#and hours of class to slog through

[thebirdandhersong]

It is some consolation that one day this will not make me bristle

[felidthing]

literally blogging during class rn because its zoom and zoom classes are a damn joke

[bananayuyu]

Tell Me No {1}

Pairing: professor!Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut, dark academia vibes

Word count: 6.3k

Summary: You'd always been a picture perfect college student. So when Professor Jeong gives you a grade that threatens your flawless track-record, you'll do just about anything to raise it.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, age gap not specified but it's obviously there, reader wants him bad but is kinda in denial, dry humping, heavy petting, lots of praise

A/n: Professor Yunho always hits, I've seen so many fics on here that I've loved but I just had to make my own. I hope y'all enjoy <3 (I'm working on a part 2 and part 3 for this now, lmk if you want to be tagged!)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Read it on ao3

Professor Jeong was remarkably smart, remarkably tall, and remarkably well-liked. There wasn't a thing he could do, it seemed, to upset anyone. His third year as faculty, he was already surpassing all expectations the Dean and Vice President had set. It was a revelation: all his students absolutely adored him, every single one. All, except for you.

It was late fall, and the weather was starting to turn. Leaves were falling in clouds of red and yellow, and the air was crisp in the mornings. The entire week the sky was overcast, not a ray of sunshine to remind you of the warm season just past. It felt gloomy, calm, and focused on campus, and it should have been the perfect start to your favorite time of year.

It should have been. But as you sat in your Contemporary Literature class and read over the marks on your most recent paper, you felt nothing but rage.

63%. That's what he'd given you. That, and a slew of notes in red ink along every margin, telling you just how poorly you'd screwed this whole thing up. You didn't much care for contemporary books, that was the worst part; this was a class you were required to take as a part of your literature degree, and one you'd dreaded taking, no matter how many raving reviews you'd heard about the professor. It was an added slap in the face that he was so damn harsh with grading, when you really couldn't give a fuck about the books you'd been assigned to read.

It only took a week of class before you understood. His good looks, his sense of humor, his easy and flirtatious nature, those were the things that made every student love him. Class itself was a slog, but you'd been expecting that at least, and made it through your first two papers with decent grades. Only three papers and a final exam were graded in his class, and you panicked every time you handed one in, not knowing if you'd be able to pass with at least a 70% and get your much needed credits. But so far it had been fine; you'd never needed to ask him much, never seen a reason to visit office hours. You had no desire to talk to this good-looking professor, even if your mind wandered in his class. It was all too easy to picture him in all his naked glory, but a part of you knew your dreams must be too good to be true, and you'd hate to have the illusion shattered.

It wasn't out of character for you to crush on a teacher. And it wasn't that you hated him. But what good was a hot professor if he was going to fuck up all of your plans?

"Hey, did he screw you too?" a voice behind you asks. You didn't bother turning around, knowing the aggravating man it had come from and exactly the conversation he was hoping for.

"Yes, obviously," you answer. Professor Jeong's a fucking asshole, you add to yourself. Dad's gonna fucking kill me.

Here on Daddy's money, you were that girl. And though it was an obvious perk, it came with one severe expectation. You would be done in four years, and never get below a C. There would be no making up credits, no re-dos. Summer was meant to be spent interning, not making up for stupid mistakes during the year. Your dad's words ring clearly through your mind as you sigh into your desk.

"Wanna go get coffee and bitch about prof for an hour?"

"No, Marcus, I have shit to do," you respond.

"One day you won't be such a bitch to me," he replies, before slinging his backpack over one shoulder and shoving his long hair out of his face. "I'm gonna go to his office hours tomorrow and give him a piece of my mind," he says as he walks past you.

"Good luck with that," you joke, staring down at the floor.

You'd been able to wear your favorite boots today, and your legs covered in black tights were a sight for sore eyes. But none of it could be enjoyed, these little beauties of life that usually brought you peace. The potential of failing this stupid class was looming, and now more than ever you were thankful for the weather, for sunny days always made your bad moods even worse, making you feel almost guilty for your negativity.

"Come to my office hours tomorrow, I have to head home now," you hear Professor Jeong tell a clearly panicked classmate, who sighs with defeat and slumps away. You look up, taking in the small room, a class with only thirty desks, dark and windowless, with bookshelves lining the back wall behind a large mahogany table. The few lamps at the front illuminated the tired and frustrated bodies of your peers as they exit to the front corner, and there is no part of you that wants to join that sad parade. There had to be a way out of this, a way to avoid your worst nightmare. There was no way you'd let your hard work of the last two years go to waste, all to be replaced with beratement from your Dad and a forced position in his company.

You'd never been overcome like this, or so determined. Something in the red ink on your perfectly printed paper had switched a flip. Paper in hand, you sling your book bag over your shoulder and storm to the front of the classroom. The last student had just slipped out, and your professor was turning off the lamp high on the right-most bookshelf, his back to you.

"I need to talk to you," you say. The force in your voice shocks you, and you take a deep breath to recover.

"My office hours are tomorrow, you can co-"

"No, I need to talk to you now."

He turns to you, peering over his shoulder before his chest has time to face you too. Instantly his gaze is piercing, a deepness in his brown eyes that you'd never noticed before. His suit is perfect and sharp and intimidating, and your knees feel wobbly as your guts roll. Who were you to be demanding such a thing from him? You had no idea where it had come from, other than the primal fear of a life lived under your Dad's severe control. Your degree was your chance to escape, and you'd stop at nothing to secure your freedom.

"I have to head home now, I can't talk to you." His voice is stern but soft, and feels like a warm breeze blowing past your cheeks and neck. A shudder runs through you, one you try your best to hide.

"Just five minutes, I'll walk with you out of the building," you reply. He lets out a frustrated sigh through his nose, crossing his arms and staring at you deeply. With a subtle shake of his head he straightens up again, grabbing his own bag off his chair and zipping it closed, before slipping it over his head. He pushes in the chair, and moves to the other lamp, looking back to you once more before clicking it off. For a brief moment the room is blanketed in complete darkness, and all you can hear is the soft rustle of trees outside blowing in the wind.

He opens the door, holding it until you exit, and locks it swiftly behind you.

"I was wondering when you'd finally come talk to me," he says, walking the opposite direction you expect, towards the back of the building. His long strides are hard to keep up with, and you balk at what to say now. There was something eery about his words, but something too that told you to keep going. This may just work, if you were willing to push through your nerves.

"My grades on my last two papers were reasonable, I didn't see any reason to come and argue with you about thos-"

"No, what I mean is, you obviously hate my class," he cuts you off.

"I- I don't, sir, I promise-"

"You don't need to lie to save my ego, I can easily tell when a student doesn't like the work I assign for them," he sighs softly.

"I just don't care much for contemporary books, I'm much more interested in historical literature. And literature written by women tends to interest me more, too," you reply. You'd reached the end of the hallway, the back double doors much shabbier than the front, but still adorned with wood carvings and leaf-shaped handles. Professor Jeong pushes the left door open with ease, holding it in silence until you exit again, rejoining you in your decent of the steps.

"Yes, I have heard this complaint a time or two, and I saw this coming from you, I know your type," he replies cooly, walking fast and still making no eye contact.

"I'm not any type of person, I don't know what the hell you're talking about," you snap, covering your mouth seconds later in regret.

"No, please, lay it all out, I am all ears. It's only about two minutes to the train station, so you'd better make use of it."

"You're seriously going to accuse me of being some "type" of student who complains about how all the books we read are by men, when your main critique of my last paper was that the perspective I took was predictable and the same as so many students before, and that I really should look outside of the box and be more creative with my thinking? When you assign the most boring, predictable, inside the box books known to man? What the hell do you expect, me to invent some deeper meaning to this whiny basic crap I'm reading?"

The words tumble out of you with force, another student you passed looking bewildered, ducking their head down and walking into the grass to avoid you. Adrenaline wracks through you, your heart pounding hard enough you could feel it in your head. You weren't sure what you were thinking, launching into such a personal attack of the books he'd assigned. But once he said to lay it all out, your mind couldn't think to do anything else. You try to walk in a straight line beside him, try to keep up with his strides without completely losing your breath. A distant strike of lightning is followed many seconds later by the low rumble of thunder, and your head snaps up in your anxious state, your whole body on high alert. Seconds stretch by, as the air feels suddenly colder and your sweater far too thin. You were waiting for his professional, academic response, knowing almost surely humiliation was about to greet you. But when you finally look up, his lips are turned up in a smirk. Your eyes go wide, wondering if he was laughing, if he found your statement so pathetic and stupid that all it did was make him chuckle.

"You're funny," he deadpans, looking up to the cloudy sky. "And no, I'm not smiling, not at all." His smirk grows wider, almost to a full smile, before he turns from you and steels his face, his expression back to his typical stoicism as his eyes meet yours.

"You think your paper deserves a second look?" he asks, as you cross the bike path and walk through the strip of pine trees, before starting down the stairs to the train station.

"Absolutely, sir, I just want a second chance, maybe I can explain to you further what I meant in certain sections, help you understand- I- I'll rewrite sections if you'd like, anything for a better grade-"

You are cut off by the man in the ticket booth.

"Heading home, Mr. Jeong?" the man calls jovially, waving a large hand in his direction, a pale yellow ticket between his fingers.

"I'll take two today Mr. Choi, thank you," he replies, smoothly walking up to the booth and slipping the man two one-dollar bills.

"Have a nice ride, enjoy your evening!" the man calls as you both walk towards the platform, your boots scuffing on a crack in the stone tiles, eyes too focused on the tall broad back in front of you to notice the ground.

Already a train was approaching, and by the look of your professor, it was obvious this was his. You aren't sure why you're still following; you pull up for a second, eyes wide as you take in the scene around you. The station ss teeming with people, many students and several faces you think you vaguely recognize, but amidst it all his head of black hair ss visible, so much taller than anyone else around. He walks forward a few steps before looking behind him, noticing your absence and squinting hard, trying to find you. The train was now pulling up, and his eyes were flicking between it and the direction he'd lost you, looking the least bit frantic, if that was even possible for him. As soon as the train stops people launch towards the doors, handing the ticket-man their yellow slips and hurriedly finding the seats they want.

When the crowd thins enough and he can see you again, Professor Jeong makes his way to you quickly.

"Whatever you do, don't you dare get on this train car with me," he utters, slipping one of the tickets into your hand and closing it in his. "Don't get off at Fortsmith station, and don't wait for me by the red phone booth outside."

As he walks towards the door his head turns to meet your gaze one last time, and something deep and mischievous glints in his eyes. As he enters the car, ducking low to fit through the small door, you run up behind him, handing the man your ticket too and slipping inside. A moment later the ticket-man jumps in too, sliding closed the door and locking it, sitting in his designated chair.

"How many stops to Fortsmith station?" you ask him, peering over your shoulder at the nearly packed car, only one empty seat next to a man that looked leeringly at you, in a way that made your skin crawl.

"12 stops, ma'am," the man answers, his accent thick.

"How- how many minutes is that, approximately?"

"About 40 minutes, ma'am."

You sigh, stepping out of his way. "Thank you," you add, nodding to him slightly, before turning back around to find a place to stand. When you turn, though, a different seat is empty, one you could swear had been filled by your professor just moments ago.

When you look to the right, you find him sitting by the leering old man and watching you intently. And quickly you slip yourself into that now empty seat, breathing a sigh of relief for your poor heels.

The ride was smoother than you had expected, but the stops were arduous, and each time as people filed on and off, you felt your nerves growing and shaking you. This seemed so strange, that your professor was letting you follow him, giving you the ticket and directions so you wouldn't get lost. Had your little outburst really piqued his interest? Was he only winding you up to shit on you later, in the privacy of his own home, when it was only you two? Suddenly, you realize you know nothing about this man. You aren't even sure if he lives alone, if he has a family, if anything about this little excursion iss a good idea, or if you're walking right into the den of a lion. A deep shudder runs through you when the announcement for 'Fortsmith' comes through the speakers. Only another minute, and you'll be wobbling your way out of here. You'll be in a completely foreign part of the city, not one person knowing where you were.

The station is much smaller, not underground like the University stop, the train only at a full stop for maybe thirty seconds before whisking itself off again. Only one other person steps off with you two; the woman makes quickly for the north exit of the station and disappears into the pouring rain, the cool outside air hitting you and making your body go rigid.

With a quick glance around, you spot the phone booth. It was just to the left of the south exit, visible through the glass panels of the door. As Professor Jeong exits he opens his umbrella, standing patiently by the red booth as you made your way in his direction, your body shaking. Once you exit he begins walking beside you, holding you close under the small radius of his umbrella, his large hand on your back feeling like it was searing right into your skin.

Its a short and quiet walk to the quaint street he lives on, large trees covering the sides of the small boulevard and ivy covering the stone walls of most of the houses. Each was small, only a few with a second floor, including his; it was exactly the type of place you'd expect him to live, the heavy front door creaking as he pulls it open and walks in ahead of you, quickly closing his umbrella and setting it down, and closing the door with a gentle thud once you enter.

A draft hits your wet legs and causes you to shiver again, and you wrap your arms tightly around yourself. Inside it is dim and hazy, and soon he was pulling out a set of matches and lighting a candle on his mantle, the living room coming into view once the warm light started flickering.

"This is my office, wait in here," he says, opening a door just down the hall. When you walk in there is only the soft light of the early evening to guide you, the floor so hard to see that you reach out your hands and shuffle slowly. Once his desk comes into view you spot the ornate lamp just behind it, and carefully reach around to click it on, the room suddenly awash in a gentle pinkness.

Not unlike his classroom, the walls are covered with stacked bookshelves, but in here it was every inch, not a single bit of free space available. You walk slowly to the closest shelf, your eyes scanning over the spines. Shock rips through you as you see the authors: Dickinson, Austen, Bronte, so many of the historical women you adore. Above that shelf is a collection of more contemporary works: Cline, Hooks, Mock, your eyes just about bug out at seeing the names, breath hitching. Here was a stunning collection of so many of your favorite authors, an entire giant bookcase dedicated to the work of women, and women alone.

"You found my favorite shelf, I see." His voice is low and buttery and doesn't shock you, only makes you feel like melting into the floor. But you can't help turning suddenly and clinging to yourself, the room still feeling chilly. "You aren't in trouble, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Why did you bring me here?" you shoot back, taking in a quick breath.

"Why did you come when I told you not to?" he replies, walking close and handing you a cup of steaming tea, the notes of lavender and honey hitting your nose.

"You- you obviously wanted me to come, you told me exactly where to get off-"

You cut yourself off at the sight of him smirking again, and shake your head, the shock of the situation finally hitting you.

"I shouldn't be here, should I?" you suddenly panic, shoving the tea back in his direction, making for your bag on the floor. But as you crouch and grab it your hands feel like stone, not willing to move an inch. You don't want to leave, not at all, as much as some part of you is telling you to stop this and head back to campus, now. You stand back up quickly, feeling awkward as you smooth down the bottom of your oversized sweater, turning to him again.

"Is this wrong?" he asks, gesturing between you with the mug of tea.

"I- I don't know," you sigh.

"I made you tea because you looked cold, are you sure you don't want it?"

You stare longingly at it, his hand easily wrapping around the entire thing. With a hard swallow you push yourself to take a step, grabbing the tea from him and finally taking a sip, your chest instantly feeling warmer.

"Why did you let me follow you?" you ask, turning around and sitting yourself on the smooth top of his desk , crossing your legs. His legs cross too as he leans back against the shelf behind him, a longer piece of his black hair falling in front of his eyes.

"I've been hoping to get a chance to chat with you, ever since I read your first paper."

"So even though you could tell I hated your readings, even though I'm that type of student you seem to have such great distaste for, you still wanted to talk with me?" you ask.

"I kept hoping you'd come to office hours, but you never did," he sighs. "You might hate my class, but you're obviously passionate about literature. You'd be surprised how rare that is, amongst all my English students."

"You've only had a few like me, then?" you ask.

"I've never had any student like you."

Silence hangs in the air, and you sip at your tea to fill it, savoring the way your body is relaxing. You stare at him, trying to read it all. Why the hell would he say something like that to you? Alone in his house, no indication of another soul residing here, you feel oddly comfortable. It had never crossed your mind that you could possibly end up in a situation like this.

"You're determined to get at least a C, aren't you?" he asks.

"I have to," you reply. "I can't- I just have to."

"For your scholarship?"

"No- well, sort of, in a way," you sigh, thinking of your Dad. "It's a long story, but I have to."

"Let me give you some advice then. Just because you don't much care for an assignment, don't throw in the towel and do the bare minimum. Your other work is too good, it makes it obvious when you've barely spent any time on something."

You stop short, tea clasped tightly in your hands, your eyes wide.

"Do you write, any fiction or poetry?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good, you have an immense talent for writing, you must nurture it."

It was the last thing you were expecting, and the words send shivers of warmth through your limbs, your mouth hanging slightly agape.

"God, do you have any idea how remarkable you are?" he asks, his head suddenly shaking, his arms crossing.

"What do you mean?" You try to keep your composure, but his last words feel like a metaphorical breaking of a boundary, and suddenly your cunt aches and your feet feel tingly. Were you really that easy to break? Liking praise this much was something you'd always felt shame about; your cheeks redden as your heart rate slowly picks up, and you are sure your flush is obvious, even in the faintly pink light of the room.

"You're just- you're remarkable, there's no other way to put it. Like I said, I've never had a student like you," he says.

"Then why torture me with such a bad grade?" you ask, taking another sip.

"I'm not torturing you, it was deserved," he replies. "You wrote that whole paper the night before it was due, didn't you?"

You turn your eyes away in lieu of responding, not wanting to admit that he was absolutely right.

"I know everyone says I'm a harsh grader, but what about next year? You'll have two semesters with either Haas or Park, and both of them are stricter than I am, both expect near perfection. I'm preparing you as best as I can for next year, so your whole degree doesn't blow up in your face at the final hurdle."

"You really care that much?" you fake pout, chuckling a bit and biting your lip.

"Yes, yes I do. You're too smart to not make it out of that University with a degree." His voice is genuine, not an ounce of sarcasm present. Something about how sure and even it is adds to the heat in your low guts, and you squirm slightly, trying to relieve the pressure building between your legs.

"Come here," you say, setting down your mug and holding out your hands in front of you.

"What?" he asks as he pushes off the bookshelf, uncrossing his arms as he starts walking. In only three steps he's just inches away, towering over you as you spread your legs slightly. You're hit with his smell, something musky and rich that you can't name, and all it does is add to the heat inside you, sweat beginning to form underneath your sweater.

"Will you read my stories and poems, if I show them to you?" you ask, tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket, your eyes locked together.

"I won't hold back in my reactions," he says, sighing deeply to try and keep the growing firmness in his pants at bay. Being this close to you was not something he'd planned for, and his head spins as your soft eyes look up so longingly, his own guts doing somersaults at the precious sight.

"I wouldn't want you to," you say, smiling, unbuttoning his jacket and exposing his white button down, making work of the buttons there too, from top to bottom.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute," he chides from above, but he doesn't move an inch, doesn't do a thing to prevent your movements. You notice quickly he isn't wearing an under shirt, met with the creaminess of his skin as you expose his chest, working slowly down to the lowest buttons. You pull his shirt free from where it was tucked in his pants, loosening his belt to help you, before pulling the sides of the shirt wide and finally revealing his naked torso.

Now you understood. He was a nightmare, but in all the ways you least expected. He was better than your dreams, hotter than you could imagine; the flat plane of his chest was broad, and his tummy was the perfect mixture of muscle and softness, a small dark line of hair snaking down from his belly button and into his pants. And his pants, when you finally look down, you see it; his bulge is straining against the fabric, long and hard and thick, and immediately you start salivating, running your tongue along your bottom lip to collect yourself.

"Good god," he groans from above, his pupils blown, losing the fight to not be affected by you. Your small, soft hands running over his torso feel heaven-sent, and in seconds he's rock hard, shamelessly staring down the low cut of your sweater, letting himself look at you the way he's been wanting to for months.

"This- this is what you want?" he asks, breathless, running a thumb down the side of your cheek, turning your head up further to meet his gaze head-on.

"You- you just kept saying such nice things, and it made me feel all weird right here." You grab his hand and pull it towards your crotch, the warmth and wetness immediately evident even with your tights in the way.

"Fuck," he groans, tipping his head back and sighing. Though he knew it was already risky bringing you here, lines were now being crossed that were objectively wrong. He tries to pull his hand away from your core, but he can't, and when he looks down at you again, your eyes are wide with want and need, conflict screwing all of his thoughts into a tight knot.

But before he can stop himself, his open lips meet yours. The kiss is immediately deep, all the tension and heat you'd just created washing through you both. He starts applying some pressure with his hand, rubbing his fingers up and down against the warmth of your cunt, and you moan into his mouth, suddenly breaking the kiss when he hits your sensitive spot, your mouth falling open. With no support behind you, you grab onto his arms, pulling him closer as you move to kiss him again, his right hand wrapping around your back to hold you up.

His lips are soft and sweet in yours, and you can't help biting at the plumpness of his lower lip, making a quick breath escape his mouth before he dives in harder, the hand on your back moving up to your nape as he pulls your face impossibly closer. You reach your hands out to feel over the bareness of his torso again; his skin feels hot and smooth, his abdominal muscles clenching as he leans into you more and takes all the effort of steadying you both. Balanced on the edge of his desk you feel shaky, so you reach around his hips and pull them closer, forcing him to remove his hand as your cores meet in sudden ecstasy, the hardness of him feeling all too delicious against your soaked cunt.

Immediately you're grinding against him, savoring every bit of pleasure you can get, while his wide torso cages you in and his soft lips move to your cheek, then your neck, trailing down until he's biting at the soft skin above your collar bone. The choked moan that leaves you sounds almost like a cry of pain, but it was really just the shock, the unexpected pleasure you were getting from every little movement of his.

He pulls his mouth away, suddenly nervous he's taken a wrong step, gone too far. His hair falls in his face as he watches you shamelessly grind against him, your eyes still screwed shut in ecstasy, stopping at nothing to get all of the pleasure you can from it. It takes you a few moments to register the absence of his lips, and when you do you look up at him through hooded eyes, wondering why he pulled back.

"What do you want?" he asks, working hard to rip his eyes away from the sight of you grinding on him.

"Just wanna be good for you," you say breathlessly, swallowing a moan. "Wanna- wanna make you feel good."

"You are making me feel good, angel, I'm so fucking hard," he sighs, looking down again and starting to rock his hips slightly, in time with yours. The added pressure and friction send jolts of pleasure through you, and suddenly your head feels a bit fuzzy, your hands and feet tingling with delight. "You gotta tell me to stop, I can't- this, fuck, we shouldn't be..."

"Please don't stop," you cry, holding onto him for dear life, focused entirely on the feeling of him against you, his strong arms in your hands, his hot breath on your face, his hardness giving you more pleasure than you could ever dream of. "I'll rewrite my entire paper, I'll do anything, just please, don't stop."

"You don't have to promise me that right now," he says, holding you tight against him. "You're too good, let yourself have this."

With his permission, you let go completely, all thoughts leaving you as the pleasure becomes overwhelming, your spasming cunt sending shockwaves of pleasure up through your entire core. His lips are on yours again, and he kisses you deeply, savoring every taste he can find, all but devouring you as he keeps up with your pace, rocking his straining cock against you just how you need it. You feel fully enveloped by him, by his smell and his words, by the feelings of complete safety and desire that he's lighted within you. You never expected this conversation with him to go so well, to head in this direction. For the first time in your life a teacher saw what you hoped they would in your writing, and his admission of his admiration for you left you wanting every bit of praise and pleasure he could give.

Finally, you feel it building deep, a volcano about to explode, your core tightening and threatening to snap. The feeling is searingly hot and delicious, your legs starting to shake, his hands moving to hold onto your thighs as you desperately shake and hump against him, chasing your orgasm to completion. You rip your mouth from his to scream, all the glee and nerves of your evening coming to a head, your body going rigid as it rips through you, your climax so intense and long lasting that you can't quite believe it's real.

"Good girl, let yourself cum," he whispers in your ear, helping you through it. His cock is achingly hard in his pants, but the feeling of you coming in his arms takes all his attention, the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. It's hard to tell when it ends, your legs still so shaky, but eventually your rubbing ceases, and he stops his thrusting too, just holding you in place as you pant and center yourself, adrenaline and happiness coursing through you.

"You okay?" he asks.

"More than okay," you sigh, slumping into him, making you both laugh. It's light, airy, the sound an absolute joy to your ears. You look up, face flushed and cheeks high in a smile, and he leans down to kiss you, a soft and patient kiss that makes butterflies dance in your stomach.

"I didn't mean for that to escalate like that," he says, sighing.

"I did," you say, and it makes him laugh harder, his high cheeks and beautiful smile greeting you. You've never seen him look so sweet, so happy; your stomach suddenly clenches with a feeling of utter admiration, and it's so deep that tears spring in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, not wanting to cry in front of him, but you can't help the look on your face. His smile is gorgeous, and internally you're melting at just how perfect he is.

You stay locked together for a long time, the minutes passing by as you both breath deeply, more kisses planted on your forehead and cheeks that make you giggle and squirm. Eventually you come down, your legs finally not shaking, your body coming back to the temperature of the room. The cool air is making you sleepy, and you yawn as you pull away from him, gently moving him back so you can stand and stretch your legs, gathering yourself.

It's silent, slightly awkward, but nothing in you feels scared. Though your legs are back to freezing, you feel a warmth in your chest and stomach that won't leave, and when you look up to him, his face is soft and still and utterly lovely.

"I really didn't mean for that to happen," he says, clearing his throat and finally breaking the silence.

"It's okay, seriously, I- I wanted it to," you sigh, holding his gaze.

"I really think you're amazing, it's not just that you're beautiful, I- I want you to go places, I want all of your dreams to come true. With writing, and everything else too," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"I know," you respond, nodding and smiling. "I know."

It's all you can think to say, when so much is running through your head. Now that your heart rate is more normal you can actually think straight, and though you don't feel scared, there is some level of uncertainty dancing in the back of your mind. Where would this lead? And what could possibly come of it? Your own hormones and emotions had led the way earlier, and now you weren't so sure it had been the best choice. But you also couldn't fault yourself for doing it, because you knew that if given the chance, you'd absolutely do it again, as many times as he'd be willing to. Class now might be a nightmare, your active imagination supported by this memory. But that didn't sound all bad, either, frankly. It might be fun to make eyes at him and watch him stutter, to see just how much you could affect him in front of all your peers.

"Are you wanting to head home now?" he asked.

"I probably should, I have a lot of homework to do. And I need to get some dinner."

Twenty minutes later, the delivery arrives, and you sit in his living room sipping at your favorite soup, a casual conversation about your other classes filling the air. It had always bugged you when people asked about school, but for some reason with him, you felt giddy to brag, excited to share every grade and project you could. You felt seen, felt actually supported. It struck you over and over how strange it was to be feeling this way with him, of all people.

"Rewrite that paper, you have a week," he says as you stand in his open door, the streets and lawn drenched from the rain, but the sky now clear.

"Rewrite the whole thing?"

"I expect it to be up to the standard of your other two papers."

With all of the other work you had, it should have been frustratingly hard to finish it. But there was something about thinking of his face as you worked, of his hands, of his chest and his abs and his cock....

You finished the paper in record time, turning it in only four days later. And the next day in class it was lying on your desk when you entered, bright red marks along the front again.

91%.

You looked up at him, and though it was subtle, there was no question there was a glint in his eye as he winked.

next part ->

[crystalrabbit246912]

Powerful First-Years

Imagine the first-years, hanging out at Ramshackle to get away from their dorm or just because it's become their place, just for them, and they start training their magic.

Now, I assume that Ace and maybe Epel and Deuce wouldn't be too receptive to this, not to mention Yuu has no magic to train, but they're afraid. They're terrified of losing each other to another Overblot when they've come to rely on each other so much.

So they start weekly training sessions along with their weekly study sessions. At first, it's a bit of a slog, everyone's clashing a little because they're tired and they just want to session to be over.

But, bit by bit, they start seeing improvements in their magic. They can summon their UMs faster. They can last for longer endurance-wise. Yuu and Ortho are constantly researching ways to make their magic better, more efficient and stronger, as well as looking for new spells.

The training sessions start to pass by in the blink of an eye, and they want to go for longer. So they do.

Soon, they're training together daily, sparring against each other and lasting for hours on end. They're improving rapidly, and Yuu is starting to work as kind of a medic/strategist for them.

But then, a test/exam comes up in Practical Magic or another magic-based class. The Housewardens and teachers have noticed that the group have been improving steadily in said class, but they just chalked it up to studying.

And every single one of the freshmen ace the test. Full marks, plus extra credit.

Now, it isn't that they were failing the class before, especially not Ortho, Jack, and Sebek. But it's very surprising to the Housewardens and teachers to see just how powerful their magic is.

Too powerful, in some opinions.

A Housewarden meeting is called, and they come to the conclusion that the first-years cheated to get the grades they did. Somehow, Azul said he didn't make a deal with them but given how he is, they don't trust him.

So, basically every Housewarden/teacher pulls the freshmen into their office to talk to them about their scores. The freshmen in question are very proud of their scores and are now doubling down on their training to try and beat each other next time.

The upperclassmen don't know what the freshmen have been doing (aside from Rook, because he's Rook). They think that they're just hanging out and lazing around in Ramshackle.

They don't know of what's become an integral part of the freshmen. They don't know how close they've become. They don't know who they are.

Best case scenario, they blow up at their Housewardens. "Do you know what we've been doing? Do you know who we even are?"

And they don't (Aside from Rook, again, because he's Rook). They don't know what they've been up to. They don't know who they are, as people. They know of some aspects of them, but they don't know who the freshmen are nearly as well as they do each other.

This leads to essentially, "They don't think we're good enough. They don't know how afraid we are. They don't know what we do because we're not important enough for them to think about."

And then the first-years flee to Ramshackle for a few days, have their meltdowns as the others try to comfort them, and then the Housewardens and teachers have to break through the barricaded front door to appologize.

Worst case scenario, collective first-year Overblot. Yuu somehow also Overblots, maybe by close proximity to blot in every other one plus this one pushed them over the edge.

You don't know us. You don't know how close we are. You don't know what we do in our free time and why we do what we do and why we're so close.

You don't know how afraid we are.

You don't know us because you don't care enough about us to learn. You don't care about us enough to pay attention to what we've been doing every day.

They were afraid of another Overblot, of losing each other to their upperclassmen.

At least this time, if one of them goes down here, all of them will.

[plumbogs]

Making Sims 2 University Fun: my personal guide

I've noticed that while it's probably one of the most utilized of the expansions, TS2's university is generally seen as a slog. Which makes sense. It has a completely different gameplay loop than the rest of the game. But it's very handy to send your sims to college, especially if you use any of the various mods that limit careers based on education. So here's my big guide to making university an actual fun experience to play through (to me, at least).

The university expansion is, uh, very tailored to the 2000s college party time animal-house tropes. the pack becomes more fun when you treat it that way and let your sims be stupid young adults who streak and fool around on campus and throw parties. which, by default, is tricky because of the gameplay that requires so much skill building and assignments. which the rest of this guide will also deal with.

Note: I make some pretty big changes to normal university gameplay, to the point that it does require a bit of modding and at least one instance of fooling with simpe. there's probably also easier ways to do it, and of course everything is optional. maybe you do like keeping sims in dorms for the entire time and just three-speeding trough it all.

*mods: there are a few absolute must-have mods to me.:

TwoJeff's College Adjuster. It's basically an all-in-one controller to adjust semester timing, change semesters, plus a bunch of other features. The semester timing is the most important to me.

Active Classes is still in testing, but it almost completely changes how I play college sims. Once again, I'll detail gameplay later, but actually sending your sims to class makes for a much more fun campus experience.

No College Time Progression On Community Lots: this goes hand-in-hand with the previous mod.

Community Time: IIRC you have to do a little editing in SimPE to make it work right with University - this post explains what to edit. I don't know if I'm allowed to share the exact edit I made as a download. This might seem redundant after the last mod, but there's a reason for the madness: while one group of sims are in their active classes, the other students can do things on the home lot.

Instant Pledge for Greek Houses: This one is important for greek house gameplay, which is later.

SimBlender: There's like, 500 different edits of the SimBlender, and I think all of them have the main function needed for my college gameplay, which is teleportation. You can use a comparable teleporter if you fancy.

Simlogical's University Break is another important one for me, but it's not really necessary if you don't want it. I usually give the sims one break day per season - more on that later.

Autonomous Casual Romance is not required, but it sure adds a lot of fun to your college experience. You can also do any number of professor-limiting, custom degrees, etc mods and fixes you want.

*mods i do not use: there are mods to change the number of/length of semesters, but I seem to run into issues with them so I use the college adjuster to do the same things. I also don't really use any major overhauls, or mods that make term papers faster. I did have the tuition mod for a bit but grew tired of using it.

*general timing changes: I do seven-day seasons with longer lifespans for all sims and play rotations each day. These are the things I do specifically for university:

Four semesters: I only do semesters 2, 4, 6, and 8. Every time a new semester starts, I just use the College Adjuster to set the correct semester for each sim. I use the default length of 72 hours.

Synchronized finals: I use the College adjuster to reset the timer so the finals are all around 6-8am, and synchronized for each sim on a lot. This makes it easier to keep track of timing and skills. Also, all sims in university run on the same 3-day semester. Finals are the same day for the entire college each round. Once again, that just makes it easier for me to keep track of college-wide events for gameplay reasons.

Because this means there's 3 days per school year, and two school years per season week, it syncs better if they get a day off every Sunday using the University break mod.

Teens are sent to college on the same schedule. I send teens to school when they have 14 days or so left, with maybe an extra day or two if the college is currently in the middle of the semester.

*Gameplay: living situations: Here's where the meat begins. Now all your sims are on the same college schedule, they're all being sent to school, and now they need to actually move into college. I follow a real rule a number of colleges use: Every student spends a year in the dorms. Just their freshman year, then they have to move somewhere else. I find that this gives them a chance to meet dormies, adapt to being on college, and sorta figure out what kind of young adults they are. Plus, this gives them time for joining greek houses, which will be talked about later.

I do this because I like seeing sims as their own little characters with arcs and whatever and it forces me to think about what exactly they would be doing in college. Some sims get so frustrated with the constant mess of a dorm, some sims thrive by making friends with every dormie. Sometimes they start new drama with the others they came from high school with. Nothing quite like losing your high school sweetheart to some stinky dormie, after all.

After freshmen year, the students are kicked out of the dorms. They can get an apartment, they can rent a house, they can move into a greek house if they join one. Either way, they need to live somewhere. You can let them stay in the dorms, but I prefer somewhat smaller college households and divide them accordingly. Which gets into that whole greek house situation:

*Gameplay: greek houses. I gamify the Greek houses. I play SSU in my megahood, which comes with a fraternity and sorority, and you can do whatever setup you like there if you dislike gendered houses. Or abandon them all together and ignore this section. There are a few important elements:

Freshmen cannot live in Greek houses. They can, however, pledge while living in the dorms and move in right after their finals end. This includes dormies. There are benefits to the dorm, such as free housing, more social opportunities, usually more money per household since I cheat to make the greek houses actually nice to live in with things like pools and comfortable furniture, etc.

The Greeks have to be recruiting consistently. To keep the house going, they need to constantly be bringing in new members, either playable OR dormies.

Any recruited dormies are required to move in. You can townify them after graduation if you don't really get attached to them, but every member of the house is moved in. I use the instant pledge mod to get rid of that annoying requirement where they have to hang out on the lot so long before moving in. That, and they also move in after finals. You can teleport or invite them on and just ask them to move in. Whatever you want. Then, you must set them to be sophomores. Beyond that you can do whatever. They're playable now. Have fun.

You gotta let the Greeks party. Throw toga parties all the time and use a teleporter to maximize guests. Generally, ALL members of ALL greek houses are teleported to a party by default. Add more dormies, any friends, anybody in the dorms - the kids need to recruit and the easiest way is by forcing everyone on one lot. If you have autonomy mods or realistic alcohol, sit back and watch the madness unfold.

I don't really play wants-based, so playables that join greek houses is more based on vibes or friendship with existing greek members than wants.

*Gameplay: what do you mean we have to study??? Yeah. I made it this far before even bringing up the whole point of college. This is also where it gets a little more complicated and changed up, so bear with me.

I don't do wants-based, again, so I generally just try to make sure sims are at least passing by default. Whether they go beyond a C is up to whatever. I usually try to get knowledge sims to their 4.0s or sims that just seem like they'd take it seriously to max GPA.

ACTIVE CLASSES ARE SUCH A LIFESAVER. You can use the pre-made lecture hall or make your own. Put some skill-building objects in there, and if you like flavor theme the lecture halls around majors. I have a business/gen ed building, a science lot, and an arts lot, each with two classrooms (plus the library contains a classroom). I do believe I made an edit to the mod to make the class performance go higher with active classes, as well, so attending class every day is the bare minimum to get a passing grade.

The active class lots also contain career reward skill-building objects. These are nice because your sims can request to be taught by other sims on the lot. If you have a mod that allows non-students to visit uni lots, this helps even more with faster skill-building.

Every day, I send groups of sims with similar majors to their class. If there's a mixed-major group, each sim group gets one day in active class per semester. (So if there's an economics major, a bio major, and an art major, each one attends class on a separate rotation and the others do the normal autonomous go-to-class where they leave the lot and disappear). They attend one or both of the lectures and otherwise exist on the college lot to skill-build, socialize, eat, etc.

Outside of class, sims will usually research if they're not doing great. I honestly barely bother with assignments or term papers unless the sim actually wants to do them or are aiming for a high GPA. Maybe they go hang out at the lounge or downtown to fool around. Maybe they just fester at home. Whatever they want.

*other gameplay/storytelling things: I usually will take advantage of the aspiration change after their sophomore year if I realize that their aspiration just doesn't really jive with how they act. It's realistic to me. They had many years since being like, 13 when they first had their aspiration selected. I'd like to implement more in the way of holidays/events, personally, but that's not really relevant either. I usually give them an outfit change as well, and I like to go hard with the idea that they're going through a bunch of weird fashion phases. You know you want to give them a mohawk, just for a few days, don't you? Dye their hair red? Shave it all off? Have fun with it.

All of these things combine for me, at least, to make the college years a lot more engaging/interesting and less of a slow "move to a dorm -> study -> read books -> meet needs -> graduate" loop. There's a lot more storyline development that comes from sims being able to enjoy their time as young adults, too, such as the regular polycule jealousy explosions and party fights. It serves to break up anything they had going on as teens and give them a little direction to enter adulthood with. This concludes my little mini-guide, feel free to steal all my gameplay style or just take inspiration if you please. Or ignore it all and shake your head and call me an idiot. do whatever you want forever.

[hannahssimblr]

It’s an innocuous day in January when, for the first time, I realise my life can come apart just like anybody else’s. Like theirs, mine is a seam, a thousand tiny threads holding it firm, an analogy somewhere about a stitch saving time. Or nine. I don’t remember. My mother is too high class to sew her clothes. When they tear or wear at the elbows and knees, she buys more, because people like us don’t need to repair. 

Friends at school with fraying cuffs on their uniform sleeves, hems of their trousers unrolled and hanging raw about their ankles. Shirts, a rectangular echo of a pocket on the breast of the thing worn for years after being attacked in the hallways by boys who tore them off for fun. Happened to me too. Inevitable. A rite of passage on my first week of school. I wore a shirt still creased from the packet the next day, because my clothes never had to be old, worn, damaged. When something tore, another one appeared in my room. I was from the big house on Vernon Avenue. I had the PlayStation 2 before everyone else. My clothes were always new.

But this, all of this, is like when Jen’s school trousers ripped up the back the time she tried to climb on the cistern to have a cigarette out the window. The threads had been giving for a while. They just waited until that moment to let her know, in a violent display of embarrassment in front of the girls she was hoping to impress. It’s like when the elastic in your swimming togs gives up one day, falling to bits around your body after months of cooperation, eaten secretly by the chlorine the whole time. 

It starts with nothing. A pretzel. The bakery near the university I get my breakfast some mornings. Simple, a bagel and a coffee which I’ll take with me to class. Tuesday, that day. The day I have art history at nine with Steffen, the lecturer that fancies my girlfriend and loathes me. It’s my most dreaded hour of the week, one that calls for the comfort of a pretzel and a coffee, essential to get me through the slog of it, keep me sane while he pretends he cannot understand my German and corrects me sneeringly in front of everyone, determined to embarrass me. 

Card declined. 

“Ah, weird.” Trying again then, and another denying beep. Smiling sheepishly at the barista, explaining I don’t have cash on me. 

“It could be a problem with the machine. You can take it. You come here all the time, so just pay later if you want.”

Thank her. It was nice of her. Tell her I’ll be back in a couple of hours, after my classes, but I won’t be. My card is declined in the little Italian deli where I’ve met Astrid for lunch. It’s awkward this time. They’ve already made our sandwiches up. 

“I’ll pay it,” says Astrid after a long, uncomfortable pause, and presents a little blue debit card while it strikes me I’ve never actually seen it before. Never knew what her debit card looks like, and sort of assumed in some sense she didn’t even own one. Why would she? I think. What does she ever have to pay for?

The sandwiches, I suppose. Tasting worse than ever now, they are spoiled by the pungency of my guilt. We eat them by the river, hands freezing around the tinfoil wrapping, frowning at the water, as the wind lifts white peaks from its surface. “So weird about my card,” I say, but Astrid is disinterested, doing that flippant waving thing with her hand. “Sometimes the machines just don’t work as they’re supposed to. That’s why having cash is good.” She wants to talk about this Iranian film she and Dalia saw in an indie theater. I let her, all the distracted by thoughts of my bank account. It’s fine, surely. I have money. People like me have money. 

Early evening, with my earbuds in on the gym’s treadmill, and I hear a message chime. Jonas. I wipe the sweat from my brow and read it. It’s about the water bill. A message so unbelievably dull that usually I’d ignore it for a few hours, but now my stomach twists. I went back to the bakery after college to pay for my breakfast, and my card was declined again. It looks like I stole that pretzel now. I told the barista I’d come back in the morning with actual euros for her, and she smiled in this vacant way that made me feel like a liar, wanting so badly to explain to her I’m not, like, poor, or whatever. I can pay for it, while knowing that explanation would only make me look worse. 

And now Jonas is asking about the water bill, saying I never paid it. I step off the treadmill and stare at my phone. A drop of sweat hits the screen, magnifying the pixels, little dots of coloured screen, and emphasises the word paid for me, like I didn’t already understand the central theme of the text. As in, I have not paid my share of the bill. 

“I have,” I respond. “It should just come out of the account automatically.”

“It hasn’t,” he says, and sends a photograph of the bill, big überfällige Zahlung across the top of it in terrifying red lettering. Overdue payment. Surely not. My legs start feeling a bit weak, which is very dramatic. It’s fine. I have money. I hold on to the arm of the treadmill anyway, in case I decide to fall over. Someone is asking if I’m still using it. I tell him no and head for the changing rooms. 

I call Jonas from the UBahn on the way home, immediately confrontational on the phone to him. “I paid that bill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” he’s eating something. “If you had, then the letter would not say ‘überfällige Zahlung’.”

“That’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” rustling noises, him unfolding the paper for further examination. “I have never seen a mistake before like this, if that is the case. It’s more likely you didn’t pay.”

“I’ve direct debit set up, so.”

“Okay, then maybe your account is empty.” He says it so casually, mouth full of whatever he’s having for dinner. The nonchalance enrages me. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” I hiss, and someone on the train looks over. “There’s no way. I have loads. There’s something going on with my account today, is all. This is normal.” I have no idea whether it’s normal or not, but am sure there’s merit to saying it with such conviction. 

“When did you last check your account balance?”

Well, I’ve never checked it. The sight of it frightens me and reminds me of the drain and eventual cessation of life. Completely reasonable reason. “Jonas, I am telling you that this is a mistake.”

“You can check. When you get home, check.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up as the train hurtles from a station into a black tunnel, rumbling through the darkness. 

“You look unwell,” Jonas greets me as I arrive and untangle my scarf from my neck, choking me now, and kick my boots outside the door. Indeed, I do. My reflection is pale and wild-eyed, hair tousled from grabbing at it, like one of those Wall Street guys in the documentary my economics teacher made us watch to explain the recession. 

“Where’s my laptop?” I already know where it is. Need to look. Can’t bear to. Pushing through the apartment now with everything in a dizzying blur, shaky cam, the smell of Jonas’ cooking, him trailing behind, offering me a plate of it, as if I can even think about putting food into my mouth. 

My laptop is on the bed, tossed all casually on the rumpled duvet. Macbook. How much are these things worth? I never cared before this moment. Jonas is in the door as I type the banking website into the address. My codes then. Fuck sake. Don’t know them. I have to navigate through a chat with my mother to find them, heightening the suspense. Then punch them in. Check balance. 

It’s like being punched in the head, the feeling. Then there’s this long, deathly silence, because Jonas knows without me having to say it. He knows by the look on my face. 

“Do you–”

“I have four euros in my account.”

We look at one another for one endless moment, and I can tell he wants to laugh a bit, because it’s a funny kind of shocking. Four euros. A comically depressing number. 

“It’s fine,” he’s saying now. “You just top it up with more,” and then I look at him with the most scathing look I have in my repertoire, because for the first time, he’s the one who looks like the privileged idiot. I feel I have to speak to him slowly to control the emotion in my voice. Tremors anyway, wobbling there beneath every word. “Where do you suppose I get the money to top it up, Jonas?”

He falters. “I thought your parents gave you money.”

“They don’t.”

“But you… We all thought they were funding your lifestyle.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“But Jude,” he says, shaking his head at me. I don’t like that. “You were spending so much money all the time. We all thought you had an unlimited amount.”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I wasn’t, really.”

“The holidays you went on. The gifts for Astrid, the way you eat at restaurants every day…”

“Those things didn’t feel expensive. I thought I had enough money to cover it, or, I don’t know, I didn’t think. When I sold my car, I–it looked like…” I break off helplessly. “I got an A in maths, Jonas. How can this happen?”

“It’s basic subtraction.”

“This shouldn’t be happening to me.” my laptop fades to black now, the account disappearing from sight, but the reality still ringing in the surrounding air. I think of all I am about to lose. A vision of my life crashing down around me like a house of cards. “Astrid! Oh, God, Astrid. What is she gonna do?”

“She will have to buy her own things for once.”

I groan, head in hands, unable to formulate a response. How can I speak when my life is basically over? Condemned to the streets. One of those people rummaging through skips with holes in my shoes, saying mad things to people at the bus stop, terrorizing the feral pigeons in the town square. There he is, crazy bird man, a cautionary tale. He got an A in maths in his leaving cert, and this still happened to him. 

Jonas, there by the door, deciding it's the perfect time to ask whether I've paid rent this month.

Without looking up. “No,” One glance at my account was enough to show it’s been struggling along for a while. Hundreds becoming tens, whittling down through December to the last few euros. Pocket change. It’s been bad for a while. “No, I didn’t pay rent.”

“Hm,” he says. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Looking at him in despair, considering, briefly, a tantrum of some sort. Pure childhood panic. If I cause enough of a scene, this will all go away. Looking into Jonas’ face is frightening, because I can see it there. He doesn’t know what to do either. He isn’t going to help me. 

“What do I do?” I ask, as if he knows. Pity in his eyes, watching me flail. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps you can get a job.”

A job. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. A job. An actual job. Kill me. That’s the last thread. The one causes the seam to give and ruins my life. You don’t understand. I want to explain. I’m from the biggest house on Vernon Avenue. I had a PlayStation 2 before everyone else. Instead of saying that, I lie here like a corpse, staring at the ceiling, wishing some heavy piece of furniture would crash through it and turn me into one for real. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, not understanding how bad it really is. Unable to fathom the intricacies of my life. 

I don’t bother to answer. It’s the financial equivalent of being pantsed in the schoolyard. The blankets ripped off my sleeping body on a winter morning. I am a creature accustomed to the shade beneath a rock, exposed at last to the light, nothing left to shelter me.

A job. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[tf2heritageposts]

Medic is the worst fucking class in the entire game to have to slog through because everybody will shit in your lap the second you pop your Uber on the Heavy about to bulldoze through a sentry nest and not the Scout who decided to run directly into a soldier, and even when you’re doing a good job half the team acts like you’re a moron when you hit somebody with your ubersaw instead of burning through your 150 health trying to keep following the Pyro playing blindfolded into a pit.

Playing Medic fucking sucks, and doubly so when you’re the only one on the team. I have 139 hours as Medic.

this is the only true medic main

[luckyreds]

Cigarettes! smoke them if you got them.

The Improved version. ;)

Aaaaaah, cigarettes, a true staple of soldiering life, practically as common as a helmet or a rifle. Back in the 40s, nearly everyone smoked. Among the working class, about 80% puffed away on a good old cig on the daily, and in the U.S. Army, nearly half of the men were regular smokers. Cigarettes weren’t just a habit; they were a cultural phenomenon and a lifeline, especially on the battlefield.

The Importance of Cigarettes in the Army

Imagine you're a soldier during those days, slogging through mud, dodging enemy fire, dealing with exhaustion, hunger, your nerves getting fried the longer you stay on the front lines, being stretched to the breaking point. What’s the best way to take the edge off? Exactly! A good old cigarette.

Back then smoking wasn’t just a way to relax; it was a coping mechanism. Cigarettes calmed jittery hands, offered a moment of peace, and staved off hunger pangs. (In fact back in the 30s Lucky Strike even marketed itself as a way to "stay in shape,” more on that later.)

A smoke break also became a key social ritual. Sharing a cigarette with a comrade was more than camaraderie, it was currency, connection, and comfort all rolled into one.

How Soldiers Got Their Smokes

Now! Being a soldier in the army meant you weren’t likely to run out of cigarettes. In fact, Uncle Sam made sure of that, As they were seen as an easy and affordable luxury. There were a couple of ways you could get your fix:

1. Rations. Cigarettes were a key part of standard-issue K- and C-rations. Each pack came with a neat little "three-by-three" setup: nine cigarettes, often a mix of  one of four brands; Lucky Strike, Camel, Chesterfield, and Old Gold. If you were lucky, your whole pack would be your favourite brand; if not, trading with your buddies became an art form and a favourite pastime of many GIs.

2. PX Stores and USO Canteens. Now, say you smoked your pack or lost it in a bet, you could always head to a PX store or USO canteen (assuming you weren’t on the front lines). They stocked packs of 20 from brands like Pall Mall, Philip Morris, Parliaments, Wings, and Fatima and (in the USO canteens) the USO girls would carry them around on silver platters for the soldiers to buy them.

3. The Red Cross. For the truly desperate (or die-hard fans of Old Gold), the Red Cross was a lifesaver. They handed out free cigarettes to their personnel and they were often willing to sneak a pack or two to any GI looking for a pack.

4. Care Packages from Home. Families back home were eager to send their boys a pack or two, it was in fact promoted to do so! but mail wasn’t exactly speedy. A letter from your mom or wife might arrive weeks late, so unless you had saintly patience, trading or hitting up the USO was your best bet.

5. Barter and Trade. Like I said before, Bartering and trading became one of the favourite pastimes of soldiers. Didn’t get Lucky Strikes in your ration pack? No problem. You would find someone who did, and trade away your Camels or Old Golds. Cigarettes were practically a secondary currency, traded for chocolate, favours, or even a few extra hours off duty. Say you were a non-smoker, trading away those cigarettes could get you a lot of other useful stuff.

Why Lucky Strike Was the King of Smokes

While soldiers had their preferences, Lucky Strike dominated the frontlines. Why? Well, back in the good old roaring twenties, they were sold as a way to loose weight! Yes really! This marketing campaign was so successful, the use of Lucky Strikes exploded across America. then during the 30s, this good old Cigarette became the go-to of many celebrities, (think of Joan Crawford, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable) and by WWII, it had established itself as The King of Cigarettes brands.

Lucky strike green has gone to war!

In 1942, Lucky Strike changed it packaging from its iconic green to white. This clever switch made it the most patriotic cigarette in town. Sure, the green dye wasn’t actually repurposed for the war effort (the company just wanted the packaging to appeal to women), but who cared? People loved the idea, and Lucky Strikes flew off the shelves. Their signature toasted tobacco also had a smoother flavour, and promised a less sore throat after smoking. It quickly became a favourite amongst the soldiers.

Now! If Lucky Strike wasn’t your thing, there were plenty of other options:

Camel: Known for its smooth taste and memorable slogan, “I’d walk a mile for a Camel.” Quickly becoming a new favourite during the war.

Chesterfield: A milder, smooth option, favoured by those who wanted something “classy.” It was also seen as an english cigarette.

Old Gold: Perfect for anyone who liked their cigarettes without a cough (allegedly).

Pall Mall: advertised are longer and more elegant, a “premium” choice for officers or stylish soldiers.

Philip Morris: Another solid pick, with a reputation for luxury. “Call for Philip Morris” their busboy mascot to find out why its the finest cigarette in town!

Marlboro: For the women out there, “mild as May” Marlboro was the go to! Marketed as a ladies’ cigarette with their signature red coloured filter to hide lipstick stains, Camel and Chesterfields were other favourites, as they were considered more “refined” options due to their smoother taste.

(If none of these brands were available: in France you had the famous Gauloises. Which were associated with the resistance and had a very distinct taste and smell and nobody wanted the English-made cigarettes, as they were so bad according the americans they apoligised when giving them out.)

On cigars:

Cigars were often seen as a luxury item, not something you'd find in your standard rations. They carried an air of importance and were typically associated with officers, high-ranking officials, or soldiers celebrating a victory. If you think of cigars and ww2, you’d think of Winston Churchill, General Douglas MacArthur and later General George S. Patton, puffing away on their cigar celebrating victory.

How Soldiers Got Their Cigars

Care Packages from Home. Families might send cigars to their loved ones overseas as a treat. Though it was often those from the more privileged families, or the officers that could get a box of cigars

2. Special PX Purchases. Post Exchanges and USO canteens sometimes stocked cigars, though they were far less common than cigarettes. They were considered more of a specialty item, so soldiers had to go out of their way to snag one.

3. Barter and Trade. If someone in your unit was lucky enough to score a cigar, you might be able to trade for it—though the price would be steep. Cigars were seen as a rare luxury, so they didn’t come cheap on the frontlines

4. Liberation Spoils. Occasionally, soldiers might come across cigars while liberating towns or raiding enemy supplies. A nice Cuban cigar found in an officer’s stash could turn a miserable day into a pretty good one!

Now there were a couple of brands common in this time:

White Owl: One of the more popular and accessible brands for soldiers, known for its mild flavour.

El Producto: a mid-tier cigar, cheap hand-made nickel cigars but a favourite amongst the ‘Common’ men.

Dutch Masters: not as popular as they were about to become in 50s, but still well-known brand which would’ve been available at the USO.

Havana Cigars: For the Officers and Wealthy. As a common GI, if you get your hands on authentic Cuban cigars via looting, you’d better enjoy it! They were highly prized for their quality.

Now! If cigarettes were the democratic choice of the masses, cigars were the aristocrats of the tobacco world. They weren’t as practical to carry in the field, but they carried a sense of prestige that cigarettes didn’t. If a soldier lit a cigar, you knew something important had happened, or he had connections back home.

How to light it up!

In the army you had two options, the first was a lighter, if Lucky Strikes was King Cig, then the zippo was King Lighter. Made in Bradford, Pennsylvania, Zippos were beloved by soldiers for their durability and reliability. These lighters were windproof, meaning they could stay lit even in harsh conditions like rain or wind, and they were pretty practical! Zippos used refillable lighter fluid (usually naptha which you could taste) and flints. Soldiers could easily find materials to keep them going. Plus, they were customisable and pretty indestructable. they could take a beating and still be in working condition! now, if you lost your lighter, soldiers would improvise. Some created lighters from shell casings, fuel, and flint. These homemade lighters were often rough, but they worked.

the second option was of course matches. they were standard-issue that came in soldiers’ ration kits. These matches were often coated in wax or stored in waterproof containers to ensure they stayed dry. Soldiers relied on these matches not just for lighting cigarettes but for starting fires and other survival needs. other than the standard matches you had matchbooks, which were lightweight and easy to carry, often featuring advertisements or morale-boosting slogans. They were frequently handed out by the USO, Red Cross, or included in care packages from home.

righto! that was it. the new and improved Cigarette information post! hope you enjoyed!

[headcanonforthought]

Teen Wolf headcanon thing?

Derek is a college professor and Stiles is a highschool Senior taking early classes at the university. He's loud and abrasive, always falling out of his seat, and screaming nonsense down the halls after his bff Scott.

Chasing a stuck up girl who doesn't like him back. Who dosnt even notice his existence. Who treats him like he's not alive. Who would never think of going out with Stiles.

Stiles is always asking people of he seems gay. Does he walk gay? Does he talk gay? Would people think he's gay? Would a gay guy kiss him? Should he go to a gay club?

Derek's only solace is knowing Stiles isn't in his classes.

That is untill the fall semester. Smack dab in the front row is Stiles, already halfway out of his desk to whisper to Scott a seat away. Derek tenses and sighs. Fuck.

He resolves himself to ignore Stiles. Get through the semester, grade the kid we'll no matter what, and get him out the door. The first semester is easy. Stiles is a fool, always chatting with friends and getting into messes, but leaves Derek alone.

Derek walks into class the following semester only to find Stiles in the front once again. Fuck. He checks Stiles student portal and finds he's on the major path Derek teaches... He'll be stuck with Stiles for all four years. Derek nearly cries at his desk at the thought of this knuckle head invading his life for four whole years.

Derek ties to avoid Stiles but it soon proves impossible. Stiles thinks there freinds and is constantly coming up to Derek before and after class. Derek nearly spits out his coffee the day he walks into his office and finds Stiles sitting atop his desk. Derek slogs though another semester with Stiles nipping at his heels every step of the way.

Somewhere in year two Derek resigns himself to his fate. He's a 30yrold man with an energetic 21yrold yapping in his ear 24/7.

So, Derek isn't surprised when Stiles is waiting for him outside the building one night. It's been a long day of grading papers and Derek is worn down by the upcoming finals prep.

"Hello Stiles" Derek says with an eye roll he knows Stiles can't see in the darkness surrounding them.

"Are you gay"

Derek stops in his tracks. The cold winter air blows through his jacket and causes an uncomfortable shiver.

"I... Stiles... What is...I"

Derek can't even answer the question before Stiles walks forward, gripping the collar of Derek's leather jacket tight in his fists.

"I'm gay"

Derek can't process the news before Stiles uses all the strength he built up from Lacrosse to pull Derek down towards his face. Stiles hesitates...

Stiles kisses Derek as snow begins to fall around them. Though it was quick, Derek felt like they'd stood there for hours. Stiles let go of the jacket, biting his now moist lips softly.

"I'll, I'm gonna, I'll go. I'll see you, um, tomorrow Derek."

[twopoppies]

Gina, have you seen the article about Hs workout routine for LOT? I mean, we all saw the results… but I find it almost even more impressive to learn how its been done! His dedication and work ethic is so inspiring and surely part of why I adore him so much 🫠🫶

Holy hell. No wonder he’s in such great shape. Just a note that Thibo David was his old trainer with Live On Tour. I assume Brad Gould was his new trainer for Love on Tour. But I doubt his regimen was any less insane.

[…]

If you include the one-mile run and bodyweight challenge, this is the hardest warm-up I’ve ever done, but, given the intensity required for the next two elements I’m promoting them to workout status.

[…]

David says Harry Styles can run a mile in an impressive 5min 13sec—a standard some of the professional athletes David coaches can’t match—but I was urged to run my own race.

[…]

This was far closer to my wheelhouse as a CrossFit fan. I chose to tackle it in alternating sets of 10, transitioning quickly between exercises to finish within the eight-minute limit. But even commando rolling from push-up to sit-up then springing into the squats left me little time to spare.

[…]

I took 7min 39sec, and, somewhat unexpectedly, given I can barbell squat more than 300lb, it was my quads that blew up the most. Whether this was the result of the one-mile run before it or heavy front squats the day before, I couldn’t say, but my thighs were on fire by the final rep.

“I like to say that I train very smart, but you also have to be very stupid sometimes, you know? Do this type of workout in the most stupid way; go hard at the task at hand, like when you throw a ball for a dog and it goes super crazy.

“This is a very good workout for that. Very good at building everything that needs to be added after the aerobic base; aggressiveness, speed, that go-hard mentality.”

[…]

Things did become particularly spicy during round three and four though, as my body began to tire with the sustained effort.

My posterior chain (the muscles running along the back side of the body) took a battering from the kettlebell swings and sandbag-over-shoulders, my already-fried legs felt heavy during the box jumps, and my shoulders grew tired from two minutes of straight clean and presses—it was a serious test of muscular endurance.

[…] I also did 12 total rounds—I wanted the full Styles experience, after all—but I’d live to regret this. The hill I chose grew progressively steeper as I worked my way up it, and by the eighth round I felt like death. My sprints turned to slogs, and the time it took me to complete the distance I established in the first interval grew longer.

[…] The prior running and box jumps didn’t help either, but I got it done eventually in less than 30 minutes.

[…]

This was a relaxing way to wrap up a far from relaxing morning of training, and gave me a second to catch my breath after a monumental effort which lasted a little over two hours.

I swapped his day of training for one of my usual CrossFit sessions and had a lot of fun doing it. Every part of my body felt like it had been put through the ringer thanks to the muscle-burning circuit and lung-taxing running elements. I was also very, very hungry.

Another thing that impressed me was Styles’ evident fitness levels and work ethic; how he has the energy to perform for two hours during a stadium tour is no longer a mystery.

Another thing I liked about my chat with David was his openness and honesty. I often see articles online saying celebrities do a few Pilates classes or HIIT workouts each week to stay in unbelievable shape, and he was keen to dispel this myth.

“Collaborating with Harry Styles was an absolute delight; his commitment is unparalleled,” says David.

“But it’s important to note that this level of training isn’t suitable for everyone. Harry was inherently fit, but achieving the level of fitness needed for this session still required time, work and effort. Rushing into such high-volume workouts can pose risks.”

David also stressed that sessions of this intensity weren’t done every day, and the nature of his workouts will often “depend on the day and the state of the athlete”.

“It’s crucial to emphasize the significance of proper periodization,” says David. “Not every day constituted an intense session. In fact, we strategically incorporated recovery sessions which often involved a light run combined with core exercises and mobility work. Every workout was thoughtfully placed within the overall training plan.”

Read, full article here

x

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Feveruary Day 24

Rowyn closes the door behind him, leaning against it for a minute, Colin’s words still ringing in his ears:

“Don’t you think you should stay home today? You’re literally shaking.”

He wraps his jacket around himself, pushing off the door. He braces against the vertigo that sweeps through him at the movement, and he walks briskly down the stairs and outside. He decides against a bus this morning, hoping that the fresh air will clear his head and knowing the bus’ movement would not help him feel better.

He grudgingly realizes that Colin was right, he is shaking. His whole body wracks with shivers as he trudges through the mild March weather. He pulls out his phone, to confirm his schedule for the day, but his fingers are trembling enough that it’s near impossible to navigate the screen, and he gives up, sliding his hands into his pocket and focusing on the walk.

Within minutes of entering the university library, he’s shrugging off his jacket, feeling claustrophobically warm despite his fingers still shaking from shivers.

He groans under his breath, now certain he has a fever. His stomach twinges with the dull queasiness that accompanies a fever, and he winces, regretting the small breakfast he had.

That’s probably the point that he should have turned around, or called someone to pick him up, anything to be tucked in bed. But of course, that’s not what he does, instead finding a small table in the corner of the library and pulling out a textbook and paper. He fishes around for a pen, and then turns his attention to his work.

He slogs through some questions at a quarter his normal speed, eyes blurring as he tries to decipher the questions, as if they’re written in Latin rather than English.

His head drops lower to the paper with each minute, as he keeps trying to reach an answer.

His head snaps up from the desk and he looks around with panic in his eyes, trying to understand. Oh shit, did he fall asleep? A quick glance at his phone shows that yes, he did fall asleep, for a whole three hours. It takes him a minute longer to process what that actually means, before he’s scrambling out of his seat and haphazardly throwing everything back into his bag because he missed a lecture. Or the start of it anyways.

He hurries out of the library, and across the main pathway into the science building, the hallway swinging around him as he tries to find his way to the lecture hall.

Outside the door, he takes a deep breath, trying to calm down despite the way his eyes prickle with tears against his will. He leans his head against the wall, the coolness soothing against his burning forehead, and he wills the tears to recede, reassuring himself that everything will be fine. It will be fine.

He slowly makes his way into the hall, finding a seat in the back row, and he drops into it, pulling out a fresh piece of paper and his pen, and trying to focus on the professor. He’s annoyed to find himself nodding off again, having to pull himself back to attention. His notes do not resemble his normal neat lines of ink, instead a messy scrawl covering the page as an incoherent collection of thoughts from the lecture.

By the time the lecture finishes, his head is pounding, and his stomach is still sitting at that low-level queasiness, and all around he feels awful.

He considers going back to the library, because as awful as he feels, he has work to do, especially after the disaster of the class. His emotions win out though, as tears work their way into his eyes again, and he fumbles with his phone, shaky fingers finding Colin’s name, and tapping out a message.

You wererught dont geel good

He stumbles over to a bench in the hallway and drops onto it, slouching over himself and putting his head in his hands.

His phone ringing draws his attention, relieved when it’s Colin.

“Hey,” he says shakily.

“Where are you?” asks Colin, somehow both stern and concerned.

“Um,” Rowyn looks around himself, “Science building, outside lecture.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you outside the science building, alright? By the library? I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

“‘Kay.”

Rowyn pulls himself to his feet, barely remembering to grab his bag, and slowly leaves the building. The sun pierces his eyes and he stumbles over to lean against a tree. A few minutes later and there’s Colin, hurrying toward him with his mouth turned down in a sad little frown. Rowyn just pulls away from the tree and falls into Colin’s arms, overheated face pressing against his shoulder.

“Alright, let’s get you home, and then you’re going to sleep, drink water, and eat food.”

“Okay,” he answers. Clearly that’s what his body decided needs to happen today, even if his brain is telling him there’s not time. And it seems his body won today, especially when helped by Colin.

[marth-garhengi]

Things I Want From DA: Veilguard That I Know We Won't Get:

These are almost all things DAI did poorly. Though I cannot stress enough that I love ALL the DA games, nothing is perfect...

- Kill Moves

Kill moves in DAO were amazing and there were only like 10. Worst decision by DA2's dev team was not to add them. Who the hell doesn't want to see their characters doing a sweet finishing move to round out a tough fight, in ANY game?? Ragdoll in RPGs sucks and always has, Killmove Supremacy forever (for all classes, not just melee!)

- Companion Tactics

It sucks that Bioware keep deciding to take great RPG elements out of their games and this one is so sorely missed. DAI dropped the ball big time by dumbing down companion tactics. It's a Party based game! I want MORE passive control over my companions, not less!!

- OG Tactical Gameplay

I can understand the thought process behind giving players the option to play tactically OR casually in DAI, but in practice both options are worse than the alternative. Having to switch Tactical on/off in the middle of combat just makes the gameplay more jarring, as opposed to the more accessible Pause Wheel style of the previous titles. It wasn't broken, it didn't need fixing.

- Unlimited Abilities

Another DAI fumble, tying into the previous point. Don't give us 300 ability points and then force us to pick only 8 that we can actively use. RPGs are great BECAUSE of the wide variety of playstyles and abilities you can choose for your characters. Slowly turning them into Gods is part of the fun! It's a reward for all the grinding and the early game slog. Much of the joy of obtaining a new skill or power is lost if you're forced to sacrifice another ability to use it, AND means you're wasting points when levelling. TL;DR for this and previous point: Combat wheel good.

- Manual Attributes

Another gripe I had with DAI that boils down to; Stop taking RPG elements out of your RPG. If the player wants to make a mage with insanely high Constitution, LET THEM. Making attribute points exclusively obtainable via passive abilites was taking a neat idea too far. Sub-point: All armor should be accessible to all classes. Attribute thresholds work.

- Less Collectathon-y

It's Dragon Age, not Banjo Kazooie. Nobody liked trekking through the hissing wastes for all those stupid shards. People realised that video games don't need a bazillion things to collect DECADES ago. Comparitively, the Astrariums were fun and engaging! A few little logic puzzles that unlock a loot cache? Good and fun. Spending hours running around grabbing little rocks in every map to unlock a loot cache? Boring and lazy addition to gameplay. Less of that forever.

- Horse Riding that doesn't Suck (Or No Horse Riding, period!)

We all played Inquisition. Enough Said.

- Arcane Warrior

Please Bioware I'm begging you to let me be a Mage with a sword again it was so fucking cool please it's all I want forever.

- Oghren

Bring back my Alcoholic Berserker Homie, he was so much fun and I love him and miss him.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

1 month to Veilguard, here are my current Hypes and Gripes

HYPES:

general gorgeousness, style, architecture, lighting - all of it looks amazing and has so much character

CC legitimately looks fun to play with (as someone who was planning to just take a default to avoid having to slog through it)

truly cannot believe I'm actually very excited for combat and having a hard time deciding what class to play because they all look really fun

I liked the open world of DAI but am definitely glad for a more streamlined experience along the lines of DAO/DA2

not sure if I hallucinated this, but they improved looting? I don't have to click on every body to pick up 2 bucks and a piece of cloth?? I certainly have not seen an annoying looting animation which was a major beef with DAI

the missions we've seen before look absolutely thrilling and the story beats are wild

companions reportedly act like they exist outside of the player character - major key for someone who doesn't really care about my player character

Neve fucking Gallus

Lace fucking Harding

Taash

Bellara Lutare

GRIPES:

truly could not give less of a f about Solas or ancient elven lore so these major story beats are simply not for me (monster goddess can still step on me ofc)

still bummed about the lack of world state customization, mostly because I'd just like updates on previous quests and companions, but also because I expect nothing non-Solas-related to be relevant (e.g I assume my Josephine romance and the Inquisition will just be mentioned in passing) so what customization there is seems to be trivial/misleading

hoping that the facial animations are more polished (fix lip sync, get rid of cross eyes) before launch because those first 10 hours before I stop seeing it will be rough

need every character to be stretched vertically like 10% - shook to learn that Neve is supposed to be like 5'8" bc her model serves 5'4". Stylized character art needs stylized proportions

hoping (but not optimistic) that I can fix the player character's hunched/leaned forward posture in CC - tuck them shoulder blades please

TBDs:

conceptually I love the idea of companion romances as someone who is nosy and loves playing barbies, but I think pairing the spares is lame - would rather the alternative romances be with NPCs (but I AM a background character fan so I'm prob biased)

also I suspect I will not like the pre-determined ships lol

currently I find Assan and Manfred annoying (goofy mascots, dog-ification of all animals, come off like goofy disney sidekicks) but I will probably get won over pretty easily on this

[not-poignant]

Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing? with the understanding that no advice is universal of course

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

So I have a ton of stuff in the Pia on Writing tag that goes into a lot of detail but (with the caveat to ignore anything that doesn't work for you):

Learn to love your mistakes, because you must make a lot of them to get good at writing, so if you hold back because you're worried about your writing being bad, your shooting yourself in the foot. Your writing HAS to be bad for it to get better. Or: You need manure/shit (bad writing) to grow a really good garden (good writing). You want a good garden? Start shoveling the shit in, lol.

Clever marketing won't solve not putting the hours in to hone your craft.

In fanfiction, make sure it's fun. That doesn't mean it can't be hard sometimes, that you can't dread editing sometimes or drafting, that you can't have sadder times, but make sure that the overall net is always positive. Otherwise, take a break.

In professional writing, learn how to stop waiting for inspiration to strike, and learn to turn up on that dance floor on your own. Inspiration is a fickle dance partner, it often won't turn up unless you develop the discipline to turn up first.

Sometimes the writing you absolutely slog through that feels stilted and bad is some of your best writing. Just because it feels clunky when you're writing, doesn't mean it reads clunky. Just because it feels smooth when you're writing, doesn't mean it reads smooth. Your emotional state at the time of writing does not determine the quality of writing. Feeling good while you're writing =/= good writing. Likewise feeling bad while writing =/= bad writing.

You do not need a daily habit to be good at writing. Develop one if you want one, but personally I don't have one and I'm super happy that way. Take your weekends, have your leisure time, goddamn it, don't be a terrible boss to yourself.

Writing can be both lonely and exhausting - make some non-douchey writer friends (or artist or creative friends), and make sure you take breaks. Because writing is so cerebral, you'd be surprised how much physical activity can help with recovery, like stretching, gentle walks, workouts, etc.

Eat brain food. Snacking during writing is actually normal. I have nuts on hand for protein boosts, but I'll also eat chocolate or snack on quick energy boosts.

Stay hydrated.

Ignore any writing advice that goes 'you must do this in order to be a writer' or 'you have to do this one thing to be successful.' They're wrong. There is no one-true-path in writing with the exception that you do have to write in order to like...be a writer, imho.

You are going to want to compare yourself to others, but be very aware of who you're comparing yourself to. If you're new, why are you comparing yourself to someone with 10-20 years of experience? If you're disabled and fatigued, why are you comparing yourself to able-bodied writers? Stop competing with people outside of your metaphorical weight class, they're not your competition. I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to others, but be very careful of how you compare yourself to others. I've had new writers be like 'I could never do your wordcounts (so I'm not as good of a writer)' and like, no friend, neither could I 10 years ago. This is literally a decade of hard work and practice. Some skills really just come with time. (Also most writers are more successful after writing less words than me so y'know lol).

If you get shitty comments/critiques, remind yourself that if you wouldn't take personal advice from a complete stranger like this (and you wouldn't), then their shitty comments/critiques aren't worth your time either.

On AO3, the delete, block, moderate comments function and mute buttons are all free. USE THEM. Don't bother giving haters airtime on your fics. Elsewhere on the internet, as much as you can, try and ignore review sites. Like seriously.

Learn your writing style. Practice planning, plantsing and pantsing! Practice writing one thing or more than one thing at a time. Practice different genres. You might be surprised at what fits you as a person! Think of it like being a musician, you're not trying to be a band that already exists, you're trying to be your band and you're trying to find your sound.

You're probably very good at noticing your weaknesses, get good at noticing your strengths, and use those to shore up the places where you're still building skills.

Do writing prompts. I cannot stress this enough, but learn how to write settings. Describe the dialogue of a friend. Write a character dossier on a television character. Practice worldbuilding, practice character building.

Fill the well. Read broadly across many genres. Watch many different types of media. Listen to many audiobooks. The best way to not sound derivative of a particular order is to saturate yourself with inspiration from hundreds of different places.

That's probably enough! dklsjfdas

~

From this meme!

[griffinsanddragons]

In hindsight, I was too hard on Inquisition....

(Incoming: Verified Hater Post RE: Veilgu@rd)

Inquisition was playable at least once. (I played it twice.) Veilgu@rd, however... isn't fun for me at all. There is very little that appeals to me, and I'm not particularly motivated to finish.

I hear it gets good in ACT 3 (that its great, in fact), but - as someone who believes games should be fun - that's unacceptable. I refuse to endure hours upon hours of a virtual slog fest just for it to 'get good' 60 at the end. That's ridiculous.

Even the early game felt like work, like I was just getting through quests to grab the next companion or get to the 'good part.' It's a game - every part should be 'the good part.'

There should be a narrative hook that drives me forward and makes me *want* to finish the quests, even if the location isn't my favorite or the current focus isn't on the main plot. Everything just feels so repetitive and leaves me with so many questions about the world. Are normal people just ziplining in Treviso? Environments should tell a story and the only thing I'm getting is that Northern Thedas is wild about Ziplines.

It's no secret that my favorite game in the franchise is DA2. Perhaps it's hypocritical to have such heavy criticism about things feeling 'repetitive,' but I don't require innovative gameplay or master level quest design to enjoy something - all I want is a good story. DA2 gives me that. I can play the same Hawke and make the same choices over and over and still have fun. In origins, I want to explore all the different choices. Even inquisition gave me the story of how my Inquisitior takes to leadership roles and how the power their have impacts others..!

But i's very clear this game has a target audience that I don't fit into: I love the lore of Thedas, I value my world state, love companion interaction, and feel no sympathy toward Sol@s...

I knew from the start this may not be the game for me, but I still did everything I could to maximize my enjoyment:

I designed a Rook as a doppelganger of my Hawke because I thought it would be cute and would add extra flavor to interactions with Varric, planned to romance Lucanis for the Anders parallel (also a Zevran parallel for my Warden) picked the warrior class...but I feel like I was given an empty bucket and no amount of excessive headcanons can fix this lol

I feel like there's nothing here for me in Veilgu@rd:

The best thing about the game is the combat and Neve's character design.

The gameplay progression, the level design, the dialog, Rook... it's not giving the 'return to form' I was promised.

Like, at some point in the early game were Rook says something about Templars, and Neve says, 'This isn't the south.' But my girl is from Antiva. This dialog makes sense for a player new to the game, not a character who lives in this world. It's the small stuff.

And like, a first I thought, it was me that maybe I wasn't in the video game mood. But then I played the Sims and Baldurs Gate 3 this weekend, and I had a blast.

It's a shame. I wasted 60 dollars I could have spent on a seafood boil, but alas. Maybe I'll slog through it little by little so I can see this 'amazing fantastic super special awesome' ending one day.

I hope ME5 is an actual 'return to form' for Bioware because this was a mess.

[shockersalvage]

DR3 Rewrite: Deadly Life Part 1

Heeeey, remember this little project? Where I was rewriting DR3 and even made a post concerning the first part - here - if you remember? It started my year, and I was working on it for a good deal.

That said, between general life busynes and motivation issues, it's been kind of slow. That said, am still working on it and originally wanted to only post until it was 100% done. Buuuut, at my pace, felt even doing that was kind mental slog. So instead, I'll be breaking it down into several eps per post for people to enjoy and have something out there until the gap between this and the next part.

So without further ado, I hope reading both will be enjoyable!!

13

The cast is in shock: Chisa Yukizome was dead and they were clearly under threat from the Monokast. With Monokuma at the front of the screen, he begins to explain the whole ordeal - the third killing game under the Monokuma Hunter rules.

Monokuma Hunter is as follows under two phases: Hunter Phase and Trial Phase. Under Hunter Phase, as it stands, the cast is on the F1 of the building and have to make their way up to the trial grounds of F6. However, each floor above is hosted by a member of the MonoKast who has a particular ‘Hell’ that the cast must endure, lest it cost them their lives. 

Each floor has a Boss that governs it as well, and they are in charge of ensuring that ‘Hell’ is carried out. If the cast manages to defeat the Boss then the conditions of the Floor are nullified. In addition, they could also get a major lead that could help them for the Trial Phase. 

In the Trial Phase, similarly to a class trial, the cast will be discussing who is the guilty party - though instead of discussing who killed who, its ‘who are the Traitors’ that have set up this killing game? There are three Traitors that they are to find and vote off. If they vote all three off, the game is over and the survivors can leave the building. If even one Traitor is not voted for after the final trial, the non-Traitor survivors will be executed. The Trial Phase happens once all floors have been conquered.

With that in mind, for the time being F1 has also been made the group’s de facto living quarters with food, a nurse’s office and bedding that’ll suit their needs for the time being and give them rest in-between their endeavors. 

With that, the explanation ends, and the room descends into chaos. Yelling is going on and tension is high given the circumstances. What should they even do? It’s Munakata who, in spite of his loss, gets everyone back on track. As it stands, standing around isn’t going to do anything. If they want answers, than the best course is to investigate their surroundings first…and if all else fails to make headway, they move up to the next floor.

Nobody really likes it, but there isn’t much anyone can really do. Juzo is assigned to keep watch over Makoto given how high suspicion is on him. As for Kyoko, she’s allowed to investigate Chisa and where she died, though under watch by Munakata himself. Seiko is also there to do an autopsy, albeit as best as she could. Everyone else is to spread out throughout the first floor to search or gain their bearings.

Hina, alongside Koichi and a very upset Ryota, go to Kyoko to get info on Chisa’s death. It was a stab through the heart from an odd-looking knife that did her in. Presumably, the culprit stabbed with it before hoisting her on top of the chandelier before rigging it to fall. Koichi asks if it was possible any of them could have done it, Kyoko believes that, while possible, its too early to tell since, given how long the group was out, the culprit would have hm more than enough time to kill Chisa and prepare their event up, and get back in position before anyone would even wake up.

When asking Seiko about the time of death, while she admits she is not a true coroner, she can at least confirm that it has been a good deal of hours since Chisa had died. There was no hope of saving her long before they woke up. Upon saying that, she notices Munakata and immediately begins to apologize, though he tells her it’s alright. Makoto, knowing how it feels to lose a girl you love, tries to empathize with Munakata, but the Vice Chairman tells him to save it. 

The others come back to share their findings. As it stands, the exits are locked up tight. No way in or out. There were enough rooms for everyone and food to last for a while, but it remained pretty clear this is not a permanent stay. They needed to make moves and fast. So, with that in mind - Munakata gives the orders. They were heading to F2. Though as they make their way to the elevators, they find that there are three different elevators they had to take. 

Monokuma appears on the monitors again. He adds that, before the elevators could rise, all participants needs to spread themselves amongst the elavators. At max 5, at minimum (for one elevator in this case) 4. At this, the groups are created under Munakata’s direction/personality clashes:

Group 1 - Munakata, Juzo, Makoto, Gozu, Hina (Gozu was worried about Makoto, and so Tengan allowed him to watch over him to ensure the first two don’t do anything foul. Hina joined G1 to help out Makoto)

Group2 2 - Kyoko, Tengan, Koichi, Ryota, Seiko (Tengan volunteered to lead this next part, with Ryota joining under him. Kyoko followed suit with G1 filled and with a degree of suspicion on her face. Koichi followed Kyoko and Seiko couldn’t join G3 or G1 so she had to join G2)

Group 3 - Ruruka, Izayoi, Bandai, and Miaya (Ruruka refused for Seiko or any ‘traitors’ to join her elevator, so her BF and the two neutrals won by default)

With these settled, the groups finally make their way to F2. Inside each elevator is a monitor that explains the rundown of the Floor. For F2, the Host of the Floor is Monokan and her Floor Boss is Pestilence: The Ex-Ultimate Exteriminator - Jun Ueda. The stipulations of the Floor is as follows. Each elevator has enough gas masks that can filter out a particular poisonous gas for one hour. During that hour, the players must traverse through F2 and defeat the Floor Boss. How they defeat a FB is entirely up to the players (kill them, knock them out, capture them, make them give up - it’s all up to the cast). Once that happens, the gas will stop automatically, along with treatment for the poison in the room to the trial grounds. A Clue for one of the Traitors identity will be handed out following an FB’s defeat.

With that firmly established, the cast (after getting their masks) brace themselves to face Jun..with both Juzo and Munakata looking even more irritated at the thought. Especially, Munakata. A flashback shows Jun sitting in a chair, drinking some tea, and even looking genuinely friendly towards the Class 74 trio.

…Which is contrasted with Jun in the present, sitting in an armchair as gas flows throughout the room - gas mask on in preparation for the fight to come.

14

The scene opens with Hagakure running for his life and for good reason. The Ultimate Elite Taskforce is still after him and wants his ass dead. It’s basically the start of Hagakure’s bizarre, unfortunate, adventure trying to get to safety, all while trying his damnedest to get in contact with anyone from inside or even outside, like Byakuya…

Speaking of which, everyone’s favorite heir is knocking back some tea as he gets a report on the damages throughout the divisions. For Division 14, they’ve since managed to subdue the rebels and have suffered minimum casualties. Their current objective is reaching out to the other Division and trying their damndest to support them as best as they can. We get a flashback to Byakuya looking over the contents of the files from last season. How they showed there was going to be a nationwide rebellion against the Branches, and how Byakuya had barely managed to organize his own security force for Division 14 prior to things going crazy. Pennyworth and his secretary remark on fortunate it was that they were able to get the drive to Byakuya in time. He agrees though they can’t rest now: they need to get in touch with, and possibly, rescue the Directors as soon as possible. Through the emails, Byakuya knows the location of the secret trial and is trying to arrange ships and helicopters as quickly as possible. But, given how much disarray everyone was in, it’ll be awhile.

But, hopefully, the others can hold out until then.

Speaking of the others, they’re at the Pestilence Floor - a place filled with dense gas that they have to make their way through and traps. Such as spears through the floors and Monokuma units that lunge out. Thankfully, for the groups, they’re able to gradually make their way throughout the maze like floor due to their own experience. Though Kyoko can't help but notice that, for her group, they aren't really running into most obstacles as expected…

During this time, Makoto begins to ask if anyone knows anything about the Floor Boss - Jun Ueda. Begrudgingly, Munakata informs Makoto that Jun was a former member of class 74’s student council. Specifically, he was their Treasurer - being a snarky, teasing, logistics man who only forked up the cash for any school project only when all bases were covered. Something that is shown in a flashback to the 74 trio and their interaction with their former friend. Though, their happy days could not remain forever. He later joined Future Foundation - but was imprisoned due to the one act that earned him his place among the Four Blights. He gassed a warehouse filled with those who were ill, injured, disabled in some manner or were under watch due to having some past criminal conviction - killing them all while they slept. The very next day, when it was discovered, he turned himself and remained in max prison up until recently.

Makoto and Hina are horrified, while their other teammates are tense. This is why Munakata wants Jun defeated immediately. They can’t risk any of the Blights getting back out and enacting their horrors again. They have to end him here. But as they enter another room, Hina asks if both Juzo and Munakata are prepared to fight against someone that used to be their friend. Something that a voice mentions, is way too late to consider.

It’s Jun, gas mask on his face, and gun in hand. Munakata orders Gozu to watch Makoto and Hina while he and Juzo try to pincer Jun. However, it’s a tense fight as Jun is very light on his feet, and has some units to help hold off both. While he fights, he’s taunting Munakata - criticizing how it was inability to take decisive, proper, headway into this matter that led to the Directors being attacked like this now. What lead to that incident in the past! He should be ashamed of himself for being so hesitant!! It’s what leads Munakata being grazed by a shot and Juzo getting knocked about in his anger to get to Jun.

However, Makoto has had enough and rebuked such claims. While he doesn’t know Munakata personally, and while they definitely disagree on certain things, even Makoto can see he was at least trying to help as much people as he could in these awful times! Jun shoots back, both metaphorically and literally, that trying to help everyone is a fool’s errand. During the time of the incident, Future Foundation was struggling to gain supplies to help those under their care - it was a massive effort to supply a squad, let alone refugees. If they helped everyone under their case, they would have been left completely depleted and wiped out by Ultimate Despair. That’s why Jun did what he ‘had’ to do it. He wiped out those who couldn’t help FF to make the organization live for another day. It was awful, but necessary in his eyes. Even the five here can understand the need to dirty your hands for the greater good, right? Hina is the one to speak up on this.

She knows how it feels, to think you have to resort to extremes just because you think its right (referencing her attempt in DR1 chapter 4 in trying to kill everyone after bein tricked by Monokuma). But, she insists that being tunnel visioned by thinking you’re justified can lead you to being blinded on the truth. In this case? He had no real way of knowing if slaughtering those refugees really was the ‘saving move’ he keeps claiming it is. True, FF was struggling back then, but he has no real evidence that helping out the refugees would cost the FF everything. If anything, by killing off so many with potential who could have helped, didn’t he just send the organization back ? Jun has to know this, unless…

Is he is arguing his case so hard, because realizing the other side is that soul crushing?

Snapping, an angry Jun is about to shoot her when he realizes his mistake. Hina distracted him enough to allow Munakata to get in close - knocking away Jun’s gun with a slash. Thus, giving Juzo a free opportunity to punch Jun in the mask. Sending him flying into the wall, unconscious. His gun was also knocked away from him, but no one quite seems to notice. On his wrist, a bracelet glows red and the gas stops. The Floor Boss has been defeated.

From Jun’s defeat, a letter floats down from the ceiling, into Makoto’s hands that he reads for the group:

“Even a dethroned monarch can be crowned again…”

Huh? The crew is unusure to what this means and by now the other groups have arrived. Jun also begins to stir, chuckling at their confusion. Munakata walls up to him, raises his katana and holds his blade to Jun’s throat. What is the meaning of this? Who recruited him for this? Who does this hint refer to. Jun opens his mouth, but by now Monokima units have flooded the room and snatched Jun.  

It's been announced that since Jun lost there would be a penalty for him. As Munakata and Juzo fight to get to him, begging him to speak, and to stay with them - all Jun could say is this:

“Eh, only thing I can really say is that the one who got me on board was a real nag. Sorry, but my hands are tied.” But right as they take him out of the room he does say this to Munakata. 

“Maybe…I was the one that couldn't remain decisive that day."

With that he was gone. But for what? Well…

“Boss of the Pestilence Floor, Ex-Ultimate Exterminator: Jun Ueda has lost his fight. Time to face the penalty!!! Let’s give it everything we’ve got: It’s punishment time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Execution: Suffocation of the White Rider

Jun wakes up to find himself trapped in an enclosed space with multiple other boxes beside him. The boxes all open to pour vermin and other dangerous animals. In addition, gas begins to fill the room. Chuckling, Jun goes around the room, trying to fend off the beasts as he scrambles to find a jumpsuit, oxygen tank and gas mask to put on. He succeeds, but that’s also his downfall. I nthe suit itself are venomous creatures that attack Jun. The suit itself can not be removed and the cast are forced to watch as he stumbles around in the haze…and eventually collapses dead.

This horrifies a lot of the cast, but they are urged by Munakata and Tengan to return down towards the first floor. The first floor has been cleared, and given what they’ve gone through, a rest is deserved.

On the monitors, of the MonoKast, Monokowl has been removed.

END