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cloudtransprncy · 2 months ago

Text

Cheat Code

ITZY Yuna x Male Reader | 5k words Part 1 out of ? Tags: PWP, Blowjob, Size Kink, Cock Worship, Mutual Horny Chaos, 2nd Person POV, Yuna Is Down Catastrophic

She said glasses and earrings were a cheat code—so you tested it. No big deal. Just an experiment. But the second Yuna opens the door, she short-circuits, and next thing you know, she’s on her knees. I guess it works?

The car is parked in your usual spot, tucked away from the main road where the streetlights don’t quite reach. It’s summer.

The air outside warm enough that the windows are cracked just enough to let the night breeze slip through. Chill R&B hums from the speakers, blending into the comfortable silence between you and Yuna.

Yuna’s lounged back, slides kicked off, feet propped up on the dashboard like she owns the place. Her phone screen flashes in quick bursts as she scrolls TikTok, fingers moving lazily while she sips from her boba. Cropped pink tank, low-rise jeans that hang just right, a couple of delicate rings on her fingers—casual but calculated, effortless, she knows she’s hot and she owns it.

You’re half-watching, half-zoned out, fingers drumming absently against your drink. Not thinking about how good she looks. Or trying not to.

Then she speaks, totally unprompted.

“Glasses and earrings are such a fucking cheat code for guys.”

You blink, slow to process. “…Huh?”

She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Like, if a dude who’s my type pulls up with that? Whip it out already, I’m on my knees.”

You choke on your boba. Cough, nearly die, and have to thump your own chest to recover. “You’re a slut”

Yuna finally spares you a glance, completely serious. “I’m sooo serious. Glasses? Hot. Earrings? Hot. Together? Killy me now. Instant buff.”

You recover, rubbing your throat. “Any guy?”

She scoffs. “Obviously he has to be cute, I’m not gonna suck off some rando that's ugly and gross.”

You stare at her, a mix of disbelief and amusement creeping in.

Yuna shifts, folding a leg under her and turning fully towards you, sitting up. Her tank top rides up just slightly, exposing a sliver of skin, but you don’t look for too long. She leans in like she’s about to tell you the secrets of the universe. “Like, okay, hear me out.”

You sigh, playing along. “K, I’m listening.”

“The glasses just make the guy look smart, but like, not too smart. Unless he’s a nerd, but you get my point.”

“Suuure.”

“The earrings? Hot. Earrings are just hot. Like, I wear earrings. I’m hot.”

You stare at her, unimpressed. “I don’t get it.”

She waves a hand, exasperated. “Like, hot but not too hot, smart but not too smart. ya get me?.”

You squint. “But what if the guy’s ugly?”

She pauses, then scoffs. “See, that’s where it’s tough, ‘cause the buff only works if you’re already cute, ya know? Or like… almost hot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You saying some guys are almost hot?”

“Yeah, bro, like some guys just need to hit the gym, dress better, get some earrings.”

You just give her a look, telling her you don’t really get it.

Silence lingers for a beat. Then she shrugs, says it so offhandedly you almost don’t catch it. “Like, you’d actually be hot if you tried.”

Your brain stalls. “…What?”

She doesn’t look up, just sips her boba. “You heard me.”

You’re still blinking. “No, repeat that.”

A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across her face. “Nope.”

“That felt personal.”

“It wasn’t. But if you feel attacked…”

You scoff, sitting up slightly. “I literally gym, and you gotta admit I dress nice.”

She finally looks at you, eyes dragging over your plain black tee and gray sweats, unimpressed.

You gesture vaguely. “When I go out.”

She snorts, shaking her head but doesn't disagree. “Yeah, aight.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re basically saying I would be hot if I wasn’t ugly.”

Another shrug. “That’s not what I’m saying, but if that’s what you’re hearing…”

You laugh it off, shake your head, shift the conversation elsewhere. But Yuna? She sits with it, lets the words settle.

The idea is planted.

She doesn’t bring it up again, but it lingers. Her gaze flickers to you when you’re not looking, her teeth pressing lightly into her bottom lip like she’s trying not to think too hard about it. Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off, scrolling her phone with a little too much focus.

A week later…

The drive to Yuna’s place feels normal—same streets, same turn signals, same playlist humming low through your speakers. But today? Today’s different. Today, you’re running a test.

You grip the wheel with one hand, glancing at yourself in the rearview mirror. Glasses on. You always needed them, just never wore them. Now? Gentle Monster frames, clean, sharp. A flex, but a subtle one.

Earrings? Left ear—a small silver star stud. Right ear—a tiny dagger earring. A balance of soft and sharp. Like you weren’t thinking about it, but also? You were.

Your fit? Casual but intentional.

Black compression shirt, snug and sculpting but not obnoxious. Grey wide-leg sweats, laid-back and effortless. Fresh kicks, spotless with no creases.

It’s intentional, but not try-hard. Like you just threw shit on, but somehow, everything fell into place.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel.

Let’s see if she notices.

You knock. A shuffle of footsteps inside. The door swings open.

Yuna stands there, the striped pajama set hugging her tiny waist, sitting snug on her hips, showing just enough skin to be lethal. The fabric stretches over her curves, hinting at the toned stomach underneath, the kind of body that looks soft but still tight in all the right places.

Her red hair falls in messy waves, catching hallway light like she planned the whole damn lighting setup. Even "just hanging at home," her skin glows with that I-woke-up-like-this perfection you know for a fact takes at least three serums to achieve. Light makeup—because of course she wouldn't be completely bare-faced—just enough to make her eyes wider, her lips fuller, slightly glossed and parted in what starts as a greeting but dies somewhere in her throat.

She was expecting movie night. Takeout containers. Stupid debates about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. The usual safe routine.

Instead, she gets you. Version 2.0.

Her entire body freezes. Processing.

Her eyes make a deliberate journey: glasses, earrings—that small hesitation when she notices they're mismatched—down to how your shirt remembers every gym session you've been putting in, lingering just a beat too long where your sweats hang low, then back up to your face with the slow-dawning realization that you've weaponized her own words against her.

She straight-up blue-screens.

Her weight shifts subtly, thighs pressing together like she's trying to create pressure where she suddenly needs it. Her fingers flex at her sides, curling then uncurling like she's physically restraining herself. The sharp inhale is audible—chest rising, lips parting before she catches herself. A full system restart happening in real time.

"What. The. Fuck." It comes out flat, almost accusatory, like you've committed a personal offense.

You can't help the smirk. "What?"

Yuna's eyes narrow, flicking to your earrings again with something dangerously close to hatred—not for the accessories, but for how effectively you've played her. Her jaw works, tension visible as she grinds her teeth. The mental battle is written across her face: pride versus want, restraint versus impulse.

"You're a fucking bitch," she mutters, the words carrying more heat than venom.

Your grin widens, victory sweet on your tongue. "Hmm? Didn't catch that."

No verbal response. Just the sudden, almost violent way her fingers hook into your shirt, yanking you inside before kicking the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame.

Her grip on your wrist is tight—too tight to be casual, not tight enough to hurt. She pulls you down the familiar hallway, the same path you've walked a hundred times before, except now your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape. This isn't movie-night Yuna leading you to her bedroom to argue about Netflix choices. This is something else entirely.

The words barely form in your mouth before your back hits her mattress, the air rushing from your lungs in a soft "oof." Suddenly everything is different. Same room—same fairy lights strung across her headboard, same pile of clothes heaped on her desk chair, same vague scent of vanilla and something distinctly her—but the air feels electrically charged, dense with potential.

She climbs onto you with feline precision, one knee planted on either side of your thighs, lowering herself with a deliberate slowness that borders on torture. The weight of her settles against you—warm, solid, undeniable. The smirk playing at her lips is both challenge and promise, a silent I told you so mixed with you're going to regret this in the best way possible.

And just like that, the tables turn.

Your earlier confidence dissolves under her gaze. Your breath catches as she studies you like a meal she's about to devour, eyes dragging from your face to your throat, lingering on the pulse point there before traveling lower to where your shirt has ridden up to expose a strip of skin.

Pure instinct drives your hands to her hips, fingers just grazing the warm skin exposed between her top and pajama bottoms—but before you can get a proper grip, she's caught your wrists. One fluid motion and your arms are pinned against the wall above your head, chest exposed, completely at her mercy. Her nails dig just enough into your skin to send a shiver racing down your spine, a silent warning that makes your pulse spike.

"Yuna—" Her name escapes as a whine, embarrassingly breathless.

"Did I say you could touch?" The edge in her voice is new—commanding in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

She leans in close again and you flinch slightly, turning your head, caught off-balance by this sudden shift in dynamic. The predatory smile that spreads across her face tells you exactly what you need to know:

You might have started this game, but she's the one who's going to finish it.

Her grip tightens. "What? You getting nervous?"

And you are. Because you don’t know what she’s gonna do next. Because your hands are pinned down, because she’s taking her time, because she’s in complete control.

"Too late." Her voice is soft as her fingers catch your jaw before you can answer—firm, controlling. She lets it hang there, the weight of her words sinking in before she tilts your face up like she’s testing the weight of you in her hands, deciding whether she wants to break you apart or take her time savoring it.

She doesn’t kiss you yet. Just hovers. Close enough that you can feel her breath—warm, teasing, curling over your lips. Close enough that you can smell her—sweet, like strawberries, something feminine and bright, but dark underneath. Something heady. Something that lingers.

"What..." It slips out soft, almost breathless, escaping before you even realize. You're already leaning in—just slightly, just enough to chase the warmth of her mouth, the phantom touch of lips that still haven’t pressed against yours.

She grins. Pulls back just enough to make you ache for it. Watching, waiting. Letting the moment stretch, letting you need.

Then she finally kisses you—hungry, consuming, impossible to escape. Her lips move like she’s starving, like she’s been waiting for this, for you.

Her hands roam without hesitation, clawing at your shirt, nails scratching lightly before pressing harder, groping, gripping, taking. She grinds down, pressing herself closer, hot, desperate, soaked through.

Her tongue slides against yours, deep, messy, filthy. She tastes like strawberries and something warmer, something intoxicating. She bites your bottom lip, sucking it between her teeth before letting go, leaving you breathless, dizzy.

You manage to get half a word out—something cocky, something desperate—but she just presses her thumb over your lips, silencing you effortlessly. "Shh."

Her smirk is wicked, teasing. "Did I tell you to talk?"

One last kiss—hard, bruising—claiming—before she finally pulls back, pupils blown wide, breath heavy, hot against your lips. Still teasing, still in control.

Her eyes flicker, dark and sharp. She lets the silence stretch, lets you squirm just a little before tilting her head, smirking. And then, finally—

“Whip it out when I tell you to.”

She shifts back, slow and deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Legs crossed, arms folded, head tilted slightly—waiting.

“Shirt off.”

You hesitate. Her expression doesn’t change. Just one perfectly raised eyebrow.

You exhale, dragging the fabric over your head, the fabric peeling away from your skin, leaving a fleeting chill before the heat of the room settles over you. The shift makes your muscles tense briefly, instinctively flexing, your lean frame now fully exposed. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches. Eyes dragging down, slower than usual. She’s seen you shirtless before—at the beach, when you work out together—but this feels... different. More deliberate. More assessing. Like she’s realizing something she hadn’t let herself think about before.

Her fingertips trail over your chest, nails scraping lightly as they move down. Her breathing shifts. Not a full pause, but a subtle inhale, like she’s registering something new.

She barely skims your waistband before stopping. Lips part, but no words come out. Just a beat of silence, her fingers still resting against your skin.

Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off. Moves like she never hesitated. “Pants too.”

You move to pull them down, and her hand shoots out, gripping the fabric at your waist. Stopping you. Holding you there.

She tilts her head. Smirks. “Hmm, one sec.”

She leans down, lips trailing from your chest to your abdomen, slow and deliberate, each press of her mouth sending heat curling low in your stomach. Lower. Lower. Until she’s hovering over your bulge, her breath warm against the fabric, her smirk returning as she glances up at you—waiting, teasing.

“Whip it out.”

You follow her command, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweats and boxers at the same time. You push them down in one slow motion, the fabric dragging over your hips, your thighs, until they pool around your ankles. The cool air hits first, sending a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling in contrast to the heat of her stare. You kick them off, tossing them aside without a second thought.

Your cock, already stiff, springs free, swaying slightly before settling upright.

You expect some kind of reaction, a smirk, a comment, something. But she just sits there. Silent. Taking you in. Making you wait.

Then, the shift.

Her jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough to notice. Her fingers twitch, like she’s resisting the instinct to reach for you. A single exhale slips out—soft, sharp, involuntary.

“...Hah.”

Her thighs press together.

She blinks once, slow, expression still unreadable before she scoffs, voice flat. "You're joking."

It’s not a question. Not disbelief. It’s irritation. Like she’s pissed off that she’s this affected.

Then, before she even registers it, her hand is on you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, testing the weight. Thumb pressing into the ridge, sliding down, measuring. Her grip is firm, not teasing, not soft. Calculating. Then, she swipes her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of precum across the sensitive skin.

The slick warmth sends a sharp jolt through you, your stomach clenching at the sudden stimulation. A shudder rolls down your spine, hips jerking just slightly—instinctual, involuntary. She hums at the reaction, amused, dragging her thumb back over the head, slower this time, watching you twitch beneath her touch.

"...You’ve been walking around with this the whole time?"

One slow stroke. Deliberate. Frustrated. Her breath hitches for half a second before she exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled. She’s working through something.

Then she moves.

Slow, deliberate, sinking down until her face is level with your cock. She spreads her knees wider, arching her back instinctively, ass lifting behind her as she dips her head down. The motion is fluid, effortless, like she’s done this a hundred times before—but not with you.

Her breath fans over the head, warm, teasing, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. But the way she’s looking at you? The way her lashes flutter as she drags her gaze from the base to the tip, the way her lips part slightly like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t? Filthy.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to touch her. To run through her hair, trace over her cheek, press against the plush curve of her lips. But you don’t. You know better.

She tilts her head, lining it up. Comparing.

Her fingers tighten around the base, giving an experimental squeeze, jaw tensing slightly like she’s still processing the math of it all.

She hums, amused. Like she just confirmed something. Her eyes drag from your cock to your frame, mapping out the proportions. She’s smaller, you’re lean, cut where it matters. Her fingers tighten around your thigh—just slightly.

She exhales slow, shaking her head. Testing her own reaction.

“It’s almost annoying.”

A sharp squeeze at the base, like she’s making peace with it.

"You're just big enough to be fucking perfect."

She looks up at you, doesn’t blink. Holds your gaze like she’s daring you to move.

"Look at me."

You do. Try to. But the intensity of her gaze is too much, hungry, piercing, hot. Like she’s devouring every inch of you without even touching. Your body reacts before you can stop it. It’s overwhelming. Too much. You instinctively try to escape it, tilting your head back, but she doesn’t let you.

Her other hand catches your chin, dragging you back down to her. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

Your breath shudders. You swallow hard. She notices. Smirks.

Then—she stops.

She knows exactly what she’s about to do. And she wants you to watch.

Lifting her arms, she gathers up all her hair, twisting it tight, securing it with practiced ease. It’s a ritual, a performance, because she knows you’re looking. And she likes it.

The movement stretches her out, making you take in everything—the pull of her arms, the soft dip of her waist, the sleek curve of her long torso. Cinched. Compact. Fucking perfect. Her neck, her collarbones, the bare skin of her armpits exposed for a fleeting second, all of it framed just for you.

"Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking hot." Your voice slips past you.

She pauses, just for a second. A slow, knowing smirk on her lips as she glances at you.

"I know."

Your fingers twitch, instinct taking over—you reach down, wanting to stroke yourself to the sight of her.

Sharp slap.

Your hand jerks away, stinging. Her eyes flicker up, challenging. Smirking.

"I already told you—keep your hands to yourself."

Then—she leans back down, the same position, same arch. She dips her head low. Her lips purse, and before you can register it, a thick glob of warm saliva drips from her mouth, landing perfectly against the tip. She watches it spread, her thumb smearing it across the sensitive skin, coating you in wet heat before she strokes again—long, slow, deliberate.

She looks up, eyes locking onto yours, smirking like she already knows she's won. "Now sit back and let me enjoy myself."

Then—she sinks lower.

Her red hair spills over your stomach, strands brushing against your skin as she angles herself just right. The dim light catches on the messy waves, glowing warm, wild, untamed. She looks up at you through thick lashes, half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth parted just enough to tease you with the heat of her breath.

She’s so fucking close.

But this isn’t about you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, a slow, possessive squeeze, more for herself than for you. She exhales, lips barely parted, watching, taking you in. Her tongue swipes over her own bottom lip as if contemplating a meal she’s about to devour.

Then—she goes for it.

Heat. Wet. The first slide past her lips is tight, hot, an impossible contrast of softness and pressure. Her mouth stretches, lips plush and slick, sealing around you with a perfect, obscene suction. The wet heat of her tongue presses firm against the underside, dragging against every ridge, every pulsing inch, like she’s mapping you out with her mouth. The pressure of her cheeks hollowing pulls a groan straight from your chest before you can bite it back.

It's not careful, not teasing—hungry.

Her nails dig into your thigh as she sinks deeper, her own body reacting, thighs pressing together, chasing the heat curling in her own gut.

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t drag it out like a game. She’s working herself up with every motion, letting herself indulge.

Another moan, this one softer, needier, and fuck, she’s enjoying this. Her tongue presses against the underside, massaging every inch she swallows. She pulls back, spit slick and glistening, gasping softly before diving back in, sucking harder, deeper.

She flicks her gaze up—not to check on you, but to see how much more she can take.

The wet pop when she pulls off is obscene, spit stretching between her lips and your cock before snapping apart. But she doesn’t wipe it away—you can tell, she likes the mess.

She tilts her head, gaze flicking up to yours, breathless, her lips curling into something between a smirk and frustration.

"Fuck, you taste so good." She mutters, voice wrecked, annoyed at how much she’s into this.

You start to smirk, breath hitching as you mutter, "Damn, you really know how to—"

But you don't get the chance.

She takes you deep mid-word, zero hesitation, lips stretching, throat tightening as she swallows you down in one sudden, slick motion. The shock rips a strangled sound from your throat, something between a gasp and a groan, because fuck, that was unexpected.

It's warm, so fucking tight, her throat flexing around you as she forces herself deeper, nose pressing flush against your groin. The wet grip of her throat clenching around the tip sends heat jolting up your spine, and when she pulls back—slow, torturous—a thick string of spit clings between her lips and your cock, stretching, breaking, dripping down onto her own chin. She watches you, gaze locked, eyes dark, sharp, daring you.

"You talk too much. And I haven't told you to open your mouth."

Her voice is wrecked, breathless, but smug as hell. She grips the base, firm, controlling, and slaps the head against her lips, wet and filthy, smearing spit and precum across them before taking you back in without hesitation—deeper, tighter, longer.

Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. Toes curl, heat pooling low in your stomach, a wildfire spreading through your limbs. Your hands clench into the sheets because if you touch her now, you're done for.

She hums around you, low, vibrating, because she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

Then she pulls back, spit-slick and glistening, pausing just long enough for you to feel the absence, to make you ache for it.

You think she’s about to go back in, your breath catches—but she lingers, gaze flicking up, owning the moment, letting the tension coil tighter. Then, slowly, she slaps your cock against her lips once more, her own breath shuddering like she’s just as caught up in this as you are. But this isn’t for you—it’s for her.

She dips lower, tongue dragging down your length, lips wrapping around one ball, sucking slow, wet, indulgent. She pauses for a second, breathing heavy, swallowing like she’s processing how good it tastes, how much she’s enjoying it.

Then she makes a sound—a frustrated groan, muffled, needy, like she’s annoyed by just how good you are in her mouth. Her hand never stops moving, stroking you in time with every pull of her mouth. Then the next, her tongue rolling over the sensitive skin, a soft moan escaping her, sending a jolt straight through your core.

She licks a line back up your shaft, slow, messy, like she’s savoring the weight of you on her tongue.

Your hands twitch against the sheets, fists clenched tight, every muscle in your body strung too fucking tight, resisting the urge to grab her. She notices. She loves it.

She pulls off completely, spit pooling down her chin, tilts her head up at you, lips parted, swollen, smirking.

"Hold my hair up."

Your breath shakes as you comply, fingers threading into her red waves, feeling the silkiness as they slide between your knuckles. You gather them slowly, watching the way they shine under the dim light, then bunch them up tight, pulling them together like a ponytail, holding firm.

She exhales slow, eyes flickering shut for half a second like she’s steeling herself. Then, she looks up at you—hungry, determined.

"Good. Now don’t let go."

The moment you tighten your grip, she moans, low and wrecked, like it’s fueling her. Like she’s been waiting for this.

She takes you back in.

In one go.

There’s no hesitation now. No more teasing. Just her fucking her mouth on you, using your cock like a toy for her own oral fixation.

She goes messy, abrupt, taking you deep with zero breaks, her hands working in sync—one stroking your shaft, the other massaging your balls, slick with spit, wet, filthy, relentless.

She gags. Chokes. Sputters saliva down her chin, but she doesn’t stop—she loves this.

Each time she sinks down, she stays longer, testing her limits, forcing herself deeper, moaning around you, the vibrations traveling straight through your spine. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She pulls off with a wet, deep, gasp, sucking in air, but her hands never stop moving—stroking, twisting, milking you even as she gasps for breath.

“Shit,” she pants, her voice wrecked, her lips swollen, glistening with spit.

Her grip tightens, both hands now working together, slick and dripping, saliva coating every inch. She strokes faster, twisting her wrists, making a fucking mess of you, her mouth hovering just inches away, lips parted, panting.

Your whole body is tight, legs folding in slightly, toes curling, arms flexing involuntarily around the grip in her hair. The pleasure is too much, too fucking good, overwhelming, and if she wasn’t in complete control, you’d be thrusting up into her mouth, chasing the heat, the pressure. But she’s already forcing herself deep, hitting the back of her throat for you. No, for herself, taking what she wants.

Your grip on her hair loosens.

She notices.

She fucking notices.

Her lashes flutter up, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed—completely cock-drunk—and she lets out the softest, filthiest little whine, like she doesn’t want you to stop her. Like she needs this. More of this.

Your fingers clench, regaining control, and you hold her still.

Her moan shatters through you.

It’s wrecked, vibrating along your length as she hollows her cheeks again and sucks. Hard.

And then—she goes feral.

She spits again, a thick glob dripping onto the head, smearing it in with her tongue before slapping your cock against her lips, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Then she leans in, sucking and slurping her own saliva back up from your cock and groin, her tongue dragging slow and deliberate—only to sputter it back down again, wetter, filthier.

The slick warmth trickles lower, dripping under your balls, pooling there as her fingers smear it across your skin like she never wants to waste a single drop. She’s moaning the entire time, whimpering under her breath, her own body tensing, thighs pressing together, like she’s getting off on the sheer act of ruining herself.

Her tongue flicks out, lapping at the sensitive tip before flattening against it, rubbing it against her slick, spit-drenched muscle like she wants to taste every inch.

Her hand never stops moving—stroking, twisting, pumping, both hands working together now, slick and dripping, her fingers sliding with ease from how fucking wet everything is.

She’s not thinking anymore.

She’s just moving, sucking, licking, moaning, lost in it. She’s devouring you.

She sinks back down, deeper, until she’s gagging again, nose flush, throat spasming. She pulls off just to spit again, rubs her own mess into your shaft with both hands before swallowing you back down like she missed it.

She stays down longer each time.

Testing her limits. Pushing past them. Letting them break.

She pulls off with a wrecked gasp, drool dripping off her chin, her hands still stroking you frantically, like she can’t stop. Like she won’t stop.

“Fuck—” Her voice is raw, strained, needy. Her lips glisten, her cheeks are damp with spit, ruined.

Next, she slaps your cock against her tongue again, holding it there, eyes locked on yours, lips parted, panting.

Waiting.

Wanting.

She flicks her tongue once. Then again.

Your whole body tenses, a choked moan ripping out of your throat before you can swallow it down. She notices instantly, smirking, lips flushed and glistening.

"Gonna cum for me?" Her voice is low, wrecked, teasing. "Gonna fill up my mouth?"

She doesn’t give you a chance to answer. She’s back down, and you know it wont be long.

She sinks down, deeper than before—deeper than you thought she could go.

Her throat tightens, a hot, slick vice around you, lips stretched wide, nose flush against your skin. She stays there, like she’s proving something, forcing herself to take it all.

Your body shakes. A helpless, broken noise tears from your throat, your fingers twisting tighter in her hair. Your entire body is locked up, muscles taut, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but take what she’s giving you.

She swallows around you—tight, pulsing—milking you. The suction drives you insane, your mind foggy with nothing but her heat, her wetness, the way she’s owning you with her mouth. Your stomach clenches, your toes curl, thighs shaking. The heat in your gut is unbearable, climbing too fast, too much—

And then—she pulls off.

Not all the way. Just enough to drag her lips, tongue, teeth back up, slow, deliberate, before sinking back down just as deep.

She does it again.

Slow. Controlled. Absolutely ruining you.

Her hands are still working—one stroking your length, the other massaging your balls, her slick fingers pressing, squeezing, keeping you so fucking close but not letting you fall.

This time, she pulls off completely.

Your cock twitches in the open air, aching, drenched in her spit, glistening under the dim light. The sudden absence is unbearable, like she just took the world’s best heat away from you.

And then—she stops everything.

Her grip loosens. Her mouth lingers inches away.

Nothing.

You make a noise—desperate, strained. Your fingers clench, stomach tight, chest rising too fast.

She tilts her head, mocking, daring, teasing. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Say it."

Your breath stutters. She’s watching you unravel, watching you need.

You hesitate.

Her fingers go completely still.

The absence is unbearable. The loss of heat, friction, her—everything.

She waits. Just waits.

Eyes locked on you, lips parted, not moving until she hears what she wants.

“You wanna cum or not?”

Her voice is wrecked, low, filthy—and so fucking amused. Like she already knows.

Your jaw locks, but your body betrays you.

“Yuna, please—I'm so close” It rips out of you, barely a whisper, shaky, ruined.

Her eyes spark. She grins.

She giggles. It’s horny, evil, delighted.

And with that, she dives back in.

Messy. Unforgiving.

Her mouth works you over, fast, relentless, sucking hard like she’s dragging the orgasm out of you. Her cheeks hollow, tongue pressing firm, head bobbing fast, sloppy, wrecking you.

Her hands won’t stop moving—both of them now, stroking, twisting, pumping, slick and filthy, drenched in her spit.

She pulls off just to spit directly onto your tip, spreading it with her tongue, letting the mess drip down your shaft, pooling at your base.

She goes back down, faster, tongue swirling, throat flexing, each motion more desperate, more demanding. The sounds she’s making—filthy, obscene, completely unashamed.

You can’t stop it.

Your hips jerk, thighs flex, toes curl, fingers pull tight in her hair.

And then—your whole body locks up.

It hits like lightning, brutal, full-body, overwhelming.

You moan—loud, wrecked, shaking.

She pulls off at the last second, her tongue stretched out, eyes locked on you, stroking you fast as you cum hard all over her tongue and inside her mouth.

Spurts of thick white streak across her tongue, her lips, pooling where she wants it.

She stays there, mouth open, holding it, letting you see it.

Then—she closes her mouth and swallows.

A loud, filthy gulp.

Like she was made for this.

She stays between your legs a moment longer, tongue flicking slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of sensitive skin as she cleans you up, savoring it. Her lips press one last time to the tip, a lazy, lingering kiss, before she finally—finally—pulls away, her breath still hot and damp against your stomach.

She doesn’t hurry.

She stretches, rolling her shoulders like she just wrapped up a workout, sighing like she’s completely satisfied, her fingers pressing briefly into your thighs as she pushes herself up. She moves like she owns the space, like she just conquered something.

Without another word, she crawls up towards you. One hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up, making sure you’re looking at her.

She’s still wrecked, ruined—her lips glossy, chin damp, pupils dark and dripping with smug satisfaction.

"You're never taking those glasses off again."

Her other hand moves, fingers slipping up to the bridge of your glasses, pushing them back into place with the laziest, most condescending adjustment.

Like she just did fucking community service.

You’re still panting, your limbs heavy, your chest still rising too fast. And yet—a realization grips you.

You just unleashed something.

Something feral. Something dangerous.

She grins, tilting her head like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

And then—she giggles.

That same horny, delighted, evil little giggle from before.

Like she’s already thinking about the next time she ruins you.

End.

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

AN: Finally got through this one and can check it off. I'm currently starting a new piece, one of my longer ones so it might be a while until its posted. Ill try my best to fill the next few days with more shorter moments like this one, but I really wanna focus on my longer fics with more depth. As always, room for part 2 with this.

#male reader #kpop smut #cloudtrnsprncy #cloudtsmut #itzy yuna #shin yuna #shin yuna smut #shin yuna x male reader #yuna x male reader

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dirtyvulture · 2 years ago

Text

Something’s in the Air - Part 1

Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: Natasha returns from a mission after being exposed to a chemical that makes her extremely, extraordinarily feral for you.

Word count: 2362

AN: Here is the opening act of the long-awaited collaboration with @jedi-luca! Enjoy, sinners!

Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha races down the empty hallway, trying to ignore the blaring alarms and flashing lights overhead. She can’t read any of the symbols marking the doors, and all she knows is that she’s looking for one with a triangle in the center of three overlapping circles, like a variation on the classic biohazard sign.

“You find him yet, Nat?” Clint buzzes in her earpiece.

“Not yet,” she responds.

“Well, you’ve only got about another minute before HYDRA agents flood the building–”

“I know!” she snaps, her eyes finally settling on a triangle surrounded by three circles. “I found it!”

“Get him and let’s go!”

Natasha doesn’t need to be told twice, and she inputs the ten-digit code into the keypad on the door. It lights green to grant her access and she steps into a tiny, square room, no bigger than a broom closet, the heavy steel door automatically closing behind her.

“Uh oh,” she says when she hears the door click shut.

Suddenly, a white smoke starts to fill the tiny room, jetting out from the piping running along the walls and ceiling. Natasha covers her mouth with her arm, fumbling on her belt for a proper mask. The smoke stings her eyes and burns her throat, but the initial shock of pain is quickly overtaken by a warm, fuzzy feeling. Natasha staggers back into the wall, not even feeling the impact of the solid concrete as her stomach clenches in a way that’s familiar and foreign at the same time.

But just as quickly as it had started, the pipes stop pumping out the gas and it clears away through the vents. She wipes at her watering eyes and sees a door in front of her with no lock. More cautiously this time, she opens it and finds herself staring down a young boy behind a glass wall.

“Clint, I found him.”

***********************************************************************

Natasha safely extracts the boy, wrapping him up in a ragged blanket she found on his bed, and carries him out in a bundle. She meets Clint just in time before the HYDRA agents realize their base has been compromised. They leave the boy in the custody of a SHIELD van and six agents. Natasha gives him a chocolate before they part ways. Her and Clint escape on the Quinjet, only breathing a sigh of relief once they are safely hidden amongst the clouds.

“When I was trying to get him, I got sprayed with something,” she tells him in a low voice.

“With what?” Clint doesn’t take his eyes off the dashboard.

“I don’t know.”

“You seem fine.”

As if on cue, the same sharp pain that she experienced upon first inhaling the smoke punches her stomach again and she doubles over.

“Shit,” she curses, trying to massage out the ache and feeling her cheeks flame in embarrassment when she finally realizes what the pain reminds her of. Although she wouldn’t describe it as a pain, but that feeling of being so aroused she wants to burst.

“Nat?”

“Uh, never mind,” she says, not wanting to get into details with him.

“I’ll call ahead and have Dr. Cho ready to see you in the medical bay,” he says.

“I–Wait, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Natasha says, but Clint won’t listen to her, he’s already typing out a message to send to the doctor.

Natasha grumbles wordlessly and takes the seat next to Clint. She still isn’t sure why SHIELD made such a point to send in some of their best Avengers to free a single young boy, but sometimes, the less details they knew the better, and now she had to worry about what exactly had been in that smoke.

She takes her phone out from the backpack under the chair and sends you a text. But it’s almost three in the morning, so her text goes unanswered. With another 30 minutes until they’re home, Natasha boredly scrolls back up in the conversation, her attention caught by some of the old pictures you’ve sent her.

The first one she looks at is probably the most innocent of the bunch, a slightly blurred snapshot of you post-workout, your skin gleaming with sweat and your muscles pumped. Natasha bites her lip as her eyes trace down the veins on your stomach, following their path to the waistband of your shorts, which is not quite low enough to reveal perhaps her favorite body part of yours.

She quickly skips to the next picture, which is much more scandalous and should not be viewed in a public setting, but luckily Clint is sitting in front of her. You’re lying down, the camera positioned down towards your muscular legs, but Natasha’s attention is drawn to the thick cock you have your hand wrapped around. Her center clenches around nothing; Natasha wishes she had your length inside of her, ramming into her hard and fast, until you came undone and pumped your seed deep into her womb.

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself, crossing one leg over the other, trying to alleviate the pulsing at her core and failing. There was still so much time left until they landed, she didn’t know how she was going to survive. Out of pure desperation, she considers touching herself (still in the vicinity of where Clint can hear her, but he can turn his hearing aid down, can’t he?) right there in the Quinjet, and it takes all of her mental strength to keep her hands on her knees. She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her, why she’s so horny all of a sudden.

All she knows is if she doesn’t have you inside her in the next hour, she may actually die.

Using her advanced Red Room torture resistance techniques, Natasha barely clings to her sanity for the next 30 minutes. She grinds herself subtly on her seat, although it does next to nothing to ease the ache in her stomach.

“Can’t you fly faster?” she asks Clint eventually through gritted teeth. “It’s not like there’s any traffic in the sky.”

“I’m doing my best,” Cint responds.

“Well, going a little faster would be nice.”

Clint doesn’t bite back at her even though he wants to. Overall, Natasha seems okay even after her exposure to the unknown gas, but Clint knows his best friend better than herself. Something is bothering her–badly–and she doesn’t want to talk about it, which means it can only be one thing.

Natasha wants to cry in relief when the iconic “A” of the Avengers Tower comes into view. She practically hijacks the controls from Clint trying to land the plane faster, but just before she can sprint out of the Quinjet, Clint grabs onto her.

“You have to see Dr. Cho first,” Clint says sternly, holding onto her arms in a vice grip.

“I don’t want to see the doctor. I want Y/N,” Natasha says, almost in tears. Her core is practically on fire at this point and she wouldn’t be surprised if her panties are ruined.

“Y/N will be there,” Clint assures her, dragging her to the elevator and going one floor down. Despite the early hour, Dr. Cho waits sleepily to greet them at the entrance of the medical bay. Natasha practically throws a fit as Dr. Cho escorts her to a private room, while Clint disappears without an explanation.

“I’m fine, Doctor,” Natasha insists as Dr. Cho has her sit down on the edge of the plastic bed.

“Agent Barton said you may have been exposed to some unknown chemical,” Dr. Cho says, shining a bright penlight into her eyes and opening her mouth to examine her tongue and tonsils.

“I’m fine,” Natasha repeats, shifting agitatedly and crinkling the white paper covering the bed.

Dr. Cho squints at her. “I’ll be back to run some more tests,” she says, disappearing with a flip of her white lab coat.

Natasha groans and falls back on the bed, unzipping the collar of her uniform down to her chest, flapping her hands to cool her face. She thinks back to the pictures of you she looked at on her phone and before she can even stop herself, sticks her hands down her pants, ignoring how unusually wet she is, her fingers gliding through her soaked folds to press into herself.

“Fuck,” she mutters, kicking her legs wider to find a more comfortable position. Natasha can easily fit three fingers into herself already, a feat that normally takes some working up to, although it pales in comparison to the size of your cock. She pants at the thought of you on top of her, your body hot and heavy against hers, the feeling of your muscles flexing as you devote your strength to pleasuring her. She clenches hard around her fingers, trying to imagine them as your cock instead, hard and throbbing, stretching her apart in the best of ways and filling her better than any toy or substitute can.

Suddenly, there is a knock on her door and Natasha pauses mid-thrust.

“Nat? Babe, it’s me,” your croaky voice says on the other side.

“Come in!” she responds.

You open the door, still in your pajamas. Clint had called you until you woke up, telling you that while the mission had been a success, Natasha had come down with something and you needed to see her immediately. Without properly dressing, you staggered down to the medical bay, worried about your girlfriend despite your own exhaustion and delirium from being woken up at three in the morning.

And now you stare at her, jaw dropped, as Natasha is lying on the hospital bed, her hand disappearing down her shorts, her forehead covered in a light layer of sweat.

“Are you–” you start.

“I need you,” she begs, removing her hand and your heart thumps when you see that it is completely soaked in her slick. “Y/N, please, I need you.”

“What happened?” you ask, as your legs seem to have a mind of their own and gravitate to her side. Natasha reaches out for you, her hand twisting in the front of your shirt to draw you closer. She tugs it up, trying to shove her hand into the waistband of your shorts next and you stop her gently. “Nat.”

“I got sprayed with something while I was trying to free the subject,” she says, clawing at your abs. “At first it didn’t seem to affect me, but when we were on the way back, I just felt this overwhelming need…for you.”

“For me?”

She nods, biting her lip and looking at you with her bedroom eyes. Suddenly, your whole body lights awake, and you strip out of your shirts and shorts, climbing on the bed with Natasha and the structure squeaks under your added weight. Natasha pulls you on top of her, frantically wiggling out of her suit so she can feel you skin-to-skin. She kisses you ferociously, bruising your lips and clacking her teeth against yours, but you respond with equal enthusiasm, not really sure why she’s so desperate for you all of a sudden but not going to complain either.

You roll your hips in a gyrating motion, dragging your hardening cock along the insides of her slick thighs, unable to help yourself when you let out a moan at her impressive wetness. You’ve never seen her so ready for you, and you know you’ll have no trouble slipping inside.

“Fuck, fuck,” Natasha pants, dragging her nails along the muscular planes of your back and gripping onto your butt. “Stop teasing, baby,” she begs, trying to guide you to her entrance but you hold back.

“I haven’t even gone in and you’re already going to cum,” you point out, although you’re surprisingly close yourself, seeing how turned on your girlfriend is for you. You look down to see your cock shining with her wetness, the veins on it throbbing.

“I can’t cum without you,” Natasha says, and you lose all patience and discipline. You line yourself up with her entrance and push in hard, moaning when wet velvet wraps around your cock and Natasha moans in absolute relief at finally being filled. You pound into her, the muscles in your thighs and abs flexing like steel bands. Natasha keens as she takes you, knowing that you’re the only one who can bring her to a high that will have her entire body shaking, her lungs screaming, her nails marking red lines down your shoulders and back that everyone will see when you go to the gym tomorrow.

“God, Nat, you’re so wet,” you say between thrusts, using all your strength to hold yourself upright, when Natasha’s pussy is so tight and hot around you that your thighs are trembling and you can’t focus on anything other than the heat between your legs. You want to last longer, so you broaden your strokes, slowing down your pace but burying yourself even deeper with each thrust.

“Yes, just like that,” Natasha moans as the head of your cock presses against her sensitive walls. “Keep going, baby. Don’t stop.” She wants you to be buried to the hilt when you release her load, she wants to drain you of every drop you have to offer.

“Almost…there…” you grunt, squeezing her hips tighter as you pin her against the bed. The ball of arousal in your stomach burns hotter as you near your peak, and Natasha knows your body well enough to sense that your finish is near. She pulses around you harder and you drop your head against her breasts, panting like you’re running the last mile of a marathon. “Nat, Nat I’m gonna–”

It takes one more powerful thrust that causes the entire hospital bed to collapse under your combined weight. You jerk your hips forward as your cum shoots out of your cock in short, hard bursts. Natasha practically cries in relief as you fill her to the brim.

At the same second all of this is happening, Dr. Cho comes back into the room. She says nothing, only nodding in immediate understanding and quickly backing out.

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

AN: Part 2 by @jedi-luca is here!

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader

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decentwritings · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 5

Summary: At twenty-six, you never expected your life to look like this: a veteran, a college dropout, now running drugs to cover your late father’s debts. The military took you away for a brief moment, but now you're back in your hometown, keeping family at a distance to keep them safe. Your simple plan to clear the debt, one job at a time, unravels the moment Mabel steps into your life.

previous part <- -> next part

You manage to leave at nine, telling your mom and sister you have an early morning. They buy the lie and let you go, while Devin pesters you with questions about Mabel. He mentions she promised to bake a cake with him, which twists the knife even deeper as you head out the door. The guilt gnaws at you, but you push it down.

When you get home, you want nothing more than to hide under the covers and shut the world out. But you know better. There's no avoiding tonight. You sigh, forcing yourself into action, and head for the closet.

You open it, punch in the code on your safe, and scan your fingerprint. The door clicks open, revealing the gun, an extra magazine, and some cash laid out neatly. You stare at the gun for a moment, a bitter reminder of what you're getting pulled into.

Devin is a curious kid, which is why you had to upgrade to this new safe. You caught him playing with your old one, punching in random numbers for fun. The last thing you needed was for him to accidentally figure out the code, so you got one with a fingerprint scanner to avoid any risks.

You grab the gun, checking the current magazine before tucking the extra one into your pocket. The gun slides into your waistband, but you wince at how uncomfortable it feels. You've been meaning to buy a holster, but never got around to it. After tonight, though, you need to make time. Especially after that threat.

With about an hour left until you need to be there, you decide to walk around and clear your head. But the regret hits when you circle the block, your mind filled with thoughts of Mabel. The memory of her hurt, disappointed face plays over and over, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

As you finish your walk, the weight of the gun against your waistband feels heavier than it did before. No matter how many times you adjust it, the discomfort doesn't go away. The uncomfortable thoughts of Mabel mix with the sharp reality of what you're about to face tonight. You knew this would catch up with you one day, but you never thought it would happen like this—with someone like Mabel getting caught in the crossfire.

You check your phone. Thirty minutes left.

You make your way back to your apartment, mentally running through every scenario you can think of—ways to handle Nick, what to say if he pushes too far. But none of them feel right. You're too distracted. You can't shake the memory of Mabel's face, the way her voice trembled when she asked for her keys.

You shake your head, trying to refocus. Nick's the priority tonight. This isn't the time to let emotions mess with your judgment.

You get into your car and drive towards the meeting point, the streets eerily quiet at this hour. Each red light feels like a countdown ticking in your head. You park a block away from the spot, hands gripping the wheel as you watch the clock on your dashboard.

The lot isn't as empty as you close in on it. There are a few cars littered here and there. There's one specific car that's been here since your first drop with these guys. You think about asking around town for it; the car looks in good condition. You don't know why someone abandoned it here.

Nick hops out of the van with Oliver and Isaac in tow. There's a truck parked next the van and Costa and Tom hop out of it, and you feel a breath of relief come out of your mouth at the sight of the father.

You greet them with a nod then silent follow as they take the lead. Costa walks alongside you, head down, same as you.

"He knows about you and Mabel," Costa's voice is low, eyes focused on the back of Nick's head. You glance at him, giving him a look he understands well. He nods, pursing his lips in a thin line. "Charlie tried to get him to back off but–"

"Broke his hand?" You finish, and he nods. All you can do is shake your head.

"Listen," Costa sighs, waiting to see if Nick is listening. When the man keeps walking, he continues. "Mabel may say she can handle this but...she wants out–she is out. Keep it that way."

You swallow thickly. "I am," you tell him, and by the look on your face; he frowns. He understands and it break his heart. "I don't want her anywhere near this. Or you, man." You add, sending him a pointed glare.

Costa shrugs. "That dive you took, remember?" You nod, furrowing your brows. "That was suppose to be my last. But they needed an extra guy, and with Charlie out–I got pulled in. But this is my last one; no way they're reeling me into another one."

You nod, tucking your hands in your pockets. You were going to make sure of it.

You guys come to a stop towards the end of the lot. Some men stand there with a large container behind them. You crack your neck, hoping to relieve the ache and tension there. Something tells you this is bigger than the last. How these guys are moving big things without getting caught is beyond you. You'll worry about it later.

Nick exchanges some words with one of the men, too quiet for you to hear. You glance at Costa and he shakes his head, silently telling you not to ask. Tom steps forward, a large duffel bag in his hands you hadn't noticed before.

"It's all there," Nick says to one of the men, narrowing his eyes. Another one takes the duffel from Tom, practically snatching it from him then unzips the bag. You catch a glimpse of some stacks of one hundred dollar bills.

You look away, clenching your jaw. A cash exchange for whatever is in that container? This is ridiculous.

"Looks and feels like one mill," the man says, handing the duffel to his boss. You control your expression; one million dollars? That's more than you have ever heard them handle.

"Now, show me yours," Nick orders, crossing his arms.

The shorter one turns and begins to unlock the container. He struggles to open the doors but once he does, the sight of a powdered drugs fills the scene. From floor to ceiling of the container is filled.

Nick glances back, at all of you, a proud smirk on his lips. "Ronny is gonna have a field day," he whistles, tipping an imaginary hat at the drugs. "Alright. Pleasure doing business," he extends his hand towards the taller one and they shake hands before they leave.

Once they're out of sight, Nick turns to Tom with a sharp grin. "Last shipment, crew."

Tom scoffs, arms crossed, his unimpressed expression etched deeply into his face. Then again, that's his natural look. "You said that last time." He spits on the ground, eyes narrowing. "We're only here because Charlie back-talked you. We're done."

Nick's laughter is dry and humorless, cutting through the silence like a blade.

He scratches his chin, his grin fading into something darker. Without a word, he nods at Isaac. The man moves like a well-trained dog, pulling his gun and leveling it at Tom.

The crew tenses as Nick steps closer to Tom, who stiffens but doesn't back down. "I think you're confused," Nick says, his voice low and venomous. He looks over at Costa, flashing him a smile that's too friendly to be anything but a threat. "None of you are done. Not until I say you're done."

Your jaw tightens as Costa shifts beside you. He's done. You can feel it in the way he won't meet your gaze, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Nick's words. Tom's done. Hell, even you're done. But none of that matters to Nick.

You glance at Oliver. His eyes meet yours, pleading silently: Don't. But your inner voice-the one that remembers your father's mistakes—won't stay quiet. Don't let Costa turn out like him.

Your decision comes fast. Too fast. Before you can think, your hand shoots out, grabbing Isaac's wrist. There's a sickening crunch as his fingers bend unnaturally, and the gun slips from his grasp. He yells in pain, stumbling back, but you don't stop. You raise it with certainty, aiming it squarely at Nick.

The shift in the room is instant. Nick's smirk vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. Around you, the crew freezes, their breath caught in their throats. Even Isaac's groans fade into the background as the blood roars in your ears.

Nick's eyes narrow, flicking to Oliver. The silent command is clear: Do something.

Oliver hesitates, his hand hovering near his holstered weapon. For a moment, he's unreadable. Then you see it—hesitation, uncertainty. It's a crack in the soldier's armor, and it shifts the balance in the room.

"What the hell are you waiting for, Oliver?" Nick snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Do your damn job!"

But Oliver doesn't move. His gaze drops to the floor, fists clenched. It's a small rebellion, but the defiance radiates from him. You catch the flicker of frustration in Nick's expression, and the tension tightens like a noose.

Oliver's fingers twitch toward his weapon. Instinct takes over. You pivot, leveling the gun at him before he can even draw. He freezes, hands slowly rising as his glare burns into you. He's angry–probably humiliated–that you outmaneuvered him. For a soldier with more time in the field, it's a bitter pill to swallow. You're surprised yourself, but there's no time to dwell on it.

Without breaking your aim, you step forward and yank his gun from its holster. The weight is familiar now, your grip steady. You toss it to Tom, who catches it with a quick nod and points it at Nick.

"Now where did a pretty girl like you get the balls do all this?" Nick asks, sarcastic, like he has no gun on him. His arms raise when Tom waves the gun at him, and he glares back.

"The Army, jackass," you retort, clenching your jaw. His eyes flicker to Oliver, who avoids his gaze. He looks pissed, angry that Oliver knew and didn't share this information. "New deal. You leave them out of this; you got me. I was Army, a Ranger...and I have photographic memory." You add, hoping he bites the bait. You can't have Costa in this anymore.

Costa's eyes widen, along with Tom's. Oliver's face changes from anger to impressed.

Nick snarls. "Bullshit," he huffs, glancing at each of them for their reaction.

You raise a brow. "Yeah? I caught one glimpse of your license once, six months ago," you start and he raises a brow, unsure of where you're going. "S51973690. I also know Isaac and Oliver's license number by heart. And every location you've made a deal at. Every face, every plate number that's crossed my path. You think I can't take this all to someone higher and have them hunting you down within the hour?"

Nick's smirk falters, the confidence in his eyes dimming as he weighs your words. The rest of the crew stands frozen, exchanging uneasy glances. Costa's jaw tightens, clearly surprised by your sudden gamble, but he doesn't say a word. Tom's grip tightens on Oliver's gun, keeping it steady on Nick as he watches for any sudden movements.

"You're bluffing," Nick spits, but his voice has lost some of its edge. "You wouldn't anyway. I may go down but two more will take my place. Ronny isn't an idiot. He covers his bases."

You tighten your hold on the gun. You know. That's why you haven't shot him yet.

"So take my offer," you say back, voice firm as your glare. In the corner of your eye, you see Costa's need to argue but you shut him down with a glare. "You leave them out of this, and I'll be your fall guy. It's your choice."

Nick looks at you, his eyes narrowing as he calculates his next move. His fingers twitch, like he wants to call for backup or grab a weapon, but the power has shifted. He knows it, and so do you.

After what feels like an eternity, Nick lets out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," he growls, lowering his hands slowly. "Alright. "

You nod, lowering your gun but keeping your gaze locked on his. "Understood. But if you step out of line, I'll make sure no one comes out clean."

Nick glares at you for a moment longer before signaling for Isaac and Oliver to fall back. You can feel Costa's tension ease beside you, but the air between you all is still thick with distrust. This isn't over, but for now, you've bought them some time.

"We still need someone with a boat–" Nick's eyes flicker to Tom, "to take this shipment."

Tom lowers his gun. "I'll do it." You open your mouth to disagree, but he shakes his head. "Nah, kid, it's just me. No one else will be on that boat but me." He sends a pointed glare to Costa.

Costa lowers his gaze, but you don't miss the frown on his lips. He wants to argue, but he's now selfishly not; for his kid. Finally, you think.

Nick nods then leans to grab Isaac off the ground. The guy grunts as he stands, holding his broken hand close to his chest. He glares at you as they all walk away, sullen and two of the three feeling castrated. As Nick and his crew turn to leave, you glance back at Costa. His face is a mix of relief and concern, but he gives you a slight nod—a silent acknowledgment of what you just did for him.

Tom hands you back Oliver's gun, his eyes filled with questions, but you don't answer any of them. Instead, you tuck it in your waistband and exhale shakily. You may have just stepped deeper into the fire, but at least for now, Costa is safe.

For now, that's all that matters.

\\\\\\

Nick is not one to get revenge. The disrespect he receives, he plans to give back. The same way people say "you get respect when you give respect," is the same way he plans to get back at you.

The plan is simple. Isaac happens to have a piece of technology that can change the traffic lights with the flip of a switch. So, on your way home, you'll end up in a car accident.

Simple and brutal—just the way Nick likes it. The plan would leave no trace back to him, just an unfortunate "accident." A part of him wants to linger behind, so you can see it was him. But he knows you'll get the message. Isaac, always eager to get his hands dirty, agrees without hesitation. There's a sense of thrill in his eyes that sends a chill through anyone who notices.

Oliver being MIA makes things easier for Nick. He knows Oliver wouldn't approve—he's not as cold-blooded. But Isaac? Isaac has no reservations. They don't need Oliver for this. They just need the right moment.

It happens two days later. You're driving home with your nephew in the backseat. He's full of excitement like he always is after a day at the beach. Your sister is in the passenger seat, humming every once in a while to let her son know she's listening.

You're too in your head to focus on what either of them are saying. At this rate, you're just moving by nature. You're used to the drive back to your sister's place after a day at the beach. You can do it with your eyes closed.

As you drive, your nephew's chatter fades into the background, and your sister's humming becomes white noise. Your thoughts circle the events of the last few days, especially Nick's warning glares, and the unease that's been gnawing at you since. You can't shake the feeling that something's off, but you tell yourself it's paranoia.

The intersection ahead is coming up, the same route you've taken countless times. The light turns green, and without hesitation, you begin to drive through.

Then it happens—too fast for you to react.

The flash of headlights to your left, a truck barreling toward you. Your heart jumps to your throat as you slam the brakes, but the truck is moving too fast. The sound of screeching tires and the deafening crash of metal against metal fills the air as the truck slams into the side of your car.

The force sends your vehicle spinning. Glass shatters, your sister screams, and all you can think about is Devin in the backseat. Your hands grip the wheel, trying to regain control, but it's too late. The car skids off the road, coming to a violent halt.

Silence. The world seems to stop for a moment, save for the ringing in your ears and the ragged breaths coming from your chest. You blink, your vision blurry, and then you hear it—your nephew's soft, terrified whimper from the backseat.

Panic floods your body as you struggle to turn around, pain shooting through your side. "Devin," you gasp, your voice hoarse. You see your sister moving, clutching her arm, but she's alive. Devin looks shaken, but unharmed. Relief washes over you.

But as you sit there, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you know—this wasn't an accident. This was Nick.

And as you hear several people around your car asking if you are all okay, you see in the distance the van. The all too familiar van. The windows are tinted but you know he's behind them with a smirk on his lips.

Your teeth grit as you attempt to shove the door open, wanting to chase after him. But you stop the instant you hear your sister stir beside you.

As the sirens get closer, you see the van drive off. You huff out a breath, tired and in pain. You glance up and see a drop of blood roll down your forehead. You look to your sister, guilt rising in your entire system as you see her face with cuts.

Eventually, the ambulance arrives and a paramedic rushes over to help you all out with the help of some firefighters. You urge them to help your nephew and sister out first, and thankfully they listen. But once you're out, adrenaline overcomes you and you feel no more pain.

You decide now isn't the time to face Nick. You ride to the hospital with your sister and nephew, your heart racing as you try to shake off the worry flooding your mind. You watch as the paramedics tend to them, checking for any serious injuries. Devin clutches his mother's hand, wide-eyed but trying to be brave.

"Mom, I'm scared," he whispers, glancing between you and your sister.

"It's okay, buddy. We're going to be just fine," she reassures him, her voice strong despite the pain etched on her face. You feel a surge of protectiveness towards both of them, a fierce determination to keep them safe.

Once inside the ambulance, you sit next to your sister, the paramedic checking your forehead. "Just a small cut, but we'll clean it up," he says, his hands gentle but firm. You nod, barely feeling the sting as he dabs at the blood.

"Where's the driver? Is he okay?" your sister asks, her brow furrowed with concern.

"They're checking him out," the paramedic replies, glancing back at the driver, who is being treated by another team. "You were all very lucky. It could have been much worse."

You don't feel lucky. The image of the van, Nick's smirk, haunts you, reminding you that he's still out there, still a threat. The urge to find him burns in your chest, but right now, you need to focus on your family.

As the ambulance jolts to a stop outside the hospital, you grab your sister's hand. The doors open but you pause to check the surroundings.

Once inside the hospital, the chaos of the emergency room swirls around you. Nurses and doctors bustle about, tending to patients in varying degrees of distress. You're ushered to a waiting area, the bright fluorescent lights harsh against your eyes.

"Devin, I need you to stay close to me," your sister says, her voice steadier now. You watch as she holds onto him tightly, the bond between them a source of strength

As they're taken to a treatment area, you step away for a moment, your heart pounding. You pull out your phone, mind racing with thoughts of how to find Nick. You need to know where he is, how to track him down.

Mabel comes to mind then. He attacked you, got you, your sister and nephew. He can't be after her either. Why would the idiot come after you anyway? You guys made a deal.

As you sit down, staring at the bustling activity around you, you resolve to gather your strength and figure out your next move. Nick thinks he can intimidate you, but he has no idea what you're capable of when it comes to protecting the people you love.

"Hey, are you alright?" a nurse asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You nod, forcing a smile, but inside, you know this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

You stand, grateful for the interruption on your thoughts. "I have to go but my sister and nephew are being treated," you tell her, and she nods to inform you she's listening. "Could you tell her I had to go? I have something to do."

The nurse seems unimpressed, a look of judgement flashes across her face but she's quick to hide it. She nods then walks off in the direction the room your sister is in.

You're rushing out of the hospital, completely missing Mabel's screeching stop as she arrives. You're walking towards your house with determination, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins. The weight of what just happened hangs heavy on your chest, but you push it down, focusing on the task ahead. Nick can't be allowed to get away with this.

As you walk, thoughts of Mabel swirl in your mind. The idea of him targeting her ignites a fire within you, fueling your urgency.

The night air is cool against your skin as you approach your house. You glance around, making sure no one is following you. Once inside, you lock the door behind you and immediately head for your room. You need to gather anything you might need—your phone, your knife, your gun, and whatever else you can grab in case you need to make a quick escape.

You sit on your bed for a moment, your heart racing as you pull up Mabel's number. You stare at her number, exhaling a breath as your thumb hovers over the call button. You stop, deciding now isn't the best time to call.

Mabel receives your message as she sits with Devin, his head rested on her shoulder while your sister is getting her wrist splint. With the adrenaline, she hadn't realized it was broken.

I know we aren't talking but...

Are you okay?

Mabel frowns. When she didn't find you in the room with your sister, she assumed you went out to do something stupid. She glances at Devin, who remains sleeping peacefully as if this whole thing didn't just happen.

She's still mad at you. For pushing her away and not fighting for her to stay. But when she heard the news of your crash, she rushed over, her anger disappearing. Here she is now, angry while also worried sick about you.

I'm fine. I'm at the hospital with your sister and nephew. Where are you?

You know where she is. That's all you care about. You lock your phone, choosing not to answer and double check the items you have on you. Once you're done, you head out in search for the bastard.

You don't know where he is but you're going to find out. He's not stupid enough to be at his home but you check there first. You come up empty. So you go to Oliver's place, pounding on his door when you arrive.

You step back, he towers over when he opens the door. He raises a brow and frowns. "You look like shit." He comments.

"Where is he?" You asks, tightening your jaw. He tilts his head in confusion. "Nick. Where is he?" You repeat, voice much harsher than ever.

Oliver's expression shifts from confusion to concern as he takes in your urgency. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since—"

"Since the crash?" you cut him off, frustration boiling over. He's confused again. "He caused an accident, a crash. My sister and nephew were in the car with me." You practically shout.

Oliver's eyes widen. "Is that why you're all fucked up?"

You send him a deadpan glare. "Thanks." You shake your head. "Where is he?"

Oliver shakes his head. He steps back, allowing you to enter his apartment. "Slow down. You need to calm down and think this through. You can't just charge in without a plan."

"Calm down?" you snap, your voice rising. "Did you not hear me? My sister and nephew were in the car! You think I'm going to sit back and wait for him to make his next move?"

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, clearly torn. "Okay, okay. Just give me a second. Let me think." He heads toward his living room, motioning for you to follow.

You huff, watching him search for something. You glance around his living room, eyebrows furrowing. "What were you doing?"

Oliver glances back, looking at you in between his search through some papers. "I wasn't with him," he tells you, returning to what he's doing. "He probably knew I wouldn't help him."

"That's reassuring," you mumble, gripping your side when you feel an ache. You shake it off and exhale a breath.

Oliver pulls a piece of paper out and smiles. "Here." He walks over to you and hands you the paper. "I had to do a run for Ronny, the boss himself. Nick put in a good word for me, the biggest pay day I ever had."

You take the paper, eyeing it. You memorize it then look at him in silent question.

"He should be there. He hides out at Ronny's when he knows he's done something stupid," Oliver tells you. You nod, a grateful look crossing your face. Before you move to leave, he stops you with a stare. "Be careful. I'd go with you but...I told them I'm out. Told them I go back for a tour next week."

You pause, holding his gaze for a moment. "How'd you manage that?" There's a hint of surprise in your voice, but deep down, you're glad to hear it.

Oliver chuckles with a shrug. "I lied." You crack a smile, extending your hand out to him. He takes your hand, gripping it tightly. "But if you need me to stay to help, say the word. I've been wanting to kick his ass for a while now."

You shake your head but you're grateful. "You're done, Cap. Get outta here." You say in your best authoritative voice. He chuckles and releases you, allowing you to leave.

You rush out, trying to figure out the best way to get to this place on foot. You look left then right, before finally coming up with the idea of flagging down a cab. You can't afford to waste time walking, not when every second counts. The streets are still busy enough at this hour, and as luck would have it, a cab pulls up after a few minutes. You hop in, giving the driver the address Oliver gave you.

As the car weaves through the city, you can't stop your mind from racing. You think about your sister, your nephew, and Mabel—everything you've been through and everything you stand to lose if you don't stop Nick. Your hand unconsciously moves to your side, feeling the soreness from the crash.

The cab pulls up a block away from the address, and you pay the driver before stepping out. The area is quiet, too quiet. You can feel the tension in the air, knowing that Nick is nearby, hiding out like the coward he is. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you approach the building. You pull your knife out and grip the handle tightly.

It's an old warehouse, one of those places you wouldn't look twice at. But now, it feels like the center of the storm. You glance around, making sure no one's watching before slipping inside. The place is dimly lit, and you can hear faint voices in the distance. You grip your knife tighter, knowing this could be your only chance to end it.

You move through the shadows, inching closer to the sound of the voices. You spot Nick, laughing with a couple of guys, his back turned to you. The anger bubbles up inside you, but you force yourself to stay calm. You need to wait for the right moment.

But then, you feel a hand on your shoulder. You still, feeling their grip on your shoulder tighten.

"Ahh, the one with the memory, right?" You can smell the smoke on his breath. He allows you turn to face him and he smiles, like he's just seen a long time family member. "Please, join us." He pushes you and you stumble, stepping into the center of the warehouse.

All eyes fall on you and your jaw tightens as Nick smirks in your direction. They knew you were coming.

Nick feigns a grimaces. "Ooh, that looks bad," he jests, earning laughs from the others. "Did you get in a car accident or something?"

You lunge at him but you're stopped by two large men, who grab your arms and hold you back with ease. The knife in your hand clatters to the floor and one of them kicks it off in some direction. The laughter continues as Nick stands there, looking smug and completely in control. His smirk deepens as he steps closer, eyeing you up and down. The men take the chance to disarm you, taking your gun away from you now. They even take your phone from you.

One of the men clicks the lock button and your phone screen brightens, he then shows Ronny the screen.

Ronny brightens. "Aww, you're the one with my precious Mabel Black Label?" Your jaw tightens, the hold on you getting tighter the more you fight. "You know, she's a special one. She helped her mom a lot, made us a lot of money. It was sad to let her go."

Your heart races as Ronny's words sink in. The mention of Mabel, her name coming from his mouth, twists your stomach into knots. You clench your fists, struggling against the iron grip of the men holding you.

"You see, we let her go," Ronny continues, reading over the message on your phone from Mabel. He clicks his tongue three times. "But I'm thinking we made a mistake. Maybe it's kismet, you know? How she always comes back here, like she wants to belong somewhere. And maybe she belongs here...with us."

Nick cracks a smile. "We should be thanking you, Faro." He teases, using your nickname. It sounds like a curse word coming from him.

Your muscles tense against the hold of the two men restraining you. Every fiber of your being wants to tear him apart, but you know you're outnumbered and outgunned.

"Leave Mabel out of this." You get out through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes.

Ronny frowns, shaking his head. "No. You see, with you two together;" he pauses, pocketing your phone. "The cash flow will be endless. Your memory, her smarts, your fight, her feistiness–I can see it now. We'll own this town by the end of the year."

Your stomach churns as Ronny's words sink in. The thought of Mabel being dragged back into this life makes your skin crawl. You feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, but you refuse to show weakness.

Ronny pats your cheek gently, then pinches your cheek. "You're like your father. Talked a big game. Said he would have the money by the end of the week, blah blah blah–it was an endless cycle." He shrugs, shaking his head with disappointment.

The mention of your father makes you lower your guard. It always does when these guys mention him. You wanted information on how your father was around them, because you couldn't figure how he got himself in this mess. Sure, there was gambling but...what else?

"Here's the plan," Ronny nods, silently ordering the men to release you. You nearly fall over, but manage to stable yourself to stay standing. "You care about Mabel, I care about Mabel–hell, everyone in this room cares about Mabel, right, guys?"

You flicker your gaze to them all when they nod. You even hear one of them say they saw her take her first steps. Your jaw tightens, feeling overloaded with the need to fight. But this is a lost battle. You know it.

"So, here's the thing," Ronny takes a deep breath. "We got people wanting to shut us down. Cops, they always wanna ruin the party." He scrunches his nose.

You're not sure where this going.

"Find a way in to the police station," he continues, crossing his arms. "Get the list of CIs and UCs because we can't have them ruining our party." He smirks.

Your mind reels as Ronny lays out his twisted plan. He wants you to infiltrate the police station, betray the very people trying to take down his operation. It's a trap, one that pulls you deeper into the criminal underworld you've been trying to escape.

The thought of betraying anyone, let alone risking the lives of cops—people who could be trying to keep Mabel and your family safe—makes your blood run cold. But the weight of Ronny's leverage, the looming threat to Mabel, presses down hard.

"You're insane if you think I'm going to help you with that," you say, your voice steady despite the whirlwind inside.

Ronny smirks, unfazed. "Oh, I know you don't want to do it. But you will. Because if you don't, well..." He glances around at the men before lowering his voice. "Let's just say, Mabel won't have a choice. She'll come back, and she'll come back worse."

Your fists clench as the reality hits you. He's not bluffing. If you don't comply, Mabel will be dragged into this nightmare, and she won't come out the same. You can't let that happen.

"How the hell am I supposed to get in?" you ask through gritted teeth, knowing you're already losing this battle.

Ronny shrugs casually, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "You've got connections, don't you? Family ties, friends in the right places. You've been around long enough to know how to get what you need."

You want to punch him, break free, anything but play his game. But the threat against Mabel lingers heavy. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "And what happens when I get the list? You think they're just going to let me waltz out of there with classified information?"

Ronny grins. "You got that memory thing," he taps your forehead and you fight back the urge to slap his hand away. "Get the list, bring it back here or write it down after memorizing it, and you'll never have to worry about us again. No one will touch Mabel, or you, ever again."

You don't trust him, not for a second. But right now, it's the only way to keep Mabel safe.

"And that's it? We're done?" You ask, glancing at all of them.

Ronny shrugs. "She is. You're not." He answers. "Consider it your way of paying her mother's debt off. She tried to do that for a while, in more ways than just running drugs if you know what I mean?"

The men surrounding you laugh and your hands tightened into a fist.

"Get the list and Mabel is safe." You wait to see if he has more to say. He looks around for a second then leans forward. "As for her boyfriend, he's a different story. But it works well for you because you'll have no competition."

You furrow your brows. "Charlie? What does Charlie have to do with any of this?"

"Well, his brother's father killed one of my best," Ronny responds like it's obvious. "Left a woman a widow and a daughter without his father. And well, a daughter needs her father, right?" He sends you a knowing smile.

Your face twists into a snarl, causing him to laugh. He pats your shoulder then reaches for your phone in his pocket. He hands it to you and waits for you to take it.

It's his way of seeing if you'll take his offer.

You hesitate, staring at the phone in Ronny's hand as if it's a loaded weapon. Accepting it means you're agreeing to his twisted deal, putting yourself deeper into this mess. But if you don't, Mabel's life—and now Charlie's—hangs in the balance.

The mention of Charlie's brother, Tom's father gnaws at you. You heard the story. About the old man who shot Weeks dead. He's Tom's father. And the guy is still working with this crew? How much of an idiot are the people in this town.

Right, you're not one to talk.

But now, Ronny's threatening to use that against him, against you all. He's putting more than just Mabel's life in your hands. Charlie warned you. Stay away from Mabel.

You should have listened.

You reach out slowly, gripping the phone as the tension thickens in the room. Your stomach churns, but you force yourself to stay composed. This isn't just about you anymore. It's about keeping Mabel and her friends safe from this maniac.

Ronny smirks as you take the phone, satisfied. "Good. Now, you've got two days. Make it happen, and maybe this all blows over for Mabel. Maybe."

You turn on your heel, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing any more reaction from you. As you head toward the exit, the weight of the situation settles heavy in your chest. You glance back just once, seeing Nick leaning against the wall, smug as ever.

But this isn't over. One way or another, he's going to get what's his from you.

As you step outside, the cool night air hits you, and you finally allow yourself to breathe. You look down at your phone, wondering how you're going to pull this off without losing everything, or worse—without losing Mabel.

~~~~~~

hi, hello,

sorry for the delay on this chapter. I hope you all had a great holiday and have a great new year. my classes started up again and the next couple of chapters may take some time to post as I already have a butt load of homework (and it’s just the first week). thank you guys for liking my writing, all the support actually encouraged me to post this Mabel story so really thank you.

I’ll see you on the next one, thank you!🫶🏼

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #finestkind #mabel (finestkind)#lighthouse #mabel (finestkind) x reader

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belphies-cowgirl · 2 years ago

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little things they do for you

word count: 900+

content warning: mentions of body image (if I am missing anything please let me know and I will add it!)

Lucifer

invites you into his study whenever he gets a new record. he prefers listening to it with you in his arms. also, he'll play the piano for you if you ask him.

will praise you for minor or major accomplishments. even if you don't think something deserves praise he gives it to you anyways. he's so proud of his human.

wakes you up gently by rubbing your back or your shoulder. sometimes if you've stayed up late studying or working he peppers your face with gentle kisses (he will drag you out of bed lovingly if he needs to)

Mammon

will hype you up and be your partner in crime. will indulge in creating chaos or doing something stupid with you. you have his full support and he'd do anything for you, even if it results in him getting strung up by Lucifer. he'll happily take the blame and punishments for you.

will let you have control over the radio and heat/ac settings in his car. will let you put your feet up on the dashboard too. he bought a car charger for you in case you forget to bring yours and he'll order for you in the drive-thru (has what you want memorized, but still asks if you want something else)

helps you with chores. does laundry with you and carries your laundry basket (cleans out the lint trap for you too) does the dishes with you, he washes while you dry or vice versa. moves furniture for you while you vacuum (let him woo you by showing off his strength) want to rearrange your room at 3 am? he'll help you.

Levi

if you're into cosplay he'll make outfits for you. he'll make sure it fits perfectly and has some wiggle room for comfort.

will let you sit on his lap and help you get through hard levels or help you find new areas and items. will guide your hand with his while doing so and praise you.

if you're anxious about something he'll try anything to ease some of your anxiety. he'll give your hand reassuring squeezes or talk you through a breathing exercise or simply listen to you talk about what's making you anxious. he'll look up more ways to deal with anxiety and practice them with you.

Satan

texts you quotes from books or poems that remind him of you or when he wants to be romantic. he sometimes takes inspiration from romance novels when planning a date. also surprises you with flowers for no reason.

will help you study or write an essay. teaches you how to color code, organize, find proper resources, and reassures you that you're doing a good job. he'll be patient and adapt his techniques to any learning style you prefer.

will spend hours with you in a bookstore, and carry any books you want to buy. if you like to spend a decent amount of time in certain genre aisles, he'll grab books you can't reach or just be content standing near you while you look through the books.

Asmo

want an outfit that didn't come in your size or was sold out? he'll somehow get it for you or make one for you. need some alterations done? say less. see something you like but you're low on funds? say less.

have any pain, discomfort, or trouble relaxing? he's got heating pads, pain relievers, an aroma diffuser, bath salts, anything you can think of for pain relief or relaxation. he also gives really good massages.

will help you with any insecurities you may have. reassuring words, compliments, and sticky notes on any mirrors to remind you that you're beautiful and are worthy of so much more than you think you deserve. will buy you products that help enhance your natural beauty. he'll also help you take care of yourself with little reminders or help you establish and keep up with a daily routine.

Beel

lets you wear his clothes if you're having one of those days where you just want to hide your body or just want to feel super comfy and smell like him.

he reminds you to eat every day. he understands if it's hard sometimes for you to eat at least 3 meals a day or eat when you're not feeling well. will ask if you'd like some of his food or if he can make you anything. will also let you steal food off his plate.

will support you and keep you motivated if you want to work out. he'll get on the treadmill next to you or go for a walk with you. anything you want to do he'll do it with you. shares his water bottle with you if yours is empty. will make smoothies, protein shakes, or trail mix with you. he'll encourage body positivity, but won't cross any boundaries or make you uncomfortable.

Belphie

gives you space and understands if you don't want to take a nap with him or cuddle. will offer to let you borrow one of his blankets or pillows to sleep with instead.

will comfort you if you have nightmares or trouble sleeping. don't feel secure after a nightmare? he'll hold you close or act like a weighted blanket for you.

lets you kick him in your sleep and he'll adapt to any of your sleeping positions. want to sleep like a starfish with one leg up on the wall? that's fine, he'll make room for you and find a different way to cuddle.

✄ ——————————————————————

feel free to comment, reblog, shoot me a message, or an ask <3

please do not use my work as your own!

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drgrlfriend · 2 years ago

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Comments versus Bookmarks on AO3

A few people seemed appreciative of my post about how to use AO3's Marked for Later feature, so I thought I'd follow up with another tip about comments versus bookmarks. As part of the amazing @justleaveacommentfest I noticed a few people mentioned leaving nice comments in bookmarks, and I thought it might help to have a little info about how comments are different from bookmarks, and why it's better to send a comment if you want to make an author happy or make fandom friends or have an interesting discussion.

Bookmarks *are* viewable by everyone, unless you make them private. If you plan to say anything negative in your bookmark, please make it private. It's not really the flip side, however, that leaving positive statements in your bookmarks will reach the author, though.

Most authors are alerted when they get new comments, either through their dashboard or via email if they choose, or both. Yay! Serotonin boost, and also the ability to reply back and start a conversation! Plus, readers can have great discussions with each *other* in the comments section of a fic! If you're super into a fic you can read comments on the chapter even years later, and sometimes find the author adding additional thoughts or discussing their thought process while writing! It's like DVD extras for fanfic! (Do kids these days know what DVD extras are any more? Damned if I know).

You don't really know, as an author, when someone bookmarks one of your fics. Some authors, particularly when they are feeling low (cough cough) may also look at bookmarks to see if there are nice things there. This would basically just involve clicking on the bookmarks for each of your fics individually to see if there's anything a.) new and b.) nice in them.

This is an act of desperation. It's not really a wise thing to do, as 99% of bookmarks have no comments, or just list the title and author in fear of the fic being deleted some day and not knowing what you're missing. Even worse, if you, as an author, get desperate enough to cruise your bookmarks, you are as likely to see someone say something like "Meh" or "This got boring so I stopped reading at Chapter 5" or "Too many werewolves 3/10" in a werewolf fic than you are to see a nice compliment.

So, if you loved a fic and want to memorialize your love in a bookmark, be an extra super-duper sweetheart and cut and paste that into a comment for the author! Make the AO3 environment enriching for both authors and fellow readers in the comments section, and protect your friendly local author by not providing intermittent positive reinforcement for the negative behavior of scrolling through bookmarks!

I still recommend bookmarking fics. Bookmark those favorite fics you want to come back and read later, or use bookmarks to leave yourself little reminders if they are nice or in private bookmarks if they are not nice. Bookmark good resources, like how to code things in html or how to use AO3 filters most effectively. Find awesome new things to read by looking through the bookmarks of your favorite authors, because if you vibe with someone's writing you may also vibe with their favorite fics to read!

#archive of our own #ao3 #fanfiction #authors #writers #readers #bookmarks versus comments #how to ao3 #ao3 tips and tricks #ao3 how-tos #ao3 resources

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pollka1 · 18 days ago

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You know it's not the same as it was

Summary - Bob invites Josh out for a father and son day

Characters - Bob Washington, Josh Washington

Genre - Angst, fluff

Warnings - none

Character speech is colour coded:

Green = Bob

Blue = Josh

It started with a knock on the door.

Not the kind that echoed through the house, commanding attention—just a soft, careful rhythm against Josh’s bedroom door. He was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed in a hoodie and socks, watching the sunlight spill across the carpet.

“Josh?” his dad’s voice, muffled but cautious. “You got a second?”

Josh stood slowly and pulled the door open. Bob was on the other side, dressed in a fleece jacket and jeans, holding two paper coffee cups and looking more nervous than he probably meant to.

“Got you that cinnamon crap you like,” Bob said, holding out one of the cups with a small smile.

Josh blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

“You order it every fall like it’s a religion.” Bob offered a half shrug. “I pay attention sometimes.”

Josh took the cup. “Thanks.”

They stood in the doorway for a beat—long enough for it to get awkward.

Bob cleared his throat. “Listen, I was thinking...maybe you and I could go out for a bit today. Just the two of us. You know, like a father-son thing. No pressure or anything. Just a drive, maybe walk a little.”

Josh raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity mixing with his hesitation. “You sure? Thought you had filming today.”

“I moved the timetable,” Bob said. “Wanted to see you more, if you can believe it.”

Josh huffed a soft laugh under his breath, the first in a while. “Alright. Yeah…okay.”

“Great,” Bob said, visibly relieved. “I’ll warm up the car.”

Josh closed the door once his dad left, then looked at himself in the mirror above his dresser. His hair was a mess, and the hollows beneath his eyes hadn’t gone anywhere. But for the first time in a while, the invitation hadn’t felt forced.

A year ago, he wouldn’t have believed this kind of morning was even possible.

...

The drive started quiet.

Josh leaned his head against the window, watching the trees blur past in streaks of orange and red. The heater hummed low, and the scent of cinnamon from his coffee clung to the air between them. It was a crisp autumn morning—the kind that felt like it could either make or break you.

Bob tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with some oldies station barely coming through the static. A song from the '80s warbled from the speakers, something Josh recognized vaguely from childhood road trips.

“I almost brought your sisters here once,” Bob said, breaking the silence. “This place we're going—it’s not flashy. Kind of rundown now. But when you were little, you loved it. Said it was the best day of your life.”

Josh glanced over. “The amusement park? With the big wooden coaster?”

Bob smiled. “That’s the one. You called it 'Mount Doom' even though it went like, twenty miles an hour. You made Hannah sit in the front and screamed the whole time.”

Josh let out a quiet laugh, surprised by the warmth that bubbled up. “That thing rattled like it was held together with tape.”

“It probably was.”

The silence after that wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful.

Josh stared out at the mountains again. “Why today?”

Bob didn’t pretend not to understand. He kept his eyes on the road.

“I guess I was waiting for the right time,” he said. “And then I realized...there’s no such thing. Just days that slip away while you wait for them to feel right.”

Josh nodded slowly, watching the shadows of bare trees flicker across the dashboard.

The sign came into view about twenty minutes later: “Maple Ridge Park – Family Fun Since 1975!” It was a faded banner stretched above a rusted gate, but the colours still popped with some stubborn cheer.

Bob parked and cut the engine. They sat there for a minute, the park visible just beyond the lot—small roller coasters, an ancient Ferris wheel turning slow and lazy, a snack stand that looked like it hadn't changed in decades.

Josh’s breath fogged the window again. “Haven’t been here since...what, middle school?”

“Elementary, actually,” Bob said. “You insisted we ride the teacups eight times in a row. You threw up and still begged for cotton candy.”

Josh shook his head with a faint smile. “Sounds about right.”

Josh stared out at the park gates again—there was a family walking in, a little boy holding his dad’s hand and pointing excitedly at the Ferris wheel. It hit something deep in Josh’s chest. Not pain exactly. Just weight.

...

As they stepped through the gates, the scent of kettle corn and sweet grease hit them like a memory, warm and weirdly comforting. Josh paused and looked around, taking it all in.

It was quiet today. No crowds. Just the soft laughter of kids, the buzz of aging speakers, and the creak of rides turning.

The path to “Mount Doom” was almost exactly how Josh remembered it—uneven pavement, popcorn bits crushed underfoot, and that creaky, towering wooden frame looming ahead. There was a low hum of chatter from a nearby group, a child squealing with joy, and the faint, repetitive loop of carousel music playing too slow.

Josh followed his dad with his hands in his hoodie pockets, the sleeves pulled low over his fingers. He was quieter now, watching his own footsteps, eyes flicking up only occasionally to catch glimpses of cotton-candy colours and spinning lights. Something in his chest had started tightening. Not a sharp pain. Just a slow press, like his lungs were filling with too much air and not enough breath.

Bob was talking—pointing to a stand that used to sell hot dogs, telling some story about Melinda nearly losing her purse on the coaster back in ‘99—but Josh wasn’t really hearing it.

The laughter was too loud. The music was off. There were too many faces. Too many flashes of movement. And suddenly he couldn’t stop hearing the way Beth had laughed on the trail, how Hannah’s voice used to rise in excitement when she got too close to the edge of something. He saw flashes—imagined ones—of all of them here, how it could’ve been, how it should’ve been.

“—osh? Josh, you good?”

Josh blinked. Bob had stopped in front of the coaster entrance, looking at him with narrowed eyes and gentle concern. Josh shook his head once—barely.

“I…I think I’m gonna sit this one out,” he muttered, turning away before he had to look at his dad too long.

Bob reached out instinctively, but let his hand drop. “Where are you going?”

“The car. Just need a second.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The walk back felt like miles. The sound of everything blurred together—chatter, screeching brakes, synthetic music. Josh’s pulse thundered in his ears. The back of his throat ached for no reason he could name.

By the time he reached the car, he dropped into the passenger seat with the door still half-open, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The cold breeze cut across the parking lot, but he barely noticed.

He didn’t cry. Not really. His face was dry. But his chest felt like it was going to split open.

A few minutes passed before he heard slow footsteps on gravel. Then the driver’s door creaked open and Bob slid into the seat beside him without saying anything.

Josh didn’t look up.

And Bob didn’t reach out.

The air was cold, but the tension was colder.

Bob tapped his fingers on the steering wheel once, then stilled his hand. His eyes were fixed out the windshield, unfocused, like he was seeing something years away.

“I remember when you were six, maybe seven. You’d beg me every Saturday morning to take you to that old toy store near the bakery.”

Josh didn’t move.

“You never wanted to buy anything. Not really. You just liked touching all the boxes, asking the clerk questions. You’d plan out these stories with the action figures, line them up in battle formations on the shelf.” He chuckled softly. “I thought you were gonna be a general or something.”

Josh stared at the dashboard. The knot in his chest loosened a little—not gone, but heard.

Bob kept going, his voice gentler now. “There was this one time—you had this crumpled five-dollar bill from your allowance, and you picked out this stupid little rubber dinosaur. Ugly thing. Bright green. You made up a name for it—what was it? Something dramatic…”

“Captain Fang,” Josh said hoarsely, almost before he could stop himself.

Bob laughed quietly, nodding. “That’s right. Captain Fang. You took that thing everywhere. Even brought it to that family photo session and refused to smile unless he was in the shot.”

Josh felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He didn’t smile—not really—but it was close.

“You used to draw comics about him,” Bob went on. “You’d sit at the kitchen table for hours. These little folded booklets. No plot, just chaos. Captain Fang saves the world.” He laughed again, then stopped, quieter this time. “I still have a couple of those. Tucked in a drawer somewhere.”

Josh shifted, finally looking over at him. Bob’s eyes were red-rimmed, not from tears—just the weight of time.

“I miss that,” Bob said softly. “I miss being close to you.”

Josh’s throat was tight. He didn’t know how to say he missed it too. That he barely recognized who he’d become, and most days he wasn’t sure if he liked him. That everything since the mountain felt like he was underwater, reaching for something solid that wouldn’t stop drifting just out of reach.

“You always made the stories,” Bob said, finally meeting his son’s eyes. “And I was just…there. I didn’t get it back then. I thought I needed to teach you how to be strong. How to be a man. But you already were. You were just trying to survive in your own way.”

Josh blinked fast and looked down at his hands. His fingers were trembling slightly, and he clenched them to stop it.

“You used to get overwhelmed even as a kid,” Bob said, voice low and thoughtful. “Back then, we thought it was just sensitivity. Or shyness. I didn’t get it then.”

Josh gave a hollow laugh. “You never really tried to.”

Bob didn’t argue. He just nodded slowly. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

Josh finally turned his head a little, glancing over. His dad looked tired. Older than he remembered. But sincere.

“You remembered the cinnamon drink,” Josh said quietly.

“I remember more than you think,” Bob replied. “Like how you used to talk to yourself when in your room. How you’d recite entire movie scenes to Hannah and Beth like they were gospel. Or how you’d come up with games so detailed that I could never keep up.”

Josh looked away again, his throat tight.

“I remember thinking you were going to be a writer,” Bob continued. “Or a director. Or something brilliant. And I didn’t know how to help when that brilliance started turning in on you.”

The wind rattled a tree nearby, sending red-gold leaves across the hood.

Josh’s voice came out almost a whisper. “You used to look at me like I scared you.”

“I was scared,” Bob admitted. “Not of you. Of not knowing how to fix it. Of losing you. Of saying the wrong thing and making it worse.”

Josh turned toward him fully this time, shoulders sagging.

Bob turned the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the engine. Just let the heater kick on, filling the car with a soft, warm hum.

The amusement park lights flickered through the windshield.

Bob drummed his fingers on the steering wheel once. “You hungry? We could stop for food on the way back.”

Josh didn’t look at him. But after a long pause, he nodded. “Okay.”

It wasn’t a breakthrough. It wasn’t healing.

But it was something.

#until dawn #josh washington #i love angst #josh until dawn #writing #light angst #sad writing #supermassive games #tiktok #angst #daddy issues #as it was #until dawn game

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mik-mania · 1 year ago

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irt last post. also imagine queer lesbian-coded mik (scared shitless) with pink hair and a little white bitch dog at a rural run-down gas station. called my dad panicking cus the air in my tire was low and i got the warning on my dashboard and had no idea what to do cus id never gotten that before (id been on the road for ~2 days at that point, turned 18 a week prior)

phone kept cutting out cus i was in the middle of nowhere. ended up near tears, asking this rough-looking guy (imagine a calloused car mechanic who rides in a motorcycle gang in his free time and youre probably close) how to put air in my tires.

guy was super sweet and even paid for the air and let me borrow his tire gauge (it wasnt one of the automatic air stations). god fuckin bless

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playstationvii · 6 months ago

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#Playstation7 #framework #BasicArchitecture #RawCode #RawScript #Opensource #DigitalConsole

To build a new gaming console’s digital framework from the ground up, you would need to integrate several programming languages and technologies to manage different aspects of the system. Below is an outline of the code and language choices required for various parts of the framework, focusing on languages like C++, Python, JavaScript, CSS, MySQL, and Perl for different functionalities.

1. System Architecture Design (Low-level)

• Language: C/C++, Assembly

• Purpose: To program the low-level system components such as CPU, GPU, and memory management.

• Example Code (C++) – Low-Level Hardware Interaction:

#include <iostream>

int main() {

// Initialize hardware (simplified example)

std::cout << "Initializing CPU...\n";

// Set up memory management

std::cout << "Allocating memory for GPU...\n";

// Example: Allocating memory for gaming graphics

int* graphicsMemory = new int[1024]; // Allocate 1KB for demo purposes

std::cout << "Memory allocated for GPU graphics rendering.\n";

// Simulate starting the game engine

std::cout << "Starting game engine...\n";

delete[] graphicsMemory; // Clean up

return 0;

}

2. Operating System Development

• Languages: C, C++, Python (for utilities)

• Purpose: Developing the kernel and OS for hardware abstraction and user-space processes.

• Kernel Code Example (C) – Implementing a simple syscall:

#include <stdio.h>

#include <unistd.h>

int main() {

// Example of invoking a custom system call

syscall(0); // System call 0 - usually reserved for read in UNIX-like systems

printf("System call executed\n");

return 0;

}

3. Software Development Kit (SDK)

• Languages: C++, Python (for tooling), Vulkan or DirectX (for graphics APIs)

• Purpose: Provide libraries and tools for developers to create games.

• Example SDK Code (Vulkan API with C++):

#include <vulkan/vulkan.h>

VkInstance instance;

void initVulkan() {

VkApplicationInfo appInfo = {};

appInfo.sType = VK_STRUCTURE_TYPE_APPLICATION_INFO;

appInfo.pApplicationName = "GameApp";

appInfo.applicationVersion = VK_MAKE_VERSION(1, 0, 0);

appInfo.pEngineName = "GameEngine";

appInfo.engineVersion = VK_MAKE_VERSION(1, 0, 0);

appInfo.apiVersion = VK_API_VERSION_1_0;

VkInstanceCreateInfo createInfo = {};

createInfo.sType = VK_STRUCTURE_TYPE_INSTANCE_CREATE_INFO;

createInfo.pApplicationInfo = &appInfo;

vkCreateInstance(&createInfo, nullptr, &instance);

std::cout << "Vulkan SDK Initialized\n";

}

4. User Interface (UI) Development

• Languages: JavaScript, HTML, CSS (for UI), Python (backend)

• Purpose: Front-end interface design for the user experience and dashboard.

• Example UI Code (HTML/CSS/JavaScript):

<!DOCTYPE html>

<html>

<head>

<title>Console Dashboard</title>

<style>

body { font-family: Arial, sans-serif; background-color: #282c34; color: white; }

.menu { display: flex; justify-content: center; margin-top: 50px; }

.menu button { padding: 15px 30px; margin: 10px; background-color: #61dafb; border: none; cursor: pointer; }

</style>

</head>

<body>

<button onclick="startGame()">Start Game</button>

<button onclick="openStore()">Store</button>

</div>

function startGame() {

alert("Starting Game...");

}

function openStore() {

alert("Opening Store...");

}

</script>

</body>

</html>

5. Digital Store Integration

• Languages: Python (backend), MySQL (database), JavaScript (frontend)

• Purpose: A backend system for purchasing and managing digital game licenses.

• Example Backend Code (Python with MySQL):

import mysql.connector

def connect_db():

db = mysql.connector.connect(

host="localhost",

user="admin",

password="password",

database="game_store"

)

return db

def fetch_games():

db = connect_db()

cursor = db.cursor()

cursor.execute("SELECT * FROM games")

games = cursor.fetchall()

for game in games:

print(f"Game ID: {game[0]}, Name: {game[1]}, Price: {game[2]}")

db.close()

fetch_games()

6. Security Framework Implementation

• Languages: C++, Python, Perl (for system scripts)

• Purpose: Ensure data integrity, authentication, and encryption.

• Example Code (Python – Encrypting User Data):

from cryptography.fernet import Fernet

# Generate a key for encryption

key = Fernet.generate_key()

cipher_suite = Fernet(key)

# Encrypt sensitive user information (e.g., account password)

password = b"SuperSecretPassword"

encrypted_password = cipher_suite.encrypt(password)

print(f"Encrypted Password: {encrypted_password}")

# Decrypting the password

decrypted_password = cipher_suite.decrypt(encrypted_password)

print(f"Decrypted Password: {decrypted_password}")

7. Testing and Quality Assurance

• Languages: Python (for automated tests), Jest (for JavaScript testing)

• Purpose: Unit testing, integration testing, and debugging.

• Example Unit Test (Python using unittest):

import unittest

def add(a, b):

return a + b

class TestGameFramework(unittest.TestCase):

def test_add(self):

self.assertEqual(add(10, 20), 30)

if __name__ == '__main__':

unittest.main()

8. Order of Implementation

• Phase 1: Focus on core system architecture (low-level C/C++) and OS development.

• Phase 2: Develop SDK and start building the basic framework for UI and input management.

• Phase 3: Work on backend systems like the digital store and integrate with front-end UI.

• Phase 4: Begin rigorous testing and debugging using automated test suites.

This comprehensive approach gives you a detailed idea of how each component can be built using a combination of these languages and technologies. Each section is modular, allowing teams to work on different aspects of the console simultaneously.

[Pixel Art/Sprites/Buildinodels/VictoriaSecretPixelArtKit #Playstation7 #DearDearestBrands]

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chirs5730 · 7 months ago

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Unlock Global Opportunities with Zoqq: The Future of Virtual Banking

In today's globalized world, businesses need more than just traditional banking solutions. They need a financial platform that is flexible, efficient, and designed to scale with their growth. That’s where Zoqq comes in. With Zoqq, you can simplify international transactions, streamline expense management, and customize your banking experience—all while saving on fees. Here’s how Zoqq can transform your business.

1. Expand Your Reach with Global Banking

Breaking into international markets can be challenging, but managing your finances doesn’t have to be. Zoqq’s multi-currency account allows you to receive payments from over 190 countries, giving your business a truly global reach. Whether you're an e-commerce store, a freelancer, or a growing enterprise, Zoqq offers:

Low currency conversion fees to save you money on international transactions.

Fast, efficient payment processing, ensuring you get paid without delay.

A seamless way to handle cross-border transactions, all from one account.

With Zoqq, expanding your business globally has never been easier.

2. Simplified Expense Management

Managing business expenses can quickly become overwhelming, especially if your team is spread across different locations. Zoqq makes this process easier by offering a comprehensive expense management system. With Zoqq, you can:

Create and send invoices in just a few clicks.

Pay bills directly from your account, reducing administrative hassle.

Track your spending in real-time using Zoqq’s integrated corporate card, ensuring that you stay on top of your finances without the need for external tools.

Zoqq puts you in control of your expenses, so you can focus on growing your business, not managing receipts.

3. Customize Your Banking Platform with Zoqq’s Modular Option

No two businesses are the same, and your financial platform should reflect that. With Zoqq’s Modular Custom-Built Option, you can build a banking experience that’s as unique as your brand. Without any coding knowledge required, you can:

Brand the platform with your logo and custom domain.

Choose from a variety of themes powered by AI, ensuring that your banking portal looks professional and aligns with your brand identity.

Customize the dashboard to suit your specific business needs, making it easier to access the tools and features you use most.

This adaptability means that Zoqq can grow with your business and scale as your financial needs evolve.

4. Quick and Easy Self-Service

Nobody wants a lengthy onboarding process when switching financial platforms. With Zoqq, getting started is a breeze. Our self-service approach allows you to sign up and get your account running in no time, thanks to our automated onboarding system. You’ll be up and running faster than ever, with minimal effort required on your part.

At Zoqq, we believe that your time is valuable, and we’ve designed our platform to let you focus on your business while we handle the details.

The Future of Banking is Here

Zoqq is more than just a virtual bank—it’s a platform built for modern businesses looking to operate on a global scale. From effortless global transactions to a fully customizable experience, Zoqq offers everything you need to manage your business finances efficiently and effectively.

Ready to take your business to the next level? Sign up with Zoqq today and experience a new era of virtual banking.

#banking #online banking #online payment #online money #payments

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manonamora-if · 1 year ago

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Retrospective 2023 (2)

See Part 1 for the Retrospective Infographic

2023 has been a rollercoaster of stuff, with some very high-highs, and some pretty low-lows. Things have been pretty busy this year, then got busier and weirder. I didn't manage to do things I wanted to do, ending up doing a lot of different things instead. This year was kinda the perfect storm to do all those new stuff and experimentation I've published.

It's been good, it's been bad, it's been ugly, and it's been cool. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Long post ahead - breaking here.

Goals for 2023

Last year, I made big-ass post about what I hoped to achieved during those next 12 months. The main one being: Get things off my desk and shelf it for good! The goal was to finish WIPs and remasters of "completed" projects.

And I... somewhat did that? But also... did whatever. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Taking the list of the "plan":

Goncharov Escapes! was: re-written, re-coded, and translated (to French). The new version also now includes music!

La Petite Mort was: re-written, added content, and translated (to English) for this year's Ectocomp. It just need one more or two things tho

The demo of P-Rix - Space Trucker is now playable on mobile! (and the template based on the game is out too)

The Trials and Tribulations of Edward Harcourt didn't get just one but TWO updates last year!

A bunch of templates! 5 to be exact: 3 focused more on visuals (Sci-Fi, VN, Title), and the other 2 more on code (Setting, Charac Creator).

So... what's extra? Well... a lot. Maybe too much...

A lot of new titles under my name: DOL-OS, The Rye in the Dark City (wip), The Roads not Taken, À la Campagne, Entre-d'oeuf coquilles/An Eggcellent Preparation, Collision, Intersigne, Clarence Street 14, The Dinner, In the Blink of an Eye, Tower of Sleep, and Dévoiement. From bite-size to full large game, that makes TWELVE new thing this year! I... may have gone a bit overboard with this...

Aside from the template, I've also worked on the SugarCube Guide, a guide that covers all markup, macros, functions, methods, and APIs of the SugarCube format. From the basics to the very advanced code ~ Which will receive another update when the 2.37 comes out for real.

After the @seedcomp-if, I continued to organised more IF events: Neo-Twiny Jam, Single Choice Jam, Orifice Jam, Bring Out Your Ghost, Bare-Bones Jam, ShuffleComp... and helped out other events (the IFComp, y'all!).

I've been a tad less active on the Tumblr front lately, mainly because I've hung out more on the Forum or the @neointeractives Discord. But I've been plenty active reviewing games, especially since last May (@manonamora-if-reviews). The count is over 300 now...

I made a zine?????

So yeah... A LOT this year. (and there would have been more had I not gotten sick...)

2023 Achievements and Milestones

There were probably a bunch of itch/analytics milestones this year, but... I've tried to stay away from numbers as much as I could, because I realised it was a source of anxiety. I want to make games for fun, not worry that I haven't achieved a certain play level by a certain date. So I've even edited my itch's dashboard to hide it all. (I'm still updating the analytics sheet once in a while tho) And anyway... nothing will ever be as popular as CRWL, even when I'm trying to push other - and much better imo - games down everyone's throats.

Some other stats on itch:

22 [total] games on itch (incl. the experiments & demos) we're getting closer to my goal of 1 game/birthdays

9 free-to-use prompts

7 free-to-use templates

3 coding guides

1 zine

I also participated in 22 different jams and comps, almost always using one game for multiple jams at once (I'm crazy, but not that crazy). I ranked pretty high on multiple jams, which I am really happy about, and got some amazing reviews and lovely comments. A bunch of my games from 2022 were nominated for the IFDB Awards (and two were mentioned in the Top50 IF too)! (maybe next time I'll get a spot too !)

But the major thing coming out of it all was winning a big competition too, with DOL-OS at the start of the year. Holy shit, did that make my year. I really wasn't expecting it because so many of the games that year were incredible! This was such a confidence booster! I think that's my biggest achievement this year. (I just finished the puzzle I won too, and that was loads of fun) I am so so so proud of that game, especially after releasing the remaster.

Some non-numerical achievements I'm happy about:

I continued experimenting this year, with non-linear stories (DOL-OS), shorter and more kinetic content (Neo-Interactive jam entries), and... well... a thing. The experimentation included trying out other programs to make game too!

Speaking of the thing... I've made a monster of a Twine, creating a bad (oh so bad in convention) parser... which I still haven't finished fixing. I talked at length about here.

I've made an actual proper parser game, following the conventions of the medium... and enjoyed it a lot. From creating puzzles to solving the puzzle that was coding it. It didn't rank super high, but it got some good reactions! Making a parser strangely helped me playing them, and appreciate them more.

Has it been a lot of stuff? Yeah... it feels a bit like a lot...

Some 2023 personal things

Like last year, I've continued to struggle with feeling like I was not doing enough during the year (or the month, before doing the monthly dev logs). Not enough words written or progress made. It was a pervasive thing last year, and I've been working on myself to feel less so, especially with all I've been doing anyway this year. But it's still there.

I think I recently found one of the reasons I've been feeling this way: not working on or finishing the WIPs I started with back in 2021 and in 2022, not making substantial progress that would warrant an update... It's been especially hard when seeing other authors churn out updates left and right and I have little to nothing to show for. Maybe that's why I've been compensating with all the new little projects and jam entries throughout the year (and half-way through 2022). I mean... there hasn't been a month where I didn't publish something new, whether it was an update, or a new game, or a template/guide, or brought out a whole-ass remaster of a game.

And by working on those other little things, I think I found myself in some sort of cycle, where the time spent on those new things is not spent on the WIPs, and I start feeling bad about it. But when I open the file, with all that pressure I put myself, nothing gets written or fixed. So I distract myself with a different thing... and I end up not making any progress on the WIP. It sucks, because I want to see those WIPs done. I want to finish those stories. But it's been hard. Who'd have thunk it??? I'm a stupid human being after all ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I know breaking that cycle will happen... when I work on those darn WIPs. I just need to push myself to get there... But I also want to enjoy what I am writing too, because the quality of the writing really sucks when I force it... So silliness has been happening in the meantime.

Will it continue like this? In the near future, most likely. Hopefully not to the extend of the past year and a half. At best, I'd want to have 1-2 updates on a bit WIP, 1-2 new medium-sized games, and a handful small silly experiments, during a year.

Not that I owe anyone an explanation, but anons being nasty about the whole no-progress thing - essentially why @crimsonroseandwhitelily was offline for a whole while, or why I haven't answered many questions lately.

Also gonna take this moment to not address the very personal stuff that happened IRL, even with the very insisting messages I got. I was tempted to go on a whole tangent about what's been going on, but I'm a bit paranoid about my privacy on the internet (and with the anons wilding lately, I've become more careful), and I don't really want IRL to flood this space either (more than it has anyway - considered leaving a few times tbh). I like this specific corner to not be about IRL, to have it as an escape and spend some time just not having to think about it. So yea... you can ask all you want, I'm not going to answer. But it's been a time... I'm coping by being here damnit. Maybe you'll get an(other) autobio game about it one day xD

Here's to a more peaceful state of mind (and inbox) next year...

2023 is OVER officially

And what a fucking year this was. It's made me even more excited to see what 2024 has in store for me.

I want to learn more, for sure. I think I reached a bit of a plateau with SugarCube, where the only thing I feel I haven't tried yet is some sort of RPG adventure/combat system. Or diving further in JavaScript/jQuery (it's inevitable...). Or have less of a spaghetti code... Though it didn't really start as a conscious effort, I'm glad I tried different IF programs and Twine formats this year. It helped me think more about IF game structure and coding. It really pushed me to grow and appreciate the variety there is in IF outside of Tumblr. It did reinforce my love for Twine, especially SugarCube xD

I know I've complained about having done a lot but also not feeling I did enough, but strangely this year has also been pretty fulfilling. Having achieved things I didn't think I could, mess around and create unmentionable bits of code that should not have seen the light of day, learned how to handle new formats, met and talked with a bunch of cool and knowledgeable IF peeps, and just tried to do some good for the community.

I would love to be as fulfilled in this new year too!

I was shocked with all the good things I got in 2022, but I didn't imagine it would be even better this year. How much I got out of this year. How much I got done. How much I learned. How much I grew as a person and a creator. I'm glad I stuck around another year.

I'm really lucky I was able to have the year I had, to be surrounded by such lovely people, to get such positive return on stuff, to be in this community, to have the friends I have, to still be here.

So, thanks for sticking around too, and partake in my silliness :)

#manonamora #retrospective #2023 #year in review #games #indie dev #assets #twine #interactive fiction #interactive games #I can't tag all the projects anymore #because Tumblr has a limit of 20...

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