for me by calling me a program.  Rufus:  *pushes glasses up bridge of nose, Caliban steps in next to him* Note to self, seems this one is a bit touchy about being called a program.  Valentina: *Removes camouflage cloak* Caboose: I need your help spooky lady.  Valentina: It will cost you greatly.  Caboose: *Pulls out a bag of cookies* To hide my snacks I would pay anything; expect my snacks because I will need to eat them later. 

[lurafita]

Obsession - Chapter 3

Read the prologue here: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184483191964/obsession-prologe

Chapter 1: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184510347369/obsession-chapter-1

Chapter 2: https://lurafita.tumblr.com/post/184622702054/obsession-chapter-2

Obsession – Chapter 3

 “Okay Parker, try to top this. My first couple today: the guy orders a plain hamburger and the woman with him a hamburger ketchup only, right? So, I serve them and am about to go to my next table, when they call me back. The man says he ordered it plain but got ketchup and the girl says she wanted ketchup but got a hamburger plain. Apparently I mixed up the plates when I set them down. Big deal, right? So they look up at me like I had ruined their whole meal. I bent down again and picked up the plates, walked around to the other side of their table, and then set the plates down again, this time in the right order. The guy goes 'That's better. You be more careful in the future, young man. Not everyone is as understanding as us.' I have no idea if they were trolling me, or if it really didn't occur to them to just switch the plates themselves.”

His fellow waiter said, as he struggled out of his work uniform and into his usual street clothes. Peter laughed as he did the same.

“Sorry Brian, but prize for 'worst customers of the shift' is definitely mine tonight. I had just asked this sweet looking elderly lady if there was anything else I could do for her, she says no, so I continue on my way through my section. I haven't even taken five steps away from her table, when she throws her teaspoon at my head. Turns out she wanted to see the dessert card again, and couldn't be bothered to think of this two seconds before, when I specifically asked her, or just call out to me to come back. She did this two more times. I was this close to replacing her cutlery with a plastic spork, though she would have probably thrown her glass at me then. When she finally demanded the check, via spoon to my head, of course, she gave me a tip of exactly ten cents, and wrote on the receipt that I needed to be more attentive to my guests.”

Brian laughed as well (because in this business, you either learned to take people's atrocious behavior with humor, or you developed an ulcer from all the repressed anger)

“Fine, you win on account of flying silverware. You gonna be in tomorrow?”

Peter shook his head as he finished putting his work clothes into his locker and grabbed up his backpack. He noticed that one of the straps needed to be taped together again, the old duct tape beginning to peel off.

“Nah, man. I need to finish an assignment for my main, so I traded shifts with Becky. I'll be here for the late shift on Friday.”

Brian grimaced in sympathy. “Damn, my condolences, man. All those nine to five, Monday to Friday people ready to cut loose.”

Peter let out a forlorn sigh. “Tell me about it. Friday's are the worst.”

The two left the restaurant through the back door, thankfully being able to navigate the narrow alley easily by now, as it was already dark outside and the lamp that was supposed to light up the backstreet, had been shattered a long time ago. The two walked together, bantering friendly with each other, until they reached an intersection.

“Well, see you later, Pete. Good luck on Friday, try not to let yourself get groped too much!”

“Like anyone has ever been able to work a Friday night without a bruised butt to show for it. Later!”

They bumped their fists together in farewell, before Brian went right and Peter turned left down the street.

He was exhausted. While it hadn't been a particularly busy shift at the restaurant, Peter had had a very early class this day, as well as two tutoring sessions in between his afternoon lectures. Thank god their manager had taken pity on them and closed the restaurant thirty minutes earlier than usual. Now Peter might just make it home before midnight. It was a bit of a walk to his and his aunts apartment, but the restaurant paid it's workers above minimum wage and the tips were usually pretty decent as well. So the almost fifty minute travel on foot was well worth it. Also, the lengthy walk presented a chance for him to go through his mental check list and think through the assignments he still needed to hand in, as well as his schedule for the next few days.

So deeply in thought was he, that he didn't notice the group of six men that followed him into the alley he used as a shortcut.

Until he was suddenly grabbed by his shoulder and spun around and against the dirty wall to his right. His eyes widened in fear when he looked at the group of rough looking men in front of him.

“Now what do we have here? Out for a late night stroll, little lamb?”

The brunette resented that remark. He was not a 'little lamb', okay? Just because he had a bit of a baby face and wasn't as brawny and muscly and tall and intimidating and rough looking and... on second though, he got it. He pressed himself further into the brick wall at his back, when the man in front of him, (the apparent leader of the group) slowly pulled a jackknife out of his pocket. He held his hands up defensively.

“U-uhm,... hey,... uh.. look, I don't want any trouble, okay? If, if it's money you want, I d-don't have much, but you can have it! Okay? There is totally n-no need for any violence.”

The man in front of him and his compatriots grinned widely and dangerously at that.

“Oh really? Well then, why don't we-”

“Hey! I called the police! Drop the knife and get away from him!” Was suddenly shouted from the entrance to the alley. The group of thugs looked at each other, at Peter, and then at the figure that was speedily making their way towards them.

“This isn't worth the trouble, let's scram!”

And just like that, the six would-be robbers ran the other way, out of sight.

Peter's knees nearly buckled with relief, and he hastily bent over and breathed deeply.

“Oh thank god...”

“Hey, you okay there?”

He almost flinched at the words, before realizing that his timely rescuer must have reached him while he was fighting off his shock.

“Yeah,.. yeah, I'm... I'm okay. I'm... thank you. Thank you so much! I-”

“Hey, hey, breathe. It's alright. All safe now, okay?”

The male voice was deep and calming, and as a strong hand started stroking his back in comforting circles, Peter slowly managed to relax. He took a long breath, and then straightened back up.

“Thank you, again. I... I don't even know why this stuff still gets to me like this. This is hardly the first time I have been mugged.”

It was hard to make out detailed features in the dim light of the alley (all Peter knew regarding his rescuers appearance so far, was that he was a bit taller than himself, a lot broader than himself, and had a beard), but he noticed how the man in front of him stiffened at his words.

“You have been assaulted before?”

Peter shook his arms out, feeling like he needed to move a little, to get rid of what was left of his shock.

“Well, I wouldn't call it assault. I mean, if you just give them your money, they leave you alone. Sometimes they don't even get their weapons out.”  He almost didn't notice when the man wrapped a supportive arm around his waist and steered him out of the dark alley and to the main road. He let himself follow the others lead easily, thankful for the strong arm around him, as his knees were still a little shaky. He just kept rambling. “So, nobody gets really hurt. But, yeah, muggings are pretty common here, especially when it's this late at night. I know this sounds bad, and it kinda is. But I'm really, really glad that you were there, because I really need the money I made tonight to buy some parts to repair that stupid heater in the apartment, since the landlord refuses to acknowledge that there is a problem with it. And the forecast said to expect a cold wave for next week, and my aunt just got over her bout with the flu.” They had at this point made it to the well lit street, and Peter was finally able to get a real look at the man who saved him, while the slowly decreasing adrenaline continued to make him spit out a horrendously embarrassing amount of word vomit. “So, really, I'm so very, very grateful to y-”

The following words got stuck in his throat.

That was Tony Stark.

He had been saved from being mugged by Tony Stark, and then made an absolute fool of himself by babbling like the complete idiot he truly was. Oh god. That thug should have just stabbed him, at least he wouldn't have embarrassed himself by bleeding out on the ground. Then again, if anyone could make a fool of himself while dying, it would be Peter Parker.

And now Tony Stark was looking at him weirdly. Oh god, he hadn't said any of that out loud, had he?!

“Are you okay, Peter?”

As soon as the name slipped out, Tony wanted to kick himself. He wasn't supposed to know Peter's name yet!

“I-I,... yeah, I,... you are Tony Stark... you are one of the brightest minds of this century and I just... I uhm. I uh, hi. … Hi, I'm Peter Embarrassed. PARKER! Oh, my, god. I'm Peter Parker. And really embarrassed. Hi.”

Tony almost sighed in relief. It seemed Peter hadn't noticed his little slip. He smiled.

“Hello Peter Embarrassed Parker. I'm Tony Stark, but you already know this.” He couldn't help but tease a little, and he relished in the deeply red blush that overtook the brunettes face.

The younger man then buried his head in his hands.

“You know, I should just legally change my name to this? It would be accurate, at least.”

Tony snickered, and then gently pried Peter's hands away.

“Don't worry about it. I would pick the embarrassed, tousle haired, cute guy, over the usual reaction my name inspires, every day. It's very charming.”  Which wasn't an exaggeration at all. The last rabid Tony Stark fan he had encountered during the Stark Expo, had ripped his shirt off and thrown himself bodily at the genius.

He didn't think it was possible for Peter to blush even more, but there you go. Damn, he really was cute.  But even Peter's adorably flustered self couldn't change the fact that it was well past 11 pm, and there was a chill wind out. And Peter was only wearing a thin jeans jacket. Tony really needed to get the precious thing home.

“You probably already figured that out, but that bit about me calling the police was a bluff. Which means there is no reason for us to keep standing around here. So, where to?”

He gestured to the sleek, red sports car that was parked, only a few feet from them, along the sidewalk. (Was the hot rod red polish a bit much? Possibly. Were the golden hubcaps a bit much? Definitely. But what could Tony say? He wasn’t a very subtle man) Peter's eyes widened dramatically, when they landed on it, and he quickly shook his head.

“Oh, no, Mr. Stark. I couldn't possibly make you drive me home after everything you have already-” But Tony nipped this in the bud right away.

One finger placed over his lips had Peter all but holding his breath. Tony looked directly into the deep, brown eyes before him, his voice just a touch lower than before.

“Let me drive you home, Peter.”

He didn't remove his finger from the soft lips until the younger man nodded his head slightly, and instantly missed touching them.

He would taste those lips soon enough.

He guided Peter, hand gentle but firm on the small of the brunettes back, to the passenger side of his car and opened the door for him. Peter tried once more to feebly protest.

“Really, Mr. Stark, you don't have to-” and was just as easily rebuffed as the first time.

“I insist. Wouldn't do to have kept you from being mugged by those guys, just to give someone else a chance on the rest of your way home now, would it?”

He narrowly kept himself from buckling Peter in, that might have been just a bit too much at this stage of their relationship acquaintance, and simply shut the door when Peter was seated. He quickly walked around the hood of the car, glancing covertly through the windshield to see as chocolate brown eyes stared in amazement at the luxurious furnishings of the car’s inside. Peter's reactions were so endearingly genuine. Then he was behind the wheel, forgoing the seat belt as he usually did, and started the engine.

“Where do you live?”

He knew, of course, but he could not allow himself to slip up again. He had gotten lucky the first time. So he waited for Peter to rattle off the address and pulled onto the street.

“So, how come you were out so late in the first place, especially in an area where people regularly get robbed?”

Again, Tony already knew this, but he wanted to get Peter talking a bit more. It would help alleviate the younger man's nervousness, and also, Tony enjoyed the sound of the youngers voice very much. He listened contentedly as Peter told him about his job as a waiter at the 8 Islands restaurant, which he had taken on to help his aunt pay the bills, while he studied at Berkeley college in New York. Skillfully asking questions about topics he knew Peter would answer passionately to, Tony relished in the conversation they were having. While most of the the things Peter 'revealed' to him, were already known by Tony, the simple act of talking with the younger man was so... so... He didn't know how to describe it. Though Peter was still a bit embarrassed and rather shy, he answered all of Tony's inquiries openly and honestly. Honesty was such a rare treat for Tony to come across. People always tried to make themselves out to be more interesting, more daring, more experienced, more smart, just overall more than they truly were. The billionaire couldn't remember the number of fake personas he had met in his life, who would tell him all the things that they thought he wanted to hear, that they believed he would find alluring, just for all of it to come crashing down at a later time.

But Peter was different.  He freely admitted that he personally didn't hold more than a passing interest in mechanical engineering, though still admired the progress that Tony had made in the field. No false praise along the lines of: 'Oh, Tony, you are the most genius man on this earth.' even though it was readily apparent that the person knew nothing about what Tony even did.  How often had Tony heard things like: 'Oh, Tony, I was so fascinated by your presentation of the latest Starkphone design.', even though the person had no idea what the terms 'Interface', 'CPU' or 'AMOLED' meant.

Peter didn't try to make himself seem perfect, or flawless. “I should have known that those chemicals wouldn't mix the way I needed them to, and I would have, had I just taken the time to research them properly. But I was just being a brat. Totally full of myself, thinking I knew better than the teacher. So, yeah, that literally exploded in my face. I definitely deserved having to clean it all up myself.”

How often did people just try to skirt around their own accountability? How often did they try to shrug off any responsibility for their own actions? How often had Tony heard the phrase: 'Well, that wasn't my fault.' and 'Well, someone else messed up.' or 'Well, I couldn't be expected to account for that.'

Peter was curious, but not invasive. He asked Tony questions about one of his current projects, but didn't even try to pry into his private life. (Though Tony would gladly allow him to) One would think this common decency, to not ask deeply personal questions of someone you had known for barely five minutes. But normal etiquette rules didn't apply to famous people. Be it reporters shoving their microphones in his face, screaming questions at him about how his break up with Virginia Potts would impact the future of Stark Industries; or the runway model that approached him in a club, asking if it was true that he was into orgies; or any random person he would come across anywhere, feigning sympathy while inquiring how his rehab was going.

Peter was a rambling fountain of scientific curiosity (and maybe he had a little oversharing problem), but he was respectful and polite and sweet.

Tony had already purposely taken three wrong turns, just to extend their time in the car together that little bit longer. But all good things had to come to an end, and soon Tony parked his car on the side of a dilapidated looking apartment building. Which meant that now it was time for part two of his plan.

“I really can't thank you enough, Mr Stark. Not anyone would have done what you did, you know? I just,... if there is any way I can make it up to you...”

Most people in Peter's situation right then, would have said this in a tone of voice that suggested a sexual favor in payment for the good deed. Would have moved their body in an alluring way, would have licked their lips seductively, would have touched his arm or thigh in a clear indication of what they had in mind.

But not Peter. Peter was genuine in his gratitude. Peter really just wanted to find a way to thank the man who helped him. No ulterior motives, no underhandedness.

And he had played right into Tony's hand. 

He killed the engine and turned to the younger man.

“Well, if you are that hellbent on thanking me, there is actually something you could do for me.”

Peter nodded eagerly. “Anything.”

And oh, what delicious, debauched, fantastical images ran through his mind at that word. Anything.

But he shook such thoughts off. It wasn't time for that yet.

“See, there is this charity event coming up, and I just know that it's going to be dreadfully boring, just as these things always are.” He rolled his eyes for effect, before fixing them on Peter again. He allowed himself to be a bit daring, and brought his hand up to cradle the side of Peter's face in it. “Being in the company of such a delightfully brilliant young man as you, would surely make it much more bearable. So, wanna be my plus one?”

Tony had no idea whether it was the sudden physical contact, or the matter of the question itself, but his gorgeous sweetheart looked completely overwhelmed.

“I... I couldn't... I... but I'm just... “

It seemed the only words Peter was capable of forming right then, and Tony decided not to give him the chance of coming up with a reasonable excuse to decline the invitation. He softly stroked his thumb along the heated skin of the others reddening cheekbone.

“Of course you can. Here, give me your phone number, I will send you all the details tomorrow.” Peter drew his phone out of his pants pocket on autopilot, and Tony snatched it up with his other hand, before the sweet thing regained enough of his faculties to register what he was doing. He quickly called himself with Peter's phone (and used the connection to install a cloning program on it, that he had prepared before hand.) “When are you free to go to a tailor? I bet you would look ravishing in a smart suit.”

Peter didn't answer, still caught between trying to find the words to convince the older man that he was not 'important-charity-event' material, and the hypnotizing sensation of having a rough, strong thumb running along his cheekbone. The sudden click of his seat belt releasing, and the slight pressure of his phone being pressed back into his hand, partly brought him back to reality.

Mr Stark smiled at him.

“Let me walk you to the door, Peter. I need to make sure you make it all the way home safely, don't I?”

And before Peter really knew how he had even gotten out of the car, he was two steps away from the door to his and aunt May's apartment complex, his phone clutched in his hand, backpack slung over his shoulder, and Mr Stark's arm once again solidly wrapped around his waist.

The man steered him the last two steps before the buildings entrance, and then leaned down to his ear.

“Open the door, Peter.”

And Peter did, fishing his keys out of the side pocket of his backpack and unlocking the door, all in quick succession, not even thinking about it. As soon as the door sprung free of its lock, Mr Stark tightened his arm around his waist, giving him a slight squeeze.

“Good boy.”

Peter blamed the shudder that ran through his body right then on the cold wind.

Then the arm around his waist carefully turned him to face the taller man, while also maneuvering him through the opened doorway and into the entrance hall.

“I will contact you tomorrow.” The arm was gone from his waist, but the hand was suddenly back on the side of his face, and the thumb was again stroking lightly over his cheek.

“Go to sleep now, Sweetheart.”

Had he really heard that? Had Tony Stark really just called him, little nobody Peter Parker, Sweetheart? But before he could think even further on this, there was the sensation of a pair of lips on his other cheek.

“Sweet dreams, Peter.”

“Y-You t-too, M-Mr S-Stark.” He somehow managed to stammer out, while bringing a hand up to the cheek that had just been kissed by the genius engineer in front of him. The same genius engineer who then smiled sweetly at him.

“Call me Tony.”

He could not do that. He could not possibly be that informal with someone of Mr Stark's stature.

“Sweet dreams... T-tony.” How the hell had he done that?

And then Tony smiled at him again, and as he leaned into the entrance way, Peter didn't know if he expected to be kissed again on the cheek, or maybe this time on the lips, or for Tony to follow him in, but what he certainly didn't expect, was for the other man to grab hold of, and then close the door. 

As the 24 year old Berkeley student stood there, staring at the closed door, unmoving for a whole 31 seconds, he couldn't decide if he was relieved, or disappointed that Tony hadn't kissed him again.

Making his way back to the car, Tony felt like whistling to himself. This had gone exceptionally well. More so, the way Peter had reacted to him had trumped all of his expectations. It had been perfect. So perfect in fact, that not even the sight of Barnes leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest and looking absolutely unimpressed, could dampen Tony's mood right then.

He grinned at the man.

“Gotta hand it to Natasha, you really are good. Since when have you been following me?”

He wasn't even perturbed about not having spotted the man sooner. Just thinking about that shudder that had gone through Peter when he had called him a 'good boy', as well as the easy way Peter had followed his lead, killed any annoyance he might have felt otherwise right at the spot.

The bodyguard shrugged. “Since you left the tower. Without telling anyone. Again.”

Interestingly enough, Barnes didn't seem all that annoyed by that, either.

“You know there are easier ways to ask someone out, than to hire a group of thugs to stage a mugging, right?”

Tony scoffed as he climbed into his car, only a little surprised when Barnes got in on the other side.

“I didn't hire anyone. Diego and his little gang still owed me.” He turned the key in the ignition, giving the gruff looking man next to him a questioning look.

“Don't you have to get your bike or something? Or did you follow me all the way on foot?”

Again, the other man just shrugged.

“It's taken care of. Should I be preparing a security detail for Mr Parker?”

Tony was almost impressed by Barnes knowledge of Peter, but then again, he probably shouldn't be. After all, this was the man that Natasha had recommended.

“Yeah. As I have very recently discovered, this part of the city is even more unsafe than I thought. But get someone discreet. Or better yet, you do it. Natasha is scheduled to arrive back tomorrow, which should free you up some. I don't want Peter knowing that he is being watched protected. At least not yet.”

Barnes only nodded, and Tony decided he liked the man.

tbc.

I have simply added everyone who has commented on previous chapters to the tagging list. If I have forgotten anyone, or if you at any point loose interest in the story and don’t want to be tagged any more, just let me know.

@professional-fangirl75 @djspooky-jim @the-neon-demon @itfeelssogoodmrstark @haylove5 @unknownshadyperson @diamondheart31 @spadestorm696 @starkravingspiders @goldenbadass @hoe4parker @harmonystarker @kawaiiloverofanimu @httpkye 

[indie-struggle]

Subtext

You've heard about it before. You've probably heard the famous line repeated over and over and over until you want to stab yourself in the ears with a spork:

"People don't often say to each other what they really mean.”

Bullshit.

I believe in action. Not boom-boom-explosion action, but actions taken by a character to get, or do, or not do, or get something from someone or something else, such as: ignoring them, being vague, lying, hiding, a type of look. If that is subtext, then I'm a strong believer in subtext, but that isn't subtext. Writers seems to confuse the two, and I never keep what I mean from someone else.

Writers put too much subtext emphasis into the mush pot, they think all the great novelist use it, therefore somehow in a magical way, if they use it in a scene or every scene, that that scene will burst alive with color, flavor and more power. Horseshit. I watch and read films from around the world and older than 1901, and I cannot tell you how little subtext plays a part in the visual medium of film compared to character actions.

I.e. What's the subtext in a silent film?

Can subtext bring a scene to a greater level? Possibly. But a point has to be made at some time, the point has to be given to the viewer, to the reader, to the audience, and most importantly, to the other character - otherwise, who are they talking to and what are they doing? You can confuse the very person you're trying to impress using subtext, and that is death.

You want to know how important subtext is and how well it works? Try to order a cup of coffee using subtext.

I've found that most people, writers particularly, when they talk about subtext they speak in terms of what's not being said, but when they analyze what's not being said and how, you realize that the character is just taking an action. Very rarely does the character or dialogue say yes when they mean no without later crumbling and confessing their lie (an action).

Real conversations, those that writers say you should emulate, the ones you have with other people... the only time you're saying things you don’t mean is when? When you don't want to hurt their feelings, or feel it's not any of their business, etc. But to not let them know you feel that way - you're hiding, avoiding, which are actions. You misdirect, you lie. Sometimes you'll even change the subject completely. That again, is not subtext, that is an action.

Subtext is also not the undercurrent of a scene: something brewing underneath and it's never talked about. That is evasion, which is an action. "They're not talking about the elephant in the room - what subtext." No, no. Fredo is not telling Michael anything because he has to keep the lie or he's dead, he's continuing to lie (action), and there is no subtext. You know he's a liar, and he's showing regret with simple, plain words that aren't subtext: "Why didn't we ever talk like this before?" That entire powerful scene is avoidance, and it’s all Fredo's.

Hemingway was the master of subtext: what the character is really saying by saying something else. No greater writer of it. But he wasn't working in a visual medium, either. He was a genius that knew sometimes his characters had to say something, anything to each other, therefore he'd have them say something they don’t want to say, and letting you, the reader, inject your tone and context of what the words meant. No two people will agree that a certain line of subtext means the same thing as the other. Often times his subtext was in the banter of nothing, which is where I believe that stupid quote at the beginning I gave you came from, and is said over and over again by people like a broken parrot. And ironically, there is no subtext in the quote.

Frankly, in my opinion, subtext is not as strong as action or even as powerful at conveying what's happening. Or, most importantly, showing what that character is feeling or doing to someone else. Subtext is in text, action is like inner conflict but in conscience, pragmatic movement.

I also think we as writers over estimate the power of subtext with the reader. Even with, scoff, "cliches" (which is another conversation). If the audience is interested, they don't give a shit about any of those things. The people who give a shit about those things are other writers. And no one cares what they think. How do I know? I am one. Bring me in on the 11th draft to rewrite, or as Ken Lonergan would say: "Bring me in to redestroy someone else's draft so they can fire me and then bring in someone else to destroy my draft." and the only people who give a shit about what I do, or even understand, are the other sad writers working on the material. The same goes for my own work. Only I care about it and I hope it’s interesting enough to resonate with someone.

Look, if subtext is important for your scene, by all means use it. But remember, that very same thing you're using to try and impress can confuse. Also, for every 1 movie you can name that has a scene with subtext, I can give you 50 that are just as good, if not better that do not have it and are all character actions - which show its importance overall and that you shouldn’t get hung up on it. If you want to read more into a line than is there, that's fine too. You can actually have any dialogue you want as long as the scene is clear, and everyone will go along. Subtext or pure silence (action) would work if your direction of the story is clear anyway - say whatever the hell you want.

As long as you simply think of subtext the same way a DP thinks of a prime 18mm, you're okay. It's another tool that shouldn't be over used and has its place. But no one is going to notice if you don't use it, and no one is going to think to themselves, "This scene needs more subtext to work" if it already works. Subtext is like garnishing prose, you can use those big adverbs, but do you really need to?

[dramaphan]

My dad during christmas be like: christmas have to be perfect and about family and full of love and christmas carols in the background and then *gets mad bc my mum forget to clean the car* *gets mad bc my sister had festive sweater and this isn't elegant enough* *don't talk to uncle bc of sth 6 months old* *gets mad bc nobody talking* *gets mad bc I called my sister spork and our banter break his heart, we should hug each other all the time* *we ruin christmas for him*

Dude your dad should chill. Eat a turkey leg and nap on the couch like every other dad in the world