#i have found enjoyment in the vast majority though
Text
take a chance on me (b.b.)
pairing: bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x ex! mother! reader
summary: your daughter stumbles upon a photo of you and a mysterious man, immediately noticing the similarities between him and her. nothing good can come from revisiting the past, especially one you’d hoped to avoid because you’d never gotten the courage to tell him, the man from the photo, that he’s a father.
warnings: major rip-off of the mamma mia! plot but this was purely for enjoyment so xxx; angst angst angst; swearing; allusions to sex; a lot of exposition so sorry ‘bout that
wc: 9.2k+
note: had so much fun messing around with this request (thank you by the way!!). listening to the mamma mia! soundtrack the whole time and now yearning for an island romance<3
ps. reader’s age is slightly hinted to being over 30 but that’s only if you do the math and i left the daughter’s age ambiguous (she’s a teen, over sixteen at least); also, daughter’s name is poppy!
pps. i probably won’t be writing a second part to this because i love the ambiguous ending; let your imagination run free lovelies :))
more of my work x
The summer heat was thick and just about everywhere, like sticky honey you can’t wipe clean off your fingers after spreading it onto a piece of too-burnt toast.
You were on the verge of giving up, trekking back home and collapsing onto the sofa with a stand-up fan aimed at your sweat-slick face.
Maybe the dungarees hadn’t been your best idea when it came to thirty-degree weather, but the utility of them, their pockets filled to the brim with spare screws, a cylinder-shaped glue for the hot glue gun you’d lost in your storage room a week back, a few hair ties for when the one currently holding yours up snapped for the third time that day.
Practicality over comfort, as was your motto for the past over-a-decade of your life. As it had been, since you’d found yourself pregnant after a one-night-stand (turned many, many night-stand) you’d yet to shake yourself free of).
You were never one to ask for help, and when it came to raising your child, things hadn’t changed. No matter how desperate you were, working two jobs on an island you didn’t speak the language of, an infant perched on your hip, whaling in your ears whilst you simultaneously cleaned the rooms of the little bed-and-breakfast you’d landed a job at.
When you weren’t taking care of your kid or working, you were thinking about one of those two things, or both.
And it wasn’t like you hated it entirely; she was the best thing to ever happen to you, could have arrived at a more opportune time, but she was your best friend if you’d ever had one. So saying she was a mistake or something you regretted– it was an unfathomable thought that had only crossed your mind once, sat in the doctor’s waiting room, pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper, clutched tight in your trembling hands.
“Ma’!” she yelled now, your little Poppy with her chocolate-brown curls, sun-kissed skin from all the time spent at the beach. Remarkably like her Father, but you’d never tell her that.
“I’m here, I’m here!” you answered in a similar, exasperated fashion, bent over a crack in the intricately tiled mosaics that covered the floor of the plaza.
You still worked at that bed-and-breakfast, though now it was yours and had expanded to a vast number of the buildings at the centre of the island. Everyone helped out, whether out of kindness or a small fee, and you were grateful for the community, the small army, you had behind you, catching you every time you stumbled (far too often than you’d ever admit).
“Need help?” Poppy asked, amused, hands perched over her white-tiered skirt clad hips, looking like the stubborn replica of her mother, of you. Her head just about obscured the sun from beating down on you anymore than it already was, framing her with a halo of gold that tinted the edges of her hair.
“I’m alright, love,” you assured, heaving yourself straight with a pained groan. Poppy crowded you, arms going around your shoulders to help you up. “Why don’t you go help Esme. She’s in the storage room, looking for the hot glue gun.”
“Still haven’t found that thing?”
“No, I– fuck. Everything disappears around here. Swear we’ve got a ghost or something, the only logical explanation.” Poppy nodded along, taking your finger-pointing at the supernatural with a deathly seriousness.
“Makes sense if you ask me, ghost with a hankering for rusty tools,” she agreed, voice solemn. “Aaaand you’re sure I can’t help you here?” she asked again, murky brown eyes baring right into your soul. You brushed her off, nudging her in the direction of the sweet old lady, Esme, with her wonky English accent and pastries to die for.
“If you see anything you like, put it to the side!” you called after her retreating figure, shaking your head as she chucked a ‘thumbs up’ behind her back.
Not only was she the spitting image of her Father, or rather, the man who got you pregnant as you called him in your head, but she walked and talked with that same air of breezy confidence that got him into your pants in the first place.
You’d hoped a few more of your mannerisms (and none of your risky mistakes) would have brushed off on her as she grew up, but other than your resolute anger and little patience, she was nothing like you.
Always headstrong, sometimes teetering on the precipice of arrogance, but she usually relented and bugged you with her incessant chatter until you forgave her.
Would stare up at you, all watery and doe-eyed, hair curling around her chubby cheeks still splotchy from her tantrum, near ready for tears again until you were shushing her with a carrot stick coated in hummus (her favourite but you worried she’d turn into a chickpea or something close to it).
Even if she was part-chickpea, you’d love her forever.
Named her Poppy after the bunches of wild, scarlet-red flowers you’d seen breaking through the stones of the Acropolis when you were pregnant and needed a break from the island. Your Poppy was a lot like that; able to push past even the most inconceivable of hardships, past whatever unmovable stone that might be surrounding her, threatening to cage her in, until she was illuminating the world around her. Painting it a little brighter for everyone to enjoy.
Your very own field of flowers.
Poppy could admit that even with having grown up on the island, she could never get used to the heat or the muggy feeling of her clothes sticking to her like a second layer of skin. But she persisted, finding Esme with a cloth tied around her head as a make-shift hat in the barn they used for storage.
It was… falling to pieces, and still, that was an understatement.
The blue doors looked more grey than anything ocean-like, the junk crammed inside, stacks on stacks of unlabelled cardboard boxes she worried had a family of something disgusting in at least one of them. The ceiling had caved-in in places, allowing beams of sunlight to penetrate through, and acting as a door for the birds to fly in and build their nests.
So yes, the barn was falling to pieces, the entire hotel was, actually. But what worried her the most was that her Mother seemed close to the same fate despite being so young, so she’d persist where she had to.
“Little girl, come help me with this box would you!” Esme ordered from somewhere within the labyrinth of boxes. Poppy picked her way through, using the groans Esme exerted as a homing-beacon and eventually bumping into the older woman. She was caked in dust and dirt, but didn’t seem to care all that much if the grin on her face was any hint of her mood.
Esme was rather grumpy a lot of the time, so a smile like that, one that screamed mischief, and her eyes beaming with that all-knowing look she got sometimes after visiting the psychic on the other side of the island… Well, something told her this couldn’t be good.
“What’s in this particular box, May?” Poppy questioned, huffing as she pushed it onto the ground.
“You’ll see in a moment–” Esme tssked at her impatience, patting her back so Poppy would move into the light so they could see its contents more clearly. When it was in place, Poppy looked-up at her from her crouched position on the floor expectantly, still unsure of where this was headed.
“Don’t give me such a dumb look, little girl, open it!” she scolded, frowning so deeply Poppy worried her mouth would be stuck that way permanently.
Sometimes she thought it already was. “Okay- Okay– Stop calling me that,” she added under her breath, pulling back the hole-ridden flaps and immediately rummaging through, wondering what all the fuss was about.
“This just looks like a bunch of old junk, May. I don’t think the glue-gun is in here.”
“Keep looking,” she insisted, peering over her shoulder. It was only a few minutes later that her hand came down on Poppy’s shoulder, gripping tight enough that Poppy stopped shuffling things around, hand stuck on a tattered journal she’d never seen before. “That one– take that out.”
“This?” Poppy asked inquisitively, lifting it from the box and standing up so Esme could see.
“Yes, this,” she nodded with a relieved sigh, flipping open the first page. Inside, Poppy admired the elegant script, eyes widening at the name inscribed on the first page.
“This was Ma’s?”
Esme held it out to her, confirming her wild thoughts, doing little to halt the curiosity currently poking at her mind. “This was your Mother’s when I first met her. Maybe… younger than you, or the same age, I’m not sure. But she was beautiful, and hardworking, and very, very pregnant.”
A forced laugh stumbled past her lips, disbelieving as she carefully turned to the next page. A stray photo, not stuck down like the others, flew out of the bottom. Poppy scrambled to pick it up, not wanting it to get lost amongst the piles of stuff they desperately needed to sort out.
In it was her Mother, looking radiant with her head tilted back in laughter, flowers in her hair, an arm around her waist that belonged to an unfamiliar man. “And– this guy, who’s he?” Poppy’s heart was hammering now, knowing the answer before Esme could even respond.
He had her curls, unruly and deep brown. And something about him, the fluidity in his shoulders, the ease with which he carried himself, the look on your face. It couldn’t be…
“I’m not sure. I never knew his name but he was following your Mother around that summer, like a lost puppy. Very cute,” she murmured appreciatively, gaze fixated on the photo in your hand.
Poppy’s heart sank, hating the lack of answers, the not-knowing. She needed to know, could feel the fire stoked in the pit of her belly that would keep her up until she found out more, more, more.
You wouldn’t say anything. You were tightlipped about the ingredients in your famous pasta sauce, so anything about Poppy’s potential Father would be a no-go, a dead end she couldn’t get herself stuck in and clue you in on her snooping.
“What happened to him– the puppy man?” Poppy did nothing to hide her curiosity, knowing deep down that Esme had lured her to this box for a reason.
Everyone could see how you were wearing away, working yourself to the bone everyday for a dream that seemed just about unreachable. You needed someone, anyone, to help you, and Poppy wouldn’t always be there to do just that.
She knew you didn’t need a man, bursting into your life and fixing your problems. It’d have you biting at his heels until he was running off into the sunset. But a partner– a companion, maybe, who could support you when the job was brutal and rough and you were nearing a breakdown like no other– you deserved, at the very least, that.
Poppy would make sure of it. It didn’t take long for her to do the calculations, nine months minus her birthday and she had an approximate date to look for. She thumbed through the journal, marking the pages that mentioned any indication of when you’d written in it, and shoved it into the back pocket of your denim shorts to search through later.
She’d find him if it was the last thing she’d ever do.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t be, but she needed to see you smiling like you had in that picture. And Poppy had an inkling, a feeling, a certainty like no other, that the answer to all of your problems, maybe her’s as well, would be found with the man with the funny moustache and wicked grin.
The internet was a powerful machine, and one, Poppy thought decidedly, she’d be forever grateful for. It didn’t take long to hunt down the mystery man from the photo. She smiled, somewhat maniacally, really, at the screen as she read through the email she received from the United States Navy.
She’d gotten the idea after noticing the dog-tag around his neck, nestled against his bare chest. It was hard to see at first, what with the obnoxious printed shirts he wore in every photo, but Poppy was nothing if not thorough, meticulous, error-free.
Anyway, it wasn’t like the Navy had actually responded to her far-fetched cries for help, but she did find a help-centre that was rather effective in hunting down men who had gotten someone or the other pregnant while deployed internationally.
Poppy wondered how often this kind-of thing happened that they needed a whole department for it, suddenly trying to burn the image in her mind of a few more miniature him-with-the-moustache-s walking around the Earth.
But it couldn’t be, not with the way he had stared at you in that photo. And you’d kept it, all these years, so it had to have meant something.
Bradley Bradshaw. She scoffed, what a dumb name. And his callsign? Somehow worse– Rooster. She hoped eternally her maybe-Father wasn’t a proper moron now, and could still live upto the photos she had of him (of which she found many more hidden between pages in your journal).
He was quite attractive, almost two decades earlier. And you– well, even today, you were ethereal in Poppy’s eyes. Carefree and determined.
“Pops– hun, I’m going down to the post office, need anything mailed?” you asked from the other side of her bedroom door.
“Yeah! One sec,” she replied, frantically shoving all of the post-it notes and pictures back into a drawer in her desk, doing one last scan of her room to make sure she hadn’t left anything lying around before snatching up the letter– to Rooster– from beside her laptop.
Poppy opened the door to see you resting against the door frame, flipping through the letters (bills, probably) you had clutched in your hand. You held out your hand, waiting for her to drop it in your palm, but she quickly yelled out, “No!” which had you looking up from the dreaded envelopes with a raised brow.
“No…?” you asked, confused at her unusual outburst. “So you don’t have any mail?”
“No,” she repeated, dumbly, mouth forming words that never made it out. “No– I have a letter, but I’ll come with you. Drop it off myself,” she explained eventually, nodding along as if she was trying to convince herself.
You relented, sending another curious look towards your daughter but stomping down the stairs, creaks following, to the car. “I’m leaving now so put your shoes on!” you sang.
She sighed out of relief, shoving her feet into her trainers and barreling past you into the front seat of your Jeep. “God, Poppy– what’s gotten into you? Acting like a five-year old, I swear,” you grumbled, irritated and lethargic enough to have her wincing with guilt.
This was a good thing, right? Sure, you’d be angry– scratch that, furious, murderous, down-right irate, when you found out, but you’d understand. She was doing this for you.
“Sorry,” she appeased, kicking her feet onto the dashboard that earned her another withering glare from you. It did little to dissuade her as she continued talking. “Just giddy, that’s all.”
“Giddy? About a letter?” Poppy hummed in agreement, watching the ocean and mountain-side trees rush by, painting an array of abstract strokes across her vision. “Is it for a boy?” you asked, teasingly, side-eyeing her before returning to concentrating on the winding road ahead.
“Mmm, funnily enough, yeah,” she giggled, loving how you were entirely clueless.
“Interesting,” you murmured, then reaching across the console to squeeze your daughter’s bare knee. “Be careful, yeah?”
Poppy’s eyes flashed, chest-clenching painfully as she worried her lip between her teeth. Her hand moved to rest across yours. You’d never opposed her love-life, of her having one, but Poppy had always wondered why your own dating history was so sparse, time spent, instead, taking care of her or, later on, the hotel.
“Always, Ma’, you know that,” she made sure with a tight grin, praying you missed how it didn’t reach her eyes.
This was a good thing, she reminded herself. This was for you.
Poppy was jumpier than usual, like a skittish cat, you observed silently. Slamming doors and screens shut when you walked by. You didn’t necessarily care what she was up to until she was rambling off, a mile a minute, going on about an excuse you hadn’t asked for.
You were a good mother, one that didn’t pry or push when you wanted the gossip and highlights of your kid’s life. Had built a relationship, a friendship, even, with your daughter where she voluntarily shared the information without you ever needing to bat an eyelash.
So you tried not to worry, to let the mishaps distract you from the seemingly never-ending list of work you had tugging your attention elsewhere.
But that was another thing about being a mother; worrying was second nature, a muscle that unknowingly worked itself sore whenever your daughter was out of your sight.
She’d go off during the day, by the beach with her friends, at the dock helping with shipments or sailing into the late afternoon, returning only when the sun was sinking into the horizon and the sky was all shades of purple, pink, a burning orange.
She’d give you a soft, routine kiss on your cheek as you sat on the dinner table, skin sticking to the plastic cover you’d laid on the surface to protect the wood. Spew details of her day, who said what, who kissed who– though always failing to mention the letter from a month ago, the unknown boy she was secretly buzzing about was still unknown.
You hadn’t forgotten the letter, not recognising the address, some small town in America with little significance to you.
Poppy sat across from you now, talking around a mouthful of the sandwich you’d made the both of you with the leftover baguette from the bakery across the street, one that hadn’t sold that day so was priced cheap.
“--and then, you’ll never guess, but Dom was changing on the boat and basically flashed everyone. Tony and Riley included. I felt so bad, almost pushed the boys overboard and she was so red for someone who, basically, never got embarrassed.”
You snorted, stopping mid-bite. “Just because someone doesn’t make their emotions obvious doesn’t mean they don’t feel them. And I hope they’ll apologise to her.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” she agreed enthusiastically, eyes wide as if digesting every single one of your words. “And they did right after I threatened them. It wasn’t awkward for long, they’re not a bad bunch or anything. It was an accident, Dom said so herself.”
“That’s good,” was all you answered, now distracted by a letter in your hand you’d pulled from the pile as Poppy talked. She was watching you intently, burning a hole through the paper, and, being her Mother, you already knew she was dying to know who it was from.
“It’s for you,” you said eventually, putting her out of her momentary misery as she squealed and snatched it from your hand. You watched discreetly, touched by the sight of her mouthing the words as she read the letter. “Is it from that American boy of yours?”
“American?– what– I mean, how do you– how do you know he’s American?” she stuttered messily, mouth agape and ready to argue.
You reflexively held up your hands in surrender. “Hey, love– I just saw the sender’s address, that’s all,” you assured.
She collapsed back into her seat, mumbling an apology for getting all worked up.
It was now or never, you decided, finally sick of the anxiety coursing through your veins these past few weeks.
“Poppy, you’re… alright, right?” you asked, struggling to find the right words and sighing, forehead resting against your palm while the other crossed the table, holding your daughter’s hand, grip light and featherlike, in comfort.
“I mean– you’d tell me if you were in any trouble, or anything. I wouldn’t judge or–”
“Ma!” she scolded, sounding appalled by your line of questioning and roughly pulling her hand out of your grasp.
“Don’t ‘Ma’ me, Pops. You’ve been going mental for weeks now! I’m allowed to fret, I’m your Mother!” you retorted, standing up abruptly, chair screeching against the linoleum tiles as you dropped the plates into the sink.
“It’s nothing, I swear–”
“Is it drugs?” you asked suddenly, turning around to face her.
She looked completely aghast, arms crossed against her chest defensively and, what was likely subconsciously, pouting at you. “If it’s drugs, Pops, we can get help. I’ve got money saved up and I know a decent doctor on the mainland. I’ll get you an appointment tomorrow if you let me–”
“Ma!” she screeched again, parroting your earlier movements, walking right up to you, holding your shoulders firmly, and shaking as she spoke, or rather, yelled. “I’m not on drugs, don’t be stupid!” You scowled at her, pushing her off of you.
“Then what is it because I’ve been wracking my brain for what could possibly have my child on fucking edge and–”
“I found a journal!” she interrupted, voice loud and exasperated. You whipped around, pinning her down with a stare you’d mastered over the years. She froze on the spot, likely shocked she’d let it slip in the first place.
“You found a– a journal? Where? Who’s?” you asked succinctly, hiding your shaking hands behind your back.
“Uh– it was– Esme, she– it’s her’s, and she wanted me to help her find the name of this guy who’d visited her when she was younger. I reached out and it’s a letter from him, that’s it. I was excited for her,” she explained, but the way her voice wavered made you certain that wasn’t the whole story.
“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” you reasoned, still unbelieving. It was too convenient of an explanation.
“Because she told me not to! You’re– you’re a bit harsh, sometimes, a bit cynical when it comes to love,” she said, hesitantly, mouth twitching with a smile at how you were now the one pouting. “Anyway, you’re always telling me to butt out of people’s business so I thought it’d be best to just keep it to myself.”
The two of you, mother and daughter, stood in silence for many long minutes, bathed in the nauseating yellow glow of the kitchen lights, flickering bulbs casting ugly shadows across your faces. But it was home, the one one you knew, so you never complained, at least not out loud.
Not when Poppy was around to hear you. “Okay, I believe,” you relented, returning to the dishes, though Poppy nudged you out of the way.
“Why don’t you let me do this, huh? Go sit down for a bit, I’ll finish tidying up.”
You opened your mouth to protest but Poppy was quick to give you a look– the look. Same one you’d mastered after many years of dealing with her fits, and evidently, she seemed to have learnt it as well. You acquiesced reluctantly, hands raised for the second time that night, and fell back, fainted more like, onto the sofa.
Poppy stood, hunched over the sink, and you watched her from your position in the living room.
Something– a nagging feeling you couldn’t quite get rid off– poked at you, at your brain in all of its aching, slimy glory– that the story she fed you was just that– a story, fictional. But you trusted her, unlike some other mother’s who’d lecture you over the cabbages in the market about how you were too lenient with Poppy, how she’ll end up just like you.
You griped internally. She’d be lucky if she turned out anything like you. Your gaze returned to her, shoulders moving as she scrubbed at the dirty dishes.
Okay. Maybe not exactly like you.
He arrived on an assuming Tuesday, a single bag strapped to his back, all brown skin and smouldering looks hidden behind decade-old sunglasses. Poppy couldn’t believe it, not one bit, as she greeted the stranger while working at the pier.
He had her curls, unruly and deep brown.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, lips pulled into a frown to hide the urge of flinging herself at him with no explanation at all.
“Yeah, I’m looking for this address–” he fumbled with a piece of paper, pulling it from his back pocket. It was a letter, her letter, and he jabbed at the address, her address, on the front of the creased envelope. “--or if that’s not familiar, Poppy? She said her name was Poppy. Do you know anyone like that around these parts?”
She snorted. What were the chances?
She’d almost bailed on her shift, persuaded by Ben and his pretty smile to sneak out to the hidden beach on a nearby island. You’d managed to coerce him into going another day, mumbling an excuse or two in between kisses as you rushed down to the dock.
And then there he was, looking a lot like the lost puppy Esme had described to you. He still had the same odd facial hair, though it fit him a little better, having aged well.
“Poppy? Yeah, I know her,” Poppy mused, pulling at her bottom lip in faux-thought, eyes darting between the letter and the confused man holding it.
“Right, well–” he cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his feet. “Can you direct me towards her?”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” you nodded vehemently, hoping he couldn’t see the grin threatening to take over your features.
He sighed defeatedly after waiting for you to continue, and after you failed to expand on the information, he shoved the paper back into his pocket. “Okay, thanks for the help”-- sounding not the least bit thankful.
Better put him out of his misery, she thought eagerly, looping an arm around his shoulder, having to lean up on the tips of her toes to reach. “It’s actually you’re lucky day, Bradley–” you began, that same grin winning its battle.
“How do you know–” he cut you off, then stopped himself, pausing as he turned to face you. “Oh…”
“Oh!” she mirrored, though a lot less like she’d had some sort of epiphany. more mocking and exaggerated.
“So you’re Poppy?” he asked, stupidly, bashfully, shaking his hair out of his eyes. They were slightly longer, the strands, than in the photos, but he had that same boyish charm you’d sensed.
“The one and only,” Poppy enthused..
“So you’re–”
“Her daughter? Yeah, that’d be me,” she finished for him, teetering towards something more serious, more solemn, bracing yourself for the moment of realisation as the both of them walked up to the road, identical gaits and hair and noses, where Poppy’s Jeep (or the one she’d borrowed from you) was parked.
It never came.
“And your Dad?”
You choked on a breath that never made it down the right pipe, halting in your steps. “My Dad?” you asked, bemused.
“Yeah– is he around? Would love to meet him, your Mother as well, of course. I was really surprised by the letter but I think–”
“My Dad isn’t around. Never met him,” she explained slowly, frustrated by how he really wasn’t understanding. Had she not been obvious enough?
Shit. Would she give him a fucking heart attack if she told him now?
She looked him over, deciding he wasn’t so old that an unannounced confession would kill him.
“I’m sorry about that, men can be real dickheads,” he stated, as if knowing from experience, not bothering to censor his language, and she liked him just a bit more for it.
He was perfect for you.
Poppy watched, unspeaking, as he settled into the passenger seat, admiring the interior of the car– probably the one thing you owned that wasn’t ripping at the seams. “So, where are we headed?”
“The hotel Ma’ owns, it’s at the–”
“Centre of the island?” he interrupted, staring distantly out at the unwavering landscape.
Bradley-- Rooster let out a shaky breath, one she tried not to notice, understanding that the two of you, meeting after all these years– it wasn’t going to be easy. Not when there was a significant part of his life he didn’t even know existed, one that came in the form of her.
“You remember,” you pointed out, surprised and sounding more like a statement rather than a question.
“Yeah, I mean– I remember everything. How could I not?” There was something beneath his words, a weight to them that had her shifting uncomfortably in her seat, foot colliding with the accelerator as they hurried home.
“So you’ll be staying here,” she announced, shoving her shoulder against the barn door and coughing at the dust that attacked her senses once she managed it open. Bradley– or Rooster, as he’d told her to call him– followed close behind, cautious with every step as he took in his dilapidated housing.
“Here?” he questioned out loud, pushing at the bunches of hay lining the floor with the toe of his combat boots. He was sweating like it was no one’s business and Poppy giggled to herself, finding amusement in his unspoken disgust.
“Yeah, here. The hotel’s all booked up–” a lie, she just couldn’t have you stumbling upon him before she’d planned how it’ll all go down. “So this was all we had left. I’ll find a spare mattress for you, and the bakery across the road– owned by a sweet, old lady–” another lie, it was Esme and there was nothing sweet about her. “--who can help you with showering, food, all the necessities.”
He stared intensely as she spoke, as if not really listening to a word she was saying.
“What is it?” she asked eventually, breaking free from his gaze as she busied herself, distracted herself, with collecting the boxes into a corner, out of the way to allow him some more room.
Rooster shook his head, convincing himself to look elsewhere, and smoothed his hair back.
“Nothing, sorry. You just– you’re so much like your Mother. It’s crazy, really.” She beamed at him, suddenly sitting on the floor opposite, and he joined her amongst the dust and hay.
“Really? You think so?” He nodded, laughing at her eagerness. “She said once, I don’t think she knew I was awake and I was really young, or younger,” she amended then continued. “She said I reminded her of my Dad, but I couldn’t ever tell you if it’s true or not.”
“Can’t say I knew him either–” Brilliant, it was all just brilliant. “--but you’re as… fiery, I guess would be an appropriate word, as she was.”
“And what was she like?”
He was ready to answer, not needing even a moment to think his response through, but your voice from outside the barn had Poppy’s eyes widening with fear, heart sinking low in your chest.
“Poppy! You in here?” You struggled with the door, pushing all of your weight into the crumbling wood.
“Fuck–” she cursed. “You need to– you need to hide, like– now.” He watched, perplexed, opening his mouth to question the sudden turn in events but she held up a finger, shushing him like he was a child and not her Father-who-didn’t-know-it.
“I’ll explain later just– please,” you begged quietly, urging him deeper in between the organised junk and out of sight.
She inhaled, exhaled, steadying her thrumming heartbeat. “Ma’! Y-yeah, I’m here, one second.”
Poppy pulled on the handle, hauling it open but the circular, metal ring broke-free from the door.
“Another thing to fix, I guess,” you noted, nodding at the rusted metal in her hand. “What’re you doing in here?” you asked, as if only now aware of where the both of you were.
“Here? I’m just– glue gun, yanno. Esme still couldn’t find it so I thought I'd try again.”
“Alright you flaky weirdo. I swear, you wouldn’t even need drugs to act all high and jittery, manage it just fine all by yourself,” you mumbled, dismissively pushing past her and heading straight towards the area Poppy had, moments earlier, shoo-ed Rooster towards.
“You can't go there!” she burst out, holding out a hand in front of you that you glowered at.
“Yeah, and why’s that?” you asked, voice tight and ready to pull the Mother card you never really enjoyed playing. You’d earned it, sure, but it was a little demeaning considering how old your daughter now was.
“Because– Because–”
Shuffling footsteps alerted your attention towards the disarray, squinting between the piles, searching for where the noise originated from. “Is there someone else here?”
“Yes! There is!” Poppy admitted, and your stare returned to her. She could see, right past your head, where Rooster was stepping into the light, assuming she was about to explain his presence, but she shook her head imperceptibly– not yet, go back, go back
You stared expectantly, waiting for a response. “It’s Ben,” she blurted, not sure, even herself, where she was headed. “And he’s– well, you see– he’s naked. Yeah, we were about to have sex and you walked in and he’s all embarassed.”
You sputtered, all but sprinting towards the door and unable to look behind you so you missed how Poppy relaxed minutely. “Oh– wow, okay. Just– that’s not what I was expecting,” you stuttered, palm shielding your eyes. “I mean, firstly– not here, gross, that sounds unbelievably unhygienic. And secondly– use protection.”
You didn’t stay any longer, escaping to the outside, and Rooster appeared beside Poppy almost immediately.
She turned, ready to barrage him with excuses and explanations she hadn’t thought of yet. “I’m so sorry, she’s–!”
“She doesn’t know, does she? That I’m here?” he asked, though he didn’t need you to respond to know the answer.
He groaned into his hands, bending at the hip and breathing raggedly. “Okay, so– I’m gonna go before she does find out. It was nice meeting you Poppy,” he said, all in one go with no room for you to interrupt.
“No you can’t– she’s just–”
“No, I really, really need to leave,” he bit out, not facing her as he strapped his bag to his back.
“If you just give her time–”
“You don’t understand!” he exploded, eyes fluttering shut as he visibly attempted to calm himself. “The last time she saw me– it wasn’t– it wasn’t good. And I left the next day, without a word of apology or justification or–” Rooster sighed as if he’d had this argument with himself countless times before. “--so no, I can’t imagine she’ll ever come around.”
He stopped at the boundary of the door, calling behind him. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
Then he left, again.
At least he apologised this time, she thought bitterly.
You were stepping down from the hardware store, or hole in the wall, really, when you saw him.
A flash of saturated colour, mind-numbing prints, and broad shoulders. You gasped, frantically searching around yourself as if questioning if anyone else had seen a ghost from their own past.
No. They seemed to be going about their day as usual– Johnny sweeping at the cobblestone directly in front of his store, Mia laying fresh fish on ice, ready to be sold, her six-year old daughter tugging on the bottom of her dress with tears in her eyes.
No one was phased, except you. You looked back to where you’d seen him, but he wasn’t there anymore, only an empty street corner with nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
What the-- You rushed forward, intent on finding out the truth as your boots slapped loudly against the pavement, dodging busy workers and locals, all, now, staring at your wild movements.
“Child– where are you in such a hurry to?” Esme yelled, head poking through her bakery window with a scowl at the abrasive noise you were making in your pursuit.
“I’ll explain later, May!” you hurtled back, not stopping despite the burning in your legs, your chest.
Still, you carried on, making it all the way to the edge of the city centre, rushing to a stop as you stared across the abandoned gravel road. There was no one there except you, and you panted, exhausted and head-pounding, as you scolded yourself for such a stupid daydream. The heat had never gotten to you like this before.
It felt so real, him.
“Hey,” a voice greeted, cautiously, from behind you. Your eyes closed, hands clenched at your side, before you turned to face the tentative owner.
“Hey yourself,” you answered, surprising yourself at how civilised and steady your voice sounded to your own ears.
Bradley fucking Bradshaw. It was real after all.
“Are you okay?” he asked, hurrying towards you and letting his bag drop to the ground between the two of you, pulling out a water bottle and holding it out in front of you. A peace offering of sorts.
You only stared at it, like it’d bite you if you got any closer. “Take it, sweetheart. It’s fucking miserable out here.”
The endearment had you flashing your eyes at him, fire or rage or something somehow hotter– the sun had nothing on you in that moment, but he stumbled back, remembering himself.
“What are you doing here?” you demanded between gritted teeth, chin turned up at him.
“Sightseeing,” he said simply with that reaching grin that had you melting years earlier.
You scoffed impatiently. Poppy really had gotten her knack for lying, or royally sucking at it, from him.
“That’s bullshit. Why are you really here?”
There must have been an edge to your voice that had him spilling the truth, because you were stunned when he explained.
“Poppy– you met Poppy?” you asked, forcibly nonchalant, arms no longer dangling stupidly at your side but rather picking at the straps of your dungarees, loose threading growing longer as you pulled at them.
“Yeah, she’s a good kid,” he said, nothing giving away– not in his words, his body language, the look on his face– that he knew. Knew she was his.
He sat on the edge of the pavement, right by your feet, and patted the burning space next to him. You blew at a strand of hair tickling your nose, hating how you listened, even then, and sat right next to him, shoulders brushing the slightest bit and you were scampering to put some more distance between the two of you.
He smirked, quiet, leaning his arms on his bent knees, and his head on top, turned towards you as he watched you fight yourself.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asked, waiting, patient, all things you could never be.
“I’m fine,” you grumbled dryly, accidentally meeting his eyes, Rooster’s smirk deepened, before darting away. “You?”
The mid-afternoon heat bared down on the both of you, colouring your shoulders darker and doing nothing to help the heavy thumping against your skull, like a jackhammer or a fucking normal hammer– whatever. It just hurt bad.
Rooster noticed, silently offering his water to you again which you reluctantly snatched from him, gulping almost half of it down before he decided it was safe to speak.
“Still get migraines from the heat?” he asked, though it was more an observation than a question. You nodded, placing the now-empty bottle between your feet.
“I’m fine, as well. After I left–” you visibly winced, glaring against the rays of the sun as you willed yourself to look anywhere but at him, not when the tips of your ears were burning, ringing, making you dizzy and woozy and about ready to throw up all over your worn boots.
“--I went back to training and was then deployed overseas for a long time. Been training new recruits for the past few years now. It’s–” he stopped, glancing at you momentarily, but decided to continue. “--it’s nice. Feels like I’m moulding them to be better versions than me because I sure wasn’t picture perfect by any means.”
“No, you really weren’t–aren’t–” you agreed, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know I never said sorry, and it seems pointless now but–”
“Bradley,” you said his name and his heart stopped. He was dead and even though it was you that had killed him, right there with your voice alone, it was also only you that could bring him back to life. “I really don’t want to hear this,” you begged, and you never begged– never.
What had he done to you?
“Please, sweetheart–” Again with the nickname. You bristled beside him, standing up all of a sudden as if you were about to run in the opposite direction of his familiar ruggedness. “I need you to hear this, just a second–”
“No– you don’t,” you growled out of frustration, tugging your hair free and pressing your fingertips into your skull, anything to soothe the ache growing there. “--you don’t get to need anything, you, you– fucking prick!”
He said nothing, baffled, shocked, certain nothing he said now would make this situation any better. It was downhill from here.
“You said you loved me– promised me the fucking world and a ring and a life together, and the next morning, you left! You fucking– you left!” You were yelling now, unafraid, unabashed, uncaring if anyone could hear. They couldn’t, and if they could, they wouldn’t clue you in that they were.
The people of this town loved to know the darkest, most confidential secrets of its inhabitants, all without ever showing their face. This wasn’t any different.
“I had to!” he insisted aggressively, pushing off the rubble and invading your personal space, leading you back, back, back– until you hit a wall. You held him at arm's length, hand pressed against his hard chest, holding him there.
If he got any closer– well, if the past was anything to go by, you wouldn’t remember to stay mad long.
“I had to!” Rooster repeated, desperately. You said nothing, so he went on. “I got a letter– they needed me back, I can’t– I can’t tell you why–” You sneered, typical. “--but, I was going to come back. I swear it.”
His breathing was loud, dense in your buzzing ears. It’s just words, nothing but words– you repeated to yourself, over and over again. Bradley stepped back, giving you space and himself, as well. But his despairing stare– it pierced something inside you, something you hadn’t thought was still there.
“I wrote letters,” he stated.
“I know, I got them,” you retorted acridly, slumping into the wall for support.
“You never responded.” Again, stating facts.
“I was busy.” Being pregnant.
He nodded, unable or unwilling, you weren’t sure, to argue. An emptiness stretched between you and him, the kind you don’t think any words, half-hearted i’m sorrys, or passionate confessions could ever fill.
He bent to pick up his backpack. “Is there anything, and I mean anything, I could say to make you forgive me,” he asked, voice dejected and the rest of him following suit.
You shook your head, words failing you.
Rooster, Bradley– he turned to leave, accepting defeat, and something roared in your chest, urging, begging, pleading for you to stop him.
You don’t know why you did it, or how you thought it would ever be even a half-decent idea, but it spilled past your lips before you knew what you were saying, confessing, like a foot jamming between a door, forcing it open for someone, anyone.
Bradley.
“Poppy,” you said, loud enough for him to hear. He stopped but didn’t face you. “Poppy. She’s– she’s yours.”
His bag– the poor thing had been rattled all day– fell off his shoulder, and he spun, in slow motion, questions discernible on his face but struggling to make it out of his mouth. “How– We didn’t– I used–”
“What’s that thing they say– ninety-nine percent effective.” You shrugged blandly. “Guess we were the one percent.
It was strange having a man in the house, but there he was– Bradley Bradshaw, or Rooster, sat right at your kitchen table looking a lot like a man you’d once loved but hoped to forget.
There’s this story you loved to tell Poppy when she was young, dealing with the realities of bullies and snarky kids with nothing else to do but poke fun at her absent Father and questionable living circumstances. It was ironic, really, because it wasn’t like they were exactly well off, but kids were mean and you were sick of seeing your daughter upset everyday when there was nothing you could do.
So you told her the story of Pandora’s Box, or Jar, actually, as she corrected you, having read about it in the library but still entirely enchanted by your way of storytelling. It was like letting her in on a secret only grown-ups knew and Poppy was downright bewitched to be a part of the club.
It was never the whole let-out-everything-awful-and-wrong-with-the-world part of the story that was your motivation for telling it, or her love for hearing it, but rather, the ending.
After all the evil, poverty, greed and general nasties had escaped, tainting the world and the humans that inhabited it– out came hope, fluttering on its weak wings but beautiful all the same.
At the time, you’d believed hope to be this beacon of light, something to keep you going when nothing else could, when the bullies had you down bad.
Now, however, you saw hope as a cruel joke.
That after all of this negativity that had made mankind wrought with sin and selfishness, hope lingers about for no reason other than to yank your chain, keep the wheel of capitalism turning, the public nothing but a lot of pigs with hope dangled in front of them like an out-of-reach carrot.
You’d admit it’s a pessimistic take on the story, but it wasn’t long after Poppy was born that you realised hope was a sweet lie fed to the ignorant.
The proof of it sat right in front of you, looking exactly the same except for the way in which his hair tickled the tops of his ears, having grown out from his previous military-ordered buzzcut.
“Can I get you something? Tea? Water?” you asked, words maddeningly courteous as you yanked the fridge door open, searching for something to offer your guest.
He hadn’t said a word since you’d blurted it out an hour ago, instead, guiding him back into town, to your house, Poppy nowhere insight (likely hiding out until she’s certain you’ve cooled down, though unluckily for her, the very sight of her would have you revved up and raging whenever she dared make an appearance).
Rooster stared at a single tile on the opposite end of the kitchen, fixated and motionless like a statue and nothing like the passionate, begging man from earlier.
“Helllooo?” you asked again, waving a hand in front of his face that snapped him from whatever trance he’d been under. He blinked at you, face blank enough to unnerve you. He should’ve said something by now, right?
“Water would be good, thank you,” he answered eventually, hoarse like he hadn’t spoken in years. You nodded, pulling a glass from the cabinet and letting the sink run into it before placing it on the plastic-topped table in front of him.
You sat down on the only other usable chair that happened to be right next to him, the other two with the unstable legs and missing backrests having only been kept to make your kitchen look a little less incomplete.
You both sat in silence, one that seemed just about never ending and had you gnawing on your lips and nails like a mad man. He looked over at you, noting your anxious state, and pulling your hand away from your mouth. It was infuriating, the way he acted like no time had passed.
Well it had if your daughter was any indication. A whole lifetime had come and gone, for you, at least, and he couldn’t ignore it away, not like the rest of his problems or like he’d done with you. You were about to say as much, going off like you’d been itching to since you’d set sights on him, but he beat you to it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He wasn’t looking at you, but you didn’t need to see him to hear the distress in his voice, and beneath that, a restrained sort of anger.
“I had nothing to tell,” was all you offered him, and his gaze snapped to you in the blink of an eye, his temper apparent on his features as that one vein at the top of his forehead stood proud, face going scarlet as he held himself back.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spit out, unbelieving. “Nothing to tell?” he repeated. “I have a daughter, for Christ’s sake! One I would’ve loved to know about if you’d done me the courtesy of actually letting me in!”
Your hands clenched into tight fists, fingers twitching. “What? Like you were any better when you up and left?”
He was shaking his head at you, unwilling to hear anything you were saying, and you were no different. “It’s not the same fucking thing, you know that. I had to leave. It’s my job, my duty, to my country and to–”
“Well what about me, huh?” you bellowed, reaching decibels you didn’t think were physically possible. Yet there you were, defying all odds. “What about your duty to me? To us? You promised–”
“I know what I promised you, but how could I give you anything– a life, a home, a family, a future– if I was broke and unemployed. Money doesn’t grow on trees, sweetheart, not here in the real world.”
You couldn’t take it, exploding out of your chair. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, what you’d been through, what you’d fought past. But he followed close behind, grabbed you by your wrist until you had no choice but to face him.
Rooster’s breaths escaped him in hard bursts, and you looked no better with the flush creeping up your neck and the scowl permanently etched to your face.
“That’s pure coming from you, the same man who was throwing away his life to join the army, giving up a paying job, all because his ego wouldn’t let him work for his Dad.”
Bradley recoiled like you’d slapped him.
“You weren’t around to see me working two, sometimes three if I could manage it, jobs– for years, Bradley, years. It was hard, so fucking hard, but I did it because I had someone dependant on me. I wasn’t alone, living like some unattached bachelor. I worked myself to the bone for her– for Poppy.” You were close to sobbing by then, the weight of it all finally registering. “Because if I didn’t, no one would.”
He looked like he wanted to argue more but thought better of it in the end, letting go of his hold on you and moving to lean his forehead against the wall in the living room. You watched, not wanting to move lest he remember you’re still there and end up going for a second round. You couldn’t, yearning for respite of any kind.
And his head turned from where he was, catching the chest of drawers nestled in front of the window with photos of you and Poppy adorning every inch of its surface. He walked over, wordless.
You joined him where he stood, hand brushing against his, by accident, you’d tell yourself later, but when you tried to move away, he slipped his fingers through yours, squeezing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one else to hear it, no one but you.
You nodded, accepting his apology, then realising he wasn’t looking at you, you said, “Me too. I’m sorry.”
He reached forward, picking up a photo of Poppy at age two, hair in pigtails, chubby knees covered in sand at the beach. It was the first time she’d gone into the water and you wanted to live in that moment forever, freeze it and hold it close to your chest. It had seemed like the biggest milestone at the time, and you remember wishing he was there to treasure it as well.
“I know why you did it,” he admitted, and you faltered from where you stood. “And I’m not going to stand her and pretend like I would have dropped everything, put everything on pause, for the two of you. I can’t guarantee that, knowing who I was back then.” You inhaled shakily, eyes glassy from barely-held-back tears.
Bradley turned to you abruptly, hand sliding out of yours to hold your face instead, close and intimate. Like nothing had changed.
You didn’t fight it, savouring the feeling of being held, of relinquishing control to someone else, if only for a second. “But that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t care about what happened and what didn’t. I’m here now, and, if you’d let me, I’d like to stay. Learn a little more about you, and about– about Poppy, as well.”
You searched his face for any hint of a lie, that innate urge to protect your child at all cost threatening to label Bradley’s confession as pretence. It’d be easier if it was, you thought, if things weren’t so complicated and you could just say no.
But no matter how hard you looked, how long as well, you found nothing, only love and a sincerity you couldn’t possibly fault, even if you were still broken and bruised from years of delayed burn-out.
So you did the only reasonable thing one could do. You nodded, complimenting it with a watery smile he chuckled lowly at.
“Yeah? Gonna take a chance on me, sweetheart?” he asked, needing confirmation but unable to hide his budding rapture.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Okay, okay. I think– maybe, we can work something out.”
He grinned and fuck– was he a vision. No matter how you framed the past, it was all going to be both of yours’ fault for what happened, and how it did. His for leaving and yours for keeping the child you shared a secret.
And it wasn’t like the road ahead was going to be at all easy, you’d accepted your fate already. But maybe, and you might have been overstepping or consumed by an unexpected wave of euphoria that impaired your judgement– but maybe a family was worth fighting for.
After all, the best things in life, the things truly worth having and celebrating, were never meant to be easily acquired, otherwise you’d just take them for granted.
You didn’t take this for granted, and you didn’t let the hassle deter you.
For the first time in a long time, you had hope, and there was nothing cruel or funny about it.
Hope you enjoyed this <3 Reblogs & Comments are love love loved!
+ my masterlist
#bradley bradshaw#bradley rooster bradshaw#rooster bradshaw#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader#rooster bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw angst#rooster bradshaw angst#rooster bradshaw oneshot#bradley bradshaw oneshot#top gun: maverick fanfiction#top gun: maverick#miles teller#miles teller x reader#take a chance on me#my writing#mamma mia!
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi....If you don't mind, can I ask, what are your top 10 (or top 7) favorite media (can be books/ manga/ anime/movies/tv series)? Why do you love them? Sorry if you've answered this question before......Thanks....
Thank you for the ask, I don't mind a bit! Though I will say that this particular question sent me into a minor existential crisis, because how on earth could I ever pick just 10 things that I love across all media. I don't know if y'all have picked this up about me yet, but I consume vast amounts of media, like...unbelievable amounts of media, it is my great joy in life. I consulted @bengiyo about how to approach this question, and he suggested a frame to help narrow it down: what are my favorites that someone else recommended to me, that I then felt compelled to recommend to others? Hope you don't mind the tweak! As always, keeping this in the realm of Asian media for this blog, here is what I got:
What Did You Eat Yesterday?
When I met @bengiyo and @waitmyturtles I learned very quickly that this was their all-time favorite, and if I didn't like it we were gonna have a problem (jk but not really). I hadn't watched it on my own because until recently (shoutout to our savior Gagaoolala) it was quite inaccessible and I hadn't yet stumbled onto @isaksbestpillow and found her amazing subs. Luckily, I have impeccable taste and WDYEY is in fact a masterpiece, so they watched me watch it, I lost my mind over how unique and brilliant and technically flawless it was, and we are now all bonded for life over our love for this show, which just returned for a second season and will hopefully continue forever. I love it so much I have even started reading the manga, and I am not a manga girlie by nature (I prefer reading prose), so you can be assured I absolutely will not be shutting up about it anytime soon.
Go Ahead
Credit for this one goes to @ginnymoonbeam for watching it first and then sending up a flare for me as a fellow cdrama enjoyer that this one was worth prioritizing immediately. I love big sprawling family stories that unfold over time, I love digging into intergenerational family trauma, I love good dad characters, I love found family dynamics, and I love a well done romance subplot embedded in a much bigger story, so this show hit so many of my sweet spots. It's #1 on my list of modern cdramas and I would recommend it to anyone.
Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed
Speaking of cdramas, I must give a shoutout to @dangermousie who wrote this post summarizing their favorite danmei novels, which I found when I went looking for recommendations and was trying to figure out a way into this segment of Asian media. I admit I am a bit bougie about my reading material and modality, so I really can't deal with machine translations or reading on html pages, and thus I still have not read some of these as I am patiently waiting for official English translations to become available (me and 2HA are gonna have a party in 2024 I tell you what). I had already heard of The Untamed, of course, because I am a human person who lurks in online spaces, but reading the novel got me significantly more interested, and I quickly fell down a months long rabbit hole that included consuming the novel, the show, and copious amounts of fanfiction. This story is so complex and layered and full of fun mysteries and meaty moral quandaries and interesting family relationships and has an A+ second chance romance and one of my all time favorite characters to boot; it really took over my brain for a minute. And while it hardly needs me to recommend it given how popular it already is, I'm still gonna do it whenever I get the chance.
Mo Du/Silent Reading
And while we're on the subject of danmei, let me give a shoutout to my favorite modern danmei novel, which was recommended to me by an IRL friend who is not on tumblr. Mo Du is a sprawling mystery novel that spans five major interconnected cases, and it centers on an exceedingly competent police captain, Luo Wenzhou, and a young business heir/super genius, Fei Du, who start out with an adversarial relationship (but I bet you can guess what happens next!). The crime stories in this are almost shockingly intricate and every detail comes together in the end without a single loose end, which is impressive enough on its own, but somehow the author (Priest, who some of you will know as the writer of Faraway Wanderers aka Word of Honor) manages to also write a perfectly paced, incredibly compelling love story between the two leads that is layered with complex trauma and psychological hot buttons and secrets and lies that unfold organically alongside the mystery. I am in the middle of re-reading it right now and my love for it only grows stronger. The gif above is from a recent attempt to adapt this into a live-action drama that got quickly canceled, but honestly, the less said about that, the better (though Zhang Xin Cheng will absolutely remain the Fei Du of my heart). With China's censorship laws, there will be no faithful live action version of this story, so I highly recommend reading the novel.
Pachinko
While we're on the subject of novels, I must mention another IRL friend recommendation: Pachinko. This one is a sprawling multi-generational family historical fiction epic that tracks the lives of a Korean family that is forced to migrate to Japan during Japanese occupation in the early 20th Century. Y'all, this book is amazing, and it has now been turned into a television show airing on Hulu that is also quite good (though structured quite differently, but that's another post). I learned a ton of real history in the course of reading this, and I found the journey of Sunja and her family so compelling. The book has a real intersectional lens and digs deep into themes of oppression, racism, class disparity, and sexism, and is rooted in Korean values around filial piety, respect for hard work, religion, moral condemnation, and of course, the importance of food to communicate.
The Great Indian Kitchen
youtube
Switching gears, let me give a shoutout to this Indian film that my bestie @neuroticbookworm recently recommended to me and @waitmyturtles. This film is about a modern young woman who enters an arranged marriage with a family of high status (though maybe not of the kind you think) and explores her experience of oppression as a woman in a very patriarchal religious setting. The story is really compelling, I learned about a common experience for women in India, the narrative ended in an unexpected place (in a good way), and I really enjoyed the watch. And this film is on YouTube with good subs which I linked above, so it's quite accessible.
Be Melodramatic
Let's get back to dramas, shall we? I credit this one to @kdramaxoxo, who recommends Be Melodramatic constantly, and thank goodness because otherwise this under appreciated gem would have never landed on my radar. This is a beautiful story about a group of friends who move in together in the wake of personal tragedy and tracks their progress as they heal and move on from their hardships. The themes of grief and growth and change are quite poignant, the relationships, both platonic and romantic, are all very compelling, and the music is beautiful. If you haven't seen it yet, what are you waiting for (@nieves-de-sugui this is definitely a good one to add to your list).
Make it Right
Time for @bengiyo to get another shoutout. This is a Thai bl classic that doesn't get the love it deserves, and he is its number one promoter. I don't know when I would have gotten around to watching this if he hadn't recommended it so highly, and I'm so glad I did. I wrote about this one, why I loved it, and why I think it's under appreciated, and I highly encourage others to give it a try.
Coffee Prince
We will end on an OG kdrama classic, which I watched early on in my kdrama journey thanks to a recommendation from an IRL friend who said it was the best version of the well worn Asian drama genderbend trope that they had ever seen, and my god were they right. Not only was this my first Gong Yoo drama (a life changing experience in and of itself) but this one really took me by surprise for how sharp and progressive it was about gender fluidity, sexual identity, and the struggle toward self-acceptance way back when it aired in 2007. I recommend this one to everyone, and its a great entry point for people who prefer queer media and have (justified) suspicion of mainstream kdrama's treatment of queer narratives.
#what did you eat yesterday?#go ahead#the untamed#mo du#pachinko#the great indian kitchen#be melodramatic#make it right#coffee prince#drama recs#danmei#shan answers
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
I had a draft of about 5 of these results ready to go pre-face reveal but then everything went to shit so just for some closure here are the results (FROM SEPTEMBER!) ^_^
This chart shows the percentage of total respondents who indicated that they mained the people above. This isn't a comprehensive list, with other streamers like SBI, Benchtrio, or other DSMP-adjacent streamers rounding the answers out!
of the 598 people who filled out the survey, 98.5% main one of the people in the above chart, and 92.8% main one or more of the Dream Team.
From this question, it seems like DSMP creators are the main pipeline into dtblr—but a good 40% of us didn't start on the Dream Team side!
We have a good amount of people who came from the Corpse/OTV side of Twitch, and a decent amount of you who have been here a while, since SMPLive :]
A lot of us have been here a long time—66% of us were here before 2021. The vast majority have been here since 2021, a good 93% of us!
I thought it'd be super interesting to see how watching the Dream Team may have changed how we interact with their primary game, and it looks like a majority of us were crafters before and still are! They managed to get nearly a fifth of his audience here into playing as well!
A toast to the loss of most of dtblr's favorite MCC player to watch, something that we definitely mourned when we heard the news. But if you're looking for a new POV to watch, survey respondents put down a wide range of players—just outside these top 8 were Ranboo, Tubbo, Grian, Illumina, Purpled, and Hannah!
Another loss for 6% of dtblr with how this question aged, RIP Trust Issues :( But for the remaining 94% of us, our favorite Drusic is still on streaming platforms. Change my Clothes is only...500k listens away from 67 million listens on Spotify so 👀
Wow ok as this goes on I realize just how many chapters have ended over the last few months but a salute to the 26% of loreheads on dtblr! On to the next chapter :]
Now to a touchy subject...who's in the dteam privs? According to the survey responses, 39% of dtblr is in all three! Interestingly, there are more people who follow Dream's alt than his main. Fair enough, there are enough piss tweets on there to warrant unfollowing it!
Word of mouth and the YouTube algorithm seems to have been the best way for the dteam to get to us—interestingly enough, a good amount of people found out through either Heat Waves the song or through the fanfiction, ranging from it crashing ao3 to commentary YouTubers talking about it on their channels!
Now for some psychic damage, I'm seeing a lot more of RTAH posting on my dash nowadays but here's some solidarity for everyone who may have come from similar backgrounds ^_^
Now for some more history—a vast majority of us came from gaming content backgrounds, and nearly 17% of us were primarily mcyt enjoyers. Personal shoutout to Team Crafted viewers we're holding hands <3
Nearly half of dtblr doesn't consume much Minecraft content outside of the stuff our boys are in, though there's still a pretty large amount of people who watch other SMP's and keep up with the speedrunning scene!
This one is an ode to the lurkers who keep the economy strong—even now you guys are an essential part of dtblr! Same to the 30-40% of people who post the stuff for lurkers and other dtblr members to see. Everyone is important to keeping our little island afloat <3
Now onto Banter, most of dtblr doesn't make time for Banter Wednesdays, but if there's an interesting episode, it seems like the trio will capture our attention :]
Adding some literal variety to our results, I thought it'd be interesting to see what common variety games are our favorites! 95% of us would be tapped in wholeheartedly for Geoguessr or Jackbox streams. On the other hand, Fall Guys and Fortnite are in the middle of the pack, whereas it seems like FPS games are our mortal enemies—62% of us would tap out during Valorant while 46% wouldn't be paying attention to CS:GO.
Onto the topic of shipping, DNF steamrolled every other ship listed to have nearly 86% of responders saying they ship it. That lines up with the follow-up question, where nearly 90% of respondents either have experience with shipping RPF in the past, or have been caught up with DNFer supreme Dream's antics. Otherwise, there was a good distribution of love for most popular ships within DTQK+, with Karlnap, DNN, and Karlnapity leading the pack at around 25% each!
Ever wonder how dtblr is spread out across the globe because of the dash being dead at different times? Well, the vast majority of us are in North America and Europe, with 86% of us being between GMT +4 and GMT -4. Much like our streamers, though, a lot of us have fucked up sleep schedules so time zones aren't as much of an issue LMAO
Next up is a fairly simple one, I had another question that asked for gender but there was, as expected, a lot of variance and nuance that I couldn't fit into a neat graphic. But this one is a fairly simple one to graph so Well here's the 24/7 pride parade Dream mentioned coming in hot, with about 95% of us identifying as LGBT+ or questioning!
I wanted to test out my theory that GNF mains are also biased towards CS/Engineering fields, so I asked what people were studying! There's a pretty big bias towards the arts and humanities around here, but we also have just as many STEM people around, good on dtblr for academic diversity! As for my hypothesis, 22% of people who indicated they were George mains studied some form of CS/Engineering. George mains also made up 70% of all people who studied CS/Engineering. So cheers to my stem kid gnfers o/
Finally, I don't really know the best way to make a graphic for the favorite colors question, but just know that 50% of us chose either green or blue, and it was a near-even 25%-25% split. Great job dnfers, Dream would be proud <3
Thanks for reading! I hope that this was fun to look through, and I'll be posting an identical one for new dtblr soon! Super excited to see how things have changed since Well. anyways. Also wanted to say thank you to everyone who filled it out, reading all your answers was a ton of fun and I got a ton of laughs out of some of y'alls bonus section content and the few joke answers I got throughout <333
#long post#<- under the cut#lyss analyzes#lyss.dtblr#this took 7 months to get back to and then it took me one day of work to finish#LAWL! burnout is a bitch#but we're back I'm good now and better than ever so be on the lookout for the new one#and if you have any new questions you want me to ask shoot me an ask or dm and I'll consider adding it :D
177 notes
·
View notes
Text
prompt #27: family
pairing: narcissa/hermione
word count: 735
❈ written for @sapphicmicrofics ❈
—
Festivities with the Weasley family were… overwhelming, to say the least. Narcissa had found herself split between enjoyment and overstimulation, the latter eventually winning out to the point where she needed to excuse herself. Or, at least, that was half of the reason. The other half had everything to do with Hermione, who had excused herself for the loo far too long ago.
Gingerly making her way up the Burrow’s rickety circular staircase, the magic holding it all together so palpable that goosepimples peppered her skin, Narcissa stopped on the floor that housed the bathroom. The door was wide open, and no one was inside. While a part of her was grateful that it at least looked as if Hermione hadn’t unexpectedly fallen ill, Narcissa leaned slightly over the railing and craned her head upward for a better view of the remaining floors. Believing that she caught a flash of curly hair, then straining her ears to ascertain that the footsteps she heard were coming from above her instead of below, Narcissa began to climb a few more flights of steps, checking each room as she went, until her eyes landed on her partner sitting on their bed, her back facing Narcissa as Hermione appeared to gaze out of the window.
“Darling,” Narcissa started, stepping into the room. The only sign Hermione gave that she had heard her at all were her shoulders hunching up a bit. Narcissa walked around the footboard of the bed and stood just in front of the writing desk next to the window, resting some of her weight against it as she focused on Hermione. Though she didn’t look physically ill, there was something not right.
“Are you okay?” Narcissa asked.
Hermione blinked, then looked over at her. Her eyes were faintly red-rimmed, and though they both had gotten enough sleep last night, she looked utterly exhausted, and she fidgeted on the bed before answering, claiming that she was fine, that she’d only needed to take a moment for herself after using the loo.
Gaze softening, Narcissa stroked the sides of her chin with her thumb and forefinger, her tone non-accusatory as she said, “Please don’t lie to me.”
“I’m—” But Hermione snapped her mouth shut with an audible sound and turned her head away. When she turned back to her, Narcissa noticed how Hermione’s jaw tensed and worked. A few more seconds went by before Hermione rubbed at her jawline. “I’m sorry. I’d hate it if you lied to me like that, so I don’t know why…”
Hermione gritted her teeth and scrubbed the palms of her hands over her face; then, with a groan, she scuffed her boots along the floor in clear frustration. “No, I know why. I don’t want an uncomfortable conversation, despite this already being one. I just… I miss my parents, all right? Being here,” she gestured towards the doorway behind her, “times like these, sometimes it’s… It still brings up bittersweet memories, and I needed to get away for a bit, all right? Is that enough of an answer for you?”
Narcissa’s heart sunk at the crack in Hermione’s voice, the thick emotion of it that betrayed how deep her sorrow ran. That she hadn’t realised despite her own fractured family was something that led Narcissa’s feet toward Hermione, led her to sit beside her, the aged mattress dipping with her weight. Unsure whether Hermione wanted any physical contact, Narcissa merely extended the arm closest to her partner out, inviting her in, but leaving the choice up to her.
She didn’t have to wait long. Hermione held her gaze carefully, eyes almost wary, uncertain, as if fighting herself in her mind, but as soon as Narcissa caught tears shining in Hermione’s eyes, she found her arms full, her partner’s weight settled against her chest, quiet sobs wracking the other woman.
The vast majority of the time, Narcissa knew exactly what to say and when to say it. She also knew when it was best to say nothing at all, to instead simply be there as solid, silent support, and this… this was decidedly a moment where the latter was needed. Pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of Hermione’s head, Narcissa said nothing (because what could be said that wouldn’t merely consist of empty platitudes?); instead, she gently rocked the woman in her arms while Hermione cried for the parents she had lost.
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
unsolicited list of some of my current favourite monster prom ships atm and why
buckle up buckaroos. click "Keep reading" if you want to know Too Much. There are spoilers below the cut, so be wary!!
Milo/Damien ("Damilo" or "Revelation 20:14")
Damien's an interesting character (despite what I've heard some detractors say) because he's a very sweet, sensitive guy with rad creative hobbies, but (mostly in Prom, less in Camp and Roadtrip) he paints a thick veneer of aggression and nonchalance over the top of it all. But he also enjoys that veneer, so he sort of inhabits two 'types' which, rather than competing, coalesce into one wild whole.
Milo also contains multitudes. When I first played Camp it took me a while to perceive their depths, but the more I saw of them the more I got a taste for the person behind the persona. Their elegance and aestheticism is still a key aspect of who they are though, but it's offset by them being both funny and classy.
I feel like Milo appeals to Damien's sensitive side, as well as his sartorial and cosmetic hobbies. Conversely, I think Damien's reckless tendencies would be exciting to Milo, and they have the choice to give themselves over or have a bit of fun trying to reign him in (which they're certainly powerful enough to do).
Dahlia/Joy ("Joylia" or "Goetia")
While I always found this concept sweet and/or hot, I never expected I'd actually like it so much, but let's just say I got a couple of secret routes and now I really get it. Dahlia, like Damien, has a lot of facets hidden under her nominal motivation. So does Joy, although it's less of a secret that, despite her workaholic nature, she'd rather be doing anything other than constantly saving the world. Her and Dahlia are among the members of the Monster Prom cast that have full-on careers: Joy is a capital-"H" Hero, Dahlia is a warlord with vast off-screen armies at her disposal.
Dahlia, like a couple of other characters, wants to be in the Coven so bad it makes her look stupid. I think however that Dahlia really just wants to be closer to Joy. They feel very star-crossed to me, both coming from rather different realms and spheres of influence, but always intersecting in fairly significant events. Two separate friends have shared the sentiment with me that, out of all the ships I've brain-rotted over, I feel like "Joylia" are the ones who would fully get married – even at the risk of one of their storylines interrupting the ceremony. Shout out to @ventagram.
Milo/Polly ("Molly" or "Afterlife")
Milo and Polly are a brilliant pair, which @terrencemcterrence first opened my eyes to. My earliest ships involving Milo and Polly were actually putting them individually with Zoe, but "Molly" is a ship with a lot of steam behind it.
First of all, they're both very "extra" characters with hidden depths. Secondly, they're both functionally immortal. They've got the potential to be rather bad influences on each other (Milo with their drive for recognition and extravagance, Polly with her dragon-chasing and dangerous impulses), but due to the nature of who they are both physically and psychologically, that's more likely to produce fun results than not.
Overall this is a pretty decadent and enjoyable ship. Lots of potential for excellent fluff, deeper moments, wild zesty lemon, and perhaps a bit of poignant angst.
Zoe/Damien ("Zomien" or "Calamari")
These two are the kind who'd bond over both their similarities and their vast differences. Both of them spent time in the Academy dealing with roles and responsibilities imposed on them unduly by parental figures. While it's the Player who helps them out with that in both cases, Damien has more overlap and interactions in Zoe's, being one of the major figures in her "IDENTITY" route, while Zoe doesn't really exist yet in many of Damien's routes. Regardless of that, their non-route interactions generally seem to indicate to me that Zoe genuinely has a crush on Damien based on the topics she chooses to discuss both with and about him. They're also both generally very creative and expressive in niche and personal ways. They're all about finding their own truth, perhaps more transparently than some other characters. "Zomien" for me is about exploring those feelings, and where they could take them. They're also just really cute together, prove me wrong.
—
That's all for now, 'cause this was basically a mini-essay. I'll happily answer any questions anybody has about these, or talk about other pairings I like if I can think of enough to say about them.
#monster prom#monster camp#monster roadtrip#fanfiction#shipping#ship talk#joylia#zomien#damilo#damien lavey#milo belladonna#zoe#monster prom zoe#dahlia aquino#polly geist
19 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello! Some time ago I've found your post where you recommend Sterek fanfiction and I LOVED the story you recommended - The Importance of Turning Around Three Times Before Lying Down by otter. Do you maybe know some other fics about Stiles taking care of dog/wolf Derek? Thank you! ❤️
I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I feel like I must know more, but only one comes straight to my mind. It is, however, one of my favourite fics, so it comes highly recommended! I actually reread it the other day, and was already intending to do a rec post for it, because my love for it is great.
Wolf in the House by JoeLawson - T, ~33k words
After a run in with some hunters that leaves him stuck in wolf form, Derek makes his way back to Beacon Hills and gets taken in by the Stilinskis until he can get himself back to human again. It's pre-sterek, but that's mostly because Derek is a wolf for the vast majority of the fic. There are tons of wonderful Stilinski interactions, and I honestly can't recommend this one enough.
Since I only have one rec that fully hits the brief, here are a couple of bonus fics I enjoyed that have some similar elements:
Come find me now, we'll hide out (we'll speak in our secret tongues) by Gorgeousgreymatter - E, ~37k words
'Stiles's post-graduation road trip goes terribly wrong, and Derek has to save the idiot human from freezing to death.' Derek has been living in his wolf form since the fire in this one, so there's a fair bit of wolfy Derek, plus Derek remembering how to be human again. It's not so much Stiles caring for a wolf Derek, more them looking after each other, but it's definitely worth a read!
Waiting by isthatbloodonhisshirt - T, ~81k words
Full disclosure, it's a while since I read this one, so I can't get into specifics, but one thing I definitely do remember is that it was really good (and it also has some amazing art in there). I don't believe Derek is fully shifted in this one, but he is feral, and Stiles is tasked with caring for him. Another fic that's definitely worth a read - or a reread, in my case (and that's precisely what I'm going to go and do now!)
Sorry I didn't have more that fit the brief. Clearly everyone needs to write some more wolf/dog Derek for our enjoyment! (You never know, maybe I'll get to writing one myself at some point!) If anyone else has any recs that fit the bill, please do share them with us!
Even though it's not many, I hope you enjoy this little selection of offerings 💖
#sterek#teen wolf#sterek fic#derek hale#fic rec#sterek fic rec#fanfic#fic#asks#recs#stiles stilinski#my recs
41 notes
·
View notes
Note
❌
📚
🎢
🎶
🦅
😈
🛒
🤡
SKY SKY, HI <3
❌ What's a trope you will never write?
HM, I had to think for this one, but probably hanahaki sickness stuff. I don't think I've ever read one of these where I found it memorable and enjoyable, and especially when they have happy endings, it just seems a bit silly to me that one of the people involved is like...deathly sick before they decide to confess. Not for me
📚 Would you ever want to turn writing into a career?
I do think it'll be cool to turn storytelling into a career one day, but I don't think writing itself is the way for me. It's fun, but there are SO many ways that I want to be able to tell stories in (notably. GAMES), and I think writing by itself is a tad limited for my purposes. Plus I do not write nearly enough to make it a career </3
🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?
This DEPENDS HEAVILY on criteria.
Sid Is Dead And Cupcake Killed Him. Paul McCartney of the Beatles murders Sid Vicious! Johnny Rotten is framed for Sid's death because he discovers that he can talk to ghost!Sid while Sid is near his corpse and thus carries it from town to town as they try to figure out what the frick happened! They meet Paul McCartney on some random intersection! Find out what happens possibly never because the last thing I wrote was them taking an ILLEGAL LEFT TURN, which I now realize is extremely dangerous, but when I wrote that, I did not know how to drive!
But even knowing that, he never expected to be framed for Sid Vicious’—his bandmate and best friend’s—murder. What he expected even less was to be able to see and speak to Sid’s ghost, because, hello? that’s not normal, and what was even less normal than even that was to be required to be in the vicinity of Sid’s corpse to do so and therefore end up, with Sid’s enthusiastic consent, escaping from the law who came to arrest Johnny with his friend’s corpse in tow. In all fairness, he could see why the officials thought he was guilty.
4AM Ramones Cult. Message sent at 4:02am in my private server containing the satanic summoning of the Ramones (or just Dee Dee, who says goodnight to the first person narrator who I think was me in a disguise). I told him I liked his hair.
You know, I really need to work on how I act when tired. It's not professional, and it would probably get me taken to several professionals if word got out.
Volcano Sacrifice Ramones Fic. There is planned out logic for bacteria in this one somewhere! The Ramones don't know each other but are deemed "saviors" by the local cult. They get sacrificed to volcano. Everything inside volcano underworld is based off of the Ramones' music in a meta-way, not necessarily known by Ramones. The first area they end up in is jungle train place based off their album for Subterranean Jungle. They have to start the train on the tracks as if it's the game Siberia! The jungle is on an infinite loop on the inside with wall boundaries that are a plus sign so that you can't even go straight forever.
🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?
YES INDEED, I am constantly listening to music forever <3 Currently, obsession is Doom music, both original games and modern :D I'm currently actually listening to Mick Gordon's Vega Core (modern doom), which OHHHH, I love, Mick Gordon is a god <3
🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?
I pretty much NEVER have a proper outline, so pants it is by default! I always sort of want to have an outline so that I can finish a longer thing some day, but I've yet to find motivation to do that
😈 Has there been a point in a story where you did something just to be playfully mean to your readers?
I do not really have readers for most of my things since I don't publish the vast majority of what I write, so not really? I will indeed likely do many mean things when it comes time for me to run the mafia game(s) I am in the midst of planning though. Returning to my roots of writing out the brutal murders of my friends! <- command game murders
🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.
GHOSTS AND STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS MY BELOVED. ALSO PEOPLE BEING SAD BUT I IMAGINE THAT'S MOST PEOPLE :D
GHOSTS, I have so much to say on that. Like...probably most of the stories I've actually been invested in for a while involved ghosts, and AHHHH, I love doing ghost logic because it's like, rules, but then you make the rules... <3
Stream of consciousness is a more recent thing I've put into my writing, but it's SO fun to do, and it's also EASY which is great. I get to give my little guys patterns of thought and think about how their thinking overlaps itself and eeee, it's so fun :)
Currently in the mafia game I'm in (Pumpkin Nights my beloved), I have a character named Ivory, and her thing when I roleplay her is that her thoughts are really...unevenly spaced? and it gets even more unstable when she's not well mentally (which she very much was not until this morning <3) She is also currently a ghost because she was executed (for killing people because her warrior cats book was messed with), so that ties in :D
(Did Ihurt...it...my...belovedyoudon't...deservethis...whyNebbie mistake...youresobloody...whereare...you?) (They...started ittheystartedittheir...fault it'stheir fault) (Emptyemptenter...tainmentarebooks...pl...ease...I want back...backbackback...they gave me...osomuchplease...I wasted...it...)
And then PEARL stream of consciousness. Basically, if you've heard of what Evolution SMP/Hermitcraft related/Grian related Watchers are, they were basically...sort of gods who are actually implied the viewers but people sort of leave that last part out a lot because of what it's been turned into by fanon. Essentially, I have very differing headcanons from most of fanon, and in there Pearl(escentmoon) was a Watcher during the start of Evo that was cast down because she got too attached to doing "player stuff" and stopped acting according to Watcher principals (which are actually fairly justified in a POV, I disagree HEAVILY with "Watchers are bad" most of the time). She has a lot of repetition and parallel structure in her SoC thoughts alongside an mostly-lack of punctuation and stopping because a lot of her thing is that her views on stuff are, say, very difficult to change. She believes, and she believes heavily (the Watchers are fair). I also use the same italics and brackets for her thoughts as I do for some early exposition stuff that references her in third person which I think is neat
(I was a good Watcher I helped I built I made ou all them all angels I gifted I loved I punished forgave guided loved loved loved I loved them I love you please keep me with you I love you I love you I love you) (Grian? Grian Grian it's Grian he's here he's next to me) (They decided for me I love you I love you please take me back) (Angels angels I built you all angels)
ONE MORE THING FOR THIS QUESTION. THE DOOM PLAYER. This is a little fella who is part oc, part canon, part rpf of everybody who has ever played Doom. Basically, the premise is "what if the character you play is real" except they weren't aware of their consciousness 2 seconds ago, still adhere to video game logic except they're irl now but in the game's version of irl, and now they get to have a crisis. It's like the opposite of those fics that make poorly planned canon believable. There's rules, just strange rules, and now the 2 sets of rules get to fight. What I try for the Doom Player's thoughts is a lot of inconsistency. Their thoughts are in both 3rd person and in first, and a lot of sentences overlap and become mixed together
(The pain the pain the pain it's everywhere everything's ending they're dying they're all dying at once) (I’m one I’m whole feel quiet do more think think don’t move don’t alert what happened a bug maybe weird bug never happened WHO before AM I remember lots I want to go back no intermission why not it’s a bug but why how did it happen it was normal this isn’t how am I thinking WHO AM I thinking can think but never as one though I remember so much never like this bugs head so full too much think help ing don’t move okay WHO AM I feel weird can feel taking damage I think full health never felt pain WHO bug AM I can think) (Deep in the code deep out of the code there is no code why can I breath think WHO AM I ing I can't think think breathe think what is thinking so scared what is scared not breathing?)
🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?
There are 2 types of funnies in my writing. Intentional and "HELP"
Ghost Clive. I wanna redo this fic but make it better because I actually really like the concept of the Iron Maiden guys hanging out together dead but don't like where the idea came from anymore and am more interested in the concept of Eddie doing a thing. The following may be scrapped because I don't think the way I portrayed Clive is all that great, but I do think it's funny to read
"No!" Clive flinched at the raise in volume, "You're sitting a few meters away from your fucking dead body while your former bandmate—who's been dead for a year!—is talking to you! Are we on tour?!" "Um...probably not." Clive decided with a shake of his head. The other person let out an exasperated sigh, "Good god, Clive. I'm glad you finally noticed." Clive nodded seriously, "Me too."
Ghost Cliff.
"Then- how..?" Jason vaguely gestured his hand at Cliff's ghostly figure, unable to find the proper words to describe what he meant. "No idea, man. Guess this is the afterlife or whatever." Cliff shrugged, "Got to say though, you're the first person who's shown any signs of seeing me." "Wait, really?" Jason's eyebrows raised, surprised, "Just me?" "Yep." "Is that why you're...here now, I'm guessing?" Cliff snorted, "No, that's because I follow random guys to their hotel rooms all the time. It's a hobby of mine." "Ah, that explains it." Jason shook his head, a smile tugging itself onto his face despite the absurdity of the situation.
Frantic Fanfic. The best my writing has ever been.
JOTARO TOOK A MOMENT TO THINK, ADJUSTING THE DUCK EATING HIS HEAD AT ALL TIMES (HIS HAT).
"WOW!" SAID FIRESTAR AS HE ENTERED THE SUSPICIOUS PREMISES OF THE GROCERY STORE. HE WAS DAZZLED BY WALLMART. IT WAS SIMPLY INCREDIBLE. H
WALTER THEN WALKED TO HIS KITCHEN, DEEP IN THOUGHT. HOWEVER, AS HE WAS "THINKING", HE SLIPPED ON A PUDDLE OF BLOOD LEFT OVER FROM LAST NIGHT AND FELL. AMNESIA. :(
"SAAAAAAANS!!!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" HE CRIED IN A FONT THAT WASN'T COMIC SANS, BECAUSE SANS WAS DEAD.
I've written more in this ask than I did for my writing recently. Ooooops. Thank you for the ask <3
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tears of the Kingdom thoughts
Ok here’s one I’m just going to do off the top of my head. I don’t really have any thematic or narrative analysis of this game, so this is just going to be about gameplay. I’m just coming to the end of the game and I have found that my enjoyment has faded dramatically over time. Some of the biggest problems in my opinion are:
1. The combat doesn’t have enough depth or reward to justify itself as the game progresses. Both parry and flurry rush are too powerful, making waiting and counterplay too productive. Similarly, the slo-mo you get from firing your bow mid-air is way too strong. It makes gaining some vertical distance the top strategy in almost every scenario and trivializes actually getting good at shooting the bow. Furthermore, there’s way too much menu selection and grinding/farming required for encounters. At a certain point in the late game, I fought a white Lynel. I countered his first hit and then hit him a bunch of times with the Master Sword. The beast took almost no damage and the sword broke. It was that moment that killed my desire to fight any tough enemies ever again. When I look to combat in previous Zelda games, like Skyward Sword or Twilight Princess, I see a nice clean test of ability, where the enemy is tailored to the particular stage of the player’s skill and gear. It’s also nice to fight a group of enemies without having to pause the action and scroll though menus a bunch of times. I recognize that this particular problem with ToTK’s combat is due to the open-ended gameplay and progression, but it’s a downside nonetheless.
2. The physics systems and Zonai abilities are great fun to use, but the game does not demand you diversify your tactics and solutions. The fan is the biggest culprit when it comes to optimizing exploration. Having access to convenient vertical movement allows the player to just skip over many of the challenges and atmosphere of traversing Hyrule. Because the fan is so good, even other methods of vertical movement, like balloons, DIY bridges and catapults are made irrelevant.
3. Puzzles can be solved creatively but very rarely do they require creativity, or test the player much at all. Completing shrines was an enjoyable experience for me but the vast majority felt like they ended before the truly got started. A fair few were so simple that they basically just introduced the player to a concept and made them execute it, no twist on the formula whatsoever. Dungeons too are pretty rough in this regard. They’re not so much one big puzzle space as just a compilation of a couple of shrine concepts bundled together. It was a disappointment considering how the “return” of dungeons were hyped up before the games release.
I have plenty of other gripes but I think I will leave it with these issues. The millions of people who have played this games have demonstrated all these fantastic and inventive methods of traversal, combat and puzzle solving. The problem is that these solutions never produce an advantage in time saved, effectiveness or reward. It’s always more productive to just exploit the games systems in a safe, predictable way. I understand for some people, going out of the way to be creative is a reward in itself. For me though, I need more than just creativity to be possible; I need it to be a necessity. For most of the game, it just isn’t.
A lot of these shortcoming stem from the fact that ToTK is an open game which prizes freedom above all else. The game isn’t uneven or poorly conceived; it’s that certain elements of the design are in contradiction to others. To me that’s fascinating, since it leaves no easy answers for fixes. I can think of plenty for issues like the bow bullet time, for example, but how can one gradually intensify and elaborate on puzzles or combat when the player can approach them in any order? Or just skip some entirely? I’m not sure. It’s clear to me that open world design is here to stay for Zelda, and I think that’s for the best. ToTK is still overall a good game and roaming around Hyrule is a massive highlight. I just hope the developers have a hard look at what can be improved and don’t get distracted by the massively positive reaction to the last two games. If there’s any team that can do that, it’s the Zelda team.
#the legend of zelda#zelda#legend of zelda#link#totk#totk thoughts#tears of the kingdom#meta#analysis#critique#nintendo#nintendo switch
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey Bramble, here is another M+R question for you!
It seems that Cursa empowered Bowser's minions to the point where they become strong enough to withstand attacks they usually wouldn't: Goombas can wear cooking-pots that makes them invulnerable to all attacks save for dahes and super effect and Magikoopa can now resist all 6 super effects, making them harder to kill. Do you think that some of them would end up staying loyal to Cursa even if they are free of her brainwashing, since they enjoyed being more powerful under her control than under Bowser's supervision? What do you think of this and is this a valid take?
Ooh, good question. So here's the thing, as far as an evil army goes, Bowser's minions generally seem to enjoy working for him. I mean, people stay loyal despite all the failures. I think this is because he is an affable leader and despite being a doofus at times, seems to treat his troops pretty well and has expressed at least some concern for them in many situations (even if he couches it in terms like, he can't be a king without people to lead, etc.). Some of his minions are even outright enthusiastic, and there seems to be a lot of camaraderie among the troops themselves.
This is why I think most of the Koopa Troop would choose to stay with Bowser even if they had been stronger under Cursa. Not to mention the loss of their own free will was probably insulting and not enjoyable to experience. This is the fourth example I can think of off the top of my head (Super Paper Mario, Superstar Saga and BIS remake side-stories, and now Sparks of Hope... and there's probably more I'm not thinking of) where Bowser's minions are turned against him by outright brainwashing. It's clear that coercing them away by other means must be hard. The Bowser loyalty runs deep and strong! He's a good enough leader, believe it or not... Unlike saaaay, King "demands that his engineers turn on his death laser even though it's not ready yet and may blow up and kill them all" K. Rool, who bled supporters throughout his time in the DK series (such that in DKC3 he actually had to use a proxy robot and run things from the shadows in order to maintain a base of support, and in the last games be appeared in, he had just like five Kremlings following him around).
And you know who else is demonstrated as being cruel to their underlings, even the highest ranked ones? Cursa! Cursa, "attacks and harms her own most intricate creations when they fail her" Cursa. If she's that cruel to the Hunters, she'd no doubt completely destroy a minion of Bowser that she found useless.
However, Bowser's troops do of course have free will while under Bowser himself! In Super Paper Mario, while most of the minions are being brainwashed, there is at least one Goomba who CHOOSES to go over to Team Bleck just because, as he says, they seem like the "winning team". No doubt some of them have a simple "might makes right" mindset, and would enjoy being more powerful. We've seen it happen before, and it would surely happen again. Perhaps some of the minions, once freed, would simply join Cursa's army voluntarily, or support her if she rose again. I think the vast majority would not, but yes, some.
However, I think they would soon come to regret it.
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝕷𝖔𝖚𝖎𝖘 𝖃𝕴
...I finished reading "Quentin Durward" by Walter Scott a couple of months ago and still under the impression; the book definitely had me on the edge of my seat! I can't believe, it has been in my library for years! And when I took the book off the shelf, I didn't know how much I would fall in love with the main character, now my most favourite historical figure -- King of France, Louis XI (3 July 1423 – 30 August 1483), called "Louis the Prudent" (Ludwig XI der Klüge, in German).
⬆ a 19th century portrait is from brianrxm.com .....right from the very first pages I felt an ever-increasing sympathy to the king, not even knowing yet, by the author's intention, who that person really was...
"A cunning diplomat and a bold warrior" -encyclopedia britannica, - the brilliant monarche, Louis XI, was a person of outstanding intellect and an unsurpassed master of intrigue what earned him another nickname -- "The Universal Spider." His plans and decisions were always thoroughly thought through. And whatever he did served a higher purpose that he finally achieved at the end of his life -- building up the fractured and turbulent provinces into powerful, unified France. He never gave up, converting even painful failures into triumphant success.
Though he always preferred consilium whenever there was a chance to avoid bloodshed, he was fearlessly brave when he had to personally take part in armed conflicts.
Louis XI did appreciate those who were loyal to him. Also, he never left his enemies unpunished. And, even so, it was never for the sheer enjoyment at the sight of one's torments, as it was for the majority of his mighty contemporaries, but as acts of fair retribution only.
⬆ image from meisterdrucke.at .....Louis XI did many other significant things as well, like opening manufactures, supporting crafts, developing book-printing, and much more.
I also love his sarcastic style of humour as it appears in "Quentin Durward."😎
During my so called on-line investigations, I found out that many classic sources were actually unfair to Louis XI traditionally describing him as mainly ruthless and insidious person, in fact magnifying and even thinking up certain negative aspects that ostensibly might be part of his nature, as well as downplaying his indisputable strengths. Yet it was not least exactly those tough traits of his character that saved him his life many times and led him to his impressive achievements.
With all this, everything smart and worthy of admiration that I come to know about Louis XI either overweighs, or justifies or explains in some way those deeds of his that can't be considered as kind ones.
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*
“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺.” — Louis XI of France
⬆ Ludwig XI. (1423-83) König von Frankreich von Nicolas II de Larmessin
...I have also come across a web site meisterdrucke.at where you can choose from their vast collection of portraits of prominent people of the centuries gone by, and then you have an option to choose a frame and a canvas material for the portrait to be printed on... isn't that cool?! ...It's been a long time since I wanted to have a portrait of an inspiring historical figure on our home library wall, and now I have no doubts as to who it has to be!
......Actually, I have another favourite character in this book (surprisingly, not the main hero, Quentin Durward, in spite of his high (and sometimes even overhigh moral qualities)) which is a gypsy man, Hairaddin... who knew too much and participated directly in too many ventures that it was inevitable for him but to come to a bad end... I was nearly crying for him when reading about his last moments (yeah, I'm a cry baby when it comes to sad books or movies - and that's why I usually avoid such stuff, - and it doesn't matter if the story happened 600 years ago:) But thanks to Walter Scott, he softened the passage about his unhappy ending just by leaving it to the readers' imagination...
Of course, this humble post is only to convey just a little bit of my feelings for my king and share some initial information that I'd dug up so far. Since I'm eager to know about Louis XI as much as posible, I've searched for some great books about him and ended up with this unfortunately small list 📖:
The Spider King by Lawrence Schoonover
Louis XI. The Universal Spider by Paul Murray Kendall
Chant Royal. The Life of Louis XI, King of France by James Cleugh
The Memoirs by Philip de Commines
There're many more books about Louis XI, but they are all in french...🤔
📺 I was also surprised to find out that there's a film - Louis XI: Shattered Power (2011), with Jacques Perrin in the lead role, - in my nearest must-watch list!
📺 There is another film I'd like to watch because of Louis XI who was portrayed by Harry Davenport - "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", 1939
So... this exciting and thought-provoking book definitely goes to my most favs! It will certainly keep you intrigued, and you'll experience a variety of feelings while being entertained with wise and witty dialogues between the characters throughout the whole story...⚜️
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Okay so a couple of days ago, I made a post about making an enjoyable afternoon out of scrolling through Neil Gaiman’s tumblr likes (and I stand by that; if you choose to do so, it will be an afternoon filled with wonder, education, laughter, and not a small amount of confusion as to why he’s liked certain things) and I made the joke that I wasn’t sure if he knew that his likes were public for the world to see (I partially stand by that too; I’m also pretty sure that he just recently learned about tagging, since I’ve never seen him tag anything up until that head pat ask, but I could be very wrong; he’s been on the internet longer than I’ve been alive), but I think there’s more to it than that.
I think he has his likes public for a reason, a very specific, very meaningful reason. You see, tumblr doesn’t have an algorithm. It’s one of the (many) things we tumblr users love about tumblr; it won’t collect your data, it won’t pander specifically to you (leading to an infamous reputation for downright yet hilariously horrible ads), and it sure as hell won’t spread your posts outside of your circle of followers (at least not until recently, though I have fully embraced the new tumblr tabs; they provide enrichment and new genetic material for my pool of mutuals). For the vast majority of us (roughly 98% of us), liking a post does absolutely nothing. Sure, it lets the author or artist know that you enjoyed their work, but it doesn’t spread the word, and tumblr’s entire function revolves around spreading the word. Liking is useless in that regard.
But for people like Neil Gaiman, who have a sort of power here (he’s our resident celebrity, a fact that never fails to make me smile because it means he’s the same sort of weird as us) (some of us, at least), who have a recognizable name and a massive fanbase and holds the adoration of countless, liking posts (and making those liked posts visible for anyone to see)… well, suddenly it starts to mean a little bit more. He doesn’t like a whole lot, sometimes just a few posts a week, sometimes even less, but scrolling through what he does like is a heartwarming experience (one that I fully encourage people to undertake themselves, paying particular attention to the number of notes that certain posts have) (no seriously, how does he find these posts sometimes?? they have single-digit note counts and he’s among the first to like completely untagged posts, it’s baffling) because they’re things that boil down to (what I can only assume to be) the essence of Neil Gaiman. They’re funny comics about reading. They’re gut-wrenching news articles about current global politics. They’re stories from fans about meeting him, or wanting to meet him, or not being able to meet him. They’re pictures of barbecues and famous actors and movie posters. They’re trans-positive and queer-supportive and riot-encouraging (because the first pride parade was a riot and queer means fuck you). They’re artworks done by fans featuring his characters and meta posts about his works and raving reviews about his shows. They’re wholesome and alarming and lighthearted and important. And for someone like Neil Gaiman, who uses his blog almost solely as a way to connect with his fans, as a way for his fans to be able to see him for who he is, making his liked posts public is… shockingly refreshing.
As a trans person, I have had many idols in my life, especially authors (*cough, cough, you know who I’m talking about*) who have written fantastic works but have let me down with who they are as people and their beliefs. Too many times have I dug deep into an author only to find that deep down, they’re just shitty people. Imagine my surprise when, as I dove down the rabbit hole of Neil Gaiman, unearthing everything he willingly offered to the public to find about him, all I found was support. All I found was righteous anger and encouragement and an all-encompassing compassion. All I found was Neil’s steadfast belief in me, in everything I am, in everyone like me who came before me and who will come after me, in my brothers and sisters and siblings, in my community. And above all else, I found love. For myself, for my community, and for the author who isn’t afraid to show up, to be loud, to put his money where his mouth is, to come to the defense of a community that (to my knowledge) he is not a part of, and to stand firm in his support even when he’s under fire for it.
So yes, his likes are public, because for him, it’s not about an algorithm. It’s not about spreading word or creating a ruckus or drawing attention. When Neil Gaiman likes posts, he is simply saying “I’m here. I hear you. I see you. I support you.” And he isn’t afraid to show the entire world that he does so. And I, for one, respect him as an author, as a personal inspiration, and as a human being all the more for it
#idk if this makes sense#it’s 4:30 in the morning#I’m tired and rambling and emotional about my favorite author#keep going you funky little tumblr celebrity#Neil Gaiman#he’ll never see this and that’s okay#it’s more for me anyway#I’m serious about acrolling through his liked posts though#it’s entertaining as hell lmao#I think I referred to him as hilariously odd in my last post#and I refuse to take it back#it’s such a good descriptor of him#he’s brilliant and insightful and inspiring yes#but he’s also just… a funky little internet dude#I love him#in the most respectful way possible#I wish he was my dad#I’m also SO curious about who he follows#there are a few blogs that I follow that he likes their posts fairly frequently#it just makes me wonder#I know I post too many shipping shitposts for him to ever follow me#but I can one day dream about havjng the HONOR of receiving that notification
11 notes
·
View notes
Note
19. — fireworks
(This is a snippet from a fic I was writing once upon a time - it suits, and I happen to like this part a lot.)
Upon the roof, Thancred and G’raha Tia set about creating a nest of blankets and pillows, while Kali stood by, basket in hand. When she tried to help, both men shooed her off. “Isn’t it the male birds who build the nest, and the one with the prettiest one wins the fair maiden?” Thancred asked whimsically, and she giggled at him, then stepped back, basket held before her as she patiently waited for them to finish primping.
None of them pointed out that there was but a single nest, and that the two males supposedly competing were working together with all evidence of complete enjoyment with each other and the situation.
When they finished, G’raha Tia took the basket while Thancred took her hand, leading her over. She stepped into the middle of the pile of cloth and stuffing and sank down with a rustle of silk and gems, having changed to her dancer gear in the spirit of celebration. Both men slid down beside her, one on either side, and arranged her so that she nestled into their arms.
She felt G’raha at her side, the heat of him, the flutter of his pulse, the rush of his blood, his palpable excitement as he awaited the festivities with the same enthusiasm as he awaited their next adventure. For all of his centuries, he was only as old as his current body - barely a year or two her senior.
And at her other side, she felt the solid, stolid presence of Thancred. Although in actuality much younger than G’raha Tia, his body was the oldest of the Scions, and his personality suited his outward appearance - though he was in no way so old as he often was teased of being. A patient rock, it had been to no one’s surprise when Thancred had taken up a position in the vanguard, eschewing his previous role in the shadows. He was the most protective - and the most caring - of the Scions.
Her heart fluttered, torn, and even as she laid her head against Thancred’s shoulder, her tail flicked out and wrapped itself firmly around G’raha’s hips, her hand reaching for his. His fingers twined through hers and he lifted them to brush his lips against her knuckles as the sun finally sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across the harbor.
And the fireworks began.
Light flashed across the sky, pictures and explosions emblazoned across the heavens for all to see. The alchemists and arcanists of the Far East plied their trade with consummate skill, telling story after story in fiery images writ large across the stars. Between the three of them they were able to identify the vast majority of the pictures, their low-voiced commentary in no way drowning out the shouts and cries of surprise and elation from below.
Now and then Kal’istae felt Thancred’s lips press against the top of her head; now and then, she felt G’raha Tia raise her hand to kiss her knuckles - absent gestures of affection that sent her heart alternately thudding from joy and aching from sorrow.
There was music, too. The sweet voices of the bards of Sharlayan and their instruments could be heard, giving voice to the stories behind the imagery through ancient songs. Even as the pictures faded, leaving only bursts of abstract stars and flowers to brighten the night sky, the music continued to swell across the city, a joyous chorus welcoming in the new year.
And then she heard it; the tocsin pealed across the city, bright and strident as timepieces across Sharlayan struck midnight. “Blessed Heavensturn,” she whispered to the two men at her side, words choked and just a bit watery.
“Blessed Heavensturn,” the men replied in unison, and she lifted her head, feeling them lean down to both brush their lips across the edges of her mouth. And she couldn’t help it; the tears began in earnest. “Kali, Kali, don’t cry,” Thancred murmured urgently.
G’raha Tia slid closer until she found herself sandwiched between both men, the miqo’te fitting along her back, kneeling behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist even as Thancred shifted to kneel before her, drawing her against him. “Sweetest Kali,” G’raha whispered in her ear, “there is no need for tears.”
She couldn’t stop them, even if she were willing - in her breast her heart twisted, aching and breaking. “I can’t do it,” she hiccuped. “I can’t choose. I can’t. I won’t.”
Citrine eyes met scarlet and the two men nodded, then wrapped themselves firmly around her, heedless of how close it brought them. “Then don’t, my own,” Thancred replied firmly.
“Then don’t, my love,” Raha echoed. “You need not choose at all,” he continued as he pressed his forehead against the back of her head. “We don’t want you to.”
Her tears faltered. “B- but…”
Thancred pressed his lips against the scales on her forehead. “We don’t need you to. This arrangement suits us just fine, and we see no reason to change things. Why should you choose between us when we can both make you so happy?”
She sputtered, and both men drew back to give her room, keeping their arms firmly around her. “What - you’ll share me?” she asked incredulously. “What about - when we - when I…” She trailed off, blushing.
Thancred chuckled low in his throat, and she felt a tug deep in her belly. “Well, I for one would not object; it would not be the first time, though it would be the first time with someone I… but then,” he murmured, the thought trailing off unfinished, “everything with you has been the first time for me. But it would not be every time,” he added, glancing at Raha, who nodded.
The miqo’te held her close. “We will spend much time apart, you and I, and you and he and I. ‘Tis our lives as Scions. Sometimes, the three of us will be together, and I doubt any of us will wish to waste such time worrying about who is where, or who is doing what.”
The hyur lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. “And there will be times where it is only the two of us, or the two of you. Only the gods know where we will end up once you have healed and we have made our decisions regarding our futures. You know,” he added soberly, “that Urianger and I have a vested interest in the well-being of Garlemald. And Raha has a duty to see the Students rebuilt. And you, my bright star, your steps will ever dance onward and outwards towards new experiences, with or without us.”
She dragged herself out of their arms and they knelt side by side, watching her as she stumbled to her feet, pressing her hand to her breast. “You want to share me,” she said. “I - it’s a dream, but… but…” Her tail drooped, her shoulders slumping. “No. No, it couldn’t work.”
The two men exchanged an alarmed look. “Whyever not?” G’raha demanded.
She looked at him… then her gaze slid to Thancred, and he read unhappy embarrassment in her eyes before she looked away. “Because I don’t know that I would be able to do the same, not for you,” she whispered, “and it would not be fair to lock you into a relationship where you must be forced to watch the one you care for in the arms of another, but be denied a similar joy.”
Ah. The pale-haired hyur smiled. “Kali,” he said gently, and she lifted her gaze to his. “I share you only with a man who feels for you as I do, a man for whom you care as much as you do me. I would not be able to countenance you with any other. And I would expect no less of you. And as you are the first woman I have ever loved,” and his smile broadened as her eyes widened in shock, “I do not think it likely I will ever find another for you to concern yourself with.”
She took a step forward and reached out a hand to him, fingers trembling. He rose to his feet and caught her fingers, drawing them up to his breast and covering them with his own as he continued to gaze down into her eyes. “You… love me?”
His heart pounded in his throat. “I do. I do so very much. I think I always have.”
G’raha continued to kneel as he watched them stare at each other. “Kali, if you’ve changed your mind…”
Both Scions pinned the miqo’te with a fierce glare. “While I never expected to hear those words from Thancred,” she said hoarsely, “and I do not deny that it changes some things, it does not change the fact that I care for you,” she said fiercely, “as I do him. Completely. I don’t want to live without either of you.”
“Even were she inclined,” Thancred added, turning his gaze back down to Kal’istae, “I would not allow her to. We are suited, we three. We are,” he murmured, “fated. This I believe; there is no other explanation for this union of like souls and like minds. No, Raha. It was always to be us - all of us.”
The miqo’te’s eyes widened, then filled, and he stepped forward as Kali held out her free hand, sliding his fingers through hers and drawing her knuckles to his lips. “I love you,” he said quietly to her. “And I want to do this.”
Her eyes shone up at him, but it was to Thancred she turned first. “I love you,” she told him, and he exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on hers almost to the point of pain before he relaxed his grip. She smiled up at him, then turned to G’raha. “And I love you,” she said to the Exarch, who pressed his lips to her hand, his eyes overflowing. “And I do not want to live a life without you both.”
Thancred abruptly tugged on her and she fell into him, giggling. G’raha Tia echoed her laughter, moving in until he was pressed against her back. She released both men, sliding her arms around Thancred’s waist as she lifted her face to his. “I love you, Kal’istae Miurani,” he whispered as he pressed his lips to her forehead, then took her mouth in his.
“I love you, Kal’istae Miurani,” G’raha Tia echoed, and she felt his arms surround her, his body pressed against her back as he kissed the back of her head, waiting patiently for Thancred to relinquish her.
Reluctantly, the gunbreaker pulled back. “My own,” he murmured, his hands skimming up until they caught in her hair, tangling amidst the short strands. Her lips parted and he sucked in a breath, then released her, his hands sliding down again to her shoulders before he turned her to the miqo’te who watched with anxious scarlet eyes.
“Raha,” she murmured, her face alight as she gazed up at him, and he gathered her close, feeling her arms come around his neck. He bent his head and covered her mouth with his, feeling her pliant and willing in his arms.
When she finally pulled back, she stepped away, gazing back at the two men watching her. “You’re absolutely certain this is what you want?” she asked, one hand going to her throat.
“Be ours,” Thancred said simply. “Be mine. Be his. Be ours.”
She gazed up at him with wide, bright eyes. “I - yes,” she breathed, and threw her arms around them both as they came in, resting her head against their shoulders. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”
Original Ask Meme
Thank you for the ask!
#asked and answered#kal'istae miurani#wol x thancred#wol x g'raha tia#wolcred#wolraha#wol x thancred x g'raha tia
4 notes
·
View notes
Note
To respond to the anon and a lot of ask that are similar about Kinnporsche should not be recommended as the first BL to watch and that it was hella problematic. Once again, everybody have their own trigger warnings and limits and I will never tell anyone how to feel but at the same time, if we take non-BL western shows that are massively successful such as Game of Thrones, Squid game and The Boys where there are horrific scenes and triggering stuff every episode, I don’t think and thank god for that, that all viewers are all m*rder, r*pe apologist. I think people separate fiction to reality. I just don’t understand why it don’t seem to be this way for BL and why some think because we are seeing VegasPete, we are going to think torturing someone and held the person hostage to make them fall in love with us would be a good idea. I have seen actually a lot of non-BL watchers starting Kinnporsche because they were intrigued and a friend of mine who had a hard time with the vast majority of BL because she thought they were cringey and hard to watch, enjoyed Kinnporsche and she is not an apologist.
That's good for them.
Great.
Just... okay?
I still don't think it was good and I think the main romance was awful and I think the main characters were plot devices instead of characters and I agree that it was basically 50 Shades of Gray but lots of people love that so what do I care?
I have no triggers this show hit and no limits, I just don't think it was good.
I wish it had been more problematic because then it would have at least been interesting when the main couple was on screen.
I have never, and will never, argue that the issue with KP or the reason not to make it a first recommendation is based on the idea of trigger warnings or that it'll make this look like a good idea.
It's because I don't think the main couple was well-written, I don't think it holds together and I just don't think it's that good of a show. The only parts I did like were VegasPete.
Why are you sending this to me? My issues with KP have never been about it being triggering or a bad influence. It's been because I don't think it's good. I think KP went straight from 'barely coping with a rape' to 'super fluffy 2gether High Heat edition' with no space for development and it took me completely out of the story.
I think KP shouldn't be recommended because Kinn is Always Perfect and Porsche is a joke and it's not fun or enjoyable because that's dynamic isn't fun to me and I found their relationship unpalatable.
Like, I wish Kinn had been more morally gray for most of the show. I wish he'd had trust issues that reflected in his relationship with Porsche. I wish I could say my issue with this show was about trigger warning and bad influences.
It's not, though.
#no tags here#spoilers#spoiler#negative#criticism#dead sea levels of salt#i hate it here#did you really mean this for me anon?#because seriously
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thoughts on Development
As an aspiring indie game dev, I've dabbled in many things, and will dabble in many more. I felt inspired to put words to text on my experience in trying to create games.
I'm not sure whether I'm the minority or not on this subject, but I have found that I prefer coding something from the ground up as opposed to using a service that automates parts of it. I've used Unity and RPG Maker off and on in the past, and while many of my favorite games (looking at you, ISaT) are made in RPG Maker, neither seems to have the right feel for me.
I think part of it is the learning curve of the GUI, which in theory should make things easier. I'm sure that for many people it does. Perhaps even the vast majority! But at the end of the day, I've spent so long learning what menu items do what, forgetting where to find certain functionalities, and hunting down tutorials and documentation on buttons and features that I could have really gotten into the meat of something already.
Unity has so much going on (especially for a person who will only ever make 2D games) that if there's any time at all between dev sessions, I find myself forgetting things. None of this is to knock Unity for its mechanical aspects! It's simply my own style and how I interface with the world.
RPG Maker has less of that issue, but more of another issue altogether: its rigidity. If you want to make a turn-based game in the style that the software is built for, you're golden. Want to make a walking sim with no combat, no menus for leveling up, etc? Want to have a skill tree? What about custom status effects with timers and cooldowns? Prepare to don your religious attire and worship the creators of plugins (or forge your own path and learn to code them yourself), because you have to break the system to do things that I expected a bit more flexibility on (All Hail Yanfly our Lord and Savior.) Somehow in spite of this, I've spent more time dev-ing in RPG Maker than anything else at this point. Eventually I think I found a rhythm, and got very invested in those projects.
At this point though, I've been learning various languages for game dev to try and find one that suits my style. I've dipped my toes into Python, Ruby, and even Common Lisp, and each have their own strengths and also things that didn't quite mesh with me. While this process certainly involves reinventing the wheel sometimes, it's fun to really fundamentally understand the mechanical nature of the game being created because I coded it. I'm curious to dabble in more things, as I find learning to be incredibly enjoyable. At the same time, learning forever does not an indie game make, so I will put dabbling on hold for a while so creation can occur.
1 note
·
View note
Text
How to play satta king (gali result)?
You must be aware of several aspects when playing satta king. Of course, find a trustworthy satta king merchant first. Although there are a few vendors, very few of them are trustworthy. You should buy a satta king ticket once you've found a reputable vendor. You should acquire a batch of 100 tickets because these tickets are frequently released in 100-ticket increments. You should select a number between 1 and 100 after you have accepted your tickets. You will want this number in order to place your bets. You must choose your wager type and stake amount before placing your bet.
Your total stake on the selected number is referred to as the bet. Wagers can be divided into two categories: single wagers (bets on a single number) and double wagers (bets on two numbers). You must show your pass to the satta king merchant before selecting your wager kind and quantity. The merchant will then at that point choose a random number between 1 and 100. You will win the wager if the chosen number matches the one on your ticket.
There are numerous techniques to identify the effects of the Satta King game. One way to approach it is by asking around. You can generally get some great information on where to get the results from people who have played the game previously or who know someone who has. Another technique to learn about the effects of the satta king game is to conduct an internet search. As soon as the game's results are available, various websites will publish them.
It's impossible to answer the question of how wonderful playing Satta King is with a simple yes or no. It depends on a number of variables, including the individual's interests and ambitions. Some people find that playing Satta king is a fun and enjoyable way to relax. Others might consider it to be a more serious undertaking with a good prospect of making money.
There are risks involved in playing satta king, just like there are with any sort of betting. You should be aware of these hazards and confident in your ability to manage them before you begin playing. Always keep in mind that you shouldn't gamble with money you can't afford to lose.
Last but not least, it is up to each individual to determine whether or not playing satta king is great. If you do want to participate in the game, be sure to play properly and attentively.
Satta King, which dates back to India's pre-independence era, is one of the number-based lottery games with the quickest growth rates. The game has been the subject of debate since its inception since it is a lucrative addiction. In spite of such fights and mayhem, satta king or satta games have thrived in our culture for decades. Despite being prohibited in the country, the game has gained enormous popularity. At the moment, 800cr is thought to be the approximate daily transaction volume for satta king games. Though that is simply a theory. Because the vast majority of transactions are made in cash, evaluating it is challenging.
What safety measures ought I to employ when playing Satta King (Gali result)?
It's critical to understand the dangers of playing Sattu King. The gambling game Satta King is very addictive and has the potential to cause financial ruin.
The game Satta King is played by a lot of people and is popular in India. The game has straightforward rules and is easy to play. The object of the game is to guess which number will win that day. Play takes place on a board that has numbers from 1 to 100.
In order to place a wager, the gambler must choose a number. If the player's number turns out to be the winning one, the wager is theirs to keep. The game is well-known in India and is relatively simple to learn.
Played in both Pakistan and India, Satta King is a lottery game. The opening and closing costs of cotton traded on the Cotton Exchange should unquestionably be taken into account when playing this game. To play the game, you can use any number between 0 and 9. The bettor who made a wager with a maximum limit that is most closely related to the cotton closing rate wins.
You must find a legitimate Satta King office or website in order to play. If you have a trustworthy provider, you should keep records and budget money for it. You could choose a number.
0 notes
Text
I was first introduced to Mr. Hopwood in Carrissa Byrne Hessick's Punishment Without Trial: Why Plea Bargaining Is A Bad Deal.
My review of that work can be found HERE.
I was struck by the absurdity of Mr. Hopwood's heavy reliance on the idea that we all, seemingly without exception, go through some sort of 'felonious phase' during our youth.
That this is expected and relatable.
His entire worldview seems to emanate from the truth and acceptance of this supposition.
Accidentally stumbling upon his memoir on Kindle Unlimited and, owing either to a desire of wanting to give him a fair shot to explain himself, or just hating myself enough to feel the need to suffer through it, I couldn't pass it up.
Suffice it to say, I got what I expected.
I gave it a generous 3 stars on Goodreads. Would have gone for 2.5 if that were an option.
The storytelling, especially in the beginning was engaging and well written. He lost me in the latter parts, though.
Examples of what, in my opinion, are telling snippets, along with my commentary, can be found under the cut.
"…it is a fact that the men of our family surely bristle against authority when they are young, and I was no exception." (p. 37)
I mean, if we're going to claim genetic determinism from the jump, we should have known what we were getting into, right?
Boys will be boys, etc.
Without even attempting to explain the ridiculousness of the thought processes involved, Shon tells his readers that his ultimate reason for proceeding with the first of his five armed bank robberies was that he had failed to show for a court date related to writing bad checks and his arrest was imminent, anyway.
Might as well go big and go to prison, yeah?
"Every Friday night Ryan bought a large, expensive box of nachos with everything. And he was smoking weed with everyone, me included." (p. 75)
Prison sounds like hell.
Glad to hear you were seriously reflecting on why you were in there.
"…having a few black friends made me feel more normal, like the time back in the Navy and in the happy days of bank jobs. It also set me apart as someone a little different in prison, and I think I wanted that." (p. 78)
A somewhat eyebrow raising take on race relations, reflections on more enjoyable times on the run committing felonies, and admitting his own desire for exceptionalism. A lot to unpack there.
"When you think about it, the world is full of people doing good work because they never got caught doing that very stupid something when they were younger and crazier." (p. 101)
Absolutely not.
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
I'm not saying this statement is not EVER true, but the VAST MAJORITY of us DO NOT go on violent crime sprees in our youth that we need to repent for in adulthood.
The "stupid" acts of a young person =/= AGGRAVATED FELONIES.
Absolutely not.
Refers to what, in all other realities, would be a sexual assault experienced by his girlfriend as a "too-hot date" that "taught her a hard life lesson." (p. 137)
This made me feel a little sick, to be honest.
There is still a part of me that hopes I've misinterpreted his meaning, but I don't believe that's the case.
Attributes his assigned counselor asking him how he's doing as an indication that he was "on a different path than most"
"I always tried to talk to guards like equals. I used to tell them that we all had the same goal, which was to make it through our time as easily as possible and then go home." (p. 140)
"Humble" and "self-aware" don't seem to apply at all.
Despite earlier mentioning that the prison staff "weren't exactly helpful" in his jailhouse lawyer endeavors, the special treatment and exceptions to rules applied to others that he received from the prison to "help out" with the Fellers SCOTUS brief were nothing short of stupefyingly outrageous.
"The months and cases rolled by. I was cranking out documents like a print shop. I had lots of time to work on cases because my back hurt so bad that I was bed ridden on and off for six months. Basketball falls and weightlifting had seriously damaged my lower back." (p. 199)
So sorry about the recreational injuries you incurred during your hard time paying your dept to society.
He speaks ad nauseam (one too many times to be ignored) about the incompetence of attorneys that allowed for other inmates to end up in prison.
Where he also was.
And deserved to be.
For the CRIMES he had committed.
"Lock-downs were a respite from the multitude of legal questions from guys who regularly mixed up words like 'retroactive' and 'radioactive'." (p. 234)
Shon seems to be a person with enough intelligence to often come across as repentant, grateful, God fearing, etc. ...but the way he sets himself apart (and above) others always seems to make its way through.
Once released, he got a job at a printing factory working with Supreme Court briefs.
"They had already found a good candidate to fill the job before I even applied. They were about to make the phone call to complete the hire when my resume arrived." (p. 251)
...so he cost a qualified non-felon a job.
"The Cockles had long been trying to capture Seth's attention and a portion of his business." (p. 252)
...and that's why.
Because the the business was interested in a contact he never should have been able to make while practicing law from a jail cell.
"Later, I learned that a few of my friends with serious convictions who had gone to law school had also scored federal appellate clerkships. I don't think that would've happened had Judge Brown not said yes to me first." (p. 311)
...and why is that exactly? Because you're the only Felon, esq. exceptional enough to be a trailblazer?
Finally, almost more than anything else, I take issue with the hypocrisy of the religion he finds towards the end of the book.
He cites God for his ridiculous good fortune, but makes no explanation as to why God fails to bless so many others in similar ways.
Exceptional in God's eyes, too, I guess.
I could feel my blood pressure rising just typing up this review and I am ever so glad to be done with it.
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
ffishstickks
grotte aux poissons
thxthirdwayarchive
occultics witch
arasulahn
soft
alicja0228
can't keep my eyes from the circling skies