#but employing any of the five senses

[teagoblin]

. Pt 2

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fight Scene

How to Write a Convincing Fight Scene

In practice, writing a realistic fight scene for your novel is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

That’s because fight scenes can be boring to read.

A movie allows the audience to take a passive stance and have the action wash over them.

In contrast, reading a fight scene requires the audience to activate their imagination.

The audience must participate in constructing the fight scene from your clues and seeing it play out in their mind’s eye.

That’s a lot more difficult than getting it fed to you visually.

Below are strategies for writing fight scenes.

Fight Scenes Should Move the Story Forward

The very first rule for fight writing (and writing any scene in general) is to ensure that it moves the story forward.

Say “no” to gratuitous fight scenes that only show off fancy moves or writing skills.

Here’s the easiest way to find out if your fight scene moves the story:

Delete it.

Now, read the scene before and the scene after.

Can you still make sense of what happened?

If the fight caused some type of transition in your story, keep it in.

And remember: Not all transitions are physical. Some are mental.

You don’t always have to discuss the physical aftermath.

You can also explore the mental fallout after a fight.

This can be how the fight moves the story forward.

Fight Scenes Should Improve Characterization

Because reading a fight scene can get boring quickly, it’s important that you focus on more than the bare-knuckle action.

Use fights as a way to explore your character(s) and provide more insight on the following:

Why does the character make the choices that they make in the fight?

How does each choice reinforce their characterization?

How does each choice impact their internal and/ or external goals?

Is this conflict getting the character closer or further away from their goals? How?

What are the stakes for each character? What do they stand to win/lose?

What type of fighter is the character? What are their physical or mental abilities? (Remember that not every protagonist will be a trained assassin, so they’re prone to make sloppy mistakes during a fight.)

Use the fight scene to reveal necessary information about the characters.

Be sure to give the reader a glimpse into the character’s soul and not just into their fighting skills.

Fight Scenes Shouldn't Slow the Pace

In movies and especially in real life, fights go by quickly.

But in literature, fight scenes can slow the pace.

That’s because you have to write all of the details and the reader has to reconstruct the scene in their minds.

However, if you employ certain literary devices into your narrative, you can actually create a taut fight scene.

Here are some tips:

Write in shorter sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to digest. It also speeds up the pace of a story.

Mix action with dialogue. Don’t just write long descriptions of what’s happening. Also, share the verbal exchange between your characters.

Don’t focus too much on what’s going on inside the character’s mind. Introspection happens before and after a fight, not during.

Keep the fight short. Fights should never go on for pages (unless you’re discussing an epic battle between armies, and not individuals).

Hit ’Em With All the Senses

One of the best ways to get visceral when describing a fight is to activate every sense possible.

This includes sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell.

Think of how you can use these five descriptors in your writing to immediately transport the reader to the scene.

Sight 

Perhaps the most obvious.

You’ll describe exactly what the characters are seeing and what the reader should pay attention to in the scene.

Hearing 

Is a little more delicate.

A fight scene is a perfect time to introduce onomatopoeia into your narrative.

Onomatopoeia - a word that sounds like what it is describing.

Try using more subtle examples, such as:

Boom, Clang, Clap, Clatter, Click, Crack, Creak, Crunk, Fizzle, Gargle, Groan, Grunt, Gurgle, Hiss, Howl, Hum, Knock, Plod, Rattle, Roar, Rustle, Sizzle, Smack, Splash, Splatter, Squeal, Tap, Thud, Thumb, Whine, Whisper

Taste 

Be careful with going abstract here.

Instead of using phrases like, “he could taste fear in the air,”

go for something more concrete like, “blood mixed with strawberry lip gloss was a strange taste.”

Touch 

Perhaps one of the easiest senses to convey.

Describe how the characters feel and interact with each other physically.

Smell 

You often see or hear a fight, but can you smell it?

In person, what would the fight smell like? Probably sweat.

Consider other scents, such as the ambient aroma in the scene.

Example: If the fight takes place in a car garage, there may be the lingering scent of motor oil and tire rubber.

Don’t be afraid to add that into the scene to introduce a different dimension.

When Writing a Fight Scene, Edit, Edit, Edit

A good story is an edited one.

The same rule applies to fight scenes.

A sloppy fight scene can slow the pace of your story and/or confuse the reader.

When editing your fight scene, keep the following in mind:

Don’t include a blow by blow of what happens in the fight. After your initial draft, remove non-essential details that can slow down reading.

Delete flowery language. Extra words drag the pace. Remove every single word that you can.

Consolidate characters to reduce reader confusion and frustration.

Source ⚜ Fight Scenes (Part 2) ⚜ Words for your Fight Scenes Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Poking/Hitting ⚜ Panting ⚜ Running ⚜ Pain

[wordsofelie]

Chapter 1

🌅Don’t you dare runaway (A Phoenix and Ashes Sequel)

Miya Osamu x f!reader

Summary: Miya Osamu thinks some things will never change— Atsumu will always be annoying; his Ma’s food will always be the best and you will always be his favourite sunrise.

Content Warnings: Timeskip Setting, Manga Spoilers, ex!Suna, Swearing

Words count: 3.1k

chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4 - chapter 5 - chapter 6 - chapter 7

Miya Osamu wouldn’t consider himself bad-looking. In fact, back in high school, he was quite popular. He remembers being on the volleyball team, where girls would show up to every game just to catch a glimpse of him, even more than ‘Tsumu—though his brother would argue that to the grave. But to be honest, Osamu didn’t really care about the attention. It was nice, sure, but it could also be annoying at times.

Now, as an adult running his own business, things have changed. The fangirls have been replaced by regular customers—people from the neighbourhood, office workers, students. Some of the girls still look at him, maybe even flirt a little, but it's different. They’re not giggling or blushing like teenagers. They smile, exchange pleasantries, and Osamu catches the occasional lingering glance, but no one is making a scene.

It’s almost a relief—being popular in school was one thing, but running a restaurant requires a different kind of behaviour. He can’t really ignore girls or play hard to get anymore. He has to smile and be polite all the time. Still, he is good at keeping people at arm's length and has a whole strategy built to keep his female customers without giving them false hope. So when a girl has a crush on him (and he can sense from afar) he adopts his three-steps rule: smiling but not too widely, looking at them in the eyes but not too intensely and when he hands them what they ordered, carefully avoiding any fingers brushing or any physical touch. With that, Osamu hopes that people will come back not because of how he looks but because they will like what he makes. And that’s just fine with him.

And above anything else, if he didn’t have time to date in high school because of the club, now that he is working, he has even less time to give to a significant other. So, he concluded that it’s better to keep people away.

(Well, except you.)

So yes, Miya Osamu is used to the attention. However, as he takes a glimpse at the two obasan grocery shopping on the other side of the road, whispering and grinning at him, he remembers why he hated fangirls back in high school.

“Do we really have to do this in the middle of the street?”

You wave at them with a polite smile and turn your attention back to him.

“Yes, one more, please!” you beg, holding your camera up.

Today is particularly windy and you decide to tie your hair up in a ponytail to keep strands from flying across your face (and Osamu knows you always tie them up when you want to be focused on something.) The sun is up in the sky, and the breeze is chill, summer is over.

The man sighs heavily, dragging out your name in exasperation.

“Osamu.” Your tone shifts, firmer now, the one you use when you're getting serious. Osamu likes to pretend you’re scary when you get like this, but really, you’re not. “Can you tell me who studied communication and social media management here?”

“You,” he mutters, crossing his arms.

“And who is in charge of your Instagram and Facebook pages?”

“You,” he repeats, already knowing where this is going.

“Right. So, unless you want someone else to ruin the carefully crafted image of your business I built, you should probably let me do my job.”

“Yer not even employed here,” he points out, raising an eyebrow.

You match his look, raising yours higher.

“Fine, fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But just one more photo. We’re supposed to open in five minutes.”

You grin in victory and start snapping photos of him. “Miya Osamu, you’re awesome. If you showed your face more you’ll get so much followers.”

Osamu feels a slight warmth creeping into his cheeks, he lowers his cap to hide his face. It’s getting hot, maybe summer isn’t really over?

“But can we at least do that inside?”

He knows you don’t really care whether it makes him uncomfortable or not because you just want to give the best image of Onigiri Miya possible and what’s better than the (good-looking) owner standing in front of his shop, half sat on a table, arms crossed? Nothing, you claim.

“Turn your face so I can see more of your left profile.” You instruct, ignoring his question.

Osamu is about to ask you to stop when Atsumu appears dressed in his MSBY Jackals sweatsuit, frowning.

“Oi, shop's still closed? I’ve got practice, need to eat first,” he complains, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Oh hi, Atsumu!” you lower your camera, “can you wait a few more minutes, I’m taking pictures of your brother.”

“Huh? But how am I supposed to be the best setter in the world if I have an empty stomach?”

Osamu sighs, “All right, all right. I’m openin’ up now. Just wait a sec.”

Atsumu watches as his brother opens the front door. “Wow, shocker. Ya actually listened to me for once.”

Osamu shoots him a flat look, one that makes you chuckle.

You both follow the younger twin inside.

The restaurant is small, but you always tell Osamu it’s warm. The walls are white, so the light reflects all over the place, the counter is made of wood, it’s so clean, sometimes you’re afraid to eat on it. There’s still some work to do and some decorations to add, but Osamu likes this place.

He sees your eyes waver all around the room with a little bit of pride. You both come here every day, but still, Osamu only realises how far he has come once you’ve passed the door and the look on your face lights up like a kid.

Atsumu’s eyes flick over to you as he pulls a chair. “What were ya doin’ outside?”

“I wanted to take some pictures of Osamu for his social media to celebrate the first anniversary of the shop. You know, to get more people to come.”

“Maybe ya should take me as yer model, I’ve always attracted more girls than that moron of ‘Samu.” He puffs his chest proudly.

Atsumu startles when the other twin brutally puts down a packed box with four onigiri inside in front of him. A nice way to tell him to shut up.

He blinks in confusion, staring at the box. “Oi, these are new?”

“Yeah, spicy cucumber and tarako, tell me what ya think.”

“Am I yer crash test or what?” Atsumu’s eyes widen, looking between you and his brother.

Osamu shrugs casually. “Ya always eat what I make, don’t ya? Thought ya wouldn’t mind.”

Atsumu’s indignation fades into a grin, though his pride won’t let him admit he’s secretly pleased to be part of his brother’s culinary experiments. He picks up an onigiri, inspecting it before taking a big bite. “Not bad. It's bitter and salty. But 'Samu, if I end up at the hospital, it’s yer fault. Don’t cry when ya’ll have to tell Ma’ her favourite son is dead.”

“Always so dramatic.” You whisper with a chuckle. The corner of Osamu’s mouth lifts a little at your words.

“Aren’t ya goin’ be late?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says mouth full of rice, “Practice starts a little bit later today, our manager’s lookin’ for someone to handle communication, so he had all those interviews and shit and coach wanted to be here.”

Both you and Osamu exchange a look.

“Atsumu.”

He turns to you, raising a brow.

“Atsumu,” you repeat, more slowly. “You realise I’ve been jobless for a month now, right? And that I’m looking for a job in communication? Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that would be good for ya. Ya’ll be surrounded by men. Bokkun, Omi-kun… even Shoyo-kun has joined us.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes. “And? Why is that a problem?”

Atsumu snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Just wonderin’ if ya can handle all those big guys, seein’ as ya’ve been single for—what—three years now?”

The brown-haired twin sees your features cringe at his words, but you quickly add, “But I’m with Osamu most of the time,” you point out, glancing over at his brother, “I’m used to boys.”

Osamu smirks at that.

Atsumu eyes the two of you before finishing his onigiri. “Right, just don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Do you think I should apply?” You ask Osamu. There’s something in your eyes like you’re searching for his approval but at the same time, his opinion wouldn’t matter anyway for you have already made your decision.

You have changed so much.

Osamu remembers the sixteen-year-old insecure girl he met in high school. Back then, you were quiet, always keeping yourself distant. He hadn’t even had a real conversation with you until the sports festival in his second year, and even then, it had been short, perhaps a little bit awkward. People would forget your name; forget you were in the same grade as them. It never seemed to bother you though. You appeared cold in front of people, but deep down, Osamu always knew you were kind.

The years he spent at your side confirmed that.

Maybe it was the fact that you used to date his former teammate and friend, Suna Rintarou, that pulled you into his world, but even after that relationship ended, you stayed in Osamu’s orbit. In fact, he can hardly remember a time when you weren’t around. You spend so much time at his restaurant, you have dinner together every night, you��re there on the weekends and every January 1st, for who knows how many New Year’s now, you are the first person he sees. You’re a constant in his life, maybe what he could qualify as a best friend (not that he needs to title your relationship, it’s too special to be defined with words).

But somehow, everyone still thinks you’re an introvert, that you don’t like to talk much. That statement never fails to make him smile. Because he knows better. He knows that you love telling him about your day and you love to talk on the phone until the a.m.—when you’re sleepy you tend to ramble. When you start a new activity, you always need to explain in detail what you did and where and how and what you liked or disliked about it. Osamu has no certainties about this world, except for one thing; you might be reserved with others, but never with him.

“Sure, go for it, just know ya’ll have to see ‘Tsumu every day.”

“So what? Are you afraid I’ll spend all my time with your brother instead of you?”

“Me? Yer the one who’s gonna miss me.” He leans on the counter to whisper that last part into your ear. From up close he can see the beauty marks on your face, he rests his chin on his palm and smiles (a side smile, always).

Your lips turn upwards, “You wish.” He can feel your breath against his cheek.

“Oi! Stop whisperin’, I know yer talkin’ about me,” Atsumu interjects, both Osamu and you straighten a little bit. The setter says your name, “D’ya wanna come with me so I can introduce ya to the manager? Maybe ya can give yer CV?”

You turn to Atsumu, “Of course, I’m coming. See you Osamu.”

“I'll close the shop earlier so I can pick ya up Champion.”

"You're the best." You wink at him and join the blond twin outside.

Osamu doesn’t have the time for a relationship because his business comes first.

Or perhaps it comes second.

Right after your friendship.

Osamu waits for you in the parking lot of Osaka’s gym. Your interview is supposed to end in a few minutes but if it were to end sooner, he decided to show up earlier, just in case. It’s become a habit—being there for you before you even ask. It started years ago, and somehow, it never stopped. He catches sight of you emerging from the gym, but your expression worries him. He’s seen almost every side of you by now. Disgust when you eat menma in a ramens, guilt when he picks you up at 3. am. downtown ‘cause you drunk a little bit too much—you always apologise a thousand times, as if he minds driving you home— sadness when your heart had been broken by your first love. And that face, he knows it too; you're overthinking.

Osamu raises a brow as you approach. "So... how’d it go?"

You hesitate, lips pressing together in thought. Your silence makes him uneasy. Osamu notices his hands are starting to sweat just slightly so he decides to hide them in his pockets. Over the years, Osamu has learned that if you're nervous, he is too.

"It went great, actually. Better than I expected." You look down at your shoes for a moment before adding, "But that doesn’t mean anything, right? I don't know if they really liked me... I should have done better..."

Osamu clicks his tongue and opens the passenger door. "Yer always so damn humble. It’s annoyin’, ya know that?"

You chuckle softly and roll your eyes. When you sit next to him in the car and he starts driving, you’re fast to realise he is not going in the direction of your apartment.

"Where are we going?"

"I want to thank ya for takin’ care of the shop’s social and ya know, just supportin’ me and stuff, openin’ the restaurant wasn't easy but ya were there. So yeah…”

“You don’t have to, you know I’m happy to do it.” Your eyes are so soft, Osamu wants to lean in them.

“I know.” He simply answers, he always answers the same thing.

 “How about Chinese food?"

You sink into your seat and nod. Osamu can see that you’re happy with his choice from the wrinkles that form around your nose as you smile. A warm feeling spreads into his chest, it’s comfortable like he had just drunk a sweet cup of tea in winter.

“So, how was the interview?” He then asks (and he knows the conversation will last the whole ride because remember, you never shut up with him).

So, you tell him about how it started with the manager and coach, both professional and somewhat intimidating at first, but then the mood shifted when the captain, Meian, walked in. You describe how calm and composed he was. He made a couple of jokes, and you tried your best not to burst into laughter ("I need to stay professional, you know.") Then, of course, Bokuto barreled in behind him like a human whirlwind.

"Bokuto-san was... a lot," you laugh. "He barely let the manager finish a sentence. He was so excited, he even asked me to make a post about him. But you know it’s not like I’m managing the social media yet, so he was very disappointed, and I felt bad. Maybe I should have made a post anyway, to show my skills? But then what if they didn't like it? What if they think I'm incompetent?"

"I'm sure ya did great, smartass" he uses a soft voice, in an attempt to reassure you. "What happened after?"

"And then," you continue, your voice lowering a little as if you're embarrassed, "Sakusa-san showed up. He didn’t say much—actually, he didn’t say anything at first. He just dragged Bokuto-san out of the room. I think he was annoyed."

There it is—that slight blush on your cheeks when you mention Sakusa. It's subtle, but Osamu has known you long enough to notice. For some reason, it bothers him more than it should.

"He’s... interesting," you add, trying to brush past it, but Osamu’s mind lingers the way your voice softened when you mentioned him.

"Is he? I don’t know him that much.” A sudden urge to change the subject invades him.

“Atsumu warned me not to fall for any of his teammates. Said it would be ‘too much drama for the team.”

Osamu glances at you briefly, curious. "And what d’ya think?"

You shrug casually and shake your hands. "I’m not really looking for a relationship right now."

Those words hit him harder than he expected. There’s a surge of relief in his chest, so sudden and sharp that he can’t ignore it. But he does his best to keep his face neutral, hoping you don’t read his mind.

You’re probably afraid to get hurt again, he understands that. When your relationship of three years ended up with Suna, you were devastated. Osamu remembers you crying for months. He was so afraid you’d starved yourself that he couldn’t sleep at night and decided to take care of you as much as he could. He wished he’d done more though.

He keeps his eyes focused on the road like he doesn't dare look at you at this moment.

He thinks the conversation is over when you break the silence again. "What about you? You never talk about your love life. What happened with your last girlfriend? What was her name again?"

Osamu stiffens. He hadn’t thought about her in months, and now that he does, there’s no real emotion attached to it. She was nice, sure. But nice wasn’t enough.

He needs someone funny and kind and bright.

He wants to laugh and to cook and to sit in silence with the one he loves.

"Ah, her," Osamu says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "She didn’t like that I spent so much time workin'."

You wait for him to say more, and he can feel your eyes on him, asking him to keep going. He sighs, feeling a weight settle in his stomach. And with you, he is about to say, but that would make you feel guilty, and he doesn’t want that.

You frown, confused. "She was very pretty though. Why didn’t you ever introduce me to her? Were you... ashamed of me or something?"

Ashamed? Of you? The idea is so ridiculous that it almost makes him laugh, but he can’t shake the look on your face, the way your brows knit together, and you purse your lips slightly.

"I’m not ashamed of you, idiot," Osamu blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can think them through. “I guess, I just didn’t really have the time.”

Your smile softens, and though you don’t say anything more, he can see a glint of joy in your eyes.

“Why are ya smilin’ for?”

“You must really love me.”

Osamu feels his heart skip a beat; he almost misses to stop at the red light.

“Why-why would ya say that?”

“You only insult people you love, like your brother.”

He opens his mouth a little, but nothing comes out.

“I’m glad we’re friends.” You tell him and your voice sounds like a lullaby.

Fuck, Osamu thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken another coffee an hour ago because he can hear his temples beating loudly and he needs to do something with his hands—they’re shaking, they’re shaking. You’re going out of the car once he’s parked; he looks at you. Your smile is still playing at the edge of your lips.

Friends, of course, you’re friends.

That’s great.

Perfect.

Osamu wouldn’t change anything about it.

author notes: i'm sooo happy to start this story, this chapter was essentially a way of setting the scene. compared to the prequel it will be mostly osamu's pov.

i'm gonna try my best to make it possible to read it as a stand-alone but i still think reading the prequel can help to understand the bond between osamu and y/n, anyway i hope you've enjoyed that chapter :)

taglist: @wolffmaiden, @obibiwan, @teyvatsunsets

[kenziesimsblog]

SIMS 3 YOUTUBER LEGACY

SIMS 3 YOUTUBER LEGACY

FOR THIS LEGACY YOU CAN CHOOSE WHERE YOU LIVE BUT MUST BE A CITY CELEBRITY WORLD FOR GEN ONE PLEASE NOTE NOT ALL OF THIS INFORMATION OR TRAITS/GOALS FIT THE YOUTUBERS!

GEN 8 WAS A FILLER BECAUSE I COULDNT THINK OF ANYONE THEY HAPPENED TO POP UP ON MY RECOMMENED !

GENERATION 1- TARA YUMMY

you grew up in a rural town moving to the big city as soon as you got the chance , your confident with yourself and love to be social what does the city life hold for you?

STYLE PREFERENCE - Y2K

TRAITS - social butterfly, irresistible, party animal, dog lover and vegetarian

LIFETIME WISH- blog artist

GOALS

run a 5 star blog

get a partner have a few kids THEN BREAK UP no marriage yet

go clubbing every saturday night

adopt a dog -your a party animal throw birthday parties every weekend

throw parties for holidays sometimes -do not eat meat your a vegetarian

become a five star celebrity

when you reach 8 days before elder status get back with your ex and have a private wedding with your family

complete your lifetime wish then gen complete

OPTIONAL IF YOU HAVE THE MODELING MOD JOIN MODEL CAREER AND MASTER MODELING SKILL*

GENERATION 2- SAM AND COLBY

your parent was kinda of a party animal they never really grew up as soon as you reached young adult status you left.

STYLE PREFRENCE - DARK ACADEMIA

TRAITS- adventurous, night owl, rebellious, loves the outdoors and easily impressed

LIFETIME WISH- paranormal profiteer

GOALS

meet your best friend in high school and stay friends your whole life -pull pranks -when your first move out have atleast 2 roomies aside from your best friend

move out of roomie house with your best friend -join ghost hunting profession with bff

fall in love with co worker or bestie

get married fast

have as many kids as you want

must have triplets {can cheat this}

complete lifetime wish

GENERATION 3- STURNIOLO TRIPLETS

you and your triplets have always been close and its hard to move on

STYLE PREFERENCE - STREETWEAR

TRAITS (only give to main heir) - good sense of humor, friendly, schmoozer , excitable, and vehicle enthusiat

LIFETIME WISH- reach max influence with all social groups

CAREER- self employed

GOALS {follow with heir}

stay close to other triplets

you all move in together -you go to uni for fun ultimately dropping out

meet partner in uni

join any freelance career -only have one kid

be extremley close to child and partner

GENERATION 4- SIMPHORA (WRITTEN BY @simphoraa)

Name - Simphora °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𐦍༘⋆

Description - You like to call yourself the “Jack of All Trades”, and eh.. you may not be actually considered one. But, you have a lot of interests, passions, the undying urge to explore new things, and acquire more knowledge and skills. Go show the world what you’re truly capable of!

Aesthetic - Luxurious Baddie

Traits - Ambitious, Dramatic, Computer Whiz, Hopeless Romantic, Workaholic

Lifetime wish - Forensic Specialist: Dynamic DNA Profiler

Goals:

Enroll in University and major in Technology

Live off-Campus and have one roommate

Get the disliked relationship with your roommate, and then find a reason to kick them out

Earn the Technology Degree

Reach level 10 in the Law Enforcement Career (choose the forensic branch)

Master the Logic skill

Create a Online Dating Profile

Fall inlove quickly with someone from the Online Dating website

Play video games once a day

Become a streamer, and livestream every Friday night (this is optional because you need to download the streamer mod from ModtheSims)

Befriend some supporters

Have as many kids as you want

GENERATION 5 - FLORYDA (WRITTEN BY @florydaax)

your life was cozy you wanted it more!

TRAITS- bookworm, cat person , clumsy, loner and socially awkward

LIFETIME WISH- the cat herder

CAREER- Lawyer (custom career by missyhissy) or law enforcement

GOALS

Join the Ballet/Dance after school activity as a child

Get a parttime job at the supermarket as a teen -Go to university and get a degree

Have at least 2 cats -Get married to your first boyfriend/ partner

Have 2 kids

Buy and read books every week

Master the Social Networking and Writing skills -Complete the lifetime wish and reach the top of the career

GENERATION 6- MR BEAST

you had a good life and you want to make sure others do to even if yours goes downhill

STYLE PREFERENCE= COMFY/ CASUAL

TRAITS- good, lucky, nuturing, ambitious, and charismatic

LIFETIME WISH- leader of the free world

CAREER- political

GOALS

donate to a charirty every week -do any opportunity that earns money or relationships

you meet a partner in high school but they cheat on you

your single for a while, until you meet a single parent

become close to them and there child

adopt 2 strays

adopt a kid

play a lottery when you can

your partner suddenly dies take in there kid'

have atleast one kid with your partner before they die

never remarry

complete lifetime wish

never have a bad relationship or distant friends

GENERATION 7- CATALEAH

you love animals and want to save them all

STYLE PREFERENCE - COTTAGECORE

TRAITS- animal lover, eco friendly, loves the outdoors, socially awkward and green thumb

LIFETIME WISH- the ark builder

CAREER- horseman

GOALS

get your first animal as a gift from your parent

have two of each animal that lifetine wish says

farm animals optional

master gardening skill

have a "perfect" garden

go to equestrian lot

learn to ride horse

be close to every animal

meet another animal lover

be close to your kids you lost your parents

complete lifetime wish

GENERATION 8 - CARLO AND SARAH

you want the perfect love life

STYLE PREFERENCE- FANCY

TRAITS- hopeless romantic, family orenited ,artistic, friendly and neat

LIFETIME WISH - surronded by family

CAREER- FREELANCE ARTIST

GOALS

meet your best friend in high school

when you graduate go to france

find your partner there

they move to town you get married

have 5 kids

do a family activity every holiday

throw many parties

complete lifetime

DONE

TAG ME IN POST I WOULD LOVE TO SEE!

[morganbritton132]

i know that it is incredibly normal to NOT post 1-4 posts every day that involve a lot of thinking and creativity. that being said, i'm WORRIED about you bestie!! hope that you're okay xx

separately, bc i feel like when most people write in they have prompts, have any of steve's students weighed in on the hate he's been getting in eddie's comments since they tend to see eddie's videos anyway and come to his defense?

anyway take care of yourself !!

No need to worry!! I’m fine! I left for work early yesterday because I’m preparing for an audit that is quickly consuming my will to be employed. Also, great prompt.

I feel like I say this a lot, but I think you’d have both sides.

Of course some of Steve’s students will see a rude or hateful comment and be like, “Hey, shut up. That’s my teacher and he’s great” because Steve is such a beloved teacher.

I also think that some students would feel protective of him in a sense because Steve is very honest and open about his epilepsy with them and because they see the effects of it on him. They also play an active role in his recovery when he has a seizure at school.

It’s something that Steve would quickly shut down once he knew about it though. He does not want or need his thirteen year old students defending him online and he definitely doesn’t want them engaging with hate comments on his behalf. He uses his serious voice so his students know he really means it.

I think you’d have the opposite effect too.

Some kids are easily influenced and if what you’re seeing is a bunch of videos talking about how your math teacher is actually a jerk who’s mean to your favorite TikToker than maybe you’d believe it. Maybe you start paying attention to the way Steve rubs his eyes before checking a text message or that sometimes he takes a deep breath before responding to a student’s question, and you start interpreting that as him being annoyed.

Whereas I think Steve would definitely notice when a student is being short or rude to him, I don’t think he’d confront the issue. He kinda knows that it ties into the Tiktok thing but if he thinks too long about it, he’s going to go insane. So he doesn’t.

It more or less fades over time. Steve’s a good teacher and it get harder to stay mad over one video calling your teacher an asshole when you’re seeing the contrary five days a week.

[vinetooth-prime]

Amira Holt

— Ascalonian/Canthan || Merc For Hire Priory Arcanist || ex-Mantle Commander, Pardoned by Her Majesty, Queen Jennah

"I don't get the magic thing. Weapons are more reliable but... I won't lie: it's pretty fuckin' sick when it works."

Born & raised in Divinity's Reach, Amira was a third-generation recruit of the Ministry Guard and inheritor of her family's career legacy. Always exceptionally skilled in her work—thanks largely to her father's constant drilling and pressure to excel—she served under several ministers, eventually (and often) working under Legate Minister Caudecus like the rest of her family.

With the reemergence of the White Mantle, led by Caudecus, tensions began to rise. Amira was locked in conflict with herself between her sense of duty, her sense of loyalty, and her sense of morality. By the attack on Divinity's Reach, Amira found herself trapped among the thick of it, innocent blood smeared on her hands from her own hesitation.

At the betrayal of her family and colleges, Amira deserted, though not in time to avoid succumbing to bloodstone poisoning consuming her right arm. When she came to, she was in a Krytan hospital with her soul fragmented (unknown to her at the time) and her arm had been amputated. Terrified of whatever sentencing she imagined to face, Amira made an escape and fled Kryta.

During her escape, her new aptitude for shadow magic began to become clear, and Amira pressed southward, eventually landing herself in Lion's Arch.

Homeless, alone, and afraid for her life, Amira turned to picking up any job offered her. This quickly lead to Amira floating day-to-day by rubbing elbows in the underground of LA, the apathy of a hard life wearing her down to take thefts, thug jobs, and even the occasional hit. She made few friends and many enemies, also chancing fate and taking opportunity hunting down bounty contracts from private postings, other governments, townships, and crews.

Through chance encounters and a string of lucky choices, Amira eventually met her doppelganger five years later. Avoiding her own death again, a shaky truce was made, which quickly lead to joining the same Priory Sector that employed her "twin".

This, in turn, lead to her joining the excursion to Cantha's reopening and enthusiastically reconnecting with "her roots", making a handful of strong friendships and facing the Dragonvoid threat near the epicenter.

In 1337AE, her arrest & pending execution by the Shining Blade was made public. A month later, she instead received a full pardon from the Crown for her crimes of high treason in exchange for the arrest of her father, murderer, and White Mantle Fanatic, Clarence Holt.

[sstormyskyess]

thinking about single dad!soap.

“Thank you for helping me today, by the way.” Your friend says with a tired smile on her face. You smile back, swinging the tiny hand in yours back and forth. The hand belonged to your friend’s son, who you had basically claimed as your nephew with how close you and his mom were. “Of course, Sara! Any time,” you peek down at Sara's son, Beau. “It just means I get to spend time with your little man.”

It was ‘bring your parents to school’ day at Beau’s primary school and unfortunately, Sara couldn’t stay and her husband was out of town. So, she employed you to be her son’s chaperone, just to make sure that he didn’t feel left out. You were perfectly happy to take up the role. You loved Beau just as much as Sara did, so being there for the two of them when they needed was the least you could do.

Sara gave both you and Beau a hug before bidding you both farewell and letting you walk into the classroom. Your senses were immediately overtaken by the exact kind of childlike chaos you would expect from a room full of five to six year olds. There was an array of parents mingling, some catching up and some introducing themselves for the first time, all while their kids played and snacked on the chips and candy that were laid out on a long table at the back of the room.

You opted to simply let Beau take you around wherever he liked, so you spent some time trailing behind him with a soft smile on your face and watched him get along with his friends. You scanned the crowd while you followed your nephew, and one man kept catching your eye.

He seemed a tad out of place in the room of toddlers, what with his broad stature and the scar cutting through the stubble across his chin. He seemed like he’d fit better on the movie set for some stereotypical action movie as the leading man. He certainly had the ruggedly handsome look down to a tee. Of course, all of this was offset by the comparatively tiny baby strapped to his body, sleeping soundly despite all the commotion. He watched a little girl, presumably his daughter, across the room from where he leaned against the wall, his hand large over the back of the baby cuddled into his chest.

He must’ve noticed you staring because he waves and gives you a charming smile. You awkwardly wave back before turning away, your cheeks warming at the fact you got caught. Beau, thankfully, saved you any extra embarrassment that might ensue with you still standing in his line of sight by pulling you to a different part of the room.

You realized quickly that he was leading you over to the girl that man was supervising. He sat next to her on the floor where she was doodling something with a pack of markers in a bag decorated with cutesy little cats and pawprints. They started to talk about kid things while you sat in a nearby chair and started to tune it out as you had for all the other conversations he had been having for the past thirty minutes or so.

It’s a few minutes after you pull out your phone to occupy yourself when you get tapped on the shoulder. You quickly turn to see who it was and you’re met with pretty blue eyes peering down at you. “I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?” He asks, bouncing the baby in his arms a bit now that she’s woken up.

You blink, somewhat stunned by how much more handsome he was close-up, before you shake yourself out of it and nod. You give him your name and he gives you his, ‘John.’ You give him a smile, hoping it masked your nerves when he takes a seat in a chair, which is comically small compared to him. “It’s a pleasure. You’re here with Beau, aye?” He hums in understanding when you nod again to affirm his question. “What are you to him? A friend of Sara’s? Or Joseph’s?”

“I’m Sara’s friend, have been since high school. How do you know Beau?” You tilt your head to pair with your question. “He’s Abigail’s friend, they’ve had playdates and all that,” He looks past you at the girl Beau was sitting with and you assume that the little brunette was the Abigail he was referring to. He opens his mouth to start talking again, but before he can get more than a couple words out, the baby on his chest has reached a hand up to grab his face, squishing his cheeks and babbling quietly up at him.

He gently tugs the baby’s hand away, putting it back down. “And this,” he moves his face away from the next assault, “is Ashley.” You can’t help but laugh at him struggling to make his younger daughter stop pinching his face.

For the rest of the school day, you sit with John and talk with him about various things. He gushes about his two daughters, you tell him stories about your past with Sara, and eventually you land on the topic of occupations. You’re left feeling a little starstruck when he tells you that he’s serving in the British SAS; compared to your standard office job, you seemed pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. “That’s… pretty impressive, actually.” You muse, trying not to display how in awe you were. He waves you off, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, really.” He wasn’t nearly as good at hiding the thinly veiled pride he carries, though.

The conversation continued to flow smoothly and before you knew it, it was time for everyone to head home. Most of the parents had left with their children by the time you realize you and John are some of the only people still lingering.

Abigail dashes up to John and tugs on his pant leg. “Papa, can I go to Beau’s house? Pretty please!” She looks up at him with a pair of bright hazel puppy-dog eyes. Even you wouldn’t be able to say no to that sweet face. He looks over at you and raises a brow. “D’you think Sara will be alright with it?”

You think for a moment before nodding and giving him and Abigail a smile. “I’m sure she would. As long as you trust me to take care of your little girl.” It was John’s turn to think, and eventually he nodded as well.

“Sounds good by me. Let me get your number.” He pulls out his phone with a bright grin that matched Abigail’s perfectly. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it seems. Once you’ve exchanged information, you both head your separate ways. You give him a wave before heading to your car, a warmth in your chest while you walk behind Beau and Abigail walking in front of you hand in hand.

wrote this in a frenzy in the middle of the night. uhh is this anything (more single dad!soap over on the masterlist)

[schoenht]

↳ denny’s at 3 am

characters: octotrio.

genre: crack.

a/n: thank god for denny’s for the inspiration ong i’ve seen insane stuff from there and also this follows no rules. you will read this and it will make sense.

“Okay, you three, listen up.”

“Yeah, hold on, octopus, I’m beating Floyd’s ass at table football right now and he’s about to take on my extra shift tomorrow if I win.”

Azul groaned, his fingers pressing the bridge of his glasses against his nose. From the pressure, he guessed that he was going to have a mark there once he took them off. He was your boss and yet sometimes he wondered if you weren’t actually the boss. Maybe he was too lenient. Either way, it was more often than not that you and Floyd would quite literally be a menace to the customers based on your “friendly” competitions.

Out of all your competitions, the most friendly one was when Floyd resulted in almost pouring hot oil over you and you had quickly grabbed a pan to hit the back of his head. Meanwhile, Jade had been outside collecting mushrooms. He came back to see you and Floyd doing a strange dance with angry looks on your faces, knives in your hands, and Azul almost crying out of exasperation and desperation.

Nevertheless, the competition had not escalated that far. It was merely 8 pm, though. Azul guessed that, if anything, it could only get worse from here. He tensed up when he heard Floyd’s loud groan, followed by a large smack on the table.

“I win! Hope that thump didn’t hurt your brain, if you have any bits left in there.” You were snickering as you flicked Floyd’s head. His strand of black hair was lying on the table, so you merely pressed your fingers to it. When he tried to get his head off the table, he was stopped abruptly and he glared at you. 

“Shrimpy, this is your last warning.”

“My first one, you mean. You’re covering my shift tomorrow, you little shit.”

“But I don’t wanna!” Floyd whined, turning to Azul. “Tell them I don’t wanna!”

Jade appeared from behind Azul, almost ghostlike. “Oh? I hear conflict.”

“Yeah, conflict because your brother doesn’t want to admit he lost for once and he’s not as good as he claims to be. How are you going to be a basketball player and lose at table football?” You were leaning against the plush seat, your arms crossed. “Anyways, what’s up, Azul? Do you need us to knock out a customer again?”

Floyd perked up. “Oh, oh, yeah! Last time it was a surly man with his best friends, maaaaaan, Y/N and I had the time of our lives! That baking sheet was genius!”

“This is why I’m the brains of the group.” You and Floyd high fived, chortling as though Azul wasn’t standing there, in disbelief at the both of you. 

Jade cleared his throat. “Starting today, we stay open 24 hours.”

Incredulously, you whipped around to look at Azul. “If this is a joke, it’s not a funny one, I’ve got a better one for you, Mr. Business Man. What’s funnier than 24?”

Azul had to take a deep breath in. “What.”

“25.” You and Floyd were howling with laughter, sharing yet another high five with a fist bump. Catching your breath, you grinned. “You can’t be serious. We are not staying up for 24 hours.”

He pushed his glasses up, fixing his hat while he was at it. “Your sleeping habits alone are training. You tend to pull all-nighters--”

“Excuse me, being a Discord kitten is hard work. You can’t possibly expect me to count on money here--”

“You are an employee. I expect you to conduct yourself as such.”

You rolled your eyes, huffing. “What does this look like, a Denny’s?”

“YES. Where do you think you’re employed at?!”

“I dunno, IHOP?”

It was like the devil had appeared. Jade’s usual calm face was replaced by his eyes wide and even Floyd winced. IHOP was your rival and it was worse since it was right across the street. The manager was known to arrive just to get on Azul’s last nerve. Azul literally made you sign a contract saying that you and Floyd would be on your best behavior, lest you wind up tap-dancing for three days straight without stopping. You had learned that the hard way.

Even now, you realized you went too far. And that was why you were in the kitchen, fuming with a spatula in your hand, a chef hat, and a neon pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” across the top part. “Stupid Azul with his stupid...” You were cursing under your breath and the colorful language was enough to make Jade chuckle as he walked in.

“Still grumbling? It’s been weeks since that incident.”

“I look stupid, Jade. And don’t you dare say--” Using a high pitched voice that sounded nothing like him, you said, “’Shouldn’t have brought up the Interdimensional Hut of Pasta, then.’”

“The International House of Pancakes is international for a reason, we can’t possibly compete with them.” Jade had a bag slung over his shoulder and subtly, he looked over his shoulder. “All right Y/n, cover for me, I’m going to go outside and get some mushrooms.”

You made a face at him. “Jade, for the last time, you are not going to be the chef no matter how much you beg Azul.”

“Hear me out--”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over this pancake which I’m sure is trademarked by IHOP. I mean, why are we making pancakes? We’re Denny’s! Shouldn’t we be, you know, making Denny’s?” 

Jade deadpanned at you and it took all your effort not to falter because even you knew what you said did not make sense. However, if you could muster up enough fake confidence, maybe you could have him believe it-- “Try again. Ensure Floyd does not eat all the potatoes raw, he tends to do that. And next time, make sure to come up with something that makes sense. It has to be good.”

“That’s what your mom told me last night.” You knew you were running in dangerous territory, but you were covering for Jade. He could not, unfortunately, tell you anything in response. If he said anything, it was more than likely that you would go running to Azul and snitch on his mushrooms in order to gain some sense of dignity back. By dignity, he meant the confiscation of your neon pink apron.

“The pink really brings out your eyes, I’m sure Azul would not mind if you kept it a little longer.” Jade may have looked like the calmer twin, but he had a way of getting on your nerves. He was even snickering under his breath as the door shut behind him.

Meanwhile, Floyd had just arrived in the kitchen. “Shrimpy!”

“If you keep calling me that, I swear to God, I’m going to find out how fried eel tastes.”

“That’s cannibalism, you can’t do that.”

“It’s Denny’s. There was literally a fight outside over a plate of our pancakes.” You flipped one with your spatula, still grumbling over the stupid apron you were wearing. “Besides, business is slow. And ever since Azul said, ‘You guys are working for 24 hours because I hate you--’“

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what he said.”

“How dare you interrupt me. Anyways, I haven’t had time for anything!”

Jade had walked back into the kitchen. It seemed as though, no matter how far he went, he came racing back when he heard you complaining just to tease you more and make your life even more miserable. Sure enough, he practically waltzed through the door and said, “Oh? Well, can we interest you in a truce?”

“Over my dead body. Now if you’ll excuse me, it is my break.”

It seemed as though you had disappeared completely. Floyd had to watch Jade and prevent him from putting mushrooms in the food as he cooked. Then he frowned, looking up. Something was off and it was not the red colored vegetables that Jade continuously kept trying to put in. “It’s been more than ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes and how many seconds?”

“One--”

Azul slammed open the kitchen door, his glasses outrageously bright as if he was a horror movie villain. “Why has no one served the customer at Table 18?”

“Huhhhh?” Floyd dragged out his whine, his head thrown back. “I’m tired of this, boss! It’s so late!”

“Even if it’s late, we will still give the customers good service, just as they expect!”

Jade mumbled, “I do not believe they expect much from us as a Denny’s.”

Azul ignored that statement, knowing full well it was your influence that was latching onto the tweels. “Where’s Y/N? It’s been 10 minutes and 15 seconds. Floyd, there’s literally a customer at that table.”

“That ain’t a customer, boss, that’s Y/N having their nightly 3 am crisis.” Floyd was thoughtful for a few seconds. “Do you think they want pancake puppies?”

Then Azul’s eyes widened as he looked out the window. A familiar shadow was heading their way. It was the enemy that he had not wanted to see for the longest time. Perhaps, in another world, he would have wanted to make an alliance with this person. But after being rejected multiple times and overthrown, he had no choice but to become their enemy.

Jamil Viper, the manager of IHOP.

Azul almost screeched. “Y/N, GET UP! GET UP!”

“Azul, I am literally--” Your eyes widened as you followed the trail of where his went. “Is that--”

With a flourish and tossing of his own hat, Azul replaced his hat with a cooler one and put on his jacket as if trying to complete that magical girl transformation in real life, only watered down and looking cheap. He turned to the tweels. “You know what to do. Y/N, over here.”

“Boss! It’s 3 am!”

“MEN, PREPARE FOR BATTLE. TO YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!”

[ghelgheli]

17! but also using the opportunity of the ask game to get to know more about the effortless worldbuilding in sff :)

from the end-of-year book ask

17: Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

I think Three Body Problem is the only one meeting this condition this year so I'll have no trouble staying on topic :> but I'm gonna specifically talk about "hard" SF as I conceive of it—I haven't read any analysis so this may just be a jumble of improvised thoughts.

SF, being "speculative" fiction, of course has to take on the problem of speculating and of presenting things that don't (and perhaps cannot) happen. On average this is accomplished thru a healthy combination of scientific grounding and good-natured handwaving: I drop a few sentences about "quantum entanglement" and you go along with my ansible, or you tell me about "positronic circuits" and I agree that you can make a brain with them. This is the compact that makes SF work because you fundamentally cannot expect speculation without, well, ceding ground on reality.

But at least a subset of SF readers are of the kind to really want to grok how it is that this or that scientific feature of the world works or may come about. Every contraption and novel technology is like a puzzle to be riddled out. This is the place where speculation becomes sincere mechanical prediction, and it's why I love hard SF.

This subset of readers can be matched to a subgenre of writers who commit fully to filling in as many blanks in their technological, biological, etc. speculation as possible. The rows of astronomical data can't be left vague—tell me what frequency of light we're dealing with here—xenobiology isn't taken for granted—what is the neurology of your aliens??—and so on. The dots are connected, the rest of the owl is drawn for real, the image is made crisp. Like fireworks for the reader's brain.

When this kind of worldbuilding is executed well imo it looks effortless. Looks, not is, because behind every explanation of near-c travel is hours of research into at least special relativity and time dilation, along with calculations by-hand. Behind every account of an exoplanet's atmosphere is probably a few papers perused on the subject and several articles on scientific american. Peter Watts, in the note at the end of Blindsight, includes a fucking bibliography of a hundred or so references as well as thank-yous to many an academic he split handles of liquor with. And this is only the visible fragment of what has to be a library of knowledge accumulated both passively and actively to make a speculated world feel as concretely plausible as possible.

None of this is necessary for good SF. The aforementioned compact means any author can opt out of this commitment at any time. But it's what it takes to make tightly-written hard SF, where your conceptual hands are kept diligently at your side, waving an idea through maybe once every five chapters when you have no other choice.

So anyway, Three Body Problem is a tour de force in doing this and doing it cleanly. It uses a storytelling device a lot of hard SF employs to make it work: rather than stuffing dense exposition into narration (at which point, just read the source papers) it deploys a cast of characters who more than anything else, really know their shit. We get exposition trickle-fed through experts who are trying, along with us, to make sense of their novel environments and unfamiliar technologies using their knowledge of the present limits of human understanding. This is what Watts does in Blindsight too, by the way: a claustrophobic ship crewed by technical specialists makes first contact, so everyone has something encyclopedic to say about everything and it's only natural.

What astounded me about Cixin Liu's writing is that he made it work just when I least thought he would be able to. I was sure I was being shown things completely inexplicable and necessarily supernatural until he went and explained them in plain terms; better yet, he explained them in ways that made so much sense in retrospect that I was kicking myself for not seeing the answer. This has exactly the flavour of a good puzzle.

The trade-off hard SF makes is that you are often limited in the metaphorical/thematic work you can do through your speculation. I think the contrast between "calendrical science" in Yoon Ha Lee's Machineries of Empire series and Asimov's "psychohistory" illustrates this well.

Yoon Ha Lee has mathematical training, and calendrical science is a speculative field consisting of theorems, conjectures, proofs, etc. in the language of mathematics that stand in for cultural hegemony and power projection. This makes for a great operationalization of soft power: space is filled and distorted by the quantifiable effects of whatever regime is dominant there (the "calendar" here being synecdoche for culture writ large). But obviously he can't fill in the blanks of how a calendar causes spacetime distortions that specifically make one side's weapons more effective, or provide certain formations with shielding effects. This is, I guess, semi-hard (lol) SF—you can see how it's supposed to work, but it's clear that it just won't. What you get in return is pretty politically interesting storytelling.

Psychohistory is the converse: a deterministic-enough lovechild of economics and sociology explained in the Foundation series as using all the familiar methods of linear algebra and differential equations together with unfamiliar innovations of just how to quantify human behaviour in order to make reliable predictions. There are entire chapters dedicated to explaining the conceptual nuance that went into developing psychohistory ("the hand on thigh principle" from prelude to foundation is just about how the theory resolves divergence by reducing insignificant terms to zero) and an entire book to exploring one of its limitations. It's fascinating to read. But you also get little narrative depth out of it, because hard SF, even when done well, is not guaranteed to make a story thematically interesting or politically compelling. This is the Three Body Problem problem too: its political commitments are threadbare and unserious because that's just not what it's about. I couldn't recommend it on those terms, but that's not what I like so much about it. I will say the conceptualization goes a little off the rails in the final chapters, but I think most SF authors were in some kind of string theory inspired fugue state at the time.

What I would love to see (and I'm sure exists) is hard SF that also has interesting politics. Unfortunately that's an intersection of two already-narrow intersections.

ty for ask✨🐐

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 13

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 13: Lunacy Fringe

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter spend the day at the beach.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, grief, heart-to-heart, fluff, angst, smut, swearing, blood, cannabis use, cliffhanger, public sex, poverty mention, infertility mention near-death experiences, unprotected piv sex, ocean

Notes: Chapter title from “Lunacy Fringe” by The Used. Hmmmm let’s see. Idk if you know this, but I am employed now after like 16 months being a full-time student and SAHM, so I’m in a bit of an ~ adjustment ~ period and might take a bit longer to post things, but time will tell lol. This is a very soft chapter, I hope you like it. Let me know what ya think 🖤✨

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Spotify Playlist ]

Despite your initial trepidation in doing the DIRT interview, and how disastrous it actually wound up being, Darlene reported to you and Dieter that public feedback has been generally positive. As all three of you expected, some of his fans have labeled you a gold digger, conwoman, or flavor of the week, but most find your story a sympathetic one and seem to be supportive. 

The news has saturated the past five days in a warmth and brightness you’ve never encountered before in your life. 

You and Dieter have been painting and writing and laughing and cooking and fucking and falling asleep tangled up in each other and waking up stuck together by sweat. Luxuriating in something neither of you could afford before: quality time. 

Today is no exception, with the two of you under the white down duvet tent, all glowing from morning sun pouring in through the skylight onto his bed.

It smells like him here, of course, but it also smells like you. Your scent has seeped into the threading of his sheets, commingling with his. Like you’ve claimed your spot here with him and now it’s something different, something shared and sacred. 

Meaning that it now smells like you, in the collective sense, and find any excuse to bask in it as long as you can. 

The pads of Dieter’s fingers trail along the shiny scar tissue that laces your leg, your hip, your arm. All those swaths of skin once split open, he traces them with reverence, his touch delicate and studious. Content to memorize you as long as you’ll let him. 

You count the gray hairs sprouting in his beard and at his temples. The wrinkles that crease his forehead and eyes. Signs of age you feel blessed to encounter. 

You think about how the two of you were rejected from the afterlife, from the omnipresent belonging, the sea of love, back into these vessels. 

“What was it like when you died?” you ask him, bringing your touch to that hairless heart-shaped spot at his jawline, “Like, what did you see?” 

“I, umm,” he clears the sleep from his throat, then says, “I remember feeling tired. So fucking tired. This crazy heavy fatigue took over, like—like someone put the world’s heaviest weighted blanket on me, and I tried to stay awake but I just fucking couldn’t. When I woke, I was floating above my body. Saw them all trying to revive me. Then it was like… I was sucked up into this tunnel.”

“The tunnel,” you grin, “That tunnel was fucking awesome.”

He chuckles, “It really was. It was like… I’ve never felt more at peace. Fucking wild,” he shakes his head and frowns, “I saw all these scenes from my life. Growing up, living in New York, getting my first real gig, moving to LA, all that. I got to that barrier, you know,” he glances at you and you nod knowingly. 

“I was right there, I touched it, and I knew that was it but I wasn’t scared. Then Annie shot the adrenaline, and I was getting sucked back, and,” his eyes flick to yours, softening to ganache, “And… I saw you.”

You blink, searching his face, shaking your head. 

“I—I saw you, Louella. I didn’t know who you were. But when I met you, I recognized you. I felt this,” he turns his wrist in a circle and twists his face up in this bewildered expression, “Connection. I don’t know. Like it was supposed to happen.” 

Then he looks at you, and his eyes are glassy and wide with this tender awe. Every cell in your body swells so fat and ripe with love, it’s a miracle you don’t burst like an overfilled water balloon. It hurts, how much you love him. 

“You never told me that," you manage to whisper, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. He gives you a sheepish shrug, and you drag your fingertip down the bridge of his nose, “Maybe it was supposed to happen.” 

Dieter plucks your hand from his face and interlaces his fingers with yours, then immediately pulls it back, pressing a slow, wet kiss into the blackwork apple tattooed on your wrist. He brings your palm to his cheek and holds it there, his eyelids fluttering, “What was it like for you?” 

“Well,” you set your thumb in motion against his skin, “I closed my eyes, and it was dark, then I opened them and saw the wreck. Paramedics were putting me on a stretcher, and there was so much blood I was… red. Like someone dropped me in paint or something.”

The phantom scent of iron sends a shiver up your spine. It took a week to rid your hair of that smell. In the hospital, you scraped under your nails and picked at the hollows of your ears for days before you stopped finding dried blood. 

Maybe it wasn’t days. Maybe it was hours, or minutes, you’re not sure. 

You just know that, for approximately an eternity, you discovered a small mountain of little rust-red flakes and wondered whose blood it was, knowing that even if it wasn’t his, it was. 

Dieter kisses your palm, pulling you back into the present. You blink a few times, take a deep breath, then continue. 

“Ethan was with me, and we were pulled behind the ambulance, like there was some kind of tether between me and my body, but somewhere along the way, he disappeared. That’s when I noticed...” 

You tilt your head and frown, watching your nails graze his whiskers while your mind tries to assemble a description that might make sense. 

“Above me, there was this light. Something inside me knew that’s where he went, so I followed him into the tunnel. I saw my life. When I was growing up in Ohio, my dad, my mom… the time I spent, um…” 

Your teeth catch your bottom lip and your eyes flick to his, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I lived out of my car for a few years after I moved out, before I was accepted into CIA.”

“Really?” he searches your face, and when you nod, he rolls on his side, sliding his palm along the curve of your back, scooping you up to bring you closer. 

“Well, technically I was still homeless when I started going there, ‘til my classmate found out and insisted I move in with him,” you smirk, “That’s how Parker became my bestest friend.” 

“As always, a man after my own heart,” he murmurs and mimics the smirk on your lips. The tips of his fingers work up and down your spine in a soothing motion. 

You chuckle at this, then sigh, “Then, yeah, moving to the city, meeting Ethan. I got to the barrier and saw him cross. I could see inside it like a window. My grandparents, my dad, and Ethan—they were all there, but wouldn’t let me through. My dad told me I needed to go back, that I had more to do.”

A burning sensation climbs up your throat, settling behind your eyes, where tears start to form. You swallow the thick, raw feeling and shake your head. 

“I didn’t believe him. I didn’t think there was anything left for me if Ethan was gone, even though—” 

When you realize what you were about to say, a sob escapes you. Dieter kisses your cheek, then your forehead, and tightens his arms around you. You curl up against him, wriggling your head into that space between his collarbone and jaw. The heat of his body and your own recycled breath warms your face.

“Promise not to judge me for this?” you ask him in a hoarse whisper. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, “I promise.” 

“Sometimes—you know, when things were really bad with him—sometimes I, um,” your voice breaks. You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears, take a shaky breath, then confess, “Sometimes I wished he would die.“

Self-loathing crackles in your chest. Each second that passes with no response only amplifies the feeling, and you can’t stop the wave of anxious thoughts from spilling out your lips, “It’s fucking horrible, I know it is, but he wasn’t the man I married anymore. He would leave for hours, sometimes days, without telling me where he was or who he was with, coming home all fucking strung out, reeking of booze and smoke and pussy, and—and if I asked, if I dared to fucking ask, he treated me like—like I was the fucking enemy or something—”

Another wet sob gurgles from deep in your chest. Dieter squeezes you tight, nuzzling against the crown of your head, thumb grazing your shoulder as he coos, “It’s ok, baby, it’s ok—”

“No, Dieter, it’s not fucking ok—I should have done something when I noticed it happening more and more, but I was so fucking angry with him for taking away my choice to have a family—”

He shifts to look down at you, asking, “What do you mean?”

Your heart jumps so high, it seems to get lodged in your throat for a moment. You  shake your head and swallow it down, then take a deep, wobbly breath, exhaling a sigh, “He, um… he cheated on me. Said it was a one time thing, he was all fucked up because it was the anniversary of his brother’s death—I—I don’t know. He didn’t tell me until months later when I got really sick out of nowhere and had to go to the Emergency Room. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me at first, but admitted me and started me on antibiotics because the symptoms pointed to an infection.” 

This big, blue boulder settles on your sternum and presses the air from your lungs. Dieter’s comforting touch starts again, swirling patterns into your shoulder, his arms cradling around you, lulling you into a sense of security, urging you onward. You relax into his warmth and clear your throat. 

“When the antibiotics worked, the doctors looked into my symptoms further. They ran a bunch of tests and eventually found that I had chlamydia. I told them it was impossible, the only person I was sexually active with was my husband—and, well… yeah. Anyway. Turns out he knew he had it, got treated, but couldn’t bring himself to tell me about it,” you shake your head and let out a sad chuckle, “Just, um, stopped fucking me. Let it fester inside me until it turned into pelvic inflammatory disease, which scarred my reproductive organs enough to make me infertile.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and his lips part like he’s going to say more, but his breath catches and they snap shut. When they open again, he says, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

You study him, “What were you going to say?” 

“What?” 

“Before you said you’re sorry, what were you going to say?” 

“I, uhh,” he pauses, and you hear the wet squelch of his gulp, “Nothing, it’s not important.”

You pull back to meet his eyes, finding them all red and glossy. An ache of affection radiates across your chest. You cup his cheeks and search his face, “Tell me.” 

“Just… that’s just a fucking terrible thing to do to someone you love,” he shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes as he winces and looks away, “But—but my first thought was that I understand why, he umm, why—”

His face crumples. Tears blur your vision. You nod, showing you get what he’s trying to say. 

He sniffles, and his eyebrows draw together as he meets your gaze, “God, that’s fucked up, right? What the fuck does that say about me?” 

You take a moment to deliberate, wiping your eyes before telling him, “I think… the fact that you are able to recognize that in yourself, and know that it’s wrong, but tell me the truth anyway, is…” you lick your lips as you try to find the right words, deciding on, “Indicative of growth.“ 

Dieter chuckles. It’s a wet, forceful noise, like he couldn’t even help it from happening. He sniffles and presses his forehead to yours. His thumb scrapes against your damp cheek, “That is very diplomatic of you.” 

You smile despite the tears, then lean in to give him a tender kiss. His lips are warm and soft. They linger on yours for a few moments, and when you pull away, you murmur, “I love you, Dieter.” 

“I love you, too,” he rumbles, brushing your face with the back of his hand, “So, you found that out in the hospital, and I’m assuming things got worse with him after that?” 

“Yeah,” you frown and nod, “Yeah, I mean, I iced him out pretty hard. It all went down right before COVID hit New York, you know, and we were stuck at home together… he’d run our orders, then lock himself away in his office. I’d hear him snorting and pacing in there for hours. Like a caged animal. He’d come out all fucking,” you make a sniff noise and mimic a facial tic, “Twitchy and withdrawn, which was totally not like him. But, I don’t know. I couldn’t bridge that gap and move past what happened enough to help him.” 

You sigh, flicking your gaze to his, “Do you remember what he was like?” 

“Yeah,” Dieter swallows, glancing behind you for a moment before returning to your eyes, “He was nice. Funny. Easy-going. I—I mean, I liked him. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, knowing what I know about him now, I feel… I don’t know, guilty, or something.” 

“Don’t,” you frown and shake your head, combing your fingers through his curls, “He was all of those things. He was so… good, you know? This thing would happen, I swear to fucking god it was like every time we went out,” you chuckle fondly, “He would strike up a conversation with a stranger and make friends with them. It was effortless. He was so magnetic. I always loved that about him. And it’s not like he was different behind closed doors or anything like that. Not at that point, anyway.” 

Your smile falters. Dieter tilts your chin up and kisses you. When he pulls back, you wriggle into his chest and close your eyes. 

“That’s what I mean, though, when I say he wasn’t the man I married. He became paranoid, unpredictable, erratic. There was this darkness about him that was so… hard to be around. I—I fucking hated him.” 

Your stomach drops, eyes blinking open. Before you can think twice, you tell Dieter, “That’s the last thing I said to him. ‘I fucking hate you.’” 

He draws a sharp breath, holds it for a moment, then says, “That’s not true, though. You talked to him last weekend, in the psychomanteum.” 

Your lips part to contradict him, but you realize he’s right. That dark, heavy feeling in your chest lifts enough for you to smile. Fresh tears prick your eyes, “I did, didn’t I?” 

“Fuck yeah you did,” he grins, craning his head to kiss your forehead, murmuring against your skin, “My sexy little ghostbuster.” 

You bury your face in his neck and laugh. His chest vibrates with a low chuckle. A serene silence settles under the white, glowing dome. Dieter releases a content sigh and traces the pomegranate on your shoulder, “Did you ever find out why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why he, umm—”

“Ah,” you nod, “Why he tried to kill us?”

“Yeah.” 

“No,” you furrow your brow, “When he dragged me out of bed that night, he kept asking me who I was working for, said it had to be NYPD or feds. He told me that someone was following him and he knew I was setting him up. I don’t know.”

You take one of his hands and interlace it with yours, cuddling them to your chest, “The first time we tried the psychomanteum, I was hoping he would be how he was before—I mean, obviously because I needed to know who he really was, if it was all a lie in the beginning, if I had just missed it… but I also wanted to ask if I should lay low. The more time that went on, though, with no red flags from police, the more I knew he was just… sick.” 

Dieter hums in acknowledgment. 

“I’m so glad we tried again. That I got to talk to him again,” you say, smirking when you add, “Thank you for helping me with my crazy ghost FaceTime.” 

He smiles, “Thank you for convincing me to try it. I’m glad I did.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he pauses and shifts a little, “James and I, in our heyday, we would write these scripts and screenplays and act them out. He did most of the writing, and I did the big parts, but I, you know, I liked… writing.” 

You pull back and tilt your head at him, a grin spreading across your face at his bashful demeanor, “Really?” 

He nods, a little bob wobbling his throat, “I’ve been thinking about giving that a shot. I have some ideas for scripts, but I’ve been so… reluctant, I guess, to put them to paper,” he shrugs, “When I talked to James, he told me I should try it again, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” 

“I think he’s right,” you tell him, and press a kiss into the back of his hand. 

“I just keep thinking… What if it’s terrible? What if nobody likes it?” 

“Does it matter as long as you like it?”

His features shift into seriousness as he considers this. Brow furrowed and pinched in the middle. Corners of his mouth folded in a slight frown. Eyes downcast, studying your clasped hands as he flattens your palm over his heart. 

The soft, rhythmic thump-thump beats steady. You watch his eyelids flutter and his facial muscles slacken into a serene expression. This feeling comes over you that’s hard to explain. 

It surges from deep inside your chest and buzzes across your skin. 

There’s weight to it. Nothing you can’t handle, but still, the heaviness is apparent. You simultaneously feel responsible and completely exposed. Like you’re exchanging your most prized, most fragile possessions, under the silent condition that neither of you will break the other’s. 

You would be lying if you said it didn’t scare the shit out of you. You would also be lying if you said it didn’t bring you joy. 

He catches you staring and smiles, “What?” 

“Nothing,” you grin, “I just… I love you.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, glancing down at his lips. 

He searches your face and murmurs, “I love you so much.” 

“So fucking much,” you confirm. 

Gravel crunches beneath your sandals as you trot down the steep path to the beach, splitting your attention between your clumsy footwork and the scenery. 

Clusters of purple flowers occasionally break up the tall, dry grass. Palm trees stretch high into the brilliant, cloudless sky. Beyond the white sand beach sits the Pacific Ocean, dark and alive. 

As you inhale deep and wide, letting your eyes shut as you relish the sulphuric, briny scent of the sea, your foot catches on a rock, and you stumble forward with a yelp, grabbing Dieter’s arm to keep you from falling. He only falters a little when you latch onto him, even though he’s outfitted like a pack mule, beach chairs strapped to his back, lugging a tote bag stuffed with towels and a cooler. 

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” you wrap your hand around his bicep for support and shrug, “Just, y’know, being super attentive and graceful.” 

His muscles twitch under your grip, “Good thing you have such a big strong man to hang onto.” 

“Are you flexing?” 

“Pffff, no,” he scoffs, and this big, contagious smile spreads across his face. Gravel transitions into sand at the trail’s end, and he asks, “Alright, doll, where you wanna set up camp?” 

Your nose crinkles as you squint around the sparsely populated beach. There’s a section of shoreline far away from everyone else, and you point to it, “Right there! Avast ye!”

“Aye aye, captain!” 

His pirate voice is surprisingly on point. It makes you laugh. He grins at your amusement as the two of you trudge towards the spot. Sand kicks up inside your sandals, gritty and hot against your feet, and you grumble, “Fuck this, I can’t with the shoes.” 

You slow down to take them off, but Dieter stops you, “Wait wait wait—” 

“What?” 

“Think you can kick ‘em all the way there?”

You shrug, “Probably.” 

He sets the cooler down, takes a step back, and props his hands on his hips, looking between you and the vacant section of beach through his sunglasses, “Let’s see it.”

Rolling your eyes, you tease, “You are such a boy.” 

“Kick your shoes! Kick your shoes! Kick your—”

You wind up your right leg, then kick it forward, sending the sandal flying. 

“YEAAAAAAH!” 

It goes high, but not far, flopping on the ground a few strides ahead. 

“Ah, beans,” you say, “I thought that was outta here.” 

“See, your problem is,” Dieter drops the tote bag and shucks off the beach chairs strapped to his back. 

“Oh, you have a technique? A shoe kicking technique?” 

“Obviously,” he guffaws while tugging his joggers up his calves, “You gotta get your flippy all floppy on your toes, then kick it.” 

“I believe the technical term is loosey-goosey.”

“You’re absolutely right, my mistake,” he walks to your side and points to his foot, “See, watch this.”

He shakes his foot around until the sandal dangles off it, then winds up and launches it forward. It goes about four times further than yours, landing right where the two of you were headed. 

“BOOM! That’s a shoe kick.” 

“Nice,” you give him a high five. 

“Thanks,” he grins, “Now you try. Should we do this one together?” 

“Ok ok,” you balance on your right foot, wriggling your ankle around until the sandal slides down as far as it can. 

Dieter does the same, “Here we go, ready?”

“So fucking ready.” 

“One, two, three—”

Both of you rear back, then kick, and your sandals go whizzing through the air. Yours hits the ground first and skids across the sand, coming to rest a few feet from his first sandal, while Dieter’s flies so far it’s just a speck in the distance. 

“Holy shit!” you laugh, “That went so fucking far.” 

“And the crowd goes wild!” Dieter bellows, embellishing the statement with cheering noises as he runs a victory lap around you. 

You snort and shake your head, “Ok, now you’re gloating.” 

He continues the one man celebration as he returns to his abandoned cargo, then heaves the chairs back over his shoulders. You skip up to him and snatch the tote bag off the ground, even though he insisted on carrying everything, then take your place on his arm. 

Once the two of you arrive at the vacant stretch of beach, marked by two left sandals, Dieter sets everything up, unfolding the colorful canvas beach chairs on either side of the cooler while you strip down to your black string bikini. He digs in the pockets of his joggers and unloads most of their contents into the tote bag, save for a little tin of joints and a lighter, which he sets on the cooler.

Stretching out in the beach chair, you bury your toes in the hot sand and watch Dieter kick off his pants. He notices you noticing him and whistles at you, a flirty wheet-whew.

You grin, and when he reaches for the hem of his shirt, you catcall, “Take it off!” 

He does so dramatically, spinning the shirt over his head like a helicopter and flossing it between his legs before tossing it at you. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh when it smacks you in the face. The fabric is warm and reeks of him, which you kind of like, so you ball it up and stuff it behind your head like a pillow. 

With a groan, Dieter sits down and grabs the tin off the cooler, plugging a joint between his lips. He lights it and takes a few puffs, then relaxes back into the beach chair, passing the torch to you. 

You accept it and take two hits in quick succession, keeping the smoke hostage in your lungs. The rush of THC blurs your senses and elevates you to a pleasant altitude where worries slough off your brain. On the exhale, you hand it to Dieter and ask, “If you were a fish, what kind of fish do you think you’d be?” 

He just starts giggling as he plucks the joint from your fingertips and takes a drag.

You catch a few contagious giggles and tell him, “I think—I think I would be a, uhh… a pufferfish.” 

He furrows his brow and blows the smoke towards the ocean, then shakes his head, “A pufferfish?” 

“Yeah,” you take the joint from him, inhaling skunky, thick smoke with a shrug, “Spiky. Temperamental. Solitary.” 

“Kind of adorable when you’re mad,” he adds with a grin while accepting the joint from you, then puffs on it. A condensed white cloud curls out his parted lips when he hands it back to you. He looks out into the water, “I’d be a goldfish.” 

You study him while taking a drag, and flick a long tube of ash off the glowing orange tip. 

His nose scrunches up around his sunglasses as he glances over at you, “Trapped. Always… on display.” 

You pass him the joint and nod in understanding, but say, “I don’t think you’re a goldfish. You’re like… way cooler than a goldfish.” 

“Well, I don’t think you’re a pufferfish.” 

“Then what am I?” 

“Hmm,” he leans way back in his beach chair, tucking an arm behind his head while taking a hit off the joint, then hands it back to you, “Let me think about it.” 

“Kill it,” you wave off the joint, perfectly content with how stoned you managed to get, and lay back to bask in the warm sunshine. Your eyes drift closed and you release a deep, cleansing breath while thinking about goldfish. Pea-brained, sociable, common. 

Sure, he may feel like a goldfish, but that’s not him. Not really. 

He’s unique, and smart, and dedicated, when he wants to be. 

Dozens of different sea creatures swim behind your eyelids. You compare and contrast each one to your paramour. Octopi are smart and shapeshifters, but they’re too reclusive. Sharks too aggressive. A whole fleet of colorful, tropical fish, but none of them seem right, until one little curly-tailed guy buzzes across the ocean in your head. 

Your eyes open and you smile at him, “You’re a seahorse.” 

“How’s that?” he asks, voice warped by smoke. He grinds the joint into the sand, then outstretches a hand to you. 

You take it, interlacing your fingers with his, forming a bridge between your armrests, “They eat a lot, they’re kind of pokey—”

“Stop, you flatter me,” he deadpans.

You throw your head back in laughter and say, “Wait, wait—let me finish! They’re also cute, and romantic, and smart, and curious,” you lean forward and bring his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss into his skin, then declare, “You, my love, are a seahorse.” 

A wide grin spreads across his face. His thumb works against your hand. He tugs on it and murmurs, “C’mere.”

You crawl out of the beach chair, into his lap, linking your arms around his neck as you pull him in for a kiss. One of his hands snakes around your waist while the other comes to rest on your bare thigh. When your lips part, you curl up against his chest and sigh, “I love you, my sweet seahorse man.” 

He lets out a dopey little giggle and kisses the crown of your head, mumbling into your hair, “And I love you, my beautiful seahorse lady.” 

You gasp, peering up at him, “I get to be a seahorse with you?” 

“It makes sense, don’t you think?” he pulls you close and nuzzles into your hair, snuggling you like you’re his favorite stuffed animal at bedtime, “You and me, we can just… get our tails all tangled up and float around the sea together. Hang out in coral reefs and eat, uhhh… I don’t know, whatever seahorses eat. Sea-monkeys?” 

“Sea-monkeys?” you guffaw, “What the fuck are those?”

“It’s a thing!” he laughs, giving your thigh a playful smack, “Didn’t you ever have sea-monkeys? They came in those, uhh, little Parmesan cheese packet lookin’ things—Oh! They’re shrimp! Brine shrimp.” 

“Ohhhhh!” you cover your face as you nod, “Ok, yes. I know sea-monkeys. I bet if I was a seahorse I would eat the shit out of those.” 

“Told you.” 

“You’re right,” you relax back into him, unable to shake the smile from your lips, “Did you know that when a seahorse finds another seahorse they really like, they mate for life?” 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” your eyes drift closed, lulled by the warmth of him surrounding you, “They love each other so much that when one of them dies, the other shortly follows. Cuz they can’t live without each other.” 

“That’s weirdly romantic,” he chuckles and kisses your forehead. 

“Totally us.” 

He hums in agreement. The noise is saturated with a warm contentment that seeps into your bones and boils them down to broth. It sloshes around under your skin and you can’t imagine having to move ever again. 

“If we stay like this I’m gonna fall asleep,” you mumble. His response is to nuzzle even closer and take a deep, sleepy breath. It’s all the permission you need to let the sandman pull you under. 

When Dieter wakes, not much time has passed. The sun no longer hangs in the zenith of the sky like an angry disco ball, but stares him straight in the face. 

He peaks down at you and chuckles. A puddle of drool has collected on his shoulder, dribbling from the corner of your slackened mouth. Warmth swells in his belly and aches all the way up to his chest. He strokes your sweaty, heated cheek and thinks, “I don’t deserve her.” 

The thought is not so much self-deprecating as it is full of awe at his fortune. 

Each morning, when he wakes and you’re still there, wrapped up in his embrace, he can’t believe it. Your one-way ticket to LA has no return trip planned. Neither of you have brought it up. The closest you’ve come is asking him, “Are you sick of me yet?” one morning over breakfast. 

“Sick of you?” he scoffed and ripped off a chunk of his blueberry muffin, popping it into his mouth, “Not possible.” 

You smiled at him over your coffee mug before taking a tentative sip and changing the subject, “What’re we doing today?”

He knows you have a life back in New York. A business and friends waiting for you to return, but, god… he’d do anything to keep you here forever. To share as many days with you as possible. 

As has been happening often lately, he dwells on a snippet from his near-death experience. The one of him holding your hands, where you’re wearing a white dress, smiling bright and full and gorgeous, and you say, “I do.” 

Given the result of his previous marriage, he considers that he might be an idiot for daydreaming about it. Especially this soon. 

Didn’t he learn his lesson last time? 

Apparently not. 

Did he feel this way last time, though? Like someone turned up the dimmer switch on his life? With Anika, did he ever know, with certainty, that he would give up anything and everything to stay in the orbit of her affection? 

No. 

It’s different with you. The tendrils of your love have burrowed deep inside him, taking root in a place no one else has touched. A place he didn’t even know existed within him. 

You stir a little. Dieter strokes a scarred-up strawberry on your arm, gazing down at you in time to witness your eyes blink open and meet his. A hazy smile spreads across your lips, and you reach up, brushing his patchy beard with your knuckles, “What time is it?” 

The words are groggy and rough. 

He shrugs, “Sometime.” 

Humming, you look around, then try to sit up, but he reels you back in and squeezes his arms around you, “Mmmm no.” 

“Dee,” you whine, laughter wavering your protest, “I’m so thirsty. And hot.” 

“Yeah you are.” 

One corner of your mouth tucks into a smirk and you snort, shaking your head at him. You kiss him, your dry, sea-chapped lips sticking to the soft inner plush of his mouth. When you draw back and stretch your hands up towards the aquamarine sky, a deep yawn expanding your rib cage, he reluctantly lets you go. 

Exhaling a gust, your body goes slack and you roll off his lap into the sand, groaning, “Water,” then crawl towards the cooler. He reaches over to pop the lid open for you and grabs a seltzer. The can opens with a hiss. He brings it to his lips, taking a big swallow of the bubbly, vaguely strawberry-flavored water. 

You twist the cap off a dewy plastic water bottle and tip your head back to guzzle it down, water streaming out the corners of your mouth, trickling down your chin, neck, chest, the column of your throat pumping in a thick glug-glug-glug that flickers at the base of his spine. 

Sand coats your arms and legs, all those microscopic grains clinging to your slick, sweaty skin. The bottle collapses in on itself as you suck down the remaining water. You toss it aside and gasp for air, chest heaving, practically fucking moaning, “Oh my god—that was fucking amazing.” 

A hot, heady rush of need gushes through him. His dick jumps. Breathing quickens. 

Dieter gulps down seltzer, ogling you while you grab a fistful of ice from the cooler and hold it to your forehead, eyes fluttering shut. You press the melting ice into your cleavage, squishing your tits together, lips parting in a gasp. 

Jesus fucking Christ, Louella. 

He sits up and finishes off the seltzer, dropping his empty in the sand, “Need some help?” 

With your head still tilted back, eyelids still sealed shut, a sly smile spreads across your face, “Oh yeah?” 

By now, the heat of your skin has turned the ice to water, trailing shiny and wet down your abdomen, pooling in your belly button, darkening the very top of your black string bikini. 

Dieter stifles a groan at the sight. Saliva gathers in the dark cavern of his mouth. He gulps it down. 

You open your eyes and level your gaze to his, eyebrow quirking as you shrug. 

He takes a handful of ice from the cooler and pats his thigh. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You crawl over to him and climb into his lap, sliding back until you’re seated firmly on his hard cock. 

“Someone is excited,” you chuckle. 

“Can you blame me?” he grins, brushing hair from the nape of your neck. He presses the ice into that knotted bone right beneath your skull, then slides it down your back, drawing circles over each vertebrae. Your shoulders slacken and you let out a sigh of relief. 

When the cube melts, right around the middle of your spine where your string bikini is tied into a neat little bow, he gets a new one. 

“That feels good,” you breathe, hips arching back, ass pressing hard against him. 

The way you say this, all lusty and scraping along the edge of your vocal cords, makes his throat rumble and beckons him closer. He shifts his seated position, sitting up higher, slipping a hand around your waist to make sure you don’t wiggle away, then presses a slow kiss into your pulse. 

You hum, opening your neck wider for him to taste the salty bite of your sweat. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your skin, fingertips digging into your soft belly. The ice cube melts against your tailbone, and he grabs another, smearing its decay along your collarbone, down your sternum. 

When he slides it under your skimpy little bikini top and rubs it against your pebbled nipple, you rock your hips against his, letting out a soft gasp, “You’re gonna get us in trouble.” 

“With who?” he murmurs, nips at your neck, then says, “Nobody’s here, love.” 

“Wait, really?”

You lean forward and look around, turning back to him with a mischievous grin when you find what he said is true. Your pink bubblegum tongue peaks out to wet your lips as you search his face, “Are you sure?”

“Relax, doll,” he purrs, reeling you in, pressing his lips into your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. You reach back, fingers tangling in his hair, and pull him into a leisurely, saccharine kiss. 

Like always, it makes his heart stutter. Bubbles hot and wanting up the middle of him. You roll your hips. The heated weight of you grinds hard against his cock, making him groan into your mouth. 

His fingertips dance across your abdomen, tracing tedious little swirls into your skin. Your lips gape open with a whine and you roll your hips. His eyelids flutter and he shudders at the wave of pleasure that floods his body. He grabs your hips and silently urges you to continue, rocking you back and forth. 

“Fuck, that’s good, baby,” he pants. 

Your hand slides over his, both chilled and wet from melted ice, and you guide it between your legs, nodding when his touch wriggles under the fabric of your swimsuit, moaning when he finds your clit and rubs you, soft and steady, studying the subtle, pleasure-filled tremors that make your muscles twitch and breathing quicken. 

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips get all pouty, these huffy whimpers escaping them with each stroke, and he could just fucking eat you alive right now, you’re that goddamn beautiful. 

His mouth seizes yours. You respond with vigor, twisting your top half around to bury your hands in his hair and kiss him harder. 

He works you faster, flicking his wrist, swallowing your moans whole. 

You pull back with a gasp and throw your head back on his shoulder, “Holy fuck, yes—”

“Does that feel good, baby?” 

“Sofuckinggood,” you whimper, grinding against him, “Fuck—fuck, I want you, Dee—”

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you right here in the open?” he coos in your ear.

You nod. 

“Let me take these off,” he withdraws his hand and you scramble to your feet, chest heaving as you glance up and down the shoreline. He tugs off his swim trunks and reclines in the canvas beach chair. 

Your eyes drop to his cock, and this big, delighted smile stretches across your face. Returning to his lap, you lower yourself back while Dieter pushes the gusset of your bikini aside and guides to your target. When the tip of him breaches your entrance, you gasp.

“Holy shit, baby,” he groans as you ease him into your hot, wet squeeze, whimpering, “Fuck fuck fuck,” under your breath as he stretches you open. 

When he can’t go any further, you adjust your posture, hands on his knees, leaning forward, arching your back. You look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes, and start to roll your hips, pussy suctioning around him, taking him slow and deep. 

He moans and nods in approval at the pleasure that gushes up his spine, “That’s it, baby, take what you need. Ride that cock how you want it, feels so fucking good, fuuuck—”

“Oh my god, Dee,” you whine, eyes fluttering shut, mouth hanging slack. 

He slides his palms up your back and watches his cock, all shiny with your slick, disappear into you over and over again. Your huffy little whimpers grow louder and you grip his knees, pushing yourself back onto him harder, faster.

“There you go, love,” he groans, gripping your waist, “It’s all yours, baby, take it—”

“Fuck, Dee—”

Your voice is high-pitched and frantic. His hips arch into yours, pulling a wrecked moan from your chest. Liquid heat pulses through him, and when he thrusts again, you gasp and nod, “Fuck, keep doing that.”

He does. He fucks up into you and you curve your spine, face to the sky, tilting your pelvis just so, and the hot, plush silk of your cunt grips his cock, making this sick, wet squelching noise that only fuels him further. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing, so fucking perfect,” he pants, skin tingling with desire, wanting to feel you closer, needing to feel your lips on his. His hips slow and he slides a hand to your belly, urging you, “Come here, baby.” 

Dieter guides you back, threading one arm around your abdomen, the other scooping up your knees. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and he presses his forehead into yours. The first thrust makes your whole body tense and you whimper, “Holyfuckingshit—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, pulling back to meet your wide eyes, “You can do it, you can take it.”

You make this cute, pathetic kind of noise, gulping down a whine, but nod for him to continue. 

He rolls his hips, slow at first, letting you acclimate, increasing his tempo when your head rolls back and your walls relax. 

You’re cradled so close he can see the sweat glistening on your skin, can smell your damp musk, can hear every breathy moan, can feel every muscle in your body quiver as he pumps into you. The edges of him start to crumble, deteriorating with each thick wave of pleasure that washes over him. 

“Fucking perfect, Jesus fucking Christ, pussy feels so good I fucking love it,” he babbles.

Your breathing grows frantic and sharp, head snapping up to tell him, “Don’t fucking stop I’m so close, holy shit Dee—”

“Fuck yes, cum on this dick baby, let me feel you, I fucking love it I fucking love you—”

You pull him into a needy, messy kiss, your deep, wanton moans vibrating on his tongue as you convulse around him, tremors twitching your muscles. A swell of pleasure steals his breath, surging through him hot and gooey and overwhelming, and he falls over the edge, spilling inside you. 

Your lips don’t part from his for more than a moment while the two of you come down into blissful satisfaction, your bodies sweaty and trembling. Labored breaths gradually dissipate into normalcy, and the kisses linger with intimacy. 

“Wow,” you giggle eventually, slack and boneless against his body as you tuck your head into his neck, “Are there awards for fucking? I think you just won in the outstanding performance category.” 

The praise curls up inside him and makes him chuckle, “What an honor. I’d like to thank my beautiful costar, Louella. Couldn’t have done it without you—”

Your laughter cuts him off, then you say,“You can put your Fuck-ee next to your Oscar.” 

“Fuck-ee?” he throws his head back and guffaws, “What would that trophy look like? A golden dong?” 

Your body shakes with laughter, “I think that sounds perfect.” 

He kisses your sweaty forehead, releasing a content sigh before murmuring “I should put my trunks back on.”

You chug two more bottles of water before returning to your chair beside Dieter. 

As you stretch out in the sunlight, the outside world starts to creep back into frame. Sand heats the soles of your feet. Ocean waves roar and slosh onto the beach. A salty breeze ruffles your hair and cools your heated skin. 

Dieter nods to the seemingly infinite gray-blue water, “Wanna take a dip?” 

You look at the ocean. At the tide washing ashore, then pulling back, again and again. Big, rhythmic, gasping breaths. You think about the vast depth of the Pacific, about the ecosystems it contains, all its tides and currents. All the life it contains and death it brings. The sheer power and magnitude of its existence, right in front of you. 

Unease twists your stomach and hums in your bones. Your chest aches. 

It’s so overwhelming. 

Dieter squeezes your hand, reminding you of his question, and you glance over at him, his expression hopeful and earnest. You can’t say no to that face. Besides, it’s just water. 

You’re being irrational. 

“Sure.” 

“Yeah?” he crinkles his nose like he’s squinting at you behind his sunglasses, “We don’t have to, you know.” 

“It’s fine, let’s go,” you crawl to your feet, dusting sand off your legs and ass as you start towards it, ignoring the violent thud of your pulse. 

He catches up to you, interlacing his fingers with yours, and the two of you trudge through the hot sand. 

“Are you sure?” 

You frown, “Yeah, why?”

“You seem,” he pauses here, jaw ticking to one side, then runs a hand through his wind-blown curls, “I dunno. Like you don’t actually want to.” 

You frown and shake your head, but the action isn’t convincing. 

When he starts to slow, you do too, and you both come to a stop, side-by-side, right across the border of smooth, damp sand. A wave crashes against the shoreline. Its tide stretches towards you, then the cool water washes over your feet. 

Dieter squeezes your hand, “Lua. Don’t lie to me.” 

You turn and face him, opening your mouth to lie, then he pulls his sunglasses up into his hair so you can meet his eyes, that warm gaze knocking at the eroded, but stubborn, cement wall of your heart, begging, “Let me in. Please.” 

“It’s stupid,” you drop your gaze and catch the soft inside of your cheek between your molars, then glance between him and the rolling water, “It’s just scary, you know?” 

He frowns, “What is, the ocean?”

“Well, yeah,” you scoff, gesturing towards another incoming wave, “It’s fucking massive. We don’t even know what’s in there, I mean, there could be monsters—”

“Monsters?” 

You shoot him a playful glare and chuckle, “We don’t know!”

“Uh huh” he grins, both of his heated, sandy palms finding your waist. 

You drape your arms around his neck, tangling your fingertips into the damp curls at the base of his skull, then swallow hard and shrug, “And maybe… I don’t know, maybe I can’t, um… swim?” 

His eyebrows shoot up, “Oh shit, really?” 

Heat creeps up your neck. You drop your gaze and hear yourself mutter out excuses like a reflex, “Not very good, anyway. Nobody ever took me swimming, or showed me how, and I never figured it out on my own, and-and Ethan was supposed to teach me—” 

“Hey, that’s fine,” he works his thumb against your skin, soothing you, “We don’t have to go far, no swimming necessary.”

You thread your brows together, “Really?” 

“Obviously,” he scoffs, “What, you think I’m gonna make you? We don’t have to go into the water at all if you don’t want to—”

“No, I want to. It looks nice, just,” you chuckle at yourself, at the worried voice of anxiety piping up in the back of your brain, “I know it’s silly, but will you make sure I don’t get, like… pulled under?” 

“Scout’s honor,” he pulls you into a hug, and you hug him back, resting your cheek on his bare chest. The ragged, jittery sparks in your ribcage calm to a low purr. Your muscles melt and untangle. Another wave washes ashore and rolls over your feet, then disappears.

He plants a firm smooch on your forehead, then rubs your back and murmurs, “Ready?” 

“Let’s fuckin’ do this,” you say in your most masculine tough guy voice, pulling back to grin at him. 

He snorts, shaking his head at you, brown eyes crinkled and twinkling with amusement, then grabs your hand and starts walking out into the tide as it rushes inland. When the ocean takes its offering back, you squeal at the sensation, how water pulls sand out from under you like a rug, coaxing you closer. Wild, salt-addled gusts whip your hair around and nip your generously exposed skin. Before you know it, you’re knee-deep in the icy water, wobbling when an incoming wave shoves you back and splashes up your thighs. 

You gasp and squeeze Dieter’s hand for stability. He steps behind you, wrapping his warm, sun-kissed arms around your body, purring in your ear, “I’ve got you, doll, don’t worry.” 

“Ok,” you nod, staring out into the deep, dark unknown, rooted in place by his fortitude, finally allowing yourself to marvel in the beauty of it all, “Ok.” 

Dieter watches you from bed as you rub moisturizer into your cheeks, leaning towards the bathroom mirror, making all these cute, squishy expressions. Little beads of water drip off the ends of your hair, still wet from the shower, onto the floor and counter. 

He’s never really been a forever kind of person. Up until about a year ago, every good thing in his life had been fleeting: flings, highs, gigs. The friendships he held onto were superficial and based in commodity. His marriage felt like a debt he owed. Companionship spoke foreign tongues. He never felt sated. Never felt like this. 

This. 

Fuck, he loves this. 

He thought people made this shit up. Forever. It always sounded like a joke. 

But it’s all he can think about. How he never wants to spend another night without you here, wearing nothing but his faded old Prince t-shirt, brushing your teeth, putting all your things away in the bathroom drawer. For-fucking-ever. 

When you flip off the bathroom light and come wandering back into the bedroom, you notice him staring at you, and chuckle, “What’re you smiling about?” 

Dieter didn’t even realize he was smiling, but you’re right, he is. With a shrug, he says, “You look pretty.” 

“Yeah?” you smirk, and twirl around a little, “Is this doing it for ya?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

You roll your eyes, that big beautiful smile stretching across your face, and crawl into bed beside him. He wraps an arm around your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side, ear to his heart. Probably, you hear it skip a beat when he realizes what he’s about to say. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

The seconds after are so quiet he hears your lips part. You shift around until you’re propped up on his chest, searching his face, “What’re you saying?” 

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. He curls a hand around the small of your back, “I mean, you know, I want you to stay,” he swallows and meets your gaze, “Like, to live here.” 

Your features lights up, and it’s sweeter than any fucking buzz he ever caught. 

“Really?”

He nods. 

As if something occurs to you, your lips fall into a frown, “What about my baking? And-and Parker—”

“Open something up here. You always tell me about how you want to run a legit bakery,” he smooths his thumb against your spine, “Parker can visit us whenever he wants.” 

“I don’t have the capital to open a bakery—”

“I’ll help.” 

Your shoulders deflate a little and a crease forms between your brows. You tap your fingertips against his chest and ask, “Would you consider moving to New York?” 

He drops his gaze and shakes his head, “I have to be here. Better chance of me picking up work if I’m close by.“

“Dieter,” you pause, holding your breath like you’re not sure you want to say it, but when he meets your eyes, you stammer, “It just doesn’t seem like, I don’t know… Do you even like acting?”

The question feels like a jolt. 

He jerks his head back, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Unconvinced. Stomach acid sloshes around inside him and bubbles up his throat. 

“It’s my purpose. Acting is the only constant in my life, the only thing that I do that means anything. It—it’s what gets me out of bed and pushes me to keep going.” 

He says this, but the words taste sour. Does he even like acting anymore? Or is he just scared to try something else? 

A glimpse of the answer in his heart sends it racing. He stuffs it down and tries not to look at it. It’s too fucking scary. 

You study him for a moment, then scrunch your face up and stare at your fingertips as they dance across his bare skin. Deep in thought. With each second that goes by, he’s sure you’ll press harder and make him crack. It wouldn’t take much. 

“I wonder how much money I could make selling my inventory,” you ponder out loud,  “Probably at least $20k. That would be an ok starting—”

His mouth drops open, “Holy shit, how much do you have?” 

You shrug, “Twenty pounds raw, thirty pounds cannabutter—”

“And I’ve been smoking you up?” he tuts, “Puta madre.” 

You gasp and smack his chest, breaking out in a giggle when you say, “Rude.” 

“I’m just kidding,” he laughs, pulling you closer, “Smoking you up is an honor.” 

“Damn right it is.” 

The two of you smile at each other for a moment, then what you were saying catches up to him. 

“So, if you sell everything, then…” 

Your eyebrow quirks and your grin spreads wider as you shrug, “Then I could probably swing a cross-country move.” 

“Yeah?” 

His cheeks ache from smiling, but he can’t stop. 

You nod, “Yeah.” 

The shrill sound of your ringtone cuts through sleep. 

You roll out of Dieter’s loose grip to grab at the source, frowning first at the time, then the caller. Fucking FaceTime, seriously?

You pull Dieter’s shirt over your head and tiptoe out onto the patio, sliding the door shut behind you as you answer with a hiss, “Parker, it’s 3am, what the fu—”

“Lou, look,” he says, and you squint at the screen, recognizing the propped open door to your apartment building. The snow piles flicker blue and red. Parker pans the camera to the half-dozen NYPD squad cars clogging the street. Police officers and people wearing jackets reading NYPD FORENSIC INVESTIGATION DIVISION file in and out of the building, the outgoing individuals carrying boxes of evidence. 

“I don’t understand,” you shake your head, “What’s going on, are you ok?”

“That’s from your apartment, Lou,” he tells you quietly, “They fucking raided it.”

Panic seeps into your blood, an icy cold rush that numbs your limbs and freezes your brain. You just keep shaking your head, and hear yourself tell Parker, “No—no that can’t be right.” 

“Trust me, it is—”

“Excuse me,” an off-screen voice says to Parker, and the perspective shifts to the source: a bald white man with thick-rimmed glasses. He’s holding a camera, and he asks, “Do you live here?” 

“No,” Parker answers. 

Another wave of panic slams into you as you realize who he is: David Alterman from DIRT. 

You end the call and stare at the screen, unable to move. Unable to think. Just one thought blares in your mind, deafening and persistent: RUN.

[strawberrystepmom]

malevolent enterprise ch. 3

ceo au series. sukuna and yuji are brothers. gojo x f!reader are endgame. reader is a lawyer and our freshly introduced journalist and sukuna are hooking up which leads to a tense discussion. cw: suggestive discussions. wc 1.4k.

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune | masterlist

Tasked once again with cleaning up Sukuna’s messes, you wiggle your foot impatiently and glance at your watch, shifting your gaze from there to around the crowded cafe, looking for the woman of the hour who was supposed to have arrived five minutes ago. 

You were early, of course, as is your overly accommodating nature. After spending time scoping out tables for any potential eavesdroppers or hired corporate espionage, you were satisfied with your inspection of people less than interested by you clicking across the floor and ordering a cup of Earl Gray. No one here gives a shit what’s happening at Ryomen Industries except for you and the little pink princess you’re so desperately trying to legally bind to keep her mouth shut on Ryomen Industries behalf.

Jiggling your ankle, you narrow your eyes and search again, pursed lips curling into a demure smile as you stand and wave the journalist in your direction. She’s pretty, something you already knew to be true despite only seeing her in passing a couple of times, even more so in casual pants and a sweater. A half wave is her response and she makes her way through the people moving from the counter to the tables across the cafe.

“Thank you for coming.” 

“I apologize for being late, the train ran slightly off schedule today.”

You try to hide your surprise at the lack of warmth in her voice but given the task she’s here to do, you can hardly blame her. Nobody wants to meet with a lawyer in broad daylight to sign paperwork, much less something that could jeopardize the integrity of an investigation she has invested months into. 

“I understand. Some things end up being truly out of your control no matter who you are.” Your smile is so measured she fights the urge to shiver, unsurprised that someone like you is heading up the legal department at Sukuna’s new company. 

The journalist has a perspective you lack about the man, though, and that’s who he is when the lights are low. She knows him intimately and this is dangerous knowledge to have about a man who is known for being as ruthless in a boardroom as he is devilish at a nightclub. He’s a wildcard in every sense of the word and that’s why you have to protect not simply the company that employs you but him, too. 

The things we do for our friends. 

She pulls out the chair opposite you and you offer another tight smile, clasping your fingers and placing your hands on the table in front of you. 

“I just have a few things I want to go over and then you will be able to have your day back.” She nods and looks around, waiting for a waitress to pass to order a drink.

 “I know you had some questions so allow me to clarify.” You pick up a dark colored folder, tapping your nails against the cover. “These documents have no impact on the things you’ve discovered through traditional journalistic means about Sukuna and anything he has told you on the record is fair game.”

She turns her gaze back to you, eyes so pretty you understand immediately what your boss sees in her. Nodding her response, you wrap your fingers around your teacup and lift it from the plate in front of you, holding it inches from your mouth. 

“We know what kind of man he is when it comes to his personal life. He’s a serial philanderer, he has destroyed every hotel room he has ever stayed in, he…”

You trail off when her gaze turns icy and remains locked on you.

“If he’s so horrible, how can you stomach working for him?”

Tendrils of steam rise from your tea cup and you blow on them, pursing your lips and sniffing the lavender note in the tea itself to calm yourself before you really show your ass in front of everyone in this cafe. You exhale sharply through your nose, amused, and meet her glance with a flat glare of your own. 

“Well, only one of us is here to sign legal documents promising not to publish his tip color and girth in whatever newspaper you work for so I could ask you the same question.”

Lifting the mug to your mouth, you blow and the steam dissipates but does little to cover the evident offense on the other woman’s face. Immediately, you feel bad and sip your tea quickly and swallow even faster, setting the cup back down in front of you. The journalist plays with her silverware, tracing the curves of the handle of a spoon with her index finger, attempting to avoid making eye contact with you. She’s an impressive woman in her own right, an award winner in her field, and you feel like your boss is rubbing off on you too much these days. He’s an asshole but he hired you specifically not to be so you humbly clear your throat and rub your thumb over the tip of your nose.  

“I’m sorry, that was not a very nice thing to say and I’m not here to judge you about who you bed.”

She nods in disbelief and you know you have it coming. That wasn’t exactly your best moment as a person. 

“I need you to sign this to protect yourself,” you clarify. “If we don’t get this figured out, anything you say that he doesn’t like could come back to bite you and he changes his mind quickly.”

This is of course an offensive way to tell someone that he will eventually grow tired of them but you know it’s the truth and mincing words will only prolong her trepidation in getting this over with. You can’t sugarcoat the truth any further and looking into the earnest and sweet face of the woman across from you, you soften further and slump forward with a sigh. 

“I want to make sure nothing happens to you in all of this. Your career is too valuable to risk it over him.”

She looks at you, searching your face for hints of further deception or malice and finds none. Leaning back into her chair, she folds her arms over her chest and chews the inside of her cheek, the waitress she has been searching for still tending to the tables around the two of you. 

“I’d like to have my own legal counsel review the document before signing it.”

It’s a loss as far as completing the task Sukuna commanded goes but it’s a win otherwise as far as you’re concerned and you pass the folder across the table in her direction. She unfolds her arms and grabs the edge of the folder, dragging it toward her body and looking around the room as if she’s concerned more of his goons will approach her. 

With the document passed off, you lift your tea to your mouth and sip once again, stomach turning slightly despite the warm wash over your tongue. You swallow and force another tight lipped smile.

“Thank you again. I know this is weird but I’m not your enemy.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to tell her that but something tells you, a gut feeling perhaps, that this is far from the last time the two of you will be seeing each other. She nods and rises from her seat, quietly shoving it out behind her. You stop her before she walks away and tap the cover of the folder.

“My card is in there. Call me if you have questions, day or night.”

The offer is a peace offering above all and it has to be obvious. She raises her brow curiously, nodding with a smile. 

“We’ll see if I have to take you up on it. Take care.”

Offering a half wave, you watch as she rounds the table and heads toward the door. Finally you release your caught breath, the air enough to rustle the napkins on the table in front of you. Picking your phone up from the table, you groan when you’re greeted with three missed calls and ten new messages in the chat between you and your personal assistant.

Toge: hi come back he’s rampaging and no one knows why he broke a chair

Toge: also u have flowers at my desk…whose 🐓 have u been sucking 

Toge: damn these rnt even roses these r nice flowers 🪻🌸🌷

You scroll through the next several messages, rolling your eyes until you look at the one most recently sent and you freeze in place.

Toge: LOL GOJOS HEREEEEEE!!!!!!! come get ur man!!!!

Closing your phone, you lift your tea cup and sip for another luxurious few seconds before packing up and heading back to whatever hell awaits you at Ryomen Industries. 

[gawdheads]

Mononoke (2007)

Japanese horror stories are imbued with the subtlety and depth of haiku poems. They can trigger deep emotion, grief, dread with a multi-angle narration that enriches the build up of their characters, making the resolution as impactful as a storm that only needed one single raindrop to summon  the rumbling of the darkest skies. Mononoke is an spin-off anthology series that follows the Medicine Seller, a drifter that travels Japan fending off the entities known as ayakashi that have bound themselves to negative human emotions like grudge, hatred, wrath and that have become more powerful, turning into Mononoke. 

The five stories explore the red thread that connects people to a Mononoke. Each story develops a human drive: mothership, brotherhood, family, love, solidarity. And each character arc scrutinizes the heart of human experience depending on the circumstances that brought them together to common ground where the ayakashi broods. That’s how the complexity of the plot plus the quality of animation makes this miniseries a great anime to experience: horror is treated beyond the gore and the disturbing graphic images because it’s also designed as an element of magic and beauty.

The story that struck me the most was “Nue”. It tells the gathering of three suitors seeking to marry Lady Ruri and then inherit the Toudaiji, a piece of wood that grants great power to its owner. The Medicine Seller was to participate in an incense contest in order to reveal the shape, truth and reasoning of the mononoke that lives in the Toudaiji. The two episodes play with the concept of how easy it is to numb the mind by overwhelming the experience of senses, binding the spirit to a last delightful affair, one that dismisses death, never aiming for resolution. 

I gotta say that Mononoke is the best example of art brought to life. The visuals and the animation is superb; the technique employed for each fable is a world of its own, to the point that you feel that the Medicine Seller is visiting a different type of Japanese era. Horror is depicted as a timeline that goes full circle in order to manifest properly. The art of each episode pushes the boundaries that no word of mouth can do justice to its beauty and its exceptional storytelling. I recommend you to watch it without distraction of any sort in order to allow your mind to blot out routine and dwell deep in the magic of the red thread.

[star-farer]

to consider the unknown

Summary: Sea-daughter, child of unfathomed depths; cling to patience and your father's hand. AU: Ik'aad, High Fantasy Star Wars (HFSW) Taglist: @kybercrystals94 @fionas-frenzy @padawancat97 @margindoodles2407 @comfy-vember

Comfy-vember 2024, Week 2: Loving gaze, Day 3: Forehead kiss

“Buir, what are the stars like?”

He smiles down at the child on his lap, her curls in loud disarray. Once, he employs his fingers through them in an attempt to coax them down. It is futility in its finest form, and he laughs when they spring back like fresh grass under a new rain.

“Have you looked in any mirror of late, cyare?”

Her stare is all her father-brother’s, flat and disapproving. “I am no star.”

“Indeed?” He purses his lips at her squinting eyes and pouting mouth, little nose wrinkled like parchment. “And whatever has lead you to such an erroneous conclusion, ner kar’ika?”

With a huff of breath, she folds her arms across her little chest. “Tech told me of little fires in the sky. Wrecker told me of little white flowers in a dark field. Crosshair,” and here her brows draw together in thought, “Well, Crosshair told me nothing. He told me I shall see when I am older.”

She lifts polished eyes up at him, gleaming like earthy gemstones. “Aren’t I old enough now, Buir?”

He turns his gaze out into the depths of blue that stretch for eternity. This is all she has ever known in her two-five years. She has been withheld from the wonders of the world beyond the shivering surface of these waters they call their home and deem their hell.

A memory rises with the current of his thoughts, of his first breath of fresh air, his first step on solid ground, his first moment on a country so unlike his own. His every fiber strummed on a note of exhilaration, basking in the otherness of it all. Stretching every sense within him, feeling the crackle of life, hearing the sounds of the living, seeing the colors of undimmed light, tasting the unrestrained wind, smelling the scent of strangeness incarnate, all beautifully devoid of the brine-stench of sunken Kamino; he has never experienced such maddening awe since.

It comes as no surprise to find his sister-daughter yearning for more than what their cold city has to offer. She bears much resemblance to him, in matters of body, mind, heart and soul. He sees his own spirit burning, ever-moving and never-resting, where it resides within her being. She wishes for all the majesty borne of the Galactic Archipelago.

And who is he to refuse his darling’s desires?

“Not yet, ik’aad,” he laughs, yet, in spite of it all, soft and gentle so as not to distress her. A kiss he presses to her temple, apologetic in its kindness. What vexation lies wrought upon her crinkled features gives way to merriness in the giggles that gush forth like starlight.

She smiles, uneven little teeth shining up at him, reminiscent of seashells in the shallows, and winds her arms around him.

“When, Buir? When can I see the stars?”

“One day,” he tells her quietly, “When the war has come to an end, and when you are even older than you are now, and when at last we clones are freed of our duty, I swear I shall show you every star that gleams at us in the dark skies.”

“Truly?”

Oh, but what star shall ever compare to this child he declares his own?

“Truly.”

[corduroykoala]

I've been rewatching Frieren and was struck by just how effectively it uses montage to tell its story.

The passage of time is a huge part of the story, so montage is an obvious tool to employ, but Frieren uses it for more than just skipping to more interesting parts. Yes, that is often the goal, but it is also done in a way to demonstrate that time is passing. The montage in the first episode stands out—seeing a young shopkeeper appear much older just a few scenes later—as does the one used while the party waits in the Cabin with Kraft—Fern and Kraft are initially the only ones who pray at meals, but then Stark joins and, eventually, Frieren does as well.

My favorite montage, however, manages to convey not just the passage of time, but Frieren's perception of it. Relevant clip and discussion of it below the cut.

Throughout the series, we're also frequently told how much time has passed since Himmel's death, which serves to accentuate the passage of time as the characters—particularly Fern and Stark—get older. Fern is twice as old at the end of the season as she is at the beginning. The viewer can understand and relate to her experience of time.

In contrast, Frieren explains in the first episode that the ten-year journey with the Hero's party was short to her as an elf, not even one-one-hundredth of her life. On her journeys, we're constantly reminded of how short months and years seem to her, though it's generally played off in a light-hearted manner, juxtaposed against Fern's desire to continue their journey and not linger in one place for very long. To the viewer, this may make sense logically, but it is difficult to fully comprehend as a human. It's a lot like trying to understand the difference between one thousand and one million.

Episode 10 plays out largely in flashback, detailing Frieren's relationship with her master. After a fifty-year jump in time, Frieren is told to live in obscurity until the time comes when she can kill the demon king. Cue montage.

We see Frieren do as she was told, living a (mostly) quiet life as time passes. We see a small community grow into a village, a town, a walled city. We see a thousand years pass in about a minute of screentime. End montage.

We then see Himmel and his party approach Frieren to recruit her. It's a fairly standard Himmel flashback, demonstrating his uncanny insight and calling back to Frieren's meeting with Flamme. Then, the music falls out and—

Before you can even say the word montage, it's over. Five frames in rapid succession. The entire journey—ten years—in a single heartbeat. Painfully short, barely enough time to even understand what you just saw. One second in a video 100 seconds long.

This quick sequence captures just what that journey was like for Frieren. Of course she didn't get to know Himmel better. How could she have been expected to? It was barely any time at all, just one one-hundredth of her life.

This is my favorite montage in Frieren. It made my breath catch in my lungs the first time I watched it, and it did the exact same on rewatch. I love this show and I am incredibly happy it was renewed for a second season.

[multifandumbmeg]

AND WHILE I'M ON A ROLL. I HAVEN'T EVEN SCRATCHED THE SURFACE OF HOW DISRESPECTFUL TO DIEGO THIS SEASON WAS. After watching him fucking struggle SO HARD for THREE SEASONS to obtain, give, and learn how to receive love to just take it away from him completely unnecessarily?!?! Lila and Five did not and should not have gone on that quest anyways, as it didn't make the remotest sense. And ofc course we can imagine Diego and Lila having some communication issues, but those could have been played and fulfillingly resolved. Neither Diego or Lila seemed to have even tried to find a job or hobby or anything that would fulfill them in any way, and that made no sense to me. Why the fuck was Diego a mailman when he knows a bajillion forms of martial arts without his super powers? You're telling me that's not a marketable skill?? He was literally boxing professionally in the ORIGINAL timeline. He couldn't do secret service? Stunt guy? Karate teacher?! And was Lila even employed? Because no I don't believe she would find being a housewife fulfilling nor do I believe for a single second she would ever agree to that!!! If anything Diego would be a househusband!! And he would be DELICIOUSLY competitive about it!! Which would have been so much funnier than anything in this season!! On that same note, having him bitch and complain about his family the entire season and then have to "learn the true meaning of christmas" or whatever several times- be told to appreciate what he has- all while not once, not even after acknowleding he was wrong saying anything positive about his kids EVER nor does he even SAY GOODBYE TO HIS FUCKING KIDS WHEN THEYRE BEING LED AWAY BEFORE HE DIES--- I don't buy that for a fucking SECOND. Are you KIDDING me?! Diego "heart-of-gold" Hargreeves?! The #1 Mama's boy who sews up his own sweaters and moved out at seventeen so he had to learn every life skill on his own and swore he would never be like his dad to his own kids? The Diego that showed so much love and gentleness toward Stanley?? THAT Diego Hargreeves ???

And then to just end the series with him on bad terms with Five, unsure if Lila even loves him, kids gone, nothing to show for his miserable life that he worked so GODDAMN hard for whatsover?! Fuck that.

[eretzyisrael]

by Adam Levick

For the third time since the Oct. 7 Hamas massacre, the Guardian has published an op-ed evoking the antisemitic comparison of Israel to Nazi Germany.

The first piece employing the comparison was written by Swedish Jewish academic Raz Segal, appeared in the Guardian only two weeks after the barbaric attack by the bloodthirsty pogromists, and was titled “Israel must stop weaponising the Holocaust” (see our post here), while the second such comparison, written by US writer John Oakes, was published last month (see our post here).

The latest such antisemitic libel approved by Guardian editors was written by an Israeli-born Jewish professor at Brown University named Omer Bartov (“As a former IDF soldier and historian of genocide, I was deeply disturbed by my recent visit to Israel”, Aug. 13).

Though editors no doubt thought they were checkmating the Jewish community by publishing two pieces by Jews hurling the Nazi analogy, the cynical exploitation of such “Jews Against Themselves” by non-Jews trying to popularise anti-Jewish lies dates at least as far back as medieval Europe.

While, during that time period, such Jewish defamers were often converts who Christianity, those who renounced their faith and became “Jewish informers”, today they are more likely to be activists and academics who, rather than denouncing their identity, actually fancy themselves better Jews. Whereas, in the 13th Century, such Jews were likely motivated by the desire to escape persecution, today’s variant are often merely trying to ensure social and professional acceptance within their coveted political or intellectual circles.

To get a sense of the flimsiness of the case Bartov makes in the Guardian, he cites, as his first ‘example’ of Israel’s putatively genocidal Nazi tendencies, the anti-terror policies of then Defense Minister Yitzhak Rabin during the First Intifada.  It was under Rabin’s leadership, he opines, that the IDF began “heading down a…slippery path” akin to “the indoctrination of the armed forces of Nazi Germany”.  Tellingly, he sees no evidence of racist indoctrination of Palestinians in, for instance, the five year campaign of violence largely targeting civilians in the early 2000s known as the 2nd Intifada – a traumatic period in the country’s history that he omits entirely from his nearly 7,500 word piece.

Bartov also cites grossly misleading quotes by Israeli leaders to allege genocidal intentions.

For instance, he omitted that defense minister Yoav Gallant was referring to the Hamas terrorists who had, two days prior, committed the antisemitic massacres as “human animals”, not, as he would have readers believe, all Gazans. Similarly, the Guardian columnist recycled the disproven framing of comments by the country’s prime minister citing the biblical reference to Amalek.

Conversely, he sees no such genocidal or Nazi pattern of behavior by Hamas, not in the annihilationist antisemitism codified in their founding charter, not in the savage ethnic cleansing of Jews they carried out on Oct. 7th, and not even in statements made by Hamas leaders promising to repeat the October massacre again and again.

More evidence that the writer was engaged in a pre-determined conclusion in search of evidence is found in the fact that nowhere in his op-ed does he mention – or try to challenge – experts who have argued that the IDF has taken more measures to avoid Palestinian civilian deaths than any army in history, and that the civilian to combatant casualty ratio is among the best of any army engaged in similar urban combat.  It’s also far, far better than the international average of civilian to combats deaths during conflicts.

The Israeli army’s accomplishment is even more impressive when you consider the challenge posed by Hamas’s human shield policy – their exploitation of the civilians and civilian infrastructure for terror activities.

Those, like Bartov, who frame the total number of (Hamas-claimed) deaths in Gaza as evidence of genocide are engaged in an intellectually and historically unserious assertion, as a recent op-ed by six former U.S. federal prosecutors of perpetrators of Nazi genocide argued:

Genocide is a crime based on intent, not one that is based specifically on numbers. If it were based on numbers, then the World War II Allies would have perpetrated genocide in Germany, where their forces killed 300,000 to 400,000 civilians in air operations alone, even apart from loss of life that occurred during ground offensives. No serious observer would contend that the Allies committed genocide against Germans during World War II. German fatalities instead occurred as a result of the Allied waging of a manifestly defensive war to bring an end to aggression, war crimes, and genocide perpetrated by Germany. And those German civilian fatalities continued to mount until Nazi Germany at last surrendered — just as Hamas can and should do, at once, to end the war and the associated suffering in Gaza and Israel. Israel too is waging a defensive war against ongoing aggression, war crimes and genocide, but it is taking far greater steps to protect civilian lives than Allied forces did.

Bartov’s myopic focus on Israel contrasts with his lack of intellectual or moral curiosity about the decisions and motivations of those who carried out the worst and most brutal massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, what one journalist who watched the unedited 40 minute film of Hamas’s atrocities described as “pure, predatory sadism”:

“The videos show pure, predatory sadism; no effort to spare those who pose no threat; and an eagerness to kill nearly matched by eagerness to disfigure the bodies of the [Jewish] victims. In several clips, the Hamas killers fire shots into the heads of people who are already dead. They count corpses, taking their time, and then shoot them again. Some of the clips I had not previously seen simply show the victims in a state of terror as they wait to be murdered…”.

It also illustrates what Balas Berkovitz described as the anti-Israel left’s campaign to turn October 7th into a “non-event”, citing the impact of an anti-Zionists’ “ideological edifice” which forces adherents to “dismiss real-world evidence that…challenge their established interpretations”.  Instead of engaging in soul-searching, or reactions along the lines of “this is not how we imagined Palestinian resistance,” activists, and outlets like the Guardian, have only doubled down on their hatred of the Jewish state.

Further, the Guardian’s Nazi libel is more than just a morally reprehensible inversion of reality and ‘dismissal of real-world evidence’. It also constitutes another example of their editors publishing content that, particularly in light of an unprecedented surge in antisemitism in the UK, serves to incite more hatred against British Jews, granting a permission structure for antisemites by effectively casting British Zionists as not just grossly misguided, but as accomplices to evil.  

We’ve argued that the Guardian’s coverage since the Oct. 7 massacre has been effectively pro-Hamas. To that we’ll add that it’s also been antisemitic, in effect if not intent.