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midsummer-semantics · 1 month ago

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Paradise Found

Back at it again with part 4 (because I'm feral for this and incapable of stretching out Kinktober into the whole month apparently. Also available on ao3!

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Professor Steve Harrington, Grad Student Eddie Munson, Teacher-Student Relationship, Secret Relationship, dom/sub dynamics, Dom Steve Harrington, Sub Eddie Munson, Sex Toys, Object Insertion, Aftercare, Eddie Munson is Whipped, Steve Harrington is Whipped, they're both whipped together like a delicious ice cream, Mutual Obssession, Feelings Realization, Eddie Munson Has a Praise Kink, Praise kink still going so so strong, Ruined Orgasm, but really it's, Edging, Vibrators, Dildos, Masturbation, Facials, Come Marking, Possessive Steve Harrington, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Dacryphilia, Someone put fluff in this porn, Fluff and Smut

Summary:

Or: Steve keeps their relationship strictly above board... mostly.

[Dividers by @steddiecameraroll-graphics]

Read the fic below! ⤵️

It’s pure torture seeing Steve every week, being alone with him in his office like before, and not being able to touch him. Well, it was torture before he knew Steve wanted him, but it’s even worse now with the hungry looks Steve can’t seem to keep control over. What Eddie had assumed was calm neutrality he’s realized was barely-checked desire, and now that he knows Steve much better, he can see it in his eyes even when the rest of his face gives nothing else away.

True to his word, Steve doesn’t touch him aside from a hand-shake here and there if they pass each other in the halls. By the fourth week, Eddie’s going insane.

He knows, realistically, that they’re playing with fire as it is. If anyone were to find out, Steve could lose his job, tenure or not. Eddie could be dismissed from the program for bribing a faculty member with inappropriate favors. It could ruin both their lives.

But that fire only burns brighter when Steve does, in fact, buy Eddie a rather impressively sized dildo and makes him ride it on the floor of his office during one of their late-night private sessions.

“Gotta be quieter, baby boy, or I’ll have to gag you. And if I do, then the discussion ends and so does our session,” Steve warns. Eddie comes all over himself and the rug beneath him just thinking about Steve binding and gagging him.

The next few weeks pass that way, with the first half of their private sessions being dedicated to actual intellectual conversation before Steve orders Eddie out of his clothes and helps him turn his brain off entirely.

Most of the time, Steve just gives him orders and watches, sitting back on the couch or in his desk chair like a king on a throne. But sometimes… sometimes he pulls his glorious cock out from the fly of his professional slacks and tugs himself to completion right along with Eddie. He always finishes in his hand, going through boxes of tissues to clean up as best he can without leaving the sanctuary that his office has become to wash his hands until Eddie is decent and ready to leave. Eddie whines every time; he wants Steve’s come, wants to taste it, feel it on his skin, feel it sliding down his thighs.

Steve never touches him, but Eddie’s never been so thoroughly sexually satisfied in his entire life. Between their in-person meetings and several calls during the week in between, Steve manages to make Eddie come so much it’s like he’s rebooting his system every time. His head is clearer and his grades (which were already pretty great to begin with) are somehow even better. He has his thesis proposal finished and submitted a week before his spring break deadline, and Steve rewards him by buying him a vibrating plug that he makes Eddie wear during their following session, controlling the speed with an app on his phone and bringing Eddie to orgasm over and over until he does, in fact, cry from the pleasure of it all.

Chrissy notices a change in him a couple of weeks into the semester, asking him what’s got him so giddy when he’s normally a walking ball of stress.

“Just ready to be done, I guess,” Eddie deflects. She’s not stupid, he knows she knows something is up with him, but she doesn’t push. Not right away at least.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy, Eds,” she tells him one night in the second half of the semester. “You don’t even have any insane bags under your eyes from lack of sleep. So come on, spill.”

He waffles for a bit, trying to decide how much he can reasonably get away with telling her.

“I’m seeing someone. But I can’t tell you who, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

She doesn’t like it, clearly, judging by the unimpressed look on her face, but Eddie just promises to tell her everything as soon as he can, and then teases her by giving her meager details about some of the wilder sex acts themselves until she stops asking altogether out of disgust.

The biggest drawback, really, is that despite the lack of physical contact, it hasn’t stopped Eddie from falling head over heels in love with Steve in the process. God, they haven’t even kissed or held hands or been on a real date and Eddie’s ready to propose marriage to the older man. He’s beyond obsessed with him, and with the way Steve looks at him or talks to him, he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual, which is the only reason why he’s still putting himself through this torture. He’ll gladly lay himself at Steve’s feet and take any attention he can get like a praying acolyte if it means Steve will continue to bless him with his presence alone.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks him once they’re settled in their usual spots: Eddie on the couch, Steve in his desk chair rolled over next to it.

It’s their last meeting for the semester. Sixteen weeks have come and gone in a haze of term papers, private lessons, orgasms, and no touching.

“Good,” Eddie answers honestly, arms stretched along the back of the couch, legs crossed in front of him. “Williamson’s classes are insane, but I’m glad for them to be done finally.”

Steve chuckles, pulling his glasses off of his face to clean them on his shirt. “Yeah, Mike’s a bit of an intense person. But you survived.”

“Barely,” Eddie snickers.

There’s a quiet moment between them, Steve returning his glasses to his face and giving Eddie one of those overly fond looks that make his heart race.

I love you, it beats, just for Steve.

“And you’ve already started writing?” the professor asks.

Eddie nods, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs. This obligatory check-in feels routine and like an ending all at once. “Yep. I’d share my doc with you, but I don’t think it’d bode well if my potential marker was leaving dirty little messages for the rest of the thesis panel to find.”

He punctuates the statement with a wink, earning a breathy laugh from the older man.

“You’re probably right,” Steve concedes with a chuckle. “I suppose I’ll have to praise you another way.”

Eddie perks up at that. Normally Steve makes him wait until they’ve discussed some sort of topic first, but considering the semester is at an end and Eddie’s focus is only his thesis now, it makes sense that there’s nothing stopping them from jumping straight to the best part.

“Come,” Steve prompts, waving a hand to beckon Eddie off the couch. The younger man stands, walking the few steps to stand between Steve’s knees, not touching, but so close they could. It’s like a fun little game: how close can they get without being too close?

Steve’s gorgeous hazel eyes roam over Eddie the same way they did the first time, like Eddie’s somehow worth seeing every inch of. His hands flex where they’re planted on the armrests, like he’s fighting every instinct to reach for the younger man.

“Were you a good boy for me today, Eddie?”

Eddie swallows thickly, knowing exactly what Steve’s asking. The vibrating plug the professor has had him wear before it already nestled into place, dormant for now, but present. He was a little surprised when Steve had asked him to wear it to their session, since normally Steve has preferred to watch Eddie open himself up before putting anything in his ass. He’s not sure what’s worse: Steve not being there for the prep, or the fact he wasn’t allowed to come despite how perfectly the plug nestles against his prostate. He’s basically been on edge for hours since putting it in.

“Yes, sir.”

Steve smiles, overly fond and slightly predatory. “Of course you were. You’re always so good for me.”

Eddie flushes as he always does when Steve starts piling on the praise. He shifts on his feet slightly, feeling the plug inside him shift with the movement, drawing a barely there whimper from him.

Steve gives him a sympathetic look before pushing his chair back enough to stand. They’re roughly the same height — a fact that Eddie is always a little thrown by when the man before him carries himself like he’s larger than life — so they’re basically nose-to-nose when Steve stands this close. Eddie fights every instinct to reach for him, to throw his entire body weight into the other man and rip off his clothes to ride him into the office rug. Instead, he waits, eyes barely blinking as Steve’s scan over his face.

“You drive me insane, Eddie. Did you know that?” Steve whispers, his breath ghosting over Eddie’s lips like a kiss. A kiss he desperately wants. He shudders when Steve turns his head enough to brush the tip of his nose across Eddie’s cheek, the contact so light he’s not sure they’re touching at all. “I can’t wait to finally have all of you.”

Eddie bites back a moan when Steve��s breath fans over this throat.

“You do,” he chokes out, clearing his throat. “You do have me. All of me.”

Steve hums, bringing one hand up to trace the barest of touches across Eddie’s bottom lip. “Not yet. Not really. But soon.”

Eddie could bite him. Could stick out his tongue even a little and pull Steve’s finger into his mouth. And Steve knows it, Eddie knows he does, which is why he doesn’t do it. It would be so, so easy to give into the temptation, to let the fire finally consume him and take, take, take.

But that’s not part of the game.

When Steve finally steps away, Eddie’s able to breathe deeply, waiting as his professor circles him like prey.

“Strip,” he orders, rounding his desk to retrieve the large dildo he keeps in a locked drawer in his desk. Meanwhile, Eddie starts with his shirt buttons and makes quick, efficient work of baring himself, folding his clothes neatly on the corner of the desk like always, out of the way but ready to grab should he need to. By the time he’s finished, Steve has set the dildo, along with a bottle of lube, on the desk next to his chair and taken a seat on the couch instead.

“Have a seat, sweetheart,” Steve instructs, tipping his head to indicate his expensive leather desk chair.

That’s new, Eddie thinks. Normally Steve has him kneeling on the carpet. The only person who ever sits on the throne is the king himself.

Slowly, Eddie steps back, the toy already inside him turning and pressing with every movement as he lowers his bare ass onto the cold leather. Both sensations make him hiss slightly, and Steve gives him another sympathetic pout that’s totally at odds with the relaxed way he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread to show off the bulge already prominent beneath his slacks, arms resting across the back, his phone with the controller app poised and ready in his hand.

“Arms over your head, grab the head rest,” Steve orders. Eddie follows directions, bringing his hands back to grip the soft leather, his legs falling open to show off how hard he already is, the black silicone stuffed inside of him. “Beautiful.”

He knew it was coming, but he still jolts and gasps when the plug turns on, his back arching away from the seat as he grinds down against it. His eyes squeeze shut against the onslaught of pleasure as Steve turns it up another notch.

“You’re gonna come on that, and then you’re going to come for me again while you ride the dildo in my chair,” Steve explains.

Essie mewls and whimpers, hands squeezing the leather tighter and bobbing his head in an approximation of a nod.

“Y-yes, sir,” he stammers. He can feel himself starting to sweat, his body slipping against the leather with every roll of his hips as he tries to work the toy deeper, like it’s not tapered at the end to prevent just that. He might slip right off the seat and crumble to the floor if he could pry his hands loose from the death grip he has on the headrest.

It doesn’t take long for him to get close, the edge of the cliff in sight even behind his closed eyes, and just as his breathing becomes erratic and his balls draw up, the vibration stops altogether. He moans in relief and frustration, forcing his eyes open to glare at the older man.

“I said you were gonna come. I never said you’d get to right away,” Steve says with a shrug, like watching Eddie’s slow descent into madness is just another Thursday night. Which, it is, he supposes, but he doesn’t have to like it (even though he loves it).

Steve’s free hand comes to rest on the bulge in his pants, rubbing slowly as they wait for Eddie to crawl back from the razor’s edge of his ruined orgasm. When it’s clear he’s not in danger of blowing before Steve allows it, the vibrations start again, slow at first, but ticking up fairly quickly. Eddie writhes and whimpers through it, sweating even more and feeling tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as he fights not to cry out and alert anyone who might be in adjacent offices what’s going on in here.

“So good for me, baby boy,” Steve praises, his voice not at all helping Eddie keep himself under barely-held control. The vibrations stop when he gets too close to coming again, and a few tears do fall down his cheeks.

“God, you’re fucking pretty,” Steve mutters, squeezing himself tighter. “Fucked out already and crying in the very seat I work from every day. In the chair I’ve sat in fucking my fist to thoughts of you for nearly a year.”

“Steve, please,” Eddie begs, shaking with adrenaline and the knowledge that he’s still going to have to come again after Steve lets him get through the first one.

“I know, baby boy, I know,” his professor croons. “I just want to make sure the image of you sticks in my mind. I can barely be in my office alone without thinking about how I’ve seen you fucked silly and drained on the carpet or the couch. I needed to see you open and begging for me in the spot where I’ve begged for you.”

I’ve begged for you rings in Eddie’s ears, ping-ponging around the empty space in his head where his brain used to be, increasing in frequency when Steve turns the vibe back on again.

It takes next to nothing after that for Eddie to come, shooting up to his neck as his cock kicks wildly without control. Absently he thinks Steve will punish him for coming without permission, but in the moment he doesn’t give a single shit because holy mother of god it’s so much.

“Fuck,” someone breathes, and it takes a few moments for Eddie to realize it was Steve. Barely present, Eddie cracks his eyelids open to find the older man with his hand down the waistband of his briefs, his slacks open but nothing shoved down, like he was too desperate to get a hand on himself to wait the few seconds it would take to move the fabric out of the way. “God, I love watching you come. Think you can do it again on the dildo?”

This is why he loves Steve. Even though the professor told him what was expected of him, he’s still yielding to Eddie’s level of comfort, trusting him to tell Steve if he’s too tired or doesn’t want to continue. And Eddie knows he could put an end to it without issue, knows if he said no that Steve wouldn’t express any kind of disappointment or anger. He knows that Steve’s priority is Eddie’s pleasure, his happiness, and fuck if that doesn’t make him fall a little bit more in love with Steve every time he proves that.

“I’m good. Just… in a minute,” Eddie wheezes, feeling wrung out already despite the still simmering desire to give this man anything he wants. And if he wants to see Eddie ride the dildo in his desk chair tonight then by god he’s going to do it.

Steve snickers, but not meanly, and extracts his hand from his pants so he can get up and retrieve a bottle of water from the mini fridge he keeps in his office. He passes it to Eddie, letting their fingers brush and linger for a moment before returning to his seat.

There’s idle chat between the two for a bit, nothing that would require any sort of brain power, thankfully, since Eddie’s pretty sure his brain is still soup, but eventually, Steve turns the focus back.

“Only a few more months, baby. And then the only dick you’ll ride will be mine.”

Eddie groans, feeling his dick twitch against his thigh at the promise. The knowledge that this is likely the last time they’ll do anything in person until after he receives his thesis marks, combined with the reassurance that Steve is in this for the foreseeable future gives him the strength to pull himself into a better position in the chair. The way Steve’s eyes take on that hungry look again and slides his hand back into his boxers gives Eddie the power to work the plug out of himself before reaching for the dildo and lube.

He doesn’t bother opening himself up anymore, not after he admitted to Steve he likes a bit of pain sometimes, plus he’s already come once, hard, so he’s as relaxed as he can be without stuffing anymore fingers up there.

He would like to say he takes it slow, sitting up enough to make room for the toy before working himself down over it, for the sake of putting on a show. Really, though, it’s because he has less control over his movements in the chair than he normally does on the floor. He nearly impales himself immediately, having to plant his hand on the armrests, his arms shaking with the effort to hold himself up as he slowly sinks down, because he knows Steve doesn’t get disappointed easily, but he would be if Eddie hurt himself needlessly.

“That’s it, gorgeous. Take it all,” Steve rasps, finally working his briefs down under his balls and exposing the flushed, pulsing line of his cock to Eddie’s gaze. “You’re doing so well for me. So beautiful on that cock.”

Eddie whimpers and nods, beyond words as the dildo reaches much deeper than the plug did. Once he’s settled, he wraps a hand around his re-hardened dick, circling the base tightly. He’s not that close, not yet, but the pleasure of being filled and Steve’s eyes drinking him in as he fists his own cock is a lot to take in all at once.

His thighs shake as he adjusts, giving a few cursory rolls of his hips and lifting enough to work himself open on the toy. His movement is restricted, the chair slightly too high, so he reaches down with his free hand to the lever that’ll lower it.

“AH! Fuck!” he yelps, unable to stop the sound as the chair descends too quickly and he’s impaled further on the impact.

Steve tuts, but Eddie can see the genuine worry creasing his brow. “Careful, honey.”

“‘M fine. I’m good,” he promises even as his ass smarts. He really is fine, more shocked than anything, and the slight pain gives way quickly.

“Whenever you’re ready. No need to tease yourself. I want you to ride that dick until you come again,” Steve states.

Eddie nods again, one hand on his throbbing erection, the other on the armrest for leverage, and slowly works himself up and down the intrusion.

Steve spits into his hand, wrapping it around himself once more, and Eddie considers throwing him the lube bottle, but he’s not sure he won’t crumble into dust if he lets his hands move. Steve’s fine, he figures, considering the way he’s barely blinking as he watches Eddie ride the dildo, and the slick sounds of their combined play and the quiet symphony of moans and gasps fill Eddie’s head with static instead.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck, you look so good. Keep stroking that beautiful cock. Wanna see you come again,” Steve pants, his own fist beating his cock like it owes him money while Eddie fucks himself for his viewing pleasure.

It’s all too much and Eddie reaches the edge faster than he thought possible given the torture Steve put him through for his first orgasm. Before he can eke out a warning, Eddie comes on a silent scream, tears streaming down his face and come covering his fist and stomach once more.

“Fuck yeah, just like that,” Steve mutters somewhere in the depths of Eddie’s subconscious, and he only just registers the hand in his hair not being his own before he feels hot, sticky spend coating his cheeks and forehead, dripping over one eyelid and down his chin.

He manages to peek one eye open, catching sight of the last of Steve’s come hitting his face, feels it like a searing kiss on his skin. He’s covered, not just in himself but in Steve. In their combined pleasure. In the evidence of Steve’s claim on him.

And Steve doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hair, not as he releases his grip on his dick and rubs come-covered fingers over Eddie’s lips for his tongue to chase after. Eddie wants more, so much more, but Steve pulls his hand away to swipe his thumb right through the tear tracks and the come on Eddie’s cheek, bringing it up to his mouth and sucking it off.

“Delicious.”

When he does release Eddie’s hair, he kneels down between his still spread thighs instead, gently lifting his hips since Eddie has neither the strength nor the wherewithal to do it himself, and carefully works the toy out of him. Eddie rests his head back against the chair, a pliant husk that Steve moves leisurely as he cleans him up. There’s a wet towel on his face and torso, too cold since it’s from the water in Steve’s fridge, and quiet murmurs of praise that might as well be in German for all Eddie can understand them.

He starts to come around more as Steve lifts Eddie’s legs again to work his boxers and pants up his legs, muttering a quiet, “Lift up for me,” so he can get them all the way up and fastened. Instead of Eddie’s shirt, though, he’s wrangled into a hoodie that isn’t his, one that’s warm and soft and smells like Steve’s cologne. He’s lifted from the chair and guided on baby-deer legs to the couch, settled against a strong, broad side and wrapped in a protective embrace.

“You’re so good, Eddie. Always so good. So perfect.”

Eddie hums, his head still fuzzy, limbs still heavy, and heart so full.

I love you, it beats, over and over as Steve holds him, his head pressed to Steve’s chest. I'm yours, always.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #sub eddie munson #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things #steddie kinktober

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fortressofserenity · 7 days ago

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The Prodigal Daughter

This story references both the Prodigy, where the late Keith Flint (the Italian word for flint is selce) spent time in Egypt before returning to Braintree, and Dalida whose real name is Iolanda Cristina Gigliotti, who was born in Cairo herself.

Iolanda Selce was often goaded by her father, Edoardo, into supporting and working for his leather making business. She’d acquiesce to this by ordering any sort of leather from sellers such as deer leather, elk leather and cattle leather, turning them into a variety of items like bags, shoes and belts. But she also prefers to make and sell her own items, often handmade and plant-based. For awhile, she didn’t get along with her dad over something.

‘But Dad, I want to sell dresses.’

‘You could always make leather dresses.’

‘No! I want to make and sell cotton dresses!’

‘Why not?’

‘F--- you!’

She packed her belongings, including her fabrics, patterns and sewing materials, with her to Egypt and stayed there for a few years. Learning Arabic along the way and then quickly adapting to the Egyptian market, she developed a habit out of making and selling more modest garments. Abayas, qabas, shintiyans, galabiya bi sufras, telli dresses and caftans, you name it and she’s done those as often as before. Lately, she’s creating a pattern on paper, then cutting it out before layering it over a 90 cm cotton fabric. She starts outlining the pattern with tailor’s chalk, before cutting it out and sewing it by hand herself.

Using multiple needles on the same garment, she sews it as fast as she can. Using a variety of threads to get the job done as quickly as possible, she picks out a 100 m thread and a 1000 m thread together, cutting the threads and then inserting them into her needles. Needing to take a break from all that sewing, she makes herself a sandwich using rumi cheese and then slicing an eish fino bread almost in half just to insert the cheese and meat with. She then slices it into several pieces to share it with her adoptive family, including her adoptive mother Basma.

‘Do you want one, Basma?’

‘Sure I do, Iolanda.’

Then she gives it to her and she eats it.

‘Thanks!’

‘You’re welcome.’

She makes mint tea both for herself and Basma, talking about her home country.

‘What’s like in Italy, Iolanda?’

‘To be honest, I left it because I don’t want to make something with leather anymore. My dad kept on making me do it, but I’d rather make something out of cotton instead.’

‘You do leathermaking?’

‘I used to do it because my dad does it. He used to pay me in the thousands for it, he’s got a decent leathermaking business.’

‘Why don’t you help him with it?’

‘I do, but I want to sell the stuff I make.’

‘Don’t be so disrespectful to your father.’

‘But I want to do the things I want to do, especially for myself and myself alone.’

‘You should help him out.’

‘I did, but I don’t think he respects my decision to sell what I want to sell and it’s selling clothes based on cotton and linen. The plant-based fibres.’

‘Okay, you really want to make and sell the things you wanted to do.’

‘Precisely.’

After eating, drinking and chatting with Basma, Iolanda returns to sewing. She gets the folded garment out from the treasure box and resumes sewing it, as soon as she unravels a string a cat wants to play with it but she removes it from the room leaving it with Basma instead. There she sews uninterrupted, in fact she spends hours solely sewing it herself. After finishing the dress, she moves onto one of the sleeves finishing it as quickly as she can. As soon as dinner arrives, she cuts out the thread and needle, putting both of them in her metal box and then folding the garment (including the other sleeve), placing it in a treasure box and after doing this, she eats with Basma again.

Basma puts out the shashouka for them together, taking turns getting from it until there’s no more. Basma then gets two pieces of pita bread, puts falafel balls into both of them and gives each to herself and Iolanda. Then both of them eat, whilst everybody drinks water. Basma then gives some meat to the cat to eat, and leftovers to their dog outside. Once everybody’s finished with dinner, Basma and Iolanda go to the bedroom together. Basma sleeps on one bed, Iolanda on the other. The following morning, Iolanda wakes up and turns on the lamp, opens her stuff from both boxes and resumes sewing. She cuts and sews the other sleeve, finishing it as quickly as she can before Basma wakes up.

Once Basma wakes up, Iolanda has already finished it. She takes a look at it and is marvelled by it.

‘That’s a nice looking dress, may I have it?’

‘I feel…mixed feelings about it.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m planning on selling it to someone else.’

‘You may sell it to me instead.’

‘Well.’

Iolanda eventually sells the dress to her for 200 pounds, thus getting as much as she can and puts the money in her wallet. But later on this morning, she receives a message on her phone. It’s something from none other than her own dad.

‘Iolanda, it’s me. I want you back in Italy.’

Then she starts typing.

‘You want me back in Italy? Why, Dad?’

‘Sorry for not letting you sell the clothes you wanted to make, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m selling items based on plant-based leather these days.’

‘Really, Dad?’

‘Yes, customers want more plant-based items. You’re free to make and sell cotton garments.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Please come back, Iolanda.’

‘Okay.’

Iolanda starts packing all her belongings, she goes planning on returning to Italy to be reunited with her father in four years. Seeing that Iolanda is leaving, Basma goes near her, looking teary-eyed she comforts her.

‘Please don’t leave me.’

‘But my father’s telling me to go back to Italy, he’s changed his mind and he’s selling plant-based items this time.’

‘I’m going to miss you, so when are you going to return to Egypt?’

‘I won’t leave you, Basma. I’ll go back to Egypt, so don’t cry.’

She wipes the tears off her eyes as she pats her on the back. Then the two hug each other.

‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll come back to Egypt. I promise I will.’

‘I don’t feel good losing you.’

‘I’ll always be there for you.’

Eventually Basma stops crying as soon as Iolanda heads for the airport, bringing along her passport with her. Once she goes there, she shows her passport and then pays for the ride. She takes a seat, listening to music once the plane takes flight. Going from Cairo to Florence, she meets her father again.

‘Iolanda, it’s good to have you back.’

‘There’s someone in Egypt who misses me and she’s Basma.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s one of my friends and my host mother. I stayed there for four years straight.’

‘Four years? That’s a long time.’

‘I kind of overstayed my welcome there.’

‘Welcome back then.’

The two reunite and then head to their house together, there Iolanda is free to make cotton dresses. But her father reminds her of something.

‘Iolanda, I don’t think Italians are into those sorts of dresses.’

‘But that’s what I did in Egypt.’

‘The average Italian isn’t Muslim.’

‘I could always sell it to Muslims here.’

She did like what she told him she would, but she also learnt to observe fashion trends in Italy again in years. So the day after selling those dresses to Muslims, she’d sew clothes for non-Muslims based on what’s hip and current in Tuscany. After living in Egypt for four years, Iolanda got weirded out by the multitude of scantily-clad Italians that she had to make the outfits skimpier to sell it to them. But Edoardo’s glad to have her back and Iolanda’s willing to make items based on cactus and fruit peel leather this time.

#egypt #italy #fiction #literature #short story #writing #the prodigy #dalida #dressmaking #sewing #fashion #keith flint

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life-by-the-minute · 15 days ago

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an intro post

hi, my name is Elias. i'm a Japanese-Greek man working a salary job. i don't have a lot of time in a day, so most of my posts are queued or scheduled.

speaking of which, this intro might be bad because i'm making it at midnight (i should be trying to sleep, but i can't tonight for some reason)

i'm 27 years old

my favorite animal is the Kakapo

if i could be any character, i'd want to be Narancia (from Jojo)

i tend to eat ramen for lunch

i have a bit of facial hair, but it's somewhat pathetic

my ears are pierced, but i only wear earrings on days off or at night. i'm not sure why though.

although i'll queue most of my posts, at night i'll try to say something about my day. i'll leave the ask box open too in case anyone wants to ask me something. the answers will be late in the day, though. sorry in advance.

tag system:

#no time - queue

#sunshine city :] - being an otaku

#diory (ah i spelled it wrong) - my day. the whole thing is the tag

#does that make sense? - asks

[[[more info under the cut!!]]]

this is an unfiction story by @radio-ghost-cooks!!!!!

i got the inspiration watching a salaryman's ditl videos on instagram. Elias and his job are representative of the classic culinary industry. it's something i'm insanely passionate about (given i'm going to be living it soon)

over the course of the story, he's going to fall in love with someone i made to be both a self-insert and representative of the recent push to make the kitchen a healthier workplace. that being said, Elias is very much gay.

a lot of this genuinely will be scheduled/queued because i am very much a college student and would like to have a halfway decent sleep schedule.

#tw unreality #tw unfiction #fiction writing #fiction is not reality #unfiction #unfiction blog

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sinfullyrosey · 3 years ago

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20 Madols a Pop

GN!Reader X Various TWST Characters

Warnings: Use of a Glory Hole, Blowjob, Orgasm Denial, Handjob, Mentions of Footjob, Prostitution (I mean, the reader is getting paid to give blowies, so...)

I didn’t proof read this, so if I f’ed up or it looks like the pieces didn’t turn out in linear order, feel free to message me that I’m an idiot and to fix it.

All characters are 18+

You, the prefect of the Ramshackle Dorm, a stranger from another world, a magicless nobody in an expansive sea of magic users, were fucking broke. You weren’t from this strange land and only arrived with the clothes on your back and without a single penny to your name. The headmaster who “oh-so graciously” allowed you to stay in the rundown dorm, apparently wasn’t gracious enough to spare a few madols, or whatever their form of currency was here again.

You were tired of going to bed hungry and not being able to afford some form of luxury goods to make your whole situation just a bit more tolerable. There weren’t many options to choose from since you weren’t too familiar with the world you currently resided in. And you refused to go to anyone, especially Azul of all people, for a job. Not like you’d be hired here anyways.

After much mulling over, you were forced to think outside the box and come up with a quick and easy job that’d offer a decent pay role, was within your skill sets, and wouldn’t take up too many hours of your precious study and errand running time.

So, of course you chose to open up a glory hole and get paid to suck some college dick.

It was easy. You found a secluded area at the Ramshackle, a room located at a corner of the dormitory, and remodeled it ever-so-slightly it be your main base of operations. You cleaned up the room, set up a chair and small table area, and made sure to board up any windows or unwanted holes. When that was done, you created a single, round hole to the outside for customer use and another slot-shaped hole that would allow money to be inserted in it.

On the outside, where the two holes were, you had set up a sign of sorts that simply explained the rules of your business, such as how it was completely anonymous, how consent was important throughout and that you wouldn’t do certain things, and how special requests were allowed (for an extra price of course). All the customer had to do was show up, put the money in the slot (along with any written prior requests) and slip their member right in and you would do the rest.

All in all, you have a pretty good business going for you, with a steady influx of customers just lining up to get their dick sucked. After a while it just became routine as you raked in the dough every week. You could finally afford to pay for a daily meal for you and your feline dormmate, with a little extra to spare.

And as for the customers? Surprisingly, most were civil and followed the rules, despite the diversity among them. Of course, you got the typical, no-face student who’d stop by, pay, and then leave. At some point they all just started to blend together. However, on those few occasions, you’d get those customers that seemed all to... familiar.

Such as one customer who had become a regular as of late. You had a hunch that you knew this customer, recognizing the bundle of red hair in his pubic region and his rather dickish (excuse the pun) nature. He was far from one of your favorite regulars, but would come back almost weekly in order to get a taste of your delicious lips wrapped around his hard member. He could be rough, thrusting suddenly, mocking voice muffled through the dilapidated wall while you gagged and tried not to puke. He’d tease and even insult you in what you can only guess was his attempt at dirty talking, but squeezing his base or pinching his swollen head usually got him to shut up. You’ve also learned that denying him an orgasm until he apologized also does the trick... for the time being that is.

Another notable customer, and one of your personal favorites due to his tipping rates, was one who owned a darker, smooth phallus. This one was well groomed and a bit on the smaller size, but made up for what it lacked in size through eagerness alone. It was sensitive and didn’t take long to get up, or cum, usually resulting in you having to go more than one round before they were fully satisfied. You were sure you recognized this customer and his cheerfully, boundless energy. He was one of the more active customers, and one of the noisiest, moaning and crying out praises as you licked and sucked on his sensitive head.

Sometimes he’d get a bit too eager and start to near face fuck you if he got impatient. But a gentle bite and a firm grasp to the base of his cock got him settled once more. A pitched whine and quiet apology had you going right back to deep throating him until he was cuming with a high pitched keen. The third and final orgasm of the night. As you cleaned up the mess, he shove bunch of madols into the slot while complimenting you on a job well done, promising to come back soon.

Although, not all customers were quite so generous with their tips. One stingy customer would only ever pay the exact amount owed and not a single cent more or less. This one was rather rigid during his first visit and extremely quiet, but seemed to struggle to keep any moans and whimpers from slipping out. You finished him off and he left without a single word or tip. This had irked you for some reason, as a familiarness pulled at you, but you shrugged it off.

That is, until he came back a few days later. You recognized him due to his well kempt member and ocean fresh scent. With a mischievous smirk, you decided that this time around you’d tease and deny him any release, opting to give no more than kitten licks to his tip and graze your nails along his balls and base. Soon his cool façade was crumbling as he whimpered and begged for you to just let him cum already. You relented, but only after he deposited a few extra madols into your slot. And because he was such a good boy that time, you even swallowed every drop he gave you and bid him farewell with a kiss to his still sensitive head.

But sometimes a lack of tips or infrequent visits was not due to a customer’s stinginess, but rather, simply due to a lack of funds available. There was one client who had visited rather early on when you first set up shop that rarely comes around. You knew he couldn’t afford this sort of luxury because during one of his later visits, he came up a few cents short and had panicked, cursing under his breath and fumbling in his pockets for the missing madol, until you informed him it was no big deal and you were willing to give him a discount. You liked this particular customer and found his dick unique among those you’ve slobbered over, it being rather thin and clearly non-human. He’s the only one of your regulars that you give this discount to, and the only one who laughs when you play with his balls, so it was worth the lower payout.

Not all clients were memorable due to their pay range either; some just burnt themselves in your memory based on eccentricism alone. Like with the well groomed and very, very vocal customer who’d spout poetic appraisal at you whenever his cock was throat-deep in you. This one was a strange one, always had a new request every time he visited, some of which were just plain strange. To list off some of your personal favorite based their ridiculousness, and not whether you personally enjoyed doing them: Gargle both of his balls in your mouth. Just his balls. He came without your mouth ever touching his actual dick. Only use your teeth, not tongue or lips, to gently nip and scrape along his shaft and head. Again, came from that alone. The guy even requested a footjob once! And you actually did it! At least you got tipped big for that one... And his cum tasted surprisingly pleasant compared to most of the others you’ve gotten.

With all that in mind, the customer you had tonight was one you hadn’t seen until today. You stared in shock at the rather enormous, thick cock in front of you. It was dark, with small, spike-looking ridges lining either side. It wasn’t completely human, that’s for sure and admittedly, it looked rather intimidating. But, you were always up for a challenge, so you wet your lips and got to work. He hadn’t made any special requests and was waiting silently on the other side.

You started by licking slow, deliberate strips from his base up to the tip, being cautious of the spikes, before swallowing the head. You sucked and slurped as much of him as you could given his size, running your tongue along his length. He didn’t make much sound, aside from a few hums and deep groans. You smirked and continued your work. What you couldn’t fit, you stroked with both your bands, feeling the rough, ridged skin of his large dick. His strong, distinct musk was intoxicating and you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes back and try and stuff as much of him as you can down your throat. You don’t care that you were practically slobbering and moaning like a whore around his member; dignity be damned! You wanted to absolutely devour this man and you were determined to take him all!

You couldn’t manage to get all of him down without breaking your jaw in the process, but you did succeed in making him cum with a gluttonous growl, his seed spurting into your eagerly awaiting mouth. You panted, mouth open wide and tongue sticking out with some stray semen dripping onto the floor. He tucked his member away and tipped you kindly. You were still riding on that high by the time another customer popped his dick in.

You really hope to see him again real soon.

~~~~~

You thought fondly of the memory from last night, beaming happily to yourself while you sat at the courtyard, enjoying a nice vanilla popsicle. Grim was sat next to you, busy enjoying his own meal of supreme tuna and paying you no mind, which couldn’t be said for the other students around you. Their attention was focused solely on you and the way you lapped at the melting frozen treat.

You pretended not to notice and went along licking, sucking, and slurping away. At one point you suddenly deep throated the melting dessert in an attempt to prevent any drops from spilling, only to cause some stray, milky white drops to make a mess of your mouth and cheeks. It dripped down your chin and you onto your lap. Oh well, you’d wash that out later, right now, you were busy enticing your next set of customers.

You giggled, wiped your mouth, licking the remnants from your hand, and continued sucking off your ice cream treat while the clearly horny students around you made mental plans to meet you later that day to get their own sweet cream sucked out of them.

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that-crazy-five-foot-two-chick · 4 years ago

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I've been so excited to write for the Mystic Messenger Reverse Big Bang 2021 (go check out other amazing fics and art in the collection at @mysme-rbb), and it's the first fanfic/art event I've participated in! @madiebelleadventures and I teamed up to brainstorm this beast, so her art is at the very end (because I ain't spoilin nothin)!

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.1k

Summary: One day after the end of a work week, Vanderwood surprises MC with some husband-wife baking time—with a twist. Inspired by his agent training, he suggests that they bake as a team but have MC blindfolded. In order to make a cake that's actually edible, she must follow his directions to the letter. All that's left after that is chaos, banter, and spouse-flustering. And figuring out how to actually make a cake.

A/N: Fyi MC is definitely more of her own character than a reader-insert on this one. Also as per usual with me, I headcanon Vanderwood as British, so I tried heavily to align his phrasing accordingly, despite being an American myself. Enjoy seeing exactly how much fluff I can possibly cram into 5k words!

MC sighed happily at the feeling of the wind in her hair as she drove home from work one Friday evening. Windows down, jacket off, music blasting—the air itself felt like freedom. She had nothing against her job—in fact, she enjoyed it for the most part. She prided herself in a job well done, she liked being able to manage a team of her own, and the paycheck and benefits were good. Nothing extravagant, of course, but enough to comfortably support a couple newlyweds.

And that was the real reason MC nearly jumped out the door every day when everything wrapped up at the office. Who wouldn't, with a husband as unfairly hot as Vanderwood? Completely unfair how he could make leopard print and what was practically a mullet actually look attractive. Thank goodness his fashion sense had mellowed out over time, if only a little bit. With Vanderwood's past being what it was, they had mutually come to the conclusion that it would be best for their well-being if he stayed at their apartment during the day to keep the household running. He was very particular about how he cooked, cleaned, and did the laundry, and he handled their finances conscientiously and precisely. Admittedly, she did have to occasionally remind him that as sleek as that new top-of-the-line taser was, there was no real need for it, but that was just part of her husband's charm.

And boy, was he charming.

She truly couldn't wait to get home, past this rush hour traffic. She'd get home and be pulled in for a deep kiss moments after walking in the door. Maybe he'd slip a gentle but insistent hand into her hair. Maybe they'd take it a little further. Or a lot further.

"HOLY FUDGE NUGGETS ON BACON ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME???"

MC swerved to avoid a collision and waited for her heartbeat to settle down again. There was no freaking way she was going to die in some stupid car wreck before their date tonight. A surprise, he'd said. No matter how hard she'd tried to weasel more out of him, he wouldn’t bend. Darn agent training. Good thing it wouldn't be a surprise for much longer. Within minutes, the streets got smaller and quieter as she neared her apartment building. Another minute, and she flung open the apartment door and leapt on her husband.

MC's fantasies were soon replaced by an even better reality when Vanderwood's lips landed on hers. Kissing back enthusiastically, MC wrapped her arms around his middle so tight that a less sturdy man would be coughing for air. Vanderwood snatched her keys and purse and hung them by the doorway, never breaking his focus for a second. His kisses grew slower, but no less fervent, as he smoothed her wind-strewn hair. Eventually, their lips reluctantly parted, and MC broke the silence.

"How did I manage to snag the best kisser on earth on top of marrying the most insanely attractive man on earth?"

Vanderwood smirked. "Good taste, I guess." He kissed her once more soundly for good measure.

"Maybe. Will my insanely attractive husband tell me what our surprise date is now?"

"Perhaps."

"No perhapses! I've been dying waiting!"

"Very well. Start by changing your clothes, because I am not scrubbing stains out of your good work clothes."

"Do I otherwise have to wear anything in particular? That's not a lot to go off of."

"Doesn't matter to me. Now go change before I do the job myself."

"I wouldn't complain."

"This is not that kind of date! Go!"

"Fine, Sir Panties-in-a-bunch."

MC went to the bedroom and took stock of her clothing options. She had to choose something practical that could be easily washed, but she still wanted to look a little cute. After all, it was a date. It was a tough balance to strike. Eh, she could always stick an apron or an old shirt over it. She grabbed her oversized paint shirt just in case before snagging a light pink shirt. Now for the bottoms. She debated on a simple skirt, but decided to go for it. After all, if it didn't fit with Vanderwood's plans, he would tell her. MC changed quickly and weaved her hair into a side braid, slipping a tendril out on each side to frame her face. Mirror-MC nodded in approval. Time to see what on earth her husband had been planning.

She cracked open the door and peeked through before skipping over to Vanderwood, who had made himself comfortable on the couch. His amber eyes widened in interest.

"You have no business looking this pretty for a baking date."

MC grinned. "Ha! I did get it out of you! A baking date sounds cute. What made you think of that? Are you just really getting into the whole house husband gig?"

"It was my agent training, actually." Seeing the puzzled look on his wife's face, Vanderwood continued, "There's a bit of a twist to it, you see. I will hardly be doing any of the actual baking. You, my dear, on the other hand, will be completely blindfolded. You will have to follow my instructions explicitly, or else the result will be completely inedible."

"I still fail to see how the setup doesn't sound like 'that kind of date', but it sounds like fun! What does this have to do with your agent training, though?"

"Various exercises used similar techniques. Many times in the field, we had to follow orders to the letter with no questions asked if we wanted to make it out in one piece. We also did training to be able to operate blindly or in the dark if our vision was compromised. But none of it was as enjoyable as watching a beautiful woman bake a cake by pure trust."

"You're such a flatterer. Keep it coming," MC smirked.

"At least get into the kitchen first," Vanderwood said, handing her a blindfold that looked suspiciously like his nap mask.

"Okay, but if you don't want me in the kitchen until I'm blindfolded, you're gonna have to get my apron yourself."

"I thought I was the one giving out orders tonight?"

"A girl's gotta get her kicks somewhere."

"Such a docile wife I have. Never difficult, never demanding."

"You think it's sexy. Don't even try to deny it."

"I would have filed for immediate divorce if the description 'docile' actually fit you." He stepped into the kitchen and emerged a moment later with the apron. MC slipped it on and, after ducking briefly into the bathroom to wash her hands, covered her eyes with the blindfold.

"I'm at your mercy now. Don't abuse that privilege."

He materialized behind her, winding his arms around her waist. "I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured into her ear before attacking her stomach. MC burst into uncontrollable giggles.

"I swear—!" she giggled "—I swear I'm going to punch the living daylights out of you!"

"You're certainly welcome to try. You know I wouldn't even feel it."

"But I could try. How am I supposed to trust you to give me decent directions to bake whatever the heck we're making if I can't even trust you not to tickle me?"

"You don't. That's the thrill of it."

"You'd better have me make something actually edible for all our trouble."

"That all depends on how well you follow my instructions."

"And how decent your instructions are. Let's not forget that tiny detail," she reminded.

"Hmm, we'll see," The smile was evident in his voice. "Now if we're going to start, we need to go ahead and do it."

"Probably."

He guided MC by her upper arms into the narrow kitchen.

"Fortunately," he said, halting and holding her in place, "we're only baking a cake and not an entire meal, so it won't take an eternity."

"I sure hope not! It's pizza night and I'm already a little hungry!"

He wound his hands around his wife's waist, lightly patting her stomach. "Well, the faster we start, the faster we can eat. I've already laid everything out for you as best I can, so you just have to follow my directions, all right, love?"

"Got it."

"All right, can you feel the worktop?" A nod. "Raise your right hand just a bit...and over…now grab the box with the cake mix, because heaven knows neither of us knows or cares enough to make it from scratch. Got it? Now open it up. The mixing bowl is straight to the left. Go ahead and pour it in."

"Just so you know, if I spill anything, you're the one taking responsibility."

"And why is that, darling?" Vanderwood asked, feigning shock.

"Because you're the one who had this idea in the first place! Not to mention if I make a mess it’s because of your faulty directions."

Unfortunately, MC failed to prove her point, pouring the mix into the bowl and barely spilling a few crumbs.

"Looks like we may not have to worry about that," Vanderwood smirked.

"You have met me, right? You know something's going to get spilled, right?"

Ignoring her, he moved the empty box toward the back and continued, "The milk should be right around where the cake mix was, if you can remember where you just were. The measuring jug is right next to it. Do you think you can pour it in correctly?"

"We'll see, now won't we?"

"There you go. Just try to take it slowly, just in case, and stop when I say so."

MC obeyed, gradually tilting the milk jug until a thin stream hit the center of the measuring cup.

"Brilliant! Now careful, careful, slightly to the left...that's it! Now slow down...almost done...stop!" He kissed her cheek. "That was amazing. Now pour it into the bowl."

MC felt around for the mixing bowl again. She managed to find it and poured in the milk. "Where's the cap for the milk jug?"

"Hm...where did it go? Oh, there it is. Right by the sink."

She batted at the air around her right side to find the inside of the sink. Instead, her hand bumped the side of the milk jug. Vanderwood's hand shot out to catch it, but a small puddle had already sloshed onto the counter. MC's hand shot up to take off the blindfold, but Vanderwood caught her wrist first. She sighed.

"Vandy, give it to me straight. How bad is it?"

"Not bad at all. I caught it before much got out. Stay put for a moment while I wipe it up so it doesn't start to smell or dry up."

"Not to say I told you, but I definitely told you."

Her husband stuck out his tongue at her—one of the few ways he had begun to let himself be childish lately. Then the obvious dawned on him. "I'm sticking out my tongue. I thought you ought to know that."

"Crucial information. Are you done yet?"

"Yep. You ready to get your hands a little dirty?"

"Isn't that expected in all this?"

"That's probably a large part of why you demanded an apron first, yes."

"You would be right about that, also yes. And you're so dramatic. I did not demand."

"Up to interpretation. Reach up to the left of the mixing bowl and just grab it off the plate and toss it in."

As instructed, MC reached over and let out a tiny shriek when her hand came into contact with the soft butter. Vanderwood guffawed.

"I was waiting for that."

MC gasped. "You did this on purpose!" She flung the butter into the bowl with an extra dash of vindictiveness.

"Maybe so. I like hearing your reactions," he purred.

"Don't try to be all smooth when you're being a twit. It doesn't suit you," MC sniffed, then muttered under her breath, "actually it totally works for you but it doesn't make me less ticked at you."

"By the way, don't bother trying to wash your hands just yet. The next part is probably going to be the messiest. I'll go get the bin so it'll be close by for you."

"Appreciated. What's the next part?"

"Eggs."

"Yikes, okay. That's why I needed the trash can, then. And where are the eggs?"

"To your left. You're going to need four of them. I read somewhere that adding an extra egg makes it better, hypothetically."

"You're the one giving the instructions."

"Alright, the bin is to your left, whenever you're ready."

"I could hear the thunk when you set it down, but thank you," MC said wryly.

"I live to serve."

There was silence for a moment as MC cracked the first egg into the bowl, and a soft smile rose on her face like the dawn. "Not anymore, you don't. I thank God every day that you and Saeyoung were able to free yourselves from the agency. I never could have forgotten you even if you hadn't, but I never would have known the immense joy I've gotten to have by being your wife." She sniffed, then laughed. "Sorry for being so sentimental all of a sudden, I don't know what got into me. It's just that knowing how many things could have gotten between us makes me that much more grateful for what we have."

"Ah!" Vanderwood shot a hand out to correct the second egg's trajectory into the mixing bowl.

"Oops, thank you."

"No problem, love. We're a team." He settled against her back, rubbing her arms lightly and placing a tender kiss on her cheek. "And never feel sorry for your so-called sentimentality. In fact, I really think you hold back sometimes. You shouldn't. I know that I used to scoff at these things, but locking out your emotions for job after job really takes a toll on a man. The agency had no room for love of any sort, and I've long come to the realization that every person is hardwired to desire love of one kind or another. I know I'm still unlearning all of my coping mechanisms, and I know I'm still sharp with some people, but with you?" He smoothed a hair back from her face. "I'll take whatever love you can give me."

She cracked the third egg into the bowl and threw out the shell. "I always knew you could be a softie, very deep down. I'm just glad that I get to be the one to see it."

After the fourth egg was in the bowl, Vanderwood directed, "Okay, time to wash up. The next thing is mixing for two minutes. While I love you, I do not trust you to use an electric mixer while blindfolded, so you're going to use a whisk for that job."

"I suppose that's fair. Can you put away the trash can while I wash my hands?"

"Already on it."

"Where's the whisk, again?"

"I kind of put it toward the back, so either be careful or wait for me to move a few things."

"Oh, I've got it. Don't worry," MC waved a hand in dismissal and groped around for the whisk, but her arm was a bit too low, and she dipped her clothed elbow in the plate where the butter had been. She sighed. "What did I just decorate my elbow with?"

"Butter. Try it. It might be tasty," he teased.

"Come on, Vandy, this is not the time. Help me get it off before it soaks in too much."

"Alright, alright, I just had to pick on you a little bit for not listening to me." He carefully scooped off the top layer of the butter with a paper towel before trying to absorb the rest. "I'm going to roll up your sleeves a bit more so that this hopefully won't happen again."

"Well, not until I slosh half the cake out of this bowl trying and failing to mix it."

"You'll be fine. Just stick to mixing the center and bringing the outside of it toward the center so everything gets mixed. But mix it well and mix it fast. The timer starts...now!"

MC held the bowl against her stomach to steady it while she mixed the batter vigorously. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one trying to mix furiously while keeping it all in the bowl on top of being blindfolded!"

"Calm down, you're doing great. A couple drips, maybe, but it's staying in."

"So far, anyway. But that's good, I guess."

"No guessing. It's quite good." Vanderwood leaned against the counter. "We've got a minute and a half to kill. Should I spend it telling you how you look right now?"

"Oh gosh, do I even want to know?"

He shook his head in near disbelief, smiling. "Magnetic. Adorable. More delicious than the cake we're making."

MC cackled. "You cannot be serious. I've got to be a mess right now."

"You act as if that's a contradiction. It's the mess that makes you more beautiful. Is every single hair of yours in place? No. But they fall around your face in the most delicately beautiful way. Even the places where the ingredients got smudged on you somehow add to your charm." He leaned in so that his lips touched her ear, his voice lowering to a gravelly timbre. "Did you know that your cheeks are all rosy from the effort you're putting into stirring? It's unbelievably attractive. And the way your lips press together when you're concentrating? It makes me want to kiss them apart. In fact—"

"Vanderwood, how much time is left?" MC interrupted, suppressing a vivid blush and a shiver.

"Our entire lives," he said, happily ignoring the real question.

"The timer, Vanderwood. How much is left on the timer?"

The sound of the timer going off answered the question for him. "None," he grinned. "I'll go spray the cake pan while you rest for a moment. You've earned it."

She exhaled, set the mixing bowl aside, and stretched. Then a thought made her panic. "Vandy, we forgot to preheat the oven."

He held her face in his hands. "MC. Darling. Breathe. I set the oven when I grabbed the apron."

Her breathing gradually slowed. "Sorry, love. I'm just really hungry and kind of tired and I think not being able to see is doing weird things to my brain and you kind of flustered me a minute ago with what you were saying and I'm sorry, I—" her voice cracked, but Vanderwood cut her off and held her close.

"Hey...hey...you're alright. There's nothing to be sorry about. I kept you going after a long day of work without feeding you first. I should have known better." He smoothed her hair and tucked it into her braid. "I'll tell you what. How about we get this cake in the oven and then order some pizza and watch another episode of Cucumber Fish?"

MC sniffled and hummed in agreement. Vanderwood loosened his hold around her and gently brought her hands to the bowl again before grabbing the cake pan. "Okay, all you've got to do now is pour it into the pan that I've put just to the left of the bowl. Just take it nice and easy. There you go. Perfect. You're almost done. Now let me get a spatula to scoop the last of it out." After he finished, he slid the cake pan into the oven and started the timer. "There. All done." He slipped the mask off her eyes and gave her a peck on the lips as she blinked to adjust to the light. "I'll clean all this up, alright? Go ahead and relax on the sofa. You can order the pizza and get Cucumber Fish queued up while I finish up in here."

"Okay," she murmured. Another peck, and she curled up on the couch. She pulled out her phone to order the pizza and smiled at the notifications she'd gotten from the RFA chatroom. They were up to their normal antics again. Hopefully, Saeyoung wouldn't exasperate Saeran too much with his crazy propositions. But there was nothing she could do about that, and she was starving and in desperate need of pizza. Once it was ordered, she turned on the TV and selected the episode, making sure to let it run past the ads before pausing it.

After Vanderwood joined her on the couch, the next forty-five minutes was filled with lots of cuddling and pizza devouring, more kissing than watching the show, a few glances at the cake's progress, an agreement to actually watch the episode while they ate the cake, and several minutes of cooling time after the cake was removed from the oven. Vanderwood emerged from the kitchen after a few minutes of setting up to decorate.

"Are you sure you want to put on the mask again?" he asked. "I don't want it to mess with your head like it did last time."

"I'll be fine, babe. I'm pretty sure it was like that last time just because I was starving."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

"If you say so. Go ahead and get them on, then," he said, handing MC the apron and mask.

"Just make sure to lead me into the kitchen again."

"Hmm, we'll see."

"We'll see?" she repeated, but shrieked soon after when she no longer felt the ground beneath her feet. Vanderwood had scooped her up to carry her into the kitchen bridal-style and sank his lips against hers with intentionality. He bumped into the counter but managed to avoid any damage to his wife. He deposited one last kiss on her lips before setting her down.

"What have you done to me, woman? Years and years of agent skills, undone in a moment. If it were anything or anyone else, I never would have bumped into that worktop. But when it's you kissing me, you're the only thing that exists." He grinned. "It's a shame, really. I thought my dexterity was an impressive skill, but I don't even have that anymore, it seems."

"Shame indeed," MC parroted, trying to steal another kiss from his lips and stealing one from his nostrils instead. She made a face, causing Vanderwood to laugh.

"Well, at least I still have the ability to order you around." MC smacked him in response, and he continued, "Alright, alright, let's get to it then. This is where it'll get really interesting, since decorating requires more precision. Which, no offense, is a skill you don't have, since you're not exactly used to being blind."

"Now wait just a—okay, I can't argue that," MC sighed. He placed a spatula in one hand and a jar of frosting in her other.

"Turn around. Can you find where the cake is?"

"Ye—wait, Vandy! I thought you said you cleaned up!"

"I did…sort of." Before she could protest, he interjected, "I wiped the worktop! I just pushed all the dishes to one side so we could put all of it in the dishwasher at once when we were done!" He added with a mumble, "I just wanted to get back to you."

"You think you can charm your way out of anything," MC responded airily. "Well, you're right." She squared up as best she could with a frosting jar in hand. "I found the cake. I'll try to do my best."

"Well, in this part, I won't let you go completely solo. I can rotate the cake for you as you go, if you want."

"Please."

MC scooped a large helping of frosting from the jar and started spreading around the perimeter. Her spatula made a slight detour for a moment to donate some frosting to the top of the cake, and Vanderwood halted and reversed his rotation slightly to avoid confusion. A few seconds later, she went for another, slightly smaller, scoop to finish frosting the circumference of the cake. Another scoop, added to the deposit from the first, finished off the top.

"Is there a big corner around the top edge? Or any dry spots?" she asked.

"Just a slight corner. Grab a little bit more frosting to round it off a bit and thicken the top."

She did as directed while he helped rotate, and stepped back. "Better?"

"Much better. Maybe we can add a little artistic touch by making some...what do you call them? Swoops? Around the sides from the top?"

"Sounds great. You're definitely going to have to help me, though."

"Alright, I'll rotate again and stop you when you're done. Then you can smooth off the top edge again quick."

Six slightly lopsided arcs later, he stepped back for a moment, observing. "This is certainly not the prettiest cake I've seen, but it all adds to the fun, yeah?"

"I guess," she laughed.

"Now here's the part that'll really get a laugh when you take off the blindfold. I've got a bowl over here with some frosting for smaller decorating, and you get to pick the food coloring that goes in it."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," he snickered while guiding her over to a trio of colored bottles that she couldn't discern. "Take your pick," he said cheerily. MC gingerly selected one, and he suppressed a snort poorly. "Excellent choice!"

MC groaned. "I'm going to regret all my life choices, aren't I?"

"Of course not! Only your decision to marry me."

"Hey." She squeezed his wrist. "I could never regret that."

"You might reevaluate that statement when you take off the blindfold and see the cake. Or at least my ugly mug."

"Vanderwood. Don't you even start with me. You're so hot that if we were working with chocolate instead of a cake, we wouldn't need the microwave to melt it."

"You're so hot that the beach would need sunblock instead of you."

"You're so hot that the sun goes to you when it needs to warm up."

They collapsed against each other, gasping for air. Vanderwood caught his breath first. "Let's get this food coloring in the bowl, shall we? The spoon and frosting are already in it. All you have to do is put a few drops in and stir until I say so. The bowl's on your left."

"As you wish," she said as she did so.

After a few moments, he spoke. "That's enough. Let me get you back over to the cake, and I'll get the frosting in the decorating bag. Which is really just an ordinary plastic bag, but I did pick up some cheap decorating tips when I got the ingredients."

"Splendid. How am I going to decorate, though? Even if I could see, I don't know the first thing about cake decorating. Oh yeah, and I can't see."

"Don't get your 'panties in a bunch,' as you like to tell me so often. I'll do it with you this time."

"But you don't know how to decorate cakes, either!"

"Ah-ah-ah!” he chided. “Do you trust me or not?"

"Not particularly."

"Hey!"

"But! We should just go ahead and do it anyway, because even though neither of us knows what we're doing, we're the only ones in this apartment who can. And the frosting smells too good not to eat soon."

"That's my girl." Vanderwood curled around her. He molded one hand around hers and slid the other over her stomach. As they formed a few swirls on the top, he murmured, "We did this whole thing together. How impressive is that? Was it as fun for you as it was for me?"

MC smiled. "Of course it was. I know I got a little hangry for a bit there, but I know how much thought you put into this. None of my old deadbeat ex-boyfriends ever would have cared so much, let alone shown it. These are the things that make me love you that much more."

"I never experienced any permanent love until you showed it to me. And it's been so...world-altering—that I've been trying to wrap my head around it ever since. I still can't. But I swear I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to give you the same love you've given me. I certainly don't deserve it, after the things I've done. But you do. You deserve all the happiness a person can have."

MC paused and blushed slightly. "Vandy…" She exhaled. "We've gone over this whole 'not deserving it' thing. Whether you deserve it or not doesn't matter. To me, what matters is your heart. You have such a beautiful heart, Vandy. I love the kind of man you've become. I've seen you strive every day to be better than you were the day before, and that is so inspiring."

"Well, whether or not I deserve happiness, I would choose to be happy every day if my being happy made you happy." He squeezed her hip affectionately and pulled her in for a tender kiss.

"It would." She kissed him back. They added one last swirl and a border before they set down the bag of frosting. He uncurled her fingers and fiddled with her wedding ring.

"Are you ready to see it?"

"Sure."

He slipped off the blindfold, and she gasped.

"What have we done?" she exclaimed as her laughing grew louder by the second.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" Vanderwood asked, feigning ignorance.

"The cake is bright flaming orange, Vandy!" She let out a snort, then covered her face. "Hey, wait! All the food coloring was the same color too, you little twit!"

He shrugged innocently. MC sputtered. "Nuh-uh. Don't you shrug at me, mister. Saeyoung has rubbed off on you way too much."

"Has not."

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe the tiniest bit."

"Uh huh, that's what I thought. Now are you as ready as I am to eat this cake and watch Cucumber Fish?"

"Let me take a picture first. And another one with you in it? You look so lovely, I can't not have one with you in it."

She tried desperately to keep a frown on her face as he snapped a picture but couldn't quite hold back the quirk at the corner of her mouth. He cut a slice for each of them and handed one to her. He curled the paper plate around his slice, and she did likewise. They looked each other in the eyes, both knowing exactly what would come next. Vanderwood solidified his stance. "Ready...steady...GO!" The couple raced to the living room and took a running jump onto the couch, ready for the wonderful night ahead.

#mysmerbb #mystic messenger #mysme #mysme vanderwood #vanderwood x mc #my writing #my fic #mysme fic #collab #art collab

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another-dr-another · 3 years ago

Note

insert those coins babey! no point in holding onto them if they aren't used !

You Now Own:

001 - Mineral Water (x2)

Drawn from the ocean depths and rigorously purified. Ideal for a modern on-the-go public unsatisfied with tap water.

002 - Sea Salt

A basic seasoning produced from the evaporation of seawater. It also sees use as a preservative.

003 - Ration

A set of canned and vacuum-sealed foodstuffs. The taste isn't bad, and a certain snake that wants to play hide-and-go-seek is just crazy abou- wait, what?

005 - Ramune

A sweet, lemon-flavored carbonated drink. A marble plugs the opening of the uniquely designed bottle. The bottle can also be reused if you bring it to the ramune store.

010 - Ship In a Bottle

A intricate creation, a model ship within a bottle. Made with time, love and care.

012 - Envy-Enducing Envy CD

A CD of songs by Japanese band Envy. Full of unreleased tracks/first recordings.

014 - Children's Book

A children's book about family and forgiveness! The plot is about a sister who can't get along with her younger brother, but they find common ground and bond over causing trouble for their parents.

016 - Sour Soda (x2)

No flavor is listed on the bottle other than sour, which may just be a flavor in and of itself. It's a near black shade of blue... I think.

017 - Gentleman's Guide

A book that's meant to help shape you into the perfect gentleman. However, it's rather demeaning towards the reader, which doesn't feel very gentleman-ly.

018 - Masculine Cologne

Very masculine, can only be used by masculine people. No weaklings allowed, or people with the common sense to smell it before purchasing, and realize it smells really bad.

019 - Fancy Sword

True to it’s name, it looks very fancy, and very intimidating. However, it's only for show, and rather blunt- perhaps inexpensive?

022 - ??? Alcohol

It's something alcoholic. This is a school, it should be confiscated, and you won't be receiving any more information.

024 - Hair Cutting Scissors

Snip snip snip, meant for hair-cutting at home, as these aren’t professional grade. Still though, try and make it even, okay?

025 - Purple Hair Dye

Pretty purple hair dye guaranteed to not come out of hair for weeks! More of a pinkish-purple than the box advertised, but still pretty.

028 - Constellation Skirt

With patterns matching actual real constellations. Despite matching the night sky, it almost seems sun-rise themed, with its pink background and pale gold stars.

030 - Bottled Tea

When heated up, it's meant to help soothe upset stomachs, and muscle aches. Popular among student athletes.

031 - Alarm Clock

It's a digital alarm clock. One of the few normal and functional things here, and it's the thing that screams at you to wake up every morning.

032 - Broken Stopwatch (x2)

It won't stop running, no pausing or restarting. You can however make it record different laps.

034 - Baseball Cap

Perfect for keeping the sun out of your face! This one is all black though, so it'll retain a lot of heat.

038 - Card Game (x3)

One easy to play, and popular among kids. The front side of the package shows a family of four playing.

039 - Reminder Booklet

A small pamphlet that gives reminders for daily things, such as eating, drinking, taking meds, etc. Also has room for you to add in unique personalized reminders.

041 - Tiovita

A Japanese energy drink sold at most convenience stores. Pretty inexpensive, and with a nice fruity flavor- but hey, only one per day!

044 - Lie Detector (x2)

Fun for the whole family! Though not incredibly accurate... wait, how do you know that?

045 - Evidence Encylopedia

A book focusing on evidence found in crime scenes. From most overlooked to most common, this book talks about it all.

049 - Track Award

A award from a middle school track and field award. The recipient of the trophy seems to have come in second in two events, and first in one.

050 - Plane Tickets (x2)

Anywhere, anytime, round trip tickets. Probably given as some sort of thank you for volunteering to get off of a accidentally over-booked flight.

051 - Therapy Advertisement (x2)

Some therapist endorsing themselves. Upon looking at the services they offer, I don't feel very inspired to go there.

056 - Soulmate Sweatshirt

A sweatshirt that supposedly brings the most comfort not when you wear it, but when holding someone wearing it. Currently smells strongly of... lavender?

057 - Scrap Metal x3

Seems to be broken bits and pieces of some sort of engine. Could be repurposed, or simply a cool trinket.

059 - Old Journal

It seems to be from the late 80s, and kept being written in up to the early 90s. There's a entry on the last page, synopsizing the birth of the owners son, and how proud the owner is of his now five year old.

060 - Paper Boat

A piece of paper that's been folded into a boat. Apparently you can fold and tear it as you tell a story to provide a visual aid for the story, but no one here knows how.

061 - Calendar

It's got pictures of internationally famous towns on it! This particular one has been written on with a note on almost every day.

064 - Face-paint Kit.

A professional face-painting kit. However, it’s missing it’s red, yellow, blue and white paint- those colors have been all used up.

065 - Life Quote Sign (x3)

A sign with some stereotypical life quote written on it in flowery lettering. Most likely to be seen hanging in a kitchen.

066 - Throwing Rings (x2)

Meant for fair games. If you have good enough aim, maybe you'll win a prize!

067 - Pleasant Savior

Seemingly a CD filled with various performances by the same person. I haven't played the CD, so I don't know what kind of performances he does though, and the name is off-putting.

069 - “Fresh” Bouquet (x3)

Somehow still smells sweet with flowers that look flawless. It's comprised of roses that have been dyed rainbow, all of them.

070 - Hair Ribbons (x3)

They come in a variety of colors, but the Monomono Machine only dispenses yellow. Guaranteed to make the wearer feel a certain sense of self-satisfaction.

071 - Girls Profile

A student profile from a all-girls academy. The paper is water-stained and some of the ink has run, so it's hard to make out what's on the paper.

073 - Baby Doll

It seems to be from around the 90s and... not quite well-loved, but well-played-with. Doesn't come with the original clothes... or hair.

075 - Dream Catcher

Made by a past SHSL. It's actually been pretty effective, and is part of the reason they got scouted.

080 - Retro Game

It's handheld, old, and extremely broken. The screen has been shattered so it displays wrong, all cracked and distorted.

081 - Blackout Curtains (x2)

Completely block out any and all light. Strong enough to plunge a room into darkness.

084 - Noise-cancelling Headphones

They completely block out all sound! Also come with the ability to adjust the size of the band, and will stay on your ears even if you pull the band down to your neck.

086 - Wall Decals

Stickers you can put on your wall. They do a decent job of covering up holes in said walls.

087 - Antique Stuffed Animal (x2)

It seems to be bunny themed, and dressed in clothes you'd see on babies in the 1930s. It's in pretty good shape, other than a few tears where the lace trim at the end has had it’s stitches removed.

088 - Embroidery Kit

Or rather, a needle and thread to be used for embroidery. There's only one needle, and one spool of thread, but hey, it’s something.

090 - Scented Markers (x2)

A full rainbow set, all with their own unique smell! Be careful though - it's hard to get these out of clothes.

092 - Fake Christmas Tree (x2)

Too plastic to be a real tree. It's also incredibly small, but real trees can be small too, so that doesn’t really mess with the realism.

093 - Hair Gel

Top of the line hair gel, and completely unopened! Helps you style your hair and keep it in place, but doesn’t give it the nicest texture.

095 - Instant Noodles

Just add water to get something hot, salty, and/or spicy! A nice meal if you're looking for something that's quick and easy, you can dress it up some too.

097 - Drink Mix

A powder used for ??? warm drink, made with milk, tastes like... something? You try it and tell me, but it smells good at the least.

099 - The DSM-I

Self-explanatory, it's the original version of the DSM, from 1952. Index cards have been slipped in-between most of the pages, talking about what happened with the information listed there.

100 - Collection Of Old Ads

Dating back to the 1920s. A magazine full of ads from a different time, it’s somewhat of a miracle the paper held up while the ideas in it didn’t.

101 - Wooden Ruler

It's a wooden ruler. Used for measuring things, nothing else- why do you ask?

102 - Building Blocks (x3)

Stacking and stacking, and sending it all crumbling down. And then you rinse and repeat.

104 - Cutesy Hair Clips

Snap clips in pastel colors and covered in designs. Oddly enough, there isn't any non-pastels, unless you count the few white clips.

106 - Newspaper Collage

Seems to be a collection of snippets from newspaper articles. There must be hundreds in here... it's a big collage.

107 - Cropped Sweatshirt

Cropped specifically due to a parent saying not to. The sweatshirt seems to be related to some organization, with the big fancy emblem on it.

109 - Pins And Patches

A mix-and-match bag full of enamel pins, buttons, and iron-on patches. Good luck finding something to do with them all.

110 - Origami Paper (x2)

Simple origami paper, in a variety of colors and patterns! Comes easy to tear out of a book, which includes instructions on basic origami types.

112 - Colorful Band-Aids.

They come in many colors, designs, even different sizes. Some seem to be made to cover up paper cuts, others meant to help skinned knees and scraped elbows.

Thank you for visiting the Monomono Machine!

~*~

Maeda, narrating - And I thought the coins were kinda heavy...

Maeda - What now?

[Free Time Event - Uehara]

{Head to Your Room}

#dra #au #fangan #fanganronpa #yuki maeda #chapter 2 #daily life

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dragonflymage · 4 years ago

Link

(This has taken me forever to write. Be prepared for a long answer! *kicks it out of the draft box*)

I don’t think I’ll choose a Type for this answer because I chose Types in similar questions. This time I’ll go with the word “ideal” and play with that for a while.

This answer will be about the steps to finding an ideal match. INFP style.

Everyone knows that INFPs are the dreamers. They dream their way through being a child, through the teen years, and yes right through adulthood. It’s unavoidable. If a potential situation creeps up on an INFP, it won’t be long before they have come up with all the imaginative ways to live it and make it their own. Within their minds.

I am going to reveal some things about myself as an INFP that aren’t easy to reveal. Tapping into this realm of idealism that INFPs seem to be known for.

What exactly does it mean when someone says that INFPs are idealistic? It’s more than just seeing the good in others and hoping for a bright future. There’s a side of darkness within it as well because this doesn’t always mean ‘realistic’. It can mean searching for qualities that only exist in our thoughts.

My topic within these imaginative daydreams will focus on “The Ideal Match”.

I have to say that the first sensation that comes to me while thinking of this topic is… wistfulness.

In my expansive INFP imagination, my ideal match is someone who wants to know me.

That’s it.

Okay, that’s not all, but that’s where it begins. With someone who has SEEN me. And not just seen me, but moved closer instead of shaking their head and walking away. Of course, that doesn’t make an automatic match, but it has to begin somewhere.

Can you imagine the elation of being truly seen? That tiny ray of INFP light shown outward has caught someone’s attention. What should be done now? It isn’t love yet. Right? This elation isn’t love. But what if it is? No, it’s much too soon. Maybe if the door is opened a little bit more. … What are they doing now? Running? Moving even closer? OMG. What should I do next?!

Breathe. This doesn’t mean they are devoting all of their eternity. It just means they are curious. Stay calm.

Does that sound like panic? It might be. There’s always the fear of doing too much too soon, yet wanting to reach out and touch. The unseen internal tug of war.

So, this is where the INFP stands now — Revealed some of their deep self and was noticed for it. Then the person stuck around wanting to know more.

This is a great beginning. But what’s next? It would probably be easier to know what to do if this took place in-person. Body language and tone of voice is clearer to decipher. Most likely this all happened online, where emotions and reactions can be filtered through the process I refer to as: “I’m doing my freakin’ best to explain myself with only text!” *flails*

I would say that being seen and someone wanting to get to know you are where new friendships and possible future-relationships reside.

Being seen is nice, but being understood is even better!

It looks like a connection is forming. This is where our INFP will decide what sort of sharing is appropriate.

There are all sorts of sharing:

💙 Surface sharing - which involves interests and everyday activities. Also known as “small talk”. Topics such as pets, job or school, hobbies, books, etc. This isn’t always an INFP favorite, but conversations have to begin somewhere. During the small-talk phase, an INFP will determine whether there is potential for a connection. And, yes, an INFP is more than capable of this discovery just from small talk. This could last for a brief time period or for many days, depending on the person’s comfort level. 💙 Test sharing - which involves emotions attached to topics. Such as the meanings behind this or that event in life. It could be another subtle test to see if the other person is still interested in talking. Or it could be a bit of desperation to have someone to finally discuss the deeper aspects of the world. Some of these emotion-laden topics might not be used by most people until later in a potential friendship-relationship, but INFPs may reach this level of conversation fairly quickly. This type of conversation could continue throughout the friendship-relationship, obviously while no longer in a ‘testing’ fashion. 💙 Personal sharing - which involves longer and more frequent conversations. It’s a bit like sharing your life in ‘real-time’. At this point, the INFP has decided this is someone who is interested because they haven’t run away, and maybe it’s okay to invest more of ourselves with them. These sorts of talks are like inviting them to our home and giving them a glimpse of what life is like for us. These discussions are saved for close friends and potential love interests. 💙 Deep sharing - which involves all those things an INFP shares with no one. And by ‘no one’ I mean ‘a rare and special someone’. I think many INFPs have an inner vault where they keep all the topics that have been too much for other people to handle - such as traumatic memories. Some INFPs, after being rejected in the past, may choose to never touch this level with anyone again. Other INFPs may decide that if this special person can understand what’s in the vault, then they are absolutely ‘the one’. Whether as a love interest or a very close friend.

🍵 There could also be a level 5 which may involve fantasies or the darkest of secrets they may never tell anyone, but some INFPs might lump those in with #4. It depends on the individual. 🍵

The difficulty with those Sharing Levels is finding an order that works and sticking to it. It wouldn’t work well to start with #1 Small Talk and then skip right to #4 Deep Sharing. (I mean, unless you’re talking with a therapist, then go ahead.)

Now that I got the informative portion out of the way, it’s time for some INFP idealism!!

INFPs are amazing humans. We care with our every breath and we want the best for those around us. We can also become stuck within our idealistic thoughts. No, that isn’t a secret.

We are called The Dreamers for a reason.

INFPs have a difficult time with this strange thing called Reality. We are flooded with violence from the media, and sometimes it exists in our personal lives. Reminding us of all the hurting souls we can’t help. We have potent plans of how we will change the world. Then Reality sneaks up from behind and whispers “you do realize no matter how hard you try, you can’t save them all…” Thanks, Reality.

It’s these realizations that can infiltrate all aspects of life - how we envision our future, how we envision our environment, and how we envision our Ideal Match or our Ideal Partner (in a potentially romantic sense).

I first started imagining a ‘love interest’ at around age 12. It wasn’t marriage or white gowns that I imagined. It was someone who cared by listening to me.

One of the first crushes in a love-interest way I had on a person (other than classmates I mentioned in a different answer) was Hawkeye from the MASH re-runs. ( I don’t know what it is about me and ENFPs, but anyway… I spent long hours daydreaming about somehow being illogically inserted into that environment just so I could sit and have long conversations with Hawkeye. 😅 I thought he was the perfect match for me. Of course, he had other issues going on, but I was willing to overlook them all! This daydream went on for a few years until I moved along to other potential unreachable love interests.

The important factor about the idealism and daydreaming is that I was internally forming a list of what I hoped to find in a future partner.

Attention and caring were important. Kindness to others. Devotion to helping people. Silly humor. Depth of character. Capable of understanding pain. Willing to imagine what could be.

Sadly, if an INFP isn’t paying attention, they can idealize themselves through life…even through the most painful events and can become addicted to this coping mechanism.

Like I did.

The downside was that since I never truly encountered a great deal of decent treatment personally, I didn’t know how to recognize it in others. It was unfamiliar territory (for many depressing reasons). So in my early 20s, what I did was latch onto a person who I thought had the potential and idealized everything else about him. He gave me attention, sure, but I think I consciously idealized everything else about him. Even when there were many clues that he wasn’t a good match for me.

I rejected every natural instinct I had and encompassed myself in flowery daydreams in order to survive the life I’d suddenly found myself in.

That is probably an extreme example of what idealism can do to a person. But I think that INFPs have the very real probability of slipping into this unhealthy internal mindset.

If we aren’t careful, idealism can turn into an INFP mind-trap.

I don’t want to turn this into a negative answer. Idealism has wonderful benefits if used in healthy creative ways. To imagine what could be. But there also needs to be a balance with Realistic thoughts.

Always stop and ask yourself “Is this truly a possibility? Is this actually what is taking place? Am I somehow coloring the truth from myself?”

Only then will an INFP truly find, not just an Ideal Match, but a True Match.

Without any of the rose-colored glasses interfering with what is Real.

#mbti #infp #infp thoughts #relationships #mbti thoughts #introvert #myers-briggs #hsp #emotions #emotional #sensitivity

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danwhobrowses · 4 years ago

Text

One Piece Chapter 1009 - Initial Thoughts

And we are back, happy Good Friday

though every day’s a Good Friday when One Piece is out 1009 is in, and it happens to be my 200th post (admittedly kinda kept that way since I skipped doing a Godzilla vs Kong review)

So let’s get to it

Spoilers for Chapter 1009, Please Also Support the Official Release

Starting with a Color Spread. It was cute, sweet baby Tama in Ringo with the crew, I was curious abut the coat of arms on Franky’s jacket, plus there’s another ‘Zoro consumes something with a blue dragon on it’ - his scabbard isn’t Enma though, it’s Black - and I later realised that Tama is wearing an outfit that isn’t patched up which made me feel warm

But the statues discern me, Five praying statues, four with the Akazaya hats. If this Oda hinting at the deaths? Four Akazaya dying? Tama’s bringing a straw hat to the other so are we death flagging a potential Straw Hat too? Or is it just a non-Akazaya? The first could be Ashura considering that Nami is tying a scarf on it, their fate ‘sealed’, or maybe I’m just looking way too into it

The chapter title isn’t foreboding as well

Of course we were all in the group of ‘Why is Orochi burning Onigashima, is he dumb?’ group, and motive wise he still is, but I did come to a realisation on why this is a problem. Onigashima is in the air, there can’t be much water around to douse the fire

Orochi and the Akazaya finally cross paths for the first time since Oden’s death

Interesting note by MegaForehead, maybe that’s strategic?

I don’t see a missing head from his transformation, though he only used six heads and Orochi has at least 8

Kin’emon is in No Mood

*Insert GTA Wasted scene here*

Kiku far side with one arm just with the most disappointed look ever

And Raizo is next to stay behind to fight with his old rival

I don’t think Orochi is done though; either he still has one more head or they grow back. The Yamata no Orochi couldn’t regenerate heads so it’s the most likely, but we can’t rule out hydra rules

Back to the dome roof though and we learn something new from Law, a strong enough Haki can fight his Shambles, it’s a decent limitation from the OP OP Fruit

A combo attack from two Yonko though is something you need to be scouting for very early guys

Ocean Sovereignty is definitely no joke...though it didn’t slice off the other horn

Roronoa ‘Let me block a Yonko combo attack’ FUCKING ZORO

Okay I take back the horn comment it’s a different direction

What is this dome’s structural integrity anyway?

Law of course pulls Zoro out of the line of fire because he can’t hold it off forever, Kid with the backhanded compliment though

You hurt one of Luffy’s nakama though, so that always leads to Luffy charging in

Luffy’s got a point, why dodge if it’s not affecting you? That’s how Luffy knows he’s doing something

Kaido did not like that insinuation though, he can still shoot dragon fire in Hybrid form and that’s a big ouch for Ragnarok

So now Zoro is pissed off because you hurt his captain, but he’s gotta stick to the plan

Zeus always getting yoinked, this time put in a box

Then Zoro out here cutting up Prometheus while Killer picks on Napoleon

Could be a telling thing that BM doesn’t even consider saving her homies, just that she finds it a poor strategy

Big ouch for Kid though, right in the smush

But part of the plan, putting all the metal on her to magnet her away, then Law with the boulder

BM’s about to be dumped into the water, now she’s scared

But I would worry about Zoro coughing blood...

I don’t think BM is done right now, I think there’s 5 options that’ll save her right now: Prometheus - reforming because Zoro’s body gave in a little, Kaido - since nobody’s paying attention to him after flattening Luffy, her crew down by the water that have been following the island, she Homifies some of Kaido’s fire clouds or she falls but not in the ocean - instead she crashes on land and it causes her amnesia again.

There were only really 2 parts of this chapter: Orochi vs Akazaya and the Yonko vs Supernova. Neither of which I feel are going as well as it looks. Orochi will probably survive once more which can cause trouble for the lagging behind Raizo. The Supernovas are still struggling with the attrition problem, to cause minor problems for the Yonko they have to wear themselves down hard, to the point where it’s almost pyrrhic. Oda has however done a good job in making sure any doubts about Kaido’s hybrid form have been kept at bay, he is still as vicious and agile as before.

I don’t think Luffy nor Zoro are quite done yet, Luffy is resilient and he’s got his Haki back, he just is mulling over the situation: his attacks hurt Kaido which is why he dodges, so how will he use that to his advantage? As for Zoro, he’s taken a heavy hit yes, if BM is delayed Law might be able to doctor him a little but I don’t fear too much for Zoro because injury seems to bring out the best in him. And blocking Ocean Sovereignty even for a short while is a hugely impressive feat.

No break next week means we might get a quick resolve, or we might just see more Akazaya having to fall behind, King and Queen still don’t have fights and we don’t know where Sanji is right now, Perospero and CP0 have been quiet and if Onigashima does indeed have ocean below it then they’ve not made landfall in Wano’s main island yet (contrary to the mountain we saw in an earlier chapter)

it’s still worth reminding though, we are probably due a tragedy at the end of this act...until Act 4 it’s best not to expect a climax

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catsandstrawberries · 5 years ago

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Foot Issues

alright so im feeling inspired so here's a little thing I whipped out

Pairing: BalletTeacherJungkook x DanceStudentReader (mostly ballet)

Warnings: It sounds like a foot kink but its not, (unless you want it to be i guess) readers feet are disgusting, pain because ballet=pain, maybe sugar daddy (who knows, definetly not me 0-o)

Genre: Its literally fluff and I think im gonna make this a series because this is adorable

Summary: Reader is having some foot problems in ballet class one day and Jungkook is quick to check in on her

Ok so Jungkook is one of the biggest goofballs and relatively new to teaching

He's trained all his life in ballet, but after three years at a professional company he decided its not his cup of tea and he loves teaching so much more than performing

He gets job offers from a handful of state dance schools where they teach more than just ballet

He decides on the school that allows him to teach both the littles and the bigger kids because Jungkook is a sucker for the six-year-old smilies with the missing teeth.

When Jungkook firsts start his job he's quick to familiarize himself with the other teachers

Hoseok teaches Hip hop and Jimin teaches jazz and contemporary

It's a pretty versatile studio and the owner Kim Namjoon, even though he doesn't particularly dance, is suddenly Jungkooks idol

Namjoon is so good with the kids and teens, and he's so young and has already created such a strong business

Insert Jungkook making heart eyes at Namjoon uwu

But then Namjoon introduces Jungkook to you

You are one of the girls on scholarship taking the upper-level classes while pursuing a dance degree at college

"Jungkook, this is (y/n). She's one of the university students here on a scholarship. You might see her around because she clean's the studios on Monday and Wednesdays as apart of her scholarship, so if you need anything and can't find the other teachers feel free to ask her."

Jungkook thinks you look sweet enough, but it's odd for him at first because you only look two or three years younger than him but he's gonna be your teacher

You smile and try not to bust a nut because oh my god he's fucking attractive

You try to mask the color on your cheeks but before you can talk more Mr. Park is calling you because Contemporary is about to start

So you yeet yourself out of there, finally letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding

So you find out Jungkook is a pretty decent teacher

The only issue is all of the other uni students are too busy staring at his ass than actually paying attention

Well....you are too, but you aren't as obvious as them, right?

The cast list for the show specifically for the university kids is coming out soon

The show is the wizard of oz and you really want to be the wicked witch of the west

What? Not only does she get to do the fun, big jumps but Dorothy is overrated

So you have been working really hard in class and haven't really been paying attention to Jungkook until your foot starts to hurt bad

Your pointe shoes are relatively new and you haven't rolled your ankle so you don't really understand why

Jungkook comes up to you during a développé combination and he's grabbing your leg and placing your foot on his shoulder, his hands pushing your ankle up.

Ooooof the pain

you bite your lip to avoid the discomfort but Jungkook only scolds you,

"Relax."

sure relax, you try lifting your leg above your head.

But no, seriously Jungkooks extensions are insane, you watched him do a leg hold turn once and it was crazy

When Jungkook puts your leg down he immediately notices how red and swollen your foot is

After barre when all of the students go to the centre he calls you out and asks you to put on your flat shoes

You blank because

ExCUse mE

First off, he didn't ask any of the other girls to take off their pointe shoes, and you don't want him to think you're lazy or incapable and then give you a bad part in the show

You kind of stand there like an idiot while he raises his eyebrows at you,

"Bu-"

"now (y/n)"

Jungkook is never really strict with your class, sure he gets annoyed when some of you get off the music (cough cough* its always Lisa* cough cough) or when he has to give the same corrections, but he's pretty chill, he even lets you call him Mr. Jungkook

He wanted to be called Jungkook but Namjoon said he needed to keep a level of professionalism

Anyways

Jungkook sound generally mad at you and you try to hide your annoyed facial expression while you rip off your ribbons and slip on the flat shoes that make you look like a novice

On the bright side, you can do a triple pirouette in flat shoes while you can only do doubles on a good day in your pointe shoes

Class is kind of hazy because you're still annoyed but once it's over all of the girls go to bow to Jungkook because it's proper and you should always bow to your teacher

"Wait, (y/n), can you stay after? I want to take a look at your foot."

"Um...ye-eah, sure."

Fuck

You're gonna be alone with this snack

Jungkook sits cross-legged on the floor, clad in his tight, but somehow flexible jeans and his black T-shirt

"Did you do something to your foot? It was really swollen in your pointe shoe today."

You take off your flat shoes and roll back the tights of your injured foot though you practically feel no pain

Okay...

SO Jungkook is ATTRACTIVE, and he's gazing at your feet as if its the most important thing on the planet

but your feet are fucking disgusting

Your big toe lost a toenail the other day and you have blisters on your third and fourth toes. Bandages cover your pinky and its completely red.

"I'm gonna touch your foot."

Jungkook grabs your foot and puts it in his lap and looks up at you through the fringe of his hair, and this motherfucker starts to giggle

"Um..." You worry he's lost his shit for a second but then he's looking back down at your foot

"I've seen my fair share of gross feet (y/n), no need to be embarrassed"

Okay you're blushing all over and looking anywhere but him as he starts to ask questions

"Does it hurt? Can you feel this? Have you rolled over your box"

"No, no, and no."

This boi

He starts to massage your foot

Your filthy, ugly, foot

and it's strangely intimate

You gasp in a very unsexual way that sounds very sexual

You suddenly feel everything as if the blood was finally rushing to your foot

"Your pointe shoes are definitely too tight. My guess is that because of how hard you've been working your feet have swelled up a bit, which is normal-"

How can Jungkook move his hands like that? His fingers are spreading the skin and rolling his palm against the arch of your foot and it feels like heaven. His hands are distracting you so much that you don't even hear the compliment he gave you

"You're gonna need new pointe shoes though."

You stop drooling and flinch your foot away from his hands

"What?"

"You need new pointe shoes."

POINTE SHOES ARE EXPENSIVE

and you're BrOKe, there's a reason you're a scholarship girl

"What would happen if I just keep dancing on the pointe shoes I have now."

He sends you the same glare he did in class

"I won't let you dance in those shoes (y/n). They cut off your circulation and could damage your feet."

His eyes suddenly widen and he starts to blush a bit, "if money is a problem I can help you out."

"What? No, I can figure something out, and I don't want you to feel like I'm using you and I already have the scholarship I cou-"

Jungkook after rubbing some hand sanitizer into his hands that are kept in all the studios helps you to your feet by gently grabbing your hands

"(Y/n) I know your scholarship doesn't cover your pointe shoes, and if you want to be ready for rehearsals for Wiz you'll need them by Wednesday."

He gauges your reaction carefully and gently grabs your elbows as he stands in front of you,

"Hear me out, I pay for them, you pay me back when you have the money. Deal?"

You hate this, but you have no idea what else to do, and he's right. If you don't have them for rehearsals they might lower your position or not cast you.

"Fine."

You're suddenly very conscious of how close the two of you are and you both jump away as if you've burned each other

"Um, I should go." You turn to grab your bag but just before you head out the door you send Jungkook a smile.

"Mr. Jungkook, thank you seriously."

Jungkook will come to realize, that your smile will be stuck in his head for the rest of the week.

#jung jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader fluff #jungkook fluff #ballet reader #dance teacher jungkook #bts #bts x reader #bts x reader soft #soft jungkook #ballet teacher jungkook #ballet teacher bts #dance teacher bts #foot fetish?

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smartguyreviewed · 4 years ago

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2x4 - Dateline

Original air date: Oct 1, 1997

Anyone who was holding their breath for me to get back to this, thank you. Been going through a lot like most people right now but I had to remember this blog is a good distraction because I get to write about one of my favorite shows growing up. Anyways, enjoy. :)

Let’s talk about cock-blocking or to be more gender inclusive...actually, I can’t think of a term similar that utilizes both a male and female part. Anyhoo, let’s talk about it.

I’ve done it (unintentionally). You’ve done it. We’ve all had it done to us as well. Like the night you finally got a chance to be alone with your dipshit crush and your annoying friend tried to insert herself until she finally realized what was going on and left you two alone so you could have your first kiss ever at age 19.

TJ is an extreme cock blocker. He will break your shit up and then pout because he’s still just a kid. Normally, TJ only wants to punish Marcus by enacting this cruel tactic but in this episode, he shifts gears to the person who is both a mother and father to him: Daddy Flody.

We begin this episode at a supermarket. Tj is checking out cereals and Floyd is checking out dat ass.

TJ catches Floyd staring and in his precocious little way, starts asking him questions about women. It kind of reminds me of Frank from Milk Money. which is a horrible movie that I adore and you should watch it because despite a little kid befriending a prostitute, it’s still a decent 90s coming-of-age tale. And Alex DeLarge is in it.

After TJ makes his dad sweat further by asking what body type gets his penis erect, TJ comes to the conclusion that Floyd is lonely and could probably benefit from some female companionship.

Cut to TJ on an unrealistically chatty PC barking at TJ to fill in the boxes for Floyd. I don’t know about you, but if my computer kept talking to me, I’d throw it out of the fucking window. I am so glad websites that talk at you are obsolete. Apparently, this computer is also sentient because TJ pauses for just a moment too long when Marcus comes in and this impatient computer bitch asks for the rest of the info in a more demanding tone.

But because TJ was distracted, he inputs his own height instead of his dad’s and the computer announces that she’s transferring him to their little people’s section. Hey, they gotta find love too!

Marcus is skeptical of why TJ is trying to set Floyd up. Just then, Yvette walks in and asks who is using her eyeliner to write down phone messages, which I totally expect a straight man to do. After fessing up, Marcus asks Yvette to dissuade TJ from setting up his dad. Yvette then uses her soon-to-be psychology degree on Marcus and reasons that he might be a little salty because he doesn’t want another woman to replace his mom. But no, Marcus is a teenage boy and completely lacking depth until certain episodes call for it. Instead, he says he just wants the car on weekend evenings so he can try to bang his latest girl of the week. Of course, he could just be deflecting to avoid a heavy conversation but I’m gonna go with the former because Marcus is the horniest boy on the show.

Yvette decides to help TJ since Floyd has few dating options. Her plan is to beef up his personal ad by making him younger and a fan of soul food and Maya Angelou. Marcus is still not with the shits and says that nobody wants to date an “old guy with three kids.” Completely forgetting about the fact that his dad is an attractive man, this happens instead:

TJ and the gang are now making final cuts on the 130 prospects Floyd had. I mean, that’s great and all but I’m sure at least half of those women were catfishes. Then again, in the 90s, maybe there was more legitimacy since there wasn’t enough technology to hide behind? I dunno. But Floyd definitely has some options.

While deliberating who will receive the clock from Floyd, Marcus makes what would be considered a transphobic comment questing if some of them really are women and how he doesn’t want Floyd to end up like Eddie Murphy. Mo, on the other hand is questing if this is even legal. Mo is a teenage boy and is probably likening it to what Tinder now is: a place to meet horny individuals.

Yvette thinks the ladies are good picks but then begins nitpicking their flaws, among one of them being that one of the ladies has breast implants. Because women who get surgeries to help boost their self esteem apparently don’t deserve love? Yvette is such a hypocrite as we’ll see in the future. Mo then begins taking the rejected pics because he loves older women, especially ones with perceived low self esteem. Just then, Floyd comes in the room and the gang has to cover up their dirty work. Floyd makes a bad joke and then dips out.

They eventually settle on a light-skinned natural woman named Jamie. They agree to meet at the grocery store, sot hat’s where we end up. Marcus is acting like he’s never seen pretty girls outside of school and leaves to spit game at women who just wanna be left alone so they can buy their frozen pizza and wine in peace.

Jamie sees who she thinks is her suitor and immediately is pissed because she, you know, thought she’d be meeting Floyd and not a little boy. Yvette comes over to smooth things over and convinces Jamie to meet Floyd. Well, TJ’s cute face convinced her after she was understandably freaked out. They go to meet Floyd.

Jamie shows up and explains what happened and that she was pre-screened to make sure she wasn’t a guy. Floyd actually even gives her an up and down look before she says she passed! Pretty sure this also wouldn’t go over well today. Jamie and Floyd, however, hit it off and leave to go on a date. When they get back, Yvette and TJ are spying on the new couple to see how it went. Floyd was actually bigging up TJ and talking about how smart he is to Jamie when they got in. Aww. Floyd is proud of his son for hooking him up. Yvette is noticeably annoyed at how he gets all of the credit, but I mean, it was his idea. Yvette just helped him out.

Upon completion of this totally selfless act to get his father some love, TJ is happy at first. Yay TJ! You’re on the right track to becoming a thoughtful human be--

Sike! TJ immediately regrets this decision once he realizes that his father having a personal life means that he won’t see him as much. TJ has a basketball game coming up that Floyd won’t be able to attend now. Yvette offers to take him but it’s not the same because Yvette is a girl and girls aren’t fun. And just like that, TJ the petty, cock-blocking asshole comes back.

The next day, TJ and Floyd are playing basketball when Jamie comes home. Floyd invites her to play but TJ is all like “bitch, wait your turn” and then Floyd puts her on TJ’s team. She then bribes TJ with the food she’s about to cook for them. He agrees but then Jamie and Floyd start flirting because duh. TJ leaves in a jealous fit, upset that this woman he hooked his father up with has the gall to want to spend time with him. He simulates what he wants to do to her body on a bag of Funions.

I have to say though, how long was the frame of this episode? Days? Weeks? Jamie has essentially become their stepmom. She’s even giving Marcus advice on how to treat a girl like a human being instead of a meat popsicle with titties. Yvette and Marcus then leave, allowing Jamie and Floyd their Blockbuster and Chill time with The Preacher’s Wife.

But TJ is a boner detector because as soon as Jamie and Floyd are about to mash faces, TJ whimpers for his pa because he doesn’t feel good. We think Floyd banished him to his room but then TJ comes over and pushes the two would-be lovers apart so he can ruin their night. Jamie eventually decides to leave, even though it’s clear she was holding out in case she could get a piece of Floyd but TJ completely squashed that possibility. Floyd actually whines when Jamie says she’s leaving. Aww. Floyd is lonely. Does TJ care? Of course not.

TJ sounds perfectly fine when he says he’s sorry he ruined the night. Father and son decide to just watch the movie together instead.

The next day at school, Marcus is spitting his game at the girl he went on a date with. Turns out, treating women like actual people has been working well for him! He’s even going on a second date. Yvette comes by to let TJ know that she’s picking him up again. TJ is, of course, pissed because Jamie had come over to the house the night before, albeit dick-less. Yvette has to explain to TJ that when you date someone, the goal is to see them frequently and that he’s the reason their last date sucked. She then shatters Marcus’s dreams by letting him know that Floyd is taking his car on his date. Guess Marcus is gonna have to make out on the bus.

TJ’s lips are all puckered because he’s losing his father to another woman. He’s so distressed that he actually picks a fight with a senior. Mo steps in and literally drags TJ home. No, seriously. He carried TJ like a bag of groceries all the way to the Henderson house during school. Then he transformed into a therapist to get to the root of TJ’s outburst. This is during school hours. Mo skipped school to bring TJ home and give Floyd advice. Mo is amazing.

TJ is playing basketball with himself when Floyd comes in and then he spills that he’s sick of Jamie. Floyd reminds TJ that he’s the one who set them up and I guess TJ didn’t know things would actually change. Now would have been a good time to mention if he feels some way about another woman besides Yvette playing a maternal figure in the wake of his mother’s never explained death. But Floyd does a good job as usual and says this is temporary because when TJ is a teenager, he won’t want anything to do with Floyd. TJ finally stops being a prick and Floyd offers to be careful about how he schedules his time and then continues the basketball game he let Jamie interrupt previously. Aww Floyd. Too bad TJ is probably going to hold onto this for a while because he was giving his dad a lot of shit in the end credits. This isn’t even the last time he does this to Floyd and we never see Jamie again, so I guess it’s safe to assume that TJ killed Jamie.

Things I noticed:

- Can we just take a moment to appreciate how hot Floyd is? How could Marcus ever think his dad wouldn’t be able to attract women?

- This brilliant cover for the gang if Floyd came in during the date deliberation:

- Marcus doesn’t want Floyd to go out on dates because he wants the car to himself on the weekends. He says if Floyd starts going out, he’s making out in the back of the bus. Yvette then says, “No, thanks to Rosa Parks, you can make out anywhere on the bus.” Brilliant retort. I really hand it to the writers of this show.

#smart guy #floyd henderson #tahj mowry #marcus henderson #jason weaver #essence atkins #Yvette Henderson #disney #mo tibbs #omar gooding #TJ henderson

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zydrateacademy · 4 years ago

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First Impressions / Review - Cyberpunk 2077

I have some screenshots but they’re mostly photo mode and the occasional interface showing off my gear. So this review will be pic-less for now. I got Cyberpunk off of Stimulus money so as far as I’m concerned, the government paid for this game which does negate some of the problems I’d normally have for dropping 80$ or so on a preorder. Use that information how you will. First, I want to address some technical issues. In the sense that I don’t have very many. I have a 1050 GTX, an i5 processor, and 16GB of Ram. That’s about as complex as my knowledge goes on that. I’ve had a few glitches like Jackie ghosting through a closed door, some vans were clipped into the parking lot, and some NPC’s being stuck in furniture. A lot of ghosting around, really. The odd frame drop but nothing game breaking, and I haven’t had any crashes except one on startup, right after updating my drivers. Just the one in ~21 hours of gameplay. I play on High (but not ultra) settings. So all in all, not a bad experience. Everyone’s computer is a unique butterfly so while you will see a lot of yelling on various communities, some of us are trucking along several hour sessions at a time and not having a problem. Let’s do a quick dive into the story, and there may be some spoilers here but it’s mostly for Act 1, which is reachable just a couple hours depending on how quickly you want to unlock the whole city (as you’re locked to one region until you complete a major heist).

You play as V, of any variety of gender identity you wish (though you are stuck with he or she pronouns). Basically a futuristic mercenary that does any kind of work available, kind of giving me some vibes from Burn Notice. Arms deals, stealing fans, VIP extraction, and so on. Of course, nothing goes as plan and you more or less lose your entire initial team after a heist goes wrong in every way possible. You’re witness to a world changing shift in a power structure and are forced to insert a chip with the ‘soul’ of Johnny Silverhand, an angry and incredibly bitter man who staged a bombing decades before V enters the game. This becomes the driving force of the game as you work to remove him safely from your body before he replaces you entirely - Something that not even he can stop, really. I’ve only had my toes dipped in Cyberpunk as a genre but it seems pretty standard fare. The concepts of “do cybernetics eat your soul’ and the various debate of how much human makes a human, all that. You’re put right there in center force as you grapple with these questions, even though our avatar as V is more concerned with just curing themselves like it was any other terminal disease. Even in-universe, the idea of a soul-preserving microchip is still a relatively new invention, though still in development enough to be advertised and talked about in news circuits. So let’s approach my first problem. It takes several hours for the game to essentially ‘wake up’. For a long time, you’re stuck in several conversations and interactable cutscenes with very little gameplay except taking advantage of V’s chosen origin in dialog. A couple of firefights here and there but the initial region locks you in and there’s only so many world encounters to just run into. The game more or less railroads you into completing Act 1 with some haste, because it also unlocks the ability to get more cybernetics and even some actual, full on mechanics. Within that railroading, you’re witness to so. Much. God. Damn. Talking. Mercifully you can press or hold “c” to skip through some things if you already understand the gist, but the first several hours of the game can very much feel like a very pretty walking simulator. Thankfully this kind of goes away after Act 1. You suddenly get called by a variety of Fixers that preside over various regions and they toss you dozens of side-jobs to do and so far, I find them to be delightfully varied. As a stealther, I found great joy in having a VIP escort quest with the optional objective of not sounding any alarms. So I went and bought myself a silencer and happily snuck around some gang mates boxing in the middle of a building, retrieved my guy, and escorted him outside while leaving several enemies alive. It was a great achievement. These side-gigs can be as complicated or straightforward as you please, giving me some Dues Ex vibes. The tutorial introduces you to hacking so you can distract and destroy your enemies how you see fit, and I have found that most encounters are designed with alternate routes to deal with enemies. Others are less clear. During one gig, I opened a door and the entire bar went ape on me, so I shot my way through and earned two stars from the police. Turned into a massive shootout that led to a dropbox that had gang members in it that also shot at me. Playing on Easy is a saving grace, but as someone who typically likes sneaking around games when the option is available, I wish the game made it more clear if I'm in a "suspicious" type zone. I also have no idea which NPC's are counted as potential enemies (the scan early in the story tells you if they're in a gang or not), as perfectly normal NPC's in the aforementioned bar just began unloading on me. It was wild, and I survived and got paid but the mission giver telling me it was sloppy work. Thanks, lady. Another time I opened a gate and trained my silenced pistol on the guard only for her to slightly sidestep as the gate opening “alerted” her. So I missed the shot, she opened fire, and the entire structure came out to play. It was an intense gunfight in which I was victorious, but it felt hollow as my silenced approach just botched the entire encounter. It was difficult for me to figure out what the game’s general “loop” is. So far it gives me the Ubisoft vibe of “hit everything you run into”. I do like the idea of V being something of a vigilante, as random police encounters pretty much allow you to intervene and gun down gang members without them bothering you about it. I must admit, however, I wish there was more to actually DO in the game. So far it’s mostly just side-gig after side-gig. Escort guy here, steal a van there, eliminate all enemies here. Though again, I said before that some of this can be quite enjoyable under the right circumstances. Maddening in others. In a way, this is kind of the Rage 2 problem all over again, in the sense that people loved the general gunplay but there wasn’t actually a lot of gameplay beyond the decent combat mechanics. Cyberpunk 2077 is certainly no GTA5, but I hope some day it can become that with DLC’s that add actual activities.

A couple of quick asides. I despise the driving, as most vehicles seem to want to spin out very easily if you hold the turning key for a second too long. In some fashion, it forces you to drive like an actual sane person and mowing down civilians (even accidentally) adds a GTA-esque wanted level though it seems stupidly easy to avoid. Narratively, it makes sense as the authorities in this universe are incredibly corrupt and it basically amounts to “eh, they’re too far now, let’s not waste resources”. So, fair enough. Still, I hope to GOD there’s no mandatory story-based racing. Games have screwed me on that before, and I have not beaten most GTA games because of that. Secondly, I don’t think the origin choice does a lot. You get different dialog choices and being a Corpo did lead to one interesting turn when you just ‘knew’ a credit chip had a virus on it. So there is that, but ultimately the rest of the dialog is identical. You could chalk this up to V spending six months with Jackie and he, more or less, lets your V really swim in Night City culture but honestly ALL V choices feel like they’ve become the same person. I was originally a Corpo but it just feels like her past and culture didn’t seep in through most of the dialog. At the end of the day, V is always just some mercenary punk. The world is gorgeous, albeit not as alive as it may have been advertised in promotions. Random civilians just have canned dialog, a lot of it rude. However I’ve been hard pressed to find doubles or clones of anyone just walking around, but that may change once I get into the hundreds of hour counts. It’s a very pretty game and despite some of my qualms, I am enjoying the experience. There’s a photo mode which is wonderful to utilize when you run into an environment that just captures the imagination. I took a screenshot of Jackie’s wall of pinups, including a typical slutty nun but as per the universe, her chest filled with beautifully placed cybernetics. It was just fun to see, and there’s a lot of semi-subtle world building like that that I just adore.

The game has issues. However, if you wanted a slightly scaled back idea of GTA5 with a different aesthetic, this is not at all a bad choice. However I will not blame anyone if they wait for the “GOTY” editions to come out. And on sale.

#Cyberpunk #Cyberpunk 2077 #2077 #cd projekt red

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sporadic-writer · 5 years ago

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Lost Wallet

Summary: being a good person pays off in the end

Pairings: Sebastian Stan x Reader

Warnings: um none I think? Maybe swearing but if you're bothered by that you got bigger issues than a fanfic lol

°•○•°●•°○•°●•°○•°●•°

New York City, a place with a higher population than most of the states in this country. People of all kinds live together in one crowded, yet anonymous cluster. It is a city where anything is possible and people can be themselves. Hence why you became a cliche and moved here after college and finding a job. The city felt right for you to live in, that and Venice is sinking and less feasible for a recent college graduate not in the 1%. Everyone lives their own life as many pass by every hour. Although, one afternoon changed things for you.

You were enjoying a lovely Saturday, no work luckily and you were heading back to your place in Chelsea, walking from Central Park and just passing Times Square. Normally you would take the train, or a cab, but walking sounded nice. The day isn’t too cold, and the city seems calm today. People pass normally, not swarming with sight-seers and such. Music played through your ear buds as you were in your own little world, until you saw some guy's wallet fall to the ground just as he was passing you to go towards the sea of tourists and ongoers. No one seemed to notice, including him, and you didn’t want it to get stolen by some jerk. Picking it up quickly you turned to his direction.

"Hey wait! Your.. wallet.. God damnit." He was no where is sight. Upon noticing his lack of presence, your yell faded quickly. Despite turning back to possibly catch up with him, it was as if the crowd swallowed him up. How does someone vanish like Houdini at 1pm on a Saturday? Even in this city he shouldn't be gone this quickly.

Stepping to a bench at the side, you huffed and opened it up to see if there were clues to help you return it. You were relieved to see it at least wasn't an out of city tourist whose wallet you'd have to return via snail mail. A gym membership card, ooh a fancy gym for that matter, some other cards, and a metro card tucked into the slots were the only details about who the guy was. It was the name however, on the ID that gave you pause. It read Sebastian Stan, *insert details and address here*, and you did a double take to make sure this was legit. Yes, the cards in the wallet matched his photo ID. A famous actor lost his wallet in the last place to do so. At least you aren't an asshole. You would return the wallet in the same condition you found it in, contents included. But now it felt more challenging and weird. Main goal, return wallet without looking like a stalker fan.

Thinking to yourself, drowning out the street art vendors yelling out over your music to make sales, you thought about were he could be. “Alright... I noticed no bag, so the gym’s probably out. He could’ve been getting food or going to a meeting. Ah god I’m gonna have to go to his place like a creep.” Hailing a cab, you went off to..? Right. To the Upper East Side. Oh of course.

Flash forward to the cab pulling up to the specific address. To make it a little less intimidating, the building was at least not in the heart of the Upper East Side, just off to the side. However, it still made your Chelsea flat look like a box in the subway. Walking inside you made your way into the main lobby/entryway and tried to not look lost. Sadly, there was no way to figure out which apartment was his. No letterbox or list of tennants to buzz people up. Asking seemed odd to do, maybe he keeps it quiet here, so asking for his apartment could land you in the loony bin or given a restraining order. Best option, chill in the lobby and wait for him to make an appearance before someone kicks you out.

After nearly 2 hours, you start to think that maybe it isn’t worth it to wait. He’s a celebrity, surely this is no issue for him. Cards can be replaced without any delay. You wouldn’t wait this long for anyone else. Well, you would wait for anyone else, but this amount of time wouldn't be needed. Mind you, anyone else would have a normal public mail box and/or apartment number for proper returning of lost items. Now, what to do with the damned wallet? You sat and pondered while fiddling with the wallet in your hands. Deep in thought you didn’t notice the owner approach you.

“I don’t think that belongs to you.” Looking up you saw him, dressed the same as when he passed you earlier that day. He had a kind expression on his face.

You stood up and responded. “Um yeah.. you dropped it earlier outside Times Square. I tried to trail back and find you, but no luck. I’m not a creep I promise, just wanted to return this. Big fan, but not a weirdo. Just wanted to make sure no one took your stuff or potentially robbed you.” As you finished you stuck the wallet out to him. He took it and put it back in his pocket. “Everything is in there and I don’t plan on spreading where you live to the public.” Trying to be light and not show your nervousness you chuckled at the end.

He simply smiled and nodded before saying, “I appreciate you returning this and not letting it get into the wrong hands. Sorry I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh, it’s Y/N. And really it’s no big deal.” You smiled and started to take a couple step to the door. “Now that that is taken care of, I’ll let you get back to living your life. It was really nice to meet you.” Waving lightly you walked away. It made him laugh as he heard you grumble to yourself about not getting a photo or something. The words, "no one will believe this," were enduring. He caught on that you were a fan, but a polite and respectful one.

Before you fully went through the doorway he caught up and said, “I’d gladly take a picture with you. Or something to thank you.”

“No no that isn’t necessary. You weren't even supposed to hear that... I didn’t want to ask you that and seem like I holding your address and wallet hostage for a meet and greet. I truly just wanted to make sure your shi- stuff got returned.” Your smile was sincere and it made his heart warm at a genuinely real and decent person. Plus, he caught how you tried not to swear and actually found it kind of cute.

��Y/N, please you did this, now let me say thank you. No need to be polite. I want to.” His words were determined, yet not pressuring. You could tell he was just as sincere as you were. Blushing slightly, you agreed and he continued. “Good. Now how about a cup of coffee? Or maybe a late lunch?”

You were almost at a loss for words. Unfortunately, your mouth and brain weren’t connected as you replied. “Holy shit are you asking me out? Wow.” Then you realized what just happened and your eyes widened. “Oh god. Ignore me there. I’d love that, but while waiting for you my friend texted me and needs help with some paperwork applying for a job similar to mine. So, maybe rather than coffee and lunch, how about a beer and dinner? Make the most of a nice Saturday night? Unless you’re busy?”

Ease filled you as he smiled. “Yeah sure. I haven’t had a normal night out in a while.”

“Awesome. I can meet you here around 7ish? I know a chill dive bar between here and Midtown with good food and drinks. No one would really bother you.” It was shocking how calm you actually were at the moment. One minute you were returning a wallet, nervous to be taken as a stalker, and now you were planning to meet up with a movie star.

Your thoughts were broken as his words hit your ears. “Yeah that works for me. I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks again for bringing this back to me, for real!”

“Like I said, it’s no problem. I’ll see you later I guess.” You smiled and turned to the exit again. As you got a few steps outside you heard him call your name.

Turning to him, trying to keep hair out of your eyes, saw him smile at you. “By the way. I was asking you out.” Then he had the nerve to pop back into his building as if nothing happened. All while you were smiling and stunned in the street.

"I have a date with Sebastian Stan." Wow not the compensation you thought you would get for returning a wallet.

°•○•°●•°○•°●•°○•°●•°

Thank you for reading! :) like and reblog!

Feedback is appreciated.

#sebastian stan blurb #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fic #sebastian x reader #sebastian stan #mavel

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avaantares · 5 years ago

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FFVII:REMAKE - A Review

So I beat the game two weeks ago and started writing down my thoughts while they were fresh in my mind, but I didn’t post anything then because my one IRL friend who is also playing it hadn’t finished it yet and I didn’t want to risk posting anything spoiler-y. But the extra time has allowed me to play through the game again on Hard difficulty, which has allowed me to reconsider and elaborate on some of my thoughts. And frankly at this point I just need to dump my Very Big Opinions somewhere, so... here ya go.

I discuss visuals, gameplay, character and story below. I’ve tried to keep spoilers minimal up front, though obviously if you want to go into the game totally cold, don’t read this. All major spoilers are clearly tagged. All of it is below a cut to spare your dash.

Also, there are pretty pictures, because why not?

First, my background with this franchise: I played through the original FFVII multiple times; I’ve watched and rewatched Advent Children and Last Order, played Crisis Core, gave up on Dirge of Cerberus despite my deep love for Vincent Valentine (sorry, VV, but your game was just a mess), and lamented that Before Crisis wasn’t available in my country. I even played (and own!) Ehrgeiz, the obscure fighting game that featured the main cast. (Still bitter that they didn’t keep Miki Shinichirou as the voice of Sephiroth. He’s one of my faves.)

^ Ehrgeiz, a mediocre fighting game that forever endeared itself to me by including Turks!Vincent Valentine as a playable character. 💖

In short, I’ve been waiting for this game for DECADES.

So. Here we go. My thoughts on Final Fantasy VII: REMAKE.

The good:

The character models are very pretty. With individual pores, threads and scuffs visible, they’re so detailed that it’s almost impossible to reconcile them with the mouthless sprites from the original game – even more so than Advent Children (and dear goodness, that was over a decade ago now, wasn’t it?). Still, they’ve kept the costume details and absurd proportions largely intact (Barret’s fists are literally larger than Tifa’s entire head, yet somehow it works visually), so it’s not too much of a departure from the familiar.

They’ve kept the aesthetic. I was afraid the game would try to update the iconic world of Midgar, but by and large, it’s full of visually-arresting designs that preserve the gritty-industrial look and feel of the original.

Japanese version is included. BLESS YOU, Square Enix, for including the Japanese voices and character animations. Not only is it impossible for me to hear Cloud in anything other than Sakurai Takahiro’s voice, but the Japanese script is a bit nicer to the characters. I’m not really keen on the English dub… but more on that below.

They fixed the spelling of Aerith’s name. This may seem like a minor point, but considering it’s been 20 years and I’m still bitter that Devil May Cry still hasn’t corrected “Nelo Angelo,” it’s a small victory.

Improved combat. Admittedly, I wasn’t sold on the new combat system at first, but after playing through the game twice, I’ve come to really like it. It has a few rough edges and can get chaotic in some battles, but it does a decent job of blending the feel of an action game with turn-based strategy. The fact that you can switch to a more traditional turn-based system if you prefer is also nice. (I haven’t tried Classic mode yet, though.)

Weapon customization. The Skill Points system allows you to upgrade your loadout instead of acquiring new gear. The tutorial was somewhat lacking (I didn’t quite figure out the multiple-core-unlock thing right away), but I appreciated the ability to add materia slots or stat buffs rather than just cycling through a dozen swords that Cloud apparently keeps in his back pocket.

Background dialogue management. On the whole, the conversations as you run through town enhance the story without slogging down the gameplay; you don’t have to stop and talk to every single resident, because snatches of their conversation reach you (and your on-screen chatlog) as you pass. You can stop and listen for more detail if you want, or you can just keep moving. The extra worldbuilding is really nice.

The music. The orchestrated versions of the original themes are excellent (and some of those music cues gave me goosebumps… Did I spend way too many hours immersed in the original game? Probably). I can take or leave some of the collectible jukebox tunes, but the background music in general is good. (But did I earn that Disc Jockey trophy? Yes, yes I did.)

Supporting character development. Jessie, Biggs and Wedge actually have characters! And personalities! Clichéd ones, admittedly, but it’s an improvement over the original game killing them all off within the first few minutes. The game also does justice to the Turks, and actually surprised me with how much depth of character it gave Reno and Rude in particular (perhaps setting them up for a mini redemption arc so players forgive them for dropping a plate on tens of thousands of slum residents?). Their moments of concern for each other and (brief) crises of conscience made them more than the stock villains they were in the original game, more in line with their temporarily good-aligned characters in Advent Children. Tseng, likewise, was on point. However, I do have to qualify all this with one irate question: Where the heck is Elena?! Seems like the female characters are always getting left out… /sigh/

Improved plot devices. REMAKE cleans up some of the more questionable and outdated content from the original. As you likely already know from the demo, the new game somewhat exonerates the protagonists by having Shinra blow up their own mako reactor to turn public opinion against AVALANCHE (possibly because someone finally realized that it’s hard to sympathize with characters who are willing to melt down an entire reactor and kill a bunch of innocent civilians). AVALANCHE are still eco-terrorists, but they’re… terrorists with a conscience? I dunno, at least they feel bad when people die now… Likewise, the weird and uncomfortable Honey Bee Inn segment of the original game has been reborn as an amazing dance extravaganza. Less voyeurism/prostitution, more Vegas floor show (complete with minigame choreography) and makeover. The whole Don Corneo scenario is still hella creepy, but frankly, there’s nothing that can fix that.

Series references. Fans of the original will appreciate all the inside jokes and direct references to the original game and other franchise entries: One-off comments about Chocobo racing; a broken console in Wall Market that shoots at you; a framed picture of the original 32-bit Seventh Heaven; ads for Banora apple juice; side mentions of characters and plot devices from spinoff games; PHS communication… The game definitely pays tribute to its history. They even recreate the original loading screen and several of Cloud’s iconic poses/animations throughout the game:

The neutral:

Recycled gags. Look, I know Advent Children was the ultimate evolution of FFVII for a while, and admittedly, it did some things very well. The running gag with Rude’s sunglasses and the victory fanfare being used as a ringtone are some of the best moments in the film, in part because they were so unexpected. But as much as I enjoyed the repeated nods to AC in this game, they felt a little desperate, like there were no new jokes to insert so they had to double down on the ones they’d used the last time this franchise had a renaissance. (See Rude’s broken sunglasses, below.) And fitting into the series as a whole, it feels a little weird. Why is Rude’s ringtone the same as the clones’ from Advent Children? Does Barret really need to sing the victory fanfare over and over when he defeats an enemy? Is there supposed to be some history behind that song that was left out of the worldbuilding? It just feels too meta.

Arbitrary localization of names. I don’t really grasp why it was necessary to rename so many items and characters for the English market. Some changes make sense for localization (e.g. Whack-a-Box certainly works better for an American audience than Crash Box), but others seem arbitrary, like changing Aniyan Kunyan to Andrea Rhodea or Mugi to Oates (a play on the meaning of his name in Japanese, but... does it matter?). And then… well, I don’t want to spoil A Major Plot Element, but there’s another thing that changes names from one English word (in the Japanese track) to a different English word. Why? No idea. It doesn’t affect gameplay, and it’s not really a problem, but listening to the Japanese track, I found it jarring to have the subtitles contradict what I was hearing.

Underutilized characters. While the whole gamut of original FFVII characters make appearances, several of them aren’t used to full effect, or aren’t used at all to advance the story. Rufus Shinra’s bossfight is a decent challenge, but while his character was vital to both the original FFVII and Advent Children, his presence in this game is little more than a cameo. His fight could be cut or swapped out with any other boss, and it would have zero effect on the plot. Similarly, while Hojo is a key player in the full story (which this game doesn’t cover, since it’s only a fraction of the original timeline), he’s largely wasted here, except as a means of extending play time by making you wander through corridors and fight a bunch of monsters for “research.” (I have no idea what his motivation is; you’d think he’d be more interested in recapturing Aerith or Cloud, but instead he just... opens an elevator and lets them leave? after they beat up some midbosses.) Reeve Tuesti actually has a solid presence in this game, but since he’s ONLY ever active as himself, there’s no explanation for the random Cait Sith cameo in one scene (players new to the franchise probably have no idea why a random cartoon cat showed up for a few seconds and was never mentioned again). Obviously the plot arcs have to change when the game is covering only a few days’ time in a much longer story, and the major players need to be introduced at some point if they’re going to feature in later games in the series, but from a narrative standpoint, there are an awful lot of superfluous characters doing things for no reason in this installment.

The bad:

THE PADDING. Dear goodness, there is so much padding to make this a standalone game instead of just the first chapter of a longer adventure. I got really, really sick of running literally from one end of the map to the other on side quests – and that’s me, an avowed trophy hunter who spends hours scouring dark corners for collectible items in other games, saying that. So much of this game felt like time fill that didn’t really advance the story. It’s also full of unnecessary new characters with improbable Squeenix hair, like Roche the super-annoying motorcycle SOLDIER (below), or Leslie, Don Corneo’s doorman who somehow merits his own backstory and side quest. (Though in fairness, every FFVII sequel has added superfluous characters, with Crisis Core possibly being the worst offender.) But it just felt really drawn-out and bloated for a game of this generation. If this game had been as compact and tightly-written as the other games I typically play, it probably only would have taken me 15 hours to beat instead of 50. (I don’t actually know how many hours I spent on it the first time through, as I didn’t check the play clock before restarting on Hard difficulty. I do know it took me over 110 hours total to complete the game on both modes, though much of the second run was spent dying repeatedly on a handful of nasty fights. Hard mode removes items and MP replenishment, and if you run out of MP at any point during a chapter, you’re going to die. A lot.)

The pacing. Related to the above... the Midgar portion of the original game was just the setup for a larger story. It wasn’t meant to have its own complete dramatic arc so much as to introduce you to the world and the major players. Consequently, there are some really odd beats in this story, as well as a total lack of urgency in your mission. There are no natural places to slot in the side quests and minigames, so they’re shoehorned awkwardly between plot sequences. “Quick, our friend is in mortal peril and needs our help!” "Okay, cool, we’ll go rescue her after we spend ten hours running around town doing random errands for townspeople and playing games with the local kids.” Uh... what?

The graphics just aren’t as good as they should be. While the character models are gorgeous, there are a lot of low-res background textures and weird polygons that don’t quite match up with other components. Most egregious are the Shinra logos, which frequently get close-ups as part of the fixed camera work and, frankly, look like lossy JPEGs. (See image below, screencapped from a PS4 Pro. Those jagged edges on the logo are present throughout the entire game.) There are weird clipping errors and artifacted images and reflective surfaces that don’t reflect, making the game look more like something from the PS3 era than a 4K late-gen PS4 game. (And it’s not that we don’t have the technology: Uncharted 4 was released back in 2016, and the rendering of its vast world was twice as pretty. Devil May Cry 5, released in early 2019, has far more realistic textures and object interaction. Granted, those are different types of games with fewer NPCs to render, but I feel like there’s no excuse for a game this big to look this mediocre.)

The HUD could be better. The lower-corners concept is okay, though it took me a while to train my eyes to travel between both sides of the screen and track the fight action. But for a long time, I didn’t even notice the commands in the upper left corner of the screen, and after playing through the game twice I still have no idea what they say because I couldn’t focus on the tiny text long enough to read them while trying not to die in combat. (I just looked it up; apparently they’re combat control shortcuts? Huh, that would have been useful to know.) It wasn’t until my second time through that I realized there even WERE separate controls on screen during the motorcycle minigames; I had resorted to panicked button mashing to figure it out the first time through because there was no tutorial (you’re just dropped into the action) and, having ignored the small text for the previous hundred combats, I had no reason to look for on-screen instructions there. Not that it would have helped, since on many backgrounds the text in the upper left is really difficult to read (see below). It’s worth noting that I have better than 20/20 vision and played this game on a large TV screen and still had trouble reading some things; on a smaller TV, or for someone with less acute vision (like my sister, who is blind in one eye), I think even the basic menu controls would be difficult to see. While you can resize the font for subtitles, my cursory glance through the menu did not uncover an option to increase the size of the HUD.

Inter-fight menu mechanics. Specifically, the inability to save (or save loadout settings) between fights in a multi-part sequence. There are several back-to-back fights in which it is necessary to switch characters or change gear between bosses. The game treats them as one continuous fight, though it does allows you to access the equipment menu by holding square during key cutscenes. Which is good, if you only have one of a particular materia or accessory that you need to switch between characters, and in most cases when you die the game lets you restart just before your current fight instead of restarting the whole sequence -- also good, since some multi-stage bosses can easily take 20-30 minutes to beat, and if several of those are strung together in sequence, you’re in for a long play session to get past them. But since it’s treated as one fight, you can’t save between bosses (more than once, I had to leave my PS4 running in Rest Mode overnight and just hoped we didn’t have a power glitch), and if you happen to get killed and need to restart the fight, your loadouts reset. Which means if you’re, say, fighting the end boss on Hard difficulty and get killed in the first two minutes -- which happened to me a lot -- by the time you restart the fight, sit through the unskippable cutscene, access the menu and rearrange all the materia and accessories you need, you’re spending five or six minutes gearing up for two minutes of play, and then doing that over and over again every time you die. It gets really old.

The English dub script. *deep breath* Okay, look, I know I can be a bit elitist about translations, but I really do not like the English adaptation of this game. It makes Cloud come across as less socially-awkward and far more of a deliberate jerk, Aerith is mouthy and even swears (which is not accurate to her original character), and it downplays some of the symbolism that’s more obvious in the Japanese script. One quick example: When Aerith gives Cloud a flower, she says (in Japanese), “In the language of flowers, this means ‘reunion.’” It’s subbed/dubbed in English, “Lovers used to give these when they were reunited.” That’s a subtle difference, but since the concept of “reunion” is a freakin’ huge part of the FFVII plot, and since Sephiroth was on screen literally seconds before that line is delivered, my brain automatically went, “OMG REUNION!!!” while I’m guessing people listening in English only picked up on the romantic subtext. It’s a pretty minor thing, and of course translation is always a complex balancing act between literal meaning and local market understanding, but the English version just seemed to me to have a different vibe overall. (Unfortunately, the English subtitles are the same as the dub, so unless you can understand the Japanese audio you’re kind of stuck with that dialogue.)

[WARNING: SPOILERS BELOW THIS POINT]

- …And my #1 complaint about Final Fantasy VII: REMAKE is…

…it’s not actually a remake.

Sure, the game starts out the same way and covers a lot of the same events, but fundamentally, it’s a sequel, not a retelling. It’s evident from Cloud’s future-oriented visions throughout the game that something else is going on, and the ending MAKES NO SENSE if you don’t already know the story. Heck, even the rest of the game doesn’t really make sense if you don’t know the story -- Sephiroth’s presence is never explained; Zack isn’t even introduced, just shows up randomly at the end; Cloud’s flashbacks of Tifa and her dead father in Nibelheim are left as a complete mystery (and since she evidently remembers the burning of her town, judging by her dialogue outside Aerith’s house, why doesn’t she even react when Sephiroth shows up?).

The core elements of the plot – the Feelers (Whispers) preserving a specific fate; the three entities from the future (whose weapon types just happen to correspond to certain named characters) defending their timeline; the return of post-Advent Children Sephiroth (the only time we’ve seen him in human form with one black wing), who has inhabited the Lifestream since his death and promised that he would never truly disappear, who in the end appeals to Cloud directly for an alliance rather than attempting to control him, because he knows now that Cloud is strong enough to defy the Reunion instinct; the change in the outcome of story events in which Biggs (and, unconfirmed as to which timeline he’s actually in, but quite possibly Zack) now survives his intended death -- all point toward Sephiroth trying to manipulate destiny into an alternate outcome in which he is victorious, and using this naive version of Cloud to facilitate it. That means this game is taking place in an alternate or splinter universe, created at some point after the events of the original Final Fantasy VII, and possibly even after the events of Advent Children.

All of that is fine from an overall continuing-story perspective – it opens up a lot of interesting possibilities, like the fact that Aerith might survive now that Cloud has seen prescient flashes of her death (among other events), and there are opportunities for more story twists and changes from what players might expect. But touting this as a remake of the original game has the potential to confuse players who are new to the franchise. FFVII was groundbreaking back in 1997, and it defined JRPGs for an entire generation of Western gamers. But that was more than two decades ago, and a lot of current gamers weren’t even born then, so while they’ve probably heard of the classic game, they aren’t necessarily steeped in its lore. FFVII:R relies heavily on prior knowledge of the series to carry its twist ending, so it largely fails as a standalone game.

Also, speaking as a longtime fan of the franchise… I honestly found the ending rather lackluster. It was a twist, of sorts, but not the sort of shocking, mind-bending revelation that made the first game so iconic. Granted, it’s hard to follow an act like revealing that your protagonist’s entire identity is a lie, not to mention killing off one of your main characters a third of the way into the story! But when the surprise ending is just, Surprise! We’re going to change things up a bit this time around so you aren’t entirely sure what’s coming! Also, here’s a gratuitous Sephiroth fight because everyone expects that, even though it doesn’t serve the main story at all nor resolve any conflicts previously established within this game! it smacks of Different for the sake of Being Different, not for the sake of a really amazing storyline they’re hiding up their sleeve. It’s a bit of a let-down, and I find that I... just... don’t really care that much. Which, for someone who’s been a fan of the series for nearly a quarter of a century, means there’s a Big Freaking Problem somewhere. If you’re not keeping the attention of your die-hard fans, how do you hope to build a fanbase of players new to the franchise?

Given the pacing and story issues inherent in this game, I’m not convinced that the following game(s) in the franchise are going to be structured any better. Considering the amount of pure side-quest padding they did in Midgar, I have no idea how they’ll maintain that same tone on something the scale of the World Map portion of the original game, unless they just completely eliminate things like Fort Condor and the submarine and the spaceship side quests. I have a feeling the Gold Saucer is going to be reduced to a Jessie flashback, a Chocobo race (probably to win a key item), and a battle arena run like the coliseum in Wall Market in this game. If they include all the story elements and side characters from the original, this series is going to be a dozen games long.

Still, on the whole this game was enjoyable, and I’m glad I played it. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but they haven’t completely killed off my interest, so I’ll probably continue with the series whenever the next game comes out. Though I’m not really sure if the higher-priced edition I pre-ordered was worth the extra money, so I may wait and see how the next game is shaping up before deciding which version to get...

But if they don’t give me a really pretty (playable) Vincent Valentine in the next installment, I may riot. I do have priorities.

#final fantasy vii #final fantasy vii: remake #ff7:r #final fantasy 7: remake #ff7 remake #video games #long post #review

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cupidmarwani-archive · 5 years ago

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Let It Burn Out (Jockett)

Summary: Crockett’s really trying to keep going, but it’s hard. (The backstory fic).

WC: ~8k

Warnings: Death, Grief, Graphic Attempted Suicide

As far as Crockett has run, it simply hasn’t been far enough. There’s no amount of distance he can put between himself and his past, himself and his family, himself and a grave, that will free him from this ache in his chest that simply refuses to fade. How many months has it been, he wonders as he stares at the calendar on his fridge. It’s not quite a year. He was in the hospital himself for a long time before he packed up and left, but the days and weeks blurred with so few visitors and the majority of his time spent working up the strength to walk as far as down the hall to the bathroom himself.

Some part of him knew, when he kept working as a trauma surgeon, that it wouldn’t help the pain go away. Most, if not every single case, will bring the same memories back to him, but he can’t stop doing it. That would be giving up, and he owes it to himself and to the two people he loved with his whole heart not to give up on those who need better help than they received.

He kicks his fridge and it rattles ominously, a bottle inside falling over and rolling around to be picked up much later down the line, when he has the ability to concentrate and he’s not dangerously close to falling and hitting his head on the tile floor. Logically, he knows he should go to bed. Sleep it off. Pop an aspirin and some orange juice in the morning, maybe get some fluids in before his shift starts, and carry on with his life like the pain he’s been trying so hard to suppress hasn’t suddenly taken him over in a tidal wave.

His phone shows three missed calls when he fumbles to plug it in. He didn’t even hear it go off. Two from Dr. Manning. One from Dr. Choi. There’s tons of texts. All of them can be dealt with in the morning, and not as he curls up alone in his queen sized bed, still dreaming of what it felt like to have his husband holding him through the night.

When he left New Orleans, he didn’t bring his wedding ring with him. He buried it with its match in the casket. The only real memories he brought with him, he can’t bear to look at, so they stay boxed up in his closet for the hypothetical day in the future that he’s able to handle it. Deep down, he doubts that day will ever come.

Luckily, the amount of booze in his system and the exhaustion of the day catch up to him once there’s a pillow beneath his head, and he’ll be able to sleep without dreaming, if what he experiences can even be called that. They’re closer to hell than to anything that could be compared to the softness evoked by the thought of a dream. Nonetheless, he gets nothing of the sort when he closes his eyes for the night. Sleep brings no rest.

His hangover is best described as hellish when he crawls out of bed to the shrill alarm. His head throbs, almost as bad as the sensation of his chest being torn apart by grief that has never even begun to fade. As he makes his way slowly to the bathroom, fighting the urge to vomit, he seriously debates the merits of staying home as opposed to going to work. Dr. Manning will ask him questions, and the patients who need his attention will only bring more hurt to his attempts at recovery.

They wouldn’t want him to stay home.

With a grimace, he takes two aspirin and brushes his teeth to rid himself of the taste of stale liquor and sleep. Cold shower running down his back. No more sweat left on his sticky skin, only bags under his eyes and a faint tremor in his palms that he’ll have to eliminate before he gets back to work. Surgeons need steady hands. He forces himself to breathe deep until they stop shaking.

Going about his morning routine is like walking through molasses, ever so slow in the mire when he chokes down coffee and double knots his shoelaces. Traffic isn’t significantly better or worse than usual. He parks, goes inside. The flask in his locker offers him a small sip to numb him just a little more. There’s no real, physical evidence of the day before left in the hospital. That one little girl who Dr. Choi treated has been transferred to the ICU, and the other patients have been sent home or to recovery. Part of Crockett wants to go check on the kids from yesterday, but he can already tell that he’ll break if he does. They survived this.

He shoves his backpack into the locker with slightly more force than necessary. No one knowing provides a certain loneliness, but if he told them- the pity, the pushes to go home or to therapy or both- he just can’t handle it. Maybe his grieving process isn’t normal, but it’s working well enough for him. He’s still upright on his own two feet with a job and an apartment, which has to be worth something.

“Good morning, Dr. Marcel,” Noah says brightly, tablet in hand with the charts of the morning. “I was going to do a consult in six, did you wanna join?”

Normally, he would say yes. Noah needs his guidance to learn, and Crockett wants to teach him- there’s something so innocent and child-like in him that reminds him of someone he used to tuck into bed at night. Today, he can’t.

“Why don’t you do that one yourself, I’m not on the clock for a few more minutes and I’ve got something to do first.”

“Oh- okay. Everything alright?”

Crockett waves him off and goes into a treatment room, drawing the curtains and sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, arm out. He can insert his own IV, has done it plenty of times before and put a decent share of other things into his blood for less medicinal reasons. That part is no one’s business but his own. With the IV kit in the cart and an improvised rubber glove tourniquet, he starts himself on a bag of fluids and closes his eyes, willing it to give him some energy.

A darker part of himself, one that rears its ugly head on the worst of days, reminds him that he has access to things like morphine and oxy and xanax, any number of ways to calm him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. They’d be disappointed in him for that, too.

Eyes shut, breathing slow,w, he lets the fluids drain into his body to replace some of what he’s lost before spending a long moment going through the motions of removing the IV, applying pressure, disposing of the used equipment, and pasting a neutral look on his face. No one needs to know about why he’s here in Chicago or the way he wants to collapse to the floor and shatter into a million pieces.

Noah’s still with the patient, talking them through whatever procedure is on the table, so Crockett has a moment longer to take a deep breath and put himself together. At least, he had hoped so, but then Dr. Lanik is beside him, watching him with that almost-concerned expression usually turned toward Dr. Halstead’s latest bullshit.

“Dr. Manning is worried about you.”

He dutifully pretends not to have heard, and studies his nails. Short and clean, like always. Much more put together than the rest of him, he thinks. His scars are hidden beneath the crisp fabric of his scrubs, torso and legs. Plastics did a good job with his face. They told him his nose broke in the crash, but by the time he woke up, it had almost fully healed. He never noticed a difference.

“Crockett.” He slowly raises his eyes, meeting Lanik’s. “We’re all worried about you. Clearly, yesterday hit close to home, and-”

“It didn’t-”

“You have bourbon breath and your hands are shaking.”

When he looks back down at his hands, they are, even though he swears they weren’t seconds ago. Lanik’s hand cups his shoulder as he walks him to the doctor’s lounge, nudging him to sit down on the squeaky couch while he himself remains standing over him, imposing.

“I had a sip this morning, not even a shot. I’m not drunk, if that’s your concern.”

They spend a long moment staring at each other before Lanik sits beside him and picks up Crockett’s left hand. It’s not a clinical touch, but one strangely gentle, as though Lanik feels he’s holding something delicate. Up close, there’s still a faint tan line on his ring finger, where a symbol of a union used to sit. A gentle touch brushes over it, blue-green eyes soften.

“It’s okay to talk about it, ‘Kett.”

At the shortening of his name, Crockett rips his hand away and stands up. Too familiar, too painful, too much. He can’t deal with it. He adjusts his shirt and walks away in hopes Lanik won’t follow, just in time to see Noah approaching with another chart. The patient needs surgery and it’s one Noah isn’t too familiar with yet, so Crockett has to be there to help him, guide him, assist him. He’d rather be at home, but there’s no choice. Scrub in. Steady his hands. Don’t think about them, don’t think about the children from yesterday, don’t think about Lanik, and he’ll be alright, he tells himself. He has to be.

By the time the surgery is over, he just wants to go home, crawl under the covers and sleep. Dr. Charles might be able to give him something to put him at peace enough to avoid nightmares without giving himself alcohol poisoning, if he asks. It would be awkward, though, and he knows that will come with questions and urging toward counseling.

Even now, though, when he shuts his eyes, he remembers too well. The music playing, Crockett’s hand on his husband’s leg while their daughter chittered away in the backseat about her ballet class that day. A recital was coming up. Crockett even had the day off so he could be there to see her.

He desperately opens his eyes, but he still remembers the sound before it’s replaced by the ding of paramedics bringing in a patient. Stab wound to the abdomen, not too severe but not great either. Crockett can focus on that, does focus on that for as long as he’s able because he refuses to lose a patient today.

By the time that one is stitched up, there’s a car accident victim in her mid thirties, free fluid in the belly. It’s worse. But he does his job and he saves her too, the way doctors in New Orleans didn’t, with a promise to her waiting family that she’ll make a full recovery before they know it.

“Crockett,” he hears at the end of his shift, his flask already halfway to his mouth in the doctor’s lounge. Lanik is leaving for the day as well, hanging up his coat and cracking his neck while he watches out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better.”

“Why don’t I- I-”

He turns to look at Lanik, waiting for him to just spit it out already so he can go home and drink himself into a stupor. Crockett is tired of being here today. He’s extra tired of the way everyone stares at him and tip-toes around him all of a sudden.

“Let me buy you dinner, at least.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. “I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for something like that right now.”

“Not as a date,” Lanik immediately corrects. “Just to talk. You look like you need it.”

Despite his first instinct being to refuse, Crockett does need to eat at some point, and this is a good way to make sure he remembers to before he gets drunk or otherwise incpacitated. Then there’s the puppy eyes Lanik is giving him, the outstretched hand, and it’s so difficult to say no to him. It was hard to say no to them, too.

“I guess I can make the time.”

Lanik smiles and offers him a ride, to the restaurant and then back to the hospital for his car, provided he’s sober enough for it. They wind up at a family owned greasy spoon diner, with bitter coffee and sweet pancakes, a homely air as the radio plays on the overheads. They don’t serve alcohol. Crockett pours a decent amount from his flask into his coffee mug, despite the disapproving look it earns.

“Should I be worried?” he asks idly as Crockett puts his flask away again.

All he can do in response is laugh dryly. No one worries about him anymore, not seriously. If they do, it’s only in the context of his capabilities as a surgeon, not his personal life or emotions. While alcohol hasn’t improved the taste of the terrible coffee, it makes him feel at least somewhat better to know that he’s on his way to a decent night’s sleep.

“Tell me about New Orleans,” Lanik says finally. “What was it like? Working there, living there?”

To find a memory that doesn’t hurt won’t be easy, but just brushing him off would be rude, and Crockett was raised better than that- he was raising his child better than that. His shoulders rise in a half-shrug, grasping in his mind for something to say.

“Hush puppies,” he blurts out.

“Hush puppies?”

Crockett puts his index finger and thumb together to make a little ball. “They’re this big, kind of like little savory pancakes. We deep fry them. Sure, they’re not super healthy, but I had those for breakfast all the time, and after long days at work. My-” his voice catches. “My family and I would make them on Sunday mornings.”

“What’re they made out of?”

“I use cornmeal, some flour. And milk and eggs. You gotta add onions and garlic and seasoning, though, give it something to- to cling to so it isn’t bland.”

He hasn’t made them since he came to Chicago. Not since before the accident, really. Every time he’s tried, it’s turned into tears over a hot stove and a distinct sense of loss that runs deeper than anything else manages to get. Just talking about them again is more than he’s done.

There are tears clinging to his eyelashes, just reaching his cheeks, that he doesn’t notice until Lanik reaches across the table to wipe them away for him. Slow. Careful. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t pull his hand back, instead cupping Crockett’s face. Some piece of him that craves being loved again leans into the touch.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

He ducks his head and takes a few long pulls of his spiked coffee. His heart is beating fast. Too fast. It tells him to think about the contact and to lean forward and to ask for a night where the bed isn’t as cold, but that’s too much of a betrayal to seriously consider. Crockett forces himself to pull away.

The pancakes are cold by now, but he eats them just for the sake of getting something into his system. Passing out at work because he hasn’t been eating would only add to the humiliation of how he’s visibly falling apart in front of them after a tough day that everyone else handled in stride. They weren’t as affected by the outbreak either. He’s willing to bet he’s seen worse than them, living in the deep alleys of New Orleans and helping those who so often died on the table from another stab wound, another bullet into soft flesh, but since coming here, it’s like he’s become a child again. Fresh out of med school, not used to the horror yet. He needs to get a grip, although that’s much easier said than done.

Even though dinner was offered by Lanik, Crockett still pays his fair share and tips generously before they leave. Home. Drink. Bed. Try not to cry. He has a routine that it’s easy to stick to if he wants to survive in this post-love haze that has sunk into his very bones.

“Come home with me,” Lanik says. “Again, it’s not- not a flirting thing. I’m just worried about you, and- and I get the feeling you could use the company.”

Refusal would be easy and simple. Crockett is better off dealing with his pain in solitude, and he has bourbon at home, and sometimes if he shuts his eyes he can still remember the way it felt to be held through the night. But he doesn’t want to be alone, at the same time, and this offer is the most intimacy he’ll have felt in ages, so he accepts with his head down and his jacket pulled tightly around his body.

Lanik lives nearby, with a cozy apartment and a pull-out couch he offers. It’s not as comfortable as his own bed, but the covers are warm and he forgets how to breathe for a moment when Lanik fluffs the pillow beneath his head and brushes an errant strand of hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll be in my room at the end of the hall,” he says gently. “Bathroom is on the left.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Crockett.”

He burrows deeper into the blankets. “Goodnight, Dr. Lanik.”

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” Crockett amends, and shuts his eyes.

Sleep comes surprisingly easy, but it is not restful. Without an aid to empty his thoughts, he’s given memories that start off so sweet and perfect. Cradling his little girl in his arms, singing her a lullaby while his husband sets up the changing table. Her first night home from the hospital, oh-so-small, face shiny pink and hand so small that it could barely close around Crockett’s thumb. He’s happy, they’re happy. A first day back at work and crying because he misses her, getting worried the first time she got the flu, driving her to ballet class, buying her new shoes.

He remembers hearing her scream, in the instant between the crash and the silence.

Going fast, not fast enough. Someone else ran the light. Passenger side, going fifty miles per hour into the crumpling metal door where there was a father playing with the radio and a rambling little girl, catching the brunt of it while the driver’s airbag exploded into his face. She had time to scream in pain. The body beside Crockett was silent. His daughter cried.

“Daddy, it hurts,” he heard.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” he heard.

“Daddy, wake up,” he heard.

His ears were ringing. Blood on the side of his face, nose throbbing, a deep ache in his chest where debris decided to pierce the skin. One of his legs was numb. He drifted in and out a couple of times, listening to crying and sirens. The last thing he heard was the silence. Dead silence around him. Nothing in the air. Nothing.

The room is dark when he wakes up, painfully so, and the sound that claws out of his throat. Raw, animal, feral and loud to the point that it hurts as he dissolves into sobs that shake his entire body and sound like dying things trying to break through his skin and swallow him whole. He cries like he’s never cried. While he can’t breathe and his world crumbles, there’s a presence that comes beside him.

The lights turn on, he can feel the yellow against his eyelids. A dip in the mattress marks a new weight, an arm around his shoulder and a hand on his damp cheek. Speaking, but nothing that Crockett is able to hear. Or process, is a better word. There’s too much and not enough around him to survive upon when he’s just absolutely overcome with the pain of what’s happening to him and has happened. It’s the past, the present, the future. His life and death. Every cell of his body is screaming while he just cries against a bare chest and his hair is stroked by a disembodied hand.

“Breathe, Kett. You’re okay. Just breathe for me.”

He falls asleep again, somehow, still crying but held.

When the morning truly comes, his face feels slightly sticky with what’s left of last night’s tears, and there’s a steady heartbeat against his cheek. For a moment, it’s peaceful, until he inevitably remembers that the heart does not belong to the love of his life and he’s not familiar with the scratchy sheets beneath him. Panic takes over for a moment, that he found his way to a drunken one night stand even though he swore to himself he would never betray the love he once felt. But then, the memories of the night before hazily filter into his mind. A diner meal and the briefest mention of hush puppies. Coming to Jimmy’s and sleeping on the pullout couch. The nightmare.

He leans away from Jimmy and buries his face in his hands. This was a mistake, and all he wants to do is go home and lay in bed, never get out of it again because he simply doesn’t have it in him. The opening up thing, he tried it last night. Just enough to be certain that it doesn’t work.

Beside him, his host stirs to life. One sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. “Kett?”

“Stop calling me Kett.”

When he swings his legs over the edge of the fold-out, he knows he’ll call out of work tomorrow. He has today off. Tomorrow, he’ll say he’s sick. And maybe by then, he’ll either be feeling better or have figured out a way to push the grief down to a tolerable level again. If he was a praying man, he’d already be on his knees.

“Are you okay?”

It isn’t even worth it to answer. He hails an Uber on his phone, trying to remember if he still has something to drink at home or if he should take the ride to the hospital to get his car for grocery shopping. Pints of ice cream and cheap whiskey to fill in the cracks where he’s splitting apart.

“Please, talk to me.”

Crockett doesn’t remember taking off his shoes, but they’re next to the door and fight him a little when he tries to slip them on. Eventually he gets them onto his feet, though, and throws open Jimmy’s door with the sole intent of isolating himself from whatever excuse for an outreach stole the night before.

“I know how you feel, I-”

“You have no idea,” Crockett growls, hand so tight on the knob he thinks his fingers will break, “how I feel. You cannot even begin to understand how I feel. And if God is merciful, you never will.”

He slams the door hard enough on his way out to splinter it slightly. It’s a strength he didn’t know he had. But he pretends not to notice as he goes to the curb to wait for his ride. Only a few minutes, according to his phone.

When he first got out of the hospital, having built up the strength to do basic tasks like bathe and dress himself again, he had almost given up. In a single instant, he lost the only two people who mattered to him in an accident where he sat at the wheel. Survivor’s guilt is more potent when the survivor was in the driver’s seat physically, not just metaphorically. That first night when he got home, he looked at the painkillers prescribed for the still healing incision. The whole bottle in his palm seemed so easy. He very nearly did it, too, because there was nothing left to live for.

The only thing that stopped him was the picture of his daughter on the mantle, and he couldn’t do it when he didn’t even know where she was buried.

Once he was eventually cleared for return to work, he went for a day. Everyone knew, and they treated him like a child, and wouldn’t even let him do his job. That’s why he came to Chicago, to get away from it and from everyone who knew, but it’s somehow made everything both better and worse.

There’s a hanging ceiling fan, unbelievably sturdy, in Crockett’s living room. He knows how to tie a noose. It would be simple, and put an end to all his suffering for good, and by the time anyone comes looking for him, they would simply be too late to do anything. No more nightmares. And, if the churches are to be believed, he’ll be reunited with his family, which he’s wanted more than anything. What he wouldn’t do to hold them again.

His Uber driver honks, apparently having arrived already, and Crockett forces himself to get up and into the backseat. Home will solve everything. He’ll figure out what to do next, and whatever happens, happens. If his life ends, if he drinks away the nightmares, if he lays in bed until his body turns to dust- he doesn’t care anymore. Any attempt at conversation on the driver’s behalf falls flat.

Like it’s waiting for him, there’s a half-empty bottle on the counter with a smooth glass neck practically made for Crockett’s hands. Bitter, painful taste in his mouth. He doesn’t mind it, welcomes it even as he goes to his own soft bed. They’d be disappointed. Not that it matters, because he can’t feel anything except pain right now, and he’d rather they be disappointed than out of his reach entirely. All of his memories of them have been tainted by the accident.

It would be easiest to just die already, he thinks, as he crawls under the covers. Finally, his suffering would come to an end. It would be over. At long last, it’ll be over. He’s almost calmed by the idea as he drinks and drifts off to sleep. Through the day, through the night, through the rest of his life, if he can.

He doesn’t know exactly when he starts to drift off, just that he does and his phone’s shrill alarm wakes him up, telling him he’s needed at the hospital. The ED needs him to come be a surgeon, and people will ask questions if he doesn’t go, but the mere idea of facing the world again makes him want to die. Even a phonecall seems too much. His hands shake far more than they should when he emails Mrs. Goodwin of his absence, and promptly shuts his phone off.

His chest aches as he chugs what’s left of his liquor and lets the bottle fall to the floor. Everything just… hurts. There’s not a single blood vessel, a single cell in the entirety of his body that doesn’t feel like it’s falling to pieces like ashes in the wind. He should have died, all those months ago, with his daughter and his husband and the driver of the other car, as opposed to this survival that’s a poor excuse for life. The time spent learning to walk again, stumbling over his words because his brain was rattled around, staring at graves whose funerals he never attended- it’s a waste.

Face buried in the pillow, missing the scent of his love’s cologne, he wishes to just die. Even if he doesn’t kill himself, which would take a courage and energy he lacks, he would rather be dead than live like this anymore.

Then it comes to him- he could walk into traffic. No one ever stops for jaywalkers in Chicago, and it would be nearly poetic to die the way he should have so long ago. Crockett forces his legs over the edge of the bed and wonders if he’s about to do this. If this is what he’s been reduced to. A once brilliant, confident, borderline arrogant surgeon who was also a father, now a drunkard going to make someone else take the poor excuse for his life.

Before this moment, he never really understood psych holds; he trusted patients to make their own decisions, and he would normally trust his own, but he understands how he’s a danger to himself. He’s aware of it. He knows he’s going to die. But he doesn’t care, craves it even, and if he was anywhere near Med, they’d have him committed before he could even blink or explain why it’s imperative that he leave this all behind.

Barefoot. Hair mussed. Still in scrubs from two days before. He walks out of his little condo complex where a busy street is racing with cars on either side, surpassing the forty speed limit by as much as they feel necessary to get where they’re going. He usually hates having such a busy road so close to home, but now, he’s grateful.

He takes a deep breath and waits for the traffic to have no stops, no gaps, nothing but rushing vehicles. And he jumps into the fray.

It doesn’t hurt, is the thing.

There’s the impact. The sound of bones breaking, brakes screeching, people screaming. He hits his head fairly hard on the asphalt, or at least he thinks so, because everything is wet. He can’t move. The sky overhead, grey with clouds that seem ready to spill, reminds him of clean sheets and an arm over his face, of making hot chocolate for three when it snowed. His eyes seem stuck open, hard to shut.

Hands on his face, on his chest, and he’s excited to see finally see them again.

At peace with the world, with himself, with his death, the world goes fuzzy around him and disappears.

When he wakes up again, the first sound he makes is a croaky “No,” difficult to say with how raw his throat is. No. No, he doesn’t want to fucking be here. They should have let him die. His eyes seem stuck together, not that he particularly cares, as he starts trying to take stock of his body. Moving it. Struggling. He can wiggle his toes, so he isn’t paralyzed. His fingers move fine on one arm, but on the other, they’re stiff, and the limb is heavy from the elbow down. His head is pounding, and his chest aches, and he should have written a DNR or something before he did this so that he wouldn’t have had to continue to live, let alone like this. He can’t do months of recovery and pity again, and he has nowhere else to go.

There’s a palm against his cheek, and for a moment he pretends it’s that of his husband, but he can’t when the voice accompanies it. “Can you hear me?” It’s Jimmy again, at his bedside, overstepping boundaries and refusing to let him just put an end to all of this already.

“Go away.”

At least he’s not being touched anymore, but he can tell that he’s not alone. They likely won’t be releasing him any time soon, not when whoever called 911 undoubtedly reported that he just threw himself in front of a car that obviously wouldn’t have had time to stop. It’s blatant, and it should have worked, but he’s here and his monitors remind him of the heart still stubbornly beating in his chest. If he could, he’d reach in and remove the thing himself. Bloody and raw, like he feels, and then as he dies, he’ll be free to rejoin his family at last.

By some miracle, he pries his eyes open, and spends a few long seconds adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights attacking him. The sheets are clean, and the room he’s in suggests he wasn’t in a coma for weeks, like after the accident. His stiff arm is wrapped in a heavy dark blue cast, from his wrist to his elbow, securing itself over his thumb and showing off a little bit of cotton placed to protect his skin from the harsh plaster.

Jimmy still sits at the bedside, watching him as though waiting for a complete meltdown, which doesn’t exactly feel too far off. Crockett reaches for the water bottle at the bedside with his good arm, fumbling with the cap with his teeth to get it open. His broken arm is like dead weight. Once again, he tries to move his fingers. They slightly obey. Not to the extent he thinks they should.

“Do you want me to bring your doctor in, to explain your injuries?”

Crockett grabs the cannula off his face and discards it, even if he notices the change in his ease of breathing almost immediately. He weakly bats Jimmy’s hand away when he reaches to replace it, and ignores the words of protest. All he wants is to get out of this place. He unclips himself from the monitors, and fumbles in the drawer beside his bed for a cotton ball to place against his arm when he carefully removes the IV of God knows what. The rational doctor in him figures fluids, painkillers, and antibiotics, but the father and husband in his mind doesn’t care.

“Wait, you need to lay down-”

“I’m going home.”

Jimmy is in front of him, hands out, as Crockett struggles to put his weight on his legs. They’re weak. He remembers this feeling, and he hates it. But it’s fine, he’ll be able to walk before he knows it, he tells himself. Just keep moving.

“Crockett, stop. Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re on an involuntary hold.”

That doesn’t surprise him, but he doesn’t really care, either. All that matters is getting the fuck out of here, so he pushes Jimmy out of the way with as much force as he can muster to continue his not-so-daring escape, holding a cottonball against his inner elbow and stumbling more than walking. He must look like a mess. It doesn’t matter. As soon as he’s out of this hospital, he’ll do it again, and maybe this time, the cars will actually kill him like they should have so long ago.

But of course, halfway down the hall, there’s security latching onto him and picking him up off the ground, in spite of his kicking feet and arguing with them. He’s in full presence of mind, and he doesn’t want to live. He wants his family back.

“Just let me die!” he screams at them, struggling to get out of their iron grips. “I don’t wanna be here! Let me go!”

Everyone stares at him. Each nurse and doctor on the floor, Jimmy included, as he’s returned to his bed and secured with the soft restraints so that he becomes a prisoner in this sterile little hospital room. As a nurse gives him a fresh IV, and Jimmy resupplies the oxygen, he wonders if maybe he did in fact die, all those months ago, and this is the hell he must endure.

“I want a DNR,” he says stiffly, tugging with little conviction against his restraints. “And a DNI.”

“You’ve been deemed non-decisional, by Dr. Charles when you came in.”

He makes a frustrated sound from deep in his chest. “I wasn’t even conscious.”

“Multiple people saw you try and kill yourself, and that stunt you just pulled didn’t exactly help.”

Crockett squeezes his eyes shut and clenches the fist he’s able to. When will it end? He needs it to end, finally, and yet he’s buried in their forced care and he wonders if they’ve tried to call his family. His emergency contact used to be his husband, and he doesn’t think he updated it. That number would have received no answer. If they even tried. He wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t, because no one who has someone to call would have done what he just tried.

“As soon as I’m released,” he says slowly, “I’m just going to do it again. Can’t we get it over with already?”

Jimmy’s face is soft and small, a child’s innocence and worry written into every wrinkle, when he leans forward and places a hand on Crockett’s cast. “We’re not going to let you kill yourself. You have a future. People care about you, and-”

“And I’m done living.”

With that, Jimmy presses his lips together and seems to consider it for a moment, before he stands up and tosses a comment over his shoulder that Crockett’s doctors will be in momentarily to talk about his recovery. Doctors, plural. If he had to guess, he’ll be seeing one for his main care, and one to try and convince him that dying won’t make the pain stop, even if Crockett’s pretty damn certain it will. One cannot grieve when they are gone and reunited with their family.

Dr. Charles and one of the GPs in the hospital join him, Dr. Charles hovering near the door while the doctor approaches to test his body, see if it’s working. She makes Crockett wiggle his toes and squeeze her hand, shines a light into his eyes and makes him follow it without moving his head, until she’s satisfied that he hasn’t sustained much brian damage. Then she reviews his injuries with him.

“You did sustain three rib fractures, but they’re minor and should heal on their own, so long as you don’t do anything too strenuous. The oxygen is to help keep your sats up even though you’re breathing shallower than normal. We also treated a half-inch depressed skull fracture, and a subdural hematoma, but we’ve got the bleeding under control and you should heal fine from that. In the accident, you also suffered a traumatic dislocation of your left knee with ACL damage, which we’ve repaired surgically, and we expect you to make a full recovery.”

Crockett raises his eyebrows and looks at his cast covered arm. Now, the doctor won’t meet his eyes.

“Your arm was an open fracture with a lot of debris from the asphalt and road surface. We were able to reset it with an internal fixation and grafted skin from your right thigh. Dr. Lanik told me you’ve already shown some movement in your left arm, and that’s a good thing-”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he interrupts.

She clears her throat. “There was significant damage to the muscle tissue and nerves in your forearm and wrist. Now that you’re awake and lucid, we’ll be able to make a better determination of what that will look like for you long-term.”

What she doesn’t say is the most important thing. They don’t expect him to be able to use his arm the same way again, which means losing the one thing he still has left. Had left. Trying to save people the way the doctors in New Orleans couldn’t save his daughter. Another reason he should have just died, if not in the first accident, then the second.

“Do you have any questions?” She asks.

“Can you bring me the paperwork to sign a DNR?”

She hesitates, and that’s when Dr. Charles pulls up a chair and asks for the chance to speak to him alone. No paperwork, then, just a conversation to try and convince him that this isn’t the answer. As if he deserves to live, especially with even his career taken from him too.

Crockett stares at him, almost daring him to speak. For a moment, he thinks he’s managed to silence the doctor with nothing but a glare, but then Dr. Charles asks him how he’s doing today, like he’s just a child. He just wants to sleep and never wake up.

“Dr. Marcel, can I um, can I ask you how long you’ve been feeling this way?”

He looks at his broken arm. A drink would be stellar, to cut off some of the pain threatening to tear him apart. The question isn’t so simple, and even if it was, he definitely wouldn’t be answering. He doesn’t want help.

“I took a look at your file, and it shows that you were in a car accident in New Orleans a while ago, before you came to Chicago, was that an accident, or-?”

“Shut up.”

“I also uh, was able to get ahold of your sister, Elodie? She’s coming up from Louisiana, said her flight should be landing at O’Hare within the hour. You know, she’s really worried about you.”

The last time he talked to his sister was before he got out of the hospital after the accident. She came to check on him, and he had been awful to her. It was the grief and the pain, but he hasn’t had the chance to apologize. Perhaps he should, since he’s here for now. He’ll have the chance to do so when she arrives and cries at his bedside, asks him why he did this, holds his hand and prays for him. Just like when they were kids and he got punched for mouthing off to the school bully. They were close, when they were young. Even when they were older, before Crockett lost everything.

“You know, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

Dr. Charles sighs. “You know you’re on a psych hold. We can’t let you leave until we’re sure you’re not going to hurt yourself, and I just don’t see that happening if you don’t talk to anyone.”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter,” he says simply.

Then he watches confusion and concern flit over Dr. Charles’ face, trying to figure out how to make that happen because he didn’t know Crockett had a family. The key word is had. Crockett misses them more than anything in the world, and if they were still here, he certainly wouldn’t have done what he did today, and he would still be at home in New Orleans, in their little house, cooking dinner each night with leftovers packed for lunch. He misses helping their daughter pull on her tights for church on Sunday mornings and tying his husband’s tie. He wants to have all of it again.

“Can you tell me why you tried to kill yourself?”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter.”

At that, he ignores everything else that Dr. Charles attempts to say to him, shutting his eyes and turning away until the man finally leaves and he’s left to cry in peace, unable to do something so simple as wipe his own eyes. This isn’t a life worth living. His husband would have understood, and would have signed a DNR for him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for visitors to return, but he feels even worse when they do. Jimmy comes in first, checking that Crockett is awake, followed by Elodie, who looks a mess. Her makeup is smeared remnants of mascara beneath her eyes, and her usually put-together outfit has been replaced with rumpled sweatpants and a tee shirt. She looks the way his heart feels when she lunges forward to wrap her arms carefully around him.

“You can’t do that,” she says, the tears too evident in her shaking voice. “When they called- Kett, you can’t- what if you had died?”

And he doesn’t have the heart to say that’s what he wanted, but Jimmy meets his eyes and looks just as broken in a different way. He nods at Crockett and cocks his head toward the door before leaving, mouthing that he’ll come back later. Not that it really matters. If he tries really hard, he can probably convince Elodie to sign a DNR and get him released AMA, and then he can peacefully die in his home without the hospital’s intervention. So simple, it seems.

Elodie cups the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together, just like when they were kids under a blanket fort, hiding from the rest of the world. She doesn’t cry loudly, but it makes his heart jerk in his chest until she sits beside him and rests a hand over his cast.

“Mom and Dad couldn’t make it, but they’re worried too. And I- the doctor said your arm was in bad shape.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crockett says.

He means to keep his voice the same as always, but she hears the pain in it. She’s too good at it, when she considers the way he doesn’t even twitch at her gentle prodding of his fingers. The sensation of touch is there, but like it’s through plastic and not really on his skin.

It seems like Dr. Charles didn’t tell her the intention he had when he walked into the street, the smallest of miracles he can breathe deep into his chest in response to the emptiness inside of him. Elodie is the sort of sister who will stay here, not run away now that she’s seen that he’s alive, which means she’ll have to know that he died when he was within her reach, a grief he wouldn’t wish upon her, but is a necessary part of the process if he is to rejoin his family.

She tells him to rest, which he does only because there is nothing else for him in this hospital room. He’s biding his time until they let him go, at which point he’ll happily repeat the process as many times as it takes for him to finally ascend from his broken body.

When he wakes up again, she’s gone, and Jimmy is beside him again, typing on his laptop as though he’s relaxing in the cafeteria as opposed to keeping sentry’s watch over Crockett. It’s both sweet and irritating at once. He bites his tongue.

“You do have to talk to someone,” Jimmy says without looking up. “You tried to kill yourself.”

“Everyone keeps saying that to me like I don’t know.”

His sigh can only be described as irritation, which is fair. Crockett looks at the soft restraints on his wrists and flexes them, as though it’ll set him free. “Did Elodie go home?”

“She’s staying at a motel, I told her to get some rest and I’d stay with you.”

“Do you have a thing for my sister, James Lanik?”

Jimmy just stares at him. He looks tired. “First of all, I’m gay. Second, you have to stop deflecting. Everyone’s really worried about you. You don’t need- there’s reasons for you to live.”

It’s a fair statement that Crockett has said to patients, to Elodie before. But even if there’s some reason, maybe a handful, to stick around, they don’t outweigh how badly he misses his family. His family, who he suddenly remembers, wouldn’t have wanted this for him. The dam breaks. The tears start, and the shaking that comes with each gasping breath when his body is struggling around sobs, and he just hates that he knows they’d want him to live but he simply can’t stand to continue on without them.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, Kett.”

Jimmy holds his good hand, like he really does believe in the future, and kisses his knuckles.

“I know you have a long road to go, but I believe in you. It’ll be okay.”

#crockett marcel #chicago med #jimmy lanik #jockett #mine #fic #breathe!series

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