#(!!! yoinking here hopefully this is okay!! :>> )

[mikiquette]

🍓 ︴ and sunset. from the open starter from @farspaceapple.

Again.

One step, two steps.

He'd told her to wait—told her he'd be back in a few minutes. She'd lost count of how often things like this had been happening, but there was little she could do but watch; little she could do but just let him. The sight of his retreating figure had become one she grew too familiar with. Silly races on the playground, chasing him in the halls, and then all those times he'd leave for Skyhaven…

And then now, too.

'Caleb, don't leave me behind…!'

She used to be able to say it so easily.

But seconds turned into minutes, few minutes turned into several minutes. And now after waiting for so long, her fingers played with the sleeve of her cardigan as she finally caught sight of him walking back to her. She stood up from the bench, adjusted her hair. She should act normal, she knew that—she wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that whatever this is, he'd tell her in his own time. But as often as this had been happening as of late, he'd taken longer than usual to get back this time. She didn't stop the way her brows knitted together in concern.

It was true; in the end, he's always come back to her, anyway. But she wondered if there would be another time that he'd have to take longer than he wanted to.

"Is everything okay?" she murmured.

She took tentative steps forward, scanning his figure for any trace of injury, or any trace of distress. She knew she wouldn't find any, but that didn't satisfy her enough. She reached out to brush the collar of his shirt... Something to ground herself—make sure he was real. The light from the gradually setting sun helped, but as pretty as sunsets were, there were certain things she wished wouldn't have to end. Things like peaceful days, peaceful moments with him. Things like him.

"Are you okay? You took really long... I-I was worried something might've happened, and we also might've missed our opening at the planetarium, our ticket said—"

She paused, glanced down at the paper in her hands. "Um, well... We have five minutes before it's our turn to go in? B-but are you— Is everything okay? If you don't want to go anymore, we can just go home, and..."

[carmenized-onions]

Tony, Terry, Tommy? | Walk-In Hotfix

synopsis; You get an unexpected call from an old friend in need of an emergency repair. Good thing: that's kind of your whole gig. Bad thing: You've been avoiding the Berzatto family for the past year.

tasting notes; hurt comfort? idk man, he's in a fuckin' freezer. this is gonna be a long slow-burn series. We don't use Y/N here and we've got a very preestablished storyline going on babes. Eat up.

portion; 3.1k+

possible allergies; SEASON 2 FINALE SPOILERS, I've started writing this before Season 3 comes out in June so we're going WAY off canon (unless I'm an oracle), Mikey is gonna be central baby, any tw you require for the bear-- you require for this.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns!)

I have not written fanfiction in 5-6 years and once again some goddamn pretty boy just YOINKS me back in. I'm making up my own season three here so I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants with this series, hopefully it turns out. If it doesn't... C'est la vie, I had fun.

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                    Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call from an old friend.

You stare at your screen for what feels like eons but it’s really just a few rings. It’s enough time to frantically search through blankets on your couch for your remote to pause your show— Which might as well be like 10 years of time. You’re heavily debating not answering; what if it’s something heavy? What if a mutual childhood friend died? What if it’s a love or murder confession? What if it’s about the money you owe her? The money she owes you?

Do you really want to take that kind of call? On what’s been a peaceful Friday night? That’s a rarity in your part of Chicago, c’mon. If it’s important, she’ll leave a voicemail... Who are you kidding, she doesn’t leave voicemails— Frankly, it’s bizarre and concerning that she’s calling in the first place instead of spam texting. …Alright, she’s let it get to the fourth ring, she’s probably dead or dying. You need to pick up.

“…Syd?”

She sounds infinitely stressed, but relieved to hear your voice.“Hey, hey, uh—”

There’s a cacophony of yelling, banging, and what you imagine are kitchen noises in the background. Guess she kept to her guns after Sheridan. That’s nice. Or maybe it’s not. Hard to tell.

“Are you good?” She can’t see the concern on your face or your free arm crossing over your waist— But she can imagine it in the worried lilt of your voice.

“Yeah, yeah yeah, yeah— I-I’m good— Well actually, no, I’m not good, that’s why I’m calling. Actually. Sorry. I know it’s been a minute, it’s fucked up to call only when I need something—”

“Syd.”

“Is your dad still a handy-man?”

Ah. Goodbye peaceful Friday night. Hello emergency hotfix services.

You click your teeth, “Oh, no, he retired. Got a case of… Getting fucking old disease.” But a part of you is relieved it’s a thing that’s broken, and not her. This is at least manageable— Whatever it is.

“Fuck. Okay. Fuck. Ha, yeah, my dad’s got that too— Well, okay, then I’ll talk—”

You’re quick to jump in. “I took over the business though. So, if you’re—" “We need help so bad right now.”

You can’t help but laugh at the speed of it, but immediately feel guilty hearing the desperation in it. “Yeah? Who’s we?”

You stick the cellphone in the crux of your neck, already walking across your apartment to throw on your jumpsuit— Dark navy blue, elbow length sleeves, dad’s old logo embroidered on your right breast pocket.

CHICAGO’S KINDEST ⚒ FIXERS & CO. It’s managed to grow on you.

There’s an egregious number of patches ironed or sewn onto the back and shoulders of it. All from businesses you and your father had either worked with or done odd jobs for. A NASCAR jumpsuit, but for nostalgia and small businesses. Something something ‘it all starts with your neighbourhood’. Your dad would say.

Syd continues, she hasn’t changed much. You hear her sharp dicing in the background, the rhythm seems to calm down into an actual flow instead of erratic speed. You figure either the dinner rush is starting to slow down or she’s relieved you’re coming. Who are you being humble for, no shot it’s the former.

“So, you know how I’m like— Like a chef and shit?”

 You hum the affirmative, putting her on speakerphone so you can pull out your tool kit with both hands.

“So like, I actually co-own this restaurant opening tonight.”

“Oh nice!”

“Yeah— Yeah, yeah, it’s really nice, but actually, it’s not, because it’s bad.”

“In the way I can fix?”

“In the way you can fix, yeah. Hopefully.”

“What’s the damage?”

“So, my co-owner uh, Carmen, he got locked in the walk-in. Like trapped.”

You take a beat, a confused one. Half-stepping, almost tripping. You stare at your tools, picking out what you’ll actually need for this— How the fuck— “How is he trapped in the walk-in?”

“So, he meant to call to get it fixed—” “And he didn’t?” “And he didn’t.”

“What was broke about it in the first place?”

“The doorknob on the inside, broke off. And right now, or, more like, 5 minutes ago, the handle on the outside broke off too.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.”

“Do you have the outside handle, still?”

“Yeah. Yeah, laying around somewhere— It snapped off though, like—”

“Clean?”

“Uh…. Y’know, I would check, but I’m actually kinda—"

“Can we run table 36, please, Chefs?!” Now that’s an uncomfortably familiar voice.

“Yes, Chef! …I’m kinda busy.”

“Right. Restaurant. Oh, what fucking restaurant? You said Carmen, that’s that fuckin’ Michelin guy, right?” Berzatto. It has to be. The smallness of this world is a personal prank on you.

“…How do you know that?” Son of a bitch.

“…I try to remember what you like.” It’s a good save, but that was too intimate for 3 years of no contact besides Happy Birthday texts, fuck fuck, recover— “Ahem, uh, Restaurant?”

“The Bear. Formerly The Beef. You do still live in Chicago, right?”

Berzatto. Confirmed. Bleh.

“Fortunate for you, I do. I know The Beef, I’m not far, I’ll be there in ten. Tell him to not have a panic attack, if you get a minute.”

“I will not get a minute. But I love the dream.”

And you’re off. Jumpsuit half zipped over what was supposed to be a sleep shirt but is now posthumously a work shirt. Nobody has to know you’re wearing pajama shorts under this. Carhartt jacket thrown over your shoulders— Your dad’s, so, a bit oversized. Toolbox in hand, utility belt on— Though you’re mildly sure if your hypothesis is right, you will only need your threateningly long sledgehammer.

Thank God for your car. CTA would not like you right now.

You pull up front. Oh boy. The sign change is making you feel a type of way that you were not expecting. Pride? Envy? All seven of the deadly sins? Maybe. No time to stew on it because there’s an older woman smoking and having an emotional spat with who you assume is her shivering son out front. So. Definitely going through the back alley instead of getting in the middle of that shit.

Alas, it’s not any better, because there’s Syd, vomiting next to a dumpster.

“Better to ignore or acknowledge you in this moment?” Is the response you decide is best, despite the question, you’re already by her side. You put your tools down (out of the splash zone) and rub her back with one hand, holding back straying braids with the other.

“I couldn’t—” More vomit. “Fuckin’ tell ya.” Syd takes a few deep breathes before standing. She considers going in for a hug, but remembers, the vomit. “Good to see you. I want to catch up, f’real, but—” “The bear in the walk-in?” “The bear in the walk-in.”

You nod, fishing through your pocket. You hand her a mini container of Tums. She waves it off, of course, and you double down, of course, “Who you acting tough for?”

“Fuckin… No one.” She grimaces, taking the box. She makes a show of taking one, like a fussy kid.

You refuse to take it back. “Keep it.”

“Never stopped being the mom friend, eh?”

You laugh, picking up your tools again. “Listen, there’s no telling what the night and your stomach holds. Lead the way?”

The Bear is pretty, or at least the kitchen of it is, so far. It’s clean. Cleaner than it used to be. The death trap walk-in is really the only eyesore for you. You stare at the broken-off handle in your hand, twisting it back and forth to look at all the angles. It’s honestly a pretty clean break.

Sydney’s left to talk to her dad, as she should, and the rest of the kitchen is either too busy to pay you mind or is just silently relieved to see you.

Tina— Who has thankfully opted to not say ‘Hey, good to see you, it’s been a year, what the fuck’—Taps the walk-in door and says to this elusive Michelin Carmen that she’ll be right back, that help’s here. He does not seem to register this at all. She gently slaps your cheek before rushing back to her station, regardless.

“Maybe I’m just not built for this, maybe, maybe that’s okay— Maybe that just is.”

You’ve never said his name to him, it feels heavy on your tongue. “Carmen.”

“Right? What the fuck was I thinking?”

Alright, he’s too far gone. You flag down one of the cooks that are just shadowing for the night. “Hey, can you hold this in place for me?”

You stick the handle into what’s left of the hinge still attached to the door, which is, not much— But hopefully, again, if your hypothesis is correct, it’ll give enough leverage. The cook holds it in place, a little terrified as your sledgehammer comes into view.

“Not gonna hit you, promise.”

“—I’m a fuckin’ psycho. That’s why. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”

You tap (bang) the hammer on the door, enough to stop his train of thought. For a second, at least. “Sweetheart, I need you to stand up for me, Carmen Chef Sir.”

“…Tony?”

“...Who the fuck is Tony?”

The meek cook beside you speaks up, “He means Tommy.”

And Tina is quick to yell from across the kitchen— hearing how? We don’t know. “It’s Terry!”

“I am none of these people.” You sigh, readying the hammer. “Carmen, can you stand up, and just tuck your fingers in the wedge of the door? If there is one?”

“Heard. Yeah.” There’s shuffling from in there, getting into position. Though the steps and the words seem dazed, as he’s forced out of a mental fog. “Here.”

“This isn’t a fix by the way. Your whole door is fucked after this. Not that it isn’t already, but, y’know.” You back up, teeing yourself up before running forward.

“Well, wait—”

You slam the mallet into the tip of the handle perfectly, forcing it way too tight into the gap of the hinge. You push the cook aside with your hip, now using the long handle of the mallet to stick between the knob and the door, using it as further leverage to pull it open. It is incredibly straining.

“Carmy!” Is it okay to say that nickname before you’ve even seen his face? Eh. You’re moving the boulder, he’ll forgive you. “You feel air?!”

“Holy shit— Yeah, yeah— Push?!” “Of course fucking push!”

And it becomes apparent in this exchange of force that this Head Chef must be significantly stronger than you, because it’s opening a lot faster now. Though, fast is a strong word for the snail pace this is happening at. But it’s more than the nothing that was happening a minute ago.

“Aye… Cousin?” Richie, in a… suit? Runs up to you, coming from front of house. He immediately grabs a free spot on the sledgehammer’s handle to help pull. He was shocked to see you doing, well, this, right now, but then upon registering, he’s just shocked to see you. Period.

You can only groan in response, sticking a leg up and putting your foot on the wall as if it’s gonna add meaningful leverage— Oh wait, it kinda is. “Y'clean up good, Rich— Opening going—Fuck— well?”

“Oh yeah, fucking peachy.” He can only manage to wheeze in reply. Investing his strength in yanking rather than reintroductions; thankfully it pays off.

The hinge shoots open, you would have absolutely fallen on your ass if Richie was not ready to stabilize you. The walk-in door cracks open. Just a bit. It’s not dramatic, it’s just a breath.

It’s so anti-climactic that Richie doesn’t mind walking off to cheer before Carmen even comes out. Clapping your back as he does. “That’s what I like to fuckin’ see, Cousin! Ingenuity!”

Though, to be fair, he’s moving to intercept a very sweet looking, worried girl. You look up at her, wheezing as you keel over slightly to catch your breath, hands on your knees. She’s saying something along the lines of ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Is he okay?’ Girlfriend? Probably. Richie seems to be coaxing her accordingly. You turn your head back to the door. Carmen hasn’t come out yet. That’s a red flag. With another wheeze, you stand up right, opening the door further, peeking in.

He's standing there, catatonic. Not looking at you, but straight forward, beyond you. He must’ve been by the door to push it open but now he’s stumbled against the back shelf. Every time his girl’s voice manages to ring into here, his eyes crinkle— Wince. His breath keeps hitching. He looks afraid. It is better to be caged right now than it is to be out there, doing whatever he could be doing, right now. Talking to anyone might be a death sentence, right now.

“I don’t need to provide amusement or enjoyment. I don’t need to receive any amusement or enjoyment. I’m completely fine with that.” He mumbles repeatedly. You can barely hear it over the buzzing of the freezer.

Whispering it just for himself, like some sort of fucked up mantra. Like it’s a state of inner peace to feel this bad. You doubt he even sees you right now.

You know you don’t know Carmy personally. Mostly just through hearsay.

He’s never met or heard of you, that’s for sure.

But you know Berzattos. Or. Knew the one.

And you know a downward spiral. Intimately.

And you know that right now, he’s fucking cold. He is shivering and making no move to leave that state. You think he thinks that’s the state he deserves to stay in.

Nothing to lose but a good first impression, right? You drop a screwdriver in the doorway as a doorstop— Because how fucking dumb would it be if you both got stuck? And. Extremely slowly, you approach him not unlike approaching an actual captive bear. In your eyes, you might as well be.

Standing right in front of him doesn’t stop his mantra. You slip your jacket off, half hugging him to drape it over his shoulders. “You’re just cold.”

“I’m a—” “You’re just. Cold.” You cut him off before he has the chance to self-deprecate again, smoothing out the sleeves on him. His eyes readjust to actually look at you rather than somewhere beyond.

You sniff. You’re already cold and it’s been 30 seconds. This poor thing. You rub your hands together, breathing hot air into them before touching them to his frigid fucking face. “Fuck you’re really cold. Like danger cold.”

Never being one for boundaries or hesitation, you hug yourself to him. It’s the fastest way to warm him up. You slip your hands under the jacket— Your jacket— And just engulf the Italian Popsicle Man before you.

Shockingly, he doesn’t push you off or suddenly reawaken to his senses and tell you to fuck off. He doesn’t flinch, if anything he leans in. His body doesn’t really have time for surprise, right now, it just takes what it needs. And what it needs is warmth and oxytocin. His breathing slowly but surely self regulates, and once you start to remember decorum you lower your arms— But. He opts to place his chin on your shoulder, like the world’s most gentle hook, and that alone is enough to keep you there.

It's a long, silent, liminal spacey moment before he speaks again. Both of you speak just above the decibel of the freezer's buzzing.

“You’re not Tony.”

“Terry.”

“You’re Terry?”

“No, Tina said Tony’s Terry. I don’t know who the fuck Terry is.”

“Terry’s the fridge guy.”

“You’re still going to need to call him; I did just make it worse.”

“That’s fine.” He swallows. “Who called you?”

“Syd.”

“Should’ve called you earlier.”

“Should’ve called the fridge guy earlier.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, but he makes no move to move, so you don’t either.

“You know Mikey too?”

Ah. The patch. The Beef. It's worn, but it sits proudly on the left shoulder of your jumpsuit. Your heart tightens and so does your posture.

“Yeah.” You sigh. It’s shakier than you’d like it to be. “Dad knew him, so then I knew him, so then I occasionally fixed shit for him. Shit that ‘Fak couldn’t?’ I think his name was?”

“Hm.” He hums. “He ever got locked in the walk-in?”

“Yeah, he really fucked it up, like waayy worse than whatever happened with you tonight. Like whatever happened. At least 10 times worse.” Your voice is coated with sarcasm, but it’s not entirely untrue.

You’re relieved, when Carmen laughs at this, a touch maniacally, but it’s something. Right now, any emotion from him besides regret and anxiety feels like a trophy. He straightens up, pushing his hair back, so you remove your arms.

“You’re fuckin’ funny, Tony.”

“Still not Tony.”

“Oh my god!” A blonde, very pregnant woman cracks the door open, relieved. “Are you okay, Bear?” You step aside so she can hug Carmen, holding his cheeks to look over him. Oh, this has to be—

“I’m good, I’m great, Sug.” He says this incredibly unconvincingly, hanging one hand on her wrist.

But what matters more in your brain right now is: That’s Sugar. Natalie.

And now you can put a face to both siblings you’ve been bitched about to.

Chain-smoker, means well, cringeworthy husband, too good for her family, incredibly judgemental, cares too much and worries more, loves to fight, her mother’s daughter, pushy, sticks her foot in her mouth, can’t take no for an answer, would lay down her life. Natalie Berzatto. Little sister.

Michelin Star retaining, big shot, sensitive, definitely a virgin, ball buster, sweats the small stuff, sweetheart, asshole, incredibly smart, flighty, coward, deeply loyal, whiny, screamer, show-off, fantastic drawer, shell, mister new york, annoyingly humble, undeniably the most talented. Carmen Berzatto. Baby brother.

Mikey’s words. Of course.

Nat turns her gaze over to you, “Thank you.” You can only bring yourself to nod in reply, a bit awkward— Lost in your rolodex of memories of the people you’ve never actually met until right now. It’s weird to feel parasocial about a normal person.   

“Our toilet, exploded.” She says.

Now that pulls out you of it, and gets a laugh out of you. You put your hand over your mouth. “Yeah?”

Sugar shakes her head, eyes widening like she’s just stepped in it, “I didn’t mean like— Like, you just did a job, right, that’s like tacking on another last-minute service—”

“That’s fine.” You put a hand up stopping her from continuing, still chuckling. “I’ll take a look at it tonight and try to fix it tomorrow?”

She nods, smiling bright, “Thank you, Tommy.”

Who needs to use Y/N when you have the fridge guy?

I so desperately hope you liked this first chapter. I've been stewing on this for like a week so I beg of you to reply/reblog/send me an ask (anon or not!!) telling me what you thought!! Unless it's mean!! In which case, do NOT!!!

And just a forewarning, as we step into uncharted territory where the walk-in meltdown was cut short, I need you to hold my hand through it bb. We're making this man's life better or we're gonna die trying.

Next Part

[jusst-you-race]

Hey lovely,

do you have any tips for writing a chat fic? I began one and I feel like it's so boring and everything I make them type is forced like hell and super random 🙈

(maybe that's because I'm shit at communication lol)

hello angel!

okay so I actually had to think long and hard about how to verbalise all of this… hopefully this is somewhat helpful!

not every message/conversation has to be funny! I feel like chat fics can sometimes have humour that feels a little forced because people think they have to be funny at all times, but i think the humour always hits better when there are plenty of parts that aren’t funny to balance it out!

don’t overthink the humour! everyone is funny i genuinely believe this, and if you’re making yourself laugh while writing then I can guarantee you’ll be making someone else laugh when they’re reading it. I just try to entertain myself with my jokes because it helps to not overthink like “oh is this funny???”… I laughed so therefore it is funny!

if you’re struggling with writing someone’s “voice” then just watch a bunch of interviews with them before sitting down to write… idk if that’s universally helpful advice but it helps me so maybe it’ll help others

treat it like you’re having a conversation with friends! sometimes to get the conversation flowing you can think of like “what might someone reply to this message” and you can decide who the someone is later once you know what the response is

if you’ve ever ‘practiced’ conversations in your head or been like “this is what I would have said in this moment” then that’s a great mindset to be in when writing chat fics… you are just constructing a conversation the exact same way as that!

steal conversations. do it. you had a funny conversation with your friend? yoink. that’s in the fic now.

I dunno if I’m saying the obvious with any of this, or if this is helpful advice or anything… to be perfectly transparent writing dialogue has always been the thing I find easiest to do, so a chat fic is kind of the perfect formula for me

overall I’d just sort of say try not to get too bogged down in the details of it all… thinking “what would this person say here” isn’t helpful, it’s good to just get the flow of A conversation happening. If you have to go back and change the wording (or spelling) so that it feels more like something a specific person would say that’s fine! I do that too! yeah just… talk to yourself I guess lmao…

[concerningwolves]

Hey! Do you have any tips for breaking writers block when you're adhd and/or autistic? Be it your own tips or a link to another post? My friend and I need help haha

Ahh sorry you got buried under spam and old ask game asks. (I... really need to sort my ask box >.<' ). But here we go, a month late, and hopefully better late than never:

Quick ideas for beating writer's block when autistic and/or ADHD

I've got this old post I wrote on writer's block and focus troubles. Ironically, this was before my autism diagnosis but the tips still happen to be things I, an autistic person, did to manage writing when faced with executive dysfunction (except I didn't know what executive dysfunction was at that point lol). I'm linking this with one important caveat, though: if you have ADHD, "stepping away" might do more harm than good; struggling to start tasks is a Big Thing with ADHD, so not starting the task at all is entirely counterproductive. (Unless you're in burnout! Here's a post about the differences between block and burnout with some ideas on what to do for each, in case that's at all helpful to you).

And here's something yoinked from another old ask-answer:

sometimes a break from more “serious” writing is what you need. Maybe try and take the characters from your main project and drop them somewhere else for the hell of it. I like to throw my characters into the MCU without warning like “lmao have fun in a strange modern world where there are gods and a guy in an iron flying suit bye.” Or, if fandom cross-overs aren’t your thing, find a writing prompt or take an idea you like and use it to form a short story with your characters instead.

Some other ideas I've seen around for writer's block with ADHD/Autism are:

Try voice recording or text to speech (i.e., absolute stream-of-consciousness unfiltered brain-to-mouth, giving yourself permission to 100% bullshit if you like, and see what rattles loose in the brain box)

Stream of consciousness writing in general, not even necessarily about a particular prompt or particular project. This one can be done in combination with:

Writing sprints! One minute timers, two minute timers, five minutes – set it for as long as you want, but when you're fighting executive dysfunction and/or difficulty focusing, the burst of urgency that comes from a shorter timer is very helpful.

And speaking of the sense of urgency: gamify your writing! There are different ways to do this, with varying elements of risk. I'll link some ways to do this at the end under "resources".

Exercise. I don't necessarily mean hitting the gym, but a quick burst of exercise prior to writing to get the heart rate up can help wake your brain up a bit. (Or, if you find repetitive exercise mind-numbingly boring like I do, the writing sure does start to look appealing lol).

Meditation. Okay, this one is sort of 🤔 for me, because I do often hear from fellow autistics and our ADHD cousins that meditation is literally impossible for us. It is for me. But! Like with exercise above, if meditation bores you instead of helping relax and ""clear your mind"", you can probably use that boredom to your advantage. Or, it might work as intended.

Change your workspace/situation/routine. Sometimes the problem is that you need new sensory input, or that your brain has gotten thoroughly bored and decided not to tell you. Use a different chair. Move to the kitchen table. Write at a different time of day. Have a different snack (or try having a snack while writing...). Basically, look at what you're currently trying, and see how you can do it differently.

It's also really good practise to get comfortable with Being Bad At Writing. Perfectionism and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria are the biggest, meanest brain weasels with the sharpest teeth. Don't let them bully you. It sucks. It takes a lot of time and effort and internal work, which is why I was loathe to include this on a post of quick solutions, but. It is important.

And getting comfortable with this doesn't necessarily mean learning how to accept critique, or accepting that sometimes you'll write things that suck. It means accepting that sometimes you won't handle critique or feedback well, and also accepting that you won't always manage to beat the writer's block or be productive. Sometimes you have to make peace with the fact that you're going to feel horrible, feel your feelings, and try to remind yourself on the other side that none of it means you're a talentless hack.

Resources

Anything with a 🪙 next to it is paid only (I've tried to limit these and find alternatives).

The resources are split into things that "gameify" writing (i.e., hack your dopamine/serotonin in ways that reaaaaallly help autistic and ADHD folks), writing programs that are designed to help you focus, writing programs that track your habits and appeal to the "ohhhh numbers going up" brain, focus-aiding apps, and some miscellaneous stuff. Under the cut to save your dashes.

"Gamifying" your writing:

The Most Dangerous Writing App – You can't stop typing before your set timer runs out, or you risk losing your work. Excellent for warming up, stream-of-consciousness, or if you're feeling reckless, working on your actual project. I did a lot of the second draft of When Dealing with Wolves on this thing (it was terrifying yet highly effective).

Written? Kitten! – Get rewarded for meeting your set writing wordcount with kitten pictures. Haven't used this one personally, but heard wonderful things about it.

4TheWords 🪙 – This one gamifies writing in the most literal sense. As in, it's an online game where you defeat monsters, explore and level up by writing words. I did the free trial a couple years back, and I've heard there are a lot of different ways you can lower the subscription cost. The only reason I haven't gone back to it is because I feel like I can't justify spending money on it when I'm doing fine with Scrivener and free resources, but maybe one day I will purely for the fun factor...

StimuWrite – similar idea to Written Kitten; the app provides visual/audio stimulation while you write, which is great for many ADHD-ers and autistics. There's a progress bar, soundscape options, typing effects and emoji reactions as rewards, among other features.

Write or Die – This is The Most Dangerous Writing App meets Written Kitten. As far as I can figure out, the basic web version is free to use; you can set the parameters like how how long you want to write for, how many words to reach, and whether you want rewards for meeting goals or punishments for failing to meet them. There's also a stimulus mode, where the nice auditory stimulus goes away if you stop writing.

Minimalist/Focus writing programs:

Focus Writer [Windows] – thoroughly stripped-down minimalist word processor. As far as I know, it has basic functions like find-replace, but mostly it's designed only for writing. Not for formatting, spellchecking or editing.

iA Writer 🪙 [iOS] – Similar to Focus Writer, it's designed to fill your screen with a simple workspace. Allows you to use markdown formatting, and has a feature called Focus Mode that blurs out everything except the sentence you're typing. (If I could find a Windows-friendly alternative to this with that same feature I would be so happy). A cheaper alternative is 1Writer, but that doesn't have the focus mode.

Typewrite Something – Absolutely bare minimum web-based typewriter simulator. Basically just a blank screen that you start typing on, and the words appear in a typewriter font. Great for stream-of-consciousness without the risk level of TMDWA because you can't backspace. If you don't like the clacky sound, turn off your volume.

Focus Apps

Cold Turkey – Block applications and websites on your laptop/computer for a specified period of time. You can even block the entire internet.

Forest – Similar to Cold Turkey in that it stops you from seeking distractions or getting distracted. Set a timer and the app starts growing a tree. If you leave the app, the tree dies. Once you have a tree, you add it to your forest.

Habit-building writing programs:

Novlr – Simple, minimal layout, and tracks your writing goals per month and day, and your daily streak. There are more features in the plus and pro versions, and you can only have five projects in the free version, but otherwise it looks like a good free alternative to the next two programs:

750 Words 🪙 – Made for free writing, but also very useful for drafting. I had it for a month or so a while back on the free trial. It tracks writing streaks and gives you fun graphs and statistics at the end of each session, including number of distractions, actual typing time vs total time and average words per minute. Also, it analyses the mood of what you wrote, which I always found delightful.

Writing Analytics 🪙 – If writing streaks, badges and analytical graphs get your dopamine going, then I really recommend this one. The writing screen itself is very minimalistic, but it still shows your writing speed (I loved watching that go up) and your goal progress. In terms of analytics, it tracks a LOT of different things, including time spent writing vs revising, average wordcounts per day/month/year, and words written vs words deleted. I used this for about a year before I switched to Scrivener, and the switch was purely because I needed something that wasn't subscription-based. (Apparently since I stopped using it there's also a new feature that lets you create private writing rooms and see other writer's progress).

Misc.

WriteTrack – Not a word processor, but it has very good tools for tracking and planning your writing. Again, if graphs going up helps your brain, this is excellent, but you can't see it in real time.

10 ADHD-friendly brain tricks for writers – what it says on the tin: ten tips for writers with ADHD; I'm particularly fond of "Put away one knife", which breaks the nebulous task of "start writing" into something really simple like just... pull out your desk chair.

[pumpkinmetaphor]

WIP Folder Game

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it!

tagged by @drowsybowser

oh god. well. here we go.

birds, bees, butterflies, and other natalist propaganda (also titled: a fever you can hopefully sweat out) (also titled: I think about it all the time -> 360) (also titled: idk think of a Juno reference) working title

Okay, Cupid! Ch. 11

Okay, Cupid! Ch. 12

filial piety...............TWO!!!!

black box warning*

untitled KyoKao angst fic

coda (or a sort of requiem for the prologue of your life)*

Kyoya's Big Bad, No Good, Very Horrendous Trip to London working title

digging up the grave (working title)

monster fucker, green eyes variety (working title)

blond on blond*

lightbulbs gif (<- do better)

champagne problems, red wine regrets [see I like this title but I will NOT be one of the 4879739857 other fics named champagne problems even if mine fits better]

brooklyn

This Wasn't Part of the Plan*

duck duck goose*

somewhere on the outskirts of hollywood boulevard

in the art of diplomacy*

untitled NanaHika aside 1

untitled NanaHika aside 2

untitled NanaHika aside 3

Hot Press!

a common misconception with twins on the subject of nature versus nurture (working title)

whatever soulja boy told 'em (working title)

The Long Way

some benign travesty

Just because they're not actually captioned (working title) does not mean that's their actual title lmao- * indicates actual title I would hypothetically plan to post with. Also this is only Ouran fics because I have easily 50 more Homestuck WIPS and 50 OFMD WIPS. And I still think I've missed one somewhere

I challenge @pilindiel and @insertpoetryhere and if @ninanation isn't like me and actually names art pieces then I'm challenging her as well. Actually you know what, if you see this and you're in the gift exchange YOINK consider yourself @'d

[t00nyah]

Okay so how exactly did Wenda attack all the sillies? Like, in what situation? Did she just like randomly come at Pinki with a chair? What was Tunner trying to do when she shot him? (I think you said something about trying to defend ppl?) How’d she do what she did to Sky and Oren? Also in what order did she attack them? I’m curious lol and I love your yapping so hopefully this ask makes some sense lmao I’m not sure it does sorry 😭

this ask makes so much more sense than ANY ask i ever wrote in my life you're GOOD

okay...i don't have a VERY particular order of events in my head, but here's what probably happened:

(hi, after yapping session t00nyah here, obviously gore and murder and stuff is described there!)

i think at first wenda felt a bit weird when she saw everything change, when she saw brud with 60% of his head gone, when she saw OWAKCX's skinned body, and only then clicked that hey, it's alright, everything's going down, so it's allowed to have some girlfun!

i'm trying to make a timeline still and i think it makes sense in my head that wenda went for sky purely out of this newly bloomed impulse to do something intensely fucked up without a weapon on her. dunno where she got those poles, but i would assume they just were around for some reason. i have a small idea of... tunner could've witnessed it shortly after and probably felt so bad about not being there in time to stop her. i think tunner was on a look out for others because something was clearly going on, but unfortunately stumbled across wenda and of course she was full of delight. seeing tunner so appaled at the sight made her laugh! she doesn't have to hide the deranged side of her brain now, who cares, she's not the only one!

of course it was tunner's duty to eliminate the threat, but the question was in order: was it all her doing? who's behind it all if not her? to which she of course looked at him annoyed and gave him the genuine 'no, i just came here and everything was like that already. not that i mind, as you can see' and somehow still managed to yoink the revolver he had pointed at her. got lucky i suppose. with my super-toxic-yuri-powered brain i can't not imagine her do some weird flirting because i don't care im brainrotted. something about a he/him butch lesbian pointing a gun at her because she's actively seen as a threat is just that attractive to her. but we all know it ultimately ends with her shooting him, having her girlfun!

that's the point after which she goes to get her knife, because she really got lucky with having something around and it's not really that fun when she doesn't have her own iconic murder weapon, right?

i think she could've gotten the idea of finding oren and pinki almost immediately, and of course she found them hiding at the house together, trying to figure out where to go now, nowhere is safe. and nowhere it is, as wenda approaches them in the most horror movie maniac way possible for her. i think hearing her voice immediately raised the question of is there any chance it's a good thing wenda found them, and no, turns out of course it's not! i think she didn't mean to do that, but ended up hitting pinki with a chair because she was annoying to her to shut her the fuck up. ended up fucking up her face and knocking her out for good, as she herself got to FINALLY use her knife and slowly cut open oren's ribcage. made sure to make it painful! after looking at what she's done for a while, of course, she did get bored and move on, but she was definitely satisfied.

(this is basically where the answer to the questions ends, but i still went on a bit of a bonus yapping session to clarify something)

and then in redemption arc au almost immediately after that something just cleans the atmosphere, everything is normal again and wenda is hit with this weird feeling of emptiness after so much stimuli and boiling bloodthirst. just a whuh. wuh. and stands still. looking around. everything is so normal, but the gore in sight is definitely the same. and then she's approached by the higher powers forbidding her from doing any more harm and helping repair what has been broken. obviously her first reaction is 'this is bullshit.' which is understandable. and yeah, this IS bullshit. but she legit is disallowed to harm anyone now it just won't work and harming herself counts too she just can't do SHIT. she very VERY unwillingly has to cure lethal wounds (and it works because of the said higher powers that made her do that and she's so pissed).

[kawaii-discord-emojis]

/lhj

Seriously, though! Welcome back!

~ @emojifarm

XDDD okay yeah no I don't blame you for thinking that, things have just been Very Different lately

But I'm medicated, I've been drawing a lot lately n making emojis (just recently I made a bunch of Godzilla emojis hehe), I really think I could come back n make more emojis ^^

Hopefully at least :") like I really wanna but my life is chaotic sometimes n yoinks me places I don't wanna go

ANYWAY yeah glad to be back n at least do what I can while I'm here <3

[gubbles-owo]

In my tradition of semi-randomly promoting ops simply because I like them: Vulcan!

Extremely focused and passionate blacksmith, her kit is fairly simple yet fun, plus she got that tgirl swag. Gameplay-wise, she's obviously great for soloing a lane, or going at it with a partner for assistance. S1 is alright but watching her bonk shit with her S2 is always a treat.

they're dating, ur honor (i'm still a lil new to the game to know what counts as a crackship in arknights, but crackships are best ships get on my level or fuck u <3)

Okay, so, I'm not gonna do this justice, but I'm gonna have a shot at it anyway: Vulcan is a weaponsmith. It's practically her sole interest, as her file states that she hyperfocuses on her craft all day, and tends to get irritated if you pull her out of it. Her voicelines really hammer this in (hah). Soooo she has ADHD or some kinda incredible focus ability. Well damn can I relate. She not only forges her own gear, but also helps design and repair gear for fellow operators, so she proves to be a pretty valuable resource for Rhodes Island. Her operator record shows this in action, and I have to say, the care and consideration she demonstrates for her peers are way sharper than I would've expected.

Goddamn, she really understands the importance of both the tool and the person bearing it. Even the most reliable tools will begin to fail someday, and you can choose whether to submit their bound purposes to prioritize preservation, or give up some part to fix up or even improve them. Neither is a wrong answer. It depends largely on the person behind the tool. These things can be special. But this fuckin exchange right here though...

"She liked my machines, but she insists on only using things she's made with her own hands." Cut to me reading this earlier today, still partway through writing my own damn matrix transformation functions in C so I can move the damn camera/objects properly in 3D space on the Nintendo 64. I could easily pop open one of countless git repositories for open source 3D projects and yoink their matrix transformation functions for myself. It's free real estate. So why in the fuck am I burdening my feeble mind with cranking out complicated math shit that has already been done before? "Because there's meaning behind it. It's part of my roots." I want to understand exactly why this thing works. I want to try things far beyond my perceived capabilities, come to those realizations myself, and hopefully learn some shit along the way. It doesn't really matter whether or not I succeed, and even if not, there's no shame in seeking assistance from others. But it's in my nature to meticulously learn every aspect of the things I love. It's simply how I operate. I will hyperfocus on that shit all day. Just know I'll feel cranky if you try to pull me out of it.

smiles i want to protect (or support).png

[risingshine]

"Oh, um, - thank you." Iyana would sheepishly accept the offer for one of the strange fruits gifted to her - and place it into the hand-woven basket carried by Hava.

They finally found the island - well, Chiasa did - which now just meant gathering up the fruit: the lotus eaters seemed very unbothered by their presence - barely noticing them swiping some of the fruit, and without any complaint - as long as they still had some to continue eating.

...Hava gave the scientist a light nudge.

"C'mon, have a bite."

"W-What?" Iyana was rather suprised at that: she was expecting him to tell her anything but to eat it. "B-But wont I get entranced? I still have work to do back home-"

"Its fine: its only lasts a few hours once ya get off the stuff. And if it doesn't, I'll fix it. We need to know its the right fruit, right? Sure people are louging around eating it all day, but who knows its the right one?"

..That sounded like a terrible idea...but they did need to know if its the right fruit. And Chiasa and Hava could easily keep her away from the fruit to get her back on track...fine.

Rather hesitant, she carefully bit down on the fruit...and let out a small moan - this was the best thing she will ever taste. She easily consumed the whole thing like a ravenous wolf, before trying to go for another fruit - where hava caught her hands.

"Iyana, what were we doing here?"

"H-Huh? Eat fruit?"

"What did you have to do back home?"

"eat fruit?" Iyana asked, deep brown eyes unfocused through half-open eyelids. She was probably the most relaxed that she's been in years.

..Looks like it's the right fruit. "Hey chiasa, take care of Iyana, wouldya? I got more experience taking fruit and plants - leave the harvesting to me."

"Oh, Okay!" Chiasa guided Iyana to a small group of lotus eaters, where they shared in this delight of the world...as well as a few bottles of lotus wine? yoink. right into the hair pocket those go.

Iyana was in a haze of bliss, not caring about anything around her as she enjoyed the relaxed joy of the feast infront of her: not even chiasa's wandering hands, which seemed to be guaging for any reaction (there wasn't any).

Chiasa could see why Honey said this could make the part kick up a notch.

Meanwhile, Hava trudged off, no doubt to grab as many fruits as he could afford to - as well as a cutting of the plant for him to grow later: he did have quite the garden at home, after all. .... Iyana woke up in her bed. Wait, hold on- she was in Sicily, wasn't she? for those fruits? why was everything hazy? Did she dream that?

No, wait - there was a note with some breakfast next to the bed.

"thanks for trying out the fruit: we had to take you home so you didn't try to swim back to the island (that you didn't know the location of). We got you to fall asleep, hopefully youslept it off!

Enjoy some proper food - Hava."

...She was scared the food was going to taste bad. What if her taste buds were ruined? That everything else would taste bland in comparison now?

...Crunch.

Oh thank her ancestors: that is still really good. Not the best thing she's ever tasted - but just because she loves custard doesn't mean she can't still like sweet peas.

[darkx-the-dragon-kn1ght]

Chapter 33- Part 2

Now then, time to figure out what's going on with this place- sheesh, even more pink and purple…

And the creepy little Tangrowth vines are back, lovely. But I guess I can't be too weirded out- the green from these and the rocks nicely breaks up the deluge of magenta from the ground, so I should thank them for saving my eyes from burning!

I also don't think we'll have much trouble sneaking up on Team Meteor either. I mean, just look at those grass patches, Cain can so easily camouflage into them, his hair would blend right in! They'll never see him coming!

Speaking of green-

Okay how is that building in the ground like that? Did it just drop out of the sky, or does this Jell-O go deeper than I thought?

Actually, speaking of the ground…the more I look at the grass patches, the more I wonder…is this place Corrosive Field? Guess we'll see whenever I run into a battle of some sort.

Well, one of those items is nicer, even if it's not that helpful at this level in the game.

That is NOT Corrosive Field! Another entirely new Field, cool- hopefully I'll come across the Field Read-Out sooner instead of later.

They've even got gravestones here? Do they say anything special-?

Huh!? “Molinar”!? Isn't that Heather and Corey's last name!?

Corey's grave, too?? So uh- okay, not only do we have a name for Heather's mom now, but…you're telling me THIS place is where the two of them were buried? Seriously? No, that can't be right.

I think it's more like the gravestones probably got…snatched up by whatever PULSE is responsible for making all this debris pile up. Still, interesting choice for the game to show me the graves of Heather's parents at this point in time…

Oh, I can walk over these? Good to know.

Fitting, and…is that a Gym sign?

This is not the Beryl Ward Gym! Did the PULSE match the Beryl Ward Gym sign too? When did that happen?

And an impassable ledge- well, I can't find anything I missed up here (at least nothing I can get to or use, like that steel railing up there), so no use putting it off.

What!? That's just straight-up the gate leading to Apophyll Academy! And I'm certain that didn't get stolen at any point! 

I…oooooh, wait a second, I think I understand what's going on now. The debris isn't being directly yoinked from their proper places throughout the region, the PULSE must be…copying the items, and depositing those duplicates here in the Wasteland. That would explain why the Academy gateway and Beryl Ward Gym sign are here, and it would also explain why Elena and Corey's gravestones are here too, because they certainly weren't buried here.

And yet, the Wasteland still only sees fit to drop Shards…but there's a guy over there, that's new!

Oh, that's what that one beam in the first area was? I was wondering why Xera couldn't do anything with it. So then, do I just-

Okay, so it's just a ledge but with more steps- literally. But I do see another tombstone, whose is this one?

…Just had to remind me of what happened last time right away, didn't you, game? The audacity of this wasteland…

But there…I see you behind the rock, I would very much like to have you, and I am GOING to get you. Well- after looking around this area a bit more.

Alright, not much else to see here I suppose.

And so, looks like the only place to go now is into that partially submerged building, lovely.

Alright, several different paths to take it looks like, but let's see if there's anything to see on this hill…besides the other Gym sign.

…ah- okay, I'll be honest, I did not mean to jump down that ledge. I didn't even know that was a ledge, I was just trying to interact with that shrub, and- yeah. 

Well, now that I'm here…might as well look around.

That's something!

And that's for Rock Smash- but since I don't know if I'm supposed to go that way or not, I'm gonna keep looking around here.

Oh, that's much better! Thanks, random barrel!

Alright, nothing else down here, time to head up.

Also very nice, however I see an opening in the wall over there, however however I don't know if the plot’s gonna progress up there, so I'm just gonna go back to that one hill and down that beam.

Previous

Next

[plumsaffron]

Cherry Crimson Brine Final (1-3)

Immortally Wounded

Jump back to the 3rd brine

To Every Part Link Here

Days Later Rooster Bold: How is she? Cat Noir: The doctors said she should be okay and ready to go in a few days  (Strange thing is I haven't seen any of her caretakers at all)

Meanwhile Felix: Should we tell the people it's Lila? Marinette: I rather not. Kagami: Yeah don't. (Why am I holding onto this memory?) Marinette: I don't know. I had to convince even Aeon to not spill the beans.

After what I seen, I don't wish to do that. 

Rather keep the peace that we worked so hard to have and finally get

(Still, this is just an addon to my other secret).

Kagami: Well now we can help more forward with Mayor Bustier's plans. Kagami: I still…can't believe my friend…would do this. I feel so uneasy. Felix: Well at least the people in this city only think it was a dream 

or that Hawk Moth brainwashed us. (I don't even know how that's possible but it worked). Kagami: Hopefully none of us  have to do this again. 

I really hated this method. Marinette: Yeah I know. I'm sorry I dragged you all into this. 

(But she's not Adrien's dad. Why am I keeping this a secret from the world? She’s not Mr. Agreste.) Felix: I understand though. Kagami nods Kagami: (Why don't I feel angry at Lila though? Shouldn't I? She...)

Few Days Later Lila walking to one of her domains She waves but the npc gives a disgusted look and looks away Lila: (What was that about?) She tries to catch a bus When the bus sees her, the doors close and the bus drives away She's puzzled from what going on Lila: I should have brought my bike.

Some walkings later Lila: I'm home. As soon as she said that, she witnessed a triple wake up call Next Day Lila is just sitting where she usually would outside Thinking about Yesterday Few random Parisians approach her She notices Lila: Umm. Can I help you? I'm kind of busy pondering. NPC Boy: Get out of here. Eyesore Lila: Say what? NPC Girl: Begone now. Beat it! Or elsssse. Lila: What did I do? NPC Boy: You should knew, you scum. Do what I say, wretch! Lila leaves but is looking back cause she’s bothered by the 2 randoms’ threats As she’s walking, she gets yoinked and pinned against a wall NPC Band Member: You vermin. It’s because of you she’s gone. You’re why she’s gone, you insufferable freak. Band Member 2: What shall we do with this spawn? 

That idiot makes me itch. Band Member 3: Maybe we should bash this thing until we are bored. This liar person deserves it anyways for what she’s done. Band Member: Her very existence and lies disgust me. This roach is worse than Hawk Moth. Throws her and she falls on her arm Downed as she is, she’s witnesses their aggression beginning to overflow Lila gets up and jets away Band Member 3: Get Back Here! I’m not done with you yet! 

They sprint after her and try throwing their instruments at her

Meanwhile At Adrien’s Mansion

Nathalie: I’m sorry As she hugs Adrien and beginning to tear up I didn’t know. I thought she (I’ve spied on her for months and more)… And yet… I’m sorry I failed to keep you safe from toxic people like her! I failed your mother! I didn’t bother keep tabs on that evil entity.

After 10 seconds Adrien: Its… It’s okay. She didn’t do anything. Nathalie: But… The Agreste Brand.

I’m sorry she ruined it.

Adrien: None of us knew the truth. I don’t feel harmed or damaged. Let’s move on and do something to keep your mind from this.

(Despite this information. I don’t believe it. 

I just need more time to uncover the real truth.)

Elsewhere

Kagami: This can’t be real. This isn’t real! IT’SNOTTRUE! Sulking My friend… But the evidence… Mother was right. If I just… Listen to her commands and rejected friendship for all. 

Despairingly I would not feel. BROKEN

(I would have no attachments)

Meanwhile somewhere else in Paris Andre Glacier: Ready! She hears his voice Andre Glacier: FIRE!

The Ice Cream Man and npcs catapulting or throwing ice cream at her She runs away with one eye open and with her body aching from the cold and rough objects hitting and latching on to her and melting

10 minutes later Lila: Urg rrgh. What’s wrong with this town?

It’s way worse than the incident that paperwork nightmare.

Pigeon Robots, Gamer City, Soundwave's disks and instrument town, and Clonika golden phone chips stuff everywhere. Suddenly someone blindside’s their arm were her neck is causing her to fall They proceed stomping on her

after 30 seconds of her beatdown session Jean Duparc: What shall we do with her.

She’s absolutely scary. Theo Barbot: Lets Burn The Witch Who's got a lighter? Some NPC girl: Look out. Throws something that engulfs Lila in flames

Screaming and burning alive Theo Barbot: Good riddance.

Hideous woman preying on the legacy of the savior.

the girl who engulfed her laughs at her Fire Truck Driver sees and stops Firefighter steps out and extinguishes her demise from being reached Jean Duparc: Hey what was that for?! She’s a witch.

If only there was a stake and more watched.

NPC Girl: Yeah don’t you remember she lied about everything. 

The hag probably tricked the 3 smooth brained woman in raising the eyesore itself. 

Theo: Just let this scheming creature die so I can celebrate.

Knowing that she breathes gives me a chill. Hessenpy: No, she doesn't deserve that.

Lila: At least someone has the decency to protect me. Hessenpy: Protect you? No As he walks closer You're worse than Hawk Moth or that evil entity that Mr. Agreste saved us and unfortunately you from You are going to live as everyone’s punching bag or destructible action figure until there is nothing left of you. NPC Girl: That's smart. Theo: Yeah. Lets drag this fake teen down as long as possible. Restrains Lila Lila: LET ME GO! Hessenpy: Let's cut her hair. Lila: NO!

Link to the 2nd Part Of This Finale Pending

[frog-and-rat]

Welcome

This is to be a starting point for me to blog about ttrpgs. It will hopefully be my game notes, or tables if i can think of them… or maybe art drawn by me. No one really knows.

The name “the Frog and the Toad” came from the tavern name tables in ShadowDark by Kelsey Dionne of the Arcane Library. The current header images shows the 1 and the 20 rolled in my emergency dice kit to get that result.

ShadowDark is currently my system of choice, though I just got a pretty good end of fiscal year bonus from work and I’ve backed/bought a few more games. Unnatural Selection is a supplement by the Dungeon Damsels. Knave 2e, by Questing Beast, Dolmenwood, by Exalted Funeral, I backed something by the Merry Mushmen, but i don’t remember what it was, then i bought A Folklore Bestiary by them. I should have tons to talk about.

I’m currently, slowly, playing a game with my kids using the mini-campaign setting The Gloaming found in Kelsey Dionne’s Cursed Scroll no. 1. It is written with one adventure fully written, but otherwise several places and NPC’s with a few sentences about them, the rest I get to come up with, or yoink something from other adventures to insert into the campaign. I hope to post these adventures here. Feel free to join me, or if you never even stumble upon this blog, that’s okay to. Who knows, maybe I’ll get good at this kind of thing and start a real blog, like a Xanga!

Who knows what is to come here? Probably not much, but I’ll try.

[hismourningflower]

i'm very happy you've been getting better, here's hoping it stays that way (i'll beat away all the ickies for you with the bat i yoinked)

and that's good!! remember you're wonderful, okay?

i've been okay, just dealing with life as it comes (moving has been really overwhelming, but i've got a game plan so i'll be alright, hopefully!!)

(‘: i hope it stays this way too — i’m starting to feel like it’s on an incline up finally !!

best of luck with moving, i know how super stressful it is. university was not easy with that too !!

[thefirstknife]

So, for the two truths and two lies in Reflection: which ones do you think are which?

Okay so, I have no idea. The problem is, there seems to be two different dialogues you can get here. For now. The quest for Two Truths, Two Lies has four parts in the triumph section:

I completed these and I only got one dialogue that mentions truths and lies, but other people got a different one. It always comes from the "Insight" quest. Not sure of any other will feature more, but it's possible. Here's the two distinct pieces I've seen:

Other two quests will, presumably, be available next week. Now, each of these apparently has two truths and two lies. I'm honestly at a loss but I'll try going through them and see what's more likely to be true. Set one:

1. "Mercury, Io and Titan are in my care" - possible, but in my opinion not likely. We know that Darkness ate the planets and we still have no clue how Mars re-emerged. While it's possible that all planets re-emerged at the same time as Mars and Savathun yoinked them (using the same powers she used to yoink the Traveler), I don't find this very likely because Savathun was very weak and without full memories when she returned.

2. "The Witness returned Mars to your solar system" - I think this is true only because the planets were taken by using the Black Fleet which the Witness commands. So they had the power to return it. However, we have no clue why they would do this but not do it for other planets. This is where the first two statements can be truth-lie either way. I believe they're mutually exclusive tho so they can't both be true or both be a lie. One of these has to be true and the other has to be a lie.

3. "The power to move worlds will soon be yours." - very strange. We know that this is the power of the Witness because Savathun references it earlier and uses it to yoink the Traveler. So she could be telling us the truth about us eventually learning this power (somehow).

4. "The Taken King will rise again." - honestly no clue. It feels like a freebie lie, but it could be a meta reference to King's Fall raid coming back OR it could mean that someone else will take up the mantle of the Taken King. But if I had to guess a single lie, I would probably say this one is a lie. Just doesn't seem to be as relevant as the stuff about the Witness, it seems like a waste to use this as a truth when there's more important things.

Set two!

1. "The Pyramid blade is one key to defeating the Witness." - hm, possibly true? We know that the Glaive was used by one of the Darkness client races in ancient past and it seems to have Darkness traits in its design. It could be that it's effective against that which made it. We'll need more info on the Glaive tho. But definitely a possible truth.

2. "The Witness seeks the final shape, and the final shape is... nothing." - sort of? We know the first part of the sentence is true. But whether the final shape is nothing.... is debatable. The final shape so far has always been the Vex. Very strange.

3. "The Last City is not the last city." - this could mean anything..... Baffling. It could be referring to the pacifist colony that we know exists and we have no clue how big it is. It could be referring to a colony outside of the solar system, if any humans ever made it out (Clovis had a contingency plan for this, to leave to Andromeda - talked about it a little in this post). It could mean anything about a city of our enemies even. I'm very confused. This could be either.

4. "The Witness will build its army on Mars." - possibly truth. It seems plausible enough. Though, army out of what? If anything, I think this might be true because Savathun knows the Witness and what its plans were before she defected so it could be true.

Ultimately, I have no clue. Literally any of these statements could be both true and false under different circumstances and different readings. I'm eager to hear more next week hopefully.

First set is mine, second is from @ezmads (I never got the second one myself. You can apparently only get one and it seems to be random).

[cowboy-turtle]

Show Me

Part 9 of the La Parca series

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!Reader

Words: 6.8k

Tags: Smut: semi-public sex, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), disrespect of business clothes (lol), tie-yoinking (!!!); food mention; alcohol; brief mention of a minor character death

A/N: Happy holidays everyone! Here's another part I've had percolating for a while, there's nothing I want to do more when I see Javi in a suit than to yoink his tie in for a kiss. This entire chapter is based off that desire 😌 hope you enjoy!

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gif by @nicolethered

It happens late one evening. You’re about to call it at night, clicking the last desk lamp off in the study lounge when you’re called into an office instead. Your advisor ushers you to take a seat.

“The committee just ended their meeting,” she tells you and you freeze, unable to sink down into the awaiting armchair.

“And?”

“You’re not supposed to find out until tomorrow but,” she tries to hide a smile, “congratulations.”

You don’t believe her, not at first. She tells you you’ll get the official acceptance letter and all of the corresponding paperwork tomorrow. The work will begin then, along with all the doors you can already feel opening for you, a future uncharted in its potential now. But for tonight, your professor advises, just enjoy the excitement.

“And one more thing,” she adds when you head for the door. “A few of us have been invited to speak with the education board in Bogotá.”

She can’t help the pride that colors her voice. “The committee chair thinks it would be good for you to join us. And I agree.”

You could honestly pull her up into a hug right now but opt instead for an exuberant confirmation, hastily scrawling this Thursday morning’s train platform number to meet them for the departing journey. It’s the first thing you can’t wait to tell Javi when you’re practically bounding up the steps to your apartment. Can you believe it! your insides scream. Me! I did it!

Not even Trujillo’s tired voice could deter your joyfully overflowing words.

“Can I speak to Ja–Agent Peña?”

“He is unavailable.”

“Okay, when will he be available?”

“He is away on business for the remainder of the week.”

That stops you for only a moment. “Do you know where?”

Trujillo’s sigh crackles across the call. “That’s classified, but I’ll let him know you called when he returns.”

That’s good enough for you, wishing him a good night and running to try and compile the best business outfit from the depths of your closet. You’re at the train station at 08:00AM sharp to meet the rest of the group; the committee chair, your advisor, and another professor quickly greet you before introducing you to the two other students who will be joining you as well. You’re nervously excited at the prospect of hopefully making friends with them, filing into the train after them to their animated whispers.

It’s nice, then, how easily you slip into a rapport with everyone. As the conductor announces your imminent arrival into Bogotá, the conversation switches into the purpose of your visit and what key issues were to be discussed, the mood jovial as everyone agrees easily with which points of topic were most important. It was nice to exist for a moment in this in-between space of the cramped cabin car, to remember that the world kept turning in spite of the pace of violence you were reminded of every time you opened a newspaper.

That feeling stutters slightly in your meeting with the education board, discussing in so many words why more help was needed for children who were at risk of being recruited. Recruited into what you were careful to avoid by name, in case any on the board were sympathetic to the opposing party.

But it all ends well, the lead committee members clapping each other on the back as you make your way to the rented van. They’re buzzing with good energy as they ease into the dance of the capital’s traffic, weaving past speeding motorbikes and hoards of pedestrians on lunch break. You guess that’s why the committee chair is talking animatedly into the portable phone attached to his briefcase, yelling to the driver a moment later to turn around.

“Please,” he insists. “We have another stop!”

The driver squints at him in the rearview mirror, but starts circling the wheel towards the left-turn lane at his request. He passes a paper up to the front with the new address and then announces, “I just heard that we have thirty minutes with the American ambassador.”

He pauses for the various reactions. “The board put in a good word for us, and he wants to meet for a photo op.” He smiles at you then, nodding towards the other students seated to your right. “He’d like to welcome the scholars that will be visiting America next year.”

The group disintegrates into hushed, excited chatter and you lean forwards to address the back of your professor’s headrest.

“Why is this more exciting than meeting the education board? It’s just for a photo.”

She turns towards you and inclines her head towards the man who just spoke. “He sees this as an opportunity to really speak about our issues and concerns.”

You dart a skeptic glance away. “He wants to do that in thirty minutes?”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” she looks at you then. “If they can funnel money and resources into extraditing our youth into their prisons, maybe they can extend some of it to make sure they don’t wind up in those situations in the first place.”

You have to give her that, nodding your head and keeping quiet for the rest of the ride and up the foreboding polished steps of the U.S. embassy.

As your group is being led down the halls to your conference room, double doors in front of you burst open to the sound of hurried footsteps. Two men in business suits emerge in the middle of conversation, speaking rapid-fire English to each other as they near your group. The blonde man you vaguely recall in the back of your mind, but his companion in a navy suit makes your feet lurch into a stumbled recognition.

“Cut the bullshit, Murphy.”

“I’m serious.” This ‘Murphy’ taps the manila folder in his hand against his companion’s chest for emphasis. “They think it’s the biggest safehouse bust we’ve hit this entire year. I can already hear Messina buying us a bottle.”

They reach their crossroads with your group and you can’t stop staring, admiring the proud smile he’s sharing with the floor. If you had any doubt this was him, this closer look all but proves it, the top button of his dress shirt undone even underneath his tie. His pace slows just as yours does, glancing over your shoulder as he almost comes to a stop.

“Where in the hell did you even get this intel?” An oblivious Murphy asks his partner who is no longer in stride with him.

Javier turns around, his unbelieving eyes sparking intrigue into yours. He gives you a once-over then stops, slowly crawling up your conventional heels and pantyhose, taking in the tight curves of your pencil skirt and blouse that’s open enough to show a peek of cleavage, before glancing back up to your face. His eyes darken, thumb brushing against his puckered lower lip and it’s tragic how quickly you could combust from that one look.

“Jav?” Murphy’s reached the end of the corridor, looking towards the enraptured man who takes a step backwards, slowly departing from you.

“I have a little bird,” he responds, smiling at you before turning to catch up to a barely concealed snort.

“Well, they’re one hell of a C.I.”

Before you can watch him leave in hopes of one more glance, your name is called from inside the conference room and you have to rush in, ready for the next serendipitous moment.

After a quick volley of introductions, though, Ambassador Crosby proves to only be a caricature of the smarmy American politician you’ve only seen in cartoons, spewing empty oaths and skin-deep promises. The practiced lines fall easily from his mouth with an insincere sincerity.

“When we say no child left behind, we don’t just mean in America,” he announces with an artificial smile between flashbulbs of the camera. “We want to help raise all the children in the world to become upstanding citizens.”

You and your advisor exchange a glance. She angles herself towards the ambassador.

“Right,” she begins. “So—”

“And the children of Colombia,” he blows out a breath, looking to her, “could really use our help most of all.”

She’s momentarily too stunned to speak, appalled mouth half-open, so he continues.

“I mean, I don’t know if any of you can even imagine the type of violence that happens on your streets. But that’s why we’re here, to help clean up the mess.”

With that, he pats the back of the person to his left, giving a thumbs up to the photographer as he starts departing for the door.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says with thinly veiled relief, “I have a busy afternoon.”

“Wait, sir,” the urgency in the chairman’s voice stills the ambassador as he looks back, the rest of your group looking to him as well. “That’s actually why some of us are here.” His eyes meet yours and a ripple of panic sets in.

“Go on,” he urges, “tell him what happened to your brother.”

In that one moment, it feels like the air’s socked out of your lungs in a gut punch. The idea that the personal information you shared in your interview would stay confidential suddenly felt naive, the airy high-ceilinged room claustrophobic as everyone awaits your response.

Especially the ambassador, who’s now fully turned away from the door to stare at you. “What happened?” he coaxes with a slightly impatient tone.

You search for an out, flickering across the faces of the others as fingernails dig into the clammy palms of your hands. But no one comes to your aid, not even the apologetic frown of your professor barely visible over the resolute stare of the chairman growing colder with each second of your silence.

The ambassador is about to leave when your mouth shoots open.

“Well,” you attempt to harden your voice, but it comes out like a warble. “My brother…was very young when he became involved with narcos. My parents didn’t know…but he did it to help support the family.”

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, dulled from the years you hadn’t talked about him but clawing up now with a vengeance. “His recruiter thought he was trading information with their rivals for more cash, so…”

“They killed him,” the ambassador finishes for you.

“Yes.”

The admission hangs heavy for a moment, then–

“I’m sorry for your loss,” his disingenuous voice offers, “Do you know who did it?”

“I think I do.” You look back over at your advisor, steering this unwanted trip down memory lane back into present day. “That’s why I decided to go into social work. So that kids like him don’t feel helpless enough to resort to that.”

The ambassador nods thoughtfully, then motions to the meeting table. “Why don’t we discuss how we can help? I think I have a few minutes.” He looks to his aide for a quick nod then sits at the head of the table, already engrossed as the chairman launches into a rehearsed routine. Your advisor squeezes the meat of your arm when you sit beside her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, “I had no idea he’d—”

“It’s fine.” You glance away from her and towards the other end of the table, where the two other students are whispering together, heads bent until they catch your stare and avert their eyes. They choose not to talk to you when you file out of the conference room together.

The burn of rejection brands deep into your chest, already feeling like you’ve been outcasted before you were given a chance. To think you were wanted here purely based on merit, on the potential of where your future could go and not just from how your past connected to it, made you realize how foolish your wide-eyed optimism was. It didn’t matter if the rest of the world saw people like the chairman and the ambassador as the good guys, they were still going to use you to get what they wanted.

You can’t wait to throw in the towel, not talk to anyone else on the train ride home. That is, until you remember the other chance encounter you had today.

You only have to wait a few moments for the embassy operator to patch your call to him.

“So I’m your little bird, huh?” you smile into the pay phone when he answers.

“Cariño,” Javier murmurs into his receiver. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the embassy today?”

You’re calling him from the back hallway of a small restaurant, the rest of the team getting a late afternoon coffee before the train departs.

“It was a part of the research fellowship.” Your newfound shame battles with the excitement still lingering beneath. “I, um, I got it.”

His smile can be felt through the telephone line. “Of course you did, they’d be idiots not to pick you.” You look down to hide the delight creeping on your face, shifting your weight to one heeled foot.

“We should celebrate,” he continues.

“Yeah,” you agree, though you wonder when that might even be, “I’d like that.”

A brief silence falls over the line, but you can just barely gather his quiet breathing to let you know he’s here. He’s with you.

I missed you, you want to whisper, quiet enough that maybe he won’t hear but just enough for it to leave your chest.

“I felt so out of place,” you admit instead. The arch of your foot pangs in agreement after wearing painful heels all day. “I never get dressed up like this.”

“No, you looked…” a short breath, then a lowered voice, “you looked good, cariño.”

Your stomach does a little flip at the slight groan behind his words.

“You didn’t look too shabby yourself, Peña.”

His laugh is interrupted by the automated voice signalling you have thirty seconds left on the call unless more change is added.

“Are you still in Bogotá?” Javier asks suddenly.

“Yes,” you glance at the others around the table. “Our train leaves in an hour.”

“Stay. I’ll take you back.”

“What?”

“Stay for dinner. Can you meet me back at the embassy?”

“I…” you laugh in disbelief. “Sure. Yes, okay.”

“Great. I want you to—”

The rest of his sentence is cut off, a triple toned beep to signal the end of the call before it’s a dead line. But you hang the phone back up smiling, stepping away to alert the group you won’t be leaving with them after all.

When you finally make your way back up those polished steps from before, a majority of the workforce has already left for the day. A night security guard escorts you to a lone receptionist, who takes you to a long, narrow office at the end of a quiet hall. She asks if you need anything before she heads out, but you’re content perusing the space Javier occupies while you wait for him. The bookshelves are bare of any personal trinkets or photographs, the low-lit small room having as much personality as if inhabited by a ghost. The only indicators of his existence here are the crystal decanter set of amber liquid between two beige armchairs, and a lone picture frame underneath his desk lamp.

You sink into his desk chair, leather squeaking under your skirt as you lean for a closer look. It’s a simple black-and-white photo of a young couple standing on a porch with arms around each other’s waists, the woman’s other hand reaching down to hold the pudgy fist of a toddler who’s squinting at the camera from beneath his bowl-cut fringe. Neat handwriting in the bottom right corner inscribes the scene as “Laredo - 1960”. The little boy must be Javier, you realize, though it’s weird to imagine what he must’ve been like as a small child. You wonder what his voice sounded like back then.

“Making yourself comfortable?”

The gravelly, smoke-tinged lull from the doorway is at odds with the cherubic face peering at you. You look up, abandoning this glimpse into his past to appreciate the vision of him now before you. He’s discarded his suit jacket, tie hung loose on his neck and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, showing enough of his golden skin for you to enjoy as he brings the last of his spent cigarette between his upturned lips.

“Agent Peña,” you greet him with a nod. The last of his smokey exhale stutters out in a chuckle as he nears, snuffing the remains in an ashtray along the way.

“Candy,” he addresses you. He braces his hands against the edge of the desk, leaning down to brazenly crawl his eyes up your body. You shake your head at how unashamed he is, but a shiver still runs up your spine as a smirk quirks a dimple into his cheek. “So nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too.” You tilt your head up in invitation and his lips connect to yours in an instant, a small sigh escaping from your mouth when he pulls away.

“I heard you met with the ambassador,” he says, gaze drawing up from your lips to your eyes. “How did it go?”

You look away before he can catch your grimace and his brows draw together.

“What’s wrong?” he presses, hand skimming over yours.

“It’s just…” Where to even begin? “He didn’t actually listen to us, we were just charity cases to him.”

“I’m sorry.” Javi’s soft, genuine voice tells you he means it. “The guy’s a shithead, he’s a politician. Don’t let him get to you.”

If only it were that easy. The small tremble in your lip betrays you and Javier abandons his post against the desk’s edge, opting to plant a knee on the ground to get eye-level with you. He squeezes your wrist for attention.

“Cariño,” he whispers until you look at him. “Trust me, you don’t need saving.”

His words quiet the storm enough for you to huff a short breath. “No, I don’t.”

He brings your hand up to brush his lips against your knuckles as you shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he attempts again, “then tell me what you need.”

“I just, I don’t know,” you sigh. “I just need to forget, I need to stop thinking. I need–”

“A distraction?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“I can do that for you.”

His eyes dip back down for a moment, but when he reaches forward it’s only to grab the folder sitting atop his desk.

“Just let me drop this off first,” he murmurs, “I’ll be right back.”

You nod slowly and stand as he does, watching as he hustles out of the room once more. A sip of something to numb today sounds nice, a small pour into one of his glasses busying your hands and quieting the static in your brain when you take the first gulp. You’re almost finished when he returns, the hand reaching up for his jacket on the coat rack stalling before it goes for the doorknob instead. The soft click of the lock echoes louder in the quiet room before he’s reaching for the remains of your drink you offer to him, finishing it with a tip of his wrist while you squint at him playfully.

“I thought we were leaving?” you ask when he sets the glass down beside you, smoothing his hands up your waist as he crowds you against the desk.

“We will,” he promises quietly, “just let me look at you first.”

You roll your eyes but it doesn’t stop the heat that’s creeping up your chest in time with his hands exploring the curves of your body.

“How could anyone pay attention when you looked like this, cariño?” he groans, gripping the front of your skirt and tugging you towards him. You swallow a gasp at the evidence of his arousal hardening against your thigh. He ducks his head to your neck, lips brushing your hot skin. “All I could think about today was you.”

“Yeah?” is all you can breathlessly manage as his kisses press up towards your jaw.

“Of course,” his breath fans across the shell of your ear. “You look sexy like this.”

Your eyes flutter close as his teeth graze against your earlobe and tug gently.

“T-thanks,” you aim to move closer but your feet protest, visibly wincing as you shift your weight. “These heels are killing me though.”

“Oh?” You can feel Javier’s devilish smile as his hands rub over the swell of your ass across the tight fabric of your skirt, stopping at the top of your thighs. “I can fix that.”

He hoists you up onto his desk, your sudden gasp quieted by his chuckle as he steps between the shallow opening of your legs the tight confines of your skirt allow. His fingers slip down the smooth sheen of your nylons, bringing your knee up for him to reach the hard plastic of your high heel. He eases it off, clattering it to the ground before he makes quick work for the other shoe to drop.

This does little to deter the onslaught of his hands rubbing up your legs, teasing your pantyhose against your fevered skin. You can feel the reaction to his touch pooling at your center, and with a sharp breath he brushes a knuckle against it.

“Cariño,” he tuts, pressing in harder, “you’re already ruining these, they’re soaked through.”

“Hm,” is all you can shudder out when his thumb replaces his knuckle, rubbing against your clit. You take a hesitant breath. “Guess I have to get rid of them.”

His hand retreats just enough for a noise of disapproval to sigh out of you, canting your hips for more. He edges to your inner thigh instead, rubbing the sheer fabric of your stockings between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

“You don’t need these?” he asks.

You give him a questioning look. “I guess not…?”

You jolt when his hands suddenly grip the material on either side of your pussy, the fabric protesting until he yanks down and apart, ripping them at the seams. He steals your gasp in a quick, consuming kiss.

“Good.”

He tugs the ruins of your hosiery away from the apex of your legs, drawing his hand back inwards when a sharp inhale is sucked through his nose.

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” he growls, his other hand gripping the soft give of your thigh.

“N-no,” you whimper. “Couldn’t wear them without it showing in the skirt.”

He groans, large hand cupping your cunt to press against your slick folds, just enough to make you impulsively grind into the heel of his palm. You can feel his grin on your slackening jaw when you tense around his teasing finger edging you.

“Is this what you need?” he asks and you let out a pitiful whine, chasing his hand with a press forward of your hips when he moves away. You level your gaze with his dark eyes.

“Answer me, cariño.”

Your hand traces up his dress shirt, fingers circling his tie until they close around the fabric just under the knot. You watch his glance dip down to your mouth for just a moment before you’re yanking him forward by his tie, capturing his groan between your lips.

All resolve crumbles after that, his hands tugging your legs further apart to the ripping disapproval of your ruined tights. A finger slips inside you, then two, pushing and curling as he swallows your moans down his tongue licking inside your mouth. You’re fumbling for his belt when he pushes your hands away, gripping the front of your blouse to tug it from your skirt and hoist it over your breasts.

He bends, smothering his face in your chest for a moment to bite the swell of your breast before dropping to his knees, kisses descending down your stomach. You’re fumbling to help him heave your tight pencil skirt any higher, the bite of his impatient nips to your inner thighs trapped in the barrier of shredded nylon still clinging to your skin.

“Javi!” His name flows from your lips in an unknown beg – Javi not here, Javi please faster – but the next mention of his name catches in your throat when his velvet lips meet the soft plush of your exposed skin.

He groans, his grip digging into your inner knees as his tongue licks inside you, your head tipping back as he voices his desire into your cunt. The sound is obscene, his lips smacking as he presses in deeper, his prominent nose grinding your clit with every push and flick of his tongue. The feeling sparks pleasure up through your core, jittering through your trembling legs and making you grasp for the desk’s edge, other hand gripping the soft curls of his hair, mussing up the neat way he styled it for the office. He hums his approval at the way you pull lightly on his hair, guiding his mouth up until his wet lips suction around your clit.

You cry out, hips jutting forward and the vibrations of his response only intensify the feeling coiling deeper and tighter with each sloppy kiss and lick. A quick sound of irritation rumbles in his chest and his hands slide down under your thighs, a quick pull to the edge of the desk for him to dive further into you.

Your toes curl, knee jerking when his fingers push back inside, scissoring and curling and coaxing the jumbling whimpers of his name barely coherent over the sound of his tongue lapping at you. You peer down to see if you can even see him under the confines of your skirt, only to meet his blown-out pupils watching you as his jaw tenses and moves with each pass of his mouth.

It’s the way he moans into you, sucking your clit in between his lips just as his fingertips press into that perfect spot that has you seeing stars, tensing your body up until pleasure explodes in waves through your body. You shake as he works you through it, concentration only slowing as you squeeze the hair threaded through your fingers, whispering a quiet–

“Javi, please.”

He’s up in an instant, slick mouth appeasing your begging lips with desperate kisses as his hands work quickly on his belt. You can feel yourself dripping onto his desk as you tug him closer, closer, his dress pants finally slipping open as he lines himself up to you. He pulls you towards him and you groan in unison, the blunt head pressing into your entrance before his length slides into you in a single, sudden thrust. You clutch at his cheeks, his jaw, his neck when he starts moving, hot breath panting against each other with each push deeper. Everything feels tighter, the ruined seams of your stockings hardly holding together strong enough to fight the way Javier presses into you, until he grips both legs and wrenches them further apart with another satisfying rip of nylon. You cry out, louder this time, and he shushes you with his mouth covering your moans, the thrum of his desperation beating just under the skin barely concealed in the tightening grip of his hands on your thighs.

His tie is quickly flung over his shoulder, dress shirt bunched up to salvage it from the mess you’re now making at the base of him. The wet slap of him meeting you over and over fill the small room of his office, matching the tempo of your whimpers of oh–oh fuck Javi. The air is thick with the smell of your sex, the unforgiving pummel of his hips back and forth, back and forth knocking you further up the desk. He grips you tighter to him, practically hoisting you off the desk to meet the drive of his cock. His belt buckle smacks into the flesh of your ass with each thrust, but the scrape of pain is barely perceived with each yelp of pleasure falling from your lips.

A sweaty curl falls onto Javier’s forehead from his quickly-disheveling hair, matching the unraveling of your own composure as he starts fucking you harder. The creak of his ancient desk threatening to give out under you only adds to how much you’re desperately flirting with danger right now, the evening still early enough for a stray passerby to wander down the hall and hear you.

But that somehow only adds to the frenzied excitement, your bodies working in tandem intuitively, rocking your hips forward in time with his thrusts as you push each other closer to release.

“J-Javi,” you whimper, curling your hand into the nape of his neck.

“Tell me what you need.” The deep register of his voice sends a tremble up your spine. Your eyes cinch shut, a pant of breath barely escaping.

“I need…more.”

With that he reaches behind you and sweeps the contents of his desk, papers scattering to the floor as he pushes you down the cleared desktop. The curve of your neck almost hangs off the edge, threatening to push you even further with each punch of his cock. He tilts your pelvis just so, and with the next thrust his name wails out of your throat. His hand clamps down over your mouth, soft pleading sounds to keep quiet, baby, I know it’s—f-fuck, I know, I know, just like that as your whimpers are caught in the cup of his palm.

You angle your jaw and capture his thumb between your lips, sucking it into your mouth to the deep, guttural groan tumbling from the depth of his throat. He swirls it in time with your insistent tongue and pops it out, a string of saliva following it down as he brings it to press against the peak of your sex. His slick finger flicking across your clit bucks your hips up harder as Javier grips your knee for leverage, hoisting it up until it’s pressed to your chest and kept there by his steady grasp.

“Is this what you needed?” he pants into the crook of your neck, the slap slap slap of him meeting you over and over again just as loud as the moans you’re trying in vain to bite down. “Needed to be fucked so hard you forget your own name?”

A high whine pitches out of your throat, pressure building inside you again and he chuckles lowly.

“Yeah? What’s your fucking name then, baby girl?”

Your head tips back, voice gone no matter how much you pant and gasp and you need him, all of him, your hand snaking to the back of his slacks and squeezing him tighter to you. He’s caught off guard, a quick, stumbling grunt as he stutters inside you and you’re gone, orgasm washing over your body just as he comes undone. You feel the heavy, hot spurt of him deep inside you as you tense and convulse, something akin to a cry escaping your lips when he mouths at the curve of your neck, concealing his own loud, finishing response.

The office quiets to a standstill again, save for your panting breaths fighting for air as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. You card your fingers through his hair once more and he shifts up to look at you, a blissed out grin curving his mouth before he summons enough energy to move up and kiss you, wet mustache tickling against your upper lip. You share another quiet kiss, a thank you in your smile when you both jump at the trill of the phone at the corner of his desk.

Javier groans, easing out of you and leaning to answer it with a haggard expression.

“Peña.”

He says it with such a steeled composure, like he didn’t just fuck your brains out all over his desk, the scattered papers still settling on the carpet beneath you. You watch his face change at the drawl of quick, English words barking out through the receiver.

“Alright Murphy, I get it.” He gives you an exaggerated eye-roll before hanging up. “We’re late to dinner.”

Your tardiness doesn’t stop him from helping you get cleaned up, helping you out of your ripped pantyhose before disappearing to return with a pair of simple flats for you to try on.

“Colleen always keeps them in her drawer,” he explains. “Are they your size?”

You slide them onto your feet and thank whoever this Colleen is, the sensible shoes providing much needed support after wearing your heels all day. You’re impressed he’s noticed such a small action in what you assume is a normally busy office.

“Does anything get past you, Agent Peña?” you ask as he gathers his coat by the door. He gestures to the exit to let you go first, just for his hand to swat playfully at your ass when you pass.

“Only when I want it to,” he smirks, reaching into his coat pocket for a smoke.

Javier walks you to a nearby restaurant, the interior bustling with busy tables until he points out a lone, exasperated man sitting in the back corner.

“Sorry we’re late,” Javier says by means of explanation once you draw near to him. “Messina was on my ass to get that report in tonight.”

The blonde man briefly glances at your wrinkled skirt. “Right.”

Javier pulls a chair over for you, gesturing to the man who’s extending a hand. “This is Steve Murphy, my work partner. And this is—”

“Candy.” You finish for him, catching the look on Javier’s face before he takes his own seat. Though you shake Steve’s hand with a friendly smile, you’re unsure how many personal details you’re ready to share with him. Getting comfortable with one DEA agent was more than enough for you right now.

“Candy? As in the Candy?” Steve’s brows shoot into his hairline as he holds your handshake a moment longer before glancing at Javier. “So you’re the one he won’t shut up about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Javier responds gruffly, but the glare he gives Steve is met with a shit-eating grin.

“Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you, Candy. How did you meet our Javier?”

You exchange a quick glance with Javier, trying to find the right words in English.

“We…like the same song.”

Javier barks out a laugh, failing to conceal it behind a cough as he signals the waiter. Steve peers between the two of you, unsure whether to believe you or not, but is quickly distracted when someone comes by to take your order.

Steve asks you easy questions throughout dinner, the drawl of his voice that of a practiced gentleman with only the hints of an interrogating agent around the edges. He seems comfortable in the presence of a woman, and it’s unsurprising to find his ring finger occupied. When you ask about his wife a warm smile crawls across his face, unbothered by the subtle eye roll from Javier when he starts talking about his marriage. He only deflates when he mentions she’s back in the States now, and you can only imagine how hard that distance might be in the way he sighs.

Javier goes to settle the check as Steve finishes the last of his drink, looking at you over the rim’s edge.

“So, music brought you two together?” he tries again and you shrug, smiling.

“Well, I like dancing.”

“Dancing?” Steve looks up at a returning Javier as he asks. “You ever take your girl dancing, Jav?”

You take Javier’s outstretched hand to help you out of your seat. “Just the kind you’re not good at, Murphy.” His wink is met with a quick middle finger as Steve follows you out on the street.

A slight shiver at the oncoming night’s chill is met with Javier’s jacket gracing your shoulders, a commotion the next street over causing the two agents to slow and listen. They look to one another before stepping towards the noise.

But when they round the corner, it’s not what they would usually suspect. Instead they’re surprised to find a makeshift street band set up on the sidewalk. They're playing in front of the colorful advertisements of a worn-down pharmacy, the neighborhood out on the street dancing and laughing. It feels like you’ve stumbled into a folkloric fairytale, the magic of their bright joy contagious in the bubble they’ve created amidst the stark architecture of the capital city. You watch with amusement on the outskirts of the growing crowd until Steve nudges into Javier, nodding towards the dancing couples.

“C’mon,” he urges, “dance with your lady.”

Javier sends you a questioning glance, and before the offer can even form you’re pulling him out on the street. You loop his arms around you with a laugh and he begrudgingly accepts with a lopsided smirk, muttering how he doesn’t dance. But you’re unsurprised to find him a good dancer with the way his hips move in time with yours, and you tease him as such, squeezing the ticklish spot in his side until he’s chuckling into a smile at you.

A camera shutters to your left and you turn to Steve just as the bulb flashes.

“Never thought I’d see this,” he explains as he cranks the camera roll to the next frame. Javier flips him off and guides you away from the laughing man towards the center of the makeshift dance area.

“Cariño,” Javier murmurs into your ear to grab your attention back towards him. “Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?”

You shake your head and he pulls you closer to him, hand smoothing up your back.

“Stay the night,” he asks. “I have a place here.”

"Really?"

He nods and you seal his offering with a kiss, the crowd erupting around you in cheers at the energetic end of the song. The band bows and sets up for the next arrangement that you don’t stay to hear.

You step into the cool air of Javier’s government-issued apartment once he’s driven you there, taking in the decor you assume some poor secretary was assigned to pick haphazardly.

“So this is Casa de Peña,” you tease, laughing at the photos of two nondescript dogs you know he doesn’t own. “The pinnacle of a bachelor’s pad.”

Javier remains at the front entryway, leaning against the archway to watch you tour the room and get to know his personal space with a small smile. He pushes up when your eyes meet his, gesturing to the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“What do you have?”

You hear the fridge clink open. “Water or…whiskey.” You laugh, accepting the latter with a clink of your glasses together before he’s reaching for you again.

“You’re insatiable,” you sigh, and yet you find yourself already playing with the top button of his loosened dress shirt.

“Well, what I wanted wasn’t here. Can you blame me?”

“No,” your eyes close as he finds that spot on your neck. “I guess not.”

He’s quiet, lips pressed to your throat. Then, quietly, an “I missed you,” is whispered into your skin, only brazen enough for this jolt of vulnerability now that he isn’t looking at you. You bring his face back up towards you, breathing together for a moment.

“Then show me,” you beg softly. “Show me how much you’ve missed me.”

He groans into a kiss, guiding you into a tour of his bedroom.

The next day, late into the morning when you could finally drag yourselves out of the shared warmth of his bed, you’re lounging in a small cafe together for breakfast. His eyes are scanning the local newspaper as you admire the weak sunlight across his face when his name is shouted from the entrance behind you. He looks up and grins immediately, jumping from your table to clap his hand enthusiastically into the waiting grasp of an approaching man, turning to introduce him to you as Colonel Horacio Carrillo, who’s joined by his trailing wife.

“You’re looking at the man that’s going to kill Escobar,” Javier says with a touch of pride, but Carrillo’s wife glances nervously at the declaration. Carrillo only pats him on the shoulder with a good-natured grin.

“That’s almost true,” he corrects. “We’re going to take him down together.”

He excuses you back to breakfast with the hope that he’ll see you again soon, and you look to Javier to find his attention back on you.

“Do you know how you’re getting back to Medellín?”

You shrug, swallowing another bite of your pastry. You assume you’ll take the train again, once you leave for the station to buy a ticket. Javier’s grin tells you otherwise.

“Have you ever ridden in a helicopter before?”

++

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[twinhood-2dot0]

Gen Z slang

One of my favourite parts of internet culture is the linguistics of it (surprise, suprise). So, since you live under a rock, I thought I would go over some of my favourites. 1. YEEEET/ YOINK verb Throwing/Snatching GEN Z

"Yeet that thing to hell"

(yes I'm writing like a dictionary idk why)

2. -ussy suffix

Denoting a crevice

"That's a paperussy."

I shared a screenshot of American Dialect Society crowning -ussy the word of the year but I held back the meaning because NSFW, but I'll explain it with a little less NSFW. You know that thing we call kitty cats? It's also vulgar slang for something. Remove the p and we get -ussy 3. W / L noun W for Winner/ L for Loser.

"W gamer"

Not very notable but check out this wholesome video for why I included it:

4. Stan noun

An obsessive fan

"A K-pop stan"

Stan verb

Be an obsessive fan.

"I stan BTS"

Either 'stalker' + 'fan' or Stan from the Eminem song which is about a hyper obsessive fan.

5. Cap noun For 'joke' or 'lie'. "I have a Bugatti" "Cap" "I call cap on that" "Best movie I ever watched, no cap"

Cap verb

"They're capping about that"

From TikTok, where a cap emoji is used to call out people

6. Simp noun

People obsessed with a romantic interest, crush or internet personality.

"A Pokimane simp"

Simp verb

Obsessing about a romantic interest, crush or internet personality.

"He's simping for her"

7. Rizz noun

Proficiency in flirtation

"Damnn he got rizz."

Rizz verb

Flirt

"She rizzed them up"

8. Living rent free in one's head phrase

Being unable to not think about a topic or person.

9. Slap verb

Used for when something is exceptional

"This music slaps"

10. Sus adjective

Suspicious

"He's acting real sus"

10. Karen adjective

Obnoxious person with conservative views or inconveniencing workers in places such as a supermarket or restaurant.

Karen noun

Blond, white, middle-aged woman who calls for the manager in every establishment they go to archaic

An obnoxious person

11. Slay verb

Be beautiful or strong, used generally for women

12. L+Ratio phrase

Used to signify that the internet post is not based.

"Billie Eilish is actually pretty good" "L+Ratio"

From L meaning loser and ratio, a term originating from twitter, used for when a tweet gets more likes than the parent tweet.

13. NPC noun

A person who does not have opinions of their own, follows the majority or is gullible. Often used as "Oblivion NPC", from 2006 video game Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.

From gaming meaning non playable character denoting pre-programmed characters in video games.

Okay, those are the new ones I've encountered recently and are on the Wikipedia page for Gen Z slang and you probably don't know already, and now, onto the fun part.

Alex here missed the last post, and you know what we do to uh people-who-miss-posting, WE PUNISH THEM! So, for your punishment, I have thought up something very painful (hopefully). You have to find absolutely terrible lyrics, maybe like 2 or 3, and make them Shakespearen. You can maybe look at idk top songs of the 2020s, or check out Megan Thee Stallion, I've heard one song because internet culture and it had despicable lyrics. Her other titles look horrible too so I think that'll be a nice fallback if you can't find anything. David Guetta also has some weird lyrics in 'Hey Mama' and 'Sexy Bitch', I know he probably doesn't do lyrics but they make me cringe nevertheless. I listen to music for the melody so I wouldn't know too many lyrics, let alone bad ones, so I hope you can find some and entertain us. - Alia