#neons idea graveyard

[neon-danger]

“Has my writing even improved at all”

…

“Oh god. Oh my god this is terrible. Ohhh my god.”

[sylvesterelle]

Meditations in an Emergency Part 1

Fem!Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.

Part 1 of 3, 5.8k words, mature, cw: alcohol, cannabis, bisexual lusting in every direction

Read on AO3 I Read part two | Read part three

"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "

Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"

“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off the plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we sayit, you know?  Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.

Kat nods and gives you a second cherry because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.

It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week, and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours late into the night, remote so you can write in coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts. 

The problem is you devote so much time to other people’s work that you’d promised to use weekends for your own ideas. Easier said than done, without an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. The other problem with your ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to complete one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition. But routine helped, so there at the bar you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months, even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu. (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t have a menu to be off of.”)

It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction and many of your most delightful ideas have come from chance observations and surprising interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments in the first place.

“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”

She rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile from Kat. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”

You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, strolling until you make sense of its curves and corners and spirit.

The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the late fall snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth to a blinking neon sign and a door just opening, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night. 

Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows, instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally deign to comment on your more interesting trains of thought; offer some piercing observations of her own if she was in a good mood.

Fast-forward a month and change, and now you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you breeze in for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you pop off the lids in a dance thrilling in its routine.

Your coffee’s slowly melting beside you, abandoned in lieu of the syrupy-sweet mess Kat had waiting for you. She sips at the dregs of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.

“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”

“I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”

She flips you the bird causally as she goes to greet the two regulars slipping into place at the end of the bar. It’s early in the night and still mostly empty; only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on—the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found among the chaos was when you were at your best.

“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you pick back up when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”

You wave this aside, already mentally on a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical, salt-air in your face. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily, propping your chin on your hand.  “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"

Kat makes a face. It’s upsetting how prettily she pouts.

“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing a copy from the local library, like you usually did. You kept a collection of those library cards rattling around in an old Altoids tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.

“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Kat offered, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it,” she finishes, as animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is only slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a touch further, three degrees more derision in her tone.

Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for story ideas.

You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you live most of your life in your own words and your own worlds, so it doesn’t quite bother you in the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…

“You know, all of that is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own thoughts and issues, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”

You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did: share little observations about other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it tonight.

"Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat her, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.

You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.     

“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you beautifully.

“Oh Kat, some things can’t be taught,” you tell her with a pitying shake of the head.

She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, greeting a nicely-dressed couple as they sink onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the gaze of one of the women and smile. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.

…

You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean, but Baader–Meinhof is a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look the more you see to appreciate. 

Like Bobby, the union electrician who wears his name in blue, embroidered on the pocket of his work shirt. Not machine-stitched but hand-made, the careful stitches illuminated when he leans over to call out his order. His wife’s handiwork, he shares when you ask. “Paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do all of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he tells you proudly, unabashed even when his friends rib him good-naturedly. 

After Bobby comes the lady whose leopard print nails match her furry coat, the one who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Then there’s the burly biker who sits down to share a themed photoshoot of their toy poodle when you compliment the photo on their lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.

Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.

Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she spies when customers lean close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes combing through the catalogue with him, cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough yacht rock to last a fair few hours.

All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna” sends you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, can sometimes be a challenge for you.

Not tonight, and you grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.

“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask her, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and words mumbled as she chews.

“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”

You perk up. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance—always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.

Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘self-evident superiority of whisky over bourbon’ as he ordered a Maker’s for his friend.”

You hum, craning your head. “See where they sat?”

She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”

Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.

“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”

If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely zilch about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering but only blinked when you’d asked if she was a Capricorn or a Scorpio.

Kat pushes her bangs off her sweaty forehead and checks the clock, then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really. 

The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest, but the sky is clear—a thousand tiny pinpricks visible in the heavens.

You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.

Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.

You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and the curve of those mouthwatering thighs long enough to bother with anything else.

Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those muscles not being just for show—there’s too much strength, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from power in repose.

“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat, his accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he nods warmly to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.

“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.

Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he purrs, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is broad and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.

“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.

“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin goofily at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.

“Jesus Christ,” Kat’s eyes shut briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight. Noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis as she clears off the chairs, kicks snow off the garbage can.

“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats.

You pull out the battered Altoids tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints.

“Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding one up.

They shake their heads, amused.

“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, plucking it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.

“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.

It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.

Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says, voice a little strained.

And that was just…well, fair, actually.

“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.

You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little frisson through your blood.

“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.

“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”

“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.

“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.

“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”

“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.

“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”

“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”

Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”

Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.

“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.  

“You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you feel lightheaded with desire, literally dizzy with it.

This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.

You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.

“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…

“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.

“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment—turning down a free drink was against your moral code.  

He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”

“Ah can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles low, stretching his feet out into your space.

“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you ask, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”

He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”

“‘A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”

You toy with the Altoids tin, debate lighting up another one. Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly.

“Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own.

When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.

You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you murmur, putting a fervent hand to your heart.

“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as he kicks the door shut behind him, muffling the chatter from inside. “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.

He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, a pink plastic sword stuck with three cherries on top.

You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”

“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.

You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”

Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”

Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”

Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.

Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off in there, the sadist.

“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made a fucking unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Reminded me of a friend of ours, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.

He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with SOAP scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air, then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.

“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”  

“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.

You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as good as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.

But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re leaning in for a closer look, balancing with one hand on his thigh. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.” You give him a businesslike pat on the knee and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with an adoring thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, right Johnny?” Ghost say. He squeezes gently once before letting go, settling back with a satisfied smile. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.

“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T.,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—

Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.

Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.

Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.

“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.

Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.

There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.

You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry; a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.

You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.  

People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, traveling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.  

And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.

All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.

“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.

“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”

“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) is anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.

“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in a neighborhood like this.”

“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street; drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”

“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Soap’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.

The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught.

Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.

You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.

Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.

“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.

“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.

“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.

And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets. 

Read part two

[biscuits-and-gracie]

Trip and Fall in Love

summary: marcus can't understand how on earth this girl is supposed to be an assassin. characters: marcus lopez. clumsy! reader. warnings: none. word count: 1.2k

Marcus thought King’s Dominion couldn’t surprise him anymore.

He thought he’d seen it all - the goths, the punks, the cartel kids, the actual royalty of the criminal underworld. Every brand of psycho you could imagine sharpening knives in the hallways.

But then you burst into his life - literally.

It was his second week at King’s, and he was still getting his bearings. Memorizing which hallways were safe, which teachers might actually kill you for being late, which kids you absolutely didn’t want to owe favors to.

He was rounding the corner by the poison lab, head down, mind full of survival strategies-

-and then you smashed into him, hard enough to knock both of you sprawling.

"Shit!" he hissed, landing flat on his ass, his books skittering across the cracked tile floor.

You landed face-first beside him with a strangled little oof, your own bag exploding open, notebooks, pens, and a suspicious number of crumpled gum wrappers spilling everywhere.

Marcus blinked at you, stunned.

You groaned into the floorboards. "Ow. That was not stealthy."

He stared as you pushed yourself up, rubbing your forehead and squinting at him.

You didn’t look like you belonged here.

You were... bright. Not in a colorful way - you still wore the black uniform, black blazer, black converse that were a little scuffed up - but in a way that glowed out from the inside. Your eyes were too wide, too curious. You smiled too easily, like you hadn’t realized yet that doing that around here was basically waving a neon Target Me sign.

"You okay?" Marcus asked warily, gathering his books.

You grinned sheepishly. "I think I broke physics. Or my nose. One of those."

He blinked. Was this girl seriously making jokes right now?

You scrambled to collect your stuff, knocking over another kid’s pile of books in the process. The guy snarled and stomped off, muttering curses in Russian.

Marcus shook his head, amazed. "You’re gonna get eaten alive."

"Yeah, probably," you chirped, stuffing loose papers back into your bag with zero organization. "But hey, maybe I’ll trip and fall on someone important before they can stab me. Like, as a defense mechanism."

He couldn't help it - he laughed. Actually laughed, full and surprised, the sound bouncing off the cracked walls.

You lit up at that, beaming like you’d just won a prize.

"I’m Y/N," you said, sticking out your hand, smudged with ink and something that suspiciously looked like blood.

He stared at it for a second before shaking it cautiously.

"Marcus," he said.

You grinned wider. "Nice to meet you, Marcus. You wanna be my bodyguard?"

He snorted. "What makes you think I won't be the one you need protecting from?"

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder and nearly decapitating yourself with the strap. "I dunno. You laughed. That’s gotta mean something."

He watched you for a second longer - this chaotic, smiling, walking disaster of a person - and for the first time since he’d arrived at King’s Dominion, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of survival pressing so hard against his ribs.

Maybe it was the insanity of it. Maybe it was the fact that you clearly had no fucking idea what you were doing.

Or maybe it was just... you.

Either way, he found himself grinning, despite every better instinct.

"Yeah," he said, falling into step beside you as you headed for class. "Maybe I’ll keep you alive. Just to see what kind of mess you get into next."

You bumped into him again - completely by accident - and Marcus just laughed.

He had no idea what he was signing up for.

But somehow, he knew even then:

You were going to wreck his whole life.

And he was going to let you.

Later that day, Marcus found Billy and Lex hanging out at the graveyard, passing a blunt back and forth like it was any other apocalypse afternoon.

He needed answers. Fast.

He spotted them and jogged over, ignoring the way Lex immediately smirked when he saw Marcus’s face.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Lex said, plucking the blunt from Billy and taking a lazy drag.

"Worse," Marcus muttered. "I met someone."

Billy perked up instantly. "Oh shit. What’s his name?"

Marcus shot him a look. "It’s a girl."

Lex made an exaggerated gagging noise. "That’s even worse."

Billy elbowed him, grinning. "Nah, man, let the poor dude talk. Maybe it's true love. Or, like, mutually assured destruction." He turned to Marcus with a gleam in his eye. "Spill it. Who’s the girl?"

Marcus ran a hand through his messy hair, pacing a little. "I don’t know her name. Well - I know her name’s Y/N. I just—" He paused, trying to find words. "She crashed into me. Like, full-on body slam. And then she tried to apologize by knocking over another kid's shit and almost broke her own neck with her bag."

Lex snorted smoke through his nose. "Sounds about right."

"And she asked me to be her bodyguard," Marcus added, voice climbing with disbelief.

Lex and Billy stared at him for a beat - then burst out laughing.

"Bodyguard?" Lex howled, doubling over. "Oh, my god, she’s gonna get you killed faster than anything at this school ever could!"

Billy wiped tears from his eyes, wheezing. "Bro. You found the human version of a banana peel."

Marcus folded his arms, scowling. "Seriously. Who is she? Why is she even here? She’s... she’s like a walking horror scene waiting to happen."

Billy shrugged, still grinning. "New recruit. Word is, her parents are small-time mobsters. Got caught up in some turf war in Jersey."

Lex chimed in, "They wanted to send her somewhere to ‘harden her up.’" He waggled his eyebrows. "Real good plan. Send a chick who trips over air to the deadliest school on earth."

Marcus stared at them.

"They sent her here to become an assassin?" he repeated, disbelieving.

Billy patted his shoulder solemnly. "The American Dream, man."

Lex smirked, nudging him. "You’re so screwed. You’re already soft for her, aren't you?"

Marcus opened his mouth to argue - but hesitated.

Because the truth was?

You had knocked into him like a wrecking ball. You had smiled at him like he wasn’t just another piece of meat in King’s Dominion’s grinder. And he had found himself wondering, even through all the chaos, what it would be like to actually have someone - something - to finally care about.

He clenched his jaw, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.

"I’m not soft," he muttered.

Lex and Billy immediately whooped, jeering like drunk pirates.

"He’s so soft!" Lex crowed. "Little marshmallow Marcus, gonna trip and fall in love with the girl who can’t even walk straight!"

Billy leaned in, grinning. "Better start practicing your first aid, bro. You’re gonna need it."

Marcus rolled his eyes, flipping them off - but inside, he knew it was already too late.

He was doomed.

And when he glanced across the graveyard and saw you laughing at something Petra said - backpack half unzipped, shoelace trailing, absolutely oblivious - Marcus felt a stupid, helpless grin tug at his mouth.

Yeah, he thought grimly. I’m so fucked.

[tosomeonessomeone]

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:  

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*  

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.  

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:  

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*  

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*  

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*  

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*  

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*  

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*  

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*  

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.  

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.  

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”  

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”  

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”  

---  

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.  

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”  

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”  

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”  

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”  

---  

Chan doesn’t go quietly.  

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”  

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”  

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”  

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”  

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.  

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”  

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”  

“It’s *therapy*.”  

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.  

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”  

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”  

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”  

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.  

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:  

*“Is he alive?”*  

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.  

*“He’s reborn.”*  

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.  

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”  

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.  

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”  

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”  

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”  

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.  

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.  

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”  

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.  

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.  

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”  

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.  

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”  

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.  

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.  

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”  

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”  

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”  

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”  

“But—”  

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)  

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.  

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.  

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.  

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.  

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.  

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.  

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.  

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.  

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.  

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.  

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.  

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.  

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.  

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”  

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.  

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”  

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”  

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”  

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:  

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”  

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.  

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”  

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.  

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.  

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.  

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”  

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”  

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”  

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.  

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”  

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”  

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”  

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”  

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”  

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”  

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.  

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”  

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”  

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.  

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”  

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”  

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.  

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.  

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”  

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.  

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.  

The world narrows:  

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.  

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.  

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”  

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.  

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.  

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.  

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”  

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”  

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.  

—— 

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.  

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.  

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.  

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.  

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.  

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.  

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.  

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.  

He wrote it anyway.  

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”  

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”  

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.  

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”  

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.  

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.  

[bojanastarcevic]

🚨 WANT A CUSTOM SIMS BUILD THAT LOOKS STRAIGHT OUT OF A DREAM? 🚨

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💥 Whether it's a cozy witch cottage, an eerie graveyard, a dreamy Scandinavian home, or a neon cyberpunk café – I can turn your wildest ideas into stunning, fully playable Sims builds.

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DM me with your vision or even just a vibe – and I'll bring it to life brick by brick:

🏰 Vamp mansion?

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🎭 Story-driven set for your Sims series?

🔥 Or something completely insane and never-seen-before?

Everything is custom-made, highly detailed, and tailored for your gameplay.

📬 Just shoot me a message!

[thiriann]

Ink - Chapter 1 out of 5

You can also find me on AO3

Link to Chapter 2

Rating: Explicit

Words: 2.1k

Pairing: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character

Warnings: Named Tav , Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Divergence,Eventual Smut,Lawyer Astarion ,Astarion Being Astarion, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, Smut in later Chapters

A prequel to my Eggplant Emoji adult mini comic

Summary:

She nods, her eyes skimming over the lists. "Oh, I'm sorry, could you have this translated? I'm afraid my Elvish isn't quite there yet."

“Elvish? That's all plain common.” he replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“All of it?” she repeats, incredulous.

Thiriann suppresses a sigh. She'll be in for a long night.

"Alright. And for which date do you want them delivered?”

"Oh,delivery won't be necessary. I'll have them tonight."

Thiriann's eyes widen. "Tonight?" she echoes, disbelief coloring her voice. The sheer volume of the order, coupled with the strange, almost archaic language, is overwhelming. And on top of that, the list is handwritten.

She tries to read a few of the items but can't make heads or tails of it, his handwriting, while graceful as all elven handwriting seems to be, is also nearly impossible to decipher. There's no doubt this man has a history in medicine.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Leaning on the mostly empty kitchen counter, Thiriann mixes her instant coffee with practiced boredom as Shadowheart regales her with yet another story about her three dogs. Or is it her cats that she is talking about this time?

"...and then he slapped him across the face only to pretend he never saw anything. Can you imagine?" Shadowheart laughs lost in her tale.

Thiriann offers a tired smile. "Adorable." Taking a sip, she frowns at the bitterness of the coffee and vows to bring her own tomorrow.

Her colleague Lae’zel has just gone into maternity leave and like an idiot Thiriann volunteered to cover her night shifts with the idea the pay would be higher and she'd have most of her days free. But the adjustment is unexpectedly hard, leaving her spending those said days mostly napping on the couch. Why would an office supplies company even have a nightshift is beyond her.

The long, dark nights were starting to wear on her, and the eerie quiet of the office was beginning to feel oppressive.  As she glances at the clock, she realizes she has a few more hours to endure.

“Isn’t it, though? I just wish they got along better.”

Shadowheart continues, energetic as ever, oblivious to the fact Thiriann missed a good 70% of their conversation. It is a pure mystery and somewhat infuriating how she can remain this upbeat during their dreadful graveyard shifts.

Thiriann sighs enviously when a sudden flash of white interrupts her thoughts. She blinks, her heart pounding as a figure, ethereal and almost otherworldly, emerges from the shadows.

The thought that she's finally lost it and is hallucinating crosses her mind when the figure, a man of striking beauty and piercing red eyes, approaches her desk. 

Clad in a gray suit, slightly bigger and longer than it should be, he moves with the grace and elegance befitting of a model or maybe an actor. His white hair is styled into delicate curls that shine as brightly as the sun under the neon light.

Thiriann is still very much transfixed when his voice, deep and resonant, cuts through the silence. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Her breath catches in her throat at the melodic sound. She barely notices as Shadowheart groans "Not him again."

Thiriann's gaze shifts to her colleague having momentarily forgotten she is next to her.  "Who is he?" she whispers.

 "Mr. Ancunin," Shadowheart replies, a hint of amusement in her voice. "A lawyer who works primarily with Lae'zel. Guess he's your problem now."

 She gives her a sadistic little smirk before walking away to her own desk.

As Thiriann turns back to the enigmatic stranger, a strange mix of curiosity and trepidation fills her.

 At a first glance he seems a little lost and timid, looking around nervously, trying to see if anyone was coming. She could understand that; working with Lae'zel would certainly do that to a person.

"I need some help," he says, his voice a low murmur.  A strange pull draws Thiriann closer, an inexplicable urge to assist him.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" she replies, her voice steady.

To her surprise, the look of helplessness vanishes, replaced by a cool, almost arrogant expression as he sees her.  He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, instead there is tension behind them as if bracing himself for something not particularly pleasant.

"Ah, I was so hoping for a friendly face. I usually work with Lae'zel. Could you fetch her for me?"

A surge of irritation rises within her at being treated like a secretary but she suppresses it and instead flashes one of her own smiles reserved for the worst of clients.

"Yes, well, she's out on maternity leave but I'm here to assist you with anything you need."

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a suggestive smirk. "Anything? Don't make promises you can't keep, darling."

The bold flirtation catches her off-guard but before she can respond, he continues, his tone shifting to a more businesslike manner. "Very well, this is my order."

 And just like that as if a switch has been flipped and the flirtatious persona falls away.

He hands her two sheets of paper filled with intricate script.

"The ones marked with a specific color I want only in that color. If you don't have them, don't suggest alternatives. I'll just wait until they're in stock."

She nods, her eyes skimming over the lists. "Oh, I'm sorry, could you have this translated? I'm afraid my Elvish isn't quite there yet."

“Elvish? That's plain common.” he replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“All of it?” she asks, incredulous.

Thiriann suppresses a sigh. She'll be in for a long night.

"Alright. And for which date do you want them delivered?”

"Oh, delivery won't be necessary. I'll have them tonight."

Thiriann's eyes widen. "Tonight?" she echoes, disbelief coloring her voice. The sheer volume of the order, coupled with the strange, almost archaic language, is overwhelming. And on top of that, the list is handwritten.

She tries to read a few of the items but can't make heads or tails of it, his handwriting, while graceful as all elven handwriting seems to be, is also nearly impossible to decipher. There's no doubt this man has a history in medicine.

Luckily, she has a set of prepared excuses for these situations.

"We don't normally take handwritten orders." This is technically true and mostly still followed.

"You don't? Lae'zel never mentioned anything about that," he says, his tone both casual and amused.

Thiriann doubts that very much considering how much of a stickler for rules Lae’zel is. But then again,  she can read Tir'su, maybe she could even handle his lists.

"Very well." Thiriann sighs resigned before standing up. "In order not to get the wrong items, please accompany me to the warehouse while I collect them."

"I thought outsiders weren't permitted there.” He says before shutting his mouth quickly.

Thiriann raises an eyebrow, curious how he knew about that.

“They aren't normally but I can make an exception.”

Now that gets his attention. A smile spreads on his face quick as a flash.

“Oh, you're such a sweetheart. Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. Very well, lead on." He perks up, almost as if allowed to view a forbidden treasury.

An awkward silence descends between them as they walk through the dimly lit corridor, broken only by the soft scuff of their footsteps, making the normally short distance seem endless. He is near silent as he walks behind her and a strange sense of unease washes over her, making her feel slightly on edge.

As they begin to search for the items, it quickly becomes clear that this is going to be a bigger challenge than she anticipated.  The man's demands are specific and his patience is thin. Every time she misreads a word or misinterprets a symbol, he sighs in frustration.

“So, you want the… pink pens by Nautiloid Inks?”

“Purple, darling. What use would I have for pink pens?”

She isn’t sure what use he’ll have of purple ones either but goes to look for them all the same.

“Alright, next is a book called “The art of infernal negotiations” by…” she pauses completely at a loss. By the gods is that even a word? Even the individual letters are unreadable.

“K'ha'ssji'trach'ash. The blighter is called K'ha'ssji'trach'ash.” he snaps annoyed.

“Right. I’ll go get it.”

At about the fifth item he sighs and stares at the cart.

“Wait, that's all we've got so far? Oh, it's going to take hours to collect them all.” He complains in a high-pitched whine and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

Now he is getting it. At least she won’t be alone in her misery.

“If you’ve changed your mind, I’m more than happy to write up your order to get delivered to your office.”

“No, this will do… I suppose. Some of the items I’ll need for tomorrow.”

"You know," she suggests, "it might be faster if you dictate the list. I can look for the items while you do that."

He considers her suggestion for a moment, before he shrugs. "That might work”.

As they work together, a strange camaraderie begins to form. They settle into an easy sort of rhythm, one following the other, and the initial tension between them starts to dissipate, replaced by a sense of shared purpose.

"Well, this is everything then," he says, surveying the cart full of items.

"Really? That was rather fast. We make a rather excellent team," Thiriann replies, a small smile playing on her lips.

"And it's only taken half an hour of overtime," she adds, a hint of amusement in her voice."Let's return upstairs, and I'll write you the invoice quickly.”

"You know, I don't think I've seen you here before," he remarks as they walk, his eyes lingering a moment too long. "I would have undoubtedly remembered such a beautiful face. Are you a new hire?"

 She rolls her eyes playfully . "I've worked here for four years, actually. Just new to the night shift."

"Oh? And how has that been going for you? Have you found your true calling as a nocturnal creature?" he asks, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Not at all. I have no idea how people do it," she admits, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

"Ah, a night owl in the making then. The secret is simple, my dear : embrace the darkness, in time it will become as much part of you as the sun.” he pauses for a moment “That and copious amounts of caffeine.”

“Is that what worked for you? You seem…happy with this lifestyle.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I was a mess at first. But it does get easier.” He says with a surprisingly gentle and earnest look.

Maybe it is the exhaustion or sleep deprivation but the reassuring words of this stranger actually manage to bring her comfort.

“Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.” She says with a smile and Astarion can’t help but find it rather captivating.

After a few more minutes, they are back in the office and Thiriann quickly writes up the invoice before handing it to him.

"There you go, Mr. Ancunin. Pleasure working with you," she says and finds she actually means it to an extend.

 "Please, darling, just Astarion, now that we've acquainted ourselves," he corrects, a smirk playing on his lips.

Astarion she thinks, even his name is enchanting.

Suddenly, he thrust his phone into her hand.

"What is this for?" she asks, confused.

"For your number, darling. Obviously. I need to be able to reach you if I have an order, don't I?" he replies almost mockingly.

"Oh, you can just ring up the office number on the website. I'm sure someone will—" she begins before he interrupts her.

"But you are my personal provider, aren't you? What if whoever is on shift is not equipped to handle my very specific needs?" his tone is innocent but the look on his face is anything but.

He is making a bit of a stretch, but she has indeed exchange phone numbers with almost all of her clients. "Yes, I suppose you have a point. Here is my number," she says, quickly dialing the digits.

He effortlessly slings the enormous supply bag over his shoulder and glances down at the new contact before a sultry grin appears on his face.

 "It was a pleasure working with you, Thiriann," he says. Her name, spoken in his smooth voice, sends a shiver down her spine and a furious blush finds a way to her cheeks.

And with that, he strolls away, his hips swaying in a rather hypnotic manner.

Link to Chapter 2

[goqmir]

been running a rakdos storm deck at my high-power casual edh table lately and i had the idea to slot in Debt to the Kami in my interaction suite for several reasons

i've resolved this card twice, and both times it's performed much better than the card would have you believe! one time i got rid of an opponent's problem enchantment (i believe it was amassing counters to perform a powerful effect, and i exiled it!) and most recently i resolved it to force my girlfriend to exile her commander through Lightning Greaves, the only card on the board in her rakdos midrange deck, allowing me to get in with a 5/5 nonevasive creature with The Reaver Cleaver, setting up an infinite with Aggravated Assault! it was awesome!

the idea for Debt to the Kami came from my girlfriend, serenity, putting Season of the Burrow alongside the card Serenity in her Tayam deck. these cards create an indestructible Serenity that blows up all artifacts and enchantments every turn cycle, which isnt the worst thing for me but definitely sets back my Flamewar-led rakdos storm deck.

Debt to the Kami is one of the very, very few cards in rakdos that can deal with this Serenity lock, so i decided to throw it in the removal slot. furthermore, my edh table is packed full of graveyard decks, so exile removal is at a premium and very worthwhile. plus, enchantments are very worth hating out, and the creature effect is never worthless!

for me, this card has been not only an overperformer, but has become a bit of a pet card due to its inclusion in what is becoming my all-time favorite deck. it helps that i didn't even need to order it, i just grabbed it out of my neon dynasty bulk and sleeved it up. i like this card a lot, and i highly recommend giving it a shot, especially if you're ever in a similar metagame as me! im frankly pretty proud of my ability to spot and include a solid metagame answer amidst the chaff :)

[kaonarvna]

A Low-Stress Work Social

"Chapter" Name: A Low-Stress Work Social — Sector Zero, Midgar 199X

Summary: Angeal and Genesis, newly promoted to the FIRST CLASS within SOLDIER, attend a company social event alongside Sephiroth.

Tags: Slice of Life, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Potential TWs: homophobia

WC: ~3000 (6-10 minute read)

Sample below the cut!

 “He said you could have two.”

            “Come on, Angeal—who is going to notice? Who will notice if we have another?”

            “We all agreed with him that we could have two. We are technically working, Genesis. We are here to put on a good face for the FIRST CLASS, and socialize with—”

            Sephiroth quietly re-joins them, holding out his hand between the whisper-squabbling young men. Two flutes of a pre-mixed and brightly coloured cocktail balance between his fingers and sips with his other hand.

            Genesis takes one. “Thank you! Someone has the right idea.” The fruity taste is almost sickly; he can hardly detect the liquor that is supposedly inside.

            “Both of you should know better. This is exactly why Lazard instructed for me to stay—no!” he holds out a hand in front of the drink Sephiroth offers him. “How are you going to—”

            “Relax.” Sephiroth pours part of the rejected drink into Genesis’ plastic glass, and the other into his, earning an audible sigh from Angeal. “You have already spoken with every middle-manager in the room about recent promotions.”

            “But look around you! We need to look our best. We are surrounded by our own, and Public Safety, Weapons Development, Research and—”

            “We are not talking to R and D,” Sephiroth interrupts. 

            “Sure. But what about all the sub-departments of Weapons Development and Public Safety…?”

            Genesis looks away from their tight social triangle for a moment. The sixty-first floor is hardly recognisable. The neon signs of the sectors beyond the dark windows light the edges of the room with purples and reds, while the sterile lights above have been partially dimmed. The tables have been rearranged towards the edges of the floor—the longest two of which have been repurposed to house spreads of finger-foods and myriad drinks. Round tables of social sorts are stocked with shiny buckets of ice coddling white wine, and graveyards of empty glasses interspersed with dark green-tinted bottles. Bland, palatable, but vaguely popular music fails to drown out the laughing and too-loud talking of the hundreds of mingling personnel.

            Everyone seems to be at their semi-best, a prettier-than-standard but not-quite-dress-uniform level of “best”. He can see Scarlet on the other end of the hall, looking her usual red self, with a too-tall glass of red, surrounded by red-faced men who seem to enjoy her belittling remarks. The new-FIRST tries not to stare too long; he can feel his eyes un-focussing, smearing the lights around that encased tree display to the edges of his eyesight.

            “How do you think they get this so green?” Genesis suddenly wonders aloud, snapping back to the noxious drink in his hand. “Obviously, it is a food dye, but—is it a specific liqueur? A mix of liqueurs? Dye, on its own?” 

            “You were not even listening to me, were you?”

            “It tastes like melon,” Sephiroth adds.

            “That is not how melon tastes—this is the extra-sweetened, artificial melon taste you only get in Midgar. Someday, I can show you a real melon.” Genesis lays his free hand on Sephiroth’s upper arm.

            “What is the point of—if anything goes wrong tonight, you two are taking the blame.”

            Genesis rolls his eyes. “You need to relax. None of us want to be here, we may as well—”

            “Do not speak for me. We are FIRSTs now. There are additional responsibilities that come with that, beyond the field—and not just paper—”

            “Your six.” Sephiroth interrupts, just loud enough.

            A broad hand claps down firmly on Angeal’s shoulder; he can hear the bands of thick rings click against the polished metal guarding his body. “Boys! Hiding away from the action? Shouldn’t you be making the most of yourselves?”

...

[ Read the rest on AO3 ]

[niuttuc]

O wise deckbuilder! I was immediately inspired by the newly revealed Rydia, Summoner of Mist. I want to remove or otherwise skirt finality counters, but her color identity is miserable for it. I’ve got Quarry Hauler and a few artifacts. Any ideas?

Generally speaking, with most commanders, I'd say it's a trap to focus too much on wanting to remove finality counters. Doubly so with sagas, that will take on average several turn cycle before potentially going back to the graveyard. By the time you'd want to bring it back again, you have had plenty of time to fill up your graveyard (even just with Rydia's landfall, but even more so with other effects or Sagas cast from your hand expiring).

With that said, removing counters does work with Sagas to reuse the chapters you want, so at least the cards aren't fully dead when you aren't in the hyper-specific situation where removing finality counters actually would matter. I don't think it will most of the time, you'd need to get your commander out, activate her for some mana, wait several turns for a saga to run out after removing a finality counter (and not removing a lore counter from the saga to simply keep it around longer along the way), and then be in a situation where the same saga you reanimated on turn 3 or 4 is STILL your best target to bring back on turn 7 or 8. But if you're set on that...

Sagas from Neon Dynasty blink themselves to transform on their third chapter. This does mean they are sagas that remove the finality counter from themselves once they're done, so prime candidates for this.

Similarly, Summons from this set are saga creatures, they're relatively easy to blink if that's what you want to do, though in red green you'll mostly have stuff like Sword of Hearth and Home and Conjurer's Closet, which aren't the most efficient.

Nesting Grounds is an obvious one and I assume you already have it, but it's worth mentioning if you don't since you only mentioned a couple artifacts. It allows you not only to remove your finality counters if that matters, but can also move them to opponents' stuff to exile them upon death, or more fittingly in this deck remove a lore counter from one saga to put one on another, getting an effect early and re-getting another effect next turn.

Well, you know. Finality counters only work when the thing would go to the graveyard. So why not replace it? Warp World is a bit extreme, but you're a deck that's likely to play a lot of permanents with your spell effects being filled by Sagas. And all Sagas have a trigger immediately upon entering. So. That's an option.

[neonpixel-pixie]

HOW I SEE MYSELF & MY BF VS. HOW HE SEES HIMSELF AND ME

intro.

hello my beautiful angels! it’s been a while since i made some moodboards, since i didn’t have mood to create any and i hate to force myself to do these because it doesn’t make me happy then.

but when i saw this idea on instagram i decided to try it with my boyfriend because i wanted to see how big difference is between mine and his point of view on ourselves and each other too. and well… you can see how did it ended up in moodboards below.

honestly at least for me it was interesting result and i had much fun with creating these.

How I see myself

Hobby: sleep / daydreaming

Animal: bunny

Season: autumn

Place: graveyard

Character: Asuka Langley Soryu | Neon Genesis Evangelion

Music: My Chemical Romance

Colour: pink

Love language: giving gifts, physical touch

.

How I see my bf

Hobby: Dungeons and Dragons

Animal: dog

Season: summer

Place: theatre

Character: Dimitri | Anastasia

Music: Fleetwood Mac

Colour: blue

Love language: physical touch

.

How my bf sees himself

Hobby: history

Animal: raccoon

Season: spring

Place: castle

Character: Officer K | Blade Runner 2049

Music: everything

Colour: blue

Love language: physical touch

.

How my bf sees me

Hobby: fashion

Animal: raccoon

Season: spring

Place: home

Character: Patrick Bateman | American Psycho

Music: metal

Colour: red

Love language: physical touch

.

[neon-danger]

God my old old writing style is so info-dumpy in makes my current infodump writing style look too vague

[selfspinninglies]

ok hi @aureoberlinerinn and the rest of tumblr i guess. My Death Note Honey I'm Home [Ghost and Pals] animatic concept thang that I probably wont make. I'm going lyric by lyric on this so it's going under the cut. Also just in case huge gigantic neon sign spoiler warning for so much of dn

opening instrumental: [not in order of where i would put them] bits of the shinigami realm, the death note falling into the human world, Misa's stalker dying, the death note in the grass [events that are catalysts essentially]

Father said that this world isn't for me/I tried to pray for a new reality: Light reminscing about how terrible the world/people is/are, shots of random people doing things

So come to me: Light seeing the death note fall/picking it up

We can change night into day: shots of the first 2 people Light kills, him realizing what he could do with it, him with a halo or something like that + red bg

A tied up moth: L logo on laptop in the international conference thing [presumably because im not drawing that hypothetically. Too many people]

Seemed to know a different way: closeup on L's face [blue background]

(Don't remember it/don't return to it): Light looking horrified when he first uses the death note

Oh, father tore out the umbilical cord: shot of a graveyard/funeral maybe, i cant think of anything else to be honest

There's nothing left/in the bottle keeping me scored: people dying, empty bowl of some sort of candies with [assumedly] L's hand above it, Light throwing an apple

We'll abandon the scenery in the: idk really, my first thought is Misa walking with Rem and a shot of bloody hands [Light's] but idk im flexible on that

(Dont remember it/don't return to it): Misa eye closeup [shinigami flavor], her holding the death note, dead bodies that are assumedly her parents [also unsure about this one]

Rear view mirror: i honestly have no idea

A petty line of white noise: Light getting pissed at Lind L. Tailor

Pack up your bags: Lind L. Tailor dying/Light laughing about it

And throw out the toys: L logo showing up, you know how that scene goes

Three strikes and "honey i'm home": Light intially seeing L, cut to gay tennis game

Three voices come from the gramophone: L and Light beind blue and red [i have a better image for this in my head but i cant explain it well], eyes in the background of the opposite color looking at them [blue for Light, Red for L if my phrasing was weird], flashes of different scenes through gra-mo-phone [syllables because they indicate scene change]

A vivisection of me: Light pinned like he's a bug getting taxidermied

Yielded the start of a mystery: hands above Light, camera pans up during my-ster-y to show that its L's hands [you would see his face]

Say "hello! Honey I'm home!": Light walking into the task force hotel but he doesnt have a full face and it's just a smile [red] [does this make sense]

Three voices come from the gramophone: L, Light, and Misa normally but on gra-mo-phone they change [Light has red eyes and looks evil™️ (idk how else to say it) holding the death note, Misa has shinigami eyes, and L's eyes are blue because idk what else to do with him here el oh el]

God returned with the moth chained to his hand: Misa with Light in some way

There's so many things that you'll never understand: Kira follower riot thing you get it

So come to me/we can change night into day: Light getting put into confinement + losing his memories, when night into day is said it shows glimpses of his normal life/memories from that time compared to his cell now

You'll hold my hand so you'll never go astray: L and Light in chains together [i have specific visuals for this that i cant really explain], a few eyes in the background again but theyre all looking at Light this time

(God devoured that of father): either Light getting the death note back and his expressions slowly changing as he gains back his memory or lawlight cannibalism. I cannot decide

A spider preaching with poison on its lips: Takada talking about Kira

To get out of here is to promise me a kiss: Light lying and looking pretty about it [i have visuals in my head that i cant articulate] or alternatively lawlight kiss. Many such cases

We'll abandon the scenery in the/mind of mother: Light + Misa fake execution is all i can think of to put here idk

(Dont remember it dont return to it): memory-less Light scenes

So with advice of the dead/and a halo over my head: Light with Mello, L, and Soichiro in the bg behind him [because they were all trying to catch him + died] and he has a halo again but when the beat drops it cracks and he looks horrified and theyre all looking at him

At last "honey I'm home!"/three voices come all alone: yellow box scene stuff

A vivisection of me/done by god for all to see: L death scene [kind of] but hes in a similar position to Light when he was being bug taxidermied but Light is vivisecting him and theres eyes in the bg again [red] also on "for all to see" it zooms in on Light's eyes then face and he smiles but evil™️

Say "hello! honey I'm home!": cut back to yellow box, Light does his Kira monologue

Three voices come all alone: zoom out of the scene, on "a-all a-lone" it closes up on Near, Matsuda, and Mikami, then Light but its framed so it looks like Light is completely alone

A vivisection of me/done by god for all to see: Light gettng shot + running away, past his younger self [anime ref you get it] + flashes of Light's life before the death note/Kira contrasted with his current situation between the gaps of the vocal interlude and the lyrics

A vivisection of me/done by god for all to see: Light dying on the staircase, hallucinating L you get it

Closing instrumental: [not in order] aftermath stuff like Misa walking + dying, the Kira cult, members of the task force, Minoru getting the death note, Sayu + Sachiko

[omnikid6]

Mystery kids remake comic pt 4 episode 2

(Neil knows there's only one person who can do anything about zombies-his best friend. But Norman is caught in a conundrum; he's just met these new friends, and doesn't want them to think he's a freak, but on the other hand, he doesn't want them to die. Really, the choice was made for him long ago. He passes a look to Neil, and steels himself before stepping in front of the group.)

Norman Babcock: Hey

(To everyone's-including Gideon's-shock, the zombies freeze in their tracks. Norman notices their tormentor's gutted expression and can't help a smirk before he speaks again.)

Norman Babcock: Um, I-I want all of you to go into the forest and never go near a town again! Uh-or, return to your graves if you'd rather do that. Just, no eating anyone! Ever. Got it?

(The zombies groan in unison, and to Norman it sounds a little bit like an 'aye'. They watch as the horde disperses, some wandering off into the woods, others crawling back into the graves they'd just burst from moments ago-some taking a moment to pull the dirt back up over themselves like a blanket. Mabel takes advantage of Gideon's shock to kick him off, grab her pet, and climb down, then kicks the ladder over before rejoining her friends. They turn to leave, but Gideon's babbling makes them stop.)

Gideon Gleeful: (Distressed) "B-but-my plan! It was flawless!!"

Susie: (angry) Of course. You would understand if you had any brains. If you dare again, I will rip your arms off and shove them down your throat, runt.

(After these words, Gideon Gleeful ran away in horror like a little child, everyone was surprised except Mabel Pines who was happy about it.)

Mabel Pines: Well done Susie

(Coraline speaks, but is studying Norman the whole time.)

Coraline Jones: (Quietly) "Looks like you underestimated us."

(They leave the graveyard, ignoring Gideon's shouts and oaths, far more interested in their friend.)

Dipper Pines: Okay, you can control zombies?!"

The kids are walking down the street, back to the Shack.

Norman Babcock: Uh, no-well, sort of, I guess? Uh...

Neil Downe: He can talk to the dead. Ghosts, zombies, ghost zombies-he can do it all!

Razputin Aquato: Really? That's so cool!

(Norman manages a small smile, but his earlier bravery is gone; the attention is too much.)

Coraline Jones: I always just thought you were weird but-that makes so much sense now. How come you never told anyone before?

Neil Downe: (Plainly) Everyone else made fun of him.

Coraline Jones: Oh. Yeah, that would... that would do it.

Norman Babcock: Yes

Susie: Come on, for example, no one laughs at me because everyone is afraid of me.

Kris Dremurr: Yes, there are articles about this, why didn't you hit him?

Susie: Do you really care?

Kris Dremurr: Curious

Dipper Pines: Geez, sounds like everyone in this group has baggage.

Razputin Aquato: You don't even know the half of it.

Kris Dremurr: Okay, let's go already.

(They don't speak any more until they get back to the Shack as evening falls.)

Asriel Dremurr: Oh kids, you're just in time for dinner.

(Totally worn out from a long, adventure-filled day, everyone's eager to get settled into bed. Dipper sets the glowing jar of Glowwyrm saliva on the nightstand, and Mabel flops on her bed, observing its neon light.)

Mabel Pines: Y'know, if you don't think about how gross it is, it's kinda pretty.

Dipper Pines: I guess. Don't get any ideas though, it's probably toxic somehow.

Wybie Lovat: That thing was crazy, and then the zombies. You really get creatures like that all the time?

Dipper Pines: It's weird right? If it's not some monster, then it's, I dunno, cursed objects and stuff. And then all of you come into town on the same night-two psychics, and a ghost whisperer and his friends. That's some freaky coincidence too.

(Neil examines the rash on his arm again with renewed concern.)

Coraline Jones: ... I can use a dowsing roa, it that counts for anything."

Lili Zanotto: Looks like we're a talented bunch after all.

Norman Babcock: (Relieved) I... I'm glad you guys think of it like that.

Razputin Aquato: Of course! I only know of one Psychonaut who was able to talk to ghosts, but he never dealt with a whole horde of zombies. That astral barrier Gideon put up didn't even phase you-you're hardcore.

Mabel Pines: Yeah! You totally saved our bacon-literally!

(She hugs Waddles, and he grunts happily. Norman is heartened by his friend's words.)

Norman Babcock: (Grateful) "I guess I shouldn't have worried with you guys. Thanks."

Dipper Pines: No problem man. Pretty sure most of us have dealt with even stranger stuff.

(Norman chuckles.)

Wybie Lovat: Well, I dunno about anyone else, but I'm ready to hit the hay. Norman, you sure your dad was okay with us staying here?

Norman Babcock: ...I think he could use the break. After what happened the other day, he needs it. And he says it saves on hotel fees, so I guess that's good.

Wybie Lovat: Honestly, we could use a break from him too.

[calware]

Every other question for the artist ask sheet, but u pick odds or evens

😳 yikes! ok lol

8. What's an old project idea that you've lost interest in

back in early 2022 where i wanted to make fake-neon signs of the beta kids. i ended up doing john and rose (i don't like how rose turned out) but i never got around to doing the other two. this idea was inspired by this post btw

12. Easiest part of body to draw

the nose :) i used to hate drawing noses but now i find it fun. i tend to draw the same nose a lot though 😭

(i promise i can draw other noses, i just happen to not draw them as often)

16. Something you are good at but don't really have fun doing

hands, as long as i find the right reference... which i usually don't bother doing

18. An estimate of how much art supplies you've broken

i focus on digital art 99% of the time and i am SUPER careful with all of my electronics, so i don't think i've broken anything i use to make illustrations except for wearing down one pen nib..... however. i took a jewelry making class one time in middle school and i broke. SO. MANY. SAWBLADES. THE TINY BRITTLE ONES.... i broke so many that my friends teased me about it and we made a graveyard for all the broken saws.

22. What physical exercises do you do before drawing, if any

none. i do hand stretches if they start to cramp up though. if i draw too long my thumb will spasm (which is probably not good) and i will massage it whenever that happens

24. Do your references include stock images

sometimes, and it's usually because my first source for references is just a quick google search

26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended

i don't think i've had any WILDLY different interpretations... but one of my vriska drawings HAS gotten two analyses on the symbolism that i put in on complete accident

28. Any art events you have participated in the past (like zines)

i was part of

a secret santa for a homestuck server in 2020

jade week in 2020

rosemary month both in 2020 and 2021

@queerjaneweek this year

@hsanthologies' trickster treats zine last year

and i'm going to be in another zine this year that will be released soon :)

[doom-nerdo-666]

On the subject of exploring different places on Earth, i wonder if we could make a list of specific countries and types of locations. Even if they're maps for multiplayer or a horde mode. Basically, "Doom World Tour" and there's probably other places to add. Like where would you add an hospital, a dock area or mall area? I feel it's worth thinking of countries fist and then those establishments. ALSO: Because of 1 How Hell can corrupted places and make things strangers and 2 Doom not being that realistic/serious: We could be somewhat "geographically innacurate" with some maps like specific locations or landmarks being closer to each other than usual. Just pretend Hell is making Earth weirder.

Or you could also use portals maybe, to justify going from one type of place to another but still within the same country.

But i had some ideas:

New York: A basic idea, with a giant Lady Liberty's head thrown on Time Square, while the background shows her statue missing the head; Also, can't forget the subway with moving trains that can kill both you and the demons

Texas: You have a basic town with buildings that look like a wild west setting and a farm with wheat and a barn

Japan: You have the city area with neon lights and then a Shinto shrine area with Toriis and blossom trees; An obvious easter egg is posters and art referencing stuff like Berserk or Fist of the North Star but with Doomguy and demons (Might as well do something similar for other countries that also had their share of pop culture just because)

France: You see the Eiffel tower covered by tentacles and some nice towns and cities; What about Notre Dame too?

Australia: Maybe have an underground/cave town based off Coober Pedy but is actually a made up place with its own name; Also, a wild life area obviously

Italy: The Pisa tower is leaning a bit more than usual and you also have the Vatican; There could also be a circus

Greece: Mainly for the ancient Greece setpieces

Germany: One obvious thing is a nod to Wolfenstein

Egypt: Because it's an obvious idea

Africa: I wanna try 2 ideas where one part of the map is a large savanna and another is a jungle full of trees

Mexico: No yellow filter, we make a town look as colorfull as possible; Also, Dia de los Muertos references

Norway: Mainly for an obligatory snow away with a village and some slippery ice floors that you can play with; Also, Christmas stuff

UK: The Big Ben could be part of the map's events like the clock is moving at a certain speed and if it strikes midnight, something happens

Brazil: You could have a beach area, then an area resembling a favela

Spain: Just so you can pretend you're playing bull fighting with charging Pinkies or Barons lol

India: I guess some references to Hindu cultures is expected

China: You have the great wall of China, then also Hong Kong and maybe a dock area

There's probably more ideas to think of.

EDIT 2: Other ideas include a graveyard, haunted mansion, disco club and nuclear plants.

ALSO: A football stadium where there's a recreation of the "Cybie vs SMM" fight in a large field while the crowd goes wild.

Edit: let me just mention these 2 posts of mine

Something about a building of stacked stuff, like a "mega structure"

And something about DE's podiums

[shadowaj]

Heya! Welcome to our creepy studio filled with oddities!

Hi and good mourning, it’s me Aj! I’m also referred to as ShadowAj, Shady and RealShadyGhost. I’m a spooky yet silly ghost who draws and such. Here, you’ll mainly see me post fan art of my favorite series, commissions, and OC content (scroll down for more info on this!), as well as memes probably. Most of the drawings I post here will be 2D digital art, but occasionally I may post 2D traditional. I hope you enjoy your visit here!

(Small content warning, although I won’t post anything NSFW, I may post drawings with blood and/or light gore, body horror, and disturbing imagery, so beware.)

Things I Enjoy!

Ok so here I’ll just list off some of my interests so you can get to know me better. Ghosts have interests too!

- General Interests -

Spooky things, which includes horror movies and games, the occult, Halloween, urban legends, things like that.

Mysteries (I love murder mysteries, detective stories, strange and bizarre internet mysteries, and stuff like that)

Coffee (I’m a big fan)

Video Games (I’m bad at them but I still enjoy them…)

Movies (I enjoy going to theaters and watching movies, especially animated films.)

Listening to music (I am a fan of Metal/Rock (Metallica, Pantera, Ghost, etc.) music, as well as Synth. I do also listen to OSTs of my favorite series. A band I recommend checking out is ‘Dance with the Dead’, they are an indie band and mainly do horror synth and synthmetal. (Well, then again, I like any music that sounds nice or is spooky so)

Anime (Which ones? I’ll list them later give me a sec!)

Drawing (This should be obvious I mean I post drawings here but ima include it anyway)

Character Design (this is kinda an extension of drawing but I do enjoy looking at different designs and taking notes on what I can do differently with my own designs.)

Writing (Mainly my OC lore and such)

Collecting Plushies (I have an addiction help)

Theme Parks and Roller Coasters (I love roller coasters)

Cooking (I’m well known for my evil pancakes)

For aesthetics, I am a fan of spooky aesthetics (Wow!), steampunk, gothic (i love gothic architecture…), vaporwave, neon, and others.

-Anime and Games that I really enjoy-

Soul Eater

Danganronpa

Master Detective Archives: RAIN CODE

Zero Escape

AI The Somnium Files

Ace Attorney

Mob Psycho 100

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure

Gurren Lagann

Persona (I’m a fake fan I’ve only played the P5 games and I still haven’t finished P4G)

Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective

Kaguya-sama: Love is War

Nichijou

Fire Emblem: Three Houses

Pokémon

Sonic

Chainsaw Man (Again, fake fan, I haven’t been keeping up)

And others that I didn’t list here whoopsie

Original Content!

As I said before, I’ll be posting drawings of OCs, mainly from the webcomic series I’m working on titled ‘Shadow Realm’. I do have other original series and ideas as well, so here’s a little info…

Shadow Realm

Shadow Realm is a 4-part action horror urban fantasy series starring Sophia Alvarado, a Cuban teenage girl who lives in Miami who one day ends up in a different and strange world from our own, and ends up encountering ghosts and gaining powers of electricity. With her occult and coffee-obsessed friend Violet Bellerose and a friendly ghost she meets on the other side dubbed Shady, they encounter different ghosts and supernatural occurrences all across Miami. There’s a lot more to it, but that’s the basic gist of it for now. (It gets very complicated from part 2 onward…)

Kendall Convenience

A small game project that has the player take the role of one Katrina Diaz, a convenience store worker in Miami who works the graveyard shift. This takes place in the same universe as Shadow Realm.

Mystères de Lenoir

Mysteres de Lenoir is a series that follows the protagonist, Stella Auclair, a fresh detective who takes place in steampunk and gothic France during the Belle Époque era. Stella works with André Dupin, at the Dupin Detective Agency, and they solve a series of mysteries, most of which are murder cases.

I have two other series, but those are a secret for now… I will say though that one of them is a western, and the other is a single volume (One-Shot) comic.

Closing thoughts

If you read through all that wow good job you’re super cool and spooky methinks perchance.

Oh yeah, you can find me on other platforms like Twitter, YouTube, Instagram, Pinterest, Pixiv, and Twitch

Even if you don’t have an account there you should still check them out!!!!

ask me anything you have questions about or if you're bored and want to talk!

another thing, i speak English and i can understand Spanish (I'm hispanic and i still can't speak this language it's embarrassing i know )

(also i may reupload this post in the future to add custom graphics, update interests, etc.)