#the title is a bit of a hyperbole

[arabella-s-arts]

Scenes/Things in Supernatural that genuinely don't make sense to me if Dean was straight:

The confession booth scene.

Sam just rolling with the fact that Dean's siren is a guy while still thinking sirens infect people through sex.

Dean being flustered by several men: Gunner Lawless, Aaron, Doctor Sexy, etc.

All the parallels between Destiel and other couples. (A big one being "last night on Earth" bc how do you do that accidentally.)

Having all the gay jokes be on Dean instead of Sam.

Paralleling Sam meeting his childhood celebrity crush with Dean meeting Gunner Lawless.

The boner Dean got when Cas cleaned up.

Dean gulping after Cas does an impression from a Western movie.

Charlie, a lesbian, calling Castiel "dreamy."

The way Mary looks at Dean and Cas when they hug.

Dean wondering why everyone assumes he's gay, while Sam not caring.

The logic that Charlie can't flirt with guys because she's only attracted to women, but then having Dean flirt with the guy for her.

Dean seeming disappointed when learning that Aaron's flirting was fake.

The amount of time Dean and Cas spend staring at each other.

Dean canonically having an orgy with Crowley.

A woman saying that she knows when someone's pining for someone else to Dean, just for us to learn that Dean was never in love with Amara.

The set design and script choices that lead to a cross in the background while Dean said "I do." to Cas after he came back to life.

Edit: To the people who say I can't use the siren as an example because the siren is supposed to be his brother, and therefore his siren being a man doesn't work. If you reread that bullet point, then you will realize that I didn't put it down as just simply Dean's siren being a man. I recognize that the siren is supposed to be his brother. It's the fact that Sam still thinks the siren infects people through sex, not knowing that it's actually through saliva when he realizes who the siren is. So when he sees that Dean's siren is a guy, he had to assume they had sex, and he does not seem surprised by this at all.

[vimbry]

you ever see posts that are like, "hey this place doesn't function like many other socials. content will only get shared around by reblogging it, so if you like something, keep that in mind! consider leaving feedback more often too! don't forget to appreciate artists!" and you're like yeees.

but then either that post, or the comments after, descend into, "you should be grateful for fandom creators! reblog everything you see! don't like! they put so much hard work into everything they make for free! you're a consumer and you owe them your attention! it's free! they do it for free!" and you're like noooo oo o.

[leclsrc]

you know it ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn WITH plot (for once?! everyone cheered), humor, bit of fluff... oh inaccurate depictions of the 2022 season sorry

word count: 7k

Charles is a bit disappointed the pretty girl he harbors a crush on doesn’t have him listed as a Formula 1 crush. He is a lot disappointed that you two can’t fuck.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... degradation, praise, charles is a bit switchy here lol, penetrative sex, a bit of ass play sorry...., oral (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

title from this. i love u guys im so sleepy

Joris insists there’s some big present waiting for Charles in his car, to celebrate the middle of the season that has, and will no doubt continue to stretch into a period of conflict and strategy woes. He yanks off the beanie sitting on his head, listens to small talk drifting between Joris and Carlos as they all walk toward their cars to alleviate the bubble of nerves in the low of his stomach. 

Sure enough, there’s an unassuming box lying on the driver’s seat. Joris slides into the passenger seat after Carlos drives away with his girlfriend, his grin shit-eating and mischievous. The door is half open when Charles takes the box to inspect it. White, with the Ferrari logo printed neatly on the centre (very classy touch), the sides are signed by different members of his team. He scratches through the seal and pulls the flap open.

He’s been given a quasi-official Ferrari box of condoms.

Thirty-six condoms, at that, small squares neatly lined up next to each other. Talk about a welcoming present. Not a camera, not racing memorabilia, not a new pair of shoes. Just condoms. Thirty-six of them.

“A mid-season pick-me-up,” presses his friend, giddily. The shorter male lounges comfortably on the seat, a blissful look of pride on his face. Laughing with exasperation, Charles wedges the box shut and tosses it carelessly into the backseat, preparing to drive. This isn’t his first rodeo with weird gifts—he’s half-sure he got adoption papers from an especially excited fan once before.

“You are such an asshole.”

“It’s also a congratulations on winning literally every race so far present,” Joris adds. It’s hyperbole but has a ring of truth to it. As the season closes, Charles’ chances of holding up the trophy this year increase. 

Despite himself, Charles has a better outlook on his chances for the remainder of the season, driving-wise. He’s given it his all so far, and the rest looks promising enough. He only hopes he’s right. Netflix also increased the amount of people getting into the sport, so he’s dealing with tons more fans and nosey DMs, but it’s not too much of an impediment to a hopefully stellar season.

Charles makes a right. “Do you plan to use them?” Joris asks then, a teasing tone taking on his voice as he scrolls through his phone.

“No, not really,” Charles says, lying straight through his teeth.

“You’re a fucking liar, you are.” He whips his head toward Charles, observing his stoic side profile. “You’re single, haven’t gotten laid in months—”

“—weeks.” Corrects Charles with a cough, the defense coming at an embarrassing speed.

“…Case in point. And sports gets everyone horny. And if you didn’t know, Mattia actually OK-ed the condoms, so you’ve basically been greenlit by your boss to fuck half the world. Thank me later. I’m proud of myself.”

“Sports gets everyone competitive. Because it’s sports. Which, you’re conveniently forgetting, is my life profession.”

“Loosen up,” Joris whistles lowly. “You think Lewis got seven titles by being a closed-off celibate? It’s practically tradition to fuck around if you’re single in sports. And, for others, being in a relationship is barely an obstacle, anyway.”

Charles hates to admit that Joris is right—because he is. Racing isn’t racing without the extravagant parties that follow, and the girls and guys brought back to hotels for reasons known to everyone. People from everywhere come to the paddock and the clubs—models, influencers, actors. The pent-up energy has to go somewhere, he supposes.

But even if the little shit is right, Charles still maintains a level of dignity. Ergo, he’s steadfast in his belief that he will not be sleeping around or putting this godforsaken box of condoms to any semblance of use while the rest of the season progresses. He just hopes he won’t eat his words.

—

Monza kicks off with a 1-2 and secures Charles with a comfortable lead ahead Max.

He is high on adrenaline all night, toasting and chugging to the win, snapping pictures with Carlos, proud out of his mind. It’s everything he’s wanted and more, a quench to the thirst he’d developed over the season, a slap in the face to his doubters, a kiss on his. He texts his family, friends who aren’t present, some other people who he feels are deserving of a personal announcement, and pockets his phone.

“Now would be a great time to put that gift to use,” Carlos says at some point, when everyone in the garage is kicking back alcohol and slowly preparing to move the celebrations someplace else.

Charles cringes visibly, having almost forgotten about the dreaded gift, and totally forgotten Carlos’ knowledge of it. Even with the recent win, he’s already thinking of the next, the promise of a two-peat, another podium, hell, another 1-2. The condoms were honest to God the last thing on his mind.

They break apart an hour later, when Charles is heading to the hotel and Carlos is headed somewhere else. He’s almost to the exit when someone calls his attention in a curt English voice.He turns and finds Lewis jogging toward him, outside of his race suit and back in the fashionable apparel Charles merely wishes he could pull off.

“Lewis,” he waves, pacing toward him to save the extra few seconds of waiting. 

“Amazing, amazing race, man,” the elder compliments. “You’ve got the best chance at the title here.”

Warmth melts into Charles’ body and he offers praise back, which—praising Lewis is just about the easiest thing in the world. Nerves bleed out of him as the conversation continues, the atmosphere of a finished race a welcome accompaniment to their strategic talk. 

“Headed to a party, yeah?” Lewis asks when they’ve both exhausted the topic. Charles gives a half-hearted shrug, already energized enough from such a momentous win, and he nods in response. “Nah, I get it. Sometimes you just gotta sleep. But hey, if you’re ever free, we should go get dinner sometime.”

—

The “dinner sometime” happens in Singapore. Having gotten P1 beside Lewis and therefore once again high off the adrenaline, Charles claps Andrea on the back and retrieves his phone to view two texts. One reads Put the condoms to use yet, champ? from Joris, and the other Can I take you up on the dinner? from Lewis. One goes answered and the other goes muted on his iMessage.

A little something he failed to remember was Lewis’ plant-based diet, a fact that hurtles back toward him when he can’t find steak on the menu of this classy, hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant. Of course Lewis would know these types of places, he thinks. He’s a millennial semi-hipster with a separate Instagram account for his dog.

Charles ends up ordering pasta, and Lewis beside him orders a cacophony of very vegan, hippy sounding meals, the quantity of which could feed the two of them. “I hope you don’t mind,” Lewis says when the waiter departs, “but a friend is actually joining us tonight.”

“Sure,” Charles says honestly. As long as it’s not some deranged hyperfan, he does well in social situations. Right then, Lewis calls someone over. Charles looks up, squints through the dim mood lighting to try and make out the nearing figure. And then you’re sitting down across them, smiling softly, exchanging hellos with Lewis.

A little something Lewis fails to remember is his “friends” can just as well be called “celebrities,” because he is, after all, a sporting legend. So if Lewis says “friend,” Charles will assume it’s a “friend,” and not a world-famous model whose face is plastered everywhere on and offline.

“Charles Leclerc,” he says blankly.

You introduce yourself, sliding easily into a bout of questions, apologies for missing the race, you’re impossibly jetlagged, it’s crazy. Lewis chips in with something about how he’s already ordered food for the both of you, and this and that, and Charles is hopeless, staring at your face the entire time. He hopes he looks more sexy than aloof or, worse, starstruck, because it’s turning out to be the kind of situation where he looks like the deranged hyperfan, and not the other way around for once.

To be clear, Charles isn’t a fan of you. He just knows of you, because honestly, who doesn’t at this point? You’re talking on and on about how your latest shoot with Jacquemus was a pain because you shot in a tank top in sub-zero weather, but you express it like it’s the most profound topic on Earth.

Lewis turns to him and, in an (eventually successful) effort to include more of Charles in the conversation, goes, “She’s a big Formula One fan, Charles.”

Okay. Common ground. Charles lifts both brows smugly, his eyes flickering back over to you. “Really?”

You meet his eyes and smile, looking downward and blinking owlishly. You’re so pretty, long lashes fluttering as you blink and try to find an answer. Christ, you’re so painfully his type.

Lewis chimes in again—“Really. And not just because she and I are friends. I mean she was into racing before we got acquainted. Honestly. Quiz her and everything”—then excuses himself to “take a call.” (His phone wasn’t even ringing—total bullshit—but Charles is ultimately grateful for it.)

You make a face of shut up toward the departing Lewis, and Charles exhales a quiet laugh at your defiance. You clear your throat and come up with an answer.

“I’m not a big fan,” you say. “I’m more of a casual, ‘every once in a while’ type of fan.”

“That’s what every big fan of sports says,” Charles says smoothly. 

“Is it?” You ask, cocking your head to the side, making a tch noise. You chuckle before going, “Well, if you insist, I’ll be honest. I didn’t want it to come to this, but okay. I am a fan… of Red Bull.”

Charles fakes extreme offense, his jaw dropping as if totally scandalized. You laugh, throwing two hands up in faux surrender. “Not Red Bull,” he says, his tone making him sound even more devastated. “You’re telling me you—don’t tell me you think Max Verstappen is attractive.”

“I mean, a bit!”

Charles makes sarcastic sounds of disapproval, and you laugh. Charles leans forward, and you do, too, both of you smiling. “So you’re into the angry drivers?”

“I’m not into a specific kind of driver,” you say casually, your tongue peeking out to lick over your bottom lip. Your voice is as soft as it is firm, slow and demure, matching the way your eyes glint. You’re impossibly pretty. He almost can’t handle it.

“So who’s making the cut?” He prompts, interested.

“Well, for starters, drivers who are my age,” you say slowly. “I turned twenty-four this year, so anyone within that bracket.”

“Oh?” Charles pretends to delve into deep thought, teasing. “Maybe Stroll? He’s very funny, speaks good English. You can never really say no to a Canadian.”

Your face warms, and you hope your flustered state isn’t too obvious as you shake your head. “He seems fun, but I prefer somebody a bit… a bit older.”

“Older…” he hums. “Pierre, perhaps? Tad bit older, real charming, great driver. I can introduce you. We’re good friends, you know.”

You click your tongue, smiling shyly. You bite your lip and it takes everything in Charles to not turn on his horny gears when he sees you, big eyes and lip bite, look so pretty. “You tease me,” you say meekly. Charles covers a cough with a chuckle and adjusts his position on the seat.

Later, after Lewis comes back in (“Long call, eh? It was about Roscoe.” Bullshit again) and you all get to order drinks, and you’ve departed in your private car, pressing an air kiss to Lewis and waving goodbye to Charles, he turns to the Mercedes driver and hums.

“Next time you have one of these”—he points to the restaurant, gestures to the front door—“dinners, let me know, okay?”

“Ah.” Lewis winks, smirking. “I’ll be sure to.”

—

Understandably, your schedules never seem to mesh well together. Lewis ends up giving Charles your number as compensation.

He stares at the contact longer than he’d like to admit, when he’s marinating in the sweltering heat of Austin. He’s finished much of his work for this half of the day so he’s mostly watching the engineers work on the last bits of modification for Sunday; he cherishest the free time and drafts, reads, and rereads texts, scours Google and Instagram for pictures of, and anything related to, you.

There’s a few new articles about buying a new car (a Benz, much to Charles’ chagrin) and new photoshoots intermittently scattered across Europe, with all sorts of brands. He sees a picture you’ve posted of yourself smiling at the camera and thinks of how pretty it would look as his lockscreen. 

Am I seeing you soon? He texts finally. He hopes it’s enough to let you know who he is.

Hopefully is the reply. He smiles the whole day.

—

You’ve been texting and calling almost everyday, conversations stretching continents. He only sees you next in Mexico, Friday night, at a club Lewis has rented out for a crazy price that will no doubt be replenished in days anyway. He’s dropped to second here, but the thrill riding in him makes up for his disappointment. The place is so crowded—everyone and their mums seem to have been invited here—room blinking purple and blue, each step vibrating with the heavy bass of EDM. He catches you right as you exit the washroom area, and you look pleasantly surprised to see him.

He saw you earlier, when you were doing shots of tequila and chatting with with Bella and Lewis, but just as quickly as he spotted you, you’d dipped back into the sea of people. Now is better, he thinks. You two are alone.

“Charles, hi,” you say casually. You’re wearing a tight top and a short skirt that, despite Charles’ best efforts, always cast his gaze downward. He wonders what’s underneath, hungers to get his hands there. But he’s nothing if he’s not patient, willing to play the long game.

He takes a step forward, his gaze steady on you. Charles isn’t the tallest driver, but he’s got a big presence. You swallow, taking a step back to accommodate him. He smirks. “You look pretty.” 

“You flatter me,” you say thickly, smiling, inviting him closer. The air is hot around the both of you—when your eyes flit around, they see nobody. You’re alone together. His eyes pierce into yours so deep you feel like breaking eye contact, exhaling as you take another step back—evidently, you’re distracted, because you stumble.

His arm circles around your waist, and once you steady, the hand moves down to your hip. It stays, a reminder of what you might be getting soon. You smile curtly, wondering what this might look like to a bystander, a stranger. Somebody might want to piss and walk in to see the strongest world champion contender’s hand on Chanel’s poster girl’s waist.

“Is this okay?” He asks softly against your ear.

“More than.” You say, breath shaky. “It’s more than okay.”

He chuckles. “Good. I’d hate if we couldn’t fuck before Abu Dhabi.”

Your finger traces down and wraps around the belt loop of his jeans. “Who said anything about fucking?”

Charles exhales a laugh, his lips curling upward into an amused smile. “Ah? I can’t fuck you, then?”

“I’ll let you fuck me when you’re holding up the world champion trophy,” you say sweetly, tugging him closer. “That’s okay, right?” You stare up at him, blinking, pouty. He wonders, is this how you might look with your lips wrapped around his—

“That’s about a month away.” His composure barely wavers, his hand traveling lower, blunt nails digging into your ass. Your breath hitches. 

“I’m aware,” you say lowly. So be it, Charles thinks—he’s got thirty-six condoms for a reason.

“Define fuck,” he says, voice rough.

“Penetration.” You’re quick with it, cocking your head to the side. You lean back confidently, testin him, eyes batting flirtatiously. 

It’s time he get a little creative.

—

Daytime weather is hot and the paddock is swarming with people, but Charles has his sights set on somebody sitting in the Mercedes hospitality. He manages to get out of morning meetings earlier, wedging himself out of the room and passing by a mirror to fix his hair with admirable concentration. He’s in the middle of combing through it when a force tugs at the hem of his polo, causing him to stumble backwards.

“Uh—Carlos? What the hell?” He asks, brow raised defensively. Facing him are Carlos, Joris, and Pierre, arms crossed over their torsos and amused expressions on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Asks Pierre, cocking his head to the side.

“Fixing my hair.” 

“Pussy appointment?” Joris interjects; the vulgarity of his statement earns him a poke on the side from Carlos, who clicks his tongue.

“Wh—I don’t—”

“You are shit at lying, mate,” says Pierre, his lips curled into a devious smile. “Who is it?”

“It’s nobody,” he lies.

“Charles,” says Lewis suddenly from behind them, waving his arms to get the former’s attention, “are you going to go over and say hi?”

Hook, line, and sinker. He’s been caught. “Well, well, well,” Carlos starts, mischievous.

“Guys—” Charles says, attempting to make an excuse.

“Looks like your vow of celibacy isn’t so far off after all,” Pierre adds. “That one over at Mercedes is going to break it, eh?”

“Yeah.” Joris says, smirking.  “Lucky George, huh.”

The three face him, incredulous. “I was kidding,” he fibs, once he realizes his epiphany is wrong. “Kidding.”

Charles walks off, and ends up seeing you right where he expected you, sitting beside Lewis in a tiny dress with your hair pinned up into a bun. Almost naturally, your words fall into the flirtatious back-and-forth you’d started at the dinner, hyperaware of the cameras snapping your pictures. At some point, the Brit excuses himself to “take a call” (again, bullshit) and leaves the two of you alone.

“See anything nice on the paddock?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you say with a teasing smile, head cocking to the side to gauge his reaction. He chuckles.

“Did you get a picture with Max?”

“Only a ton.” You pause. “And Daniel, too.”

“Ah, you’re just crushing on the whole paddock, now are you?” He pokes his tongue into his cheek, leans forward.” Uh, Checo?”

“Pass,” you say with a nose scrunch. You’re so fucking pretty.

“Lewis.”

“God, pass. He’s not ugly, but he’s my brother at this point.”

“Pierre.”

“Horribly French, but… smash.”

“Are you not into the French?” He smiles. “Good to know. Hmm—Carlos.”

“I’d be stupid to say anything other than smash.” You narrow your eyes, licking over your lips. “I’m into the Ferrari guys, is the thing.” His gaze travels to your crossed legs, long and disappearing into the hem of your dress.

He smirks. “Are you?”

“I really am,” you hum.

“Are you staying long? All weekend?”

“Yeah, I’m free from work for now,” you say casually. “Any recommendations on what fun things I can do here?”

“I can think of…” he says, smirking a little. “A few.”

—

Stupid places to have sex, number one: a motorhome.

Still, Charles is crowding you up against the wall of the room, swallowing the whimper that leaves your mouth with his own. And still, this isn’t sex. At least not the kind he wants the most. He mentally praises Carlos for being able to decipher the typo-laden text he’d sent out on the way here, one hand around your waist, the other barely capable of typing with how fast his brain ran. Clesr the fuckng room npw now npw it read. Thank God.

Your mouth tastes like champagne, and everywhere else smells divine. Your hands roam impatiently over his shoulders and you make muted noises of frustration at your inability to pull his shirt off. You settle for letting your hands crawl underneath it, stroking over his abs.

“D’you remember what I told you,” you pant, his lips insistent on your neck, “at the club?”

“Yeah,” he says, grunting at the memory.

“Okay.” You breathe. “Let me suck you off.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “Jesus. Okay. Fuck.”

You giggle, and he watches intently as you drop onto your knees, looking up at him through thick lashes. You’re insistent, pulling the zip of his jeans down and tugging his cock out. It’s pretty, thick like the rest of him, already hard. 

He’s at his limit, having you here like this, on you knees and stretching your lips around the tip of his dick. Your eyes barely leave his, fluttering as they tear up when you take him in your throat.

He throws his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, lets a hand unpin your bun and thread itself into the untangled hair. If he looks at you, he’ll see your head bobbing up and down on his cock, and he genuinely needs to hold off the orgasm first.

He rocks forward into your mouth and feels your throat close up around him. That’s enough to weaken his resolve, send grunts out of his throat that he can’t keep quiet.

“Oh, shit,” he says, feeling every part of your mouth and throat around him, warm and tense. He can’t help but thrust harder, steady but not too rough, growing more aroused with every sound of you choking on him.

His gaze flickers toward you. You’re teary-eyed, lips dotted with spit, choking yourself on his cock. Just for him, here in public. You pull off, blinking tears away from your face and looking up at him smilingly.

He laughs, guiding his cock back into your mouth, watching the way your brows knit together, pleading, almost. You're at his mercy, he thinks, thrusting harder, listening to your coughs. He loves seeing you like this, innocent face messy and slick with spit and precum, eyes big and needy.

“You like that?” He grunts. “Look at me.”

You nod the best you can. Yes, you want to say. Give me more, I love it.

“Yeaaah, fuck. I know you do,” he says through his teeth, staving off his orgasm the best he can before he releases all over you. The image alone of streaking you with his cum, claiming you all over-eyelashes, tits, cheeks splashed with cum-is enough to send him closer to the edge. “Gonna cum,” he grunts.

You moan around him, the vibrations causing his eyelids to flutter. You shake your head, pulling off and wrapping your hand around his dick, stroking slower. “Not yet,” you say sweetly, watching him throw his head back in pleasure and frustration. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, exhales shakily.

“Shit.” He whines. “Come on, baby. Make me cum.” He cups your jaw, stares down at you.

You stroke him faster, lip between your teeth. “Okay,” you say with a smile. “Cum for me, Charles.”

He stops staving himself off, falls into the pleasure and relief of your hand around his cock until he’s tense all over, knitting his hand into your hair and pushing you backwards so he can press his tip on the flat expanse of your tongue and let his cum shoot there. It drips from your tongue and lips onto your chin and you giggle, swallowing it, scooping up the rest to push into your mouth.

You stand, licking your lips slowly. “I owe you,” he pants, zipping himself up. Already he’s thinking about what he can do to you in return. Tease you, like you did him, bend you over his lap or sit you on it and make you whine and writhe and wait and cum. 

“I’ll hold you to that, champion,” you murmur, kissing his cheek and slipping back outside.

—

Ferrari’s advice is shit and despite his good mood and quick-witted driving, Charles finishes in fifth—not too shabby, but disastrous for his overall standings.

He suffers through a horrible debrief where attempts to defend his honor go unheard, his mood wilting and wilting until he’s at the media pen and ushered in front of some network he hasn’t heard of. They’ve probably paid to get a good seat here.

He’s in a shit mood, he hasn’t seen Joris or Pierre or you in hours, and has only faced red-faced frustrated superiors and now, wide-eyed journalists with loose mouths. The media’s done the mandatory speculation between the two of you, so he already expects questions of that variety, but it’s still hot and angry when he does.

Are you banging the Marc Jacobs model? The Irish reporter asks with a wink, so very unprofessional and not at all belonging to reputable media. The hot leggy one who has fuck me eyes?

Charles clenches his jaw, rolls his eyes, says fuck off mate and shoves him backward a little, then walks away and readjusts his cap. The clip makes Twitter and he feels even worse with the amount of troll accounts telling him to Jeez, take a joke.

After the ordeal, in your hotel room, you sigh softly and run your hands through his still shampoo-smelling hair. “You didn’t need to do that,” you say, a bit strictly. He knows you’re grateful, though, and a bit proud.

“I wanted to,” he insists softly. He forgets to leave before morning; when he does, he forgets his official Ferrari shirt hanging on the seat, leaving in a spare one instead. It’s got his number across the back. You don’t tell him.

—

In between Mexico and Sao Paulo, he manages to catch a flight to New York to peek into one of your photoshoots. It’s for Chanel and he’s half-sure he’s taken more pictures of you than the official photographer did. At this point your vague relationship status has caught onto headlines everywhere, and he doesn’t miss the curious murmurs from paparazzo that follow him as he enters your apartment later to greet you.

You’re in a pair of shorts and a tank top when you open the door, greeting him with a tight hug and leading him inside with a loose grip.

“Wine?”

“Please.” He eyes the wide area, the big floor-to-ceiling windows and the art on the walls. “Hungry?”

“Mmm.” You hum, sliding a glass toward him. “Starving.”

“Pizza?”

“Something else.” You smile. He tears his eyes away from your tits, poking out of the thin cotton, and coughs.

The both of you end up on the couch, your legs draped over his as you talk about racing.

He’s ranting about how he’s neck to neck with Max now, and the final verdict will likely be decided at Abu Dhabi, a fact that sends nerves all through him. You’re listening, you really are, but it’s difficult to keep listening because his hand, big and rough, is stroking your bare calf as he talks absentmindedly. 

You offer the occasional mmm-hmm and uh-huh and even the oh really to sell it, but he doesn’t seem to be conscious of how many sparks are coursing through you because of his hand on your leg. He just talks and talks, accent curving into curse words elicited by the competition.

And his voice, rough and deeper when he slides into Italian phrases, gets in your head, reminds you of the way he’d moaned when you had his dick in your mouth. You like that? he’d said, panting, heavy, hot. His hand remained in your hair, controlling you the same way you did him. Fuck.

When you blink, he’s stopped talking, and has likely noticed your wandering imagination if his teasing smile is anything to go by. You cough, clear your throat, adjust your thighs. You’re thinking—you can’t stop thinking—about what happened in Mexico, not just in the motorhome but in the club where he’d let his hand sprawl over your ass and stay there, possessive.

The tension rises. I owe you. He really does. You reach over and grab your phone from the coffee table, snap a few pictures of him. “—Hey!” He protests, scrabbling to grab it from you while balancing his half-full glass. “I look god awful.”

You stand up, review the picture. He looks so impossibly handsome. “You’re right, you do,” you say, pouting. 

He reaches over again, chuckling, and you avoid him. “Foul play!”

“Tch. At least show it to me,” he says defeatedly, so you do: presenting your screen to him.

Quickly, he makes a grab for it, but you just escape his grip, ending up right in front of him and leaning over. You’re losing your balance, digging your toes into your carpet to maintain stance. He spares a glance at your shorts, riding low on your hips, showing a bit of thin lace.

Charles tugs you forward by the hem of your top and then takes your wrist into his grip—the force of his grab makes your tits shake underneath your flimsy tank top. It’s dragged down so far your tits are spilling out. His eyes flicker down to them, dark, and a pretty smile spreads across his face.

“Come on, give it,” he challenges, eyes narrowing a little. You bite your lip, inwardly liking this a little too much—being at his mercy, trapped in his strong grip. You’re flustered and it shows.

He wrestles you onto his lap with ease, his arms steady around you. You stare downwards, dark eyes meeting his, hand on his broad shoulder for leverage. He’s so pretty, you think, so hot and handsome and you need him right now. Through his jeans you can feel how thick he is, his dick growing, getting hard and huge under you. It feels big even through a few layers—you can’t help but imagine how it might feel inside you.

Your phone clatters to the carpet behind the couch. “I win,” you say breathlessly.

He grabs your hips and jerks his upward, letting his stiff dick press up even more against your shorts.

“I think I’m the winner here,” he says gruffly, hands feeling you up all over. He thumbs at your chest, rubbing over your tits. You shiver—it feels good having him on you like this, your mind turning to mush.

“Shut up,” you laugh, shakily. A hand wanders in between your thighs, another coming to squeeze your barely-covered ass. You can’t focus on much, just his hands roaming everywhere and his hard dick pressing against your core. He shoves your hips downward again, his cock hard and perfectly against your pussy.

“You feel that?” He asks; it leaves him in one low breath.  

“Yeah,” you say, whimpering. “I want it.”

He grinds up against you again, his thumb teasing the hem of your shorts. Closer to where you want it. “Don’t think you could even take it, baby.”

“I hate you,” you say. “You know I can.”

He laughs. “We’ll see, yeah?” You find a rhythm of grinding down against his cock, nestled right against your ass. He’s everywhere and you can’t handle it anymore, finding yourself craving him more and more.

You moan against his neck—and then come to your senses. “No.”

He smirks when you pull away. “Tempted, were you?”

“Not…” You pause. You’re sweaty, flushed all over, and your panties are sticking to you from how wet you’ve grown. “Not very.”

—

Abu Dhabi is a son of a bitch.

It comes with meetings, meetings, debriefs, calls, meetings. Everything is riding on the night’s race, the flurry of social media a welcome source of anxiety for him as he watches the hours whiz by. You’d missed seeing him, understood he was busy; you send a selfie to compensate and it gets him calm enough to last the pre-race buzz.

Time speeds by with lunch, coaching, drills, talks with Carlos and Mattia and even Max, who displays support as strongly as competitiveness. Before he even realizes it, he blinks and he’s in his suit, adjusting his balaclava, inhaling, exhaling. Everything is just the way he likes—needs—it to be.

He drives himself to P2 behind Max, eyes shut.

All else seeps into him, natural method, natural routine. He flexes his thumbs. Through the team radio his engineer goes good luck, and Charles’ practice bleeds into his subconscious. The air is heavy, with tension and excitement, the division of blue and red. Everyone’s eager to see who claims the title. 

The lights go off and everything is left to skill, blurring into noise and turns and expletives yelled into the team radio. He can’t even feel himself think, turning with dexterity and overtaking with the kind of vengeance he hasn’t let out in a while. 

For all his trying, Max keeps up just the same, keeping a neck and neck level for the relative entirety of the race. They’re milking out the last few laps together, and Charles feels every fibre of his being work toward this, just this, nothing but this right now. Nothing but the finish line.

You got this, Charles, says the engineer, voice heightening. Maiden world championship.

He nods to himself, trusts his instincts and when he catches sight of the finish line, he thinks: he’s the best driver on the grid.

So he revs faster, and the rest descends into—

Absolute fucking chaos.

—

He’s smiling when he approaches the reporter, who’s already holding the mic with wonder. He asks for a message in Italian, then reminds him—and the crowd—that, in case he forgot, he’s world champion. Charles thinks he genuinely can’t ever.

“What are you doing to celebrate?” He asks then, smiling.

Sweaty, with damp hair and shiny skin, he smirks and leans closer. “Someone, I hope.”

—

“Hey there, champ.”

You’re already leaning against his hotel room door when he gets there, after the chore of wrestling himself free from the rest of the team pressuring him to get drinks. Carlos helps out, babbles something or other about Charles being “busy with something else”—which isn't wrong, not at all. He offers a smooth wink, bending down to kiss you.

Your mouths meet, softly first then increasingly messy as he pins you against the door. You push away, breathing heavy. “I don’t know what you’re into, but I don't want the top floor of this hotel seeing us fucking.”

“I wasn’t into that, but now that you brought it up…” You swat his arm and he laughs, unlocking the door and pulling you inside. You’re clinging onto him—his arms, his chest, anything, kissing up his neck and jaw. He groans at how needy you are. All for him, he thinks. Probably soaked through your panties and it’s all because of him.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says gently, voice low as he leads you to the bed. He catches sight of your shirt and a brow raises. “Did you buy that?”

“Hmm?” You look down, following his gaze and blinking. The shirt you’re wearing is loose, hanging off your shoulders and hastily tucked into your miniskirt so it looks like you actually have trousers on. “Oh. No, this is yours.”

“Mine.” He smiles a little. “You look so good in it, princess.” His hands mindlessly grope at you, hungry, sneaking underneath your skirt to feel at the lace there. 

In retaliation, you lean forward, unbutton his jeans and tug at it.

“You left it at one of my”—you gasp, feeling his finger sneak its way beneath your panties—“my hotel rooms.”

“Pretty girl, pretty shirt, pretty lace, yeah?” He tugs, lets the garter of the skirt loosen and fall off your hips on its own. “Red.”

“You take too long,” you groan.

“You’re just eager,” he laughs, thumbing at your clothed cunt.

You’re so wet, evident even in the lazy circles he rubs over your entrance. You’re aching, desperate, begging almost. So he gives you what you want, maneuvers you onto his lap and pushes your (his) shirt up to stuff your mouth with it.

It won’t work for long, but it’s enough. He pushes your panties to the side and pulls his hard dick out. You’re sitting against it now, leaking slick onto it, at his mercy, branding his name and his number across your back. It’s hot. 

He stares at the way you rock softly against him, hungry eyes meeting yours. “You’re so pretty, baby. Ruined.”

“Fuck me already,” you say, voice throaty, innocent.

“Can you take it?” He asks, teasing you, slapping his dick against your clit softly. You whine.

“Please,” you insist. “I want it. Make it fit.”

He’s a massive tease with it, his breath fanning against your skin, hands sticky on where they’ve hiked your shirt up. He lowers you, slower, against the tip of his dick and he watches your eyes flutter when you sink onto it. After ages of waiting. Your grip’s like iron on his shoulders, moans leaving you in quiet bursts of pleasure. 

You’re far away, dumb from the feeling, you barely register the way he shoves the shirt back into your mouth to keep you quiet. “So fucking tight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. It’s muffled, barely intelligible. “For you.”

You’re only able to take it because you’re so wet, so turned on, face and brain filled with nothing but pleasure. He can’t take it.

“Mmmfh,” you say, muffled by the bite of cotton in your mouth. You’re sweaty, flushed, overstimulated—you don’t know where to focus. On his lips against your jaw, his hand on your neck, the way your pussy swallows his aching dick. “It’s so big, I—”

“You okay?” He asks, breathily. Smiling. He’s in control, but still he sounds whiny—almost, if not as desperate as you. “You’ll take it all for me, won’t you?” 

“Oh god,” is all you muster, letting him stretch you out even more, gushing all over his cock. “I, I—”

He moans, his grip tight against your waist, watching his dick bury itself in you. “You’re getting me so full,” you whine. “So deep, I feel it—” you taper off into a moan again when he presses hs thumb to your clit, distracting you from the stretch as he finally, finally bottoms out.

“Good?”

You nod. So good, give me more.

You grind against him, let the shirt fall out of your mouth. “You’re getting my dick so wet,” he comments, breathless. “So pretty for me, too.”

Growing antsy, he attempts to move, but you whine. Your turn to tease, you think, after he was a dick to you just now. “Not yet,” you say, lip caught between your teeth. His hands are tight around your waist. Desperate.

You squeeze around him, watch his brows knit together, a grunt leave him in a frustrated exhale. “You wanna fuck me?” You tease against his neck, blinking innocently.

“Yes,” he replies, not missing a beat. You pout, like you’re empathizing with the problem you’re causing; you grind slowly against him and he lets out a guttural fuuuuck. He’s so big, so hard—you can feel every inch of him inside you.

“Tell me again, Charles,” you say with a giggle. You’re so hot like this, face flushed and timid, hips moving slowly. He could cum just from the way you bite your lip, the way a whimper slips out of you when he hits the right spot.

“—Yeah,” he says, sweetly. “I want to—please, let me fuck you. C’mon, baby, can I?”

“Aww,” you tease. 

“Can I?” He asks again, voice deep and thin with the need to fuck you, thrust up into you and make you the dumb one. His face is flushed and desperate. “Can I move, baby? Let me, please.”

You’re not stupid. You know—if his flushed, pleading face and big green puppy eyes are anything to go by—that he’s going crazy, growing antsy. But you’re not complaining.

“Hmm,” you say, feigning genuine thought. “I don’t know, Charles. Feels good just like this. And you want to make me feel good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah.” You repeat, staring into his dark eyes. He’s frustrated, desperate, flushed all over and sweaty. His fingers dig into your hips. “I’ll make you feel really good, baby, if you let me.”

“Go ahead,” you say softly, “fuck me, please.” And he’s thrusting upwards to meet you halfway. It’s knocking you out, almost, the pleasure of it, the dizzy onslaught of euphoria. He’s stretching you out so well, whining softly into your neck and yeah, you two have waited far too long to have this. You 

“Fuck,” he grunts, lids squeezed shut and head rolled onto your shoulder. “Go on, baby, ride it, make me cum.” He cups your jaw, reaches his thumb into your mouth. It’s too much, all of it. He makes you suck on it while thrusting up, dizzying you with his cock.

He grabs handfuls of your ass, teases his thumb at your tighter asshole just to watch your eyes flutter, feel your cunt grow wetter. “I’ll fuck you even fuller next time,” he says; the implication gets you hot.

You bounce harder, chasing release as his thumb teases over your ass, the tip of it just thrusting in enough to elicit strings of moans out of you. “Come on, ride me,” he goads. “So good for me.”

“Fuck,” you pant, “cum in me, please.”

You cum first, writhing around him and riding your orgasm out in lazy grinds over his hard cock. You want to see him cum, see his eyebrows knit and his mouth release pretty whines, feel him claim you inside, hands hot and heavy on your ass. He does, with a guttural fuuuuck, shoving his dick up in you to the base and spurting all his cum in you.

He thrusts, watches his cum leak out of you, fucks it back in, in a vicious cycle. You shiver, blinking coquettishly and watching along—and then you’re both crumpling over each other on the bed behind you. You pant heavily against his chest.

“Hey.” He muses out loud, drumming against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“I have thirty-six condoms we need to go through. Wanna go on a date?”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

This one is so long I'm putting most of it under a readmore to save your dash

Anonymous asked:

AITA for stabbing a kid?

(this is less Am I The Asshole and more Was I The Asshole, bc it's really just a story from high school that I - as an adult in my mid-20s - was remembering recently and thought could be fun to toss to The People in as objective of a form as I can. anyways, all names are 100% made up to replace actual names, and everybody involved ends the story safe and alive)

I (16ish F then, 20s NB now) was trying to prep for an upcoming speech and debate tournament (yes, I was insufferable as a teen) with a group of other students in our debate coach's classroom. specifically, I was working with a younger student, Tammy (14ish F then), on understanding this specific type of debate (LD for my fellow insufferable teens out there) and brainstorming with her on some of the main components of her own case. as we were trying to work, another student, Tony (15ish M then), kept butting in to pester Tammy, making it impossible for Tammy or me to focus. in hindsight, I'm like 74% sure Tony had a bit of a crush on Tammy in that moment and expressed that feeling by being an annoying little shit towards her (as teens often do). that was at least how I would characterize the general vibe of Tony's actions and how he seemed to really need Tammy to be paying total attention to him. from my perspective and based on my basically decade-long memory at this point, Tammy (maybe?) asked him to leave her alone. she at least seemed frustrated and annoyed with him, or just generally flustered in a way I read uncomfortable. (take all this with a grain of salt here bc, regardless of how Tammy really felt, I was for sure super annoyed and that fact would almost certainly impact my interpretation and memory of the situation.)

idk if any teen girls out there (former, current, or future) have tried to teach or learn while a teen boy is flirt-bugging you or the person you're with, but it got old real fast for me. so, almost immediately, I asked Tony to knock it off so me and Tammy could work. he refused and kept bugging her. I continued to tell him to quit and he continued to ignore me, and this went on for a while. so, as one does, I figured it was time to threaten him with physical violence. I told him that if he didn't back off and let Tammy work, that I would stab him.

now, to give a bit of context for what the fuck I was thinking in that moment, I had learned a particular lesson earlier in my time as a supposed teenage girl dealing with supposed teenage boys in the 2000s-2010s: don't make threats you aren't willing to follow through on. so when I threatened to stab him, I 100% meant it. to provide a tad more context, I did also have a bit of a casually violent streak in high school for this reason (but maybe those stories are for a different AITA submission at another time, but they were all in a similar vein as this one in terms of cause and severity). also, does it help or hurt to add this was in a rural public high school in Texas? either way. to be fair to Tony, that's still undoubtedly a deeply unhinged and disproportionate thing to actually do, but would be a semi-common hyperbolic empty threat to make as a teen to another teen.

as you can assume based on the title here, Tony did not quit despite these threats. so, true to my word, after us arguing back and forth for a bit more, I stabbed him in the arm with the pen I was holding. he was obviously upset (to be clear, it did hurt him but did not injure him to the best of my knowledge beyond leaving a light mark for a bit of time that afternoon*) and he complained about having been stabbed. I said I warned him repeatedly that I would stab him before I actually did, to which he replied that that was an insane thing to actually do (fair enough, ya know?). the teacher was in the room, but if she saw any of this she ignored it. tbh, I don't see how she could have not noticed a kid loudly complaining about having been stabbed by another kid. so, I assume she chose to ignore it, possibly bc I was a bit of a teacher's pet (ie. president of the speech and debate team she was the coach of (I told you I was insufferable)). actually, now that I think about it, that was not the only time I stabbed another kid in her classroom in almost identical circumstances... maybe we are both TA....

anyways, in conclusion:

reasons I think I'm NTA: he was being an annoying dick to the friend I was mentoring at the time, and I did warn him that I'd stab him if he didn't quit being an annoying dick several times before actually following through (and it was only with pen and did no serious harm, but I think it does still count as assault regardless (?) and also I love the classic AITA storytelling technique of Being Dramatic, so feel free to ignore this point and *any other times I brought up that he was ultimately okay when considering how you wanna vote).

reasons I think I'm TA: I mean... I fuckin' stabbed a kid just bc he was being annoying and I fully got away with it bc the teacher liked me, plus I was a repeat offender of doing lowkey violence like this in response to other kids being Kinda Annoying and Shitty™. pestering other people on purpose bc you possibly have a crush on them is a very normal thing for a teen to do. stabbing another teen with a writing utensil just bc they did so though?... perhaps not.

(also, as an endnote: just to be clear, I do not stab teens at all in any context whatsoever since growing up. out of AITA-writing-character here, I think I was a kid who was just sick of guys around me crossing boundaries and dealt with that in a myriad of very unhealthy ways that were also informed by my general redneck upbringing that - understandably or not - sometimes saw some violence as a valid way to assert personal boundaries if it seemed they weren't being respected. that doesn't make it okay and is not at all a defense against being TA in this story, just trying to assure folks that regardless of whether you think I was TA I am now also a somewhat well adjusted adult who at least channels their overwhelming fury into organizing/activism stuff and mutual aid rather than stabbing annoying teenagers. while this isn't some stressful conflict that I feel torn up about or anything even close to that, I am interested to see what folks think, so thanks for reading if the mod(s) found all this worthy of posting for y'all!)

What are these acronyms?

[john-laurens]

As a follow-up to this meme, here is the story of a supposed pact between two brothers, Francis and Cleland Kinloch, to ensure they would not be accidentally buried alive.

This story comes from the collection "Biographical and genealogical research on Francis J. Kinloch" from the South Carolina Historical Society archives. To my knowledge, the "J." used in his name here is simply to refer to the fact that he was Francis Kinloch, Jr. and does not imply a middle name.

This story is titled "Anecdote Legend: A Death in the Kinloch Family," which I think really captures the potentially hyperbolic game of telephone that gives us this account. The story was recounted by Kinloch Bull, Jr. - I am unsure what his relation may be to the Kinloch family. This story was relayed to Kinloch Bull, Jr. by his father, who attended the General Thomas Sumter Memorial Academy for boys in the early 1900s. This Academy had previously been Acton, the home of Cleland Kinloch. The father of Kinloch Bull, Jr. was told this story by a Colonel Dargan. And so the story goes -

Cleland Kinloch and his brother Francis were, like many people in the 18th and 19th centuries, afraid of being accidentally buried alive. Accordingly, the brothers made a pact - when one of them died (or appeared dead), the other would stab him through the heart to ensure he was truly dead before his burial. Cleland later dropped dead in the upstairs hall at Acton. Francis, holding up his end of the agreement, proceeded to stab Cleland through the heart. This produced a great amount of blood that stained the floor. Some believe that the amount of blood produced indicates that Cleland was actually still alive when Francis stabbed him. The blood left an approximately 2 feet by 3 feet stain that would remain when the house later became the General Thomas Sumter Memorial Academy for boys.

A few things to note here:

This very much sounds like the sort of story that would be exaggerated or completely made up to scare young boys. Some of the details are also a bit questionable. Did they not have a doctor assess Cleland for evidence of life before Francis did the deed? Why did they not move the body off the floor before stabbing him? Also, the amount of blood that will leave a dead body after being stabbed or cut depends upon how the long the body was been dead. If Cleland had very recently died, the blood may not have significantly clotted yet, and a stab wound could have caused blood to spill out.

The story gets the year of death wrong for Cleland - it states that he died in 1826. According to "Kinloch of South Carolina" by H.D. Bull (same last name as our storyteller - perhaps a relation?), Cleland died in 1823 while Francis died in 1826. It is true that Cleland died at Acton and that Francis outlived him.

While I made fun of Kinloch in the meme for not taking a less graphic route such as cremation, cremation was not commonplace at the time. Henry Laurens was actually among the first to be cremated in the United States when he died in 1792. For the time period, a stab or shot through the heart is honestly a pretty effective and expedient way to ensure someone is dead.

[balmfrost]

Just remembering that it's CR day & DnDBeyond is one of their sponsors. Ouch.

Things to remember:

we don't know how many weeks ahead they record the eps, only that they're pre-recorded still

the OGL1.1 news only began ~5 weeks ago, and the leaked draft only last week

CR cast's Insta indicates they were away on holiday this past week, they may be scrambling to get across any OGL stuff now

we don't know the terms of the sponsorship agreement between CR & DnDB, or how readily CR can break away should they choose to

we don't even know if CR will choose to break ties with WotC, or what the implications might be for Darrington Press and any upcoming titles if they do

the current OGL1.1 is blatantly predatory, and holds the TTRPG community in contempt, which includes CR cast and crew

I want to emphasise that last bit - Critical Role cast and crew and support staff are a part of the TTRPG community too. A very publicly recognisable part, sure. A part that intersects with the entertainment industry, for sure. A part that is higher earning and more influential, definitely.

In the past, we've seen them largely use that visibility, income and influence for positive things. Not perfectly, now always - and that's normal, because they're people, and people are pretty inherently imperfect.

Do I hope that CR will use that visibility and influence this time as well? Do I hope that they'll break or suspend the sponsorship & promotion of DnDB until/unless the OGL1.1 is rescinded? Yes.

Do I, or any person outside CR, have the right to demand that they do, or to harass them if they don't? Absolutely not.

Do I, or any person outside CR, understand the retaliation CR might face if they break off the sponsorship with DnDB? No, though I can speculate they could be budget-destroyingly bad; WotC (and Hasbro) have so much more power and money than CR.

It's not hyperbolic to say that CR speaking out against the OGL1.1 could be a huge blow to WotC.

It's also not hyperbolic to say that doing so could lead to the end of CR altogether - and I personally would prefer an imperfect CR continuing over a perfect one that dies.

TL;DR - please don't harass anyone from CR if they're still sponsored by DnDB in the coming weeks. They're not responsible for the OGL1.1 and only they know whether speaking out will help or harm the continuation of CR as a show and company.

Heck, don't harass anyone online, ever. It's only going to harm people adjacent to the real problem, and will do nothing to solve the problem itself.

Just cancel any DnDB subscription you might have and make sure you cite the OGL1.1 as the reason when you do.

DnDB insiders have already indicated that sub cancellations are the only data that the business leaders at WotC and Hasbro (the ones driving the OGL1.1 and the ones who hold the TTRPG community in contempt and refuse to see the community as anything other than a source of revenue) are paying any attention to. Therefore cancelling subs will be the best way to register your dissatisfaction with the proposed changes to the OGL.

Not harassing Critical Role. Not harassing WotC writers, artists, designers. Not harassing DnD Beyond developers. That just hurts people who are powerless to change the problem, and solves nothing.

[bunnybearsworld]

a ranking and analysis of “epic: the musical” songs so far, from someone who knows a lot about theater and not a lot about mythology

RANDOM DISCLAIMER: to reiterate from the title, i know a lot about music and theater, but NOT a lot about greek mythology. i'm trying to slowly read the odyssey as sagas release so that i'm never too far ahead but i can still have a sense of where things are going. aside from that, i have very basic foundational knowledge from vague exposure to pjo (but i never got into pjo myself LOL)

(also no one better spoil the odyssey for me in the tags or the comments i swear to god this is supposed to be about the SONGS)

putting it under the cut so people can scroll past if they want; this is long as fuck and i'm not gonna pretend it isn't.

9. the horse and the infant

i almost placed this one higher SOLELY BECAUSE OF "PENELOPE… PENELOPE, AND TELEMACHUS". (side note: low placement absolutely does not mean bad. i love every song in epic. like, excessively.) i'm probably going to talk about odysseus's voice A LOT. i love it. the reason i got into this in the first place is because back when early auditions were happening, one of the demos came up on my fyp and i was baffled by the vocals. from a plot standpoint i really like what this song does lyrically and what it shows of odysseus in particular but also how the gods interact with the mortals. zeus is immediately talking down/condescending to odysseus (which is fair because. it's fucking zeus, and also a detail that was pointed out to me by my friend), who reacts saying he "knows" he's ready for, essentially, whatever zeus throws at him… until he finds out zeus is making him kill a baby. the first two songs in the musical (this and "just a man") both reveal so much about odysseus, which is of course good because that's who we're supposed to sympathize with.

anyway. love this song. fuckin bangs.

8. just a man

normally with these early character-establishing solos i like them a little at first and then always skip them after that first listen. that's just a Thing for me. like, i know who you are now, i don't need to hear it again. but not this song. this was the first song that really told me i was gonna obsess over this musical for a long time and that it was going to ruin my life. my ONLY criticism, and it's not even a big one because it doesn't truly bother me/disrupt my listening experience at all, is that it's hard to hear any distinct emotion from odysseus for most of it. BUT I CAN'T EVEN BE MAD BECAUSE HIS VOICE IS SO STUPIDLY GORGEOUS. maybe that's hyperbole but i feel like you can't blame me for that. again as far as plot hearing odysseus's internal struggle about killing the baby is very foundational for our understanding of the character. also, the dual meaning of the lyric "when does a man become a monster" which as others have pointed out refers (most likely) both to odysseus wondering if fulfilling his end of the prophecy will make him a monster and also wondering when, if this baby grows up, it will cause whatever destruction zeus foretold… i have a lot of feelings. i like this song a lot. a LOT.

SECOND RANDOM DISCLAIMER: at some point, you will probably start to think i sound pretentious. i like my own funny words and think i am a magic man. you are allowed to not like my funny words.

7. open arms

i would like to briefly touch on how much i love steven dookie's voice before we proceed. ok thanks. ANYWAY, this to me is our first real shift away from the musical theater genre-sound, something that i love about modern theater and particularly composition. the vocal style is less theater-inspired to me, too--until the lotus eaters show up--which really speaks to the message of the song in my opinion. the laid back sound after the sort of chaos and pain of the past few songs is refreshing to me. as far as characterization it solidifies what i feel we already knew about polites just from that little bit of him we heard in full speed ahead, but shows the more caring side to his positivity (the "you can relax, my friend" refrain and variations). i also love what it shows about the dynamic between odysseus and polites, establishing further that polites isn't just a soldier but a friend. this is one of the songs that i don't have a lot to say about, truthfully, but mostly because every time i listen to it i'm just enjoying the sound LOL

6. full speed ahead

SIX HUNDRED MEN. SIX HUNDRED MEN UNDER MY COMMAND…. this is where we really meet some new characters, and their introductions--true to form for the show--show a lot about them, both right away when they show up and all the way through the end of the song too. eurylochus, the battle-minded second-in-command to odysseus, and polites, the kind-hearted best friend to odysseus, both make their positions very clear not only in their verses but i feel also in just the way that they greet odysseus/each say "captain" (but that could also just be the different qualities of their voices). re: vocals, more vocal excellence from odysseus (have i mentioned "and ithaca's waiting etc" yet?), and polites sounds so fucking good constantly, and eurylochus has such a consistent tone through his whole verse. re: polites, a lot of the other voices in this musical are kind of standard fare (respectfully! i love theater voices genuinely) for what you imagine theater actors to sound like, but polites (played by steven dookie) has such a unique tone for this medium and i love it so so much. the soldier ensemble is insane too. from a compositional standpoint i LOVE the call and response, particularly on "so, captain, what's the plan? (captain, what's the plan?)" + that section where the soldiers echo odysseus that comes right after that. i didn't think this would beat just a man when i started this, but i was very wrong. very very wrong.

5. polyphemus

i don't want to talk about plot OR musicality, first. i want to talk about sound design. the choice of the particular sound effects that were used with the reverb and the overlapping noises from the sheep paint a very clear picture indeed of polyphemus's cave. (something that definitely did not hurt to accomplish this end was the teaser video where odysseus, eurylochus, and polites were in the dark holding candles (? i think, some kind of small light sources at least).) audio panning was also present in the intro for this track, i would say up until polyphemus starts to sing it's pretty prevalent, and audio panning is my favorite thing you can do to establish spatial understanding in non-visual media. okay, moving on. in this song, odysseus directly parrots polyphemus's words and melody, and this is a theme that continues in the other songs the two are both in. this also, to me, shows that one of the layers of his plan is to make himself seem more agreeable to polyphemus (which in itself as a fact i think is rather clear in terms of plot, but i think the specific methodology from a compositional standpoint is fun). AND JUST TO SAY: the moment at the beginning where this suddenly becomes a horror musical made my heart drop through my ass in the best possible way. i had to stand up for the rest of the saga because sitting down limited my range of motion too much and i had to go insane. in terms of characterization, we know that odysseus is smart and resourceful mostly from what we hear about him from others, but i feel like this song is the first one where we see that firsthand. i love this song.

4. warrior of the mind

the first song i had to just sit with and loop for a while (i did the same with just a man, but several days later upon relisten). athena's vocals never fail to astound me, teagan earley's tone is so clear and strong, and this is kind of specific but i like the choices she made on vowel placement, particularly on that last "mind" in the first chorus. also, i'm not even going to beat around the bush: i'm a trumpet player, i've been playing trumpet for theater and in other contexts for almost a decade now, and when i heard that low trumpet line underscoring the first establishment of the melody in the chorus, i KNEW an octave kick was coming and i was THRILLED when it delivered so perfectly. i don't know if it's synth trumpet or a live musician, i assume synth just for ease of production, but either way, i'm obsessed with it. absolutely a fantastic composition choice when it comes to ramping up the energy of the second half of that chorus. again in regards to composition: obsessed with odysseus's harmonic line in the second chorus. it took me a while to pick the notes out because i go a little harmony-blind sometimes when i'm too busy ooh-ing and ahh-ing but once i got that line in my head i was all about it.

(did not think this section would be so wordy, but) what this song shows about athena in my eyes is her fondness for odysseus--which sounds obvious until you remember how zeus interacted with him vs how athena does. athena gets close to talking down to odysseus sometimes, yes, but in more of a human, sarcastic way ("you'll see where it ends"). one could argue that the entire intro is her condescending to him in some way, certainly, but when she almost immediately also establishes that she sees the merit in his skills and his mind and has for some time now, it takes away the sort of preachy sound that was there when zeus was doing it. again in the characterization vein it shows odysseus's spirit, the more childish side of him (of course, because he was younger for much of this song) that we don't get to see in the songs that are set in the "present" period. in warrior of the mind, we see odysseus, the boy. in all the other songs, we see odysseus, the king.

anyway. i adore this song. if that wasn't, like. clear.

3. survive

THE ECHO OF THE HORSE AND THE INFANT. MY JAW WAS ON THE FLOOR. people other than me have said that this could be a way of showing that the fight with polyphemus is the will of the gods and i can see the merit in that standpoint but i also think that this is, in this telling at least (which is a distinction i make because i started the odyssey literally today and read maybe 10 pages before i had to go to class so i don't concretely know the details), showing that this is the first real conflict odysseus and the soldiers have been in since the seige of troy. also interesting to note: this song, if i'm not mistaken, is actually in compound meter at least in certain parts (before u fight me on this take a second to count it both ways, i'm not even entirely sure because of how i've been feeling the pulse). also, this reestablishes what i said earlier about polyphemus and odysseus parroting each other, but in this case i think it's polyphemus trying to do as much damage to odysseus and the soldiers as possible, certainly more like mocking them than trying to communicate on their level. (but also, melodic repeats are kind of just how music works, lol. remember when i said u might start to think im pretentious?)

now, maybe this is my sympathetic lens for odysseus showing, i fully admit that bias and own up to any way it may skew my judgement, but in that first chorus, i feel like odysseus isn't just trying to rally his men but to find the will in himself to fight as well. after the long war in troy and being confronted with polites's ideology, i would certainly be weary and sick of fighting. something about "it's just one life to take / and when we kill him then our journey's over" sounds so self-consoling to me. idk! maybe just me!

i'm, uh. not gonna talk much about the plot at the end, there. for obvious reasons, as someone who foolishly got attached to polites. we're gonna gloss over that. (fellow polites likers, how we feelin, though? we all coping?)

2. remember them

if you'll recall from many many paragraphs ago, i mentioned that in "just a man", i felt like there wasn't much emotion in odysseus's voice. this? the intro of this? this, to me, kind of makes up for that. and i mean the VERY beginning, the anger/intensity in that first verse. something that i noticed, that the fellow polites likers will be upset with me for pointing out, is that starting on "mark my words now" and through eurylochus asking "but captain, what'll we do with our fallen friends?", the guitar in the back is playing the melody of "we're up, we're off, and away we go" from "full speed ahead", the first song we hear from polites in. (sorry guys, if i was burdened with this knowledge you will be, too.)

this song and "polyphemus" both do a really good job of establishing horror-style tension. eurylochus's "there are more of them?" and what i would call horror sirens on the strings in the beginning of polyphemus are what i mean, here. it gives that nice stomach-swoopy feeling that recreational horror is so fond of. the ramping tension when eurylochus is pleading with odysseus to order them to run is fantastic too.

re: odysseus vocals. "my friend is dead! our foe is blind! the blood we shed, it never dries! is this what it means to be a warrior of the mind?!" will never NOT make me insane. it makes me want to scream, genuinely. and via the lyrics and instrumental sound we understand the ruthlessness of odysseus's vengeful side as well. again, possibly my sympathetic lens, but "let's grab the sheep and away we go" and during the argument up to that aforementioned point, odysseus just sounds tired to me.

also, i'm sure we all collectively shat our pants when we heard athena. i don't have much to comment on the matter further than that, but know that i was losing my fucking mind as soon as i heard her voice.

last thing: odysseus's choice of words when revealing his name is interesting to me. the "infamous" odysseus? infamy has a very negative connotation and maybe that's just him acknowledging that to polyphemus he'll always be painted in a negative light due to his actions in the cave, but it's an interesting choice in verbiage to me.

1. my goodbye

you were a fool if you thought this was ever gonna get anything other than first place of all the songs that are out so far. hearing athena and odysseus tear each other to pieces was so satisfying on the second listen with the new understanding that the partnership was sort of exhausting on both ends. i confess that my first thought right after i finished this song the first time was "HOLY FUCKING SHIT" but my SECOND one was "bro really wrote a breakup song and thought we wouldn't notice (but said with a positive connotation)". as far as i understand it, and i've asked questions about this so i'm fairly certain, there was nothing romantic in nature about the relationship between athena and odysseus (which i see as a good thing), and the song sounding like a breakup song is more a fun creative choice. and i DO think it's fun, in that case! so with that interpretation in mind, when i go back to the lyrics now, i think about how odysseus's original idea that he and athena would be friends was shot down and in this song i start to feel that maybe despite athena's best efforts they DID consider each other as friends. and of course i think that's intentional--that's why "you're not looking for a mentor, i'm not looking for a friend" cuts so deep.

there's also something in the way the two characters argue with each other that i find so compelling. i feel like athena is really trying to be right, or maybe not that she's trying to be right per se but that she's trying to make odysseus understand why he's wrong. odysseus, on the other hand, seems to be trying to hurt athena as much as possible, in as few words as possible. athena's argument has one core idea, and it's that odysseus is reckless/unfit to be her disciple because he's too emotional. odysseus, on the other hand, brings up several points, like 5 or 6 different little gripes about athena that he's probably been holding onto for who-knows-how-long. it just shows how the focus is entirely different on both parts and i like it a lot LOL

vocals absolutely deliver of course, that goes without saying. and i made that point earlier about how i felt odysseus didn't show much emotion in voice, and maybe this is just me being the #1 jorge rivera-herrans defender or something but i feel like a sort of detached-ness was intentional this time. like odysseus saying, "you can't fire me, because i quit." that's not entirely me being biased, i think the language reflects it too: "this way, you'll close the door and have your damn goodbye." that sounds dismissive to me, and the way that he previously frames athena leaving as something that would be good for him ("this way, you won't plague my life").

anyway….. less of a ranking and more of a song analysis where the songs just so happen to also be ranked. this was originally gonna be on my priv twitter, but the character limit was driving me up the wall, so. here.

[fayoftheforest]

Hey, by the way, when I talk about people treating Kyle's faith as a personality trait, this is the kind of shit I mean:

STOP DOING THIS. PLEASE, STOP.

I understand that memes like this are deliberately hyperbolic and intended to be humourous, and that this type of language is most likely a byproduct of the casual antisemitic jokes in the actual show, but that is no excuse. Titling Kyle as "Jew 💀" on a "tag yourself" meme is fucking awful. Suggesting that there are a set selection of personality traits that are a byproduct of, or can be summarised by, being Jewish, is deeply antisemitic. Even if this is was attempt to acknowledge common experiences based on a shared culture, the classy addition of a skull emoji does not particularly convey a respectful tone.

The subtitle "literal Jew" does not help matters - in fact, it arguably makes it worse. What on earth was going through the creator's mind when they wrote it? "Hmm, what if my followers think I'm calling them Jews in the [greedy/scheming/insert stereotype here] sense? Better clear that up for them with this handy clarification: 'I'm saying that literal Jews should all be classified in one category.' There, that's better (:"

If your gut reaction is to defend the creator who "meant it in good fun" and "probably didn't know any better," please consider how I or other Jewish people might feel when we stumble across this meme. Bare in mind, I did not Google "antisemitism in the South Park fan base to find it. This popped up whilst I was minding my own business, scrolling through Pinterest, looking for goofy screenshots from the show. Do you think it made me feel included? Do you think it made me feel understood? Do you think I felt welcome in this fandom, when I checked the 80 comments and saw that not one of them mentioned how slightly-less-than-fantastic Kyle's section is?

Now, maybe there was an ally out there who saw this and went, "Huh, that's a bit shit," and then decided to keep scrolling instead of engage. Fine, great, whatever. They get to keep scrolling, to carry on with their day and let the minor hiccup melt out of their memory. But Jewish people don't always get to do that, man. This kind of casual dehumanisation sticks. It stays in the back of our mind. It adds to the mounting feeling that we are not welcome, we are not wanted, and we do not belong. And that's not so easy to move on from.

[simply-ivanka]

Former President Donald Trump has a penchant for big talk. Whether it’s the extent of his wealth, the perfection of his phone calls or the square footage of his apartment, the former president never fails to express himself in superlatives. Anyone paying attention knows this.

And nobody is on higher alert for such overstatement than a bank appraiser entrusted with the mission of lending millions of dollars for use in a business deal. Apparently, however, New York Supreme Court Justice Arthur F. Engoron hasn’t been paying attention and is indulging a partisan effort to brand the leading candidate for the 2024 Republican nomination a criminal over a bit of asset valuation embroidery.

The former president isn’t the only one who engages in hyperbole. The “Justice” in Mr. Engoron’s title doesn’t mean he serves on the state’s highest court. Rather, New York applies the elevated term to the lowest district court judges. One form of embellishment is customary; the other is a felony. 

Justice Engoron, a registered Democrat, issued a preliminary ruling last month essentially giving away his intention to find the former president guilty of financial fraud. Dig below the surface and the nefarious conduct he outlines seems unexceptional.

In securing financing, Trump Organization accountants handed lenders their estimates of the value of various properties. Naturally, assessments of this sort are biased, and lenders take this into account before extending credit.

[piplupod]

one of the worst experiences (<-possible hyperbole) when ur sleep deprived is having a little piece of a song playing thru ur head that u can't remember the title or artist of, and u try to look up the little piece of lyrics that u remember and it . doesn't give u any results. so u are just haunted by this tiny bit of melody echoing thru ur head the entire day

[rainydaycafe]

A Shaken Espresso, Please

Pairing: Professor! Stephen Strange au x OC fem! graduate school student (and barista)!

Summary: Professor Strange has a reputation that proceeds him and a finicky taste for off-campus coffee. Enter a graduate school attending barista. This is their story.

Warnings: age difference (older Stephen), and an inhumane amount of fluff with tumultuous thoughts

A/N: hope u enjoy and hope it alters ur existence- send me prompt requests for this story or others and I'll kiss u !

Chapter 2

Professor Stephen Strange had many reputations. 

All of them were accurate descriptions of his person, admittedly. Even if a few of them were a bit hyperbolic and created by those students who were unable to properly keep up with the academic rigor his courses demanded. 

Regardless of these various titles- arrogant, belittling, hardass, irritable, impatient, demanding, extremely intelligent, omnipotent, and plenty more- he was a damn good professor. 

There was a reason why every semester he had an extremely long waitlist of students praying for a spot within his lecture hall and plenty of emails of students looking for a reason to jump the waitlist. 

His ability to teach and to demand only the best was something that somewhat masochistic college students sought despite their better judgment because he truly was the best of the best. 

Everyone knew that his reputation was hard earned as it was common knowledge that Stephen Strange had graduated high school and undergrad a year early. Excelling high above his elder peers in medical school and in his internship before there was an accident before his residency matching which caused him to settle into the life of a well respected professor at Dartmouth College. 

Those who can’t do, teach. 

Neuroscience was his playground, and the biological sciences department was just what he needed to teach courses full of the select few who would actually do well in their hopeful careers. 

Despite his intolerance for laziness and inability to understand it- Stephen did enjoy teaching. It was always a plus to inspire the newest generation of the scientific community. 

Emilia, however? 

She was completely oblivious to the very existence of Professor Strange and that reputation that followed him around campus. 

Stepping into Professor Barlow’s office on the third floor of the English department, she expected to receive the weekly quizzes Professor Barlow asked her to grade but instead she received the quizzes and a manilla folder. 

“The manilla folder is more of a favor for me,” Barlow said, “Would you be able to take this to Professor Strange? It’s a transfer request acceptance. Since he’s the head of the biological sciences department, he needs to sign off on the approval like I did,” 

“Oh sure,” Emilia said with a smile, “Where can I find him?” 

“Oh shit what time is it even?” Barlow said pulling up his sleeve, “I don’t really know his schedule but if he’s not in his office on the fourth floor then he’ll preparing a lab, I believe,” 

Emilia told him she’d find him and left Professor Barlow with a wave which he returned. 

Professor Barlow was never meant to be the professor she TA’d for considering the fact that she had rescinded her application to be a TA after obtaining a better job elsewhere but apparently her email went unopened because a week before the semester she was the TA to the head of the English department.

He was kind, however, so she didn’t have the heart to just quit and leave him without a TA for a course he so desperately needed one for. 

So she stayed and she was able to find the balance between her job at the cafe and as a TA quite easily since Professor Barlow wasn’t one to rely on TAs too heavily so she just did the little tasks he asked of her. 

The biological sciences department wasn’t one Emilia had ever actually stepped foot in. Or near. So she had to bring up the campus’ map to find where it actually was which happened to be across campus so she made the trek. 

The elevators happened to be commandeered by busy students so she huffed her way up the stairs and took a bit of a break leaning on a nearby wall to gather her breath because those stairs were no joke. 

For a department so well loved and funded a person would assume their stairs would be less steep somehow. 

Deep inside Emilia hoped he would be in his office because she wasn’t sure where the labs were so it would save her some time to find him somewhere that had a label with his name. 

Now that she thought about it as she read the plaques outside of the doors, she had no idea what the man even looked like so she couldn’t even look for him in the labs…

Before she thought herself into a spiral, she read the name Stephen V. Strange PhD & MD on a plaque. 

What could the V be for? 

StephenVery Strange? That got a bit of a giggle out of her but she straightened up because it wasn’t kind to make fun of the names people had. 

Emilia took a confidence boosting breath and knocked on the shut door. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

“Come in,” a deep voice said and Emilia grimaced a bit before opening the door to reveal a man typing away at his computer, not bothering to even glance up at her which was a bit rude perhaps. 

“Are you here to have me read over your lab report for Navigational and Spatial Orientation?” He asked. 

“Uh- no. I’m here for Professor Barlow. He asked me to bring this over to you,” Emilia said, waiting for him to actually look up from his computer to hand him the folder so she didn’t look like too much of an idiot. 

He did, thankfully, and man was he handsome. 

Taking the envelope, Stephen’s gaze lingered on Emilia, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was being studied and she moved her own gaze elsewhere towards the line of books placed on shelf as he opened the file. 

“Mmm, yes, the student who is transferring his master’s from neurobiology to… English,” Stephen said as his eyes glanced at the words, “I got an email about this and meant to respond but I put it off long enough to just forget,” 

Unsure of what to say, Emilia watched him quietly as he read through the words carefully. He had broad shoulders and nice hair. She quickly snapped herself out of those thoughts. 

“You’re not a biological sciences student, are you?” Stephen asked, looking up from the paperwork to pay her his full attention. 

“No, not at all,” Emilia answered with a shake of her head, feeling a bit nervous. 

“I didn’t think so. I would have recognized you. What are you studying?” Stephen asked curiously as his eyes took in her features. Something about the way she seemed to curl under his attention made him want to give her more. 

“English. I’m working towards my masters in English,” 

“English. I never understood the appeal of sitting around and discussing what Keats meant in this poem or what was implied,” Stephen told her with a bit of a smile as he leaned back in his chair, “Seems like an endless discussion,” 

“It’s not for everyone,” Emilia said with a shrug, not finding herself in the mood to defend her chosen career path. 

It wasn’t the first time someone had spoken ill about her career, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“The sciences never caught your attention?” Stephen asked with genuine curiosity since he couldn’t imagine a life where it hadn’t caught his own full attention. 

Emilia thought for a moment, attempting to find the words without being disrespectful towards Stephen’s career and studies as he observed her and got an eyeful. 

“I was never very good. I barely passed high school chemistry and intro to biology in undergrad,” Emilia confessed, “I also don’t do well with math,” 

Stephen huffed out a bit of a laugh, “You just needed teachers who taught well and thoroughly,” He said as he turned to grab a pen to sign off on the indicated line where Professor Barlow had helpfully highlighted in a bright pink circle he knew was meant to mock. 

Considering the fact Emilia didn’t know how to add fractions or any math after long division, she knew she had always been a lost cause but there was no need to have him think she had even more shortcomings so she kept it to herself.

Shutting the folder, Stephen handed it to her. 

“Tell Barlow that I wish Damien the best of luck reading all of those books and poems,” Stephen said, “He wasn’t up to neuroscience, I suppose it wasn’t for him,” 

Emilia knew he was teasing her own words and despite her strong will to avoid it, she blushed and took the envelope and looked down. 

“I will tell him, Professor. Have a nice day,” Emilia said with a smile and short wave that Stephen returned with amusement in his eyes before taking her leave and all but sprinting down the hallway towards the stairs. 

Going down the steps, Emilia sighed a bit to herself. 

There was something almost damning and humiliating when it came to finding someone unobtainable attractive but then adding the fact that they thought little to nothing of your major was really just the icing on the cake. 

Looking up to the pretty blue sky, Emilia took a deep breath and decided she’d dwell on it while walking to work after dropping off the damn manilla folder to Professor Barlow. 

Unbeknownst to her, Stephen was watching her from the window in his office with a smile as she made her way back to what he assumed was Professor Barlow’s office. 

__________

“He actually signed it right away?” Professor Barlow asked in shock, his freshman English student who he had been helping sat quietly watching the conversation, “He usually takes at least two days and even then I have to chase him around,”

“He also said to tell you that he wishes the best of luck to Damien reading all of the books and poems,” Emilia told him. 

“Yeah that sounds much more like Stephen. Curious that he actually signed it, but maybe he liked someone’s company,” Professor Barlow teased, but Emilia just smiled because she knew there was no way her presence in what had to be a holy office in the biology department would be enjoyed. 

_____________

Pinching the bridge of his nose as he exited the lecture hall, Stephen glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was definitely time for a bit of a caffeine trip because he had not had his morning coffee in favor of tutoring a student. 

With two hours until his next class, he quickly made his way through the building without bothering to glance at anyone in the hall since they’d just serve to make his blossoming headache even worse. 

The on-campus Starbucks and other cafes would be chalked full of students and faculty so he decided his expedition would take him off campus to a smaller yet much more reliable cafe he had discovered the year prior. 

Modern enough to have their own versions of lattes but not enough to be a bit too obsessed with coffee for his liking and comfort. 

It was a 25 minute walk at a leisurely pace but he had never been one to walk leisurely anywhere so he made it in 18 minutes as he ran through his 4pm Ethical Conduct of Research. 

This week they’d be discussing the ethics surrounding research on larger more developed animals to say a rat or a guinea pig. 

Pulling the door open, his eyes quickly attached themselves to the menu to consider his options. 

He had always been partial to a black coffee but had come to the realization that espresso had more impact on him and his energy levels. 

Their shaken espressos had always got him through even the most tiresome of days so he thought it’d be unwise to stray. 

As Stephen was so busy weighing out his flavor options, he didn’t notice who was standing behind the bar munching away on a banana as she read through her weekly reading for Comparative Lit and Criticism during some down time. 

Attempting to make sense of Adorno’s criticisms, Emilia was completely focused but she was soon losing her focus when she heard a familiar voice ordering. 

A voice she had heard a few hours ago. 

“Hello, could I have a large chocolate malt shaken espresso? I’ll add a splash of half and half as well,” Emilia stared at him from over the edge of her reading to see Professor Strange ordering. 

Hoping he wouldn’t notice her at all, Emilia kept her head down as Eliza wrote down “Stephen” on the cup and she began pulling the shots of espresso from the large machine. 

Taking the cup from her coworker, Emilia began to work on the drink and willed herself to not even spare Professor Strange a glance because she didn’t want to gather any unwanted attention. 

Thankfully it seemed that he was busy on his phone so she relaxed a bit as she gathered the ice into the shaker alongside the malt powder. 

Stephen however was not an oblivious man which meant after he had checked his work email he looked up to see the barista was utterly familiar. 

The same girl from earlier was working here, as fate had it. He still didn’t know her name, however, as she hadn’t introduced herself and he couldn’t see a nametag on her apron. 

Smiling to himself, Stephen moved closer to the bar where she shook the espresso and ice together with her back to him before turning around, startling when she saw him there. 

“I had no idea you worked here,” Stephen said casually watching her ministrations. 

“Yeah, I’m a modern day jack of all trades,” She said without thinking, pausing when she realized, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. It was more of a joke,”

“I didn’t think it was rude,” Stephen reassured, “I don’t see a nametag and I didn’t get your name earlier,” 

Pouring the drink into the cup, she glanced up at him with a smile before looking back down, “Emilia,”

“Emilia?...” Stephen asked beckoning for her last name. 

“Pearson. Emilia Pearson,” Emilia filled in before glancing at the cup where h/h was written, “Did you also want milk or just a splash of half and half?” 

“Just half and half, please,” 

Stephen smiled as she grabbed the half and half from a fridge somewhere underneath the counter and poured some in, showing it to him to see if it was enough. 

“That’s perfect,” 

Snapping a lid onto his drink, Emilia willed any caffeine loving God to make the drink good so he didn’t have any other reason to think little of her. 

Stephen swirled the drink around before taking a sip, giving an appreciative nod. 

“This is delicious, thank you, Emilia Pearson,” He said genuinely, “Have a nice day,” 

Waving bye, Emilia watched as he took his exit and she soon turned her attention back to her reading and banana, but her mind was elsewhere. 

She would have sworn that it was like a curse she had to find people that would never give her a second look attractive. 

It reminded her of having a crush on a celebrity that would never bat an eye if they crossed paths with you in real life. But it never hurt to have celebrity crushes either, nobody was at fault for them being so damn attractive. 

It was impossible to deny that the man was handsome, though. His intelligence was evident, adding to his overall attractiveness and she had barely learned of his existence today so she did not want to imagine how bad her crush would be in a few weeks. 

However she knew she could be grateful that she would probably never encounter him again and that she was probably a piece of dust in his overall busy mind and life. 

Of course there was going to be the off chance of encountering him again when he came around to the cafe, but there was no point in getting her hopes up so she turned her attention back to the reading entirely since she had a discussion post to answer before midnight. 

As she didn’t think of him, Stephen pressed the crosswalk button as he took a sip from his coffee and smiled to himself. 

With his work and his overall attitude towards romance Stephen had never been too caught up on dating or finding a partner as he hadn’t ever considered it and it had never been at the forefront of his mind. 

Which isn’t to say he was considering dating Emilia, but as he crossed the street he wondered to himself if she happened to have a boyfriend or girlfriend to whom she went home to. Someone she confided in and felt relaxed around. 

He didn’t think he’d mind being that person either as he began running through the upcoming lecture he had to give, knowing he’d be receiving emails requesting clarifications on this and that. 

____

The following day was normal and Emilia was grateful as she corrected freshman English quizzes during the gap she had between lectures. 

While it wasn’t too fun having three lectures back to back on Thursdays, the gap between the second and third gave her a chance to finish off assignments. Plus it freed up her Fridays so it meant she was able to work 7-4 and have the weekends off. 

Considering the fact that the quizzes she had graded were pop quizzes given as punishment for speaking when Professor Barlow was speaking, she didn’t think they were all that bad. 

In less than an hour she had finished the quizzes alongside the notes Professor Barlow liked to add either commemorating students for doing well or giving some bit of advice if they didn’t do too hot. 

After the quizzes she felt she was on the brink of starvation so she quickly threw together a salad while blasting music as she sang around her kitchen and waited for the chicken to finish up in the oven. 

“Green eyes, fried rice, I could cook an egg on you,” Emilia sang along as she danced around her kitchen, Late night, game time, coffee on the stove, yeah,” 

Sure her kitchen dance moves could use a bit of work but considering the fact that they had never seen the light of day as she had only ever gone to a club once, she thought they were pretty fitting for Music For a Sushi Restaurant

Pausing, she pulled out the chicken and thought about whether Stephen ever danced around his kitchen but chose to push those thoughts aside because one: she didn’t think he seemed like the dancing type, and two: those thoughts wouldn’t lead to a good outcome. 

All said and done, she was comfortably in bed relaxing by 9:30 scrolling through her phone after having checked multiple times that her front door was in fact locked and that it hadn’t magically unlocked itself. 

Living alone was nice, subletting was even nicer when she didn’t have to pay the full amount of rent and she got to live only a few blocks off campus and only three and a half away from the cafe where she felt she spent an equal amount of time. 

Waking up wasn’t ever an enjoyable experience- save for when there was something exciting happening but that rarely if ever happened so Friday morning made her wish she could just roll over and continue sleeping through the morning and into the early afternoon. 

However her job awaited and all things considered, she really did enjoy paying for life’s necessities. 

Despite her lack of enthusiasm, Emilia showed up that Friday and went about her job without too much hassle throughout the morning bustle that eventually weaned itself out into a much more manageable afternoon hum. 

The morning rush was always heavier on Fridays which kept her busy since Maggie, the owner, was manning the pastry and sandwich area and Nora was on cashier Emilia was on her own but at least the rushes made her shift go by faster. 

Her busyness meant she went about making drinks without bothering to think about them too much unless they had an alteration which she made a mental note about to avoid having someone practically slam themselves into the counter because God forbid there was too much ice in their latte. 

Not even a large, malt chocolate shaken espresso with a splash of half and half. 

“Stephen?” Emilia called out, sliding the coffee onto the pickup counter before her thoughts stuttered as it put together the drink and name. 

Looking up for what had to be the first time in at least half an hour, she saw Professor Strange heading over to the pickup bar. 

He had been watching her busily make drink after drink, calling out name after name, not glancing up for a second. 

“Professor. Hi. Hi Professor,” Emilia said dumbly. 

“Hi Emilia,” Stephen greeted, “Your hair looks nice today,” He noted her hair which was pulled back in two… French? Braids aside from a few strands which framed her face nicely. 

“Oh. Thank you. I like your uh- I like your pants,” Mentally, Emilia slapped herself. 

Complimenting pants was for the girls, not the guys. 

“Well thank you, I didn’t know you could see them over this glass you can barely see over,” He teased her shorter stature and she smiled a genuine smile before apologizing. 

“Sorry, it was the first thing which came to mind but I’m sure they are nice,” Emilia said as she walked over to grab another cup her coworker had kindly placed on the cup when Stephen’s next words were interrupted by a woman rushing up to the counter. 

“Excuse me, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt you two but I forgot to ask for oat milk on my caramel latte. I’ll get back in line to pay for it but I wanted to let you know before you make it,” A woman said from behind him, causing him to move away. 

“Is it for Stacy?” Emilia asked and the woman nodded, “Okay, I’ll make it with oat milk but you don’t have to pay, it’s okay,” She told her as she waved it off and wrote the change of the order on the cup. 

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the line had decreased and it was only the person left who was ordering aside from a couple of drinks left for those waiting. 

“Did you like your drink?” Emilia asked as she turned her attention back to him, “If you didn’t I can remake it. I didn’t know it was for you or else I would have paid more mind to it,” 

Sipping it again, he shrugged. 

“It’s good, but I can tell it wasn’t made with love like it was on Wednesday,” 

“Let me remake it-” Emilia started but he cut her off. 

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Stephen said with a grin, “It’s grand. Brilliant. You’re a lovely barista even when you don’t know it’s for me,” 

Unable to find something to say, Emilia smiled bashfully and attempted to conceal her flustered complexion but Stephen was quick to see it. 

“I have an undergrad intro course to teach in forty minutes, so I’ll see you soon,” Stephen explained as he glanced at his watch after feeling he had tortured Emilia enough but the flush on her cheeks was something he thought was cute. Sue him. 

“Have a nice day, Professor Strange,” Emilia wished, and he wished her the same as he left with a smile. 

The slight pep in his step made even the most tedious of courses seem not so bad since his coffee was great and he just felt giddy. 

Emilia continued working, but every so often her thoughts would flutter off to Steph- Professor Strange and his presence in front of the bar that morning. 

It had left quite the imprint on her mind and she couldn’t deny that. 

However when she found herself getting a bit carried away with her thoughts and mentally admiring him for any reason, she caught herself and chastised herself for it. 

Not only was the man a professor at the university she attended, she also knew well enough that she had absolutely no chance with him. 

He was a professional and apparently in a league of his own so he wasn’t about to go around scraping the bottom of the barrel to date her or even consider dating her. It was useless to even think about it because it would only serve to disappoint her. 

Professor Strange would never even think about her in such a way, she was just fooling herself with these tiny spurts of thought. 

It wasn’t even funny to think about how little chance she actually stood. 

But regardless, she still found herself smiling to herself when she thought about his smile and his teasing comments. 

Work went by just a bit faster with that, and Emilia was grateful she was able to enjoy her weekend without a shift dragging on too much. 

__________________

All things considered, Stephen did enjoy his profession. Regardless of the seemingly painstaking hours, faculty, and students it was truly as close to his dream as he would be able to get and it was one which commanded respect nonetheless. 

Academia had never been his initial pursuit since right out of high school he did everything he could to be admitted into his top choice of medical school with as little delay as possible. 

This was possible with both his work ethic and his eidetic memory at play, setting him well ahead of his peers and setting a good yet arrogant head on his shoulders because he was more than capable of succeeding in the medical world. 

Internship had flown by, and as he had known since he was fourteen- he was meant to be in the neuroscience speciality specifically as a neurosurgeon. 

That was until his car was flipped over at the age of 29 and his entire life was also flipped on its head like he found himself that Wednesday afternoon on his way to buy groceries. 

Oftentimes when the accident had just happened and he was in recovery unable to bear the thought of looking at his hands he thought about what would have happened if he had just stayed home and made a sandwich with what was there. 

But, like anything, it wasn’t enough and he needed more than what was already there. 

Stephen knew that his accident sent a shock through everyone and he was soon in physical therapy attempting to overcome a tremor when he began deciding what was next. 

Never having been wealthy, he needed to work somewhere but he knew it wouldn’t just be anywhere because someone with an MD and a PhD needed more than just a high school biology teacher. 

There just wasn’t any way that he would allow years and years of painstaking work and sleepless nights go to waste all because one path had been blocked off by unforeseen circumstances. 

Being a professor was his chosen plan “b”, but he had opted away from medical school because he knew that even medical school professors needed perfectly steady hands- especially in neuroscience. 

While John Hopkins had been his home for a while, he didn’t want to stay there and just be a model of what happens when things go wrong. 

It was true: those who can’t do, teach. 

Stephen knew he was the perfect example of that but that didn’t mean he wanted to be needlessly reminded every 15 minutes by a curious freshman or an uppity colleague. 

More than qualified, Dr. Strange became Professor Strange at the age of 29 (only a couple of months before his 30th birthday, but he still bragged) and he earned his reputation quickly and it was well deserved. 

Stephen had never suffered fools, and becoming a professor was not going to change that.

The reputation soon began and followed him only a week after his first day when he had a student leave his classroom in tears after she was unable to recall what the hippocampus did as a future neuroscientist.

However Stephen had worked hard and he had encountered his fairshare of possibly demonic professors but they also happened to be the ones which shaped him into the surgeon he almost was and the professor he now was, so he stuck to it. 

“I expect the discussion post to be answered by everyone tonight by midnight. I won’t accept late work. Have a nice day,” Stephen dismissed his lecture hall, praying to some force out there that nobody would stop to ask him about his opinion towards their drafted discussion post because he just wanted to get coffee before his next class. 

Time was limited as when he checked only moments beforehand he only had an hour before his next lecture in an hour. 

18 minutes to walk there and 18 minutes back needing to consider time to set up a couple of minutes before class… 24 minutes to get his coffee in between the two restricted times. 

Thankfully he was able to make his exit painlessly and he found himself pulling the door to his favorite coffee shop only 15 minutes later, shaving off an entire 3 minutes. 

Impressive. 

Ordering his usual, Stephen was almost surprised to see Emilia out from behind the barista bar sitting at one of the tables with a few sheets of paper in front of her as she evidently corrected something. 

A bit disappointed it wasn’t Emilia making his coffee, it soon disappeared as he went over and sat across from her, startling her. 

“You’re out from the inside of your box,” Stephen said with a smile. 

“Hi Professor Strange, I have a 20 minute break so I’m using it to finish off these quizzes for Professor Barlow,” She explained,  “Freshman English is tough,” 

Peeking over, he saw she had written a 62% in green marker at the top of the last test. 

“62? Holy hell. I sure hope he isn’t a sciences major if he’s failing freshman English,” Stephen said, a bit of his arrogance slipping through, and for the first time in a long time he wished he had kept his mouth shut. 

“It’s up from last time. He’s a good writer but he doesn’t test well,” Emilia attempted to defend with soft eyes, knowing that the transition into college level work was tough for some. 

“Or he plagiarizes,” Stephen debated, “But I don’t think we should spend this time debating whether or not a freshman is using his brain. How are you? How has your day been? Any plans?” 

This earned a smile from Emilia who set down her pen and rested her chin on her knuckles as she paid him his full attention which he really found himself enjoying. 

“I am well, a bit tired, but my day has been pretty average. I’m off at 2 so I’m going to go home and take a nap because I couldn’t sleep well last night. After that I’m just doing some homework. Nothing crazy. How about you?” 

Stephen pondered it as he looked at Emilia who waited patiently for his answer. 

“I am also well and my day has been going well so far, although the lecture I taught before coming here dragged on a bit as early morning lectures tend to do but I have no complaints, much less now. After my last lecture which ends at 3 I’m going home to get ready for his PhD faculty dinner that I’m going to with Professor Palmer. Do you know her? She’s a microbiology and immunology professor,” 

The intent listening expression Emilia had fallen, her hands dropping to the table where she grasped at her pen for the sake of doing something with her hands. 

“No uh- I don’t really know anyone that’s a part of the science faculty aside from you,” Emilia told him as her gaze went down towards the table and for some unnameable reason, she felt out of her depth and foolish. 

Stephen had noticed her change in demeanor and he didn’t know how he could change it back to how open and happy it had been just moments prior. He wasn’t given much time to think about it as his name was called from the pickup counter. 

Taking this as her opportunity to leave, even if she still had 5 minutes left of her break, Emilia began cleaning up her papers as Stephen went to pick up his drink. 

“Is your break over?” Stephen asked as he returned to see Emilia organizing her papers. 

“Yeah, I have to get back into my box,” Emilia said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, placing the quizzes back into their folder before standing. 

“I hope you have a nice time at the dinner and with Professor Palmer,” Emilia told him and Stephen felt desperate in a way, desperate to get down to the bottom of what had gone wrong and how he could fix it but time was not in their favor as they both needed to get back to work. 

Stephen told her he’d return the next day but she wouldn’t be working. He settled onto Friday when he knew she would be working. 

Again, Emilia smiled but it wasn’t that genuine smile he’d grown to enjoy but either way she bid him goodbye and turned to head back to work and he left to do the same although with a nagging feeling that wouldn’t go away.

The walk back to campus was thoughtful as Stephen tried to pinpoint the exact moment the conversation between them had gone to hell and how he could have been so foolish. It had been going well since Emilia had been open and smiling at him, paying him her full and devoted attention which was nice and suddenly like a book snapping shut; it was over and she had stepped back into her shell. 

Placing the folder back into her backpack which she kept in the break room, she zipped it up with a bit more force than necessary but she needed to find a way to get rid of the stupid whirlwind of emotions that were overtaking her. 

Grabbing her apron and retying it around her waist, she let out a deep breath because even if she felt frustrated she knew that at the end of the day, she was just really sad. 

Ever since Professor Strange had come into the cafe and had made conversation with her, despite her better judgment, a part of her hand actually got her own hopes up about it all. 

“What if” was a dangerous road to travel and Emilia had traveled it nonstop it seemed.

In an ignorant way, she had convinced herself that it all meant something. That he had been coming around because he wanted to talk to her and that he felt that little spark she felt between them but she couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Of course, as an older, well respected, well educated professor he was going to be into people who were also on the same playing field. Not some graduate student who was working two jobs and spent her nights alone in her apartment. 

Heading back out to the bar to relieve Maggie, Emilia thinks about how far out of her league the man is and how it’s actually a bit painful to think about again since it isn’t the first time she’s come to this realization. 

New Hampshire was home to countless intelligent and beautiful women 

Stephen wanted someone who was his equal, not an English master’s degree student who wore an apron to work and whose career path he evidently didn’t think much of.

Emilia’s career path was for her own sake because she loved the possibilities higher education in literature offered and she wasn’t about to start feeling remorse or as though it weren’t a good enough career path because of a ridiculous crush. 

Even though she knew she was successful and was making her way in the world- it was still as disappointing to know that your feelings were not reciprocated both equally at 13 and 25. 

Regardless of her emotional turmoil, however, drinks still needed to be made and caffeine was still a necessity so she got to work. 

_______________________

By the time Friday rolled around and Emilia began getting ready for work she convinced herself that the way she was meticulously picking out her outfit for work was not because of any particular reason. 

Okay. 

So maybe the way she had pulled her hair back into a half up half down style with a clip that just so happened to perfectly match the light cardigan she was wearing which matched her shoes which had the jeans that made her ass look fantastic… 

It was for her own sake, Emilia told herself because when she looked good she felt good. 

It also did not hurt to look great when Professor Strange was going to come by. That was just a fun little addition to it all.

The assumption that he would come in around the time he had last time was correct and Emilia began pulling the adequate shots of espresso as soon as he began ordering, pretending to be nonchalant and feigning ignorance. 

This wasn’t her strongsuit it seemed because Stephen had caught her glancing at him as soon as he stepped foot in the place but he thought it was sweet so he smiled to himself as it gave him the extra boost of confidence he needed. 

Walking over to the bar, Stephen greeted her and watched as Emilia grabbed the shaker bottle. 

“So if someone were to make you a coffee, what would it be?” Stephen asked. 

“What?” Emilia asked in a way she found stupid because the question was clear. 

“You know my coffee order,” Stephen said with a casual shrug, leaning his hip against the counter ever so slightly, “It’s only right I know yours as well,”

Emilia paused her movements as she thought about it.

 The taste of coffee itself wasn’t all too appealing to her, and it had never been. A bit ironic with how she worked at a coffee shop but she did enjoy coffee drinks when they were creamy, sweet, and didn’t make her gag with the strength of the coffee. 

From their own menu and, despite her support of small businesses, Starbucks- she always got a brown sugar shaken espresso with extra oat milk.

It hadn’t disappointed her yet and it was the perfect, most delicious- 

“Look,” Stephen said with a nervous strain in his voice Emilia had never been privy to, watching as he shifted his weight uncomfortable, “I’m trying to ask you to dinner,” 

Jesus Christ. 

Who knew a person could be so dense?

“So, Emilia, will you go to dinner with me?” Stephen asked, “I’d like to talk without a counter between us or a time limit,” 

The world seemingly narrows to the man standing in front of her. The professor she had encountered by just the chance circumstances life provided was all she noticed for that moment, even if in the back of her mind she knew that the cashier was watching intently and a few other lingering customers were watching because really, who didn’t love gossip? Plus Stephen had been exactly whispering. 

The world is Stephen- tall, handsome, intelligent, confident Stephen who could probably have any person he laid eyes on wanted Emilia. Small, shy, thoughtful Emilia who often goes unnoticed but not by him it seemed. 

Emilia opens and closes her mouth for a moment but she tells herself to get it together. 

“I- yes,” Emilia finally said, “I would love to,”

The happiness that painted Stephen’s face was enough to light up a city block. 

Was it weird how crazy she was about him considering she didn’t even know him? Maybe. But this wasn’t the time to dissect the inner workings of her affections. 

In another world, perhaps a romantic comedy of sorts, Emilia would have left her shift right then and there to go out with Stephen. Stephen would have also abandoned his Friday lectures and office hours and they would have gone out together. 

A lovely dinner would be shared with them where Emilia would open up and Stephen would also open up, breaking the ice and shaking off the seemingly permanent arrogant exterior he wore with everyone but her for the night. Maybe even forever. 

But this was not that world. 

“Do you live here or something? Can I have your number to contact you?” Stephen asks with the same smile. 

“Yeah I live here under the counter next to the milk fridge,” Emilia responds without thinking, smiling as Stephen laughs but she’s grabbing the Sharpie from her apron and writing her number on a nearby napkin because cliches are cliches for a reason, sometimes. Practicality and all. 

Emilia’s handwriting is neat, it’s cute, and it’s perfect. 

Stephen’s fingers brush her own as he takes it, and they both somehow know it’s intentional so they both share an inside joke smile before Emilia readies his drink by snapping the lid on, sending him on his way with a promise to call. 

The rest of the shift is spent with Emilia attempting to ignore her phone and pretending to ignore the seemingly unrelenting temptation to just sneak into the back like she knows everyone does to check her phone. 

When given the opportunity to check her messages Emilia tries her best to ignore the cold disappointment when there are no missed calls or messages from a new number. While Emilia doesn't think that Stephen is the type of person to ask someone out and then ignore them, she also knows that she doesn’t really know him aside from his drink order and his profession. 

Stephen could very well have plenty of phone numbers to pick and choose from as he pleases. 

This thought dims her mood so she chooses to let it go in favor of wiping the counter off. Again. 

Emilia couldn’t possibly know that Stephen had been staring at the napkin every opportunity he had gotten; saving the numbers on his computer, phone, and even writing it down on a sticky note he stuck into his wallet before his next lecture just in case. 

The same number he had already successfully memorized. 

It’s during her walk home after work when Emilia is planning out her evening’s dinner when her phone begins to vibrate in her backpack, excitement bubbling in her chest as she sees it’s from an unknown number. 

“Hello?” Emilia answers, hoping she didn’t speak too quickly. 

“Hi. Is this Emilia?” The familiar voice which is just slightly changed by a phone call asks, “This is Stephen. Boundary crossing professor and customer,” 

“Hi Stephen,” Emilia says with a grin she can’t stamp down painting her face as she presses the crosswalk button. 

“I hope this is an alright time to call, I just couldn’t wait any longer so I’m calling between lectures,” 

“Oh,” Oh. “No, no that’s fine,” Emilia feels she’s capable of doing a cartwheel at that moment. 

“I ended my last lecture early with the promise of it being so they could prepare for the midterm but I knew that they wanted to get of out there as much as I did so I did us both a favor,”

Emilia imagines Stephen rushing students out of his lecture hall as quickly as possible in order to call her seconds sooner. 

“I’m glad you called,” Emilia confesses, briefly missing someone distracted from crashing into her. 

“I am too,” There’s a pause and Emilia listens intently, “I don’t know your personal schedule but I know you don’t work tomorrow but are you free tomorrow afternoon?” 

Tomorrow!! Emilia thinks. Less than a day away. 

“I’m free,” Emilia has work to do for school but she knows she’d find time during finals week for Stephen. 

“Perfect. There’s this restaurant, it’s a brewery as well. It’s on Wheelbridge. I’d like to take you there,” 

While Emilia knows the area, not the restaurant. It’s not too close to home, but it would be okay. 

“Okay. That sounds nice. What time?” 

“Let’s do 2? I don’t want to interrupt you sleeping in and relaxing. Is that okay? I thought we could have lunch and then somewhere else not too far away,” 

“That sounds lovely,” 

“Great. Perfect. I will let you go because I’m sure you have things to do and I won’t be the reason you are distracted,” 

Stephen didn’t know he was Emilia’s favorite distraction. 

“Tomorrow, then?” Stephen asks, “2?” suddenly sounding hesitant, nervous almost. It didn’t suit him as he sounded unsure as if he needed to make sure it was happening and set in stone. 

“2pm I’ll be there,” 

“Okay. See you then. Bye, Emilia,” 

“Bye-bye” Emilia says before they both hang up and she wants to body slam herself through the Earth’s crust because who says “bye-bye” unironically? 

Instead of dwelling, Emilia saves his phone number carefully and there is absolutely nothing that can ruin her mood. 

Not the way that the leftovers she was planning on having were spoiled, or the way she had forgotten to revise an essay, or even when she couldn’t sleep out of sheer excitement.

[springtrappd]

it being a bad-at-words day means that i am not exactly up for presenting my thoughts in any kind of cohesive or organised order atm, so you'll have to forgive this stream-of-consciousness, fresh off hitting both endings summary of my thoughts on hw2, but here goes:

this game is up with totk for the most reluctant positive reviews i've ever given, and it's for much the same reason -- that totk feels largely disconnected from its predecessor, focused almost entirely on its gameplay while pretending that it has any story worth the effort at all. unlike totk, hw2 is not a ground-breaking flex of how far a dev team can push the limitations of the medium (and the game itself), nor is it trying to be. it is an indie horror vr game, taking its cues from earlier titles like job simulator with its arcade-like, pick-up-and-play approach to level design and the scenarios found within. it is also an incoherent mess.

okay, that's being a bit hyperbolic, but like -- stop for a second, and think about the climactic moments of this game, the big things you're gonna be discussing over social media for the next couple of months. what are they? well, they're glitchtrap, the mimic, vanny, moon, cassie -- they're the conclusions to sb's (and much more specifically, ruin's) story, an add-on to those that adds a little flavour to those existing works. okay, now think about how this game was marketed. who is on the cover? who was in the initial teaser? where is the game's hub set? well, it's pizzasim and sl, of course -- funtime freddy in the centre of the box art, a warning menu that explicitly references the pizza place and a hub world set within it. there's a split down the middle in every single aspect of the game, with ruin on one side and the other shit on the other, and i mean in every aspect of the game.

you have pizzaplex collectibles sat next to the grimy, cartoonish abominations of pizzasim, you have the vanny mask put next to helpy, a fazerblaster with the trash gang -- the neon lights of the pizzaplex next to the dark underbelly of circus baby's rentals, the glowing daycare positioned in parallel to the halloween-y fun of the carousel; it's a lesson in dissonance, a game where you can draw a line down the middle of its level select and split it into two halves with wildly different directions. you can argue that this was intentional, that the juxtaposition is the point; that it is intentional that funfred is at the centre of the box art with absolutely zero new lines, that you're comparing the old and the new in equal measure. this is a wasted argument, considering the secret ending of the game literally has you step into the circus baby's elevator only to twist-reveal that you're actually in the pizzaplex.

that's not to say that i think this was something done out of malice; i'm not in the business of projecting my feelings onto game devs, and most grand conspiracies have far, far simpler explanations. no, the simple answer for what happened here is that they are two different games stitched together. it explains the strange vibe of the early pizzaplex levels, the way any vague plot threads feel half-shaped and empty -- like you're only looking at the edges of a puzzle, the bones of a meal without its meaty centre. and by bones, i mean bones, because to say this game has a plot is to, well, lie -- it very much does not, right up until you complete everything and it goes "oh shit, uh, have a crumb?" and then vanishes into the night. it's confusing the way that sb is, except this time it's polished enough to be intentional, which is, i'm gonna be honest, really not the lesson to be taking from sb.

like, hw1 has a plot. more than that, it has a goal that -- while separated from the primary, player-driven one of 'complete all levels' -- is one that begins from the very first scene, and heavily incentivizes exploration and replaying; the tapes are a physical, tangible goal that you know how to get more of -- it's just the process of getting to that that might take some extra help. tapes are hidden in levels, go find them, flip the switch to go into hard mode, have fun! it's very, very simple, and it works; you are very, very likely to find a tape at some point during a blind playthrough, and from there pull and pull on that plot thread until you fish up your reward. and that reward is, yes, a plot -- the story of the indie game studio being caught in a trap is, however simple it is, a narrative with progression and stakes and characters. there is an antagonist! can you believe! hell, there's even a little twist in the form of tape girl's instructions not working as intended.

by contrast, the fazforce figures and fazwrench are at no point explained and the player is given zero information for how the fuck you're meant to get further with those. helpy doesn't go "here's your reward for doing so well! :)" or update your clearance or anything -- you just... get given it when the game decides you do, which also has the fun byproduct of blocking your access to hard mode content until you hit whatever invisible trigger the game sets for you. no more can you just clear out the levels you're actually interested in playing; now you have to do everything, blindly tackling as much as you can until the game sees fit to throw you a bone -- and then the steps for getting to hard mode are 1) ruin themed 2) a single poster that says to take off your mask. and, like... what fucking mask, dude? maybe i'm just stupid, but i spent way too long squinting at the screen trying to figure out if this was about to pull a ds-era gimmick on me and make me take off my headset. instead you have to physically reach up and take on and off the mask every single time, which doesn't sound that bad until you're smacking the giant computer strapped to your face to go between levels... and if the hard mode hub wasn't so fucking dull. it's sb's wrecked pizza place, big whoop (oh hey, look, it's that "using the other games to do a surprise ruin reveal" thing again. sure hope that's not common!) -- you ever actually sat in blacklight mode? that shit feels like a fever dream. unmasked mode feels like proving you're enough of a big boy to handle the actual game now, please.

and i'm getting off-topic, but what i'm getting at is that good fucking god does hw2 make understanding what it wants from you as hard as possible while also giving you absolutely nothing in return. collect the voltron reference to get the ending! why? uhhhh, fuck you, collect the memory plushies of the og missing kids to get the secret ending! why? uhhhh, fuck, wait, how does this tie back into ruin again?

and if you think this is just a me-problem, or that this is just some unclear progression -- you are wrong. the entire game is like this. in a classic steel wool studios moment, the tutorial cards are utter dogshit and do nothing to explain how anything actually works. it is Bad. (and i've mentioned it before, but while the idea of the memory plushies is really, really cool, their execution is another symptom of that 'oh fuck we have to make more game now' problem)

and speaking of unclear direction -- god, does it show in the aesthetics of this one. say what you will about hw1 (and i will, and probably have), but god does it know exactly what it is, what it is doing and how it is going to do it. hw1 is a masterclass in good environmental design, with its absolutely massive hub set against the cramped, claustrophobic quarters the entire game takes place in -- it's achingly empty, with dust particles swirling through the air and the gentle crackle of the anomaly peering through the only sound. no, seriously, hw1's hub is silent -- you can tell when glitchtrap is behind you because his audio cue has a bit of distortion at the start, which absolutely slices through the quiet when you get too used to it. from the title screen to the hub to the gameplay itself, it is a game that teases you with its own limitations, sitting by your shoulder with a giggle and a made you look; the threat is always, always there, be it in the looming figures or the space itself. everything about it is dark and grimy and aged, its bulky monitors and massive cables putting you in a retro mindset before ripping it out under you with the reminder that you are in vr -- and even then, the way it talks about it is strange, its sci-fi ideas coached in aged terms; "using proprietary technology developed by Fazbear Entertainment, our VR development teams were able to use vintage control board, almost like plug and play, digitally recreating performances and personalities from the past in an instant," the handunit says.

"help wanted is sooo good at making you feel unsafe in The Fucking Menu," i wrote way back in 2022, barely through the first quarter of the game; its use of atmosphere to build horror was something i immediately picked up on, and pops back up every time i think about the game. it's central to its identity, and best exemplified in the presence of foxy in title screen -- a looming figure who just... stands there, behind you. a threat never followed through. they supply the scare; you're the one who jumps.

"I remember watching markiplier play it for the first time and I was convinced something was going to jumpscare you in the main menu," my beloved bestie mikhail said. i agreed. so does the majority of gameplay footage out there.

in hw2, every single time you boot the title screen, you are greeted by a forced jumpscare of circus baby appearing behind you.

every single bit of hw1 is oozing with style, from foxy being hidden behind you on the title screen to the death messages to the occasional interjections from the handunit to the prize room to the pre-level room (which is on the stage!) to whatever the fuck this is to the absolute fever dream that is blacklight levels.

while hw2... does not have that. one of the little details from hw1 that i've mentioned before is just... the clock on the monitor. in hw1, you start the game at 11:44pm, with every tape you collect progressing forward a minute until you hit the merge ending, setting it to 00:00 (midnight). the level select screen in hw2 features a similar clock, which was what prompted me to make the post i'm referencing here in the first place. i expected them to do something equally cute with it. they did not. it's just a clock set to 12:00am, because it's a computer and those do that. and that is, i think, the best summary i can give of the difference in environmental design philosophy between these two entries. that they never expected you to look at all.

in terms of actual gameplay? it's probably the most polished a steel wool game has ever been, which is great! i only had one level actually truly bug out on me (fazerblast fnaf2), which is a marked improvement from... well, let's just leave it at that. the game design itself is also very good, with gameplay loops that feel fun and intuitive (most of the time) -- significantly less steel wool shit this time around, which is nice. the job simulator focus, however, means that this is a horror game that's very light on the horror, with very few levels that actually have that creeping tension hw1 was so good at. some of the sb levels manage it (with the staffbots and djmm leaning in so close, or glamfreddy snapping out at you, or... anything with moon) -- but most of them don't, which sucks. notably, these are all the front-loaded levels, with all the real spooky shit shoved into the right side of the monitor... where all the pizzasim and sl stuff is, and we've hit that "these are two different games" thing again.

the first level you are presented with in hw1 is a recreation of fnaf1's first night. the first level you are presented with in hw2 is arts and crafts with sun. (and i'm counting it as the first level because native english speakers will automatically look to the top-left of an image/page/screen, and they're not only the primary target audience but the majority of the dev team as well.)

and i've been typing for two hours and my brain is starting to form a vanny-shaped puddle on my bedroom floor, but what all of this builds up to is what is ultimately wrong with ruin, and the tales from the pizzaplex, and security breach as a whole: the idea that the solution to a problem is to throw more ideas at it, focusing on always moving forward over filling all your holes and tying off your threads. the response to the catastrophic release of sb was not to finish what they started, but to build something completely different next to the gaping hole that was sb's plot, and that's not good... anything, but storytelling most of all, and it's how you hit the situation that we're in now: where there are no stakes, no antagonist, nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to. just an empty shell waiting for your money to fill it. and yeah, that's kinda standard for fnaf, except not really? like, guys, fnaf1 had a narrative arc. fnaf4 onwards has had actual characters, with personalities and motives and ideas, and the two most narrative-heavy fnaf games are the ones front-and-centre of this one!

except... in the secret ending of hw2, after you get bait-and-switched from sl to the pizzaplex, you're dumped inside a claw machine and watch as a giant vanny takes glitchtrap in her hands and crushes him into dust. the primary antagonist of hw1, the villainous face of that soft reboot -- taken out back and replaced by the new antagonist. the one we were introduced to in the same game, who keeps having her lines cut and her role shrunk down into nothing and the focus shifted away from until it's time for a new stinger. why did she do this? why is this happening? what does this mean, going forward? no, seriously, who the fuck is the mimic? -- none of that matters, because that isn't actually the point. the game looks you in the camera of the giant computer strapped to your face and says, that era is dead. we're starting a new one.

but really, it says nothing at all.

[safyresky]

Been thinking about CS!TSCS for a month at this point. Please enjoy these lil' doodles about it!

[ID in ALT and typed dialogue under cut :D]

Numero 1

Jacquie: Up the CHIMNEY?!

Carol: RIGHT UP IT! MID DISCUSSION!

Jacquie: GIRL, DUMP HIS ASS!!!!

Numero 2

Santa: How did you even GET that vest, huh?!?!

Jacqueline: I MURDERED my PREDECESSOR.

Santa: you what

Numero 3

Jack: Good day at work today, little flurry?

Jacqueline: Mmmmmm yep! Told Santa I killed you for the vest and the title >:)

Jack, turning around sharply and full of pride: HA! NICE!

---

These were the doods I meant to post last last Thursday after this scrimbly Jacqueline, lol. When I tell you that Crystal Springs TSCS has been IN MY HEAD, I AM NOT JOKING!

The reason I didn't post these sooner is bc I really wanted to draw the last one and hadn't gotten around to it as of yet, and I also wanted to colour these PROPER scrimblies because holy SHIT I LOVE COLOURING 🤩🤩🤩🤩

More fun facts about CS in TSCS:

Carol and Jacqueline have regular vent sessions. Mostly Carol; Jacqueline's just there for the TEA (and emotional support)

Her catchphrase could very much be "CAROL. DUMP HIS ASS" in this cs au

"Don't you mean tscs au?" NO. TSCS IS AN AU IN ITSELF AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL

She frustrates Santa to no end bc A) She's Jack Frost and he has previous biases, and B) she goes OUT OF HER WAY to bother him.

When I say Jacqueline dislikes tscs!Scott, I am not joking. It is not hyperbole. She can't STAND him. And she tells him that to his FACE. MULTIPLE TIMES. And adds insult to injury bc she's buds with Carol and Buddy and Sandy, lol, and all the new gen elves are like, chill with her

(I have a silly hc that Betty is a Bernelle kid and Jacquie's her godmother, lollllll)

She and I both dislike people who need change and refuse to work on themselves/believe they're FINE and it SHOWS.

After she made the claim about murdering Jack, Santa was TERRIFIED on top of his usual distaste for Jack's successor lmao

She was quite delighted at how Santa took that tale. Elaborated a bit. I imagine it went something like this:

"...you what?" Her murderous look intensified. Santa could easily picture the darkness gathering around her the way it did in cartoons when the evil character was. Well. Being evil. "You heard me!" She sounded way too delighted, Santa noted. "I killed my predecessor! You know, the guy before me? Yeah. Stabbed him right dead. Pulled the vest out of the melted pile of slush that was once Jack Frost the first and put it right on." "...Jesus Christ."

Anyway, after that, she goes home and Jack pops in for 4 o'clock coffee and the final image ensues, lol. This interaction follows that:

"And he believed you?" Jack asked, pulling out the chair next to her and plunking down, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "Damn near shat himself about it, too," Jacqueline confirmed, looking sly over the top of her mug. Jack laughed. "Oh that's, that's marvellous." "Mm! It was! THEN I elaborated. Told him I took the vest like a war trophy, you know? Didn't even wash it or anything. Shame I said SLUSH instead of BLOOD because I bet he would've like. DIED on the spot picturing me putting on a blood soaked vest, ehehe. I swear Jack, I could see his soul leave his body. Definitely top 5 best days at work. Maybe top 3, even."

Jack is deffs enjoying retirement in this au! Going full vacation mode, spending most days in various hot spots on various beaches with various drinks, usually popping by the family home for 4 o'clock coffee and cocoa--and a break from the sun since he burns and Winter worries

YES he IS still wearing his suit pants. I thought that'd be funny and just about died picturing him in khakis

With every Jack I draw his hair grows more powerful, AS IT SHOULD BE!!

I DID draw a chair behind Jacqueline but her poofy hair ate it~

I think she is A) older in this au than she regularly is and B) is already married to Dite. I'm still on the fence about both those things, but she feels older in this au--probably because the entire cast is older lmao

Late night post is late bc I finished colouring this and wanted to share it asap, DAMN THE TIME!!!!

[pollylynn]

Title: Motive WC: 1000

“But the truth is, I've never had so much fun being used.”

—Richard Castle, The Late Shaft (2 x 20)

HIs daughter is not in the least interested in Ellie Monroe, not beyond that first blip of startled recognition, anyway. And maybe her interest is briefly piqued by that slightly awkward, double-edged teenage moment where she—the literal teenager—has all but caught him—the figurative teenager—sharing a goodbye kiss with the starlet from the B-movies the two of them loved once upon a time. There’s a quirk of her eyebrow and her jaw drops a quarter of an inch as Ellie brushes by and as he makes a show of gathering her into his arms, but beyond that, his daughter is not interested in Ellie Monroe. 

She is pointedly—perhaps a bit hyperbolically—interested in food. She humors him, playing along as though she has been foraging for sustenance, rather than retiring to the fireside so that the support staff, who undoubtedly made the fire, could serve her and her fellow orienteers some bougie pre-arranged meal accented with whatever minimal forest spoils they’d managed to scrounge up. She tucks into the feast he has prepared and it’s more than a little obvious to them both that her interest in food is compensating for her total, performative lack of interest in Ellie Monroe. 

He thinks, at first, that he’s a little wistful about it. It’s the latest in a long string of signs that she’s not his little girl, anymore. She’s not sitting there, rapt, with her chin propped on her fists, asking starry-eyed questions about the pretty lady or the daring heroine and what she’s like in person. The fact that she is not interested in the recently departed pretty lady is yet another ding in his own larger-than-life SuperDad persona, isn’t it? 

But wistful gives way to relieved. At least relieved is what he thinks comes next. It’s what he calls it, anyway. Interest in food gives way to interest in her trip. Or lack of interest, rather. She’s had fun. She has had fireside sings and ghost stories. She has seen a loon feeding and she speaks with pride about her own ability to handle herself. She speaks a bit high-handedly about some of the girls—she calls them girls and there’s a silent little in front of it—who didn’t handle themselves so well. And it’s clear that she was a bit bored. She’s a bit over that kind of trip. 

He should probably be wistful about that, too. He has a long list of things he would prefer she never be over, starting with plastic tiaras and extending well into the territory where she is jazzed about carrying her own pack through the Adirondacks, but also worried about falling behind on her self-imposed program of reading the classics. He should be very much opposed to her outgrowing Sacajawea cosplay, but instead he’s relieved or something like it. 

The reasons for relief are not entirely clear. Or possibly, he’s not inclined let them come into focus, because they might have something to do with Kayla and math and Ellie Monroe. It might have to do with Beckett—damn her to the Adirondacks with a too-heavy pack—using phrases like throwing herself at you and flicking barely perceptible, yet decidedly real, glance his way when Kayla declares that she and Bobby Mann were in love. 

It is more than possible that this has very confusing things to do with Beckett and his daughter, because his daughter, who is pointedly not interested in Ellie Monroe, is quietly bringing her up as she—totally against orders and in defiance of long established post-orienteering protocols—insists on helping him clear away the feast and tackle the dishes. Quietly doesn’t begin to describe it, actually. She is bringing Ellie Monroe up in such a round-about way that the conversation might need to think about a manageable, well-balanced pack.

“How do they book those shows, anyway?” 

As she asks, she makes a show of scowling down at the cast iron pan she always says he uses improperly. She is going for off-handed and not quite making it there. 

For his part, he is diffusely nervous. She’s avoiding eye contact, and for once he doesn’t mind. 

“Like, you have your book coming out soon.” She clatters plates and platters as she scrapes and rinses, almost as though she hopes he won’t hear her over the din. But she finds her nerve somewhere. She flicks the handle of the sink to stop, at least, the roar of rushing water. “And there’s the movie.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. The paperback and the mo–” He stoops to slot forks and knives into the dishwasher’s basket. He cringes at the memory of his schmoozy call with Tony the Movie Mogul. He clears his throat and presses on. “There’s the movie.” 

“But Ellie Monroe . . . “ Her gaze drifts toward the loft’s front door as though the woman herself might still be lurking in the hallway. ”She hasn’t done anything in a long time.” She leans into the word long. There’s a pause. She sets down the stack of plates in her hand and plants a fist on her hip. She’s making eye contact now, or she would be, if he didn’t have his head down.  “Why was she there?” 

His own gaze drifts toward the alcove leading into his bedroom. His face flushes as he pictures himself hissing Beckett up at the ceiling. He’s half afraid those two syllables might still be caroming around in the ether. Irritation and embarrassment burble up, and he wonders—for a moment, he genuinely wonders—if the good detective somehow intercepted his daughter and put her up to asking this unanswerable question about the why of Ellie Monroe. 

It’s not an unanswerable question, though. It’s a good question, a reasonable question. It’s the kind of question he wants his intelligent, caring, plastic tiara–eschewing, orienteering-outgrowing daughter to know she can always ask him. 

“Show business, I guess.” He shrugs. He turns his attention back to the dishes. He wishes he had a better answer. 

A/N: No, really. Why is Ellie "Viper Mountain" Monroe on that show? And why did no one fix her make-up shade? And banish that raincoat to the Phantom Zone?

images via homeofthenutty

[nayeonline]

Why 'GLITCH' - KWON EUNBI Is The Greatest Song Ever Made

One of the most common arguments against k-pop that isn’t ‘it’s cringy’ is that it is the peak of capitalist pop culture, and the whole affair was solely designed to manufacture idols the teenage girls of South Korea (and now the wider world) will become obsessed with, and where there is obsession, there is money. Lots of money. For years there have been discussions in the online community about if k-pop has stopped being about the music; about what idols we think only debuted because they are attractive, as opposed to talented; about the companies that buy views and sell a hundred different versions of their groups’ albums to drive up sales. We say that all of this makes k-pop annoying, repetitive, and a vacuum for creativity, but then we scroll away and retweet the next twenty Wonyoung fancams we see. I’m guilty of this too, we all contribute to this system by buying the albums and liking the fancams and watching the music videos, because k-pop is fun and interesting and all encompassing. But sometimes, I get so caught up in the repetitive, standardised releases that I’ll tune into a comeback and it will absolutely floor me. K-Pop capitalism may not usually breed innovation, but this time it had. I was listening to ‘Glitch’ by Kwon Eunbi -  the greatest song ever made. (Yes, I’m being hyperbolic, modality makes for a boring essay)

Let’s begin with Kwon Eunbi herself. As I am sure you are aware, Eunbi was the leader of IZ*ONE, and since the group’s fateful disbandment in 2021, she joined Woollim Entertainment as a soloist. Eunbi is of course a highly talented and skilled dancer, but for me her real star quality comes from her voice. It is so unbelievably unique in its formation. Her tone is thin and soft and delicate, but her vocal power is incredible. This dichotomy in tone and power gives Eunbi’s vocal performance an almost uncanny edge, it has an aura you can’t quite place. In some songs, like her debut title track ‘Door’ this can be a hindrance - the listener is left wanting a more fuller tone to match the power of her range and the 1920’s-esque jazz instrumentation, but since her debut, Eunbi’s songs have evolved in such a way that every element of the production highlights and celebrates this quality, instead of trying to cover it up as ‘Door’ does. ‘Glitch’ epitomises this concept.

Generally speaking, mainstream K-pop production is rarely spectacular; a catchy bass line, some trappy percussion, synth melody in the chorus with a more subtle 80’s disco feel is the go to for many a kpop producer. ‘Glitch’ definitely involves elements of this, but employs them in a far more intentional manner. The song opens with an 8-bit video game-esque melody that briefly teases the chorus, then transitions into an extremely minimalistic bass driven verse mainly led by the vocal melody. The opening melody returns with some new snappy percussion, the layers build, the vocals get more frantic and fast, and the listener realises unlike most kpop songs that begin working up to the hook in the pre chorus, ‘Glitch’ has been building its layers since the first second. The synths stack up, the percussion quickens, everything is going a mile a minute and with Eunbi’s spoken ad-lib “It’s definitely uncertain, that’s who I am” the listener holds their breath for what they assume to be the inevitable and-

The wind is utterly knocked out of you. That full to the brim chorus you were expecting is not here, instead we get this bass beat that evokes a glitchy (ha) speaker, and Eunbi’s ethereal vocals. Anti-drops have existed before this song, but I reserve that this is the peak of the sub genre.

The song continues to add layers of production, the verses and pre choruses bringing more and more urgency as they go on. The most frustrating part to your average anti-drop song is that by the end of the song you are in the same place that you started in - they are so afraid to build as the song goes on. ‘Glitch’ is not fazed by this pitfall. The bridge is ethereal and half time, and the listener is struck with the feeling that something is brewing. Eunbi whispers “disappear”, and the wire snaps. Everything explodes in a technicolour paroxysm, and what was a vibey down beat song becomes wondrously anthemic. The release we have been building since that mesmerising introductory melody is here, and before you know it, it’s gone. Replaced by a lilting, indistinct melody that fades in and out of existence, leaving the listener in pure awe.

If you were to cut a single part out of this song, it would not work. That is the genius of ‘Glitch’, to listen to only a single part of it is to misunderstand the song; it is impossible to condense. In the sea of kpop songs manufactured to be in 30 second sound bites that go viral on TikTok along with the point choreography, ‘Glitch’ uses every second of its 3:45 runtime expertly and efficiently. And yes, I am aware that there was a #Glitch_Challenge, but I like to imagine that this was a feeble attempt at marketing from Woollim Entertainment, rather than something in the forefront of the minds of the highly talented producers. (They were Corbin (NEWTYPE) and TAK.)

If it hasn’t clicked yet, I really fucking love this song. I love its construction, its instrumentation, and of course I love Eunbi. She is such a powerhouse and her discography is so amazing. My favourite release from her is the ‘Lethality’ mini album, which includes ‘Croquis’ the mesmerising sonic sequel to Glitch that is also produced by Corbin and TAK. If you have never listened to ‘Glitch’ before, or you heard it once or twice when it came out a couple years ago, I would heavily encourage a listen; it truly hasn’t aged a day. And for the initiated among you, go check out both ‘Croquis’ and Eunbi’s latest comeback, ‘The Flash’. Or go stream her whole discography because it definitely deserves a listen. Thanks for reading, and if you have any K-pop related topics you want me to cover, or albums you want me to review, let me know in either the comments/reblogs, or in the requests section of my blog.

[purplekoop]

Things I Love #2: WATCH OJAMAJO DOREMI.

Okay so. context.

A while back, way earlier this year if memory serves correctly, my friend Dyna (y'know from the streams) found a peculiar song in the girl idol band rhythm game they like. Upon investigating, they learned that was an official cover of the theme song for a 1999 magical girl anime with a very niche cult following here in the states. They looked into it further, watched a video explaining why the show is so great, saw it for themselves, and after becoming thoroughly obsessed, convinced me somehow to watch the entire 200+ episode run with them.

And it. was.

Worth it.

I say it without an ATOM of hyperbole that this is genuinely one of the best shows I've ever seen. Like. Seriously, no bits no laughs no nothing, this silly little pastel-colored show is utterly phenomenal in more ways that I can do it justice. It's genuinely that good. It's hilarious, it's intense, and it made me cry and intensely hilarious number of times. It's legitimately a show that makes me happier to be alive when I think about it.

And one of the main cast members looks like this for the majority of the show.

...Okay maybe it deserves a little more context.

So, okay, plot summary:

Doremi (the pink one) is a silly, short-tempered, and chronically unlucky grade schooler who kind of sucks at... most things, to be frank. And one thing she sucks at that actually bothers her is her inability to muster up the courage to one day confess to a boy she likes. Logically, the only way she'd be able to confess is if she had magic, so she's also obsessed with witches, and one day becoming a witch herself. (Good news for her incoming.)

One day, she goes to a mysterious old house, and finds an equally mysterious woman inside with a cat. Just kind of, y'know, as a hunch. She accuses the woman of being a witch, which causes her to spontaneously turn into the green creature seen above.

This is Majo Rika, a genuine article but short-tempered witch, and the cat is secretly her fairy companion Lala. When a witch's identity is found out by a human, they get cursed into being a silly little creature known as a Witch Frog, and the only way to turn back into their original form is for the human who found them out to become a witch themself, and then use their magic to turn the witch frog back to normal. This, very conveniently, means Doremi now has to become a Witch Apprentice, learn magic, pass the apprentice exams, and eventually earn the honor of becoming a full witch herself.

Along the way, some of Doremi's friends get caught up in the secret, including her childhood friend Hazuki, the soft-spoken sweetheart (and my favorite of the apprentices but quite not my favorite character outright), and the new transfer student Aiko, the cool-headed tomboy who rocks the blue. Together, they all train to be witch apprentices, learning under Majo Rika, and working at her house, which is turned into a magical crafts shop, the Maho Dou. A few more witch apprentices join them along the way, but aside from them they have to keep their witchy business a secret from everyone else.

Now that we've established the basics, I think I'll continue the tradition of posting the show's theme song in each of these. Doremi has a 4-ish season run, with each season getting its own OP in standard anime fare, but I think the first and most iconic opening, Ojamajo Carnival, should suffice:

Oh yeah, might help to explain what "Ojamajo" means. It's a pun that roughly means "bothersome witch", since "Majo" is "Witch" and "Ojama" means "bothersome" or "annoying." So the title would more directly be "Bothersome Witch Doremi" but literally everyone prefers "Ojamajo" so. yeah.

Anyways, theme song shows a lot about the show that's great.

For one is the art style, which I'd say is "pleasant" in the most intensely delightful sense of the word. The designs themselves are all nice, soft, and delightful, with hardly a sharp corner in sight and a real sense of childlike whimsy permeating through it all. The general color palette and style of the show also just has a nostalgic fuzziness, even after the show's technical quality improves over its 4 year run. And the animation I adored as soon as episode 1, with characters frequently deforming to goofy faces and round nub hands right out of Animal Crossing. Hey, I don't blame them, I wouldn't wanna draw full hands for over 200 episodes either.

Another thing is the soundtrack. I don't know what terms to describe its genre, but beyond just the bombastic opening, with its cheery violin, twangy guitar, and overall exuberant joy, the soundtrack for each episode is also full of bangers. There's upbeat jazz to stir up excitement for energetic scenes, pleasant standard background tracks, and even some unexpectedly tense tracks for some dramatic scenes. This is also a show that will make you cry, and that includes even just from the ending themes. Here's season 1's:

That plays during an episode and I become a sopping mess without fail. Gets me every time.

The other big thing is arguably the show's biggest strength: its cast. While I won't go in-depth on the main cast, both for the sake of spoilers and because people have done that better than me already, I will give the show its due respect for its more broad cast. As the intro implies, the girls' entire class are notable side characters. While a good number of episodes focus on magical trials and hijinks, the majority of the show actually has the girls encounter a problem their classmates are facing, and then secretly use magic to help solve that problem. It's a formula that not only keeps things fresh with making different side characters the spotlight of an episode, but also rewards following along as the show progresses. Even the most obscure background classmates (save for I think ONE exception) will be the focus of an episode, and remember how Doremi and the gang helped them out. You can even see characters from past episodes in almost every group shot, and get to go "oh hey it's that kid!" in a really satisfying way. It really helps add to the childhood feel of the show, since... yeah, back then, your classmates were the stars of each day's adventures, and even if you weren't close friends you still knew their names would hang out every day. The teachers are also great characters in their own rights, again hearkening back to elementary days where teachers really were there for you. The cast isn't limited to the classroom though. The girls' families often factor into their more personal episode plots as well. And the magical side of things has its own small recurring cast. Witches actually reside in, another dimension known as the Witch World, a pastel-colored world with a striking visual appeal of its own right, and is also home to a cast of additional witch characters that get introduced over the course of the show.

Of course, the only important one is the underhanded saleswitch who barges into the Maho Dou with a smile and a song:

Dela.

Yeah no she's the best character and nothing's changing that.

Not kidding about her song by the way:

Literally every single time she appears, she sings a unique (shorter) version of this song to announce her arrival. It's fantastic.

So yeah, that's the basics of what makes this show great, but like... again, this show is insane, and there is SO much more I could say but won't, I'd rather people just experience it for themselves.

Which... brings us to how you experience this show yourself.

I should explain first that Doremi didn't take off in the west. Unlike her home country, which still has a dedicated fanbase who remembers the show fondly, English-speaking countries were stuck with...

*dramatic lightning crash*

the 4kids dub.

The dub, otherwise known as Magical DoReMi, is widely considered to be a downgrade from the original by fans. Look up the opening compared to the original and you'll see what I mean. Though the quality is one thing, the real way 4kids screwed the show over was by greatly limiting its airtime due to it being "another boring girl show", kneecapping its potential popularity severely. They only ever dubbed the first season, and the second half of that was limited to an online-only release if I remember right.

Now, while the show itself was a relatively failure over here, apparently toy sales didn't do too bad actually. And I know that specifically, because when I told my partner I was watching Doremi, they went "Wait WHAT" and proceeded to show me pictures of their childhood Doremi toys. Apparently they even came with a bonus DVD, though only for one episode. My friend Seven also had Doremi toys and a bonus DVD of that one episode too, so uh... small world, huh?

But yeah, with this in mind, it shouldn't be surprising that Doremi has such a limited english-speaking fanbase, and thus should be even less surprising that there is no official way to watch the show here. There is no newer dub of the whole show, and no official subtitles. I managed to watch the show thanks to the efforts of fanmade subs, and though there's some unfortunate dated language early on, it's otherwise an extremely commendable effort that I can't thank enough for making it possible. As for how to access this subbed version... I mean come on, if you're reading this, you're an adult on the internet, you can figure out how. I know pity for corporations is comically low on this site but if you need help feeling better about it, remember that there is no way to officially watch the show as an english speaker. If they do make official subs and stream the show somewhere, I'll let you know, but that seems extremely unlikely.

As for what you watch then, Doremi has 4 main seasons of roughly 50 episodes each, and then one weird bonus season. Each season after the first one has a subtitle: season 2 is Ojamajo Doremi Sharp, 3 is Motto, and 4 is Dokkan. There's also Naisho, a shorter set of about 17 episodes that takes place during the same time as Motto, but was made years after the main show originally ended. I watched episodes of Naisho sprinkled in with my watchthrough of Motto, but there's also merit to watching it in release order, at least the final episode. There are also two episode-length "movies" that take place about midway through a couple seasons: one for Sharp, and one for Motto. Finally, made for the 20th anniversary back in 2020, there's the feature-length film "Looking for Ojamajo Doremi", which was the final thing of the show I watched, and just finished tonight actually. It's not directly in the same "canon" as the show itself, but I highly recommend it as a great finale to a watchthrough of the show as a whole.

It's a long ride, but it's worth it. I genuinely wouldn't skip any episodes, as again, even minor characters are worth remembering for later. It's not a show with "filler", because what you're there for is a simple and relaxing slice of life style show that takes it easy to appreciate the mundane joys of just being nice and helping others. Plus, it makes the absolutely fantastic gut punch of a finale all the more worth it.

I really can't say enough about this show. It's genuinely better than I can put into words. If you have the time (and a soul) then please, PLEAAAASE consider giving it a watch, I swear it's worth it.

So that's this Things I Love. Not sure what the next one will be actually. These won't all be shows, so maybe expect a game next? Could also be a show that I'm due to finish a watch or rewatch of too, like a certain other show where a weird girl stumbles into a witch and her creature companion, and then learns to be a witch herself. We'll see though. In the meantime, uhhh... Rabbids? I think I was talking about Rabbids for some reason.