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anarchygraphics · 1 month

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L337s Top 10 | USA Social Casinos: Daily Cash Rewards Await!

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Introduction

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Article by Marcum, Tommy 3/22/2024

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sup3rqu33n · 2 months

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These fake money games are stupid and the worst part - people fall for them.

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steviebee77 · 7 months

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A Vexing Problem Indeed

FOR THE FOURTH TIME I grabbed for the remote and muted yet another 90-second commercial touting the glorious new activity of gambling online. Sexy young women with plunging necklines smile seductively and splay decks of cards, gesturing. These TV ads bear the names of so-called “trustworthy” gambling institutions, and promise a risk-free day of odds-laying up to $500, failing to remind that the…

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#Addiction #Brain Reward System #Covid-19 Pandemic #Dopamine #DSM-5 #Gamblers Anonymous #Gambling #Neurotransmitters #Online Casinos #Responsible Gambling Council #Risk-Taking #Substance-Related Disorder

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mrflips2023yt · 1 year

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Crash Prediction Method works in 2023

youtube

#gamblers #earn money online #gambling #prediction #stake.com #money #Youtube

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kdyism · 2 years

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just like how i buy books and keep them for ages, when i start earning my share, i will gamble on gacha (japan did that to me) and buy mangas bc i own one set that's not even a japanese release and it's so special to me

#yunn.txt #also they only sell mainstream stuff here #i would need to order online #but i am a hoarder by nature and a gambler by nurture

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urfavlarry · 3 months

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Hi, I love your Husk work as an overlord. Could I please request a husker x reader when he lost the game to Alastor. Short time after Reader becomes the Cashio Overlord that runs on the cashios that once owned by Husker. One day, the reader came by to see Husk at the hotel. Please and thank you

A/N: im not sure if i understood this well but i hope i wrote it well enough for you to enjoy! also sorry it took so long for me to write i was a bit busy but here it is<33 (and also reader doesn’t know about Husk at first :3 )

warnings: swearing,alcohol,bad grammar,mentions of death and bl00d

genre: angst??? and some fluff

——————————Flashback ——————————

You walk to your local bar, you and some guy you met online through a dating app were supposed to meet up there and get to know each other more. You liked the guy, he was nice and showed genuine interest in you, something guys didn’t really do that often. You put effort in dressing up today, wearing your best pair of clothes you had and fixing up your hair and just make yourself over all look presentable. “This guy better not ditch me.” You tell yourself as you look at the time; 7:02pm. You were supposed to meet up at 7 and he was late. “Not the best first impression.” You sigh when you suddenly hear someone yelling your name.

“Y/N! Hey it’s me the guy you have been talking to for the past few months? I’m so sorry I was stuck in traffic and I would’ve called but I just didn’t really think about it in that moment.” He says rubbing his neck nervously and smiles awkwardly. You smile at him and chuckle; “Don’t worry about it! Now let’s go have some fun!” You say excitedly and pull him to the bar.

The bar was fairly crowded, something you were expecting since it’s a pretty popular one at that. You order some drinks and take a seat in the corner of a bar. It was loud but you still managed to talk and drink the night away! You drank a bit too much that night and your head started to pound and the last thing you remembered was getting pulled into an alley by the guy and a sharp pain in your chest and blood on your hands.

————————End of Flashback ————————

After you fell down to hell you quickly realized your situation and tried your best to not get in anyones way. You kept a low profile and kept your guard up just in case. You come across a casino, an abandoned one at that. You go inside and look at yourself in one of the broken mirrors on the floor. You had poker card symbols under your eyes and on your fingers. Your eyes widen at the sight, you were still wearing the same thing from last night it’s just that you have a big X on your chest. “That motherfucker killed me.” You say in disbelief, anger slowly bubbling up in you.

That day you went on a rampage. Finding an abandoned angelic spear somewhere in the bar and went fucking nuts. You swore you killed at least a good 250 demons and you kinda discovered some powers. “Cool.” You said and smirked. People had been recording you and posting about you online, calling you the “Soul gambler”, whatever that means. You slowly learned you killed 2 overlords during your little rampage and they weren’t even some random overlords, they were “heavy hitters” as people liked to call them. People started to fear you, making out the events that happened into something 10x worse. People didn’t bother looking your way anymore, wanting to light themselves on fire rather than to look at you.

You renewed the casinos around hell and gained massive amount of territory. People would visit the casinos frequently, it sort of reminded you of the casino from back when you were alive. Many people applied for the job since almost all of the jobs were taken because of hells overpopulation problem. Some old workers that worked at the casino before you renewed them and claimed them as your own started coming in, you hiring them of course since they had experience. You quickly learned there was an Overlord similar to you a few years ago. Unfortunately he lost his power and you learned from a commercial that he is now working at a hotel, Hazbin Hotel to be exact.

You decided to go and visit the hotel one day, wanting to have a chat with the old Overlord. You make yourself look presentable, wanting to look your best since you have a reputation to uphold. You walk to the hotel, people walking by screaming or just run into near by building, “Charming.” You think sarcastically and keep walking to the hotel.

You get to the hotel and look up at it, taking in its looks. It didn’t look half bad but it could use some renovation. You walk up the hill and brush yourself off one last time and knock on the big doors. There was silence for a few minutes then you heard commotion and a quiet “coming” from behind the closed doors. You wait patiently and hear the door open, seeing the one and only princess of hell. You go to speak but the door shuts right in your face; “Well that was.. something?” You think to yourself raising a brow in the process. The door opens once again, but this time by the radio demon himself, a fellow Overlord you quite liked. He didn’t try bothering you at all since you arrived in hell a few years ago and you appreciated that. “Salutations dear! It’s a pleasure finally meeting you! Quite a pleasure! Come on now, don’t just stand there. Come in!” He says stepping aside to let you in. You smile softly at him and thank him, walking into the lobby of the hotel when you suddenly stop dead in your tracks because a spear is suddenly pointed in your face. You smile, summoning your own spear and point it to the girls neck; “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. I’m not an Overlord for nothing.” The girl mumbles something in spanish and walks away, putting her spear away. You sigh and look at the princess of hell. “Well if you guys finished trying to assassinate me, let me introduce myself.” You say and look at everyone’s expressions. You smirk and continue; “My name is Y/N, maybe you know me by “Soul gambler” ,I mean uh whatever that means.” You shrug and hear a slight chuckle from Alastor and a pink spider demon, you believe his name was Angel Dust, a porn star from Valentinos studio. Poor guy was probably tricked into signing a contract with him.

“Well, I came here to ask about an Overlord that was similair to me. He owned the casinos I now own and I heard he was residing here now?” You say calmly, hoping you can to the right place. You hear slight radio static increase but choose to ignore it. Charlie shrugs, saying she doesn’t know of any Overlord being here other than Alastor, but that she hopes you will stay for a bit to see what the hotel is like. You nod in agreement and walk to the spider fellow since he was the only one that looked approachable. You talk for a bit when he suddenly says; “So um I kinda know something about the Overlord you’re looking for.” He says grabbing your full attention.

“The Overlord you’re talking about, it’s that bartender over there. You can try talking to him but I won’t guarantee that he won’t push you away.” He says lowering his tone and grabs you back the shoulder to bring you closer. You nod looking over to the bar where a grumpy cat demon sat, drinking some cheap booze. Angel pushes you towards him, giving you a thumbs up before walking away. You glare slightly but take a deep breath and walk towards the bar. His ears perk up at the sudden footsteps and looks your way, sending you slight glare; “If you’re here to make deals with me you can turn right back around and leave me the hell alone.” He says in an annoyed tone and turns around, his back facing you. You look at him and glare slightly; “What is it with you people and interrupting me all of the time? Like jeez let me fucking speak!” You say rolling your eyes and continue; “I don’t know what shit you hears about me but I can assure you that I didn’t come here to make a deal with you. I just want to talk.” You say sighing, hoping for an answer from the cat demon.

“Whatever let’s just get this over with, what is it?” He says rolling his eyes. You look around and say in a hushed tone; “Do you happen to know anything about the old Overlord that used to own the casinos I own now?” You say and hope you get the truth out of the grumpy ass cat. He looks back at you and curses Angel under his breath, an angered look on his face; “Cut the shit I know you know it was me. What do you want?” He says going closer to the counter where you were sitting opposite to him. You sigh; “I don’t want to cause any harm, really just a friendly chat. Share experiences you know? Since we’re both kind of similar..?” He looks back at you in disbelief and contemplates what to say. He sighs and pulls out two shot glasses, pouring you one and nods for you to continue. “Sooo..” “Husk. The name is Husk.” You smile, asking away and share your experience as on overlord with him. He asks some questions himself, wondering how the casino is doing or if anyone decided to come back there to work. You chat for the rest of the day, others looking at you in awe as they’ve never seen Husk open up to anyone.

After a while you get a bit drunk, talking the poor cat’s ear off. He smiles, listening to your stories, commenting on them here and there. After a bit you decide you had enough for the day and that you should get home. Charlie quickly offered you a room for the night, free of charge so you gladly accepted. “Husk go ahead and show them to their room please? I have something important to do!” Charlie yells before running off to who knows where.

Husk sighs but links your arms and walks you to your room. “Don’t forget to drink some water.. You know so you don’t throw up in the morning.” He says and walks off to his own room. You look at his figure disappearing in the dark of the hallway and enter your room. It was spacious and really nice for a hotel in hell.

You lay down in the bed, kicking your shoes off and hum in satisfaction, falling asleep just after a few seconds of resting on the comfortable bed. The next day you wake up, a slight headache but nothing pain killers couldn’t fix. You stretch and go to the bathroom, taking off your clothes and take a quick shower. You saw a new pair of clothes in the bathroom and a little note left by Charlie. You smile and take the clothes, putting them on. It wasn’t anything fancy but you liked it. You put on your shoes and fold your dirty clothes neatly on the bed and decide to head down to the lobby. It was around 9:30 ish when you went out so you hoped someone was awake. You head down and to your surprise see that everyone is awake. “Good morning sleepy head! You sure slept for quite some time!” Alastor chirped and grins at you, waving for you to come over.

You sit down next to Alastor, Charlie and Vaggie making breakfast. “So I saw you talking to Husk last night~” He smirks slightly. You roll your eyes knowing Alastor and Rosie like to gossip, usually during the meeting Carmilla holds once in a while. “Yeah? It was just a friendly chat. Sinner to sinner.” You shrug and sip on the coffe Charlie brought with the breakfast. Alastor raises a brow but shrugs and walks off.

You see the car demon from afar. Already sitting at the counter and drinking booze. You smirk and walk over with your coffee in hand and sit down at the bar; “Ain’t it a bit too soon for you to be drinking?” You tease and eye him and the booze in his hand. He chuckles lowly and smirks; “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic darling, it’s just the way it is.” He says and shrugs his shoulders, taking another swing of his booze. “Sleep well? You seemed pretty drunk last night.” He says and eyes your figure. You smile and say; “I’m fine, I handle my alcohol pretty well just a slight headache.” You take the last sip of your coffee and place the mug down.

You look at Husk who seems to be thinking about something before he suddenly speak up; “Maybe we could repeat last night another time? Maybe you could show me what you did with my poor casino?” He teases and smirks. You fake gasp and hold your chest where your sadly dead heart is. “Oh I would bet my soul that my version of the casino is so much better than yours was.”

“We’ll see about that Doll~”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel season 1 #alastor #charlie morningstar #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel husk #overlord!husk #overlord husk #overlord #overlords #alastor hazbin hotel #vaggie #hazbin charlie #husker x you #husk x reader #gn reader #reader insert #husk x y/n

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laracrofted · 11 months

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downright iconic

synopsis: after handsome gambler’s hometown show, you follow lead guitarist rhett abbott on his smoke break.

pairing: rockstar!rhett abbott x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors dni, ageless blogs that interact will be blocked, swearing, explicit smut (semi-public oral, masturbation, spitting, praise, degradation (slut is used a lot, so is groupie), brief hair pulling, dirty talk, role play, like... rhett is kind of mean but it's been negotiated off-screen, i swear), and smoking (wc: 4K)

note: so... i'd like to blame @lewmagoo for enabling me and my guitarist rhett agenda, but in the end, i can only blame myself for this one. please read the warnings!

listen to gibson girl by ethel cain before/after/during for the full experience, i.e. a sexy guitar solo and general vibes.

so many people interacted with the original post so i'm only tagging people who asked: @theharddeck @sometimesanalice @withahappyrefrain @blitchen @becks-things @ryebecca @perpetuelledaydreaming @rhettabbotts @starlightmoon2020 @wkndwlff @broketraveler87 @thedroneranger @high-speed-r @sebsxphia @cherrycola27 @uhhhhhhhhwat @roosterbruiser @pillow-titties @whoeverineedtobe @bobfloydsbabe @petcr3

You’re watching him the whole show. How could you not?

Handsome Gambler broke out on the basically nonexistent Wabang music scene a few years back and quickly became something of a local marvel.

A hidden gem in the realest sense.

Forged in the blistering sun that beat down on the cattle ranches and dude ranches of Wyoming and Montana all summer long where half of five-person Handsome Gambler still worked in the slow season... a real rock band.

After a year or so, larger opportunities arose in out-of-town bars, and soon enough, Handsome Gambler were selling out dives up and down the Rockies.

They'd gotten enough local buzz for the Casper Star-Tribune to cover the release of the debut album last summer, both in print and online, calling them an electric revival of the musician who works with their hands. Blue collar rockstars.

And in the deep red shadows of the stage, no other description could do Rhett Abbott justice. He looks so ruggedly handsome, like a goddamn rockstar.

Loose strands of dark hair fall in his face, in his eyes as Rhett bends over a dark red Gibson – a beautiful electric guitar, saved up and paid for with rodeo earnings.

A guitar pick is between his lips, narrow and pursed in concentration. He reaches up and plucks it from his mouth, swiping his tongue across his chapped bottom lip, preparing for the upcoming guitar solo.

Tonight is their last show in a nine week tour, and for all intents and purposes since most of Handsome Gambler is from Wabang, their hometown show.

It's a packed house, if much smaller than their usual venues these days.

You’d seen them at Million Dollar Cowboy bar down in Jackson in a 400 person crowd right around when Handsome Gambler put out their debut album, which had really gained them all the attention.

A sleek concept album. Spinning a shadowy narrow of forgotten love and wasted youth and western nights, humming cicadas and wildfire smoke on the mountains and rich earth stained black with rain and death and in the aftermath, a dusting of wildflowers that sprouted anyway – in and over a dozen songs, woven with seductive guitar solos and haunting vocals, morose and longing.

Like a ghost, come down from the mountains.

You'd bought the album on the release date and listened on the floor of your old apartment, back against the scratchy carpet, hands folded at your bellybutton, eyes closed.

On your first listen, you'd hit with repeat without hesitation; on your second, you'd cried.

It was brilliant, meant to be heard live in a hazy dive, dense with bodies and liquor and smoke, like this one.

His solo comes, and Rhett slides down on his knees in the center of the stage; faded, once dark denim stretched taut around his muscular thighs.

He sits back on his haunches, gaze slanted, watching the guitar and nothing else. Gorgeous hands slide reverently up and down the neck of the instrument, veins visible, muscles straining in his strong arms, in his beautiful neck.

Head falling back, Rhett closes his eyes, caught in the music and carried downriver.

Seeing him like this reminds you of another piece in the Tribune last summer.

A freelance music writer had spent an afternoon with him before a show for an in-depth profile on the origins of the band, on the music, on Rhett as the North Star the rest of Handsome Gambler often described him as:

"Handsome Gambler is Not Afraid to Lose."

WABANG, Wyo. – It’s an unseasonably warm June in Wabang, dry enough to brown the fields and make the local ranchers worried about wildfire, but in a secluded diner on the edge of town, former competitive bull rider and now, lead guitarist Rhett Abbott looks like a man who isn’t afraid of a little risk.

The diner was his choice, a run down place with enough charm in the form of checkered floors and old autographed photos in chipped wood frames to make it feel retro instead and according to him, the best pancakes in the whole damn state.

And – with a laugh – some of the worst coffee.

Over good pancakes, chocolate chip with homemade whipped cream, and bad coffee, I ask him about Handsome Gambler’s influences.

He co-wrote their entire debut album and came up with the instrumental interlude in the middle, which serves as the musical crux of the album.

A blend of slow and sorrowful guitar and bass and nature ambience, recorded on Abbott's phone on a late April night after a bad rain storm, which dares to go on for an ambitious four and a half minutes.

At my question, Abbott kind of smiles – half on, half off, an expression I notice often over our breakfast interview – and from memory, rattles off names like Grateful Dead, Springsteen in the "Born in the U.S.A." years ("I’m On Fire" is mentioned more than once and with great admiration), Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Fire on the Mountain" (Abbott is specific here, from The Marshall Tucker Band's 1976 album, "Searchin' for a Rainbow," not the Grateful Dead song), and more.

Household names. Ambitious names. One could almost roll their eyes if Abbott didn’t sound so sincere.

"I've always loved music. We didn't have a whole lot of live music around, not like in the big cities, but as a kid, Ma used to bring me to some of the cover band nights at this bar in town. S'closed down now, but I heard my first Led Zeppelin song there. Some drunk guy singing 'Going to California' in the wrong key for eight fucking minutes."

"She got me an old CD player for my room the next Christmas, and I'd put on Zeppelin IV and crank it all the way up. She'd come in screaming at me to turn it down, probably secretly regretted ever buying it for me."

Curious, I ask if Abbott remembers the name of the bar.

He grins, a full grin. "Handsome Gambler."

You love that profile, reread it often. His answers are so genuine, so sincere.

Every word, answer, description screams that Rhett Abbott is a man who loves music, who absolutely worships it with every bone in his body.

You can see it clear as day right now.

He plays with such ardent devotion, and caught in his thrall, you're short of breath, hand pressed across your collarbone, over your aching heart.

Applause breaks out at the end of the song, and Rhett's blue gaze blazes over the crowd and in a startling rush, lands right on you.

Your breath catches.

He has an intense stare, all scrunched brows and clenched jaw, covered in stubble, and middle-of-a-flame blue eyes, burning and bright.

He holds your gaze, drinking in the awe, the undisguised adoration in your expression.

Another starstruck fan in the crowd.

You wonder if Rhett can sense the want that warms your lower abdomen, descending from the moment Rhett stepped on the stage, a since-cast-aside black Stetson pulled low over his smoldering gaze, guitar slung carelessly over his good shoulder, and his arms – his bulging arms.

He must.

Because in a blink and miss it moment, Rhett winks at you.

One of the girls at the next table over lets out a piercing squeal, bragging to her friends that the sexy cowboy with the guitar winked at her.

But no, Rhett had winked at you, rockstar Rhett Abbott.

You look down, sipping from the rim of your rocks glass, letting the whiskey sour ground the explosion of butterflies in your stomach.

A kind of giddiness sparks in your chest, mixed with something darker and headier. Something like anticipation.

One look at Rhett reveals a smirk, kicking up the corner of his mouth, as Handsome Gambler kicks off the next song – the last song of the night.

You drain the contents of the glass. It burns the whole way down, a struck match, a good burn.

"Need a light, darlin'?"

Rhett is leaning against the brick, watching you search around your purse for an excuse to be in the alley right now, in the alley with him.

You used to carry around an old pack of cigarettes from your college days – a built in excuse to get out of an awkward social situation, stepping outside for a smoke.

Are you missing them in the darkness, or did you leave them at home?

A sidelong glance at him. You nod.

He offers you a lighter – a gleaming brass, not some garbage from the gas station – and when your arms remain loose at your sides, not moving to grab it from him, his brow quirks in question.

Heat rises in your cheeks. “Oh, I don't have a – Can I get one actually? Must’ve left my pack at home.”

You stumble over your words and fuck, Rhett must know now.

You'd seen him slip out of the side Emergency Exit door and followed him out here, made brave with whiskey sours and adrenaline.

A door that is still cracked open, enough for a crackle of music and a faint haze of red light to seep out into the cool night and barely illuminate your faces.

The expression on his is hard to read.

An open pack of Marlboro Reds – a little smushed from being roughly pulled from and shoved back into his back pocket over and over – is held out to you, and Rhett lets you pluck one from the middle.

Sets one in between his lips.

And with a crooked finger, Rhett gestures for you to come close, closer, until you’re close enough to see the beads of sweat on his skin, damp and flushed from the show.

You suck in a breath, and Rhett smoothly lights both of your cigarettes with a deft click. A quick flash of orange flame. You barely even notice, preoccupied with the press of his mouth around the cigarette, so close to your own.

He straightens, pulling back but only enough to not blow the smoke right in your face. He inhales and blows it out of the side of his mouth, watching you.

You hold in a cough, wincing at the acrid taste, and mimic him.

Breathe in and out and in again.

His gaze drops down, caught in the rise and fall and rise of your chest.

He squints, eyes crinkling in the corners, and with vague disappointment, you realize Rhett is checking out your shirt and not your cleavage.

Armed with a pair of eyebrow scissors and a dream, you'd cropped and cut and ripped until an enticing sliver of stomach and a hint of cleavage would be visible, almost but not quite showing the red lace of your bra. Just in case.

A crooked smirk dances on his lips, amused, as Rhett reads the name across the black fabric.

“A Floyd fan, huh? Y’got a thing for drummers, darlin’?”

You manage not to squirm but only just.

You like Bob Floyd. He’s a great dummer, real sweet.

(“It’s Bob, like Dylan,” Bob mumbled against the microphone earlier, during his introduction, looking very Born in the U.S.A. Springsteen in a plain white shirt and a camo baseball hat. At the sound of his voice, a drunk girl in the audience shrieked I love you, Bob, and Bob went beet red. “I , uh – Thank you. We love you too, Wabang.”)

You shrug in lieu of an answer, and Rhett's smirk grows a little wider, a little mean.

"Why're you out here with me then, pretendin' to want a smoke?"

You look him up and down, as if considering.

“Well, I really hoped Floyd might be around, but…”

An obvious lie, but Rhett was a bull rider before. Some part of him must still possess that combative edge, that competitive streak.

You'd like to see him all riled up.

His gaze darkens, pupils blown.

A warning.

A snorting and kicking bull who's spent all night in a chute.

You bite back a smirk.

His voice is so low, so rough, scraping across your burning skin like day old stubble.

“S’that right? Are you a groupie or something? Some slut who’d let any of us bend you over and use you? Who’d suck any of our cocks?”

He is so very close you right now, crowding in.

“Maybe…”

Is that really your voice? All smooth and alluring?

Sucking on the end of the cigarette, you hollow your cheeks out with your inhale and relish in the way Rhett watches you.

You ash the cigarette, watching the red embers fall and fade.

“I mean, I do really love your music.”

His next words come out in a harsh exhale.

“Take off your panties.”

You blink at him, a little surprised, and Rhett cocks his head.

Like I dare you.

Also like I don’t believe you.

You slide them down your legs and place them in his open palm, fingers brushing against his. They are red lace and damp, obviously so.

They had been ever since Rhett had flicked his guitar pick at you during the last song and before, even.

He chuckles and shoves them in his back pocket.

“You liar. I recognize you. Saw you in there, watching me the whole goddamn show. You came out here lookin’ for me, didn’t you?”

Not Floyd is implied.

You nod, mouth dry, unable to keep up the lie.

“And what were you hopin’ would happen, darlin’? How good of a groupie are you lookin’ to be?”

“Anything, Rhett,” you breathe, pretense all but gone, "as good as you want me to be.”

A wolfish grin cuts across his face. Good answer.

He catches your chin between his fingers, pressing hard enough to bruise. Pulls your cigarette from your parted lips and crushes it under his black cowboy boot.

"It's your lucky day, darlin’. Get on your knees."

You drop your purse. Almost bruise your knees on the asphalt, and for a brief second, Rhett's eyes go wide with something like concern.

You've already moved on, pushing aside the groan of your knees, not bothered.

You undo his massive belt buckle – gleaming, like the lighter, an intricate design – and pull down his zipper in one quick move, eager. You look up at him, glossed lips already parted in mindless anticipation, and Rhett looks back with nothing but amused desire, that mean smirk.

“What? You lookin’ for an invitation or somethin’?” he asks, voice full of gravel. He is still smoking the cigarette, red embers reflected in his dark and shining eyes. “You wanted some cock so goddamn bad. Take it out.”

You swallow hard and shove his boxers down until Rhett’s cock springs free, hard and dripping and beautiful.

A soft, longing breath escapes you, and Rhett smirks down at you.

You should probably work him up some, work him over with your hands until Rhett is desperate for you to put your mouth on him, but…

You put your mouth on him, desperate for the weight of him on your tongue.

You go deeper and choke, moisture streaming from your eyes and down your cheeks.

You’re a little out of practice. It's been a while, a little over two months.

You want him deeper, so much deeper, but…

Too much, too fast.

You have to pull back, gasping for breath, and Rhett makes a disappointed tsk sound. Blows out another puff of smoke.

“You can do better than that, right, darlin’? Because I bet I could go back in there and find some other slut who’d swallow my come in a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

So damn degrading. You're on fire, smearing across your inner thighs without your underwear.

“I can. Let me do it again. I promise I can.”

You sound downright pathetic. Can't even be bothered to care.

His smirk widens, and Rhett flicks the cigarette to the side.

"Gimme your hand," he urges in a low voice.

Fingers banded around your wrist, Rhett is not overly rough, careful not to yank and strain your shoulder, but he's not gentle either.

He presses down hard on the flesh between your thumb and pointer finger until your clenched fist opens for him.

His spit slaps against the center of your palm.

And is it your imagination that Rhett brushes a kiss across your pulse?

He guides your hand back down on him – around him – and works your hand around the base of his cock in hard and unforgiving strokes, working the length of him too big for you to reach with your mouth right now.

Determined, you lick at him, running your tongue along the slit of his cock, the vein that runs down the side, and sink your mouth around him until your lips brush against his clenching fingers.

Swallow around him.

Above you, Rhett shudders, dropping his head back against the brick, spasming on your tongue and hitting the back of your warm throat with an involuntarily jerk that makes you gag.

A low murmur of shit, sorry, darlin’ rushes from his mouth before Rhett seems to remember himself.

No longer apologetic, Rhett catches your hair in his free hand, giving a good, solid pull, and continues to work your hand around him with the other. His fingers grow slick with your spit, dribbling from the sides of your mouth, wetting the coarse hair on his knuckles.

He's muttering under his breath, curses and praises and words too low for you to make out over the wet sound of him.

“Fuck. So good, darlin'. So goddamn good."

A moan vibrates around him, and Rhett curses again, louder.

“S’that good, that what you needed? You needed my cock in your mouth? Anyone could walk out here. Anyone could come out here and see you on your knees, swallowing me whole like a desperate little slut.”

You whimper in answer, like yes, like please, like more, I desperately need you to say more, and a hand scrapes across your cheek, calloused and warm and rough, a slow stroke.

“But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Good little groupie like you.”

Damp arousal drips down your leg, and you can't handle it anymore, you need, you need, you –

He doesn't miss a beat, not Rhett.

He sees you move, sees your hand pull at the denim, desperate for friction, for anything. A strained groan slides down your spine.

"Jesus Christ... How wet're you from suckin' my cock? Show me."

This seems like an impossible demand in this situation – you on your knees with your mouth full of him – but you've always been creative.

You gather your arousal, gasping at your own wetness, somehow surprised even in all this, and hold your hand out for him in the light.

Red light shines across your glistening fingers.

"God..." Rhett seems almost amazed. "Haven't even touched you, darlin'. You're so wet for me."

Awe burns away, leaving something more carnal in the ashes.

His eyes are half-lidded and nearly black, a summer storm on the indigo horizon.

"Touch yourself for me," Rhett rasps out, an order, a need.

And spits on your glistening fingers.

It's so wet and depraved and so fucking good, fingers dripping with his saliva and your own arousal, spreading his saliva across your cunt, rolling over your slick and swollen clit, clenching around nothing.

Every sweet sensation makes you gasp around his cock, growing more and more desperate, as Rhett pushes in and out of your mouth, spilling sweet and filthy words like a recitation.

"So fucking wet for me. So goddamn good."

"Come for me and my cock. Gonna come on your hand and swallow my cum, like a good little slut."

You imagine Rhett is the one touching you right now.

He is pinching at your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with thick and unrelenting fingers. He is parting you with knuckles covered in wet hair and stretching you out for him. He is giving you even a mere fraction of the rapt and devoted attention Rhett displayed earlier on stage, single-minded and focused on your pleasure.

And come with a muffled whine, eyes rolling back in your head.

Only seconds later, Rhett spurts down your throat with a near animalistic grunt, mouth falling open in pleasure. You swallow every drop.

Awash in the red glow of the aftermath, Rhett studies you with an unreadable expression again. You are standing again now, smoothing down your clothes and brushing the gravel and dirt from your knees.

You're both breathing hard.

He crooks a finger. "C'mere."

You go without hesitation, and Rhett grabs your wrist again, slower and gentler now, and pulls your fingers into his mouth, sucking the arousal from your skin.

He lets out a reverent groan, eyes filled with amazement and wide blue awe, flooding back in like a dam that's been cracked down the middle.

A smile pulls at your mouth, and Rhett crushes you against him. You loop your arms around his strong neck, and Rhett buries his face in the hinge of your shoulder with a content sigh.

"Missed you s'damn much, darlin'."

He murmurs the words against your forehead, smearing a kiss across your brow, stubble a pleasant and familiar prickle against your damp skin.

You melt against him, nudging your nose under his jaw and inhaling his scent, sweat and tobacco and mountain air and him. "Don't be gone for s'damn long then next time, rockstar."

"Come w'me next time."

He sounds almost drunk, mumbling and slurring against your bare skin, drunk on your proximity after nine long weeks apart from each other.

"Can't. Who else is supposed to write profiles on local up-and-coming bands? You should see the other writer that the Tribune hired. He's like... the med-iest of all the -ocres.”

His laugh is a warm puff of breath against your neck, which after nothing but phone and video calls is almost enough to make you sniffle against his shoulder.

You've missed him so damn much.

"Ah, right. It'd be selfish of me to deprive the whole damn state of your brilliance." He pulls back and looks you right in the eye, a gentle nudge under your chin. "Was that... You're okay, right?"

You smile wide. "I'm perfect."

"Good." He grins, a full grin that Rhett had flashed you for the first time over good pancakes and bad coffee months ago. "Because goddamn, you're so incredible. That was somethin' else, darlin'."

You'd been the one to come up with the idea, a perfect welcome home for him at the end of the nine week tour, a call back to the confession you'd made around a month of dating.

You know all I wanted to do when I saw you play for the first time was follow you on your smoke break and suck your cock, but I had to be a professional...

"We can pretend to be strangers. You can see me across a crowded room, and I can follow you out on your smoke break and..."

"And what?"

"That'd be up to you, wouldn't it, rockstar? I'd be like... your groupie or something."

You let the idea sink in, smiling and on the other end of the phone, Rhett swore under his breath.

You grin at him now.

"You were pretty incredible yourself, but right now, I do kind of want my boyfriend to kiss me."

His eyes are warm, light. "Yeah? D'you miss him that much?"

"So very much."

He cups the nape of your neck and leans in for a kiss, a firm and aching and devouring and loving kiss.

You kiss and kiss until Bob Floyd comes out to grab him for the encore.

"You're wanted, rockstar."

He gives you a wide grin and plants a kiss on the center of your wrist, right on your racing pulse.

"See you after the show, m'love."

You are sipping a water at the bar when Rhett comes back out on stage, all bright eyes and mussed hair and a bare scrap of red lace hanging out of his back pocket.

Impossible to miss.

You choke on your water, and Rhett winks.

note: so... i saw this photo of lewis said, yeah, guitarist rhett on his knees for a solo, and all of the sudden, i was spending hours reading musician profiles and assembling a list of handsome gambler-ish songs. life moves pretty fast 🤠

i could probably be persuaded to write more about them if anyone is interested.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fic #rockstar!rhett #guitarist!rhett #fic: downright iconic #laracrofted writes #fic: rhett abbott

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moonshinemagpie · 4 months

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Colson Whitehead on Making Novels Half-Asleep

I deleted my Substack because, you know, its founders are evil. But this post I wrote last October feels relevant for writers going into the New Year. If it's TLDR, skip down to the "What Meant Everything to Me" heading.

Writing with Chronic Fatigue

I went to the Brooklyn Book Festival last weekend! It was pure magic after so many years of being away from the English-speaking book world. I felt like someone on rations finally allowed to eat my fill, gulping down book panels and author talks.

Colson Whitehead Goes to Church

One of my favorite festival events was a talk with Colson Whitehead in the St. Ann and the Holy Trinity Church. I’m a big fan of hosting cultural events in places of worship.

Colson Whitehead imparted insights that felt like gospel for writers. For those unfamiliar, Whitehead has published nine novels, two nonfiction books, and won two Pulitzer prizes. His book The Underground Railroad is one of my favorites of all time.

But I did not always like Whitehead’s work. I first had to read his 2003 essay collection The Colossus of New York in university, and it struck me as self-obsessed, MFA-brand New York nonsense. Like, he romanticized Port Authority, the dirty hellhole bus station where, in 2003, I was an elementary schooler waiting nervously for buses that were always late while getting continuously harassed by grown-man casino gamblers dressed like lumberjacks.

I really hated Whitehead’s cheery romanticizations. I wouldn’t pick up another Whitehead book until 2017.

(^just an HD image of Colson Whitehead)

Add Whitehead to the list of authors who wrote some of my most detested 1-star reads before they published the 5-star books of my heart: NK Jemisin, Maggie Stiefvater, Jeff Vandermeer, Colson Whitehead—almost all of my favorite contemporary writers put out messy, uncompelling books before they entered the realm of the virtuoso.

“I wrote a book called The Intuitionist,” Whitehead said at the church, referring to his debut, “and everyone hated it. So I thought, ‘Okay, I need to do better next time.’”*

It was surreal to hear a writer speak with such open eyes about the trajectory of their own career. Like, I knew I hated Whitehead’s early work. I didn’t realize that he knew it, too.

(It’s worth mentioning that someone who came up to ask Whitehead a question during the Q&A said, “The Intuitionist is my favorite book of all time.”)

But that wasn’t the insight that meant the most to me.

Nothing Is a Joke

Whitehead made joke after joke about chronic fatigue. He never used the words “chronic fatigue”; he never referred to his own health. But he repeatedly described scenarios that resonated with me as someone who lives with fatigue and hypersomnia:

“I spend most of my day just sleeping,” he said. “I mean, coming out here [to the book event]? Really big deal for me. Glad I could make it.”

And everyone laughed, but I don’t think that’s the kind of joke you make unless you mean it. I don’t think it would even dawn on a non-fatigued individual to make it.

What Meant Everything to Me

When Whitehead described his writing process, he said he writes about eight pages a week.

Eight pages a week.

Estimating 250 words/page, that’s 2,000 words per week. Or as he said, “32 pages per month, 320 pages after ten months. I find it adds up.”

He writes, he said, about three days each week. So that’s a little over 600 words each time he sits down to write.

To put this into perspective: If I write fewer than 2,000 words in a single writing session, I don’t consider it to have been a proper session. In less than a month, hundreds of thousands of people will join in NaNoWriMo and try to write at least 1,666 words every day for a month straight.

We live in a world where writers are encouraged to crank it way, way up, sacrificing what writing actually is in an attempt to maximize monetization of a craft that is not easily monetized. Romance writers give advice online for how to write just one draft of a book, no revision needed. Self-publishing writers crank out novella after novella to feed to the Kindle Unlimited machine. Everyone wants to be done with their book in a month. Memes proliferate in which writers scold themselves for daydreaming, plotting, outlining—for doing anything at all that isn’t literal putting words to the page, as if those other things weren’t integral to novel-making.

I thought I was immune to that hustle-and-grind mindset, because I know what writing a book actually entails for me and I have no intention of cranking out a first-draft story for KDP.

But I had never once considered giving myself the patient grace that Colson Whitehead shows himself.

“I don’t push myself,” he said. “Writing is hard work. On days when I’m not up to it, I revise instead. Just tinker with my last paragraphs.”

He joked about how, during the pandemic, he had to write his novels while his young son was at home. Whitehead said he usually writes a paragraph or two, and then sleeps for a few hours.

Daddy, why are you always in the dark? his son asked during the lockdown.

It’s part of my process! he joked. But I think he also meant it.

Novel Advice

He’s not the first writer to give this advice; this isn’t the first time I’ve heard it. Maggie Stiefvater wrote her first book only on Wednesday evenings, raising her children and working the rest of the time. Terry Pratchett wrote 400 words each day before he became a full-time writer.

But these are stories of pre-success, the ways we need to struggle when our creative lives are stuffed into the spare corners of our weeks. And when your week doesn’t have spare corners because you’re barely trudging on as it is, that advice doesn’t feel encouraging.

But Colson Whitehead is already successful. And this is still how he allots his writing time: In low-pressure, long-term, sustainable accumulations.

2,000 words a week.

I’ve known for a long time that I can no longer wait for healthy, clearheaded days to write. I don’t have them anymore. But it sort of sounds like Colson Whitehead doesn’t have many of them to spare, either, and yet he wrote the most energetic Harlem heist book I could ever want (Harlem Shuffle). He wrote the most literary zombie apocalypse book imaginable (Zone One). He has an oeuvre that brought enough readers to fill church pews, the line to see him wrapping all around the block. And he built this work, according to him, in between long naps.

In fact, his writing style probably hinges on his method. He’d be writing very different kinds of books if he wrote quickly. His just-a-few-paragraphs-a-day approach*** is probably how he writes descriptions with so many precise details, like these images of a party-supply store after the apocalypse hits:

The unit had completed a sweep of a party-supply store, a narrow nook on Reade that had been washed off Broadway into a low-rent eddy. Dusty costumes hung from the ceiling as if on meat hooks: cowboys and robots from chart-busting sci-fi trilogies, ethnically obscure kiddie-show mascots, jungle beasts with long tails intended for the flirty tickling of faces. Kingdoms’ worth of princesses and their plastic accoutrements, stamped out on the royal assembly line, and the requisite Naughty Nurse suspended in the dead air, tilting in her rounds. Do Not Expose to Open Flame. For Amusement Only. The masks had been made in Korea, delivering back to the West the faces they had given the rest of the globe: presidents, screen stars, and mass murderers. The rubber filament inevitably snapped from the staple after five minutes. The graft wouldn’t take.

I used to imagine Colson Whitehead as just being so impossibly brilliant that he spit this stuff out on the fly, leagues beyond the rest of us mere mortals. Now I see it differently: It happened laboriously, made by a tired, human brain full of faith in its own accumulative productivity.

Going Forward

No more for me, I think, of harsh deadlines and crank-it-out word counts. Instead: I need to provide accommodations for my own writing life. I must consciously factor in my own fatigue and stop demanding that I strain myself in ways unsustainable for a long and fulfilling creative life. Instead: Crank it down. Way down. And take naps between the paragraphs.

2,000 words a week.

Thanks, Colson Whitehead, for being honest about the work. We need more of that in the book world.

----

*None of these quotes are verbatim, just based on memory.

**This is similar to how both Donna Tartt and Nabokov have described their own writing processes. Maybe we spend so much time screaming at new writers to “just write” that we don’t talk about how slowness and care may enhance the quality of our prose.

#writeblr #writing community #colson whitehead #writing advice #draftdash

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 1 month

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tuesday again 4/2/2024

in which i try to clean two different boxes with varying success

new people: hello! the tuesdaypost is a weekly roundup of stuff i've been listening, reading, watching, playing, and making. it is NOT a recommendation series, although i sometimes dabble in critique. when im firing on all cylinders i ask "what is the core concept of this? does it succeed in what i think it's trying to do and what it says it's doing?is it well-made but i dislike it/beautiful but not for me? why? what parts Really Work?"

if you are into purity culture, yelling at other people about the problematic media they consume, or are under 18 i am going to have very little patience for you.

listening

now that i live in houston i am legally obliged to loop the new beyonce album 24/7. there is absolutely truly nobody fucking doing it like her. every song is a multimedia art piece. goddamn do i miss the album as a tool to convey a specific concept/listening order/flow. sometimes (chappell roan most recently comes to mind, although it does feel unfair to compare anyone to beyonce) every individual song is pretty good but the listening experience if you sit down and listen all the way through the album is unpleasant and choppy. not so here. NEVER here.

my favorite like Dance Number is YA YA (it samples nancy sinatra's boots! and the beach boys' good vibrations! wildly different tones despite coming out a year apart!)

youtube

the one that goes on four different character/tone playlists is BODYGUARD.

youtube

great early roundup of influences, samples, and collaborators. delighted to see five fingers for marseilles listed, a rocky but underrated south african neo-western free on tubi rn for americans

reading

also very texas-relevant with the recent pornhub lawsuits! pornhub and sex tech (among other things) have been samantha cole's beat for almost ten years. i trust her to report sensitively and not for like. shock clicks

this site has a free paywall (sign up with your email for a link to the full article) so bots have a harder time scraping articles: this is a journalist-founded site with only the four founders running it and writing articles. while annoying i do think this is a reasonable measure

The platform still has problems, but after years of critical reporting and a litany of legal and reputational consequences, Pornhub is now more heavily moderated than any other porn platform, and most major social media platforms, for that matter. A growing list of age verification laws has put Pornhub in a position where it is compelled to block access to its site in seven states and counting. In theory, these laws are designed to prevent children from being able to access pornography online. In reality, what is going to happen is that children are going to end up on pornographic sites that don’t care what the law says, and where some of the most harmful content that exists online is actively promoted to them.

she's also got a new limited series podcast with CBC about the rise and fall of pornhub, which was fascinating and kept me company during an extremely early morning drive

watching

i'm lukewarm about this one but i spend a lot of time getting there, much like this movie

ive been watching a lot of frankly dogshit thrillers, which has made me wonder: what's the deal with supervillans? where did they come from? and thence arrived at the prototypical film Dr Mabuse the Gambler (1922, dir. Lang). the four and a half hour cut on Kanopy is two normal-length movies superglued together, which makes sense as a streaming product but it is sort of a terrifying runtime and took me three days to get through.

sometimes, as we know, i get a real bee in my bonnet about visiting the early versions of things. dr mabuse is the blueprint for every james bond and mission impossible villain, or really any shadowy supervillain with power over [INDUSTRY] or [THE MARKET]. it is a four and a half hour long cat and mouse game through lavish, eccentric sets between mabuse and prosecutor wenk. it has some trouble sustaining itself bc it is four and a half hours long but does deliver on the cat and mouse aspects. this letterboxed review has interesting things to say about the political climate of 1922 germany and how lang subverts the formula of the pulp serial.

really the film opens with mabuse yelling at his cocaine-addicted assistant, but the film properly gets going with mabuse's henchmen stealing a trade agreement (nothing really carbon dates a movie more than a missing trade agreement. vanishingly few post-early-30s movies have missing trade agreements as plot points) and then he crashes the stock market. for fun and profit.

however. i think every time you see an evil man who is a banker or stockbroker or generally uses money as power you have to interrogate whether it's antisemitic. the answer here is "maybe" but i'm not sure if intent matters when contemporary nazi critics were eager to hold mabuse up as "this is the typical jewish criminal". (sorry about the link directly to wikipedia, it's been touch finding online sources for this section). mabuse is not specifically jewish, but there are certainly elements of stereotype. i am still not good at being presented with "this movie has a shadowy behind the scenes figure manipulating the government and all the money ever" and going "hey wait a minute".

after that tremendous glaring caveat, for which i read more contemporary reviews and reviews in general than i ever read for movies in these posts, is it good? eh. a contemporary VARIETY review remarked (and i largely agree)

The direction of Fritz Lang has moments – but Lang somewhat negates his good technical effects by twenty forty-word captions of a ludicrous unconciseness.

the night scenes are particularly well done, and imo are better than many modern night scenes--other contemporary reviews remarked

In this film the techniques of the film camera (Carl Hoffmann’s brilliant photography) are brought to perfection. The problem of how to film lit-up streets at night has been solved for the first time. It is unbelievably impressive to see the glaring lights of speeding cars flash through the night or the rapid passing of an elevated train of the initially blurred, then gradually focussed glimpse through a pair of opera glasses on to the variety stage, the nuances of light and shade—these things alone prove the value of film documentary.

look at this shit! filmed from within the cars! in 1922!!!

youtube

this film asks you to believe hypnotism is real and really effective, so i don't think it's that big of a leap when it asks you to believe in ghosts. i don't understand that quibble from contemporary viewers. there are several on screen suicides with like. specific methods. which is not currently regarded as good filmmaking practice. im curious to know what contemporary audiences thought but couldn't immediately turn anything up, and wading through masters’ theses on cinematic suicide is a little beyond my current mental health.

if i were a more content-minded woman this would turn into a clickbait video essay about the antisemitic origins of every supervillan. however i am unqualified and untalented at video editing and i'm sure there are forty theses on this already. this movie is a hard sell to anyone jewish or employed. it is also a stunning example of cutting-edge film technology and part of the genesis of the modern supervillan. Fritz Lang films tend to fall in the category of “movies i am happy to see once and feel no need to revisit”.

playing

playing what is effectively the same game three times back to back (breath of the wild, tears of the kingdom, genshin impact) has sort of burned me out on open world games with a focus on battle skill progression and stumbling across little puzzles in the overworld. i have to get itch.io up and running on this pc and find the most linear jankiest possible one-sitting indie thing. or several of them. i might try the solo ttrpg Gentleman Bandit i seem to have acquired in one of the giant charity bundles

brief breath of the wild update bc i don't want to pull screenshots off my switch: i have gotten to the boss fight for the gerudo and goron regions, have not completed them bc my focus in this game is NOT hearts, and am in the middle of the zora temple. despite the quality of life improvements and new regions in totk i think i prefer botw: progression is a bit easier, there are fewer mmo-style hub quests and repeatable quests. things like the stable photos are cute but very repetitive, so are the sign bracing puzzles, and the sky crystal quests for sky shrines feel VERY samey. also dislike how the CLEAR OUT: [REGION] quests with the monster suppression squads reset at the blood moon.

anyway! to genshin! there was an exceptionally fun little event with a surprisingly involved management sim tacked onto the game??? you make and sell potions fulfilling different requirements, and can eventually stock travelling merchants all over the continent. the actual act of making the potions was this block-filling 1010! style thing (screenshot from polygon)

the new region, a port town and tea-growing area called Chenyu Vale, is maybe the prettiest one in the game so far? it's the one that feels the most picturesque and Designed, like this is one huge mansion garden studded with follies. they also added background chatter and noise in the cities and towns, which really startled me and makes them feels much more lived in! this is a fun trick to avoid putting in a thousand NPCs and making everyone's framerate crash. the less stuff in your game, the less shit can go wrong.

also pulled for and got chiyori, a geo-aligned seamstress (and sometime spy???) swordswoman who has what i can only call domme voice

making

ok now we'll talk about boxes. i was rearranging my kitchen, as unemployed women are known to do, and noticed this recipe box i picked up back in mass was disgusting. the finish is starting to fail but it was genuinely grody and last summer i packed my kitchen in a blind panic inside an hour and did not have time to address it. i have never seen a recipe box at an estate sale before or since and it made me desperately sad.

it was full of a lot of stuff.

i went at it with a somewhat inadvisable combination of things: wood soap didn't budge it, so i dampened a paper towel in vinegar and wiped it down in the vain hope it would do something. the thing that worked, and would be inadvisable for anything veneered or less densely textured, was baking soda paste and the scrubby side of a sponge. it still smells Very musty even after 48h of loose baking soda inside with several changes, but that might be partly the recipe cards' fault. i would like to refinish this at some point but i don't have polyurethane on hand and the fun little project budget is empty until further notice/i get a job.

the hinge did rust a bit despite my best efforts but that has since been lightly steel wooled and oiled. a well loved object! it's possible the lady who died just fucking sucked and that's why literally her entire estate including many other things families usually keep was on sale, but i would like to think perhaps she simply had no other family? a well loved/used object even if all the recipes are for semi-horrifying fifties new england recipes.

the other box, pre-acids but post-washing: this topp trading card box with seven episode one packets of cards was intact with the original seal. i have verified it was not worth much more than the $5 i paid for it with the trading card obsessed man in my best friend's husband's friendgroup. i bought this three months ago but the man was unavailable to open it until uhhh last week. some sort of liquid got inside it at some point and it was super corroded. i was going to store embroidery floss in here but even with all my powers (barkeepers friend. brasso.) i cannot completely remove the corrosion. it's not corroded Through but it looks bad and feels rough. so it goes. it'll probably hold the tiedown straps in my car bc that plastic bucket is rapidly failing

#aaaaaaand we're back baybee!!!#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #uncharacteristically nervous about this one since there are so many new people haha

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whyse7vn · 1 year

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POSITIVE VIBES ONLY! -

[ ot7 x reader ]

WHO’S IN PARIS?

8 participants - 8 online

———————————

tae: can someone wire me 100k?

jk: how do you wire something??

y/n: beats me

namjoon: 100k?

jimin: why?

jin: did you hear lucas left nct LAMSOO

yoongi: who?

hobi: i’m about to raise the roof

yoongi: oh

tae: can someone send me 100k or not omg

y/n: are you not a millionaire???

jk: word on the streets is that he’s a hardcore gambler

jin: ur living room does not count as “the streets”

jk: 😟

y/n: guys kai is enlisting i’m gonna throw up

yoongi: gws

hobi: pretty girl you like peaches 🩷

y/n: you’ll never be him

hobi: 😞

namjoon: why does tae need 100k??

y/n: yeah why does tae need 100k??

jk: let the audience know tae

tae: yes or no can you send it now?

jin: i could but i won’t

yoongi: no

jimin: asked for coffee the other day and you said no

now you want 100k how about you kys

hobi: i’ll send it

y/n: no you won’t

hobi: i won’t send it

jk: bold of you to assume i have 100k

namjoon: jungkook what?

you make more than 100k a day??

jk: okay??

bold of you to assume i have access to my card

namjoon: ??

jin: i don’t even wanna know tbh

y/n: he once ordered a 10k marching band the day after the hamster we had died because he needed to “clear his head”

jimin: you guys had a hamster??

jk: lived one day will miss tony forever ☝🏻

yoongi: this is why we shouldn’t of let the 2 youngest members live together

y/n: jungkook once brought a “picassco” painting of iron man for 50k

jk: is very pretty it’s in my room

hobi: picasso is dead

jk: what

jimin: tae and jennie let’s get into that

tae: let’s not

jin: REAL is that why you need 100k stuck in paris bf of the year?

y/n: RIGHT WHAGT IS GOING ON FR

tae: nothing

namjoon: ?

y/n: be fr tae

tae: are you jealous??

y/n: no

jk: yes

y/n: what

tae: what

jk: ur giving her 100k ofc im jealous

jin: omg?

y/n: FR??

namjoon: ur giving her 100k?

jimin: that’s insane

yoongi: does she not have money?

hobi: her and tae fr twins then

jimin: how is he giving away money he clearly doesn’t have?

tae: i have 100k

jimin: ur not acting like it

namjoon: wait so ur asking us to send you 100k that you already have to give to ur gf?

tae: what??

jk: guys i’m kinda confused rn

tae: i don’t have a gf?

yoongi: bro

jimin: i don’t even care anymore

y/n: tae was dropped as a baby

tae: OMG 😧????

jimin: constantly

tae: wtf namjoon say something this SICK the way they talk to me

namjoon: i give up

y/n: wasn’t talking TO you i try to keep that to a minimum

tae: when she hates you 😍

jk: jennie hates you?

hobi: she’s kinda real for that

tae: stfu about jennie

jk: omgee did you fight??

yoongi: you guys are not real

there’s no way

jimin: the next bitch to send a question mark being shot and killed immediately

y/n: mark lee

hobi: let’s play ball

tae: mid

y/n: MARK LEE MID ARE YOU OUT OF UR MIND???

jimin: …

y/n: if you shoot at kill me that would be considered a hate crime

jimin: it will be worth it

y/n: :c

jk: :3

hobi: :0

yoongi: freaks

namjoon: cute

tae: guys i feel like you don’t actually love and care for me

jk: whaaat ur really cool!

y/n: yikes

jin: jungkook sarcasm says it all tbh

jk: what

jin: nvm he just dumb as hell

jk: ??

jin: ur so cool jungkook!!!!!!

jk: ur coolest jin ^^

jimin: the oldest too

namjoon: don’t start

yoongi: yikes x2

hobi: eeek

jimin: i care for none of you

y/n: ur ugly

jimin: take it back

yoongi: i would put you all in a freezer

namjoon: what?

hobi: cold >.<

jk: does tae still need 100k?

tae: YES

jk: okay

tae: ???

jk: ???

tae: are you not giving it to me?

jk: no?

tae: wtf?

why did you ask then?

jk: cuz i wanted to know if you still needed it?

y/n: all these questions not enough answers

jimin: amen

hobi: queencard

namjoon: i think being in this gc is what taking acid would feel like

jin: druggie

jk: namjoon pls don’t do drugs

yoongi: save me

hobi: so tae is single?

tae: taken by the lord

jimin: i’ve been counting down the days for the lord to take you

tae: when i actually die ur gonna feel an unbearable amount of guilt

y/n: jimin when will you rest omg

jimin: i’m a born hater it’s hard to live like me

yoongi: if i were you i would kms

namjoon: i love having positive conversations with you all

hobi: me 2

jk: is it just me or am i the only one not seeing the positivity rn…

y/n: love you bffs 💓

jk: okay nvm !!!

me after lying saying i’m gonna release more stuff and then just running away 🤭🤭🤭. i’m just silly like that am i gonna regret posting this at 3 am and not proof reading it? possibly but it’s okay i’m back for how long? god knows but the jennie and tae stuff absolutely crazy i must say #gothemtho i have nothing else to add love u kissing you mwah mwah.

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wobster109 · 3 months

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Dr. Ratio and Aventurine would have ✨sparkling✨ chemistry

First things first: are they in love? As of Penacony 2.0, no.

(But the potential is there.)

To begin with, what sort of person is our esteemed doctor? Lots of people online say that he'd be angry with someone like March, but in my opinion I can't see it being true. She's no genius, and he probably finds it tiresome to try to teach someone who's just not getting it. But that's an impersonal sort of irritation. She wasn't born a genius, and he wouldn't do something so pointless as to begrudge someone their birth. He wouldn't dislike her for who she is or what she stands for.

I believe that he reserves his scorn for geniuses who fritter away their genius. People like Ruan Mei who have the intellect, and spend it creating cat cakes and Scaracabaz while caring about no one. To some degree, Herta and her Simulated Universe too, researching the Aeons while showing complete disinterest in the humans aboard her space station.

Look at his own research: solving a planet's energy crisis! Curing a previously incurable illness! Teaching! It's all very noblesse oblige of him: a life of service, despite his insufferable attitude.

Aventurine is clearly brilliant, what with having won a gamble against Fate. One does not simply get lucky against Fate—you must engineer your hand to outwit Fate itself. (Those of us who play Genshin—we saw how hard Focalors had to work for it!) Knowing who he is, who he was, where he's come from, and what he's made himself into, Ratio understands that nothing Aventurine does is ever frivolous. It's all deadly serious, and deadly. The foundation for respect is there.

But at the same time, all that gambling and social schmoozing? The risk, reward, and hanging by a thread? It probably baffles our blunt, direct Dr. Ratio. It's completely foreign to him, a way of thinking that he'd never choose and cannot fathom. I imagine they'd be at odds with each other.

So, you've got begrudging respect and a hint of fascination.

All it takes is one breathless, death-defying adventure together to make it kindle.

The more tenuous direction is the other way around: would Aventurine even take notice of Dr. Ratio? Sure, the man's beautiful as a statue with an intellect to match, but Aventurine's surrounded by powerful IPC officials. Probably a bunch of brilliant minds too. Aventurine's a man of many so-called "frrriends" and no friends—perhaps, to him, Ratio is just another useful, but ultimately disposable, tool.

Or perhaps not. There are a few traits that might endear our Doctor to a world-weary gambler.

Sincerity - Ratio is blunt, direct, and cannot be bribed. What he says is what you get. Might be a nice change of pace for Aventurine, who's more used to the kind of conversations he has with Himiko, where they dance around each other and their meanings are implied.

Stability - Aventurine's had to fight for everything he has, including his life. What if he's offered a place to stay (he's already crashing in Ratio's hotel room after giving his own to Trailblazer), or perhaps whatever price of his freedom paid. Perhaps simply the promise of a dependable ally. Would he turn into a puppy, roll over and offer up his loyalty?

Noblesse Oblige - This is a bit of a stretch, but the IPC doesn't really take on projects for the sake of doing good. Ratio's entire modus operandi seems to be for the betterment of all peoples. It's as foreign to Aventurine as social schmoozing is for Ratio. Perhaps Aventurine finds it fascinating, interesting, or even a bit noble.

This is all speculation, but. . . part of me believes that HSR wouldn't make them roommates of happenstance for nothing.

In closing, I leave you with this bizarre consumable—what could it mean? Only time will tell.

#spoilers #honkai star rail #aventurine #hsr aventurine #dr. ratio

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steviebee77 · 9 months

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A Vexing Problem Indeed

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beesmygod · 1 year

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what do u think are the top 5 stand fights in jojo

this is very hard. at first i thought it was bc there were so many to choose from but when you narrow them down it's a pretty short list of bangers. the problem is the short list is extremely good. here is my best attempt at what ive read so far

READER BEWARE: SPOILERS ARE THERE

star platinum vs the world

example: oh? you're approaching me?

like, obviously, you have to put this one up really high. its The Fight of All Time. it has everything:

a dramatic character death that is NOT in vein......rip to kakyoin the sickest little boy in all of egypt

the apparent death of beloved bastard joseph joestar, in which he gives the longest dying speech since hamlet that sounds like "jotaro! press the A button to punch dio really fast and reffill your meter!" only to be returned to full health at the end so he can do the single greatest prank of all time.

jotaro finally says something so cool it makes you want to stand up and scream for him in sheer rapturous joy

polnareff gets a good hit in.

dio becoming subject to the exact same torment that he inflicts upon others right before a death that definitively underscores that he is lesser than he knew himself to be is perfection. honestly an incredible end to one of the greatest villains of all time. it feels very, very earned and satisfying

killer queen: bite ze dusto vs. the entirety of the town of morioh

example: yoshikage kira traumadumps about getting a boner to a stranger

i actually think this one is my absolute favorite of them all. the communal effort to take out yoshikage kira is a monumental undertaking; he is an absolute bastard with a seemingly endless string of luck. living members of the community who have good hearts, his victims who have been waiting for justice, strangers from far away dedicated to righting wrongs, and a completely powerless 10 year old powered entirely by the raw energy of a child's pure conscience band together to end a literal cycle of violence. how the fuck do you defeat a man who has already killed you and you don't even know it?? how do you stop someone who can turn back time?? it truly fucking seems like hes going to get away with it at the end. and then AGAIN you're like "oh no oh my god hes going to-" and then the single greatest villain death in the history of manga happens lol. ohhhhh its so fucking good.

its another battle thats made all the better by the sum of its parts. the entire yoshikage kira arc is near perfection. the set ups, pay offs, and who it chooses to celebrate as the heroes in the end creates a very satisfying cap to a great series.

osiris vs the stardust crusaders

example: jotaro loses a hand, and increases his bet

i love the stand fights that barely end up being stand fights. star platinum throws i think a single punch in this fight and its to light jotaro's cigarette, a mere taste of the sheer, near impossible speed of star platinum. how fast IS star platinum anyway....would you.....bet your life on it...??!!!!

a friend online told me about the "jotaro has autism" fan theory, and i was like "hm. whatever" until this episode, when i fully 100% believe that jotaro not only has autism but has figured out how to hone and weaponize it against his enemies. all these morons have to do is win a game of chance against a professional gambler who also openly cheats. i love this shit. this is the part of the story where jotaro really, really starts to shine and his unique strengths as a little badass piece of shit start to come through. i think he really starts to solidify his personality here when he finally gets a win that isnt based on "punch something really fast".

oingo and boingo/hol horse and boingo vs themselves

example: hol horse, noted woman respecter, does a flying jump kick on a random rich woman and she's so grateful she pays him in jewels

im counting these as one because i can and i want to. these episodes are fucking tops. easily top 5 eps of the entirety of stardust crusaders. i dont think anyone involved in the anti-dio squad had any idea oingo or boingo existed. bringing back that stupid asshole hol horse is literally always going to be appreciated as he's one of the best recurring villains even though his stand fucking sucks lmfao. boingo's too actually. his stand is he has a book but the book is an asshole. great goofy shit. what is fucking wrong with polnareff and joseph

da morioh boyz vs rohan kishibe

example: rohan makes every comic artist in the world mad

speaking of "whats wrong with him", ive posted a lot about rohan so i'll spare you it again but it's all highlighted best in his first ep. the one where he eats a spider, tears a child's face off for artistic inspiration, and tells another he has a whack ass haircut.

~honorable mentions~

jotaro vs literally two rats: the man who defeated dio and all of his minions almost gets completely smoked by jerry the mouse of tom and jerry fame.

koichi hirose vs yoshikage kira: aka the sheer heart attack fight. clever solution, funny jotaro moments, explosions, koichi levels up, THREE FREEZE, etc

joseph joestar and avdol vs bastet: a rare comedy stand where the joke is good. mariah is a fun antagonist. its also a rare pair up that turned out to be a lot of fun. they play off each other well (badly)

yoshikage kira vs stray cat: foil ep to jotaro's rat episode. weird perspective, fun to see kira play the hero briefly.

team bucciarati vs pesci and prosciutto: aka fighting old lol. the twist on how araki keeps prosciutto's power going while making him inaccessible is twisted. beach boy is also a skin crawling stand. very dangerous boys.

#jjba #long post #jojo's bizarre adventure

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historia-vitae-magistras · 11 months

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alfred straight up murdering his brother on accident just because he walked too quietly into the room is so fucking funny but how terrifying is alfred to regular humans? If he goes to casually throw some ridicously heavy thing he's working on over to the intern or whoever theyre not gonna get back up on their feet to chew him out for it lol. also... getting shot and squished by bisons still hurts like all hell right? does matthew start to get wary around him or is he just too used to it to be all that bothered?

Lmao right? I very much enjoy using these characters, especially fleshy loony-tune-style horror shows because good fucking god, it's funny. But its also very fun? Alfred javelining people into the water must be so fun. Alfred casually picks up Matt when he's on the sofa because he dropped his keys behind it. He will randomly rip up troublesome trees in someone's fields in the middle of the night. This is not a wholly negative, angsty or even humourous trait.

So for humans... not very as an adult. I think. Generally, Alfred puts his people at ease. He's handsome, funny, intelligent and friendly. Man has that kind of crooked smile and easy charm. The charisma, luck and social skills of the gambler and the grifters and drifters of the old Westerns if not the old West. When he was little and had less control because he'd get excited, I could see him getting himself in trouble and accidentally committing some violence. As an adult, I think he's much more careful around humans, and the only time he tends to bust out the super strength is to prevent accidentally killing humans. Picking up a car in front of someone getting aggressive will contain that person's aggression goddamn fast.

As for if things hurt, yes. Superheroes and Gods are boring for me to write about. I like making these fuckers creepy and overpowered sometimes, but I'm most invested in their humanity. So time to do the math. The average bison is about 816 to 1,088 kg, and the most recent record for a deadlift was 487 kg. So on the lower end of that, 816 divided by 487 is about 1.67; redeploy that as a percentage that's about 160% the strength of what's currently possible. I personally think this is why this dork is always snacking, so it has some effect on his metabolism and his physiology. He's not going to starve to death as fast as he should with that metabolism because there's that nation fuckery there, but my boy is peckish. So now that I've laid that nonsense out, I generally make him about 160% more resilient than the strongest human (yeah, my browser history is fucked, what about it?), but not in all ways because biologically, that would fuck up his brain something fierce cerebellum be whack big and I like my nerdy NASA boy. But I try to keep that 160 in mind, so it might sometimes be consistent? Maybe? But yeah, he's durable and walks away from a lot of things that most people wouldn't, but he can be shot, dropped, smashed, hit, etc. And his pain tolerance is limited because, again, that removes too much vulnerability and why are we invested in this nerd? Lord knows it's not patriotism on my end. Strong, but not indestructible.

Now with the biology and the physical aspect of my stupid brain's explanation of this yankee doodle dumbass (affectionate) articulated, onto the emotional and interpersonal consequences. This is a bit meta, but Alfred's perception of himself and his loved ones can reflect this fandom and canon. I don't know if canon makes them twins, but many people do despite some intrinsic differences in history, progress, culture and values. It's a valid take because who wants to lord over other people or think about being the superpower and the empire? And passport privilege, cultural dominance, and political hegemony are things that only come into play when we're online or in some sort of international situation. The world revolves around the US, but Alfred's 'first amongst equals' with the laurels of power is not his default setting. At home, he just wants to be another person. Abroad, he has to function on a different set of rules, and leadership, and that arrogance only comes out at certain points. He wants to be human, he wants to be loved, he wants to be normal. And it hurts his fucking feelings to be reminded he isn't, that it is lonely at the top, that no matter how similar, the Trudeau quote applies.

Matt's used to him, and Alfred's reasonably careful, but the gulf between them, Alfred's ability to just steamroll him if he wanted to (even if Matt would give him a hell of a fight) does leave its marks. Matt tries as hard not to show it as much as Alfred tries not to crush him. He's overjoyed about something and goes in for a hug, and there go a couple of subluxing ribs as he kind of affectionately slaps Alfred's shoulder like "indoor muscles! Indoor muscles, bud!" And its mainly because Alfred doesn't like thinking about being a weirdo, and Matt doesn't want to remind him. They want to be as equal as possible, but physics is a thing.

#the ask box || probis pateo #hws canada #hws america #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #matthew || my country is winter #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders #meatsack mechanics || the sociology and biology of nations

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