#its wild how much less exhausting it is playing it like this
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the most beautiful time of the year
synopsis: the happiest season of all.
genre: fluff
characters: albedo x gn! reader, klee cameo (platonic)
warnings: reader referred to in 2nd pov, klee pov for first half, then switches to albedo pov, cheek kiss
a/n: hehe hi @xcyphoz0a!! so sorry for the wait, but surprise! i'm your secret santa for @astronetwrk’s secret santa event >:) i hope you like this gift<3 merry christmas! likes, reblogs and comments highly appreciated!!
©2023 ryuryuryuyurboat. do not repost, translate, plagiarise, or modify in any way, shape or form.
masterlist
there were three reasons why klee loved having you as her babysitter.
one: you didn’t punish her with ‘solitary confinement’ when she accidentally splattered paint on the walls, much unlike big brother albedo’s coworker— miss jean.
two: you were pretty and great fun to play with.
three: having you over meant big brother albedo was happy! that pink hue on his cheeks must mean he loves you, right? if big brother was happy, then klee was even happier! now, if only you could come over more often so that she could avoid miss jean big brother could come out of his room more often instead of staying in there with his experiments…
klee knew there were also three reasons why albedo loved having you help babysit her.
one: you knew exactly how to calm her down and keep her occupied with activities that were… less destructive than what she normally endeavoured to do.
two: klee loved having you over.
three: it gave him opportunities to sit at one side and fill up his sketchbook with more drawings (featuring you). though he’d vehemently deny it ever happened if you asked. weird.
albedo watches from afar as you run after a really excited klee– well, who wouldn’t? it was a beautiful day, with yet another year nearing its end, the sun was out, and the snow on the cold ground had thickened just enough, and–
“no, klee, don’t eat the snow!” his eyes zeros in on a frantic you holding klee’s wrist, fretting like a worried parent, your cries of “it’s dirty, you don’t know what’s been on it, don’t pick it up off the ground!” going unheard under bubbly peals of laughter.
a fond smile grows on his face. what a sight to behold. a page of his sketchbook is filled.
he observes as you chase after klee armed with a snowball, while she runs to take cover behind the little snowman you both made not too long ago, wild shouts of merriment filling the air. his pencil moves smoothly on the new page of his sketchbook. it would’ve been a shame if he were unable to capture this lovely scene before him.
he looks over at your cold, flushed faces and noses red from the biting cold, glee all over your face as you bend, hands on knees, panting out a “i think i need a break,” before collapsing onto the snow spreadeagled. klee, concerned for your health, comes running over, only to be dragged down onto the ground with a surprise tickle attack from you– it soon becomes a lesson on how to make the perfect snow angel. an angelic scene, if he said so himself. he flips to a new page on his sketchbook.
when you both had fully exhausted yourselves, trudging back up to the comfort of the house, klee stops and points at something over his head. confused, he looks up– what should have been a glaucous blue bauble had somehow been replaced by an all-too-familiar looking plant.
you stop right in front of him just as he feels his heart stop, your lips parting– would words he’s been yearning so long for come out of your mouth? he feels a tingle on the back of his neck— a familiar sensation, no doubt— was it nerves? was it your hand?
nope, none of that.
he shivers as you mash a snowball (previously hidden in the palm of your hand) into the back of his neck, your lips upturned in a cheeky grin— but before he can react, you lean in and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.
he doesn’t hear the badly-stifled giggles from klee, who peeked out from behind a wall with a devious grin, nor does he feel his sketchbook slipping from his hand.
albedo thinks he might be in love.
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#astronetwrk#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#albedo x reader#albedo#albedo fluff#genshin fluff#genshin#genshin impact#༄the vessel’s voyages#scrolls of yore✒️ᝰ#resplendent ports⋆⑅˚₊ ༘⋆#christmas'23 ⋆⑅˚₊ ༘⋆
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TW: Blood, violence, death
Disclamer: None of this is real, but the concept is very pretty, so I took it on a walk.
The next time Minute goes on spawn, Spepticle tries to kill him.
Of course, he behaves a little strangely from the very beginning; he generally asks for a meeting despite the fact that just a few days ago he gently refused Minute's offer, saying that he is not ready to fight for them in this war and that he just wants to live till the end to attend the last carnival.
But Minute doesn't think it's strange; he's happy that someone has changed their mind about being an easy target for the Players and, perhaps, will hold out against them for at least a few minutes. There is enough gear in his enderchest to equip a small army, and this is the second thing he would like to see the most. The first is the corpses of all the Players, preferably dead together and instantly.
Minute knows that Mapicc and Ro stayed late yesterday, so he doesn't worry much about bumping into them; even they, after all, need sleep, weakened by curses, exhausted by a long war, outside the usual conditions and climate. Despite this, he is habitually circumspect: leaving Pb&J base, he checks several times that there is no one around, collects a battlekit in his inventory, and carefully seals the entrance before changing his chestplate to elytra and taking off.
Spawn has not changed in any way in its surreal state since his last visit—wastelands on the sight of destroyed buildings, multiple holes after an orbital strike, surreal towers stretching infinitely far upwards. Spepticle is waiting for him in the very center, on a diorite platform, right above one of the voidholes, and looks a little tired. The desert sun, burning everything dry, passes through him, disintegrating into pink highlights.
– Hey, Spep, – he says, landing nearby and raising his hand. He is glad that there are still people on the server, except for his team, with whom he can just peacefully see each other.
– Hey, Minute! – Spepticle replies and smiles. – You said you were ready to help and equip me. These guys scare me. I think I'm going to need better armor if I don't want to die today or tomorrow.
He speaks a little differently, as if softer and more careful, but Minute does not pay attention to it—not because they are not familiar with each other enough, although this undoubtedly has its effect, but because he simply does not think that anything in this situation can go wrong. He reaches for his enderchest to get the armor out of the shulkers and turns away only for a moment-
and freezes, stunned, because his sixth sense knows much better than himself. For a single moment, he is paralyzed by wild horror, realizing that he is about to die.
Everything inside of him goes crazy. He can't move a muscle. Why, why, why, drums are thundering in his head; how, how, how, his own incomprehension is hissing. He feels the phantom sword piercing him through and through in a single, seamless movement, and for the first time in weeks, he is afraid.
He manages to pull the sword out of its scabbard with constrained movements, dives down, turns around, and blocks the blow.
Spepticle looks down at him. His eyes are almost black—an abyss of rage and hatred. He doesn't say a word; he pushes through Minute's block with an unexpected force for the weakest player on the server and hits again and again. The only thing he wants is to kill him, aiming at weak points and not shying away from playing dirty.
It takes him less than a minute to recognize the fighting style. He opens his dry mouth.
– Mapicc?
Spepticle doesn't respond; just hits even harder.
He has a full battlekit with him, and his diamond armor without trims is definitely not Projectile Protection 3, and that's enough to make him a mortal threat. Minute blocks, and blocks, and blocks, but there is only so much he can do.
– Was Spoke's body not enough? Did you die in it? — he tries. – or did you just jump into another one for an unfair advantage?
Spepticle narrows his eyes.
– I'm done playing with any of you. – he says, a low voice and a threat in it, and Minute on reflexes alone manages to make half a turn to take both blows on the shield— Mapicc's sword and Ro's enchanted fence.
Minute blindly presses the alarm button on his communicator, and then the fight merges into a single chain of hits, turns, and blocks. Mapicc and Ro fight as extensions of each other, taking up all the space around him and forcing him to take risks and make mistakes. He needs another ten seconds to accept that Spepticle is going to die. Having agreed to a deal with the devil, thus becoming an accomplice, he should have deserved to die, and something in this just doesn't sit right in him, but the last few weeks have made him much more compliant in terms of principles. Then he starts trying to kill.
He is saved by the habit of taking an insane amount of experience with him, but he is still being squeezed. He eats god apple after god apple, chokes on his own blood, and runs.
On the way from the spawn, Jepexx catches him. He wears the green coat, smeared in blood. He smiles and swings his sword, almost ripping him in half.
Minute makes them drain their resources. He survives on the verge of possibilities. He runs and runs, but never far enough to pull any of his traps. It seems like all of their kits have been compiled for this exact situation, and they are suffocating him by having a counterplay against every one of them. At some point, he runs out of pots and survives only on his apples and exp, and his head is going round due to intoxication.
His hearts drops lower than five much more times than he is willing to admit. At some point, he feels sick. He tightens his grip on his sword, the godslayer, and continues to fight.
He is close to losing consciousness when Jumper and Pentar fall on top of them.
Jumper shoves an ammonia-soaked rag in his face, smashes her potions under both of them, and he returns to battle with her, because sometimes he only knows how to fight.
None of them speak much—a gaping hole of difference with the past. They fight, and fight to the death, and there is a lot of blood, and he almost loses one of his arms several separate times, and regeneration at some point stops completely tightening wounds—a bad sign that there is nothing left to draw energy from. But he is not one of the best for nothing; he forces himself to continue and pushes himself further and further to the edge, swinging his blade over and over again.
He barely realizes reality when he splits Spepticle's body in two and freezes.
He blankly stares at the corpse. He voted for me; he thinks distantly. He tried to help. He wanted to see the carnival. Why did he do that?
The corpse explodes with stars. He still stares.
Pentar and Jumper also freeze in place, but not so much because of death as because of his reaction. And, as if from another world, from behind a cotton wall, he hears something. He reluctantly raises his head. Zam in Jepexx's body is laughing.
– Bravo! – he applauds, still smiling, the alien's emotions on the alien's face. – Great job saving the world, Minute! We won't even have to try; you'll kill everyone yourself! Of course you will do it. After all, as long as someone is alive, it could be us. You can trust your team – but can you really trust anyone else?
He searches for words but never finds them, stuck in the same state in which he looked at the exploding Camelot in another life, and it's horrifying. The words Jumper and Pentar say don't reach him.
Here's what Minute notices: Zam and Ro are leaving. He rushes forward to catch them and finish them off.
He fails.
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Headed to the Mountains |KNJ
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•one shot
•Masterlist
•pairing: songwriter Kim Namjoon x oc with chronic pain
•word count: 3,465
•genre: escapism, hurt/comfort, smut, established relationship
•rating: MATURE/ 18+
•warnings: current event commentary, somewhat anti- American sentiment (I live in Texas so I see a lot of mess first hand 🫤 it’s my country but my god, it’s messy), stress, chronic pain, high sensitivity, sensory issues, first person voice, smut smut smutty smut, oral (female receiving and male), tandem oral, smex, doggy style?, Namjoon’s big brain during smex, smut with feelings and a lot of thoughts (as usual) ((all my air sign placements really coming out to play
•a/n: idk what this is, besties, besides extremely unedited and wildly indulgent. I may change the voice out of first person and all the “i’s” to “you’s” but it’s up the way it’s up for now. 🤷🏽♀️The world is just a horrifying place right now, especially in the US, and I just wanted to write something that felt like a small refuge, spend a little time some place that felt better, so we’re back in Namjoon’s living room. Also, who better to escape into the woods and away from reality with than the founder of namjooning himself ((also also, that bit about Pennsylvania was 100% true. It’s wild here, man))
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“I cannot get comfortable for the life of me,” I huff grumpily.
It’s a Monday night, late in March. The threat of rain has been looming for hours. Despite its sudden absence in the forecast when I check the weather app, I can still feel it in my bones. In the raw, creaky way my joints scrape against each other. The way the inflammation in my body burns like fire ants beneath my skin.
Namjoon is quick to notice from across the room.
“This weather’s been making your body feel like hell this spring.”
“Yeah, I hate to begrudge it though. Winter was even worse.”
“Gosh, it really was huh?” He frowns at the laptop screen on his desk. He’s got the tiniest beanie shoved on his very big head but somehow, it works. The tips of his hair peak past the beanie’s brim, brushing the mussed hair of his furrowed eye brows. “God, I can’t stand to stare at a screen a second longer.”
He peels his gold rimmed glasses off his nose, rubbing the little indentions they've made along the bridge and pressing his fingers into his closed eye sockets. I can tell he’s exhausted and miserable too about how much energy life seems to require of him these days.
“I’m going to scoop you up and make you the most comfortable woman in the world, I promise. Just give me like three minutes.” He tips back in his desk chair, the spine of it sliding out to a wide reclined angle as his long legs stretch out in front of him.
“Why did we spend so much money on a couch that’s not even comfortable, joonie?” I whine, shifting once again.
“Because the last one was even less comfortable than this one,” he reminds me, “and at least this one is cognac leather,” he shrugs. “It’s comfy on the eyes at least”
“Well I need it to be comfy for my bones.” I grunt, shoving yet another throw pillow out of your way. “Maybe we should pick up and move to the shore, like in a regency novel. I think the air would be good for me. I wonder if American healthcare accepts existential dread and deep chronic pain as enough of a reason to just financially support us until I turn to dust.”
“You and your TikTok algorithm both know as well as I do that America will do no such thing,” Namjoon chuckles with his eyes closed.
“I know…. But they should take at least some culpability. God knows most of my health problems probably exist BECAUSE of them.” I slide the strap of my bra and shirt off my shoulder, not because I want to be a seductress but because the elastic is cutting into my throbbing right trap muscle and if I don’t get some of the tension off of it, I might scream.
“Right? Did you hear about the latex spill in the Delaware river yesterday? The entire city of Philadelphia doesn’t have usable drinking water right now. My friend there literally got a text message about it from the city strongly recommending every use bottled water only until
Further notice. One and a half million people woke up to that text Message! It’s insane.” Namjoon pulls his oversized hood up over his beanie as he looks up at the ceiling, ankles crossed beneath the desk.
“Lord, haven’t we lived through enough of this? I’m so tired, joonie.” I can hear how pitiful I sound. To his credit, he treats me just the same as when I sound intellectually astute and strong. I’ve always liked that about him.
“If the world is going to hell in a hand basket anyway, maybe we should look into a- moving internationally and b- signing up for a payment plan on one of those YouTube influencer mattresses,” Namjoon tips his head my way, and suddenly my heart feels a little more light.
“Ooo, the helix?“ I smile, for perhaps the first time tonight.
His dark eyes twinkle in the low evening lamplight.
“ I actually did some research and found one made out of avocados.”
“Is that as close as I can get now that my body has decided it’s allergic to Avos?”
Namjoon’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “God, your body would find a way to betray you like that wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not my fault I’m too delicate for this world,” I shrug.
“I forget you were born inside a flower that protected you from the world with its petals until it bloomed, thumbelina.”
“If I could take a nap inside a peony right now, I’d do it in a heartbeat…. The pollen might be too much though.” I sigh.
“Come here,” Namjoon laughs, standing from his chair and extending his hand toward me.
“Where are you taking me?”
I slip my knuckles between his and knock against his shoulder with my head.
“To my bumblebee. Take you on a spin around the block” he winks.
“I’m surprised you didn’t say take a ride. It’s like the only lyric you use these days” I snicker, bumping the curve of my hip into his.
“You’re supposed to write what you know,” he shrugs.” It’s not my fault your hips are your area of expertise.”
He winks at me and god, if he took every piece of clothing off of me right now, I’d ride him in a heartbeat.
Shit. Knowing him, he can probably feel my response to him without even looking at me. Sure enough, he looks down, smiling until his dimples dip in his cheeks, and damn it, I’m so captivated by the focaccia dough dips in his face that I stumble into the corner of the wall. My hip catches and I yelp, more embarrassed than in pain.
“Shh, hey, I got you.”
That calm voice of his is so low right now as his palm curves around the dip in my hip that got nicked by the wall. I tip into his long, warm torso and let him guide me into the bedroom. I’m clearly too disoriented and agitated to make it here without careening into something else and frustrating myself, so I’m happy for the assistance. Besides, being scooped up in Namjoon’s substantial hands is never a bad place to be.
“Thanks, baby. I needed that.”
I press my temple into his chest, kiss his ribs. Marvel at the resistance of muscle I feel beneath his soft green shirt. I press my nose into the fabric and let the warmth of him calm me. His other hand strokes soft knuckles along my jaw. His touch is so light and sweet - I feel my shoulders drop as he does it.
“Pick me up?” I whisper, eyes lifting softly to look up at him from where I’m pressed into his chest.
His hands slide up my sides, palms pressed into my waist as he lifts me. The soft grunt he makes as my thighs wrap around his ribs makes something in my brain feel a little fuzzy. Life is better like this, I think. Our faces nuzzled cheek to cheekbone, his hands fitted beneath my thighs, mine trailing softly through the silky bits of his hair peeking out of the back of his beanie as my arms drape over his shoulders like fabric. I can feel the knot of tension in the middle of my spine begin to untie itself as I melt into him. God, I’m so happy he exists.
“Where would you like to go, princess?”
Namjoon kisses the top of my ear, and that fuzzy tingle in my brain is back.
“What are my options?”
I press my lips softly to his throat in light, meditative kisses. They’re more like delicate exhales. My tongue barely tips out to taste his skin. Just a touch. Just a taste. Sleepy and slow because that’s all I have the energy for. His eyelids do that hazy half flutter that tells me he likes it enough to pretend he doesn’t so that I’ll keep going. I smile as he gently tips his head to the side, as if waiting for my answer, but really he’s just giving me more room to access that spot behind his ear that likes my lips. Let’s humor the man.
“We could go to the bed, the shower, the bath…” he gasps a little on the last word, the ah sound coming out too airy as I gently mouth at his pulse point and his grip on my thighs gets tense. “Or there’s a ….counter right here.” His head tips toward the half bath in the hallway as his fingers dig into the meat of my legs.
When I look up to meet his eyes, they’ve gone serpentine. Deep and dark and heavy as he holds me close. I can feel how shallow his breathing is becoming and I smile, sleepy and soft as he watches me.
“Take me to bed, Joonie.”
He’s kissing me before I can even finish his name.
He tips the door open with one of his feet before squeezing us both through the threshold of it. With his eyes closed and his tongue between my lips, he’s bound to crash into something and he does. He thunks an elbow, I knock my head, but in seconds, he’s cradling it where I’ve bumped the wall, spilling “sorry, I’ve got you, sorry,” onto my tongue as he pulls me in closer.
The spell doesn’t break.
He’s big and he’s bulky but he’s careful with me as he lays me on the bed and climbs over me. His mouth doesn’t leave mine even as he peels off each piece of my clothing. His movements are slow, his touch tender as he does.
Namjoon has learned how to soothe my body when it’s alert like this. Knows the cool air feels refreshing and crisp when my skin is hot with pain and sensitivity so he gets me naked with a deft touch. He knows the feel of his skin is grounding for me so that soft green shirt of his hits the floor. Knows I love his hair so the beanie goes next. Knows I love the strength in his thighs so his shorts are next as he tugs my hips down beneath his to let me wrap my legs around his slim waist.
I'm so wrapped up in the warmth of him that I don’t realize he’s tugged my silk pillowcase beneath my head. It’s cool when my head falls back and I smile, toothy and wide, as his plush lips sink into my skin. He’s at my collarbone now, then the volume of my breasts. His breath is warm, the air is cool and his substantial hands grip me firm like dough he’s being careful with as he kneads.
His cock brushes against me between my legs and the bright feeling it sends sparkling through me makes my breathing stutter.
“Joonie,” I shiver, and I can feel him smile against my skin. See his eyes flash up at me in the dark.
“We do too much, baby.” He breathes, voice smoky and low like the dragon he is.
I don’t know what he means. My critical thinking is losing its sharpness as he suckles warm and soft at the dip of my ribs.
“Too much?” I can feel my brows crumpling, but his tongue is so warm on my stomach that my hands dig into his shoulders without my consent.
He reaches up to brush one hand over mine.
“Shhh, easy. We’re trying to relax you, not tense you up.”
He’s smiling. I can barely see him but I can feel him and I know his grin would only dissolve me deeper into the mattress.
“We do too much, we deal with too much. God, your skin is too motherfucking much,” he squeezes me, latches his soft mouth onto my waist and tugs at the skin. I can feel the bruise blooming there, but he’s off and on to the next before I can even get words out. “Your body is always trying to process all of it, but it’s too much. Let me take care of some of it- let me help.”
When His tongue slips between my legs, his strong hands push my legs wide, press them down when he feels me buckle. His breath is so warm, his mouth is so molten, his nose on my clit is so gentle- it all leaves my body in an exhale. Tension drops off like melted wax and I feel myself go supple in his palms as I let him do what he wants with me.
“There’s been so much chaos. So much to deal with. So much to do. I just want to run away from it all with you.”
His tongue is languid as it works on me. The rush of warmth undoes the aches in my body better than a hot bath ever has.
“Then let’s go, Joonie. Where do you want to go? I’ll follow you anywhere.” And I mean it. They’re not lusty rambles. They’re not hollow words. I’d follow him to the edge of the world.
He puts that plump mouth of his over my clit and the gentle way he slurps me up melts my bones into soup broth and clears my head.
“You’ll let me take you anywhere?”
He looks up at me, his mouth never leaving his post, working me slowly as he waits for my reply. His mouth is so wet, his eyes are so sharp and my body is just another piece of music he’s learned how to perfect. I nod, bottom lip bit between my teeth and relax as much as I can as he composes a symphony between my legs. His smile folds the crinkles around his eyes, and his aura flickers between lovingly soft and steadily authoritative as he doubles down, wrapping his arms around my legs to scoop my hips up into his face and pressing into me, deeper, faster, harder.
I arch up when he does, gasping as my shoulders lift up, my fingers twist in the bedspread, my jaw goes slack. He’s really doing a number on me and all I want to do is say thank you and let him continue.
He slides up my body then, one hand behind my head bringing my forehead to his as the other grips my hip with enough pressure to split it apart as he tips his cock inside me in a way I didn’t know I needed. The sound is squelchy and wet and he smiles as his nose bumps against mine.
“You’ll follow me?”
He sounds cocky in a way he hasn’t in a while and a little piece of me loves it. His hips are fluid as his cock rocks in and out of me. All I can do is nod wildly, disoriented as I clutch him close to me. My legs are folded up, feet along his hips for purchase with my knees butterflied wide. I’d laugh at how much I must look like a frog if this didn’t feel so good. He’s got a hand beneath my bum, lifting my hips off the bend and gliding his cock so deep into me that surely my organs are all shifting wide like the Red Sea to make room for him.
“Wherever you want to go,” I hum, arms falling slack. I’ve lost the energy to hold on to him, but he’s got me held up so precious and tight that we’re still more intertwined than two fibers of thread in a tight knit sweater. I’ve fused into him and now every breath is in tandem.
“I’m gonna take my girl away from here.”
His thumb brushes my bottom lip and I feel myself flush at his tenderness.
“Yeah?” My eyes are wide, following his. He hovers above me, furrowed face sculpted with intensity and aggression as his body works mine into ecstasy. I’ve really acquiesced to the fact that I’m nothing more than a soft lump of clay in his hands that he’s working with precision. I’ve always wanted to be a work of art.
He slips my breast into his mouth like a lychee jelly, moaning at the feel of me tightening around him when he does it. Pumping harder, faster, deeper, only to pull out and dip his long fingers into the mess he’s made. He slathers it over all my sensitive bits, caressing with finesse as sparklers crackle in my vision.
When He pulls me up and into him, my face is pressed between his pecs and god, I can’t keep it together. I kiss them furiously as he works, clutching onto his arms, dragging my fingers down his abs as he slides his glossy fingers over my clit like he’s casting a spell. I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe… I can’t….
But I can because I have to- Namjoon won’t ease up until he gives me the sweet oxytocin of release by his hands and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So I dig deep and exhale slow and controlled, whimpering as he rockets past that orgasm to send me into preparing for the next one. He smirks like I’m his plaything and I comply with no resistance. I’ll have as many rounds as he gives me. I’m a big girl. I can handle- Oh!
At least, I thought I could handle anything. Naive me, I suppose.
I smile into the sheets when he tips me over onto all fours. He kisses my shoulders, kisses along my spine, brushing his thumbs on the folds on my hip, all tender and kind and syrupy sweet as the behemoth between his legs tips ever so slowly inside of me despite my incredible tightness, and I don’t know whether to breathe or scream so I press my face into the bedding and giggle like there’s something wrong with me.
“Take you somewhere quiet,” he slides in deeper. “With no noise,” he thrusts. “No news.” He thrusts. “Just nature.”
My chest feels tight with affection but my body feels limps like a rag doll as he pumps me silly. His gargantuan hands holding up my hips are the only thing keeping me from sliding off the bed and melting into the floorboards.
“Joonie, i’d- I’d love that,” soft puffs of air leave me with each fluid roll of his hips. The snap at the end of the graceful flourish knocks my skull a little loose but I don’t mind. Thinking so little is really quite nice.
“Take you for walks, lay with you in nature, fuck you like this in an outdoor bath tub while we watch the stars.”
His hand glides down my spine as he paints beautiful pictures with his words. My heart and my body don’t know which way is up.
“Escape all this chaos. At least for a little bit.” He smirks. I catch a glimpse of it as I look over my shoulder, reach back to hold his hand.
“I might never let you drag me back to the real world.” My smile is gooey, fond and so is his now. His dimples have come out - all his sincerity and heart on display, as his hips still even as he still fills me up.
“I can write poetry in the wild,” he shrugs. “My music would probably be better for it.”
He looks bashful and soft. The juxtaposition of his strong body and sweet face make me dip forward. He slides out of me, watching with confusion as I guide him to stand beside the bed.
When I flip onto my back, letting my head loll backwards off the bed in front of him, he arches a brow at me. I just chuckle and pull him forward by the back of his legs.
“Come here. I want to make my own music.”
I take the length of him into my mouth and he topples over, hands bracing on either side of me on the bed. He groans so sweet and low that I smile as I take him deep. His knees buckle when my nose tips softly against his balls as I suckle him slowly and it takes everything in me not to laugh at how happy I am.
His hands travel my body as his mouth occupies itself. He makes a meal of my breasts, takes a drink between my legs, holds my throat to lighten my breath. When we cum in tandem, he collapses to my side as we catch our breath in silence.
The night is still, the air is cool and rain is finally trickling against the windows.
Our bodies are spent and our plan is set.
We’ll run away soon enough.
But now, cradled breast to breast, we sleep knowing our world is just the smallest bit brighter.
#bts smut#kim Namjoon smut#rm smut#rapmonster smut#BTS fic#kim Namjoon fic#kim Namjoon comfort fic#kim Namjoon x you#kim Namjoon x reader#kim Namjoon x oc#kim namjoon x y/n#BTS x you#bts x female reader#kim Namjoon x female reader
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Pleased to meet you, chapter 12
Summary: You gave in to Benny, sort of, and now you have to go buy a goddamn car. You and Frankie find yourselves alone together for the first time in nearly 16 years.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.
Rating: Explicit 🔞
TW: cryptic mention of self-harm.
A/N: Voilà, they're talking. Jfc the struggle... I'm still in a state of shock (and exhaustion). I think I'm satisfied about the substance of this chapter, not so sure about the form. Some of you might recognise some lines from the movie... I'm insanely grateful for anyone who interacts with this story, for your support and for sticking with them this far! *presses post now and goes drink a tall glass of Bailey's*
Word Count: 7.1k (oops)
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Chapter 12: The Drive Home
The two of you didn’t talk much over the course of the weekend because there was no need for words. The synchronicity between you was evident, if one that he couldn’t explain. The implicit trust and shameless want he saw in your wide eyes was a high he never found anywhere else, no matter how many drugs he tried.
You were you, and you craved him.
Most of the talking had been done on the fire escape. Favourite books, favourite movies, favourite musics. Politics and values, dreams and allegiances. The differences welcome, no real divergence, only promises.
In retrospect, this was another regret. So many questions he should have asked. He never forgot your reaction when he called you baby. How you tensed up in his hold like a wild animal, like you’d never known love, or you had forgotten that life could be sweet. Your sadness had torn a gaping hole in his chest. How many times had you say, “sorry”? The first night, at least. He’d spent the following days erasing it, thoroughly, lovingly. There was what you were, and what you’d been taught. Who had done this to you?
And yet, in spite of your apparent wounds, you had let him in. Your softness towards him all the more special. Uncertain, at first, and suddenly all in. Resolutely unguarded, a strength in its own right. He wasn’t sure, then, if he possessed that kind of courage. But he knew what he felt, this consuming urge to right all the wrongs. He would gladly unleash hell on anyone trying to hurt you again.
Is Benny good enough to you? Most probably. And he should bottle up his questions and leave you the fuck alone. Turns out you didn’t need him to flourish.
He understands clearly now, with enough years behind him to name the feeling, why he’d been so eager to feed you, to get you cleaned up. He remembers that shower together, before you started fooling around again, he had come in your mouth less than an hour before, fuck he’d been relentless, and you’d taken it all.
Standing behind you in the narrow tub, he had washed your body, lathering soap with the palm of his hands on your shoulders and your back, the curve of your hips, along your thighs, his satisfaction tinged with regrets for you’d lose his scent, but he would imprint it on you again later, deeper, definite, and you kept leaning into his touch, eyes half closed, humming quietly to yourself, your skin a constant thrum. Like you’d been starved of any form of attention, of affection. He could tell. Yet he never asked.
And perhaps it had played into what had happened next, how he had lost it completely, when he took you on the bathroom floor, after nearly two days restraining himself, his arms caging you with an iron grip, his teeth sunk into the soft flesh at the base of your neck, pinching your nipples so hard you had cried out his name. Your body vibrating endlessly with it. He had to carry you back to bed.
You were still laughing from that disastrous attempt at a romantic fuck when he stepped out of the bathtub behind you. His cock felt heavy as he palmed himself through the discomfort of the condom, and he was about to take it off when his eyes flickered up to you. You were wiping the steam off the mirror above the sink with your right hand, and you turned around to face him, radiant, with a candid smile. The yellow light from the bare bulb hanging above the mirror ricocheted on every single droplet of water clinging to your body, your skin glinting in a golden hue.
You were golden.
Something snapped in his brain. His breath caught in his chest, and he shut his eyes quickly, but the vision was dancing under his eyelids and when he reopened them, his gaze had turned dark and wild. He was on you in one step, his right hand curled around your nape. He pulled you in with all of his strength, tilting your head up with a tug of your hair, his mouth crushing your mouth, his tongue forcing you open. You responded immediately, his hunger bleeding into you through the kiss and you sank your nails in his back and his shoulder. It felt more like wrestling than kissing, your bodies slippery and wet, and he laid you down underneath him on the rough rug as you whispered a needless plea he couldn’t hear, with the thunderous noise of the blood rushing in his ears.
He had fucked into you at a punishing pace, with the maddening thought of ripping that damn condom off his cock to have you bare and paint your slick walls with his cum, his blunt head bumping against the cup of your cervix and it still wasn’t enough. He had to possess you, encase every part of your body with his, crush you with his weight, mark your skin with his mouth and his teeth and his spit and his cum, fuck your cunt, your mouth, your ass, your tits with his cock, his fingers, his tongue. Ruin you for other men. You were his. He was yours.
He should have been terrified by the intensity of it, and perhaps he was, but your every movement spoke that confession.
There hadn’t been anything to fear within the realm of the orange bedroom. But then, how to explain the deafening silence that came when he never heard your voice again?
He waited. He waited on the car ride with his sister to basic training, realising in a panic that you two hadn’t even exchanged last names. He waited the following hours, days and weeks. He waited as he helplessly observed the quick fading of the red crescents your nails had left on his skin. He waited all through the pilot training program, his first tour and the second. He waited, patient and focused and cool-headed, and with each passing year, the certainty waned. He waited until one day his phone got stolen, and a Verizon vendor who looked like a drowned rat flatly told him he had to change his line. He had remained perfectly calm, but he could have murdered the man.
What began after that was a brand-new kind of hell. One morning he woke up and he couldn’t convoke the memory of your taste. That was when he started fucking all these random women, their faces and bodies morphing into a blurry composite of anonymous features. The doubt drove him insane, but he could no longer find it in himself to believe it had really happened. Maybe he had dreamed you. A filthy fever dream that had meant everything. Finding the book with your red lips etched on the page barely helped, only adding to his confusion, edging on resentment.
But when he saw you, when he saw you walking into the familiar setting of the bar where he meets with his friends every week, holding Benny’s hand, beyond the fury of those years, beyond the anger and the pain, he looked into your eyes and found hope again.
So now he’s back to waiting. Back to that goddamn piece of plastic burning through the back pocket of his jeans. But waiting is fine. Waiting is seven years of his life. Nearly a sixth of his years. He knows how to handle that. Waiting is what was before everything went south, before his phone got stolen, before his first kill, before Al-Qa’im, before the brothels and before the doubt.
And so, he waits. He waits as April slowly dies, as May drags by and as June blossoms under a thin drizzle. He waits until, one perfectly mundane Thursday morning, you text him. Three messages sent in quick succession.
Hey. Is this coming Saturday at 10am ok for you?
It’s me by the way.
He stares at your name. It’s been 16 years since he’s said it out loud. His thumb hovers over the screen. He tells himself the burning sensation from the scar on his left side isn’t real. It’s not pain. It’s guilt.
—
Yea. I’ll pick you up outside your building.
Frankie
You never gave him your address and he hasn’t asked, you have to assume Benny gave it to him. Have to.
Nine weeks and four days since you last saw him. Since he walked in on you in Will’s spotless kitchen, basking you in his scent and his heat and his strength, and demanded that you let him come with you to buy a car you don’t even want. A goddamn car. Not a table, or a plant, or even a TV, a goddamn car. And you didn’t even think twice. You straight up consented without taking a second to think about the consequences, just like you had instinctively and consistently reacted to everything he had ever asked.
In the course of those nine and a half weeks, you’ve reverted to the proven ways of your former life, doing what you do best: act normal amidst the rumbling storm inside your brain. Constantly, expertly compartmentalizing, your mind an oversized closet of neatly folded fears and neurosis. Immediate pleasures and comforting memories. Sadness, fondness, regrets, remorse. Restless with your time, headstrong against your anxiety, no pause to reflect. The great escape.
The very next day, you started to fill up your boyfriend’s house with your belongings, scattered across every room. Panties, bras, socks and t-shirts in the newly emptied chest drawer by the bedroom window. Books he never gives you time to read on the nightstand. Deodorant, creams and shampoo in the bathroom cabinet. An umbrella by the front door. Records stacked by the vinyl turntable. A tin mug in the kitchen. You stay there four to five nights a week, now. He is delighted.
On three separate occasions, Benny had to go away for a fight and remained out of town for a couple of days, which is not uncommon, and you ordinarily welcome the time alone.
The first time provided you with the perfect opportunity to get together with Yovanna, the two of you meeting in a downtown Russian restaurant of her choosing, sharing copious appetizers and laughs and strong liquor, along with your respective backstories, yours carefully redacted. She recounted the first twenty years of her life, traumatic by any standard, matter-of-factly and without bitterness. She defines resilience, and the following morning you woke up revived, if a little hungover.
By the time Benny had to leave again, however, an indistinct, murky dread had settled in your chest and between your shoulders. You proceeded calmly, with resolve, asking him if you could spend the evening at his place in his absence, which implied him giving you a set of keys. You trusted him not to make a big deal about it, and sure enough he didn’t, but you did not anticipate the way he made love to you that night. With an unusual softness, and intent, as if to communicate how much he had no desire to be away.
And when the time came, a Saturday, you curled up on the empty couch in the silent living-room, hunched over a book you could not focus on, eventually falling asleep on his side of the bed.
The third time had been rough, perhaps because you chose to stay at your apartment, chain-smoking again, drawing from your experience the necessary resources to hang on until dawn, when you know the morning light will dissipate your darkness. The morning always comes. All it takes is for you to bite the bullet and await. You know the dance.
You haven’t told anything to Rosie, even though you’ve had several opportunities to do so. You know what she’ll say, and you don’t care to hear it. You’re getting a car, not a room. You’re an adult. You’ll be fine.
And anyway, Rosie knows something’s not right. You haven’t missed one single Taco Tuesday since you skipped that first one, back in April, and you’ve done your absolute best to act natural, like it means something, but she’s been closely observing you ever since. Like she used to when you first arrived here, after she’d dragged you out of your isolation, like you’re a saucepan of milk over the stove, ready to overflow. You don’t know how she does it, but she knows something’s askew.
Seemingly innocuous questions of “everything good with Benny?”, “Still happy with your job?” cue you in. Sideways glances. Her dark eyes overshadowed.
And if she only had doubts, your behaviour on her 36th birthday probably confirmed them all.
She had made plans to celebrate with a girl’s night out, inviting some of her friends from work, along with Yovanna, to her favourite place, a Mexican restaurant with a garden room in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, which brought you way too close to Greenpoint for comfort.
You didn’t just get drunk, you got blackout drunk, downing shots of tequila, knowing very well your body doesn’t tolerate those, polishing off everyone’s drink until you got sick and just about passed out, and Rosie had to take you home, where you woke up with your head split in half to a handwritten note on your kitchen table that read, simply, “call me.” Which you haven’t done.
You spent the next day glued to your sheets, only crawling out of it to stick your head down the toilet bowl, throwing up, seven times, grand total, your body painfully collapsing on itself, getting rid of the alcohol, but not of the guilt, and not of the pain. No, those remained, sticking to your clammy skin, weighing down your soul.
You know this road, been down it many times. The automatic deflection through invisible, self-inflicted physical pain. You recognise the symptoms, the warning signs for that shifting cloud of thick black smoke swelling in your chest, like a fast-growing beast made of nothing tangible but two glinting, yellow eyes.
So the following day, when you got to work, you picked up your phone, and texted Frankie, at long last. When his answer came, immediate, as if he had been waiting all along with his phone in his hand and did not care in the least if it showed, you informed Benny, and asked Suzanne for your Saturday off.
A sequence of events that has you standing in front of your bedroom mirror, now, applying mascara, nervously fiddling with your hair, unsure whether you’re wearing the proper outfit. You’ve been up since dawn, and as you gulp down your third cup of coffee along with your fourth cigarette, ignoring your throbbing throat, you tell yourself it’s not really stress, it’s only the morning light, because you still haven’t installed the curtains you bought over a year ago.
You can feel a contraction building up in your left calve. It would be wise to drink some water. But you don’t.
The smell of nicotine clings to your hair and your clothes, but it’s too late to shower again, or even to change, and it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re getting a car. Not a room, after all.
Your eyes flick down to your watch for the umpteenth time. 9.55am. You peer out at the sky, through your bare bedroom window. It hangs low and overcast, the temperature chill, for mid-June. It all adds up and lies heavy on your lungs. You don’t know the first thing about buying a car, but you’re not exactly eager to take a test drive on wet asphalt.
When you pull open the front door of your building at 10am sharp, you notice the pattern formed by the wet dots as they agglomerate on the pavement.
Frankie’s here, parked just in front, as promised. Faded red t-shirt and light-coloured jeans, he’s standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the hood of his red truck, arms crossed over his chest. The vehicle is ridiculously massive but his broad figure and square shoulders look perfectly on scale. He’s been waiting for a while, judging by the dampened patches on his shoulders, but his face doesn’t show any sign of impatience. The deep lines between his eyebrows only giving the slightest hint of tension under the brim of his cap.
“Hey,” his voice sounds rusty, as if he hasn’t spoken in weeks.
“Morning,” yours is too breathy, and impossibly high.
You don’t stop and walk straight to the passenger side of the car, ignoring the way his head tilts to the right to follow you, instead cringing at how inelegant you must look, as you climb awkwardly into the high cab. You drop your bag on the floor and fasten your seatbelt, admonishing yourself, one more time, that none of it matters, not how you move, nor what you wear, nor what you smell like, because you are only getting a car.
He waits until you are settled in to join you inside and when he shuts the door, his scent fills up the space, brushing against your skin, and you pinch the side of your right thigh as hard as you can. His moves are measured and deliberate, and you will your heart to slow the fuck down and align its erratic rhythm to that of his movements.
You risk a glance in his direction when he lifts up his cap and combs his fingers through his thick dark curls. You remembered them a lighter shade of brown. During the few hours you’ve spent observing this older version of him, you’ve come to decipher the gesture. He readjusts his thoughts, just like he does his hair. Once the cap is firmly deep-set on his head, the mountain that is Francisco Morales is set in motion.
But you don’t know him anymore, not like you did. Years after years, unwanted layers of separate lives, wounds, and emotions have altered the fabric of your innate connection. He has become a guarded man, remote, distant. To you, at least.
Then why are you here?
There’s a pause and the air hangs still for a moment, save for your uneven breathing, louder than the few street noises. Frankie’s perfectly poised when he turns towards you and asks, “So where are we going?”
You blink wildly, your mouth falling open at the one question you didn’t anticipate.
“What– what do you mean, where are we going?” you stutter.
“To what dealership?” he offers patiently.
“I don’t know,” you breathe out, with a shake of your head, “you said ‘let’s go get a car’ and I–” you trail off, you don’t know how to end this sentence.
“I said, ‘let me go with you to buy a car,’” he corrects, and you sit there, dumbstruck, and exposed.
“What kind of car do you want?” he tries again, and as you remain silent, rubbing your palms on your thighs in a subconscious attempt to dry them of the sweat your entire body is breaking into, he averts his eyes, looking down at the steering wheel. A smile tugging at his lips.
“How about we go somewhere, get a drink, first?” he finally proposes. “We can talk about it, see what are the options?”
“It’s 10am,” you reply blankly, as if it makes any difference.
You immediately wince and his smile broadens.
“A coffee, then?”
—
Your nervousness drives him mad. You stare out the window as he drives, refusing to look at him and he can see your fingers compulsively fumbling along the side of your thigh when you think he’s not watching.
He put you in that impossible situation. You look pale and tired, there’s a faint smell of cigarette about you, and what’s worse is that he can’t help but smile like a fucking idiot, no matter how hard he tries to bite it down or cover it with a grimace. You’re sitting next to him in his truck. Once more, all he had to do was ask.
You look like a misplaced stereotype of a French girl in your stripped boat neck shirt, and he struggles to focus on the road, scanning the exposed skin of your neck, where it meets your shoulder, searching for a mark that has long faded.
By the time he pulls into the empty parking lot in front of the Dunkin’ on Tonnele Ave, fat raindrops are splattering on the windshield.
“You wanna stay here? Or sit inside? I can go get our orders and–”
“Oh yeah, here is nice”, you acquiesce, apparently relieved at the thought of not having to go out, “I mean it’s fine. Please.”
You say “please” like you used to say “sorry.”
“Milk, no sugar?” he asks quietly, immediately regretting it. He shouldn’t let on how much he remembers. He’s going to freak you out.
You draw in a deep breath and answer, “Please.”
—
It all begins with small talk. Absurd and mundane. The weather, the traffic, the coffee that’s never strong enough. And before either of you realise it, the parked car feels like an island, the paper cup nicely warming up your stiff hands.
You’re the first to chance a diverted evocation of your shared past, inquiring about his sister. She’s fine, he tells you, not without pride, a well-established professional photographer, whose work you’re likely to have seen in news magazines and art catalogs.
Your left knee propped up on the seat, your back leaned against the door, you’re finally facing him, your posture relaxed. His broad frame doesn’t allow him that much space, but he too seems at ease, his legs stretched as far as they can, his left arm resting on the wheel. Still, you recoil imperceptibly at his next question.
“What about you? Are you an archaeologist?”
You take the involuntary hit and think about the best way to present that part of your life, so you don’t come across as worthless as you systematically feel every time you have to discuss that particular subject.
“No,” you eventually sigh, “I failed.” Ignoring the tick of his jaw, you carry on, “I mean, I graduated, got my BA degree. But I couldn’t get any internship, just like they said. So I moved on to a master’s degree, but in contemporary history,” you chuckle at the nonsensical turnaround in your resume, easing into the topic, “and then I got tired of starving,” you laugh, lifting your palms upward, “so I became a civil servant. Got a position with the historical library of the Hôtel de Ville de Paris. I mean the Paris City Hall,” you shrug, uncertain with your whole translation.
“Did you like it? The job?” he asks.
“Well, it’s not what I had set out for. But I think it fitted me better. No pressure, no deadlines. Old books, manuscripts, first editions–” you start to enumerate before your voice fades.
“Do you miss it?”
You nod wordlessly, your throat suddenly a little tight. His voice is so low you struggle to hear him when he asks again, “Why did you leave?”
You take a brief moment to gather your thoughts, looking vacantly at the neon letters spelling Dunkin’, blurred by the rain running off the windshield. You’ve been asked this question about a million times since you’ve landed here a little over two years ago. Offering countless consensual variations of the same explanation, none of them ever sounding quite right.
Next to you, Frankie’s waiting, hung from your lips.
“I think it’s because I had a purpose, but no goal, you know?” you say as you turn toward him again, in time to see him gritting his teeth.
The crease between his brow deepens before he says, barely audible, “Do you have one, now?”
Somehow, you find it easy to maintain eye contact, and your own voice is steady as you tell him, “Yeah, I think I have.”
Frankie wants to follow up on your answer but he finds himself incapable of speaking. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if you told him that the life you share with Ben provides you with both. Yet, your eyes tell a different story. Your eyes tell him this is not about a man. It is not about him, or his friend. This is entirely about you.
“None of it sounds like a failure to me,” he eventually says softly.
There’s no sign of the stress that tensed up your body earlier. He likes the sight of you sitting comfortably in his truck, absentmindedly playing with the empty paper cup in your hands. Perhaps you’d like another coffee, but he fears that if he leaves the car, he might find you gone when he returns.
Outside, a tall blond woman is running on high heels towards the front door of the Dunkin’, her gait cloddish and imbalanced has she tries not to slip. You watch her until she makes it inside.
“I don’t know. Anyway, nothing much I can do about it, anymore,” and perhaps for the first time ever, you’re ok with it. “But you, you made it! You became a pilot.”
He shakes his head, and before he can stop himself, mutters under his breath, “Yea, at what cost.”
Uncertain if you heard him right, you sit up straighter and ask, “How was it?”
“How was what?” he frowns.
“The army. Was it what you thought it would be?”
“Yes and no,” he sighs. He has never given himself the time to reflect on that before. Rather rushed in the opposite direction. “I never expected it to be easy, but– I joined so I could get my pilot’s license. And I ended up doing stuff I hadn’t really signed up for.”
“Did you ever kill anyone?”
“Why the fuck you wanna know that for?” he narrows his eyes at your face, his voice an angry rumble.
You want to crawl onto his lap and wrap your body around his, knock off that damn cap and run your fingers through his curls, get a glimpse of the lighter shades they used to shine with. You want to press your lips against his forehead, ease the crease of his brow with your thumb, let your skin reach out for him, like it used to, when words were unnecessary, you want him to hear it, because I care, because I wasn’t there, because I wish I could carry it with you. Because I spent too many nights awake, wondering where you were. Because, even when I thought the morning would never come, I hung on, in hopes that the thread between us would keep you safe and sound. Hear everything you cannot pronounce.
You lean back against the door, cranking your brain for another approach. “Did you know that Will kept a ledger of his body count?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before running a palm over his face. “Jesus… No. But I’m not surprised. Did he tell you how many?”
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s for me to tell you. Although he’d probably tell you too, if you asked him,” you reply in a casual tone.
“You two really talk about everything,” he says with an empty smile.
“No, not everything. But we do talk a lot,” you offer no further insight into your relationship with the older Miller brother.
“And did he tell you how’s his sleep?” he snarls.
“He says it’s better than it should be,” you shrug as if you were still discussing the weather. “You haven’t answered, Frankie.”
He presses his back into the back of the seat to crush down the shivers that run down his spine when his name passes your lips. A lot may have changed. But not this.
He knows what you're doing. At least he thinks he does. And anyway, that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. To your voice, he complies.
He runs his knuckles under his chin, seemingly weighing his next words. “I did what I had to do. I was– I was often too quick on the trigger. I didn’t count them.”
Between his spread thighs, his hands have joined, his right thumb scratching the small tattoo on his left hand.
“Were you ever scared?”
“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “not for myself anyway. For Izzy. Anything happens to me, she’s alone.”
The leather seat creaks when you scoot closer to him, seeking his heat. He rubs his skin harder, so he won’t think about yours. The rain has become a heavy downpour, the drops falling onto the roof of the truck in a loud racket that nearly covers your voice when you speak next.
“What about that thing Tom mentioned, that night at the bar? About you being grounded. Does that mean you can’t fly anymore?”
His hands still. He turns his head and glares at you, his eyes black and cold. Your face is so soft. You said you’d take anything. But that was long ago. That was before.
He licks his lips, clears his throat. You won’t back down. So he tells you.
“I was suspended. They ran a random drug test at work,” he leaves Giovanni out of the picture, the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s not taking full responsibility for his own fuckups, “it’s a flight school for rich assholes over in upstate New York, and– they found traces of coke in my system.”
“Coke?” your eyes widen with shock as the image shoots through your chest, and he can’t stand the way you look at him right now, like you don’t know him, like you never did.
“Does it help you? With your– sleep?” There’s no judgment in your voice, and you hope it gets through to him, pass the thick skin and the shame. And, perhaps, he’s more surprised than you that it does.
“Yea,” he says, looking down at the little tattoo again, shifting in his seat, “it did, yes. And with the rest, I guess. But I’m not using, anymore. Izzy would bite my head off. She found me a good lawyer, the case got dismissed, somehow–” he shrugs, “I got my license back. I’m clear.”
“What are you going to do, now?”
“I think they’re going to take me back. I gotta go there Monday, actually.”
“I mean about your sleep, Frankie.”
God, your face is so soft.
“You don’t worry about that.”
As if it were that simple.
—
Cars have come and gone in the small parking lot. A composite Saturday morning crowd of busy moms and weekend workers hurriedly flowing in and out of the coffee shop, holding white paper bags and cardboard trays with tall paper cups.
The outside world resurfaces around Frankie, as you two sit in silence side by side in his truck.
You peeled him open. Picking out the jagged pieces of his life one by one, with infinite tenderness, and methodically reassembled them. Sought him out in the darkest confines of his existence. Left him with no place to hide. Weaved back the thread.
“I think I need another coffee,” you stiffen a yawn.
“Yea.”
The rain abated, without your realising it. You walk in together this time, and when you return to the car, you pull out your phone from your bag, to find Benny has texted you. Your eyes are heavy and your movements slow, you’re suddenly exhausted.
You answer Benny’s question, “Are you guys done?” with a half-truth about waiting for the weather to get better, inwardly smiling at his abusive use of emojis.
The conversation resumes, with more trivial topics. You mention the curtains laying untouched in a bag on your apartment’s carpeted floor.
Eventually, Frankie asks about the car again. Secondhand, you say, and small, preferably European, although you can’t say why. An expression of your homesickness, perhaps. An extra comfort.
It’s a ten-minute drive to Autoland, a dealership on Communipaw Ave that Frankie pretends to know but really only googled the previous day.
He parks in a lot across the street from the dealership, and gets out of his truck with a spring in his step.
This time, you circle the vehicle over to Frankie’s side and wait for him, uneasy and apprehensive, seeking the reassurance of his tall figure before you can take one more step. The place looks reasonably sized, for once, you’ve seen bigger ones in Parisian suburbs, but you’ve never bought a car in your life and you’re utterly out of your depth.
He looks at you as he tucks his t-shirt in his pants, and smiles. Before the two of you cross the busy road, he places a large hand on the small of your back, his fingers splayed, and gives an imperceptible squeeze. You lean into his heat, let it seep in and run through you. You’ve spent years worth of sleepless nights trying to imagine how it would feel like if he ever touched you again. Like electricity, like a dam that gives, like the end of your world. It’s none of it. It’s quiet relief. It’s a close circle.
The cotton of your shirt feels warm under his palm, it catches at the calloused pads of his work-worn fingertips. Your skin, just underneath it. It’s not it, not yet, and it can’t be. This would be the end of everything.
True to his profession’s stereotype, the salesman jumps you the very second you step into the lot and introduces himself as Gary. But the cliché ends there. Gary is a lean man of average height, in his late twenties-early thirties, with olive skin and strands of straight black hair that frame his face like a stage curtain. Shiny buckle shoes, skinny black jeans and a tight button-up shirt in a loud pattern, he looks just as misplaced as you in the somewhat depressing dealership.
Gary speaks with a quick flow you struggle to understand and swallows half his words, and when you discreetly peer up at Frankie, you catch him trying to repress a mocking smile. He tilts his head down and raises an eyebrow as he mouths, “I think he’s high.”
You’ve clearly stated what you were looking for, yet Gary keeps walking you towards sedans the size of your living-room. European, alright, Volvo and Volkswagen you wouldn’t know how to maneuver on an empty racetrack. He keeps addressing Frankie, who tries his best to suppress the scoffing off his tone every time he has to remind him that you are the client, and when Gary, at long last, takes note, he punctuates his well-rehearsed speech with a “sweetheart” that send Frankie’s shoulders heaving with a soft chuckle.
After ten minutes that feel like an hour, you lose patience and cut him mid-sentence.
“Hey listen, Gary, let’s forget about the European thing, ok? I want a small car. Small, you know, like three doors?”
“Oh yeah, right, small car, got it!”
He turns on his heels and start walking briskly. You turn to Frankie, eyebrows disappearing into your hairline as you tell him, “Is he fucking serious?” and revel in the sound of his breathy laughter.
You join Gary at the rear of the dealership, where half a dozen compact cars are parked, when his cellphone rings. Raising a heavily bejeweled index to excuse himself as he picks up, he steps away from you.
Hands on his hips, one leg extended to the side, Frankie watches you impatiently checking the time on your wristwatch.
“Hey,” he starts in a husky tone, “you know, I did fly over the Andes.”
A wildfire flares up in his chest as you lighten up with the first genuine smile he’s seen on your face since you came back into his life, one that reaches your eyes, that has you beaming, and that he recognises, and you too recognise him when he smiles back, his dimple deeper in his fuller cheek when he adds, wiggling his eyebrows, “Twice.”
You let out a thrilled little gasp, your voice failing you, a little hoarse when you whisper, “How was it? Was it what you expected?”
“Almost,” he answers.
You’re so close, so fucking close he can smell that new perfume, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same, your eyes are, what if he leaned in a little closer and brushed your lips with his, what if he asked you to leave with him? Would you follow him, again?
Your gaze fall on his plush lips when he licks them, but you back away at the sound of Gary’s voice, standing in front of you.
“Ok guys, sorry about that! So, small car?”
Frankie’s mouth twitches and he stares daggers at the salesman.
“Hey Gary, would you mind giving us a minute?”
He doesn’t wait for his reply to place his hand on the small of your back again, and you take a few steps with him, on shaky legs.
“Look,” his dark eyes plunge into yours, “if you don’t want a car, we can just go. Tell Benny there wasn’t much choice, which is kinda true,” he gestures towards the yard. “Just– please, promise me you’ll take a cab, when you go out at night.”
Your mind’s racing, going through the options, you need more time to think, so you stall and retort with your usual argument, “I’m a big girl–”
“From a big city, yea, I heard you the first time. Please.” There’s no scorn in his tone. You’re a big girl. He does believe that. But he needs to hear you say it.
To you, however, it doesn’t sound like a request, most definitely like a direct order, and your mind reels unwillingly as you picture him on the field, in his military uniform, a gun in his deft hands, shouting instructions in his assertive, deep tone, his force and temper barely contained. You’ve seen his control slip. Experienced it firsthand. And you’ve no business being this aroused right now.
You let it ripple down your limbs before you push it away, before you sigh, “Ok. Let’s go, then. I’ve had more than I can take.”
Getting rid of Gary proves itself challenging. He follows you all the way back to the street and hands you a business card you politely decline at first, before changing your mind, in hopes it will shake him off faster.
His nasal voice is still ringing in your ears when you climb back into the safe-haven of Frankie’s truck. He turns on the ignition and merges into traffic, taking the direction of your apartment, the only possible destination, the decision tacit and unspoken.
This time, you watch him drive. In fact, you can’t stop staring, the lean muscles undulating under the freckled skin of his forearms, the shape of his solid shoulders, the line of his throat, and the curls on his nape, the sharp edges of his profile, the bare patch in his beard, the thin wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. For the first time, you notice his watch, big, square, utilitarian.
You jolt yourself out of your trance and decide to call Benny. You can hear his disappointment through the phone, and you feel terrible, like you haven’t tried hard enough, before it occurs to you that the last time you placed your own needs below those of the man you shared your life with, it didn't end up so well. Granted, Benny’s not Éric, not by a stretch, which might be the very reason why it affects you now. So you repeat your promise to take taxis at night, Frankie’s eyes flicking between you and the road.
He steers slowly through midday traffic, praying for red lights. The silent stillness between you hangs heavy when he double-parks in front of your red brick building. You can’t move. Not when you don’t know if you’ll see him again.
Drawing in a shaky breath, you gather your strength and unfasten your seatbelt, Frankie once more lifting his cap to readjust his hair.
“I never thanked you. For coming with me, today. For your help–” you trail off.
The sun has come out and you feel hot in your jeans and thick t-shirt. He doesn’t look at you, his head down, his brow once more knitted.
“I– I guess I’ll see you,” you murmur.
You want to wish him good luck, for Monday, ask him to call you afterwards to tell you how it went, but it all gets stuck in the back of your throat, so you grab your bag, instead, and put your hand on the door handle.
He moves fast, gripping your arm, unclenching his jaw to ask you to “Wait.”
You face him, resigned. If not ready. You know what’s coming.
Funny how, when the opportunity finally presents itself to get an answer to the one question that has obsessed him his entire adult life, the words won’t come out. And Frankie struggles to look at you as he whispers, “Why didn’t you call?”
You take the punch, breathing in deeply, thinking that the question you so dreaded wasn’t that terrible, after all, when you register the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
“What’s it gonna change, now?”
He lets go of your arm. “Please,” he breathes out.
Images overlap as your vision blurs, your last kiss, not far from here, so long ago, you cupped his face with both hands and sought his eyes with yours.
You blink back the memory before you open your bag and pull out your wallet, moving slowly, as if in a dream, your body rebelling against the injunctions from your brain. You take the rectangular note, and with a trembling hand, place it on his lap. Frankie tilts down his head, narrowing his eyes on the little piece of paper, ink-stained and torn out. You’re not sure that he understands what he’s looking at.
“I got caught in a rainstorm on my way back to Rosie.” It’s hard to speak with the heavy lump in your throat. “I– I was going to call you, that night, but that’s all that was left of your number.” You pause to aggressively brush off a stray tear rolling down your cheek. “I went back to your place, I thought I might catch your sister. I was too late.”
Look at me, Frankie. I tried. I swear.
Frankie hasn’t moved. He’s glaring at the paper, teeth clenched, breathing heavily through his flared nostrils.
Wiping another tear from your cheek, you open the door and get out of the car. Your strides are long and hurried as you walk toward the front door of your building.
****
Additional note: Thank you for reading this far 💕
I have no idea when I'll be able to work on and post the next chapter. Good news is, it's already half done, and entirely outlined. However, it is also my favourite, so I want to make sure I get it right. I am truly exhausted and clearly need to refill. Plus the holidays are never easy on my mental health... Everyone, be gentle to yourselves in this time of year 🧡 I'll keep you posted (bad pun always intended). Never hesitate to drop me an ask, I really love those. Love 🧡
Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos
#pleased to meet you#Francisco Catfish Morales#Frankie Morales#The Pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#triple frontier fic#ben miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#will miller#william ironhead miller#triple frontier#pedro pascal#garret hedlund#oscar isaac#charlie hunnam#frankie friday#my beloved Yovanna#adria arjona#feral frankie friday#francisco catfish morales#the pilot™️#the husband one#the one and only#Frankie#Frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales/fem!reader#frankie morales/you
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Hey.
So I've hear you bringing up Rolemaster a lot on your blog but whenever I've tried looking it up in the past I've found very little information.
Could you kinda go over what the system is, how its different from other rpgs around and where to go to find the rules please?
Gotcha! I love talking about Rolemaster!
Rolemaster is a fantasy role-playing game that got its start as a booklet called Arms Law that purported to be a universally applicable combat system for all fantasy role-playing games. It had started out as a set of house rules the developers had used in their D&D game set in Middle-earth because they had found D&D's combat system too unrealistic and abstract for their tastes. Arms Law presented a combat system based around rolling 1d100 with various modifiers from skill, attributes, weapon enchantment, and so on, with the 1d100 roll being "open-ended," i.e. exploding on unmodified rolls of 96 to 100 meaning the tables could go very high, with attack results being cross-referenced against target armor type to find out the amount of damage and the severity and type of critical hit (if any) inflicted.
Character Law, or rules for creating characters (again, supposedly for all fantasy role-playing games but more like... For creating characters for use with Arms Law) followed in 1982 with the first full standalone edition of Rolemaster following in 1984. It very much follows the principles first set out in Arms Law: extremely detailed, lots of lookup tables, notably less abstract and supposedly more realistic than other fantasy RPGs. (I personally disagree on the realism point: Rolemaster is a silly game with funny tables and the tables are quite ridiculous.)
Ultimately it's very much a D&D style game: a semi-Tolkienistic fantasy action RPG where the focus is on combat and overcoming obstacles set by the GM. What sets it apart is that reliance on extremely detailed tables that often result in very unpredictable and surprising results. I've previously compared it to playing D&D where everyone has the Wild Magic Sorcerer's wild surge tables and those wild surges can be triggered by everything from attack rolls to skill checks. It's also quite math heavy, but a lot of the math is front-loaded into character creation and in play it's mostly rolling 1d100, adding modifiers, and looking up the result on an appropriate table.
Anyway, Rolemaster is still supported by Iron Crown Enterprises, but owing to the fact that I.C.E. went bankrupt at one point and the brand is maintained by a bunch of hobbyists their new output is understandably slow. The most recent version of Rolemaster is called Rolemaster Unified and it's being rolled out slowly. I.C.E.'s website has a pretty exhaustive introduction to Rolemaster as well as a system comparison page for the two other existing versions of Rolemaster, Rolemaster Classic and Rolemaster Fantasy Role-Playing. All of their output is available digitally on DriveThruRPG.
There's also a very good Rolemaster clone called Lightmaster, built on the d20 system SRD using the OGL, which rebuilds a different vision of Rolemaster 2e using a d20-based system. It's free and I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to look into the system for free. Another good online resource is this site I recently found which is an online resource for Rolemaster Standard System (the officially supported version from the 90s) which is sadly not complete but also a very good resource for finding out more about the system.
Hope that helps. Don't hesitate to ask if you'd like some more information. I love talking about this silly game. :)
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Hurt
The salty sea air clung to Thorstyr's clothes as he staggered back to the Mizzenmast Inn, having spent the evening drowning in whiskey.
The dimly lit hallway seemed to sway and twist, playing tricks on his blurred vision. He fumbled with the key to his room, cursing under his breath in that thick duskwolf accent. Finally managing to unlock the door, he stumbled inside, the room spinning around him.
How had he gotten back to Lominsa? How long had he been back? Hours? Days? His crew? Nay, every last one of them, dead or scattered to the wind. Llymlaen spare him. Tired. So gods damned tired. Too tired for so many questions.
His heart weighed heavy with memories that he couldn't quite sort out from one to the next. He had seen so much in his life, faced so much, but the ache in his chest felt insurmountable. Thor was a man of action, always pushing forward, but tonight, tonight he was the King of Pity.
With a frustrated roar, he swept his arm across the small table near the door, sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. Whiskey spilled, mixing with the shards of glass. He barely felt the sting of the cuts on his hand as he stumbled further into the room, knocking over a chair and kicking at anything in his path.
"Damn it all!" he shouted, his voice raw with pain. "What's tha fuckin' point!?"
Thor's fenrir statue, usually a symbol of pride and freedom, crashed to the floor, its once strong form now shattered like his own spirit. He sank to his knees, the room spinning around him. Tears mingled with the alcohol on his cheeks as he clutched at his chest, feeling the pressure of the entire world pressing down on him.
His life had been a constant struggle for acceptance and belonging. The rejection he faced from his own father still haunted him, even after all these years. And then there was his love life, or lack thereof. Wounds that refused to heal, a hole in his heart that no amount of whiskey could fill.
"Why do ah even bother?" he slurred again, each syllable dripping with bitterness.
In his drunken haze, Thor found himself grappling with his identity, his place in the world, and the ever-lingering question of whether he was doomed to be alone. He longed for someone to understand him, to see past the rough exterior and the scars, to stay, to show him he was more than the monster he felt himself to be. It seemed an impossible dream.
He froze and glanced down, eyeing his bloodied palms and the glistening reflection of light upon the shards of glass embedded in his skin. These hands had inflicted so much harm. Right or wrong, they were the hands of a murderer. Garbage. Putrid. If he'd condemned himself to this fate of wallowing piss drunk alone in yet another inn, what was the point? He was dying inside, if not dead already.
Another sudden surge of anger, an emotion that often masked grief for the big brute, and Thor swept his arms across the dresser, sending toiletries and mementos flying. Among them was Red's letter. He clutched it tightly in his hand, covering it in an ironic crimson as his heart wrenched with every beat.
The betrayal of someone he'd thought was a friend washed over him like a wave. That Semex could do such a spiteful thing, there really weren't words. What purpose had it served? It only caused Thor greater loss, and Red, more pain.
"...bastard."
The room bore witness to the meltdown, the destruction reflecting the turmoil within. Thor was a storm, wild and untamed, and in his drunken rage, he felt a momentary release from the loneliness that shackled him in place.
But as the whiskey dulled his senses, exhaustion offered a countermeasure. The room swayed less violently, and the anger gave way to a deep weariness. He slumped against the wall, the letter still clutched in his hand, and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.
In the morning, he would wake with a splitting headache and a room in shambles. For now, in this moment of despair, he let himself feel vulnerable. He let himself feel lost. Each and every ache, a reminder, no matter how big or small, that he was still breathing. This wasn't the end, no, not yet.
And in that moment, as the sea breeze whispered through the cracked window, Thorstyr surrendered to the darkness, finding temporary relief in the oblivion of sleep.
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been kinda chewing on some of my problems with baldur's gate 3 recently as im wrapping up my durge playthrough. i took a bit of hiatus from the game for about a month but ah, there's still just some things that kinda bum me out. and i know i just usually reblog silly goofy things and draw my edgy d&d characters but i think i need to post about this. it is my blog and i decide when its time for some serious discussion (we will return to your regularly scheduled silly goose hours later) (yes this post will contain spoilers throughout the entire game. i think)
Its time for proper capitalization and punctuation because I am wanting to get a bit serious for a minute. I want to start with my biggest issue, the thing that turns me off from the game from time to time. What I truly desire in a video game with significant characters and story is for those characters and story to feel like they co-exist with one another, instead of within their own vacuums. I think Baldur's Gate 3 is decent at this, but it leaves so much to be desired. One thing that really bugs me is it feels less like this is a group that was haphazardly thrown together with similar goals to which they are very desperate to complete (removing the tadpole, stopping the spread of the Absolute), and more like each character is an outside observer to the other's struggles. Even when the struggles of these characters intercept, such as Karlach and Wyll, we get mere morsels. Karlach says she is Wyll's friend, but outside of the few times they speak to one another in the overworld, and the few cutscenes we have in camp... how can that constitute friendship? Seriously, its great Wyll can be convinced to stick his neck out for Karlach, but that alone doesn't build a friendship. Am I supposed to believe there are conversations between characters happening off screen? Perhaps. However: there are ways to sprinkle in characters directly interacting with each other without involving the player character. The conversations in the overworld, for one, are great. I just wish there was more. I deeply desire banter, I desire for these characters to develop relationships on the same level with one another as Tav/Durge does with them.
I always find myself comparing BG3 to the Mass Effect trilogy. One thing I love about Mass Effect 3 specifically, is that Shepard can walk around the Normandy and run into the crew in the middle of their own conversations. One of my favorites is if you have Kaidan and you're able to recruit him, he can be found in a poker match with James and they reference playing with Joker. I love it! I wish that sort of thing was in BG3. You wander about camp and find some of your party members playing a game (I'm imagining Wyll and Karlach trying to teach Lae'zel a game of Faerun, and she compares it to "games" of her cresh... it would be an interesting look into Lae'zel's culture and what the gith would consider "games" plus we get to see how the others would introduce their culture to her). I just kinda hate going to camp, exhausting dialogue with each other the companions and then there's really nothing else to see or do beyond that.
I also wish there was more reaction to the romance from the others. I mean, maybe I'm just silly and haven't gotten the proper triggers but in each of my playthroughs no one has anything to say about it. I absolutely do want to sit there and give Shadowheart the details of my night with Halsin. I don't know just, give me a little something.
Speaking of the wild-shaped elephant in the room. The poly relationships. Look, I am personally monogamous, I am in a monogamous relationship and my partner and I will likely remain monogamous until our deaths. That being said... ugh? And I mean ugh in the sense these don't feel like they could be real relationships. If Halsin is truly the best we can do then I think we're doing pretty mediocre. I think its a step in the right direction, we get our other partner's consent, Halsin is respectful of you and your partner's boundaries and from what I have seen, your other partner respects your identity and boundaries (no, I do not buy that Astarion specifically is "coerced" into the relationship, this is not what this is about but I have seen that particular line of thought. Also, if you want to read a pretty good post that sums up the Astarion-Halsin polymance debate, I recommend this one by veilkeeper, I don't agree with every point but it's pretty well written). There's just something odd about how all of it is written, again pointing to how some of these events and characters feel like they exist within a vacuum and I think that is why the "poly" relationships feel very... ugh. I'm a little on the fence about this particular post, but if you want to read how a non-monogamous goober (like myself) views the poly non-relationships, I recommend this one by hungerofhadarr.
Okay so, last little thing. This bothers me in a much more obvious fashion, but, hi, I play D&D 3.5 homebrew. I am actually not super familiar with Faerun before I played Baldur's Gate 3, as my group mainly plays in original settings created by my partner/our DM. I have been a part of the same group for about four years now, and we have actually managed to complete a campaign this year. So I understand that the way me and my group play D&D is very different from how most people play in 2023. That being said: what the fuck is with the fantasy racism? Why do fantasy worlds keep relying on it so heavily to propel how cultures interact with one another? Has anyone else played a drow, or even a half-drow? Oh my god. I don't really feel like I should comment too much on this other than, um, yikes? And, I'm not going to act like I don't know about D&D's history with fantasy racism. I am a little familiar, but I just feel like Wizards, and now by extension Larian, cannot disconnect themselves from this.
this is about as articulate as im going to get on all this but uhhh yeah. screaming into the void and hope it doesn't breach containment lmao
#no i will not be tagging this#ramble#i love halsin btw he's one of my favorite characters in the whole entire game#but um#yeah#this is okay to rb btw#but if things get out of hand i will nuke it#at the end of the day i am just a dude with opinions#long post
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Of the 16 or so chapters I've written of my Nuka-World fanfic, the only chapter I am satisfied with is chapter 3. It came early on, was clear and easy, and the characters stayed in character. While the story was largely situational, and I could let the characters tell me what to do and things were easy. Then I went and tried to plot and now I am horribly, wretchedly stuck. Most of the characters don't want to do what I want them to and nothing is easy.
I thought I would post this in an attempt to defibrillate this damn thing back to being easier to write. One of the parts I like least is the very beginning, so I dunno if I will ever post more than pieces, really.
Bad Blood
A Fallout Nuka-World fanfic
Chapter 3
Warnings: Violence and gore, drug abuse, slavery, sexual themes with dubious consent, m/m
After agreeing to return with his father to the raider city built on the backs of slaves in the rusted remains of an amusement park, Lafayette does what he can to play the role until he can figure out what the hell to do with himself. He can only pretend for so long, though. After watching slaves be fed to a monster for the amusement of the raiders, he tries to protect a slave too drugged to realize what is about to happen to him.
When the screams finally subsided, the wet crunching of flesh and bone made the swill Lafayette had been throwing back all night roll in his belly. He never thought of himself as someone who was particularly sensitive to violence or gore, with how he grew up hunting and all the other shit he'd been through, but the intimate sounds of an enraged gatorclaw eating a pair of poorly-armed slaves alive had his hair standing on end and stomach beginning to heave. He had to get the fuck out of here, but he had to time it right, play it off. He knew he was being as closely watched as ever.
Porter Gage lounged boredly beside him. He had been making a half-hearted attempt to distract him with some wild account from his youth. Lafayette hadn't been listening. His dad and Mason both stood nearby, their backs to them. Dizz gnawed at the scorched limb of some strange creature the raider gang bred beneath the amphitheater, his appetite unphased, and Mason leaned against the high fence of the cage as he watched his new pet.
The Overboss had a different tactic for handling the leaders of each gang, but despite how amicable they seemed now, he took particular joy in humiliating Mason. In the most recent of a long series of backhanded transgressions, Dizz had led Porter and Lafayette on a good old fashioned hunting trip, just the three of them, to clear out Safari Adventure. He had been putting pressure on Mason to do some real work himself, but the man had decided to act like the Overboss still needed to prove something to them. The Pack assumed they would receive the larger portion of the park zoo, especially since the Operators had already been granted the Galactic Zone and the Disciples were given Dry Rock Gulch. Instead, the Overboss assigned it to the Operators, and he didn't even give Mason a chance to be angry about it before the three of them returned with perhaps the last surviving gatorclaw as a consolation gift.
Not only was the Pack incapable of clearing the park out themselves, but Mason couldn't have pulled off capturing one of the monsters, much less made it look so easy. Dizz was bigger, fiercer, bolder, even more scarred than the Pack's alpha. He took out the previous Overboss while Mason was only posturing. Porter had been delighted to spread the old rumor to the Pack that the new head hancho's shredded face was from fucking a deathclaw, and they ate the story up. It served to put Mason's claim of biting the paw off a yao guai to shame. Mason dismissed the story as an obvious joke, but when the three of them strolled into the amphitheater that night, Dizz and Lafayette leading a bound and exhausted gatorclaw by its duct taped muzzle, there was no doubt in anyone's mind who the strongest among them was. Even his fresh-faced son stood at a close second, above Mason.
As they partied that night, Mason's amicable demeanor would occasionally slip when he thought the Overboss wasn't looking. Dizz must have felt the daggers glaring into his back, but it made him all the more relaxed, as if encouraging him to try something. They both knew an open confrontation wouldn't end well for Mason, no matter how angry he got. Porter was quick to point out each subtle passive aggression to Lafayette, and was far more entertained by that than the cage fights.
"My girl is still starving, look at her!" Mason loudly announced, words slurred. He had been tempering his rage with alcohol and jet, which left him leaning heavily against the top of the fence and well within reach of the gatorclaw. He was lucky it was still preoccupied with rooting around in the bloody crumbs of its last victim. "She's wasting away. Someone bring 'er another snack!"
"We're all out, boss."
"How the fuck did that happen!?"
"We were running low on captives after last night. You want someone to buy some more from the market?"
"Nah, fuck it," Mason said with a dark grin. He had spotted the red glow of one last collar after all.
The Pack didn't keep slaves around for long. They might use them for a day or two, however they saw fit, but they always met the same end. Lafayette had heard there were dungeons below the amphitheater where they would handcuff captives to the bars while whatever starved beast they were training to fight ate them alive. No, when the Pack felt like having a party, they would rent a few whores from the brothel in the Parlor, and usually send them back in one piece - the Operators would expect them to pay extra if they didn't. This late in the night, they had all been dragged off to some place or another, all except one. Lafayette had noticed him briefly earlier, the back of his strawberry-blonde head bobbing between the legs of some stupid-looking raider in a horned stag helmet huffing jet in the stands.
Mason sharply whistled for his attention. "C'mere, boy. Yeah, you! Bring your ass, I got a job for you," he grinned.
The slave was young, heavily freckled but attractive by Nuka-World standards. Even with his messy hair hanging in his face it was clear he was stoned out of his gourd. He hadn't a goddamn clue what was happening, and despite it being obvious that Mason meant him harm, he began to walk over willingly. He even smiled.
"Wait!" Lafayette found himself shouting. Everyone jerked their heads up to look at him after he'd spent half the night sullen and quiet. Dizz glanced over with a look of warning, eyes narrowed as he tore another bite off the large charred bone in his hand.
Lafayette turned his best lecherous grin on the slave as he passed, reaching over to grab his wrist and yank him closer. "Sorry, Mason. I been waiting my turn for this one."
"Hey, no worries, Junior," Mason sneered with an annoyed smile. "Just let me get him when you're done."
"Nah, man. I'm gonna take him back to Fizztop and call it a night," Lafayette said, standing to throw an arm over the guy's shoulders. He took great care to not touch the explosive collar on his neck - even being this close to one made him nervous. "Why don't you try one of your ghoulrillas? There were enough of them living in Adventure Zone that I bet it would make a more interesting fight."
"Shiiiit, that's a goddamn good idea!" The drunk man grinned before he turned sharply to shout after the other raiders, "Steg! Go get Motherfucker! And give him the super sledge!"
"Well now, your boy's finally gettin' laid," Porter chuckled to Dizz, walking over to elbow him in the arm. "Guess all that father-son bonding cheered him up after all."
"About damn time," Dizz chuckled. When he held Lafayette's gaze a beat too long, Lafayette knew he had seen right through him.
Lafayette didn't really give a fuck. He would keep up appearances in front of the gangs because it wasn't just bad for his dad's image, it was dangerous for him, too. They had already demanded he be put through the gauntlet and he had done what he'd needed to to survive, but he was still a target. His father, however, couldn't expect him to become a different fucking person since then.
Lafayette was also pretty pissed at himself again tonight, because their hunting trip in Adventure Zone earlier that day had been fun. It felt like old times. His dad was laid back, less on edge and exhausted as he had always been when Lafayette was a kid. He seemed to trust Lafayette to hold his own now, let him do things his own way. Lafayette still didn't have a high opinion of Gage, but the older men joked and hooted as they worked their way to the basements of the cloning facility, killing everything that moved, and Lafayette got caught up in the thrill of it. He laughed at their banter, and soon any time his dad clapped him on the back or threw an arm around his shoulders, Lafayette had found himself grinning right back.
It was hard to maintain that you were being held against your will when you got happy your goddamn daddy was paying you some attention. Sure, the man he was now was closer to what he always should have been - warmer, more relaxed and agreeable, believably paternal. The years of living on the bare minimum, then the psycho addiction, had done a number on him, but Lafayette would never write off all the awful fucking things he did because of it. He saw enough of his swagger around Nuka-World to know Dizz was still every bit as capable and willing to do all the same things, and more. He was the same man who torched settlements, hung people off overpasses, and collared people into slavery. He was the same man who helped carve Gabe up and beat the brakes off of him just for fun, and would have otherwise put Luvell in a collar without a second thought.
He was at home, here.
Lafayette was relieved when they all just let him walk out of there, for more reasons than one. To his credit, the guy under his arm kept up with his longer stride well for as inebriated as he was. His eyes were as pale as his skin, indiscernible in color, and his pupils blown wide.
"Did you say we were going to the top of the mountain?" he asked with a grin, a hand petting up Lafayette's chest to toy with his nipple through his shirt.
"Uh, yeah," Lafayette said, glancing around before pushing his hand away. He hadn't exactly expected a slave to be so forward, but every inch of this place was crawling with raiders right to Fizztop. There were few places in this whole goddamn park that Lafayette didn't have eyes watching his every move. He would have to keep up with the charade until they were inside.
"What's your name?" Lafayette asked, and this time he let the man's skinny arm wrap around the small of his back, fingertips sneaking into the waist of his jeans.
"Dandy," he said with a stifled laugh, like he was telling a joke.
"Dandy? Like the apples?"
"Dandy like the apples," he grinned. "And they call you Junior, right?"
"They call me that," he scowled. "But my name is Lafayette."
"Mmm, La-fa-yette," he sang softly, both hands now heavily petting Lafayette's torso beneath his shirt. Dandy bit his lower lip and purred, "What are you planning to do to me tonight?"
"Knock it off," Lafayette said quietly, the two still not past the Disciple's lair.
Dandy flinched at his tone, his hands withdrawing and his gaze dropping to the ground immediately. "Yes sir, I'm sorry."
Lafayette felt awful. He sighed and squeezed the man's shoulder. "It's alright, just.. wait until we get up there, and alone. Then we'll talk."
Dandy didn't say anything the rest of the way. Lafayette kept an arm around him, holding his body close, and led him through the lobby and up the back elevator. He didn't often have Fizztop to himself - he didn't really get much privacy at all, but once they stepped off the elevator he relaxed.
"You hungry?" he asked, letting the man go.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?" Lafayette lingered. He had seen how the slaves got treated, what they were fed. Being from the brothel he might get a little better than the usual, but he sure didn't look like it. Dandy shook his head, looking around as if he expected someone else to be there. He still wouldn't meet Lafayette's eye.
"Well.. let me know," Lafayette said, unsure himself. "My room is over here, the kitchen is that way down the hall, and the bathroom is over there. The water works, if you need a shower or anything."
That seemed to pique his interest a bit, but still he walked to the bedroom. Lafayette followed him and lingered awkwardly in the doorway. When Dandy started to strip off his shirt he quickly said, "Hey, no. That's not why I brought you here."
Dandy lowered his arms, his thin white shirt taut between them. "What do you want me to do?" he asked carefully, chancing a brief look back at him.
"Fuck if I know," he sighed. "We're not having sex. Just.. hang out, for an hour or two? Or the whole night, whatever. Eat something, take a shower, whatever you want. My dad and Porter will be back before too long, though, and once they do you should stay in here with me."
Dandy stood there, blinking slowly. Lafayette wondered if he was too high to even understand what he was saying, much less shower or eat. "Or you can just sleep. I only got the one bed, so we gotta share but.. No sex."
"Wait, what?"
"You'll be safe if you stay the night here. And you can look at me. Fuck, I hate this fucking place."
Dandy slowly looked up, his hazy expression still baffled. Lafayette huffed in frustration and reached over to hit the light. There was a string of christmas lights along one wall, casting the room in dim but colorful hues. After closing and locking the door with a set of hooks and a chain he had hammered into the wall himself, Lafayette walked to the other side of the bed. He turned away to take off his jeans, and climbed into bed in his shirt and boxers.
"Get some rest, Dandy," he prompted him, dividing his pillows and shifting to one side of the bed to make space. Then he rolled over, facing away from him.
He listened to Dandy breath in the quiet room for a minute or so. Then there was the sound of fabric hitting the floor, and eventually he felt the mattress shift as the other man climbed in next to him.
…….
A few hours later, Dandy woke up, and hadn't the slightest idea where the fuck he was. There was the broad back of a very tall man beside him, and at first he guessed it was the Overboss. He'd blown him once, back when he was first getting to know the gangs and Mags wanted to make a good impression. The man never gave him a second glance, but Dandy distinctly remember that he was fucking hung. His head was pounding, but his body wasn't any more sore than usual. He was only missing his shirt, and the other man looked fully dressed.
He carefully sat up and slid off the mattress, shifting the bed as little as possible. It was Junior, he realized, getting a better look at him in the dim lights. It still didn't make any sense that he would be in the guy's bed without feeling wrecked, though. Dandy didn't puzzle about it much more, tugging his shirt back on and checking his pockets.
He only had thirty caps. He couldn't go back without one hundred and fifty. Maybe one-twenty, if he could sweet talk his way out of a beating.
He cursed under his breath and looked around. He still didn't know where he was, though now he assumed it was somewhere above Fizztop. The room was jarringly neat, for a raider. The floors were swept, furniture sparse but uncluttered. It took him a few minutes of creeping around, nearly holding his breath in the quiet space as he slowly eased open footlockers and drawers, making sure to put everything back just right. When he found a small fortune of caps, he grabbed two handfuls before he managed to check himself. If he robbed Junior it would be a goddamn death sentence. No, he would just take one hundred. Maybe one-twenty, just what he needed. He probably wouldn't even notice, right?
Dandy sorted himself out and glanced worriedly around the room, afraid something would be amiss. His heart was hammering, and he gave the sleeping man one last look before he carefully eased out the door.
#fallout fic#fallout 4#nuka world#writeblr#fanfic#ntzsche nuka-world#m/m#ntzsche bad blood#ntzsche lafayette#ntzsche dizz
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Hi!! Could I please request a romantic matchup with a male character from One Piece?
My pronouns are she/her and I’m heterosexual. My zodiac sign is Taurus and I’m an INFP! I have pretty dark brown hair and I have brown eyes.I also have freckles across my cheeks.
I’m definitely a more introverted person, I’m very shy when I’m talking to people I don’t know, and I tend to avoid conversation as much as possible. However, if I get to know someone, I can be very talkative and cheery! I’m a very creative person and have a big imagination! I can also be very stubborn, and I don’t really like to admit that I’m wrong.
I have a lot of hobbies, and I really enjoy trying out new things! I have a passion for baking, and I try to bake something new at least once a month! I also enjoy figure skating, and I’ve recently learned how to play the harp! Some other various hobbies of mine include calligraphy, digital art and quilting. I absolutely love going antique shopping! It’s a really fun past time, and I definitely like looking through decorations and utilities from the past. I collect records, old comics, pins, and paper dolls, so those are all things I like! I have a very strong dislike for bugs and I also hate seafood.
Thank you!! I hope this is good!
I match you with...
MIKAWK
○ Mihawk needs an introvert who understands his need for time spent alone to think and recharge. You would likely benefit (imo) from someone who understands your reservation and need to warm up slowly. Though to everyone else it seems like the slowest of slow burn romances, the two of you get to come out of your shells at your own paces in a natural way.
○ As you warm up and become more talkative, Mihawk becomes a bit surprised with your wild imagination (wild in his eyes, anyway, seeing as he is the much less imaginative of the two of you.) That bring said, he adores hearing you go on about your ideas. You do most of the talking, but he's more than happy to listen over tea
○ Both of you are quieter people, it seems. Quiet nights in over parties, museums Ober clubs - you get the idea. Your idea of a good date lines up well, which keeps things fresh and romance alive
○ Outwardly, the two of you are opposites - uptrend cheerful and bright, he's brooding and dark; you're a jack of all trades, he's a master of one; you get the idea. Inwardly though, you're similar enough to understand one another and where the other comes from when they approach things differently. Together, your differences and similarities together make you unstoppable
HEADCANONS
○ Mihawk has not just a hobby room, but a whole wing dedicated to your interests added to his castle. Sewing room, art room, collection room - the only thing not in the castle is a skating rink and that's only because it's outside. You even have your own bedroom in the wing. Like, you share the master bedroom, but for nights you're too exhausted to make it after a long night crafting, or too socially worn out to even want to spend time with him, its there.
○ With your cheery nature and Mihawks... uh. Well you know him being himself, you become known as the sun and the moon.
○ You sound like something of an old soul, and I feel like you and Mihawk end up dressing like a historical vampire-esque manner. You don't really wear couples clothes exactly, but you do match quite perfectly
○ Learning swordplay is an absolute must for you. Even if you were somewhat proficient before, there is much for you to learn from the greatest swordsman in the world. He won't say it, but he does this because he worries for you - the waters you live in are dangerous, after all. In turn though, Mihawk can be convinced to pick up one of your hobbies if you play your cards right. Turns out he's quite a handy seamstress.
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okayyyy more. revisting 03s version of the 'leonardo #1' aka 'leo fights all those dudes in the rain' aka 'leo vs that damn window' aka 'one of wifis fav moments of the "i want episode were he pass away not because i hate him because i love him" variety'...
At this point i have seen. as fair as i know EVERY version of that specific moment. 90s movie (its raph actually!), 03, 12, mirage and idws (both incredible. i believe eastmans layouts for mirage, stunning. and soph. campbell art on the idw one. so EMOTIONAL). oh and its in the mobile game on apple arcade too. yeah.
and in my mind, 03 a lot of legs up, you get motion over still image for action heavy scenes, animation over live action for less physical limitations on the action, and 2d over cg, which specifically for the relavant eras on tv budgets, helps tune in the colour pallet and textures. is dark and its raining, can you can really see both. cool tone pallets and rain that just poors down the characters skin. at least in the close up shots. lol.
BUT i will admit. and oh i am not usually this person. like. kids/all ages media is gonna be the way it is. its silly to expect it to be otherwise. I WAS. a little struck. by feeling the absence of really heavy hits. like. he cant KILL people. its 4kids.... but as their throwing ya know. waves of enemies, and just using the stock animation attacks and cut away techique. its a little diminished. now it still has the escalation of stakes, gives you that sense of pronglonged exhausting battle, lets you feel both leos skill and when hes in too deep. just the composition/choreo leaves a little wanting.
THAT SAID. it IS a 2 parter. the adaption of the leo micro is part one. issue 11 is part 2. AND. OH i found out where they put all the animation! Its here. NOW this. pretty much makes complete sense when youre not me who just got sicko focused on the endurance sad boy test...
the second half is of course where you have ALL of the characters getting in the mix, an established set piece location of aprils apartment and shop. and you know, time for THE SHREDDER. to actually get in the mix. and not just get his guys to do the work. the difference is kinda wild.
you have a lot of really specific locational fighting, not cuting to the action lines background. constant awareness of where all our players are and what their doing. and when the turtles fight the 'elite guard', (about as literally as you can get to, they are mini bosses). i was thinking. Hey is this rotoscoped? cause something about the form factor of the characters, the heft of their movement, and the full body mechanics of the fighting. it feels so night and day. super impactful and very cool to see.
also what we call. casey with the good hair. instead of the flat middle part hair, they draw him with a bit of volume, some wavy texture... it really gives the impression he JUST tried a new conditioner thats really working for him... its not really here nor there. fun tho.
so. as much as i will silently morn not getting a rise leo no 1 moment (hell they could make it raph again. why not). just cause. god could you imagine? or any of the other newer animations... if you let the batturtles team do it they could get some brutality.. or if they do it in the mm show... shit.
I AM still, getting appreciation for 03 playing the beautiful game, of how you work your stories around animated tv show restrictions. just the previous arc, notes from the underground, has so much unique style of lighting, and one other shot that really stuck out to me. just the turtles repelling down a cliff, arms out front and behind, walking basically, straight down. Its necessarily such an awkward gesture, but it looked really nice, just for a short little transitional shot. respect.
#some shit#turbles...#turble redux#still avoiding agony posting. thats between me and the notes app...#ITS WORKING. so take that. agony.#mwah mwah just being on my shit
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All the actors you posted are beautiful but...bland? (In the same way that Hollywood actors are often indistinguishably and blandly beautiful.) I'm curious who the most interesting Greek actors are who aren't conventionally attractive? Like, the Greek equivalent of Jack Black, Taika Waititi, Melissa McCarthy.
I'm not sure which post you refer to though. In the most beautiful actors one, yeah I went for popular conventional beauty standards, because that's what I was asked about.
In the famous actors one, I went for talent alone and there are all levels and types of attractiveness in the actors I mentioned.
Also I am not sure whether you are asking me about unconventionally attractive actors or just good actors regardless of attractiveness. Because the examples you gave me aren’t helping me personally very much…so to speak😅
That's why I will only give you the one that objectively (fight me) ticks off both options: great actor that is also very unconventionally attractive and the whole country is into him.
Yannis Stankoglou.
I guess he’s for us like what Javier Bardem is for Spain or Vincent Cassel for France.
lol yeah I went there, but be real, how many chances do you get daily to see a brutal hot Balkan dude working the field
To be fair, I believe Stankoglou was born more conventionally beautiful but wild youth took its toll (he has said it himself that he had a very very wild youth).
But it's okay because that's how he got one of the most interesting faces I have seen. He can play ANY kind of villain, he could (SHOULD) play a Greek god but he also pulls of good characters excellently as he can also look mellow when he wants to.
Now, I know this is not what you asked but I am not sure what you asked either so that's what you get: a creepy thirst trap for a creepier-looking guy XD
Again, in my famous actors list I included many who have nowhere near perfect looks but, also, it goes without saying that no list can be exhaustive. There are surely many interesting / good actors I didn't mention, some “perfectly bland” beautiful and some less so.
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Hi mbw! Love you works sooo much.I was wondering how do you determine how smutty the piece you’re writing is? In W&H the sex scenes are written more akin to poetry but then reading some of your one shots etc, you also can write some that don’t shy away from being more tangible and detailed. Also, when writing fanfics vs original works, is there anything you find yourself changing in re: to smutty scenes?
hi anon! please pardon the meandering answer, i went on a bit of an adventure thinking about this.
the short answer to this is: i do what i want. which sounds glib, but there is quite literally a 'what do i feel like doing' kind of vibe that goes into that decision making.
however, the long answer (and the rest of the decision making) is that it very much depends on the story. and i would actually argue that my one shots have the most range in explicitness (vs my novel/novella length stories that are almost exclusively M/E).
for example:
there's some G rated nuggets with no sexual content (which certainly does not mean there's no romantic tension) like in rendezvous receipts (nottpott) and a taste of peppermint (nevmione).
there's T rated fics with more obvious romantic/sexual tension, kissing, and some implications of off screen sex like in overwhelming evidence (scorbus) and scone strategies (dramione).
there's M rated one shots (which is probably my favorite way to write smut) with less explicit language in the on-page smut, partial scenes/fade-to-black, and an emphasis on the emotional experience in fics like hippogriff homewrecking (dramione) and lie with me (dramione).
and then there's the E rated ones with explicit sexual language, an emphasis on the physical experience, and the smut as a pretty central component of the story like in well said, hermione (dramione) and sixty minutes (remione).
how i decide which of those one shots will be explicit and which ones won't be is heavily influenced by the plot, the pov, and those unquantifiable ~vibes~ i'm feeling. part of the reason most of my novellas end up rated E (see: intimate transations [sirmione], love in other places [dramione], and season pass (to this ass) [dramione]) is because their plots usually involve sex as a key part of story. like when trading physical intimacies for emotional ones or dating a himbo quidditch player specifically to have good sex for the first time. (which, i find it easier to write smut-centric things in slightly shorter form bc i think its difficult to maintain effective, non-exhaustive tension the longer it goes).
so with well said, hermione for example, both the plot and the pov lend themselves to a more explicit writing style. we have a hermione who discovers she has a very specific voice kink and likes hearing draco recite shakespeare, and we have a first person draco pov who is very, very into that. compare that to something like overwhelming evidence where we still have a first person male pov, but scorpius is a nervous, rambling little mess and the plot is very much about them getting together, rather than them being together.
with the example of w&h, pov played a huge, huge part in it. that hermione pov was looking at and thinking about sex in a fairly anticipatory, romanticized way, so it didn't make sense to me for her internal monologue and the way she experienced sex to include explicit language and to focus so heavily on the physical mechanics of what was happening. compare that to b&e, where draco's pov is much more (forgive the wild generalizations) horny young dude (tm) definitely thinking in explicit terms. compare that again to s&s where we again have a male pov but theo has ~so much shit~ going on (and is definitely a Romantic, capital R) and therefore the smut in that story leans much more M rated. all the smut i write is heavily filtered through a character's pov, so how it's written/experienced needs to make sense to me for who they are.
so i think this all kind of boils down to a combination of what i feel like doing and what makes sense for the story i'm writing.
an aside worth addressing here is that there's definitely a lot of pressure when writing in fandom to write explicit smut and to write a lot of it. there's a very high demand for porn in fic and therefore a high incentive to supply to that demand because the higher the rating, the more hits, very broadly speaking. and this can be super demotivating for a lot of folks who either don't want to write explicit smut, don't feel comfortable (for whatever reason) writing explicit smut, or who are writing non-explicit things and seeing much less engagement as a result.
and i think this is why i weight doing what i want so heavily. if i feel like writing explicit smut that's great, awesome, i'll do it because i want to. if i don't feel like writing it, i just won't. and that works for me because i weight my enjoyment of my writing process and my final result more heavily than the engagement i ultimately get out of it. which isn't the same for everyone; some people might prefer to have more engagement and so they're going to intentionally include smut, and that's totally cool.
as for original works, explicitness comes down to the audience i'm writing for and what i think a market/publisher might want. like with fic, there's a whole range of explicitness and it really just depends on what genre i'm wanting to write in.
i hope this was....moderately helpful at least? we meandered a bit but i think it was fairly coherent in the end lol. thanks for the ask, friend! i had fun thinking about it at the very least!
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Bouncing Back After Burnout
Hey everyone! Back here with another post for your reading pleasure.
Ever since coming back from Argentina, life has been even more chaotic. I have a group project in each of my classes, so I’ve been spending a lot of time attending meetings and doing research outside of class. Because of this, I haven’t had much time to allow myself to relax. I know that I won’t be here forever, so I also often feel the need to pack everything that I can into the day: to visit a new place, to try a new dish, to learn a new phrase in Spanish, to talk to someone different every day, etc. All of this combined with the drastic change in temperature (it went from 80 to 60 degrees in one week!) has led me to feel physically and emotionally drained.
When I’m feeling exhausted and wishing nothing more than to be at home in the U.S. snuggled up with my cats, I remind myself to be kinder to myself. Yes, I am here to discover more about the culture and make the most out of my experience, but I am also living here, and that in itself is a way of learning how Uruguayans live too. I also know that not letting myself truly rest will lead to even more stress and burnout. Therefore, I strive to cook a good meal every day, go on a walk to decompress, do cross-stitch in my down time, or call a friend when I’m feeling lonely. In terms of studying, I realize that I am doing the best I can, but I also shouldn’t obsess over it. Overall, I do everything that I can to take care of my body physically and seek fun and relaxing outlets to calm my anxiety.
With all this to be said, I have had some incredible experiences in the past couple of weeks! 2 weeks ago, I went to Punta del Este with a few Uruguayan friends! Punta del Este is a beach town a little less than two hours from Montevideo where everyone in Uruguay goes to vacation over the summer! Here, it’s becoming fall, so nobody was there (ie we had the whole place to ourself!). We walked a lot, played card games, and enjoyed the beach views. This past Saturday, I celebrated my friend’s birthday. Several friends and I went to a pub called Montevideo Beer Company and enjoyed appetizers and drinks with my friend, Fabiana (she’s from Chile!). I gave her a little succulent, and the look on her face told me that it was the perfect gift. On Sunday night, I went to a soccer game! There are two major soccer teams in Uruguay: el club Nacional and Peñarol. I went to a Peñarol game vs. a small team in Colonia, and I had a blast! The atmosphere was incredible- there was a marching band in the middle of the bleachers, and they played the whole 90 minutes of the game! Everyone there knew the lyrics to every chant, and you could see true pain and frustration in their phrases when the other team advanced. The score was tied 1-1 for a while, until at the very last minute, a player from Peñaroldid an unbelievable bicycle kick and scored! As you can imagine, the crowd went wild. People climbed up on the fences, threw color smoke bombs, and sang the chants walking out of the stadium. To be honest, my favorite part was that the game was quick. I was fully expecting to settle in for a three-hour game like the football games at UofSC. To my surprise, I got into bed before 10 p.m.!
Studying abroad isn’t without its challenges, but I’m learning how to manage the stress and thrive in this unique environment. I now understand that it’s ok to put myself first and say “no” to things to rejuvenate myself and come back feeling more refreshed. And if all else fails, I know that a mate will always make my day better.
As the Uruguayans say, Vamoarriba! Hasta luego!
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Hey gorg! I've seen some of your works and your comments, I think we are into simialr things. Do you mind critiquing some of my writings I posted, they're kind of fucked, but I think you'll be entertained.
I'd love to! Thank you so much for asking.
“Copacetic”
It all really depends on what you want the writing to convey. If you want it to be a script or play, then it has to have less descriptions and emotion, more basic understanding. Take this one line for example. “Thalia swerves her curves over, and is now laying on her back and facing the ceiling, clearly exhausted herself.” This is a bit too descriptive for a screenwrite, so I suggest something more along the lines of “Thalia rolled over in bed, now laying on her back. She was clearly tired as well.”
Little tip 1: Using too many words that aren't part of the description (and, but, the, a, etc.) can really kill the pacing. Also, look out for run-on sentences! Those commas might look good now, but separating those thoughts with a period can be better for your writing in the long-term.
If you're going for a story mimicking a screenwrite, then go to town with those descriptions. Use epithets, nicknames, tell the smallest of tales with the eyes, little twitches, and anything in between. “Thalia swerves her curves over, and is now laying on her back and facing the ceiling, clearly exhausted herself,” can be to little of a description. It's a bit unclear as to what exactly she's doing, and the readers will have a hard time staying focused. Here's an example of what could be done. “Thalia lazily rolled into her back, arm draped across the plush sheets as she faced the ceiling. Her languid movements showed how exhausted she really was.” Of course, this is just an example. If you want to make it more romantic, I'm, unfortunately, not the one to come to. Romantic writings are not my forte, as I opt for more cutesy or basic writing.
Little tip 2: Repetition can be good in some scenarios, but it can also cheapen your words. The more of something you have, the less valuable it is.
Personally, I'm not too sure if what certain phrases like “reak of guilt” or “dizzy jiggaboo” mean, and I don't think that most readers know either. Besides that, the dialogue seems a bit forced, and there is not much need for so many expletives. Even if a person curses frequently, they just throw curses around casually as if they were normal words. I personally don't know Spanish, but I feel that I didn't really need to. The emotion poured into your words was easily understood. As a writer/editor, I see that this writing can go either way. It's like a raw diamond. It's uncut and strange, and doesn't look too pretty. But you can see its value. Its potential. It just needs to be refined. As a normal person, are you okay? Writing can be therapeutic, but it's always good to talk to someone.
Little tip 3: When going back to edit or fix my work, I have a rule of thumb. “Never edit, always rewrite.” Instead of changing specific words and phrases, it's better to create a new line below the work/paragraph, and start over. It'll give you a new perspective as well as forcing your mind to rediscover new ways to write.
TL;DR for Copacetic: It's wild, it's kinda crazy, and it could use a bit of reworking. But the potential is there.
“There’s Slaves Under The Rio”
This one I kinda thumbed through, but I read the first few short stories entirely. All I can say is: what on earth? For critique, I will give you this. There's a lot of repetition and run-on sentences, and you seem to struggle with that. It's a normal thing to struggle with. I suggest using more periods in place of commas. In fact, as a little writing challenge, take something you've written and replace all the commas with periods. Then read through it and use as little commas as possible to replace some of the periods.
This isn't something I'd read normally, but it's given me some perspective and insights. It is a bit too mature for my tastes, but I enjoyed it in a sense. In all seriousness, if you need to talk to someone, anyone at all, you could go to a professional, or you could message me. This seems like something born from a bad experience or bad thoughts. No judgement here, just something I noticed.
Little tip 4: I didn't understand a lot of the terms used in this, and most readers won't either. As I said for Copacetic. Using synonyms or more direct words and epithets could really elevate your writing.
TL;DR for There's Slaves Under The Rio: Try and focus your narrative, try a little challenge, and don't use so many run-on sentences.
“The Man Who Killed BABY”
Just the title alone scared me. But the writing? I… I'm honestly damn near speechless. It's like a fever dream or a trip. I'm still reeling from it. I have little to no tips for this, as I can't understand it. Please, don't take this to heart. Your writing is improving, and I'm impressed with how much growth you've had. Copacetic shows how much you've improved. I hope you keep learning and growing in your skill, and I hope nobody can take you down from that track.
I got a little off topic there, but my main point is just keep learning.
Little tip 5: Writing challenges, as well as writing prompts, are a good way to test yourself and workout those writing muscles.
TL;DR for The Man Who Killed BABY: You've grown a lot in your writing, and this piece shows your starting point. Keep moving, keep learning, and try some challenging things.
”The Nun Who Has Sex”
The title startled me, much like the last one, but the writing was much different. Very poetic, and easy to understand. You can just tell it holds some deeper meanings, and the emotions are very raw. I'm impressed. Other than one or two spelling and capitalization mistakes, there's nothing wrong with this but the title.
Little tip 6: Write what you want to. Whatever style or genre you want to write, write it. Screenplays, poems, stories, whatever. Write what you want to, from one writer to another.
TL;DR for The Nun Who Has Sex: The title isn't very fitting, but it's a wonderful piece. I'm impressed with your poetry talents.
This is all of the writings I found on your account, and I did my best! In general, you need to work on sentence format, wording, and focusing your stories. Please remember, this is not a personal attack or insult. Just some advice and tips. Again, thank you so much for asking! I'm glad to review, critique, edit, and more.
I've never really answered an ask, so I don't know if it notifies the asker. So, just in case it doesn't, I'll tag them. @vestah thank you for asking. <3
#dividers by animatedglittergraphics-n-more#writeblr#writers in tumblr#asked and answered#asks are open#requests are open#critique#writing
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AddGG R&D: The True Cost of Free Spells in Magic: the Gathering
Fun fact! It turns out that, if a deck can cut corners on paying mana, it will! While spells like Force of Will may seem to hold Legacy together, it actually speaks for a major problem with Magic the Gathering's faster formats, to the point to where it's now even a concern in Modern; are free spells keeping fast Magic in check, or are they enabling it in the first place? The popular take is that free spells are healthy in fast formats, especially free interaction in Vintage and Legacy. However, outside of Vintage, these free spells tend to be better at protecting and enabling fast strategies than they are at stopping them.
Many people would say that it goes both ways, that protecting and enabling your strategies just so happens to be a consequence of stopping your opponent. However, the simple matter is this; busted strategies don't get acted on as much nowadays because of spells like Force of Will or Daze stopping T1-2 kills. But what If you're deck can't run these spells? This is a very valid concern; some free spells are situational and offer no benefit to certain decks, while cards like Force of Will are unconditionally good in basically every deck that runs at least a few blue cards. The most unconditionally useful run wild, while the less conditional rarely see use at all. Here's my observation; free spells are allowed in most formats because it's less work to make more (and keep old ones unbanned) than it is to ban free spells, then ban the problematic cards free interaction no longer "keeps in check". This is WotC's ban philosophy, but those in charge of making the ban calls see what overwhelmed playtesters and stats on a chart say about gameplay patterns. They aren't playing at the table at local events and tournaments. They aren't spending their money to invest in Magic as a hobby, nor are they playing MTG Arena and experiencing problematic play patterns as the player. The problems that unbalanced cards create are much more serious when you're the one playing the game, and this especially holds true for players who want to play more diverse strategies outside of a "safe zone" with friends that Rule Zero cards they find problematic.
From a gameplay standpoint, here's the biggest problems free spells create:
They lead to disappointing endgames. No one wants to spend the entire game waiting for an opening against their opponent's interaction, only for to be punished for trying to win after their opponent has exhausted their mana.
They incentivize overly swingy plays and speed up formats as a result. Decks don't have to strategize around how they spend their mana if they can cast important spells for free.
The best way to keep up with the advantage free spells give is to play free spells yourself, which keeps metagames from becoming more diverse.
Free spells tend to warp formats around them. Most recently, Rakdos Scam has emerged as an archetype in Modern thanks to Fury and Grief, the former of which had to be banned. This extends into the past as well though, as Izzet Delver used to oppress the Pauper meta far worse until Daze was banned. Lastly, Leyline of the Void and Leyline of Sanctity frequently see play in decks that can't play them normally, with players even mulliganing down past 5 cards if it means having one against the right opponent.
If you want to design free spells, you should take the following into account:
Free spells, even conditionally, must have heavy care taken into their balance, and should generally only be introduced to Legacy, Vintage, and Commander.
When a free spell is made, its benefits shouldn't be too great and/or versatile. If many decks can run it, many decks will.
When banning cards in your custom formats, take into account what speed you want the format to be instead of focusing on "X beats Y". Such hyperfixations can result in bad ban decisions (or lack thereof). Also, don't allow card designs to creep the speed of the format by too much of a degree; power creep is natural, but allowing it to overstay its welcome can result in decks losing relevance because they aren't fast enough anymore.
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Week ending: 29 October 1953
Three songs, this week, and a mostly quite intriguing set of titles - from Sweden to Italy (?) Very European, at least at first glance.
Swedish Rhapsody - Mantovani (peaked at No. 2)
Coming in first, we get a familiar name in Mantovani, though I'm less familiar with the track. It looks like it should be a sort of knock-off Bohemian Rhapsody, which, to be fair, is a banger of a song.
Actually, does that mean Bohemian Rhapsody was parodying this kind of classical piece? That's wild that I never realised, if so - it speaks to just how much the Queen song has eclipsed its precedents!
The song itself, once I hit play, is what I'm starting to realise is typical Mantovani fare - a fairly maximalist piece of slightly kitschy instrumental music, soaked in strings and
Though we've also got a range of other elements here, most of them (I presume) there to provide a folksy, "Swedish" ambiance, from the tinkling glockenspiel and pipes to the accordion at the start, too, and the slightly lilting oom-pah rhythm. It's a jolly, vaguely Alpine sound, incessantly cheerful and zippy.
This isn't all Mantovani's doing, to be fair, for better or for worse. A spot of research tells me that this was a reworking of an original song by a man named Hugo Alfvén from 1905, which had been picked up by a British short film in 1952, and then by Percy Faith in 1953 (not sure if these two things were related). Mantovani, then, was one of several cover artists, here.
I do quite like this track, though. There's something a bit demented about the tune when all the strings come in, like it could come echoing through your nightmares, but I sort of like that vibe? I don't know, I think it could be effective in a thriller or horror film, with heavy distortion.
And there's also a memorable bit near the end when the brass, which came in about halfway through, suddenly gets a bit lairy and does these two almost-jazzy "bwaah-waah" bits that are kind of cool? They stay in until the end, then, as well, leading into a tremendous orchestral crash at the end.
This track is good fun, but it also does exhaust me a bit. There's so much energy being thrown into it, and it just never stops. The more I listen, the more hyperactive it sounds.
Answer Me - David Whitfield (1)
In my intro I suggested that this was the least excitingly exotic of the songs, but I've since learnt that this is also a German original song called Mütterlein ("little mother"). Not that much of that song's been preserved, aside from the tune. And not that there's anything inherently German about the sound of it, either.
No, what we get here is a stolid, earnest song about David Whitfield begging his love, in his own prim and proper style, tell him what he's done wrong. It's... definitely something.
We start with some violins that are elegant, but also very slow. I'm not generally as much of a fan of the slower, mushier ballads, so this was not a welcome surprise.
The opening lyrics, at least, are quite grand: "Answer me, O my love, just what sin have I been guilty of?" The talk of sin already pushes us into a sort-of-religious zone, and apparently the original song (this is a cover) was even more explicitly addressed to God, with the opening lyric reading "Answer me, Lord above". I guess it was still more taboo back in 1953 to mix religion and secular pop music like this, because it got changed when David did his version.
The song then gets going, and it's basically about David trying to work out what went wrong in a relationship. If he genuinely didn't do anything, it's heart-rending, I guess. That said, linkes like "Won't you tell me where I've gone astray" suggest, at least to me, a guilty conscience. It's also just quite demandy - I don't know, I wouldn't love it if this song was directed towards me.
He also manages to sound quite sulky on lines like "If you're happier without me, I'll try not to care". Like, sure, of course you will. You're singing the lines like a petulant child, but okay, you'll put on a brave face if your love's really better off without you. Not that David really thinks this, reading between the lines - why else would he be addressing this song to them?
The language of the whole song is wordy, and vaguely prayer-like, which feels fitting, but also very early-1950s! Lines like "In my sorrow now I turn to you" in particular feel quite liturgical.
And then, before we know it, we're ramping up for the biggest of big endings - it comes out of nowhere, this hulking, ugly thing. There's literally no need for it, the song's starting to fade out in a reasonably pleasing way, and the quieter ending would fit with the melancholy of it all. But not, we finish off with a final, belted "please answer me, MYYYYYYY LOOOOOOOOOOOVE". Ugh.
The whole thing is very prim and proper, too, all manners and enunciation. It's quite distant, for a song that's apparently about heartbreak and sadness. Again, ugh.
Poppa Piccolino - Diana Decker (2)
Another quite high-ranking song, this time by a new face, Diana Decker, but this time we're in Italy, it looks like? Or at least, an Italian song title.
A quick check, and yes: this is an English re-working of an Italian tune about called "Papavere e papere" (Poppies and ducks) that apparently used a cheery tune and lyrics to hide some biting satyrical lyrics. It does say that the lyrics' meaning was lost in translation completely, but surely any song that fits that description can't be all bad. Can it?
Spoilers: it can. I hate this song with a burning passion.
Part of that is Diana Decker's general manner, which can charitably be called a cross between Snow White's speaking voice and a children's TV presenter. It's painfully "for kids" and while I don't mind a bit of kids' media, I don't like it when it feels condescending. Which Diana's giggles and cutesiness really does.
Anyway, she sings a song about a wandering musician in Italy, who plays music for all the people he meets, and they apparently go wild for him. It's not spring until this dude turns up, and everyone loves his tunes.
Throughout this bit, Diana keeps lapsing into this sort of song-speaking that really sets my teeth on edge, especially when combined with sickly lyrics about how he has "A smile for every doggie and cat / and children get the friendliest pat of all". It combines twee sentiment with baby-talk and a vague creepiness and I, for one, do not appreciate it.
Worse, he's got "the cutest little monkey to collect the lira". Which surely can't be any good, from an animal rights point of view. Like, I'm not the most militant person about that, but I don't think that can be good for this monkey.
And then we get the closes thing this song has to a plot and/or conflict, as one day we learn that our musician is very sad, and there's no music, and everyone's very sad, and then the monkey finds it and everyone's very happy again. The emphasis is from the original, and it's very annoying. I just get the vibe that Diana Decker thinks every single listener is an idiot who needs this all spelling out. Insulting.
And the song doesn't even have the good grace to be over; instead we get a genuinly horrible spoken echo of "Goodbye, poppa piccolino!" at the end. The stuff of nightmares.
Well, they were definitely... something. I disliked two out of three of these. Two were also straight-up nightmarish, though in Mantovani's defense, I enjoyed how deranged his track seemed. The same cannot be said for Diana and Poppa Piccolino. Meanwhile, David Whitfield is just boring. Which means...
Favourite song of the bunch: Swedish Rhapsody
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