#its supposed to look like the american west

[lopsidedtreetrunks]

America is a horsegirl

no text ver:

#no joke this was a real meme i found on google i thought it was hilarious #the way horse is so large #and its a not like the other girls meme #its just..... perfect TT #hetalia #aph america #hws america #the background is a MESS #but i still spent a short while on it sob #its supposed to look like the american west #like monument valley i think???? #but the main focus is our good cowboy <3 #also I never used to like americas character songs but recently CBC has just stolen my heart TT #what a sweet boy TwT #idk how i never liked it as a teen #she was weird tho so ¬¬ #legit reading the enlish lyrics i wanna cry its such a cute song like stop it orz

[genericpuff]

I wonder why christian misrepresentation are rarely talked about if compared to other religion misrepresentation. Like, I've seen people really vocal about Greek myths misrepresentation in LO and such (and it's valid because it's a culture and religion) but I rarely saw the same thing with christian even though there are many media who use christian religion innacurately, to the point where it comes off as using it as an aesthetic and not a proper religion.

Is it because of rampant religious trauma especially in western world? No ulterior motives on this question. I'm not a christian and yet I'm curious about this. I apologize if this sounds harsh.

I obviously don't have The Answer(tm) to this but personally speaking (and I'm about to get VERY personal here so take this with MOUNTAINS OF SALT), I think it's just the obvious - Christian mythology is one of the most well-documented and strongly protected out of virtually any other religion on the planet. Especially here in the West, it's commonplace for kids to go to Sunday school, for couples to have Christian weddings even if they're not practising Christians themselves, even the American anthem references the Christian God. It's simply not as easy to 'misrepresent' it because the representation is written into our very fabric of society. Even Greece itself is primarily made up of Orthodox Christians.

So anyone that does 'misrepresent' it are either completely mislead hardcore Christians, or people who are doing it intentionally, such as with the intent to make a parody of it or to deconstruct it through a different context or whatever have you. And of course, people will still get mad at those things, if you're implying that people aren't vocal about Christian misrepresentation then frankly IDK what to tell you there LOL If you want a contextual example in the realm of webtoons, Religiously Gay was dragged to hell and back during its launch for having a very crude and insulting depiction of St. Michael, and frankly, yeah I don't disagree because what the fuck is this-

(like at best it's just terrible character design lmao that said, there's also plenty else to criticize Religiously Gay for, including its fetishy representation of gay relationships and the fact that it's still just the "naive person who looks and acts like a child hooks up with mean person in a position of power" trope, blech, but the character design is definitely the first thing you notice)

There are even plenty of hardcore Christians who will deadass claim "misrepresentation" over things that ARE factually correct but they just haven't read the actual Bible and simply cherry pick what works for their own agenda. And of course those people are routinely called out by people like myself who know for a fact that Jesus wouldn't have promoted the war crimes that many modern day Christians are committing and justifying today. So it really depends on the definition of "misrepresentation" here.

The issue specifically with LO and Rachel that I personally call her out for (and many others) is that she's called herself a "folklorist" and claimed she's so much more knowledgeable on Greek myth than anyone else, while making a complete mockery of the original mythologies while not being honest about her intent as to whether LO is actually supposed to be a legitimate retelling OR a parody (because it sure acts like the latter more than the former, but she still seems to expect us to take it seriously and consider her knowledge of Greek myth superior?) Which leads to a lot of her teenage audience claiming shit like "Persephone went down to the underworld willingly" and "Apollo did assault Persephone in the original myths actually" and the classic "why would Lore Olympus lie or make up fake myths?"

You just can't pull off this extent of erasure with Christian mythology because we have a whole ass book of it that's been preserved, sold on shelves, and systematically integrated into society for thousands of years. Of course, there are people who will still try their damned best to twist the Bible to match their own bigotry with the whole "Jesus hates gays" bullshit (he would never), but it's met with equal amounts of 'misrepresentation' that are actually fully well-read and are intentionally subverting and changing things to either critique, parody, or restore the original intent of a lot of stories in the Bible without all the manufactured right-wing crap.

Greek myth, on the other hand, has some stories that are well preserved, and others, not so much. And in the modern day outside of the poems and hymns, you'll also rarely, if ever, see anyone use stories from Greek myth to ostracize, torture, and murder other people. "Misrepresenting Christianity" is more often done by actual Christians who are using the Bible to commit hate crimes than the people who have actually read the Bible and are just taking creative liberties with it for the sake of deconstructing / parodying / analyzing / subverting it. Veggie Tales "misrepresents" Christian stories because obviously Moses wasn't a fucking cucumber lmao but it still accomplishes its goal by retelling Christian stories in a way that's fun and educational for children.

By comparison (on the whole, I'm not comparing LO to Veggie Tales LMAO) LO just isn't clear in its intentions beyond Rachel's initial statements that she was trying to "deconstruct" the myths, while labelling herself as a folklorist. Therefore, I'm going to criticize how she does it because the way she's done it up until now has been very mishandled and has resulted in a lot of misinterpretations of the myths simply for the sake of fandom. And yes, these people exist in Christian media as well - they're called TV evangelists.

And that's my (very heavy) two cents.

#here's your reminder that missionaries are colonizers #find me the Hellenistic pagans knocking on people's doors asking them if they want to hear about the glory of Aphrodite lmao #honestly it also depends on what you're surrounding yourself with #obv if you take part in the LO fandom and avoid what's going on in the christian world then what you experience and see will seem skewed #like even i could be very wrong in my opinion based on my own experiences as someone who lives in the west- #maybe there ARE pagans knocking on doors and using greek myth to commit hate crimes #so yeah we all gotta try not to fall for survorship bias #there are plenty of stories of people getting mad about christian mythology and its misrepresentations on BOTH sides #lo critical #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #webtoon critical #ama #ask me anything #anon ama #anon ask me anything

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I don’t know if you’ve already covered this, but I had a question to ask about the VDC in Book 5. To clarify, I understand that RSA needed to win for thematic and character arc purposes, and that in-lore it was an audience vote not a professional one. The story beats line up. But the choice of cutesy and childlike RSA performance over the more refined and professional NRC performance still doesn’t quite click with me. Is there some kind of cultural difference that didn’t translate to explain why one performance was supposed to be understood as preferred over the other? Even if it was an audience vote, the standards should be higher just by virtue of this being a big name competition for teenagers held at a prestigious school.

Very quickly, I want to add a couple other points that help to explain why RSA won over NRC! Book 6 opens early on with Vil noting that NRC was not able to perform as well as they wanted to since they had just come out of a difficult battle against his OB form. (Because of this, he accepts responsibility for their loss.) Thus, the NRC performance may not have actually been as "refined", "professional", or as polished as we imagine it to be.

Additionally, it’s stated in book 5 that RSA’s song choice had universal appeal whereas NRC’s did not. We see this effect on the production crew when Neige and the Seven Dwarves do their practice run; their performance has a refreshing and soothing effect on what appears to be an older audience (as it plays to their nostalgia); we must consider this when evaluating RSA and NRC. For example, I know that I really disliked NRC's performance (sue me/j) because it sounded very oppressive and therefore unrelatable to me. The lyrics are literally about how NRC will dominate their opponents and win 😭 Sure, the music and lyrics for Neige's song aren't complex, but they're at the very least accessible and easy to follow along with. (That's not to say that I prefer RSA's performance though; I'm just explaining why someone might not find NRC's performance appealing.)

Lastly! We as players are looking at the two song + dance numbers from an omniscient perspective. We need to consider our own biases when judging, and accept that it may differ from the characters in-universe view things. Maybe you prefer NRC’s performance. That’s fair! But how much of that is informed by your personal music preferences? And how much of that comes from your attachment to the NRC characters, since you’ve followed their stories up until this point? As Rook points out in book 5, he’s aware of how hard NRC has worked to get here… but he’s also aware of Neige’s hardships too (er, in terms of his lifestyle; ie living with the dwarves and doing chores, etc.). Consider then, would you honestly not have a bias for RSA had Twisted Wonderland’s story centered on them instead of NRC?

It’s also worth noting that how things are seen in Twisted Wonderland may reflect its own unique culture rather than how we in the real world may perceive it. Maybe the people of Twisted Wonderland just prefer a cute, nostalgic performance. This may not necessarily correlate with west or east at all and that has always been a possibility! (While TWST does take inspirations from the real world, it’s not a 1:1 with the real world.)

dkhlbaiyfadvfoad Okay, NOW onto the actual question being pitched!

When you look at media from different countries, there are some stark differences in how the same information is presented. One example is like... any Gordon Ramsay show yes, I am using him as an example. Compare the American cut and the British cuts; there are much more loud sound effects, dramatic music, yelling, and cussing in the American cuts. The British cuts, by comparison, are notably quieter and contemplative, with hardly any cursing. Another example! Looking at variety shows from the east vs the west, they're quite different as well. Eastern variety shows tend to be "cute", usually using various cute sound effects or edits which make the guests appear more bashful (like drawing blush over their cheeks or something). We don't see this in western TV shows, which are louder and more boisterous. I've noticed a similar trend in the music industries of the east vs the west as well, where eastern stars tend to emphasize their youthfulness and playfulness and western stars try to be more "mature" and grown-up. These are just my personal observations and may not reflect reality, especially seeing as I am not involved in music-oriented spaces.

I asked friends and personal contacts in both eastern and western pop music fandom spaces for their own insights (which is also in no way representative of both fandoms, but at least this gives us other perspectives for consideration). To summarize, most of them replied that they did not think cultural differences account for this situation, since equating a preference for a "cute" aesthetic is not the same as RSA performing what is basically a nursery rhyme. There's no real-world equivalent for that (at least none that they can think of), and I agree with all of this. There’s really no point in trying to compare the two.

I remember lots of Japanese fans being upset at NRC’s loss too (when book 5’s ending was first put out), so the impression I got was they didn’t prefer the performance of RSA over NRC either. It was not just the international fandom that was disappointed. I don’t believe TWST ever intentionally set out to present “Everyone Yahoo!” as the “superior” song and dance number, or as the performance we’re supposed to like more than the other. It was very much framed as something pathetic and unlikely to win in most of the eyes of the NRC characters. They make fun of RSA’s clumsiness and claim it’ll be easy to win over them. The player most likely is supposed to think this way too—until Vil, the one with an eye for showbiz, realizes his loss. Why? Because it doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is how this clumsy performance will resonate with the common person.

What I think it ultimately comes down to is emotional appeal to the audience, which is more of a personal/individual level thing than a cultural thing. The competition is decided by audience vote. The average person honestly does not care about quality or standards. No one is giving them rules to evaluate by, no one is going to tell them off for not having strict standards. They will pick based on what they like best or whatever makes them feel good. And what will make anyone feel food, regardless of age, sex, race, education, socioeconomic status, etc.? Something cozy and familiar, thoughts of simpler times… Nostalgia.

Something else to think about is what a powerful motivator emotions can be. There are irl idol competition shows that are high stakes and decided by audience vote just like VDC/SDC… and people will still vote for their favorites even if they gave a technically bad performance. This is because fans are so emotionally invested in and attached to the performer. It doesn’t matter how “bad” they are, the performer/performance makes the audience member feel impassioned, and they will then act according to those intense feelings. Think about what you’re like when you’re in a terrible mood vs a good one. You act completely differently, right?

I hope that perspective helps! 🙏 I tried to be as thorough as I could be in this response, but please let me know if I misspoke or maybe missed a point.

P.S. I happen to be responding to this ask after TWST showed us the NRC Tribe’s dance performance in a MMD video. I wonder if this only made the “NRC should have own” crowd double down on that opinion since now we’re seeing just what their performance looks like 🤔 (though we don’t have a complete MMD video of Neige’s group to directly compare, just this which shows part of the dance and not in the same clumsy way that Neige and co. perform it).

#twisted wonderland #twst #Neige LeBlanche #Vil Schoenheit #Rook Hunt #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #book 6 spoilers #book 5 spoilers #notes from the writing raven #question #Seven Dwarves #Gordon Ramsay

[sgiandubh]

When you do not know a thing about the issue at stake...

...perhaps it's better to remain silent.

Some of you know, others don't - and that's fine - but my main field of expertise is labor law.

I just read this in anger and disbelief:

Look, lady. I don't care who the hell you are, what you do for a living or why you felt entitled to answer those insistent questions on your side of the fandom. I suppose you are North American and have no idea of how things work on this side of the pond. It is fine: I might know what a Congress filibuster is, for example, but I'd be severely unable to judge the finer points of competence sharing between Fed and state level.

The difference between you and me?

I keep my mouth shut and/or do my own research before opening it in public.

Have you no shame to write things like: 'It was discovered clothing factories in Bulgaria and Portugal made it and how workers were exploited, mostly women, because these factories were in special economic zones in these countries exempt from EU employee rights and regulations.'

HOW DARE YOU? What strange form of illiterate entitlement possessed you to utter such things with confidence, comfortably hidden behind a passive voice ('it was discovered')?

Portugal joined the EU in 1986. Bulgaria (and my country) joined the EU in 2007. I have given 5 relentless years of my life to make this collective political project a reality, along with hundreds of other people my age who chose to come back home from the West and put their skills to good use for their country. In doing so, I rejected more than 10 excellent corporate job offers in France and China. To see you come along and write such enormities is like having you spit in my face.

Article 4 of the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union (aka The Treaty of Rome) is formal and clear, as far as competence sharing between the EU and its Member States goes (the UK was still, back then, a full member of the EU - it quit on February 1st 2020):

That means that ALL the EU regulations are being integrated into the national legislation of the Member States. This is not a copy/paste process, however. And because it is a shared competence area, the Member States have a larger margin of appreciation into making the EU rules a part of their own. While exceptions or delays in this process can be and are negotiated, the core principles are NEVER touched.

Read it one hundred times, madam, maybe you'll learn something today:

THERE ARE NO SPECIAL ECONOMIC ZONES IN THE EUROPEAN UNION. THE WHOLE FUCKING EUROPEAN UNION IS A SPECIAL ECONOMIC ZONE, THIS IS WHY IT IS CALLED THE SINGLE MARKET.

What the fuck do you think we are, Guangzhou? We'd wish, seeing the growth statistics!

Now, for the textile industry sector and particularly with regard to the Bulgarian market, a case very similar to my own country. Starting around 1965, many big European textile players realized the competitive advantage of using the lower paid, readily available Eastern European workforce. In order to be able to do business with all those dour Communist regimes, the solution was simple and easy to find: toll manufacturing.

It worked (and still does!) like this:

The foreign partner brings its own designs, textiles and know-how into the mix - or more simply put, it outsources all these activities. The locals transform it into the finished product, using their own workforce. The result is then re-exported to the foreign partner, who labels it and sells it. In doing so, he has the legal obligation to include provenance on the label ('made in Romania', 'made in Indonesia', 'made in Bulgaria' - you name it).

The reason you might find less and less of those 'made in ' labels nowadays at Primark and more and more at Barbour, Moncler and the such is the constant raise of the workers' wages in Eastern Europe since 1990 (things happened there, in 1989, maybe you remember?). We are not competitive anymore for midrange prêt-à-porter - China (Shein, anyone?), Cambodia and Mexico do come to mind as better suppliers. To speak about 'exploited female labourers in rickety old factories' is an insult and a lie. They weren't exploited back in the Eighties, as they are not now (workers in those factories were and still are easily paid about 50% more than all the rest) and the factories being modernized and constantly updated was always a mandatory clause in any contract of the sort. Normal people in our countries rarely or ever saw those clothes. You had to either be lucky enough for a semi-confidential store release or bribe someone working there and willing to take the risk, in order to be able to buy the rejected models on the local market.

If I understood correctly, you place this critical episode at the launch of the limited SRH & Barbour collection, for the fall of 2018. How convenient for you, who (I am told by trusted people) were one of the most vocal critics of S during Hawaii 2.0!

And as far as Barbour goes, it never pretended to manufacture everything in the UK only:

This information is absolutely true. You can read the whole statement, signed in October 2017 by one of their Directors, Ian Sime, here: https://www.barbour.com/us/media/wysiwyg/PDF/Ethical_Statement_October_2017.pdf

And a snapshot for you:

Oh, and: SEDEX is a behemoth in its world, with more than 75.000 companies joining as a member (https://www.sedex.com/become-a-member/meet-our-customers/). Big corporations like TESCO, Dupont, Nestle, Sainsbury's or Unilever included.

I am not Bulgarian, but I know all of this way better than you'll probably ever do. The same type of contracts were common all over Eastern Europe: Romania, Poland, the GDR (that's East Berlin and co, for you) and even the Soviet Union. I am also sure your Portuguese readers will be thrilled to see themselves qualified by a patronizing North American as labor exploiters living in a third-world country with rickety factories.

You people have no shame and never did. But you just proved with trooping colors you also have no culture and no integrity. More reasons to not regret my unapologetic fandom choice.

I expect an angry and very, very vulgar answer to this, even if I chose to not include your name/handle. The stench of your irrelevance crossed an ocean.

#fandom #shitshow

[artbyblastweave]

So one thing that irks me about discussions of the NCR is the idea that "they're flawed because they're trying to be America again. And Being Too Much America is what caused the War" without differentiating between the vast buildup of Nuclear Weapons and Geopolitical tensions, versus, like, being a republic and having a large-scale central state.

What's your thoughts?

I think the NCR circa New Vegas is textually intended to be repeating the USA's downward spiral. They're in the process of recreating the core dynamics of pre-war America- overconsumption of resources driving imperialist expansion, capture of the government by moneyed interests, and a prolonged conflict with a peer power that's suffering under similar expand-or-die pressures- but they're constrained from a one-to-one recreation mainly by the fact that they're working with a post-apocalyptic resource base, with the scraps left over from the last people who went down this path. Peanuts compared to the Sino-American war, but likely as close to that situation as the post-war-world is logistically capable of producing.

You see bits of this from the NCR perspective all throughout the game. There Stands the Grass is propelled by projections of incipient famine in the NCR due to rapid population growth, and you see the beginnings of this in Flags of Our Foul-Ups- O'Hanaran was sent to the Army by his family to lessen their food burden. Chief Hanlon's very first line is about how the NCR is overtaxing most sources of freshwater within the core territory, and he recounts how tiny groups of settlers backed by NCR logistics were able to take and hold a well in Baja against scores of locals; IIRC there's a cut event at Camp Golf itself where you'd see NCR rangers doing the same thing to Mojave locals encroaching on their water supply. The White Wash demonstrates that the NCR's sharecropping setup in outer Vegas operates at the expense of the locals, who can only get the water they need to support their own crops via subterfuge. If you assume that Heck Gunderson's underhanded Brahmin-farming empire in Beyond the Beef is supposed to parallel the real-world problems with the sustainability of beef farming, you start to get a sense of where all of that water is going and what structural problems (Heck Gunderson) might be in the way of allocating those resources more sustainably. There are likely more examples of this storm on the horizon that I'm forgetting.

As a result of all this, there's a level on which I think introducing the Tunnelers in Lonesome Road as a dangling White-Walker style Looming Apocalyptic Reset Option hanging over the west coast was gratuitous, not because it's Avallone grinding his axe with the idea of society rebuilding, but because it's simply redundant with the political situation already depicted in the base game- If you want the NCR to have collapsed by a future installment, just establish that they weren't able to put the brakes on in time and devolved into a completely dysfunctional oligarchy that collapsed under its own weight!

(Now, as a final note, one thing preventing me from fully committing to this take is that we honestly don't have a fantastic sense of what day-to-day life looks like for the average citizen in the NCR heartland, which I feel is kind of important. Because if the textual situation is supposed to be that the resource crisis is due to misallocation due to interests capturing the government, I like that a lot better than if the situation is genuinely intended to be that there are Just Too Many Goddarn People, because that's like. Lazy and Malthusian and leads to the usual ugly conclusions pretty quickly. More and more it's looking like the upcoming Fallout TV show is leaning into the recent decline of the NCR as a plot point, so, uh, fingers crossed they stick the landing when it comes to fleshing that out?)

#fallout #fallout new vegas #NCR #new california republic #ask #asks #thoughts #meta #sorry for the delay in responding- getting back into a fallout mood due to the show #fnv

[discokicks]

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (series playlist!) (AO3!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Walton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

��Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

#roy kent #ted lasso #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent fic #roy kent x you #ted lasso fanfiction #aatwe #the one who can't walk up stairs #aces

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

i just now learned about a recent case where a german man kidnapped and did unspeakable acts to two boys. one was german, one was a refugee. the first one was immediately treated as a missing case, but the second one was not because the cops were afraid the mother was hiding her son to avoid deportation. and the worst part is, that little boy was kidnapped in a government institution (lageso in berlin) where his mother went for help! its infuriating beyond belief.

racism is so deeply engrained in german institutions, its not funny. yet police refuses any reforms or real investigations and deny even the notion - despite mounting evidence - that there is an issue with systemic racism in german police. and we dont have an independent institution to control the cops, you know who investigates their failures and issues? other cops. and we all know how they stick together like literal shit.

but it also made me think about „missing white woman syndrome“. does anyone really care about an eastern european white woman who goes missing while being exploited in the west through prostitution, in the domestic field, nursing, or as a „mail bride“ dependent on her husband? does anyone care about a white woman in the usa going missing from a trailer park? does anyone care about a white woman who was homeless, mentally ill, drug addicted, disabled, impoverished, prostituted, or otherwise marginalised going missing? and do people not care about white men going missing?

and it also made me think about this current trend of oversimplifying and decontextualising racism. one thing i hope we all can agree on is that anti black racism is very persistent. i cant think of a single country where black people are treated preferably over other races, best case is to be treated equally as a black person, and even that is not the case in most countries. but this doesnt just apply to white majority countries. in japan or korea, or under the kafala system in the arabic gulf states, for example, black people are systematically discriminated against and exploited too. white people are also not the only ones guilty of colonialism and imperialism - albeit i dont want to minimise the scale of portugese, spanish, french, british/australin, german, dutch, belgian (neo)colonialism or the north american slave trade.

i dont know its just, everything always has to be put in context and looked at from an intersectional perspective but i feel a lot of people who fault white supremacy for everything dont do that. and dont get me wrong, white supremacy is the root of a lot of inequality and issues, but despite the name its not merely a black and white problem, its complex. for example, even if a roma or jewish person is white, neonazis dont consider them the same race as white people. or i remember my turkish professor once saying, „in turkey im considered white, but in germany im a person of colour“. because race is not just phenotype, it is also culture, nationality, location and ethnicity that matters for who is holding power and privilege.

meanwhile a lot of the same people will refuse to agree that sex matters. or claim that sex - which is a lot less ambiguous than race by the way and nobody argues that mixed race people prove that race is not real or doesnt matter the way they argue intersex people prove that sex is not real or doesnt matter - is a spectrum while chanting „black lives matter“. and i know that black communities do have that conversation about colourism and how whiteness is something even people of colour are supposed to „strive for“, which is why for example the harmful practice of bleaching your skin exists. so it is being acknowledged that race is a spectrum, but some of the same people who rightfully talk about black lives and how blackness is its own social category will call you a bigot for talking about female lives and how being female is a social category.

im not going anywhere with this, just some thoughts that came up regarding discussions on racism and sex and how they intersect too. feel very free to chime in especially as a person of colour obviously!

#mine #rambling

[bonpocalypse]

can you please tell me your headcanons for the nationalities of the twst boys pretty pretty please 🥺 also any other headcanons you have!!!

I love love love nationality headcanons, they're so fun to think of!! A reminder that these are my headcanons, I'm not here to start arguments. If anything does come across as offensive/innapropriate please let me know! I'll gladly fix it :)

For the most part, I based the Twst Character's nationalities off of where their stories take place (I'm not all that skilled in headcanons, apologies!!)

Alright, going in dorm order here:

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts: Icelandic/Britsh

I have him as Icelandic purely because of LeafSheep's "Begin at the Beginning," the King Said!! Nordic Heartslabyul has my heart. and ofc since Heartslabyul is based on Alice in Wonderland, he's half-British in my headcanons

Ace Trappola: British

Alice in Wonderland :)

I don't have much to say about Ace, I kinda don't think about him all that much

Deuce Spade: Irish

In coming up with nationality headcanons, I wanted to explore more areas in the British Isles for the Heartslabyul students and eventually decided on Deuce being Irish! I had more reasonings but its 5 am and I cannot think for the love of me.

Cater Diamond: American with English/German heritage

I see myself in Cater. He's one of my highest kins, so he's 100% from West Coast USA. It also makes a lot of sense he'd be American looking at how similar some nations in the Twisted Wonderland universe are to nations in our own world! Pyroxene is really similar to the United States from what I've researched, and Cater's valley accent in the English version of the game really hits the mark :)

As for his heritage, he's English because of Alice in Wonderland and German because I feel it fits him very well

Trey Clover: British

I don't think about Trey often enough sorry :(((

I love him though he's so silly

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar: Kenyan

The Lion King takes place in the Kenya area, and so I put him there!

Jack Howl: American with Kenyan/French heritage

Another Pyroxien!

Kenyan because Savanaclaw was based on the Lion King and that's set in Kenya

French because I have a sneaking suspicion Jack is based on the wolves from Beauty and the Beast

Ruggie: South African

Ruggie was hard to find a headcanon for, but I eventually just took someone else's headcanon that said he is South African

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto: Italian/French/Danish

All come from where the Little Mermaid is set in both the movie form and the Hans Christian Andersen form. The movie itself was set in the Mediterranean Sea, and I headcanon Azul's family to be from around the Nice, France area of the Mediterranean

Danish comes into play from the original source material for The Little Mermaid and the fact that the Coral Sea in Twst gets cold. Also to note, the Coral Sea on the map of Twisted Wonderland is close to the coast of the Queendom of Roses, which is pretty far north!

Jade and Floyd Leech: Danish

Putting these two together because twins

Pretty much the same reasonings as Azul, the book's settings and the Coral Sea :)

Scarabia

Kalim Al-Asim: Saudi Arabian

I'm going to be so honest, I don't think about Scarabia like... at all. So for Kalim, I'm going straight out of where Aladdin is supposed to be set

That also came as a problem, because the movie has a habit of mashing Middle Eastern cultures together. Though I did find that the movie takes place in the Arabian Desert which narrows where Aladdin was filmed to a myriad of countries, one of which is Saudi Arabia

I decided to go with Saudi Arabia since a majority of the desert does reside within that country.

Jamil Viper: Saudi Arabian/South Asian

Same thing as for my headcanons with Kalim, and I got the South Asian headcanon from a mutual on TikTok

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit: American with German heritage

Hollywood star here, folks!

German heritage because of Snow White's setting :)

Epel Felmier: Finnish

Ok for this headcanon I went off of the Harveston event

(hey future Bon edit here when its not 5 am and running off of no sleep)

Rook Hunt: Australian

This headcanon is for shits and giggles

It's a running joke between me and my friend that Rook is not French and is faking the accent to sound more "beautiful"

I don't know why we chose Australia specifically but it came to fruition

He can't speak proper French he's literally calling Vil the King of Fish

Ignihyde

Idia and Ortho Shroud: Greek

Hercules is set in Greece!

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia: French

For Diasomnia I went off of movie settings once again, and Sleeping Beauty is heavily implied to be set in France!

I really feel like I should explain more but that's really most of my headcanons for them, where their movies are set

Silver: French

Silver is tough to pin down since we don't know if he's even originally from the Briar Valley, but I went with French as well

Sebek Zigvolt: French/German

(Bon please please please come back to this)

Lilia Vanrouge: French

I actually have so many nationality headcanons on this dude its not even funny

I imagine him as French, Romanian, and Dutch

And for funnies:

Royal Sword (and Rollo) (excluding the dwarves)

Neige LeBlanche: American with German/Finnish Heritage

Che'nya: British/Russian

Rollo Flamm: French

#twst #twisted wonderland #Bonpocalypse Radio #twst headcanons #headcanon #riddle rosehearts #ace trappola #deuce spade #cater diamond #trey clover #leona kingscholar #jack howl #ruggie bucchi #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #kalim al asim #jamil viper #vil schoenheit #epel felmier #rook hunt #idia shroud #ortho shroud #malleus draconia #twst silver #silver twst #lilia vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #someone hold me accountable to finish epel and sebek's parts because damn I cannot think right now

[germiyahu]

completely agree with your post about westerners being condescending towards muslims and kinda woobify them as a way of over compensating for their guilt surrounding american islamophobia. I feel like a lot of white western libs who are zionists also do this irt their guilt surrounding antisemitism. Like the only reason they care about israelis is because they dont wanna deal with antisemitism in their own countries. I hate both sidesing, but in this context its really more me wanting to point out an issue with white gentiles across the board.

Well yes, but the group you describe tends to be older. They're the people who believe the fearmongering about Muslims, and they use Jews as a shield against "Satanic Islam" because 1) that guilt over the Holocaust (they actually remember that era, or know someone who did, or paid attention in school), and/or 2) it's shameful to admit that you're afraid of someone who's supposed to be inferior to you, so they project and say "Look at the poor widdle Jews getting attacked in Isweal 🥺" because they can't be honest with themselves: the idea of Muslims living among them scares the shit out of them, because they're bigots. And the idea that they must rally to save the Jews makes them feel heroic and gracious. And Jews are too weak and pathetic to actually fight for themselves (not like Israel has a very effective standing army).

Again, neither antisemitism nor islamophobia can be effectively combatted by just deciding to throw your weight behind one or the other. It is this Western white supremacy, informed by a historically Christian society, that is to blame for all of this. But white (ex-)Christians can't bear to take on the psychological burden of that, so depending on the generation, they'll point the finger at either Jews or Muslims.

Typically the older generation(s) will posit this idea of Judeo-Christian values, we've all heard of it. They place their lot in with the fate of Jewish people, and Muslims are the Enemy. The younger generation(s) tend not to posit an idea of Islamo-Christian values, because they're not very Christian (though I do see more young Christians take a hardline antisemitic antzionist stance). I also suspect it's because deep down they still don't like Muslims all that much. Or at least don't relate to them. That's why I suspect there's a little bit of Othering going on from them.

And no I don't think the Solution is to persecute Christians, who have been persecuted in varying countries before. But in the West their ideals and their cultural values are supreme, and unchallenged. They are not in any actual danger, but by pretending that they are, deluding themselves that they are, they select whichever target they like, which tends to be Jews or Muslims. Sometimes Satanists, sometimes atheists or other minorities (but all of these are usually in turn blamed on Jewish influence so go figure).

#israel #palestine #leftist antisemitism #leftist islamophobia #islamophobia #antisemitism

[whumpster-fire]

How to Swear Like a Steam Engine (And Other Sentient Locomotive Slang)

If there’s one thing engines enjoy doing, it’s complaining and insulting each other, and they’ve developed their own slang to do it. Phrases like “fusspot,” “cinders and ashes!” and “bossy boiler” are common in the Railway Series, but there are many other terms.

The following list of phrases and expressions are commonly used by engines on American railroads, in particular on the Jefferson Great Divide Railway in the mountain west of the US. Some may be common in Sodor and the rest of Britain as well, others are specific to America. There are other lists on the internet documenting the various IRL slang used by human employees, and a lot of that is used by engines as well, but this is specifically the slang terms that were more or less developed within the locomotive subculture.

All Smoke and No Steam: All show and no substance. A person or engine who talks a good game or puts a lot of effort into appearing to be helpful but can’t back it up. An engine that’s making a huge cloud of smoke and a lot of noise looks impressive but if what’s coming out the smokestack is all smoke and no steam it’s not actually doing any work. Can also mean empty words or promises that won’t be fulfilled in the abstract.

“He’s all smoke and no steam!” = talks a good game, is all hat and no cattle, etc.

“That rule’s all smoke and no steam” can mean a rule isn’t / won’t be enforced, or that it will be enforced but it doesn’t actually make things better and is just a way of looking like something’s being done. E.g. “The new safety regulations are all smoke and no steam, management’s still going to come down harder for being late than for safety violations.”

“Their threats are all smoke and no steam” (when referring to customers/clients/workers) = they complain loudly but they’re not actually going to do anything like stop buying tickets, or ship freight by other means, or quit, or strike.

Amtrash: Derogatory term for Amtrak and its engines, used by freight railroad engines. Amtrak is the USA’s quasi-nationalized long-distance passenger rail network. Most of the track it runs on is owned by other railroads which are freight-only, and there’s quite a bit of resentment between them. See also: Useless Pacific, Nofucks Southern, Satan Fe, All Trains Smell Funny, Borington Northern, Misery Pacific, Criminally Slow and X-pensive, Southern Pathetic, Big Nasty Stupid Fuckers. The US only had its railroads forced into a Get Along T-shirt for like three years and that was during WWI-era, so there are a lot of rivalries between different railroads there.

Ballast Plow: A large truck, especially a flatbed, that stalls at a crossing – because if it gets hit it’s likely to bend around the engine’s front and be dragged down the track instead of getting thrown aside, digging into the embankment and scattering ballast everywhere.

Buckled Rail: A buckled rail (usually happens due to thermal expansion of the track in a heatwave) is at a minimum extremely painful to run over and can often damage engines or rolling stock and derail trains. “I need that like a buckled rail!”

Cattle Cars / Cattle: Derogatory term for a passenger train / passengers, particularly unruly and annoying passengers. Engines aren’t supposed to say this within earshot of passengers (and coaches get offended too).

Cowboy / Car Wrangler / Rodeo Clown: Shunter/switcher engines. Definitely popularized in the American West.

Did you fill your Tender/Bunker from the Ash Pit?: Ash doesn’t burn and would make a mess all over the cab. Basically translates to “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”Can also refer to an engine who has no steam or energy.

“Did you fill your bunker from the ash pit this morning? You’ve done nothing but complain and insult everyone all day!”

“Did you fill your tender from the ash pit today? I might as well be pulling this train by myself!”

Did They Fill Your Tender With Rocks?: Less profane version of the above.

Drink Hard Water: Hard water, i.e. water with lots of mineral content, is not good for a steam engine because mineral deposits (boiler sludge and scale) can accumulate in the boiler and other plumbing and be very uncomfortable / difficult to clean out.

“Go drink hard water!” = Go jump in a lake / go to hell / go fuck yourself. Basically “go somewhere else and have a miserable time while you’re there.”

“I’d rather drink hard water!” or “That’s like drinking hard water!” = Hell No.

Dry Crownsheet: VERY strong expression meaning an engine is tired or frustrated to the breaking point and about to lose their temper. “My crownsheet’s dry” could be compared to “I’m going to blow a fuse” or “Blow my stack” but that doesn’t cover the intensity. The crownsheet is the top of a locomotive’s firebox, and allowing the water level in the boiler to drop low enough that the crownsheet is exposed can cause it to overheat, weaken, and fail, which is a common cause of boiler explosions. If that weren’t bad enough water suddenly being reintroduced to an overheated crown sheet can flash to steam and cause a catastrophic pressure spike. Blowing a fuse means a safety mechanism has activated to prevent catastrophe. A steam locomotive with a dry crownsheet means the safety mechanisms have already failed and is on the verge of a devastating explosion. Used figuratively, means an engine has run out of ability to cope with stress and is one more tiny irritation away from taking it out on whoever’s unlucky enough to have added the proverbial final straw, or just anyone nearby, without regard to consequences for themselves.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. He rolled into the yard with his crownsheet dry” = He wasn’t angry because of you, he was already angry and something was going to set him off sooner or later.

“Listen, I got a dry crownsheet from my last train. If any of you cars start anything I’m about ready to jump the track into the river and pull you all along with me.”

“Please just get me out of this station! My crownsheet’s about dry and if I have to hear the passengers complaining I don’t think I can take it!”

Find a Scrapyard: This basically means “Kill yourself,” so… not a very nice thing to say.

Fire Me Dry: Basically equivalent to “Fuck me” as an expression of exasperation. If an engine’s fire was lit with no water in the boiler at all, it might not cause an explosion but would still destroy the firebox. Apparently Furness Railway No. 1 was severely damaged and later scrapped due to this.

Flatlanders: Insult used on many mountain railways to make fun of engines and crews from plains regions who aren’t used to running the difficult routes.

“Boy, if those flatlanders think one in one-twenty’s a hill, I can’t wait to see ‘em coming up the pass!”

“They way some of these flatlanders talk you’d think you can’t climb anything over 1% without cog wheels.”

General Sherman, Sherman’s Army, Sherman’s Necktie: Refers to “Sherman’s Neckties,” a tactic of destroying sections of rail by heating them and twisting or bending them until they were unusable. This phrase is pretty much US-specific, and likely originated with engines used in the US Civil War picking up the term from humans, but has spread to subsequent generations of engines who often weren’t taught the historical context and only knew that Sherman was a man who commanded an army and destroyed a lot of railroad track. General Sherman and his army have become almost folkloric figures that various causes of track wear and failure are attributed to, sort of like Jack Frost. Can also refer to incompetent track maintenance / rough and poorly maintained track, or to the crews and vehicles responsible for it. Though they sometimes use the term for an engine who’s particularly hard on the rails or otherwise damages the track.

“That crew really did a General Sherman of a job with these rails.” = Sarcastically saying the maintenance crew made the rails even worse.

“Be careful at that junction, it’s a real Sherman’s Necktie.”

“Ouch! Who laid these ties, General Sherman?”

“That new road-rail’s a real General Sherman. Take any track he’s been over slow or you might break an axle.”

“Hey, General Sherman, try checking a switch is set right before you barge into it.”

“In case you’re wondering why the spur’s been closed all day, General Sherman over here spun his wheels ‘til he damn near hit ballast.” (Diesels in multiple unit operation can occasionally spin their wheels on a stopped train for so long they grind/melt halfway through the rails)

“They ought to put you in a siding and necktie the rails” (similar to “They should lock you up and throw away the key)

“Keep an eye on the track ahead of you: General Sherman’s hard at work on days like this” = a warning given in very hot weather that could cause buckling of the rails.

Getting the Rails Painted: A euphemism for a person or animal being run over by a train. Alternately: “Paint my wheels” or “Paint my pilot.” Obviously no sane engine wants this to happen but some engines use this phrase as gallows humor between each other. Occasionally said to humans who break safety rules by a furious engine.

“What the hell are you doing walking between moving freight cars? You almost painted the rails back there!”

“I heard they got the rails painted at the 58th Street Crossing?” “Yeah. From what I heard, poor guy must’ve been drunk and fell asleep on the tracks. They didn’t say whose train it was but Robbie’s been in the shed all week.”

“Some idiot ducked under the crossing gates on a bike and just about painted my pilot.”

“I got my pilot painted by a herd of deer yesterday. I swear, once they get on the track they must think they’re a train, they just run along it!”

Go Get Your Ash Pan Raked: Removing the ash that collects under an engine’s firebox could be considered the closest steam engine equivalent to using the bathroom, but the connotations aren’t quite the same. Cleaning out the ash pan is a task firemen hate, so telling an engine to get their ash pan raked basically means “Go be someone else’s problem for a while (instead of mine)” Basically translates to "Fuck off."

Hotbox / Hot Axle: A hotbox or hot axle is an overheating axle and/or bearing box, usually on rolling stock but sometimes on engines. “One hot axle stops a train” is a common proverb that means a small missed detail can cause a massive inconvenience or impediment – compare to “For want of a nail” or “One bad apple spoils the barrel.” It doesn’t matter how many cars are on a train, a single hotbox can force the entire thing to stop until the problem is fixed. In slang use, of course, a hotbox can refer to anything small and seemingly irrelevant that manages to cause a disproportionate amount of annoyance, delay, or wasted time. It could be a physical object, a rule or procedure or an event. It is also a common insult: sometimes directed at engines, but more often at people or other vehicles. It basically means “killjoy” or “wet blanket,” with a specific connotation of “You and your opinion aren’t important but you are holding everyone else back / ruining things for everyone by making a ton of noise.” Common examples of hotboxes include an overly officious inspector or manager, a broken down road vehicle blocking a grade crossing, a track maintenance crew that’s working slowly and blocking multiple trains, a small weather event that still sometimes manages to delay everything, or an unruly passenger who causes an entire train to be stopped on their account (or unsuccessfully demands it be).

“Sorry I’m so late. Some drunk hotbox picked a fight with the conductor and the cops had to drag him off the train.”

“Will you quit being such a hot axle? Everyone else is enjoying the roundhouse party, if you don’t like it just sleep outside!”

“They’d better fix those jammed points soon, they’re hotboxing the whole damn yard!” (note: the use of "hotbox" as a verb among engines probably predates the drug usage)

Icicles In My Smokebox: Hyperbolic complaining about cold weather. There are many parts of a steam engine that are susceptible to things freezing where they shouldn’t, such as the feed hoses from the tender, water tanks, and possibly journal boxes and other running gear could feel stiff and numb if the oil gets cold enough. Naturally, when engines are complaining about the cold they’ll claim the hottest parts of them, which have absolutely no chance of freezing while their fire is lit, are freezing. Other variants include “Frost in my flues,” “If they put ice cream in my firebox it wouldn’t melt,” and “Cold enough to freeze your smoke halfway up the stack,” and “So cold a snowman could fire me all day long” (standing next to a firebox door shoveling coal is hot work, if it’s that cold in the cab it’s pretty darn cold)

Idiot Siding: Off the rails, specifically a safety siding where the rails end in a sand or gravel bed, or wherever a train that runs over trap points / catch points / derailers gets sent. These devices intentionally derail an uncontrolled or runaway train to prevent it from obstructing a main line or endangering people further down the track. If a train ends up here either somebody didn’t check the switch alignment, moved when they weren’t supposed to, or lost control of their train, hence the name.

If it gets any hotter my fireman’s gonna be out of a job: Hyperbolic complaining about the weather – implying that the heat of the sun on an engine’s boiler is enough to raise steam without them needing a fire.

In My Cab: Sarcastic way of saying another engine (usually) or a non-crew human is being bossy, or controlling and/or micromanaging, or giving advice on things that are none of their business. Basically meaning “You’re acting like you think you’re my driver.”

“Get out of my cab, I can sort these cars how I want!”

“Manager’s been in my cab all week.”

“Who let you in my cab?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Hey, while you’re up there in my cab, why don’tcha polish my gauges?”

Lionel Lines / Lionels: Derogatory term for narrow-gauge railways and trains, named after the popular brand of toy and model trains. Visitors to the JGD are strongly advised to NOT use this term around the resident standard-gauge engines. They are very protective of their narrow-gauge friends due to certain incidents in the past.

No Ashpan: e.g. “You’ve been running with no ashpan all day” or “He ain’t got no ashpan.” The ash pan is a tray underneath a steam engine’s firebox that collects ash and cinders that fall through the grates. An engine with no ashpan would leave a trail of red-hot cinders everywhere it went, which could be scattered by the wind from a train at speed, starting fires around the track – especially in the dry climate where the JGD is! Basically it means someone leaves a trail of destruction wherever they go. This is a very strong way of calling someone clumsy or incompetent (as in “You fuck up everything you touch”). It can also be used to refer to someone who’s rude, tactless, cruel, or toxic.

Pulling With Your Regulator: Wasting effort, doing more work than you need to. A steam engine’s power can be controlled using the regulator/throttle (reducing available steam pressure / flow rate to the valves) or by using the valve gear control (the “Johnson Bar”) to reduce the amount of time the valves are open. Controlling power and speed using the Johnson Bar (admitting small amounts of high-pressure steam into the cylinders) is more efficient than using the throttle (letting lots of low-pressure steam into the cylinders).

“Sure, you could shunt those cars like that, but you’ll be pulling with your regulator. Those grain hoppers are going out tomorrow morning and you’ll have to get ‘em out from behind everything else.”

Put on a Liquid Diet: A coal-fired or wood-fired steam engine being converted to an oil burner.

Rolling Dumpster: Insulting term for a tender. Not like a slur against tender engines, in fact it’s probably mostly tender engines who use it. E.g. “Why don’t you get that rolling dumpster off that siding and do some work for once?”

Sand in my fire and coal on my wheels: An engine feeling sick, confused, or discombobulated. Ironically oil-fired engines do actually periodically get sand thrown in their fire to clean their tubes out.

Scalding: Yelling at someone, dressing them down, treating them with cruelty. Engines can’t be physically scalded, but they know the meaning from the injuries that escaping steam can cause to humans.

“I’m sick of that stationmaster. He scalded me and my crew for running two minutes behind schedule without even asking why!”

“Geez, ask a simple question, get a scalding.”

“If that switchman isn’t fired tonight, he’ll wish he had been after the scalding I give him next time he see him. Throwing a train onto a siding at that speed could’ve derailed me, not to mention if there’d been a train there!"

Slug: Someone who blindly follows orders with no initiative or independent thought, or a yes-man or toadie. Used by diesels. A slug is an extra motor unit that can be coupled to a diesel-electric engine that draws excess power from it to provide extra traction while shunting, but a slug is not alive in the same way that tenders aren’t alive.

“Oh, company policy says, the rulebook says – quit being such a slug and live a little!”

“Yeah, the guy’s just Bernie’s slug. Always following him around hoping to be noticed. Pathetic.”

Smoke out the Stack: Similar to Water Under the Bridge. Expression meaning something’s in the past and no longer relevant.

“Hey, sorry about this morning.” “Ahh, don’t worry, that’s smoke out the stack."

Squishies: A very rude way of referring to careless yard workers and light road or rail vehicles, as well as people who trespass on tracks.

Sugar in My Fuel Tank: An unpleasant surprise. Originated in petrol-powered vehicles, but spread to diesel locomotives even though sugar in a diesel tank doesn’t really cause that much damage.

Teakettle: Insulting term for steam engines, especially small ones.

Tender-first: Doing something totally wrong, i.e. Ass-backwards. This one translates very literally. A tender engine running backwards can’t see very well and neither can its crew.

This Train’s Leaving. You can be on it, beside it, or under it: Means “My mind is made up. You can either help or leave me alone, but if you get in the way there’s going to be serious trouble.”

Thrown: Throwing a switch is what changing it from one direction to another is called, but when an engine talks about getting thrown it means being switched in an unexpected or unwanted direction, particularly at high speed. Like other types of sentient vehicle engines need a human operator to move with full control, but they also run on rails and cannot “steer.” In essence a train moves in one dimension while a car or boat moves in two and an aircraft moves in three. Even the most free-spirited engines don’t usually truly want the ability to go any which way: they like the certainty and predictability of knowing where moving forward will take them. However, engines do value the limited autonomy they do have. An engine can’t control itself without a driver, but as anyone who’s read the Railway Series will know, it is extremely difficult to move an unwilling engine. Thomas and James had runaway incidents because they were either trying to move without a driver on purpose or didn’t realize there was no one at the controls, and once they had made the choice to let themselves start moving, they couldn’t change the state of their controls by themselves. But an engine won’t move without their consent. Switches are a different matter. An engine is reliant on someone outside the cab to set the points, and being sent down the “wrong track” against their will feels very violating to many engines in a way that being physically pushed or pulled by another vehicle doesn’t. It’s like being manhandled. There is an expectation that switch operators follow the instructions of either an engine, their crew, or the dispatcher or yardmaster who is expected to tell the engine in advance where they are supposed to go. It’s also physically a jarring and unpleasant out-of-control feeling for an engine even when traveling at a safe speed – basically the train equivalent of going up or down a staircase and expecting another step that isn’t there, or suddenly hydroplaning or hitting a patch of ice in a car, or having your feet start to slide out from under you. And it’s often downright dangerous, either because a train is moving too fast for the curve of the switch and is derailed or because it’s sent into a collision on the other track or off the end of a siding (e.g. the Flying Kipper crash). Engines being engines, the term is also used hyperbolically to complain about an abrupt change of routing or scheduling with little warning, e.g. “Well, nobody told us about the special using my regular platform, until the last signal, they just threw me to Platform Five!” or “Today’s ore train was late. Dispatch gave them the tunnel instead of me so they didn’t have to stop going uphill, but I didn’t hear about it until they threw me on the passing siding!” It can also be used figuratively, similar to “thrown off track” or “thrown off,” to describe an unpleasant surprise or failure of communication.

Traveling In Style: Slang for a vehicle, especially a locomotive, being transported on a flatbed.

Tubes in a Twist / Knot: Expression of an engine (or human) being irritated, or feeling sick.

“What’s gt your tubes in a twist this morning?”

“That’ll put a knot in the foreman’s tubes for sure!”

“Are you feeling okay? You look like you’ve got a knot in your tubes!”

Turf Train: Affectionate term for farm tractors pulling multiple trailers or appliances.

Turn Your Grates: Implying that an engine has a buildup of ash on their firebox grates that is preventing their fire from getting enough air – almost always used figuratively to imply the engine’s mind is clogged with useless thoughts or strong emotions that are keeping them from thinking clearly. Or that they’re just being an idiot.

“Turn your grates before you run your mouth” = Think before you speak, in particular about whether you’re coming from a place of emotion or bias.

“Turn your grates and look at the track” = You have your mind on something other than what you’re doing, stop thinking about that and concentrate.

“Your cars are right on Spur 7 like I told you, turn your grates and look again!”

“I know the last diesel who visited was rude, but let’s turn our grates and keep an open mind about the new ones.”

Yoopers and Burlies: These are JGD-specific slang. The railroad connects to two major interstate railroads, Union Pacific and the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe Railway (BNSF). At some point some engine heard about the word “Yooper” to describe people from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, decided to start calling engines and employees from Union Pacific this, and the name stuck. “Burlies” are BNSF engines. Prior to the 1995 merge of Burlington Northern and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, the term was used for Burlington Northern, but there wasn’t really a term for Santa Fe engines other than “Santas” or “S-Fs.” A few engines tried to get “Reindeer” adopted as a term but it never caught on. Yoopers and Burlies are common on the JGD because both railways have trackage rights on one or more of its major routes.

You Got Your Valve Gear Backwards On the Left Side: Steam locomotives reverse by using their valve gear to change the timing of their valves. If one somehow had its valve gear operating backwards on one side, one cylinder would be trying to go in reverse and the other forward and it wouldn’t get anywhere. Used figuratively to mean “You’re sabotaging yourself” or “You’re the cause of your own problems.” Mostly used by older engines.

#Railway Series Fandom #TTTE fandom #worldbuilding #JGD Lore

[runwayrunway]

A New England Planespotter In...England (And Scotland)

So I've just gotten back from two weeks in London, almost directly beneath one of the arrival paths to Heathrow. One weird thing about being in London was that...my home airport, Logan, is big, sure, lots of international flights, but it's weird in that it's only a hub for three airlines, one of which is domestic. Being sandwiched between NYC and Newark does that to a place. So we get a pretty small selection of airlines here, all things considered.

Heathrow? Literally while taxiing from the runway to the gate I saw us go past an Air Mauritius and a Royal Brunei Airlines plane (and I didn't have my camera out to take a picture!). On the way out on my way home I saw a RwandAir plane (and it was at an angle behind me where I couldn't get a picture of it either!). I saw multiple A380s a day from British Airways and Singapore Airlines, and even a 747 flying for Korean Air Cargo went overhead! (747s never fly to Logan.) I saw THAI, Air India, TAROM, Air Serbia, and the full complement of gulf carriers - which I expected - and China Southern Airlines, which I somehow didn't.

Hey, wait, is that tailfin...

There she is! (I was so happy to see her that I think I startled the person sitting next to me.)

There were of course the usual faces as well - Delta, American Airlines, and even JetBlue now flies to London. I didn't see any full-size FedEx planes, but I did see a FedEx Feeder ATR 72 (at least I think it's a 72) at Edinburgh Airport.

(she was quite far away and the image is inevitably very crunchy)

A few other cargo airlines more typical of Europe were parked nearby her - DHL, Maersk Air Cargo (in the old Star Air livery), West Atlantic, and whoever that is at the end - the livery feels so familiar, actually, but there's no wordmark and half of me thinks it's a wet lease that hasn't been painted. If anyone remembers what's on the tip of my tongue, please do tell me.

While entirely expected, I also enjoyed seeing little Loganair ERJs around in Edinburgh. They're so short! I was arriving in an A320 and even then I had to wait until I was on the ground to take a decent picture that wasn't half cut off by the plane I was actually in.

I don't know enough about Loganair's routes to know what they actually fly to Edinburgh, but a tiny part of me was sad I didn't see any of their littler prop planes. I have a huge soft spot for the Britten-Norman Islander, the first prop plane I ever got to fly on, which Loganair operates two of. Among their uses in the fleet is operating the shortest scheduled route in the world, which lasts around a minute and is about as long as the runway I landed on when I took all those pictures. I won't pretend it's not on my bucket list. (To be fair, I am also legitimately interested in the archaeological sites on Papa Westray...just maybe not interested enough to take a longer flight to see them.)

These aren't all the airlines I saw, but the rest I'm saving for other days and other posts. Still, there is one more type of airplane I saw which I think I have never actually seen in Massachusetts. When I was at Edinburgh I heard this bizarre loud thing that sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before and looked up and saw what I thought was a C-130. Then I realized it was actually an A400M with its weird scimitar propellers. As far as I'm aware this is the first airlift plane I've seen in person that wasn't a static display and it's definitely the first plane I've seen that sounds like that. I also got to see my first ever helicopter that wasn't a tiny little general aviation thing in the form of a Chinook going right over my head at...really not that high, but it didn't have its transponder on so I couldn't tell you more exactly. Is that a thing in London? Airplane-sized military helicopters at low heights over populated areas with their transponders off? I don't remember ever seeing that before but I suppose it has been a while. It was very, very strange.

And that's a non-exhaustive list of the things you just don't get to see in Boston! I will definitely talk about some of these airlines in full someday, but some of them I probably won't. I at least had a lot of fun pointing at airplanes and going "wow...".

#off-duty #runway runway travelogues #polairoids #loganair #fedex #srilankan airlines #dhl #maersk air cargo #west atlantic uk #west atlantic airlines #star air (denmark)

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

I thought your tags on the Ian + striped T-shirts gifset were really interesting. Not something I’d thought about but I think it’s perhaps, Ian trying to fit in and be normal? To, sadly, not look so much like he’s obviously from the South Side? Idk. I think clothing and outfits are very interesting to analyse on the show. Maybe there’s no intentional meaning behind it but I think it’s interesting to discuss! 💖

Ian's clothing choices were always the most interesting to me, but the clothing department (I think?) did a really good job using clothing as a narrative/thematic tool. Wether repeating outfits, changing style, altering the condition of items, they didn't overlook the power of clothing.

I will say they slept a little when it came to applying those tools to female characters on the show, but I will forgive them for the way Veronica was consistently styled throughout the show, she looked incredible every episode and those bellbottoms she was wearing a lot at the end of the series, fucking incredible

buttt anyways- Ian. Throughout seasons 1-4 they literally dressed him like a beloved child cartoon from the 1950s; things were well-fitted, not particularly faded/damaged, and used recognizably all american brands. I think it was supposed to be a clear symbol of the contrasts in his character.

hes the only openly gay character but also the most conservative in some ways, ie. not politically conservative the way we would think of it but he wants to join the army, he predominately works legal jobs for money (in contrast with Lip), he's gay dude not queer etc. also he has this "public life" of being the more buttoned up version of himself and his "private life" of his situation with Kash and hooking up with the local delinquent/sewer rat

im writing a lot more of this part of the analysis into a fic as we speak but so much of early seasons Ian's who ideology is I am who people think I am so as long as people see him as the well dressed, straight laced kid going to West point, that is all he is and everything else doesn't matter

But then when he leaves and we see him battling his diagnosis you see elements of his old style, red converse when hes passed out in the snow outside the club contrasting with the small tanktop he's wearing and its visual marker of poeples ability to see the instability seeping through

anyways idc about any of his outfits past that tbh, I fucking hated those red shoes with a passion i cant even tell you but idk switching his style to nice shirts worn unbuttoned with a tank top and looser jeans and terrible, horrible ugly shoes probably indicate a happy medium between the southside part of him and the more straight laced version of him and being slightly less concerned with other peoples perception of him

but its also almost directly copying lips style from earlier seasons once he moved on to his tank tops-playing dad-jeremy allen white got ripped style

I also loved the calla lily on his wedding suit, i think it was a lovely touch so bravo to mickey for that one

#i feel like i just cornered you at a party #im so sorry #thank you for sending tho! #sgt says

[kendrixtermina]

Palestine and the Crisis of Democracy

While right now the main attention should rightfully be on the immediate victims of this ongoing catastrophe, this incident has also exposed how much the power of lobbying groups & corporate interests has eroded western democracies.

At this point they’re not meaningfully different from China or Russia aside from being wealthier. What have China or Russia done that the USA isn’t allowing its client state to do right now?

We’re supposed to have free speech? Where is our free speech now, if being anti war can cost you your job & the media is owned by the corporations.

At this point ppl in the global south are 100% justified to distrust the western bloc as much as we distrust China or Russia.

We’re approaching a 1984-ish situation of 3 identical superpowers ravaging contested territories in endless proxy wars.

That said, it’s tempting to go ranting about „the evil west“ or „the whites“ or curse all israelis – and don’t get me wrong, the west as an institution has proven its moral bankrupcy and IDF as an organization with a culture of fomenting this needs to be dismantled & abolished even more badly then ICE or the USA police.

But when you look at the people on the ground, not politicians or media, but at the individual human people, that’s not really the case: We’re seeing record protest turnouts everywhere.

Politicians are being swarmed with protest mails. (I just sent some myself)

Even in the USA, two thirds of the population want a ceasefire. Heck, even in israel, 62% want a ceasefire.

And there’s no telling how much of the rest genuinely want this vs. Being misled or confused by propaganda. Don’t get me wrong: Those people making mocking tiktoks are evil and I’d love to see them roasted on a skewer, but they are NOT the majority and acting like they are is bad tactics.

So what does this mismatch tell us?

We don’t have functioning democracies right now.

Maybe some South Americans do, maybe Belgium and Spain and Ireland, but the rest of us?

Not so much.

We gotta fix that, not just for our sake, but for what it does to the rest of the world.

Whoever’s in charge isn’t us, and its a dreadful mixture of incompetence and evil.

It’s not that all people, not even all western people, are terrible and evil. It’s that right now, in both the USA and even Germany with it’s 6 mainstream parties, there’s no viable candidate you can vote for that will not support this madness.

Nobody really benefits from this, or wants this, but a small coalition of fascists, the military industrial complex, a few crooked politicians, and a bunch of opportunistic hatecrimers of antisemitic, islamophobic and/or arabophobic persuasions.

This is what happens when problems that are pointed out time & time again don’t get fixed: Like the longstanding human rights abuses in Israel (that were known aout for SO LONG!), the existence of veto powers deadlocking the UN, legalized bribery & first-past-the-post system in the USA, USA hegemonic control of europe…

It was a perfect storm of every long-standing flaw in the system coming together to create a perfect storm of horror.

- but the first ones to sin are usually the last ones to bleed and the ones who pay the bulk of the price are, as ever so often, those who were already the most oppressed.

So what do we do?

Vote small party, maybe, for europeans. Vote in primaries to get the bought-out mainstream candidates out, if youre in the US.

Protest, complaining and combatting misinformation is gonna be an important tool while our democracies are compromised, we can’t rely on voting alone.

If us talking didn’t help they wouldn’t try to shut us up.

Messaging wise, on this issue, we might stress being anti-war. They’re trying a different smear because mocking anti-war ppl as bleeding-heart hippys doesn’t work anymore.

They can’t say being anti-war is antisemitic.

It’s important, of course, that (unlike the hippys) we don’t slip into wishy-washyness here or peace at any price that just basically the oppressed shutting up. Just peace or no peace. Lasting Peace of no Peace.

But peace has an appeal to most people, even those inclined to be wishy-washy or apolitical.

I think selling them on Lasting Peace and Just Peace might work better than shaming them for not being hardliner enough.

It’s super cynical and fucked up that we’re even having to THINK about „marketing“ when people are dying, but we need to convince people, especially since the usefulness of our votes is currently compromised.

Even a king must yield if there’s a mob with pitchforks outside the door.

#political thinkpiece #palestine #gaza #fascism #israel #USA #European Union #democracy #feelings #politics #current events #anti war

[dendrobium-writes]

"Lately, the food has been making people sicker and sicker."

"Well, I suppose that explains the lack of activity. But why do they keep eating it? Surely someone must have noticed." Laurence stepped over a pile of trash and detritus in his path on the sidewalk. The streets were empty. Beyond empty, really. It was a profound lifelessness. "Do you think they would be if they had a choice? This place is remote. Out there. You saw the condition of the train station, too. No food's coming in that way." The condition of the station. Howard said it like it was normal. It was their first stop when arriving into town, taking a detour off the footpath they had been following. Train cars floated above the tracks, which themselves seemed to be folded and coiled like string in the hands of a child.

A thick fog permeated the small town, ripe with the smell of low tide. "And the harbour?" Laurence added. "What harbor?" Howard tersely answered. "There hasn't been a ship here since the mid 1800s. The bay just isn't safe."

Isn't safe? What could that mean? The waters weren't particularly violent. This wasn't a very stormy area, either. Laurence's knowledge of the locale was admittedly limited, but that didn't quite add up.

"The only place the food comes from here is a farm to the west. Less than a mile outside of town." Howard chirped. "How do you know so much about this place?" Laurence's curiosity got the better of him. "Are you from around here?"

Howard scoffed. "Do I look like I'm from here?"

"I don't know what you look like. Up until now you've been a voice in my head. A voice with an American accent." "Right. Well.. I'm sure we'll meet face to face soon enough." "So you're a person, then?" "Of course I'm a person, the hell else would I be?" Howard's tone grew defensive at that.

"I don't know. A delusion? A vengeful spirit? A demon possessing me?" "Laurence, you wound me. You know I'd never lead you astray." Its tone was almost playful. "No, I don't." "Well... I haven't yet."

#dendrobium.writes #microfiction

[mariacallous]

It would have been better for Ukraine if Kyiv had fallen in February 2022, when Putin first sent his forces in, than for Western perfidy to grant Russia victory now.

Tens of thousands of Ukrainian soldiers have died. (The Ukrainian government does not release figures but reliable estimates of the size of the butcher’s bill range from 30,000 to 80,000.) Then there are the  civilian deaths from the bombing, the murders and rapes in occupied Ukraine, and the ecological catastrophe caused by the destruction of the Kakhovka Dam.

All that pain, all that blood, all for nothing,

The betrayal will be the worst of it. The West would have promised to stand by its ally and then broken its word and abandoned its friends.

Historians will spend decades examining the motives of US right-wingers if Donald Trump succeeds in persuading them to cut aid to Ukraine.

They will want to find rational reasons for the betrayal as rational people like to do.

And to be fair, there will be rationally explicable reasons. When US Senators say that their voters don’t want them to send money to Ukraine, and prefer to deal with problems closer to home, they make sense.

Voters always object to spending blood and treasure on foreign causes, and supporters of overseas aid should never assume that their arguments will triumph.

But rational explanations on their own cannot explain the behaviour of the US right. A dark and malignant hatred of democracy drives them, and we should not underestimate its power.

The quote I always reach for when I find myself in danger of not taking malice and madness seriously enough came from the historian Norman Cohn. He looked at the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the forged document that inspired Nazism by detailing an imaginary Jewish conspiracy.

You could not understand Europe’s descent into with fascism with purely rational explanations.

Instead, Cohn concluded

“There exists a subterranean world where pathological fantasies disguised as ideas are churned out by crooks and half-educated fanatics for the benefit of the ignorant and superstitious. There are times when this underworld emerges from the depths and suddenly fascinates, captures and dominates multitudes of usually sane and responsible people.”

What else is Trumpism but a movement of the crooks and half-educated fanatics that has captured American Conservatism?  

Ukraine is its enemy because, when he was president, Trump tried to persuade Volodymyr Zelensky to investigate a fake allegation that Joe Biden had pressured Ukraine into dropping an inquiry into his son Hunter Biden’s lobbying.

True to his mafia boss character, Trump threatened military aid to Ukraine if Zelensky did not cooperate. There was no evidence that Joe Biden took any action to intentionally benefit his son. To his credit Zelensky refused to agree to set-up Biden, and right-wing America hated him for that.

They hated it too when Democrats tried to impeach Trump for soliciting the help of a foreign country to smear a rival. And I should note in passing here that the supposed isolationists of the Republican party are very keen on foreign entanglements when they provide opportunities for political and financial corruption.

As a result, the pathological fantasies of MAGA world include a hatred of Ukraine, which like so many of the calumnies of the far right (and left) include elements of almost sexual disgust.

Readers who hope for rational explanations should try to explain away Tucker Carlson. Before he flew to Moscow to interview Putin on bended knee, Carlson described Zelensky as being like a “manager of a strip club demanding money”. From what dark closet in his mind, did that strip club come from?

Others described Zelensky as a  “welfare queen” or discussed how they wanted to “punch him in the face”.

Republicans are punishing Ukraine for refusing to go along with Trump’s schemes against his rival. Their partisan hatreds are so extreme that anyone who does not do down Biden must be their enemy.

But the malice runs deeper than mere partisanship. Vladimir Putin is explicitly in the mental world of the counter-Enlightenment.

He showed it towards the end of Carlson’s interview, when he turned sentimental, and not only out of gratitude for the easy ride his Quisling questioner offered.

Russians were more natural and less alienated from God and nature than soulless materialistic westerners, Putin said.

“It is in the heart,” the dictator explained. “Our culture is so human-oriented. Dostoevsky, who is very well known in the West as the genius of Russian culture, spoke a lot about this, about the Russian soul…Russian people think more about the eternal, about moral values.”

The eternally moral Russian people are now on Putin’s orders engaged in mass murder, rape, and the abduction of Ukrainian children in an illegal invasion of a sovereign democratic state.

The easy thing to say in these circumstances is that Putin is as great a hypocrite as the evangelical Christians who worship Donald Trump, even though he is intimate with all of the seven deadly sins, and would discover the eighth and the ninth if they were there to find.

But sentimentality is often on reverse side of barbarism’s coin. Like a gangster who loves his dear old mother, Russian nationalism has always combined sickly praise for the Russian soul with the utmost brutality.

Putin was endorsing the sentimentality and barbarity of the 19th century Slavophile movement.

It saw Russians as a pure people uncorrupted by modernity.  For Dostoyevsky the most vulgar Russian peasant was better than an intellectual because the peasant feared God.

Meanwhile Tolstoy believed that simple Russians were “less intellectually corrupted” than Westerners. They will “understand at last where the means of salvation lie and will be the first to begin to apply it.”

Quoting Tolstoy and Dostoevsky may seem benign. Who does not occasionally think that the honest peasant knows more than the pretentious intellectual?

In Russia’s case the Slavophile myth of the virtuous Russian soul allowed first the Tsars in the 19th century and now Putin to justify the suppression of democracy. Free societies and human rights were corrupt western imports that would only spoil Russians.

The Protocols of the Elders of Zion and the other early fascist conspiracy theories, which Norman Cohn studied, did not come from Nazi Germany but from Tsarist Russia. Their central propaganda message was that Western democracy, rights, liberties and freedoms were shams that hid a conspiracy of the real rulers of the world.

In the case of tsarism and fascism, and today some versions of Islamism and far leftism, it is a conspiracy of Jews.

In the case of Donald Trump and the Republicans it is a conspiracy of Democrats rigging ballot machines.

In the case of Putin, it is a conspiracy of Western deviants.

As Ian Garner and other scholars have emphasised, the Putin regime now uses homophobia as the Nazis used antisemitism.

For instance, speaking in the Kremlin last year Putin began by denying that Ukraine was a democracy. True to fascist form he said that its “real masters” lay in the “dictatorship of the Western elites”.

These elites were engaged in a “complete denial of humanity [and] the overthrow of faith and traditional values.” They wanted nothing less than “outright satanism.” And the satanism of the West manifests itself in its sexual diversity. Putin would not allow “here, in our country, in Russia, instead of 'mum' and 'dad', to have 'parent No. 1', 'parent No. 2', 'No. 3'?

The American right, of course, is keener on fighting the war on the woke than winning the war in Ukraine.

Get down into the subterranean world and an alliance between Republicans and Russian nationalists can now make sense.

Neither believes in democracy.

Both see it as a sham that hides the influence of the puppet masters who rig elections and control society.

And finally, both think they have a God-given right to rule, quite literally so. Trump’s evangelical base is theocratic rather than democratic, while Putin rules with the blessing of Russian Orthodox church.

Who guessed even 10 years ago that these criminals and fanatics from the sewers of politics would control our future?

 But control it they do, and it will take a superhuman effort to rid ourselves of them.

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Lonely In A Crowded Room [Part Three]

Fandom: American Actor, RPF, Elvis Movie RPF

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Female Reader

Characters: Elvis Presley, Female Reader, Reader, Red West, Billy Smith Marty Lacker, Original Female Characters, Memphis Mafia, Austin!Elvis

Word Count: 3557 // Rating: Explicit

Summary: Have you ever felt alone in a room full of people?

Tags/ Warnings: Established Relationship, Marriage, Graceland, Living at Graceland, Kisses, Anxiety, Nudity, Memphis Mafia, Austin!Elvis, Elvis Movie, Horse-riding,  Kissing, Fingering, Birthdays, Birthday Party, Romantic Getaways, Loneliness, Migraines, Football, Elvis Playing Football is so hot I cant, Presents, Reader Can be Priscilla if you want, Arguing, Fighting, Flashing, Birthday Party, Security, Reader Dress Inspo, Reader Necklace Inspo, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Face Sitting, Unprotected Sex, Cabin Inspo

Notes: im obsessed with graceland at the moment but the idea of so many people coming and going in my house is my idea of hell. So i thought I’d write about it lolol

Final part. I liked writing E like this simultaneously cute af and hot as fuck

UPDATED 8/23

PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE

As the city skyline started to disappear into more rural surroundings and the radio became the most notable sound in the car Elvis spoke. 

‘I shouldn’t have eaten all of that,’ he said with a sound of relief. He shifted in his seat and looked at me. I was looking at him now after spending most of the journey pouting and staring out the window, ‘you not talking to me?’ ‘I don’t know are you going to tell me what’s going on or are we just going to make small talk,’ I said raising an eyebrow. ‘I enjoy talking about anything with you honey,’ he challenged chuckling as my pout melted a little, ‘look I will explain but I wanna show you rather than tell you is that too much to ask?’ ‘So it’s nothing bad?’ I asked ‘Bad? Why the hell would you think it would be bad?’ he said his brow furrowed. ‘You said those nut jobs were around the house and Red and Sonny seemed amped. Then you and Jerry are being all secretive. What am I supposed to think?’ ‘Oh baby I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to worry you. I can promise it’s nothing bad.’ ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ‘I guess I put two and two together and got five.’ ‘Don’t worry I understand,’ he said falling quiet for a moment before he continued, ‘did you enjoy your birthday?’

The corner of my mouth turned up in a smile as I watched him glance at me every so often. ‘I did,’ I said, ‘you were right though I ate too much too.’ ‘That’s the problem with Lombardi’s it’s too good,’ he chuckled, ‘you like your cake?’ ‘Definitely, though I forgot to ask them to save some to bring back to the house.’ ‘I’m sure it’ll make its way back somehow. And I don’t know if we’ll have enough room for cake with all your presents,’ he smiled. ‘I’m a lucky girl what can I say,’ I smirked. ‘You deserve every single one,’ he smiled, ‘speaking of presents…’

He turned away from me as he glanced at a sign on the side of the road. It directed towards a long lane which he turned down and we started down a long winding dirt road which was lined by dense woodland. It was dark enough that I couldn’t see through the trees and the only thing illuminated was the short space in front of us as Elvis continued driving. Despite the unnerving outside Elvis seemed nonplussed as he hummed along to the music, his fingers tapping the top of the steering wheel. Eventually, the long lane broke into an open space which housed a cabin. He pulled up and parked beside it smirking at me as he climbed out without a word. I climbed out and found him hauling bags out of the trunk. 

As he walked up onto the deck, I took in my surroundings. The cabin seemed to be the only thing around for miles and it had a back deck that flowed into a long yard that was cut through by what I assumed was an offshoot of the Mississippi. It was dim and the only light was the stars and a solitary lamp that was on at the front door. I didn’t have time to take it in properly though as I heard the jangle of keys and the door opening and turned to find Elvis ducking inside the cabin. I followed him watching as he flipped on the lights. 

The cabin wasn’t too big. The main room was split into two providing a kitchen and living area. A large door at the back of it gave a glance at what I assumed was a bedroom. Elvis had dumped the bags by the door and was now standing in the middle of the living room, his arms spread wide as he grinned at me. 

‘Ta da,’ he said. ‘What-’ I started as I walked towards him but he cut me off. He swooped in and wrapped his arms around me looking down at me with a smile.  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked excitedly.  ‘I do but…what is it?’ I asked making him chuckle.  ‘It’s your present,’ he said as if it were obvious, ‘you said yesterday that you were sick of us never getting a moment alone so…here we are.’ ‘You rented us a cabin for the night?’ I said with a smile. ‘Honey, I bought you a cabin,’ he corrected laughing as my eyes went wide. He pulled out of our embrace and sat down on the couch pulling me with him as my eyes roved over every inch of the room. 

‘I can’t believe you did this,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said moving a hair off of my face, ‘it seems like just the sort of thing I would do.’ ‘Well you’ve never been one to miss out on extravagance,’ I giggled. ‘Understated is for the boring,’ he smiled.  ‘But how?’ I said, ‘I mean I only told you all of that last night.’ ‘I called Jer early this morning. That’s why I had to go out. He rang round and found me a place and we drove up this afternoon and I bought it then and there.’ ‘It was like this when you came up here?’ I said noting the furniture that was already inside. ‘It looked a little worse for wear but Jer stayed here all day and made sure everything was as we wanted it,’ he said, ‘he’s the only one who knows we’re here too.’ ‘But Red-’ ‘Would never have agreed to letting us go somewhere without any supervision. Security blah blah,’ he said. ‘I bet his face was a picture when he realised you’d took off,’ I giggled.  ‘Oh no doubt,’ Elvis chuckled, ‘but Jer’s under strict instruction that he is not allowed to tell anyone where we are unless I tell him he can. So Red will just have to sit and stew.’  ‘Poor Jer,’ I said thinking of the grilling he was sure to be getting right now.  ‘Hey it’ll teach Red not to barge in when people are changing,’ Elvis murmured. I smiled to myself. I knew I’d hit a nerve. Then he leaned in and kissed my jaw and down my neck, his hand caressing my side gently. 

‘So…’ I said, ‘we’re alone?’ ‘Completely,’ Elvis murmured as he continued planting kisses against my skin. ‘No interruptions?’  ‘None,’ he breathed against my neck. ‘No one needing you?’ I asked stroking my fingers through his hair. ‘Just you,’ he said pulling back with a smirk.  ‘Well Mr Presley,’ I said leaning in so we were an inch apart, ‘let me show you just how much I do.’ 

Elvis smiled and crashed his lips to mine. My hands fumbled with his shirt buttons as his tongue ran across my bottom lip begging me to let him in. As I let him a moan emitted from his lips causing the damp heat to worsen in my core.  His mouth moved off of mine, back to my neck, nipping and kissing its way down as I worked his shirt off. His hands were all over me now, caressing every inch of me through the silky fabric that kept us from one another. Once his shirt was off he stood, pulling me off the couch and back to him so he could kiss me once more. His hands held my face as he kissed me deeply. We stayed there for a moment, enjoying each other before I pulled back and said breathlessly, ‘bedroom?’

‘Definitely,’ he said with a glint in his eye. I turned to walk towards it but he came up behind me, ensnaring me from behind and kissing my neck as we walked slowly to our destination. As we got inside he unzipped my dress, his lips following down my back as he yanked it off, leaving me in just my underwear in front of him. I heard a fumble of clothing and when he walked around me I noticed he was now nude, his erection resting against his stomach. He was a sight to behold. His hair was out of place from where I’d run my fingers through it, his lips were swollen from kissing me and his pupils were blown making his blue eyes look almost black. 

‘So beautiful,’ he said as he sat down on the bed and his fingers ghosted down my arm before he hooked my underwear in his fingers and pulled it down. As I stepped out of them he grabbed my hand in his and pulled me onto his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him again as his fingers undid my bra. I pulled back and shimmied it off moaning as his mouth captured my nipple as soon as it could. 

‘That’s it baby,’ he said as he took the other between his fingers and pinched it gently. ‘Feels so good E,’ I moaned feeling my pussy throb with anticipation.  ‘Gonna make you feel so good baby,’ he said as he moved back on the bed. Then without warning, he flopped down. I was sitting on his thighs, eyes closed, but I opened them as he disappeared. My hand reached down to touch his cock but he stopped me, his fingers around my wrist as he leant up on his elbow. Spotting my confusion he chuckled, ‘not yet honey.’ ‘But-’ ‘Let me make you feel good first. Bring that pretty ass up here,’ he cooed reaching up to stroke my cheek. I nodded.

I clambered towards him, my knees on either side of his head, hovering above him expectantly. I heard him chuckle at my eagerness and then I felt him kissing up my thighs until he planted one on my pussy. He didn’t start though, instead, his fingers teased through my slickened folds. 

‘You’re soaked, honey. I haven’t even touched you yet,’ he said, ‘so eager for me.’ ‘Need you E,’ I said as a shock ran through me as his finger traced around my clit.  ‘You’ve got me, baby,’ he said and then he buried his face in me. His tongue lapped at every inch of me, his nose nudging against my clit, causing pleasure to amp up in my core. I groaned as I rode his face, our movements soon becoming synchronised.  ‘E,’ I groaned, ‘oh fuck.’

I was near coming undone. A whimpering mess above him as he alternated his movements between focusing on my clit and fucking my hole with his tongue. His arms were wrapped around my thighs, keeping me in place, and forcing me to do as he wanted.  ‘I’m gonna cum,’ I whimpered receiving a hearty hum from him, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuck.’

I said as white hot pleasure ran through me causing my legs to shake and me to fall forward. He lapped at me a little more and then lessened his hold allowing me to fall down onto the bed. He was at my side in an instant, hovering over me, his chin glistening with my juices. 

‘E,’ I panted, reaching up to stroke his face.  ‘Did I make you feel good baby?’ he said laughing as I barely managed to nod. The feeling was only just returning to my legs and I could feel my heartbeat in my ears but I didn’t care. He watched me with adoration. ‘Just need a minute,’ I said leaning up to kiss him. He kissed me back gently and for a moment neither of us spoke as we enjoyed the other. 

Once the strength had returned back to my body I rolled him onto his back with gusto. He watched as I shimmied down so I was straddling his thighs smiling as I heard his breath hitch with anticipation. I grasped his cock and pumped him gently in my hand. I moved my hand up and down his shaft gently, enjoying the way his head fell back against the bed with a groan. 

Then I shifted forward, running his tip through my folds before I lined him up against my entrance. 

‘Do it baby,’ he said watching me as I inched him in slowly. ‘Fuck E,’ I said as he bottomed out earning a groan in reply. I moved up and down slowly until I settled into a rhythm. I was lost in the moment, my eyes closed as I caressed my own chest, playing with my nipples. He took control then, his fingers holding me in place so he could pound up into me.  ‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered pulling me out of my haze. I obliged and my fingers teased around my clit, matching his rhythm and speed. ‘E,’ I panted as that second wave crept up on me. ‘Not without me mama,’ he said and I nodded. ‘Need it,’ I panted. ‘I’m with you baby,’ he said, ‘cum with me okay?’  ‘Okay,’ I whimpered. ‘Three…two…one,’ he said the last word coming out strangled as he shot inside me. My walls fluttered around him milking him for all he was worth. His hips faltered until they slowed and I pulled off of him, falling beside him exhausted. 

As we caught our breath he pulled me into him and we lay in bliss for a moment before he spoke, ‘well, that’s put an end to that question.’ ‘What?’ I said with a small yawn. ‘You said unless we were alone we would have to quiet,’ he mused. I felt another blush creep up on me. ‘I was kinda loud huh?’ I giggled.  ‘Hey I’m here for it,’ he said, ‘though I think if you did that at home they’d be able to hear you at the gate.’ ‘Maybe it might drive them away,’ I chuckled.  ‘Maybe,’ he said kissing my temple, ‘we might have to try it.’ I nodded and yawned again.  ‘Tired birthday girl?’ he asked and I nodded, ‘how about we shower and get you into bed?’ ‘Sounds like a good idea to me,’ I said. ‘Guess I’m just full of them today huh?’ he said.  ‘You can say that again,’ I smiled earning myself an eye roll from him. I didn’t care. My boy had done good today. 

✵✵✵

I woke late the next morning. The sun had long been out but had only just started to breach through the bedroom window as I stirred. I shifted realising that Elvis was pressed against me, his arm wrapped around me, clutching the chiffon of the nightdress I had changed into after our shower. 

‘Mmm,’ he mumbled as I nestled against him. I shifted so I was now on my back and watched him as his eyes opened slowly.  ‘Morning,’ I said watching him with a smile.  ‘Morning,’ he mumbled, pressing a sleepy kiss onto my cheek before his eyes opened properly, ‘what time is it?’  ‘A little after eleven,’ I said as I reached for his watch which was on my nightstand. ‘Woah,’ he mumbled, ‘don’t think I’ve slept that well in years.’ ‘Me either. The wonder of a bit of quiet,’ I sighed happily. Elvis nodded and leaned in to kiss me.

His hand cupped my jaw as he kissed me gently. We lay there for a moment until he pulled back watching me with a smile. I could feel him excited against my thigh and I reached down to touch him gently. He groaned and buried his head in my shoulder as I coaxed him to full length.

‘God damn Y/N,’ he whimpered, and then he rolled me onto my side and came up behind me. His fingers teased my hole before he shoved two of them inside me. I was slick but there was definitely a sting as he fucked me gently getting me ready for him. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering as removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. He buried himself in me and though there was a little pain at the start it soon devolved to pleasure.

‘Oh fuck baby,’ he said. ‘E,’ I cried. ‘You feel amazing,’ he said kissing along my shoulders, ‘taking me so good.’ ‘Always,’ I breathed. He held one of my hands under the pillow as his other caressed down my body until he was teasing my clit slowly in match with his thrusts inside me. I was coming undone quicker than ever.  ‘Oh Y/N,’ he whimpered as his orgasm hit us both by surprise.  ‘Oh E,’ I whimpered. ‘That’s it baby girl,’ he panted as my climax washed over me. As I came down from my high he pulled out kissing just below my ear.  ‘I love you,’ I mumbled, leaning back against him.  ‘I love you too baby,’ he said kissing my shoulder. 

I lay there for a moment. In my bubble of contentment. I didn’t want to move from here. Ever. 

✵✵✵

‘Got everything?’ Elvis said as he stood by the door. I mentally ran through everything in my head and then nodded heading to the door. He grabbed the bag I was holding and headed out onto the porch. He placed the bags down and then waited for me to step out so he could lock the door. As he went to the car and started to load up I wandered over onto the back deck and looked out at the view.

It looked amazing. I hadn’t been able to appreciate it yesterday in the darkness of the night but in the evening sunset, it looked divine. The backyard was a neat patch of grass that devolved into trees and dense woodland on either side of it. Yellow and orange leaves had just started to hem the edges of the green lawn as the winter months drew in and at the edge of the garden it sloped off down to the river which was now yellow and purple on its surface as it reflected the ever sinking sun. 

I watched as the river rippled past, slow and lazy. This would be a perfect family vacation spot. The perfect place for us to have friends and family over for a barbecue, as we did at Graceland. But as soon as that thought came into my head I shook it out. I didn’t want that. I liked the idea that we were the only people in the world who knew we were here. It felt better this way, more special. 

I loved being married to Elvis. I loved my life. But I had meant what I said. I was done with being uncomfortable in my own space. Done with sharing him with the world. I wanted more. I wanted to be a married couple. Normal. 

I needed to tell him. 

As that last thought slipped from my mind I felt Elvis’ arms wrap around me as he pulled me close.  ‘Damn that’s some view,’ he whistled.  ‘I know,’ I said turning around, ‘I’m so lucky you found it.’ ‘Gotta thank Jer for that one honey,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll make sure to thank him when we get back,’ I said.  ‘Just not the way you thanked me last night okay?’ he chuckled making me roll my eyes. We fell quiet for a moment, the both of us looking out at the sunset and enjoying our last few simple moments together.

‘Seriously though,’ I said after a minute causing him to look at me, ‘thank you for this. It’s just what I needed.’ ‘I’m glad,’ he said, ‘I’d do anything for you you know that.’ ‘I know,’ I said quietly. ‘But?’ he said immediately catching there was something more behind my expression. ‘But I need you to promise me something?’ ‘What is it?’ he asked a furrow in his brow. ‘That this isn’t a one time thing,’ I said biting my lip. ‘Baby we bought a house,’ he chuckled, ‘not like I can forget that in a hurry.’ ‘I know, I know, I just…I want you to promise me that we’ll come back. Just the two of us. Anytime we need to. This can be like-’ ‘A fortress of solitude?’ he said with an excited expression as he explained to my confused one, ‘Batman has one.’ ‘Yeah, like that. I want us to be able to get away from everything if we need to. From everyone,’ I said. ‘It’s between you and me…and Jer,’ he chuckled. ‘Well I suppose I can’t argue with that,’ I smiled.  ‘But you have to promise me something too.’ ‘What?’  ‘That you’ll tell me,’ he said looking at me with his piercing blue eyes, ‘when things are tough. Promise you’ll tell me that you need a lil space. I hate fightin’ with you, and I hate to see you unhappy.’ ‘I’m always happy when I’m with you,’ I reasoned. ‘Just all them other folks around huh?’ he chuckled hugging me close and kissing the top of my head.  ‘They’re part of you,’ I said. It was easier to be more truthful now he wasn’t staring at me, ‘and I’ll always understand that. But sometimes I just get a lil lonely even in a room full of people.’ He pulled back and smiled sadly at me for a moment before he said, ‘you don’t ever have to feel lonely again. You got me.’ ‘Promise?’ ‘Promise,’ he said.

#my writing #elvis fic #elvis #elvis presley #Elvis Movie #elvis presley smut #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #Elvis Presley Fic #lonely in a crowded room #red west #jerry schilling #Smut #elvis smut #austin butler elvis #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis smut #austin!elvis fanfic