#halo eu | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wittyandobsessed · 8 days ago

Text

𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Loki Odinson x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | low self esteem.

𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘓𝘰𝘬𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴, 𝘓𝘰𝘬𝘪’𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭: 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.

▸ Masterlist

𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱! 𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿!

Summer in Asgard was unlike anything else. The sun didn’t just shine—it bathed the entire golden city in a warm, glowing light, making every surface gleam like it had been kissed by the stars. Everywhere you walked, a soft halo followed, as if the sun itself wanted to wrap you in its gentle embrace.

The warmth was perfect—not too heavy, never stifling. Cool fountains sparkled in the courtyards, and the cold marble floors of the palace helped keep the air light and pleasant. It was the kind of day that begged for peace, for rest.

And that’s exactly what you needed.

Since your son had arrived, your days—and nights—had blurred into one long stretch of exhaustion. You adored him more than anything, but you hadn’t had a single moment just for yourself. That’s why today, you decided to have a small picnic in the King’s courtyard. A quiet escape, just you, your child, and the warm breeze of Asgard’s golden summer.

Thinking back to how it all began, it was almost hard to believe.

Telling Loki you were pregnant had gone better than you ever expected. His first reaction was shock, of course, but once the truth had settled, he was filled with something close to wonder. He had never imagined himself as a father—let alone dreamed of it—but once the idea took root, he embraced it fully.

Of course, there were moments of fear. Doubts crept in from time to time. But overall, he had done incredibly well. From the first day to the very last of those long nine months, he planned everything, thought of every detail, stayed by your side, and supported you through it all.

The hardest part for both of you wasn’t the waiting or the worry—it was telling the royal family.

Your engagement had been accepted by Odin only because he knew Loki would likely act recklessly if denied. But the announcement of a child—an heir who technically wasn’t part of the royal bloodline—was uncharted territory. No one knew how Odin would react.

L’été a Asgard était ce qu’il y avait de plus beau. Le soleil semblait illuminer toute la cité d’or, créant un halo de lumière partout où tu allais. La chaleur était agréable mais pas excessive, grâce aux nombreux point d’eau dans le palais et le marbre froid.

Pour toi, c’était le moment idée pour faire un pique-nique dans la cours du Roi. Tu avais besoin de ce moment de détente, car depuis l’arrivée de ton fils, tu n’avais pas eu un seul moment de répit.

L’annonce de ta grossesse à Loki s’était mieux passé que tu l’avais imaginé et après sa première appréhension, il avait été très excité à l’idée d’être papa. Bien sûr, il y eut de nombreux moments de doutes, mais dans l’ensemble, il s’était débrouillé comme un chef. Il avait tout prévu de A à Z et t’avais épaulé durant ces long neuf mois qui ont suivi.

Le moment le plus difficile pour vous fut de l’annoncer à la famille royale. Vos fiançailles avait été autorisé par Odin uniquement parce qu’il savait que Loki ferait quelque chose d’irréfléchi s’il ne l’avait pas fait, mais l’annonce d’un faux héritier, personne ne savait comment il allait réagir.

Frigga avait été ravie, bien entendu, d’avoir un petit fils ou une petite fille et vous félicita chaudement et prit soin de toi, la future maman. Thor se mit à rire aux éclats de pure joie et félicita son frère, clamant qu’il fallait faire une fête dans tous le royaume. Odin… Il resta silencieux d’abord, vous regardant sans une seule réaction. Puis, il se leva et alla serrer la main de son fils adoptif. Il lui chuchota quelque chose à l’oreille qui le laissa sans voix. Tu ne sut que plus tard ce qu’il lui avait dit « Ne fais pas les même erreurs que moi. »

Bien que cela fut un excellent conseille et que tu étais persuadée que cela ne partait pas d’une mauvaise intention, Loki prit ça pour un mauvais présage ou une menace. Il se mit en tête que malgré tous ces effort, il ne serait jamais un bon père. Il te fallut du temps, mais tu parviens à le convaincre que tout irait bien. Il te crut, un moment, mais cette peur restait toujours ancré au fond de lui.

Nine months later, you gave birth to a beautiful baby boy—a perfect, wide-eyed little miracle you and Loki named Frey.

What followed was a whirlwind. The kingdom celebrated the birth of the child of the God of Mischief with a grand festival held in your honor. Gifts arrived from every corner of Asgard—soft robes woven in golden thread, enchanted toys, carved cradles, and charms to protect the newborn from harm. There was no end to the kindness of the people or their curiosity.

And when you had recovered enough, a royal parade was organized. You rode through the shining streets of Asgard with Frey in your arms, the citizens cheering and showering you with petals. Later, a grand ball was held at the palace to formally present the child to the court. One event followed another—ceremonies, rituals, ancient customs you hadn’t even known existed.

Weeks passed in a blur of celebration, and before you knew it, a year had gone by.

Frey’s first birthday was just as grand as his birth. The palace was filled with laughter and music, the sky danced with fireworks, and a thousand smiles followed the little prince wherever he toddled.

Everything seemed perfect. Almost.

But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Frey wasn’t entirely yours. It was as though you had brought him into the world only to share him with the entire realm. Every smile, every laugh, every milestone felt… public. Like he belonged to Asgard just as much as he belonged to you.

Loki noticed it too. And though he wasn’t always one to confront the crown, he found the courage to speak with Odin. Calmly but firmly, he asked his father to give your small family space—to let you breathe, to let Frey grow without the weight of tradition pressed onto his little shoulders.

And miraculously, Odin agreed.

For the next two years, your life was beautifully quiet. You watched your son grow without interruption, without obligation. Just joy, laughter, scraped knees, and endless curiosity. They were the most precious years of your life.

And today, you wanted nothing more than to enjoy another perfect moment with your two favorite people.

Loki arrived holding a woven picnic basket in one hand—and Frey’s small, eager hand in the other. The sight of them together never failed to melt your heart. The smile Loki wore when he looked at his son… it was pure light. He seemed to glow in his presence.

“Mama!” Frey shouted when he saw you, his voice bright as sunshine.

You dropped to your knees and scooped him up into your arms the moment he reached you, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his laughter bubbling against your skin. Then you leaned toward your husband and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Are you ready?” he asked with a playful grin.

“I think I’ve found the perfect spot,” you said.

“Then let’s go.”

The place you had in mind was nestled in the palace gardens, not far from the soldiers’ training courtyard. It was empty today, which meant quiet. Peaceful. The sun warmed the open space, and the breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers. The trees rustled gently overhead, and bright petals danced through the air.

You loved this part of the gardens. Especially this time of year, when the ground was dotted with color and the whole area felt alive.

You and Loki spread out the soft blanket beneath one of the trees. You unpacked the little dishes you had prepared—simple things, easy to share, meant for lazy, happy moments.

Meanwhile, Frey chased a butterfly across the grass, laughing as he tumbled and ran and pointed up at the sky. He was full of energy, full of joy, his small body never staying still for long.

Loki watched him with a soft, peaceful smile—the kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

You leaned against your husband’s shoulder, breathing in the calm of the afternoon, and thought to yourself: This is what happiness looks like.

“Frey, come eat, sweetheart,” you called gently, smiling.

But your little boy just laughed and kept chasing the butterfly, his small feet pattering across the grass. Loki grinned and suddenly let out a dramatic villain’s laugh, pretending to be some wicked trickster. He lunged toward Frey with wiggling fingers.

“Prepare to be tickled!” he declared in a deep voice.

Frey squealed with joy and ran, laughing so hard he almost tripped over his own feet. But Loki was faster. He caught up easily, scooped him up into his arms, and spun him in the air. The boy shrieked with delight before collapsing into giggles as his father tickled him mercilessly.

The sound of their laughter echoed through the garden, bouncing off the marble walls and filling your chest with warmth. You couldn’t help but smile, your heart full just watching them.

Loki finally settled on the blanket with Frey in his lap, still chuckling as the little boy squirmed and grinned from ear to ear. Gently, he began feeding him small bites, patient and careful.

You sat nearby, nibbling on grapes without really tasting them, your eyes fixed on the scene in front of you. You watched them—how easily they connected, how natural it looked, how full of love it was. Loki made Frey laugh again, and you couldn’t help but think: How could he ever believe, even for a moment, that he wouldn’t be a good father?

After a while, Loki must have felt your gaze, because he looked up. His eyes met yours, and for a second, he seemed caught off guard. He saw the softness in your eyes, the quiet joy, the deep love—and he blushed, just a little. But he smiled back at you all the same.

The picnic continued peacefully. Frey chattered non-stop, making up stories, asking questions, pointing out clouds shaped like dragons. He was a little firework of energy, lighting up every second.

Then, a group of children—slightly older than Frey—appeared near the training field, laughing and kicking a ball between them. Frey couldn’t sit still anymore. You leaned down and gently suggested, “Why don’t you go play with them, sweetheart?”

Without hesitation, he dashed off, eager to join.

You watched him go, still wrapped in that same love that never left your heart. Loki chuckled softly beside you.

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You turned to him and whispered, “I just don’t understand how you can still think you’re not a good father.”

His smile faltered slightly. He looked ahead, watching Frey approach the other kids. His fingers fidgeted with a thread on the edge of the blanket.

“I love him more than anything,” he murmured. “But the fear is always there… this feeling that I’m not enough. That someday I’ll mess it all up.”

“Loki,” you said softly, scooting a little closer. “Look at how much he adores you. You’re his hero. He looks up to you already, and he’s only three. Imagine when he’s older—when he’ll really need someone to guide him.”

He let out a quiet breath, still watching their son laugh and run with the other children.

“I don’t know if I can be that person,” he said. “Not when you think about everything I’ve done. All the lies, the damage, the things I tried to destroy…”

You placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Yes, the things you did—not the man you are. That’s your past, Loki. And you’ve worked hard to make things right. You’ve earned forgiveness.”

He didn’t look at you, but you could see the way his jaw clenched.

“I forgave you,” you continued softly. “Thor did. Frigga did. Even Odin, in his own way. One day, Frey will understand everything—and he’ll forgive you too. But you know what? I think the only person who hasn’t forgiven you… is you.”

Loki turned his head, meeting your eyes again.

“Maybe it’s time you let yourself believe you’re worthy. Maybe it’s time you trust yourself.”

He didn’t answer right away. But the way he looked at you—tired, moved, deeply human—told you he was listening.

As you sat with Loki, still speaking quietly about the fear that lived in his heart—the fear that he wasn’t meant to be a father—your son was trying to make new friends on the nearby training field.

The children there were a bit older than Frey, maybe four to six years old. He approached them shyly, asking if he could join their game of ball. The children agreed with cheerful nods, and soon they were all playing together in a circle, laughing and running through the soft grass. For a while, everything went smoothly.

But one of the boys in the group had a rough, aggressive way of playing. He seemed louder than the others, bolder—and not in a kind way. It didn’t take long for him to single Frey out.

He began throwing the ball harder and harder, aiming directly at Frey with too much force. Each time Frey missed, the older boy laughed loudly and mocked him, calling him names and encouraging the others to do the same.

Frey tried to stay patient. He really did.

But as the taunting continued, his hands clenched at his sides. Then, during one especially harsh throw, Frey tried to dodge the ball and tripped, scraping his palms against the gravel. He didn’t cry. Not a single tear. But something inside him snapped.

He stood up slowly, brushing the dirt off his tunic. His little hands were scratched and red, and there was a flush of heat rising up his neck. But the strongest thing he felt wasn’t pain—it was anger. Deep, hot anger, and something else—something strange. A kind of energy humming in his chest, wild and unfamiliar.

He said nothing. But when he looked at the boy who had mocked him, his eyes darkened with something sharp and cold. Then, with careful control, he picked up the ball and tossed it back to the group, pretending he was ready to play again.

But inside, he was waiting.

He saw it coming—the boy caught the ball again and prepared another powerful throw. Frey didn’t move. This time, he didn’t even try to run.

He stood perfectly still, planting his feet, lifting one hand in front of him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The ball flew straight at his face.

And then… it stopped.

Just like that. Inches from his palm, frozen in mid-air.

The world went silent.

It was the first time Frey had ever used magic, and under different circumstances, he might’ve been amazed. But right now, his anger drowned out everything else. His heart pounded, his fingers trembled, and the strange energy inside him kept building.

The other children gasped. Whispers spread quickly as they stepped back in awe and fear.

Frey didn’t notice them.

His eyes stayed locked on the boy. Still fuming, he focused on the ball—and slowly, it began to spin in the air. Faster and faster, like caught in a silent storm. Then, with a sudden whoosh, the ball reversed course and launched back toward the boy like a slingshot.

The older boy’s eyes widened in terror. He ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding the strike.

But the ball didn’t stop.

It slammed into one of the tall stone columns at the edge of the training grounds with a loud, echoing crack. Dust filled the air as the column trembled under the force. Slowly, it tilted to one side, and then, with a deep, thunderous groan, began to fall.

Everyone froze.

One column fell into another, then another, like a chain of dominos collapsing one after the other. The children screamed and scattered in every direction—except for Frey.

He stood at the center of the field, too far from safety, too small to outrun what was coming. His feet wouldn’t move. He stared at the destruction he had caused, stunned and shaken, realizing too late just how powerful—and dangerous—he truly was.

When you heard the children’s screams, your heart dropped.

You turned your head toward the training field, and your eyes widened in horror at the sight before you—stone columns collapsing one after another, falling like giants onto the open ground. Your breath caught in your throat.

And then you saw him.

Frey. Standing frozen in the middle of it all. The final column, massive and heavy, was falling directly toward him.

You opened your mouth to scream his name—but Loki was already gone.

In one heartbeat, he was on his feet. In the next, he was sprinting across the courtyard, faster than you’d ever seen him move. Without a moment of hesitation, he threw himself between Frey and the falling stone, planting his feet firmly in the ground.

He raised both hands and summoned his magic, a wave of green-blue energy crackling from his fingers. It wrapped around the column in midair and, with a grunt of effort and sheer will, he pushed—not with strength, but with power. The column swerved, shifting just enough to crash down away from Frey, landing safely in an empty patch of grass with a ground-shaking thud.

The dust hadn't even settled when Loki turned and dropped to his knees, pulling Frey tightly into his arms. He held him close, wrapping his arms around the little boy’s trembling body, pressing his cheek against his dark hair.

Frey didn’t understand what had just happened—not fully—but the moment he felt safe, the emotions hit him all at once. He began to cry. Hard, helpless sobs that wracked his small frame as he clung to his father’s tunic.

You ran toward them, your lungs burning, your hands trembling. You dropped beside them, wrapping both of them in your arms. You kissed Frey’s forehead over and over, your lips shaking as you looked up at Loki. His face was pale, his eyes wide—but he gave you a small, relieved nod.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice breathless as your eyes scanned the damage across the field.

But Frey couldn’t answer. He was crying too hard to form words. His little face was buried against Loki’s chest, and Loki gently rocked him, stroking his back and whispering soft words of comfort.

Then, a small tug at Loki’s trouser leg caught his attention.

He looked down and saw a little girl—no older than five—standing beside him with wide, worried eyes. She was one of the children who had been playing with Frey. Loki crouched to her level, still holding his son protectively in one arm.

The girl began to explain everything in her tiny voice. She told him how the older boy had been rough, how he had picked on Frey and thrown the ball too hard. She explained that Frey had tried to stay calm, but after falling, he got angry. And then, she said with wonder in her voice, Frey had stopped the ball… with magic.

You and Loki both froze for a moment.

Magic?

It was the first time you had ever heard of Frey using any kind of power.

You stared at your son, still shaking in Loki’s arms, and your mind raced. You hadn’t seen any signs before. There had been no warnings. No strange behavior. This was the first time.

Loki looked up at you and gave a small, serious nod—a silent promise that he would take care of it, that he would talk to Frey when the time was right.

The next hour passed in a blur.

You quietly packed away the half-eaten picnic while Loki sent a message to Odin about the damage. The other children were gathered and returned to their parents, still whispering about what they had seen. A few of the guards arrived to help clear the rubble and assess the damage to the training field.

Meanwhile, Loki had brought Frey back to his room.

The little boy had stopped crying by then, but his eyes were still red and his face was downcast. He sat quietly on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of his tunic, his tiny shoulders hunched and heavy.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he murmured with a sniffle, barely loud enough to hear.

Loki let out a quiet sigh and knelt down in front of his son. He had been afraid—terrified, even. And yes, part of him wanted to scold Frey for the chaos and damage that had been caused. But deep down, he knew the boy hadn’t meant any harm. It had been instinct, panic, something far bigger than Frey understood. And besides… Loki knew exactly what it felt like to be mocked and hurt for no reason.

“You’re probably too young to really understand this, my son,” Loki said softly, “but I know what it’s like to be picked on. To be hurt by people bigger and stronger than you.”

Frey blinked up at him with wide eyes. “But you’re strong, Papa.”

Loki smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I wasn’t always. There was a time when I was the child no one wanted to play with. They laughed at me. Called me names. And it hurt. It made me angry.”

“I was angry too,” Frey admitted in a small voice, his chin trembling again.

“And that’s okay,” Loki replied gently. “It’s normal to feel angry. But you must never let that anger turn you into someone unkind. Don’t let people’s cruelty make you cruel in return. I tried that once… and it didn’t help. It only made things worse.”

Frey nodded slowly, his young mind working through the words. He didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough.

“And now,” Loki continued, “you have powers. That means you’ll have to learn how to control them. And more importantly, you must never use them to hurt others, even when you're upset.”

“Will I be strong like you?” Frey asked, hope returning to his eyes.

Loki smiled wider this time, brushing a hand through his son’s dark hair. “Yes. Maybe even stronger.”

“Really?” Frey beamed.

“Really. But promise me something—promise you’ll always be careful. Promise you won’t use your magic to harm anyone.”

“I promise, Papa,” Frey said, holding out his small pinky for a vow.

Loki wrapped his own finger gently around his son’s. “Good. And remember, no matter what happens… I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Loki chuckled softly and pulled him into a warm hug, pressing a kiss to Frey’s forehead before letting him go. He stood to leave the room, but when he turned toward the door, he stopped in surprise.

You were standing there, arms crossed lightly over your chest, a soft smile curving your lips. He hadn’t heard you come in—but now he realized you’d been there the whole time, watching everything.

For a second, Loki looked embarrassed. He still wasn’t used to showing that side of himself—gentle, open, vulnerable.

But you didn’t give him time to say a word.

You stepped forward, wrapped your arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply, slowly, with love that said everything words never could.

“You have no idea how amazing you are,” you whispered against his lips.

Loki smiled, but lowered his gaze, unsure how to accept such praise.

You placed your hand gently on his cheek and tilted his face back toward yours.

“Look at me,” you said, your voice quiet but steady.

"You were perfect today. In every way," you said gently, your eyes never leaving his. "Frey is safe because of you. And more than that—he learned something important today. He’s not scared of what happened, he’s not afraid of his powers, and he’ll never be afraid to come to us, because of the way you spoke to him. The way you opened your heart."

Loki stood silently, your words sinking deep.

"You handled everything exactly the way a father should. So please… don’t ever think—not even for a second—that you’re not a good father. You are exactly what Frey needs. You love him, and that’s all he truly asks for. And you’re doing it beautifully.”

There was a long pause. Then he whispered, “Thank you.”

He needed those words—you knew it. You could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, in the way his eyes softened.

You smiled and gently took his hand in yours.

Looking at him in that moment, you felt your love grow even more. Watching him with your son, seeing that kindness and care, it filled you with a quiet kind of joy. You were more in love than ever. And more certain than ever.

You couldn’t wait to see them grow together. To grow older, side by side.

Your family.

Exactly as it was meant to be.

▸ Everything

@alexxavicry

#loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki series #loki #loki x reader #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel #avengers #marvel studios #mcu #marvel movies #marvel mcu #x reader #fem reader #oneshot #reader insert

64 notes · View notes

tosomeonessomeone · 2 months ago

Text

Chamego or 포근함?

Brazil series.

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

포근함 (pogeunham) — Describes a cozy, warm feeling of comfort, often linked to physical closeness (e.g., hugging, cuddling).

Chamego — (primarily used in Brazil) that describes a warm, affectionate, and intimate form of physical or emotional closeness. It conveys a sense of cozy tenderness, often linked to actions like cuddling, snuggling, or sweet whispered exchanges. However, it’s more nuanced than just "cuddling"—it carries a romantic, playful, or deeply comforting vibe depending on the context.

The sun hung heavy over the secluded Brazilian coastline, its molten light gilding the waves that kissed the sugar-white sand. Salt-kissed air tangled with the smoky perfume of charcoal, wrapping around the beach house where laughter spilled like music. Stray Kids’ voices ricocheted off the infinity pool—Hyunjin cannonballing, Felix’s sunshine giggles harmonizing with Changbin’s bassy groan as he lost another volleyball rally. But you stood rooted at the heart of it all: the open-air kitchen, where skewers of *picanha* glistened like rubies over flames, and secrets simmered alongside the *feijoada*.

“Sunday *churrasco* isn’t just food—it’s *alma*,” you said, soul slipping into the word as you threaded garlic-rubbed beef onto skewers. Soo-jin, Minho’s sharp-tongued girlfriend, smirked while dicing mangoes for *vinagrete*. “Alma, huh? Explains why you’re sweating like this is a holy ritual.” Minho, ever the provocateur, flicked a sausage on the grill with a chef’s flourish. “Hyunjin’s been eyeing the meat like it’s his ex’s Instagram. When do we eat?”

The trio fell into sync—knives chopping, flames crackling, banter sharpening. Soo-jin nodded toward the pool, where Felix and Changbin clinked glasses of *caipirinha*, lime wedges clinging to the rims. “Ten-to-one odds Felix faceplants in the pool by sunset.” Minho’s gaze slid to you, sly as a cat. “But you’re the main event. Still pretending you *don’t* short-circuit when Jisung exists?” The tongs slipped in your grip. “I don’t—” “Liar,” he sing-songed. “You turned red when he called you ‘master of the grill.’” Soo-jin snorted. “And him? When you explained *farofa*? Bro was writing ballads in his head.”

As if conjured by the tease, Jisung materialized beside the grill, sleeves shoved above his elbows, hair wind-wrecked and eyes bright as the horizon. “Need a hero?” His voice was honey and mischief, and your pulse stuttered. Minho thrust a bowl of onions into his chest. “You’re on peasant duty. Cry us a river.” Jisung mock-saluted, shoulder nudging yours as he settled beside you. The rhythm didn’t falter—your hands seasoning meat, his fingers peeling onions with comedic precision. “Seungmin tried surfing earlier,” he said, grin crooked. “Looked like a wet cat fighting a dishwasher.” You choked on a laugh, and his knee bumped yours beneath the table. *Lingered*.

The ocean breeze carried Jeongin’s voice demanding more *brigadeiros*, Hyunjin’s splash-battle yelps, and the sizzle of fat hitting flames. But here, in the kitchen’s humid halo, time bent. Jisung’s jokes softened, his glances lingering on your profile like he was memorizing the slope of your laughter. When your fingers brushed passing a skewer, the world narrowed to the salt on his collarbone, the fleck of chili powder on his thumb, and the unspoken thing glowing brighter than the embers beneath the grill.

Platters of *picanha*, glistening with garlic butter, sat beside bowls of *farofa* and jewel-like *vinagrete*. Chan, ever the doting leader, leaned back in his chair, his Australian girlfriend laughing as Felix’s boyfriend mimicked a kookaburra call. “Feels like home,” Felix sighed, fanning himself. “Just swap the eucalyptus for palm trees.”

Minho and Soo-jin bickered over charred sausage links, their banter sharp but fond, while Changbin’s girlfriend—a makeup artist with a lethal eyeliner wing—snapped photos of Hyunjin posing dramatically with a skewer. “Single *and* starving,” Hyunjin lamented, flopping next to Jeongin, who was already halfway through his third *brigadeiro*. Seungmin’s girlfriend, a pro baseball player she was skinny but with biceps that could crush coconuts, arm-wrestled him for the last slice of grilled pineapple. “You’re *embarrassing* me,” Seungmin hissed, though his grin betrayed him.

And then there was you and Jisung.

Perched at the edge of the weathered teak table, knees almost touching under the checkered tablecloth. He’d claimed the seat casually—“Easier to steal your *feijoada*”—but now his leg bounced nervously, his jokes a half-beat too quick. You focused on the way the sun caught in his hair, turning it amber, while he drummed his fingers to the bossa nova drifting from the speakers. *Your* playlist.

“Pass the *pão de alho*?” Jisung asked, leaning close enough that his whisper brushed your ear. You handed him the garlic bread, your fingertips grazing his. A spark. A pause. The table erupted as Jeongin accidentally knocked over Hyunjin’s *caipirinha*, the lime-soaked ice cascading onto the sand. “*Ai, meu Deus*,” you muttered, scrambling for napkins. Jisung laughed, low and warm, as he helped mop the mess. “Hyunjin’s gonna make this his villain origin story.”

Conversation ebbed—stories of Australia’s beaches, debates over the best *churrasco* cuts, Seungmin’s girlfriend recounting her no-hitter game. Yet every lull pulled you and Jisung into orbit. His shoulder pressed to yours when reaching for the chimichurri. Your laugh harmonizing with his at Minho’s impression of a capybara. A shared glance when Chan mentioned “unfinished business,” his tone teasing but pointed.

The afternoon sun melted into liquid gold, pooling over the infinity pool and glazing the beach where waves whispered promises of cool relief. Most of the group had migrated to the water—Jeongin cannonballing with a screech, Seungmin’s girlfriend hurling a beach ball hard enough to make Felix yelp—but Hyunjin had other plans. He cornered you by the tiki bar, still clutching an empty *caipirinha* glass like a prop. “Teach me samba,” he demanded, wrist flicking dramatically. “I *refuse* to let Brazilian Stays roast me again. I’ll be irresistible or die trying.”

You laughed, but Hyunjin’s pout was weaponized. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you pull a muscle.”

Minho, sprawled on a lounge chair with Soo-jin painting his nails neon green, perked up. “Oh, this’ll be good. Jisung! Bet you 50,000 won our *churrasco* expert can’t hip-swivel.”

Jisung, mid-sip of guaraná, choked. “I’m not betting on—*hyung*.”

Too late. Hyunjin had already commandeered the Bluetooth speaker, swapping bossa nova for a throbbing samba beat. You sighed, kicking off your sandals, the terracotta tiles warm under your feet. The sundress you’d thrown on after lunch—lightweight, breezy—suddenly felt too thin under Jisung’s gaze.

Then the music took over.

Hips swaying, arms arcing like palm fronds in a storm, you moved as if the rhythm lived in your bones. The dress clung, betrayed the curves you’d hidden under oversized shirts and chef aprons. Hyunjin gaped, forgetting to mimic your steps. “Wow,” Felix whistled from the pool, while Changbin’s girlfriend muttered, “How’s she even real?”

But it was Jisung who unraveled.

He’d frozen, guaraná can dented in his grip, eyes dark and wide. Every roll of your shoulders, every sharp snap of your hips, hit him like a wave. Minho leaned over, stage-whispering, “RIP Han Jisung. Cause of death: *a Brazilian goddess*.”

“Shut. Up,” Jisung hissed, ears crimson.

Hyunjin, ever the chaos magnet, grabbed your hand. “Teach me the *real* thing!” You guided him into a basic step, but his limbs moved like overcooked spaghetti. “No—*fluid*, like water,” you corrected, adjusting his stance. Out of the corner of your eye, Jisung stood abruptly, pacing toward the bar. *Running away.*

Minho pounced. “Where you going, Sungie? Heat too much?”

“To get water,” Jisung muttered, voice strangled.

“Bring some for the rest of us!” Seungmin’s girlfriend called. “You look *dehydrated*.”

The group howled. You spun Hyunjin into a turn, but your pulse raced for a different reason. Jisung’s reaction—the way he’d stared, like he’d been sucker-punched by longing—thrummed under your skin.

Then Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, your phone’s buzzing! Is it your *crush*?”

Jisung fumbled the glass bottle he’d just grabbed, water sloshing over his shirt. The fabric clung. You missed a step.

Hyunjin seized the chance to dip you, nearly dropping you both. “Focus, teacher!” he laughed, oblivious. But you were too aware of Jisung’s silhouette in the fading light, shirt transparent, jaw tight as he watched Hyunjin’s hands grip your waist.

When the song ended, the group erupted in applause. Cheeks flushed, you broke away, only to find Jisung in front of you, holding out a fresh guaraná. “For the… uh. For the sweat,” he mumbled.

Minho snorted. “Smooth.”

You took the drink, fingertips brushing his. His gaze dropped to your lips. The air hummed, louder than the cicadas.

The sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in molten hues of tangerine and violet, as the first notes of *forró pé de serra* spilled from the speakers—a accordion’s sigh, a zabumba’s heartbeat. Hyunjin had long abandoned his samba quest, dragged into the pool by a vengeful Jeongin, while the others scattered like seabirds. Only Minho remained, a devil in neon-green nails, sprawled on the patio couch.

“You can’t teach *forró* alone,” he drawled, twirling his phone like a baton. “Jisung’s two left feet need salvation. *Be his hero.*”

Jisung, still pink from the samba spectacle, choked on his guaraná. “I’m good—”

“You’re *terrible*,” Minho corrected. “Do it for Brazil’s honor.”

The challenge hung in the balmy air. You swallowed, nerves fluttering. *Forró* wasn’t just a dance—it was whispered secrets in dim-lit bars, thighs brushing, hands clasped tight. But Minho’s grin was a dare.

“Okay,” you said, voice steadier than your pulse. “But no laughing.”

Jisung rose like a man heading to his execution.

You positioned him under the swaying palm lights, your hand tentatively gripping his shoulder, his palm damp against your waist. “It’s… um, all about the *basicinho*,” you stammered, launching into a nervous monologue. “Three steps—side, together, side. Like a heartbeat. And the *giro*—the spin—comes after the *tippity-tap* of the feet. *Forró*’s about connection, you know? Like, your body talks. But not *talks* talks. Unless you’re, uh, into that—”

“*Tippity-tap*?” Jisung echoed, lips twitching.

“Shut up. Focus.”

He tried. Oh, he *tried*. But his steps were stiff, his grip tentative, like you were made of glass. Until Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, if you hold her any looser, she’ll float to Rio!”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. His hand slid lower, anchoring you against him.

The music swelled—a faster *arrasta-pé*. Your bodies synced, knees bumping, hips swaying in time. You rambled to fill the silence. “This song? It’s by *Dominguinhos*—king of *forró*. He said the best dancers listen with their skin. Which sounds weird, but—”

“You’re blabbering,” Jisung murmured, spinning you out before pulling you back, chest to chest.

��You’re *staring*.”

“Can’t help it.”

The admission hung between you. His thumb brushed the dip of your waist, igniting a trail of fire. Around you, the group’s laughter dimmed—Seungmin’s girlfriend dragging him to bed, Chan and Felix debating Tim Tam flavors in the kitchen. Even Minho vanished, leaving his neon nail polish behind like a spectral wink.

Night unfurled its velvet cloak, the beach house now a constellation of hanging lanterns. You didn’t notice when the music softened, or when the others slipped away. All that remained: the press of Jisung’s calloused palm, the hitch in his breath when your temple grazed his jaw.

“Your *basicinho*’s improved,” you teased, voice barely audible.

“Had a good teacher.” His nose skimmed your ear. “Also, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Just… feel it.”

He did.

The dance dissolved into something slower, raw. No steps, no rules—just the creak of the wooden deck, the distant shush of waves, and Jisung’s voice, rough as sand. “I lied earlier. The *churrasco* wasn’t the best part of today.”

Your heart hammered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His forehead touched yours. “This is.”

The night air thick with salt and the distant murmur of the kitchen crew clattering plates. Jisung’s hands still rested on your waist, his grip loose but trembling, as if he feared you’d vanish if he held too tight.

“The Korean way,” you pressed, voice feather-light, “or the Brazilian way?”

His brow furrowed, thumb absently tracing the lace hem of your dress. “What?”

You stepped back just enough to see his face, moonlight etching the panic in his eyes. “Korean style’s *ppalli-ppalli*—direct. A ‘Let’s date’ text. Flowers. Maybe a handshake if you’re feeling retro.” You grinned, but your pulse roared in your ears. “Brazilian’s… messier. You confess during Carnival, drunk on *cachaça*, or whisper it in a samba club where no one can hear.”

Jisung’s laugh was shaky. “Sounds like a *telenovela*.”

“It’s *passion*,” you countered, stepping closer again. His breath hitched. “But you—you’re all… *aegyo* and mixtapes. Poetic texts at 2 a.m.”

“I’m not *that* corny,” he muttered, but his ears burned.

The waves hissed, a rhythm older than languages. You tilted your head. “So? Which one wins?”

For a heartbeat, he faltered. Then his hands slid up your arms, slow as a tide pulling sand, until his palms cradled your face. “*My* way,” he whispered, voice roughened by a day of laughter and longing. “The… the *Jisung* way.”

Your lips parted, but he pressed on, words tumbling like pebbles. “I practiced a speech. In Korean. About… *neon naui bit*—you’re my light, or whatever. But then you danced, and I forgot all of it. Now I’m just… *here*. With salt in my hair and my heart doing *this*—” He guided your hand to his chest, where his heartbeat thrashed against his ribs. “—and I don’t care if it’s *jeong* or *saudade* or whatever. I just… I *like* you. A lot. *Too* much. And if I don’t kiss you right now, I’ll—”

You kissed him first.

It wasn’t Korean propriety or Brazilian fire—it was the shudder of his exhale, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he’d dreamed of it for years, the taste of guaraná and nervous hope. The world dissolved into the press of his lips, the sigh he muffled against your mouth, the distant crash of waves keeping time.

When you broke apart, foreheads touching, he rasped, “Was that… enough?”

You laughed, breathless. “*idiota*. That was perfect.”

Somewhere in the shadows, Minho’s voice floated from an upstairs window: “ABOUT TIME!” followed by a chorus of giggles and a thud—likely Hyunjin falling off a chair.

Jisung groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I’m moving to Antarctica.”

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. “You’re stuck with me.”

——

The night draped itself around you like silk, the rhythmic crash of waves a distant lullaby beyond the shuttered windows. Jisung’s back pressed against the carved wooden headboard, your legs bracketing his hips, his hands anchored to your waist like you were the only steady thing in a spinning world. His thumbs traced idle circles over the thin fabric of your sleepshirt, the heat of his palms searing through to your skin.

“So,” he said, grinning as you stole another kiss, “is this the Brazilian way? Stealing a man’s bed *and* his dignity?”

“You’re the one who said I could be a real Brazilian,” you teased, nipping his lower lip.

He groaned, fingers threading into your hair. “Regretting that now.”

“Liar.”

When your palm slid under his shirt, tracing the taut plane of his stomach, he hissed, “*Jagiya*—you’re playing dirty.”

You pulled back, heart jackhammering. “Last chance to back out.”

The cultural differences between you fade away as passion takes over. His K-pop idol perfection meets your raw Brazilian sensuality, creating an intoxicating chemistry. Your caramel skin glows against his pale complexion as his hands explore the curves that drove him crazy during all those production meetings.

"I've wanted you since the first day you walked into that studio," Jisung confesses between kisses, his accent thicker with desire. His fingers trace the outline of your full lips, remembering how they'd curl into knowing smiles whenever you caught him staring.

The secrecy of your position at JYP makes this even more thrilling - the respected producer and the rising star, finally giving in to months of tension. His perfectly sculpted idol body presses against your lush curves as the ocean waves crash outside.

The moonlight filtering through the shutters casts ethereal patterns across your intertwined bodies. His touch burns through the thin fabric, leaving trails of fire wherever his fingers roam. The intimate position has your hearts racing, bodies pressed close as the ocean's song fills the night air.

You can feel every breath Jisung takes, his chest rising and falling against yours. The way he holds you - like you're precious yet dangerous - makes desire pool low in your belly. His thumbs continue their maddening circles on your waist, each touch building the tension between you.

Your fingers trace each button of his linen shirt as you undo them slowly, savoring the reveal of his smooth chest beneath. Jisung's hands mirror your movements as he slides your dress down, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The moonlight bathes your bodies in a soft glow as more skin is exposed. His breath catches when the dress pools at your feet, leaving you bare except for your delicate underwear.

"You're stunning," he whispers, hands settling on your waist to pull you closer. The heat of his bare chest against yours makes your head spin as his lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses along your pulse point.

His lips trail down your neck as his hands slide up your sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The way Jisung touches you - reverent yet hungry - makes your breath catch. You arch into him as his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"You're driving me crazy," he murmurs against your collarbone, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. His hands move to unclasp your bra while yours explore the lean muscles of his back.

The sound of waves provides a rhythm as clothing continues to fall away, skin pressing against skin in the moonlit bedroom. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, you shiver in anticipation.

"Please," you whisper, rolling your hips against his growing hardness.

Jisung's hands explore every inch of your exposed skin. He manhandles you, laying you on your back and laying himself between your legs. His weight presses you deliciously into the mattress as his lips find your neck, leaving hot kisses and gentle bites that make you gasp.

His hands slide down to remove your panties, dragging them slowly down your legs while kissing a trail along your inner thighs. Once they're off, you reach for his boxers, pushing them down his hips to free his hard cock.

The moonlight illuminates your naked bodies as he settles back between your legs. His hands roam over your curves, squeezing your breasts and teasing your nipples until you're arching into his touch.

"Want you so bad," he groans against your neck, grinding his bare length against your wet pussy. The friction makes you both moan, bodies moving together in growing desperation.

With a mischievous grin, you push Jisung onto his back and straddle his hips, your wet pussy sliding against his hard cock. His hands immediately grip your thick thighs as you begin rolling your hips, teasing him with the friction.

"Fuck, you're so sexy," he groans, watching your breasts bounce as you move. You reach between your legs to guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly until he's fully sheathed inside you.

The angle has him hitting deeper, making you moan as you start to ride him. Your hands brace on his chest for leverage as you pick up the pace, your ass jiggling with each bounce.

"Let me show you how we like it in Brazil," you purr, climbing off his cock and getting on your hands and knees. You arch your back, presenting your dripping pussy and round ass to him.

Jisung groans at the sight, gripping your hips roughly as he positions himself behind you. Without warning, he slams his thick cock deep inside you, making you cry out in pleasure.

"Fuck me hard," you demand, pushing back against him. "Show me what that Korean dick can do."

He sets a brutal pace, his balls slapping against your clit with each thrust as he pounds into your tight hole. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wider.

Your moans fill the beach house bedroom as Jisung pounds into your dripping pussy from behind, his cock stretching you perfectly. His hands grip your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself disappear inside you over and over.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, speeding up his thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with the crashing waves.

You can feel your orgasm building as his thick cock hits your g-spot repeatedly. One of his hands slides around to rub your clit, making your thighs tremble.

"Cum for me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "Want to feel this tight Brazilian pussy squeeze my cock."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave as Jisung continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your arms give out, face pressing into the mattress as your walls squeeze his cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he chases his own release.

With a guttural groan, he slams deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside your sensitive pussy.

Jisung collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum drips down your thighs as he slowly pulls out, making you whimper at the loss.

"That was..." he trails off, rolling to pull you against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your sweaty skin as the ocean breeze cools your heated bodies.

You snuggle into him, feeling thoroughly satisfied as his hands continue their gentle exploration. The moonlight catches the marks he left on your skin - evidence of your passionate encounter.

"Think you can handle another round?" you tease, grinding your ass back against him. His cock twitches with interest against you.

——

Later, skin sticky and souls quiet, you lay curled into him, his heartbeat a drum under your cheek. He traced idle patterns on your back. “So… do I get a citizenship now?”

You snorted. “You wish.”

“Worth a try.” His arms tightened around you. “For the record? The ‘Korean way’ involves breakfast in bed tomorrow. *Kimchi* pancakes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You smiled into the dark. The ocean sighed. Somewhere down the hall, Minho’s voice echoed, “USE PROTECTION!” followed by a door slam.

Jisung buried his face in a pillow. “I’m *actually* moving to Antarctica.”

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the fluttering pulse at his throat. “You’re Brazilian now.”

——

The first rays of sun seeped through the gauzy curtains, painting Jisung’s bare shoulders in gold. You woke to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck, breath warm and steady. For a moment, you lay still, savoring the quiet—the distant crash of waves, the rustle of palm fronds, the way his fingers twitched against your hip even in sleep.

Then reality hit.

A clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen below, followed by Chan’s booming laugh and Felix’s off-key rendition of *“De manhã”*. Jisung stirred, blinking groggily. “Are they… *frying bacon* to a samba beat?”

You giggled, rolling to face him. His hair stuck up in chaotic tufts, pillow creases etched into his cheek. *Adorable*. “Welcome to a Brazilian morning. Chaos included.”

He flopped onto his back, arm slung over his eyes. “I need five more years of sleep.”

“Too bad.” You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, delighting in his shiver. “Chan’s probably making kimchi pancakes. *You* promised me breakfast.”

“I was *delirious* last night,” he grumbled, but his hands slid down to your thighs, anchoring you against him.

——

Descending the stairs hand-in-hand, you braced for impact. The group was clustered around the dining table—Hyunjin scrolling through dance videos, Minho flipping *pão de queijo* with a spatula, Seungmin’s girlfriend arm-wrestling Changbin.

The room froze.

Minho’s smirk was nuclear. “Well, well. Look who survived the *Brazilian initiation*.”

Jisung’s grip tightened on yours. “Hyung, I will *end you*—”

“*Aww*, they’re matching!” Felix cooed, pointing at the twin hickeys on your neck and Jisung’s.

“*FELIX!*” Jisung lunged, but you tugged him toward the kitchen, where Chan stood flipping pancakes with one hand and sipping *cafézinho* with the other. “Ignore them,” he said, sliding a plate of *kimchi jeon* your way. “They’ve been placing bets since sunrise.”

Jisung groaned. “Who won?”

“Me,” Minho called. “I said you’d look like a disheveled puppy. *Pay up, Lee Know supremacy!*”

The table was a collision of cultures: golden *pão de queijo* beside spicy kimchi, fresh *açaí* bowls next to steaming *doenjang jjigae*. You split a *brigadeiro* with Jisung, laughing as he pretended to hate the sweetness. “It’s *too much*,” he complained, yet stole another from your plate.

Hyunjin, ever the menace, kicked Jisung under the table. “So. How *Brazilian* was it?”

Jisung choked on his coffee. You kicked Hyunjin back. “How *single* are you?”

The table erupted. Jeongin hurled a *pão de queijo* at Hyunjin’s head.

After breakfast, you escaped to the beach, toes sinking into sun-warmed sand. Jisung walked beside you, quiet until you reached the tidepools. “Last night…” he started, uncharacteristically hesitant.

You braced for regret.

“...I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he admitted, staring at the horizon. “Like… *home*.”

Your chest tightened. “Even with Minho’s commentary?”

“*Especially* with Minho’s commentary.” He grinned, then sobered. “I’m… scared. Of fucking this up.”

You interlaced your fingers, salt spray kissing your skin. “So don’t.”

He huffed a laugh. “Simple as that?”

“No.” You turned to him, heart in your throat. “But we’ll suck at it together.”

He kissed you then—slow, sweet, flavored with coffee and *brigadeiro*. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “Deal.”

40 notes · View notes

unadulteratedpiratepizza · 2 years ago

Text

The "Wait no, the PS3 isn't retro" List

Have you ever said "The Wii isn't old, that came out when I was in High School"? Do you remember getting an N64 for Christmas? Did you play Halo 3 on Xbox Live with your friends while complaining about your math class? Then get ready to be destroyed by the ages of your childhood game systems (As of 2023)! Just remember that an age of 15 years makes it retro.

Famicom/NES: 1983(JP)/1985(US) Age: 40/38

Mega Drive/Genesis: 1988(JP)/1989(US) Age: 35/34

Super Famicom/SNES: 1990(JP)/1991(US) Age: 33/32

Sega Saturn: 1994(JP)/1995(US) Age: 29/28

PlayStation: 1994(JP)/1995(US) Age: 29/28

Nintendo 64: 1996 Age: 27

Sega Dreamcast: 1998(JP)/1999(US) Age: 25/24

PlayStation 2: 2000 Age: 23

GameCube: 2001 Age: 22

Xbox: 2001(US)/2002(JP,EU) Age: 22/21

Xbox 360: 2005 Age: 18

PlayStation 3: 2006 Age: 17

Nintendo Wii: 2006 Age: 17

Nintendo Wii U: 2012 Age: 11

PlayStation 4: 2013 Age: 10

Xbox One: 2013 Age: 10

#video games #nintendo #xbox #playstation #sega

221 notes · View notes

short-wooloo · 1 year ago

Text

According to a new Halo Waypoint Canon Fodder update, the Silver Team Spartans now officially exist in the Prime Halo universe, and actually appear in Halo Wars no less

See in the Halo Wars mission Arcadia Outskirts you encounter Omega Team, a six-Spartan unit, half of Omega Team was established in Halo Wars 2 DLCs to be August-099, Leon-011, and Robert-025, but the other half was left unnamed, until now

#wooloo-writes #wooloo writes #halo expanded universe #halo spartan #halo #halo eu #halo lore #halo silver team #silver team #silver team halo #riz 028 #kai 125 #vannak 134 #halo wars #spartan ii #halopedia #halo waypoint

11 notes · View notes

helix-enterprises117 · 1 year ago

Text

What is an "Ultimate Universe?"

In my psychotic and incoherent ramblings about an AU that I've kept FAR TOO LONG to myself, I'm sure you all have occasionally seen me use "Ultimate Universe" as a means of describing my AU; hell, it's literally on on the summary paragraph for my AU's series on Ao3.

That's begs the question, a question no-one asked: What's an Ultimate Universe?

To put it simply, for those who don't know: An Ultimate Universe is an alternate-continuity reboot of an older IP that's meant draw in the general audience (who know little of the source-material) to this new work so that they can become new fans of both the work itself AND the franchise at large.

The term was coined by Marvel Comics, who created the "Ultimate Comics" line-up (a series of graphic-novels that can be found on store-shelves anywhere) in the Turn Of The Millennium to draw in new fans with their "Hip, Trendy, Edgy, New Wave and Experimental" alternate-universe take on classic Marvel. It worked. So well, in fact, that just last year... they rebooted the Ultimate Comics, reusing the name but doing everything in a completely different way.

Other examples beyond Marvel include:

The Kelvin-Timeline Star Trek films by JJ Abrams.

The Dark Knight Trilogy and Smallville were this for both Batman and Superman respectively.

The recent Planet Of The Apes films by Matt Reeves.

The Legends EU became a retroactive inverted example after Disney rebooted the main-universe.

And most appropriately, Paramount+'s Halo The Series is basically this for the Halo franchise.

That last example is more or less why I made this post. Basically, I saw what the show was trying to do and decided that I wanted to follow the same concept, but do it my way.

Halo Reloaded, aka 'The Reloaded!AU,' is MY attempt at an 'Ultimate Universe' for Halo.

Hopefully, that clears things up. Thank you for coming to me TED Talk.

#halo #halo fanfic #halo fanfiction #halo au #halo headcanon #halo reloaded #ultimate universe #helix-studios117

24 notes · View notes

lady-ree · 10 months ago

Text

Se o sol, a lua e as estrelas continuarem iguais, eu nunca te deixarei.

- The Villain’s White Lotus Halo

#frases #citações #notas #citas #escritos #citaçoes #amor #books and novels #chinese novel

10 notes · View notes

willowtron · 5 months ago

Text

Is Mike Tyson a mascot for Western Apathy? The Age of Ad Revenue.

I have a really bad habit of trying to make my "first" posts really special and good, so this time I'm going to break that habit by talking about something I really don't care about.

Okay, so Paul vs Tyson; probably the least exciting boxing match that could be conceived, where a semi-competent novice takes an easy and gentle win against a heavyweight champion from thirty-five years ago - where said novice has gained fame purely from being a large enough dickhead on the internet that people started giving him money, and the fifty-eight year old former champ seems both depressed and in poor health. Regardless of who you thought might win, the whole point of this was quite obviously just for Jake Paul to be able to say "I beat Mike Tyson!" (who really seems like he actually, genuinely, couldn't care less about losing).

This is at the same time as president-elect Donald J Trump (part 2!) has announced some of the most brainrot cabinet choices possible. I'd like to say they're smart grift choices or whatever, but it's pretty clear a lot of them are just people that built their career on being loud and divisive - and, most importantly, are disliked by most everyone on the left. Elon Musk, a man who earned his wealth through a combination of inheritance from slavery, scams, fraud, and cryptocurrency is going to be in charge of a government department named after a meme that stopped being funny almost a decade ago - and he's not even getting it to himself, it's a shared position. Matt Gaetz, who alleges he is technically not a pedophile, will also hold a position in government; as well as RFK Jr, failed presidential aspirant, who is (supposedly) largely opposed to Trump's political stances and perhaps very existence, but likes the idea of being involved in government enough that he still endorsed Trump to be president in the 2024 election.

About a month ago, around October-November of 2024, YouTube (owned by Google and ran by CEO Neal Mohan) quietly updated the way it serves ads; "unskippable, longer, more" seem to be the three main elements of YouTube's new ad direction, and this most recent change appears to be one of the most aggressive yet. Even in minor territories like the Isle of Man, where licensing small print has previously lead to a small amount of ads served, the number of ads has dramatically increased - all while YouTube's copyright systems remain famously unequal toward actual content creators, and ads themselves retain a high probability of breaching YouTube's terms of service.

After a series of aggressive acquisitions lead by CEO & Chairman Satya Nadella that had EU, US, and Chinese governments regarding the merger as anti-competitive and monopolistic, Microsoft successfully bought ownership of Activision-Blizzard-King; while the ABK name is perhaps most famed for titles such as World of Warcraft, Call of Duty, and Overwatch, it is actually Swedish partner King who owns the title Candy Crush Saga and the infrastructure to make strides into the mobile gaming industry for Microsoft. While the ownership of titles like Call of Duty unofficially "ends" the console wars (with Xbox's Halo and (sort of) PlayStation's CoD now being under the same company), minor aspects like this haven't been major factors in the gaming sphere since the more wide-spread adoption of PC gaming and handhelds like the Nintendo Switch. even so, in my opinion ABK as an acquisition pales in comparison to the purchase of Mojang's Minecraft, now just over ten years ago, which to this day retains a chokehold on the market of "games for children".

Minecraft, initially released in 2011 by Swedish company Mojang, and created by now-disgraced game designer Markus "Notch" Persson, has made a lasting cultural impact that I genuinely believe to be impossible to quantify. To try and provide even a slight amount of perspective, the iconic Steve "oof" has not been present in the game since Beta - which was now around fourteen years ago. And hey, remember King? Markus Persson used to work there. Anyway, in 2014 Microsoft acquired Mojang, and Minecraft with it, and has now owned the title for a decade. Perhaps one of the most controversial changes to the game (perhaps second only to... voter interference in the Mob Vote? Okay. Sure.) is the introduction of Microsoft's global chat-report moderation; regardless of whether you are in a public or private server, players have the ability to report any chat message from any player, and if deemed appropriate, Microsoft will then temporarily or permanently "silence" this player across every server.

I have a lot of love for Minecraft. If you took my playtime from every other game I've ever played, combined it, and doubled it, you still wouldn't reach my playtime in Minecraft. I was a child during its Alpha, I helped my school friends bypass security on school computers so they could play it, some of my closest friends were met on servers in that game, and there'll probably come a time where I write all of my thoughts about it properly. For now, all you need to know is that I don't look down on the title by any means, when I say Microsoft, and the capitalist elite, have ruined Children's gaming.

Every now and then, I think about the "Decline of children's spaces online" Reddit post on r/tumblr - the comments I feel are worth including in this, so forgive the link to reddit. I don't disagree with any aspects of the OOP or Reddit OP's collation by any means, but I feel it frames the problem from the perspective of people very much... more terminally online than myself. Not once have I ever thought "grah, these kids are taking my space away!" when I see a badly censored swear word or my favourite content creators lamenting demonitisation, I just think "wow advertisers fucking suck". Because they do, and the need for increased "family-friendly-ness" in an endless quest to make ad revenue actually profitable is killing all forms of social interaction online, be it via social media, video games, everything.

Shortly after the full acquisition of ABK by Microsoft, there was a large wave of permanent chat and account bans for players of the game Overwatch, due to the sending of swear words in chat. This caused uproar on social media, but was also largely seen as so ridiculous as to be funny; in a game where one of the characters will say "wanker", out loud, in game, you can be permanently banned for saying "fuck" or "shit". To my knowledge this has been reduced, but is still technically punishable. In a game where you go around, killing people, blood flying off their model as you hit them with your fists or shoot them with bullets, or electrocute them to death as they yell in agony, saying the fuck word is a bannable offense now.

On January 7th 2023, YouTuber and Twitch streamer RTGame posted the video "Youtube is Restricting My Content" in response to a back-and-forth with the media giant regarding a subtle and ambiguous alteration to YouTube's Terms of Service, and monetisation guidelines. This was, at the time, the latest in a string of ad-restriction changes that included requiring content creators to not use any foul language at the start of the video, requiring content creators to not use excessive amounts or severities of foul language, not show real actual human death, gore, and mutilation (which is still apparently allowed generally, but will cost you ad revenue. ???), etc. Three years prior, on March 23rd of 2020, YouTuber Tom Scott uploaded the video "YouTube's copyright system isn't broken. The world's is." The video highlights how copyright law and systems of enforcement have been outdated for years, in no small part due to the ability for individuals to make a living for themselves creating content and uploading it, without any form of corporate support beyond host websites like YouTube and Twitch. Ad revenue is the driving force behind an entire industry of online content creation - even things that utilise regular payments as part of a streaming service do so, typically, for the purpose of allowing the consumer to avoid ads. YouTube, Twitch, Spotify; all allow for individuals to post their own individual content, as long as the services themselves get a cut.

And as more and more of our infrastructure has moved online, and ads have become a tolerated nuisance tightly integrated into using basically any online service, we've been hit by the emergence of the largest obstacle yet; AI.

"AI" is not just ChatGPT. I do not say the term "AI" and refer to DallE or Grok or whatever other nonsense environment-killer is the Monster of the Week for anti-AI proponents. In many ways, the insinuation that these even count as "AI" is offensive to me as someone who grew up with the belief that the only true AI is one that deserves to be recognised as sentient. ChatGPT is not sentient. None of them are.

AI is ChatGPT, but it is also the way mobs move in the game Minecraft; it is also YouTube's content ID system for copyright; it is also the myriad of bots that operate on the stock market. It has been part of your daily life for years, much longer than it's been used to generate soulless art from the stolen work of actual artists - AI has served to remove the human element from the things too tedious or too numerous for humans to actually manage. Ads and copyright are right up there on that list. Which ads to serve, who to serve them to, and automatic filing of copyright claims have all been part of YouTube for long enough that I'd wager most people don't even really know the term "Content ID" anymore

"oh but those aren't really AI" yeah neither is a thing that just collects sentences and tries to blurt out something similar. They all just do data collection and then try to find trends, and no that's not the same as being neurodivergent, we're getting off track just trust me that they're the same for the purposes of this post. All you need to know is that your ads are served by AI, and probably largely generated by AI, and the entire content creation industry (be it social media like Twitter, live streaming platforms like Twitch, or hosting services like YouTube) is built almost solely upon ad revenue.

Games like Overwatch haven't been sanitised because children are stealing the spaces from adults; people don't censor swear words on posts because they care about the children; RTGame isn't replacing all cursing on his videos with literally the word "YouTube" just because he finds it funny (it is, though). Sanitisation occurs because ad revenue demands no limitations; because corporations that pay for ads don't want to hear about how the videos they have their ads on aren't appropriate for certain audiences, they don't care about the actual content they help pay for. They just want their cut - for their ad to reach as many people as possible.

I really didn't want to have to, but... I have to at least mention it. In a world where user consumption, clicks, ads viewed, and time watched are the primary metrics for financial success online, TikTok is the primary driving force behind a lot of "foul language focused" sanitisation. Censoring of the words kill, die, fuck, shit, sex, etc, etc, etc. It's... depressing. And the permeation of these habits onto other sites does make it feel like the only internet spaces available are baby spaces for people who can't handle a swear word or innate parts of the human experience. TikTok drives a significant amount of online discourse, both niche and mainstream, and acts as both a means of escaping real-world issues like genocide, poverty, and the horror of having a meaningful vote in the world's leading democratic nation, as well as a source of news and information in a world full of unacknowledged bias, misinformation, and five-second attention spans. TikTok has made the dystopian vision of a humanity that is both apathetic and powerless seem closer than ever by proving that, given the choice, a significant proportion of the population will not resist attempts to misinform them and dull their ability to process long-form information. TikTok is evidence that if your algorithm is good enough, then morals, beliefs, and self-respect are all secondary.

And that's the really important part. People do not think critically about the information they consume because the internet bombards you with a constant stream of it; this isn't TikTok specific, or even particularly restricted to just online content. It's about how accessible good, reliable sources of information are; it's about how trustworthy megacorporations are in regard to humanity's best interests; it's about whether ads are trying to serve the consumer, or trying to manipulate them. And most importantly, it's about how much people care - how critically they think about the information they receive and the content they consume, and how parties who don't want that can disincentivise it as much as possible.

Being unable to traverse the sheer expanse of opinion, information, and style that exists across the internet is just one barrier for uneducated and uninformed westerners. Partisan and tribal politics, distraction techniques targeting minorities and scapegoats, a skew towards conservative and reactionary political leanings from most every major news outlet, as well as a general sentiment that the world is "speeding up" - no time to rest, no time to think, just have the right opinions and work work work! - all contribute to the hostility of nuance and accuracy. "These people hate you and want to destroy your way of life" is a lot easier to understand than "well they don't actually hate you specifically, they just have a built up resentment for the systems that support your way of life due to the disenfranchisement of minorities and the working class - and they don't so much want to destroy your way of life as they want to help you understand that your way of life is actually harmful to you as well, because it's designed to only benefit the ultra-rich capitalist elite" when the people you're talking to have intentionally been given a biased and low-quality education (if any at all). FOX news likes stupid people; but those people don't like being called stupid (understandably) - and unfortunately there's no easy way to say "your preferred news source appeals to the uneducated" without it being insulting, or failing to get the point across.

It is both a societal and an individual responsibility to be educated and provide education, but I digress.

Remember Paul vs Tyson? and Donald Trump's cabinet? It's been a little while since we started, but I promise I didn't mention those for no reason.

Twitter (or X if you're a loser) is currently seeing a mass migration over to competitor Bluesky - a mix of Elon's appointment to Trump's government, as well as some unpopular changes regarding the block function, have spurred people to move away from Twitter once and for all; but it remains the world's largest social media site.

Overwatch has had global chat, the "looking for group" system, and the "unfiltered" text chat option all removed from the game - things like the in-built LFG or "Guilds" were promised, but never delivered. They likely never will following Microsoft's acquisition.

YouTube's largest channel is currently MrBeast, with T-Series, Cocomelon, SET India, and Kids Diana taking up 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th. Three of these five are aimed at children (aged 15 and under, per my arbitrary definition); The remaining two are multimedia brands. While PewDiePie is a controversial figure, his dethronement from the top of YouTube in 2019 fully signalled the end of YouTube being a site for individuals and its transition to being a site for brands, with more focus on ads and marketability.

TikTok's parent company ByteDance reported a revenue of one hundred and twenty billion dollars in 2023. US$120,000,000,000. The "Usage" section of TikTok's wikipedia page makes for... enlightening reading. By all means, check the original sources, but there's a lot there.

As time has gone on, major corporations have killed human interaction online. Limits on video length on sites like TikTok, limits on characters for sites like Twitter, removal of "undesirable" (not advertiser friendly) kinds of interaction from online gaming, a continuous push for the most profitable content to be the most supported content. News outlets, media platforms, all of them exist as businesses with the sole driving motivation of making as much money as possible - quality, truth, and the betterment of humanity be damned. Scratch that, sacrificed.

In a pre-match interview with Jazlyn Guerra, posted to YouTube channel Jazzy's World TV, former heavyweight champion Mike Tyson is seen scoffing in bewilderment - the five minute long interview between the fifty-eight year old and the fourteen year old is... awkward, pretty much the whole way through, as the interviewer does her best to empathise with the weight of nearly six decades of a life she could not possibly comprehend. She agrees with statements on adversity in childhood and throughout life, dressed in designer clothes at 14; she asks what Tyson thinks of Jake Paul, who responds that he just thinks "he's very funny". In a question about legacy, Tyson responds bluntly "who the fuck cares about me when I'm gone. - I'm dust. I'm nothing." Tyson does not care about who his opponent is, or why he's fighting, or even seemingly what comes next. When Mike Tyson stepped into that ring he stood for nothing at all; when Jazlyn Guerra heard his fatalism she simply accepted it; and Jake Paul can say "I beat Mike Tyson!". Apathy, marketability, a legacy of vanity. That is what we teach young people in the modern day.

So when you see Donald Trump choosing the most "memeable" people possible for his cabinet - when you see the most powerful person in the democratic world slotting their country in as a cog in the machine that is mass-media consumption - "brainrot" is truly the most appropriate word for his decision making. The President of the United States has been determined by how much money he generates for media corporations, while the populations of the Western world become less and less savvy to nuance and complexity; all while the concept of "legacy" is eaten away by a pervading sense of apathy present in every online space, even in spite of generation-spanning crises regarding climate change, the capitalist system, and global inequality.

None of this is coincidental. It has simply been determined that nuance isn't profitable; that even skill isn't profitable.

This is the age of ad revenue.

#mike tyson #twitter #overwatch #minecraft #youtube #tom scott #rtgame #advertising #copyright #tiktok #anti capitalism #“AI”

5 notes · View notes