#mayb the drugstore has upped their game…

[aveil-moved]

okay i wanna get into makeup again what eyeshadow is good these days for fun/weird colours and alt looks

[zegrasdrysdale]

Hey!! Could you possibly write a John Marino x Reader where she has a pregnancy scare while he’s away and debates telling him cause they had a conversation about not being ready for kids? Angst preferably!

[ positively negative ] j. marino

paring : John Marino x fem!reader

summary : (Y/N) thinks she’s pregnant while John is on a short roadie, and she debates telling him about it once he gets home since they talked about how neither of them are ready for kids, though she thinks she might be more ready than she told John she was

warning(s) : angst ! mentions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion, throwing up

author’s note : listen, john marino needs more love on this app so i will absolutely write anything for him 🫶🏼 enjoy, anon

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Something is very much wrong. When she gets sick, she never throws up.

Now, she's learning over the toilet and throwing up every single thing she ate for dinner the night before. It's nearly five in the morning and she's sick in the bathroom.

John is in Vancouver of all places right now so she can’t even call him because it’s two in the morning and he has a game tonight. She hates disturbing his sleep on game day, even when she doesn’t feel good. She knows he’d answer her call, but she can’t bring herself to do it.

The toilet paper runs out as she dries her lips. It was the only thing within reaching distance she could grab so she goes into the cabinet under the sink to grab a new roll.

What she sees instead scares the hell out of her.

An unopened box of tampons that she definitely bought more than a month ago sits in front of the rolls of toilet paper. She sits back on her feet and stares at the box in front of her.

It was three weeks ago when she and John had a whole conversation about how neither one of them were ready for kids. Not that she’s jumping to conclusions but she’s late for her period. It's probably only by a week but it is still enough to worry her.

She’s never been late. Not even when she was stressing out last season when the Devils made playoffs for the first time in five years.

The unopened box of tampons stares her down until she decides that she needs to get up off the bathroom floor and drag herself to the nearest drugstore and buy a pregnancy test. Maybe multiple to be on the safe side.

If a plus sign shows up on any of those sticks then she has no idea what she's going to do. Obviously she'll tell John and they can make a decision together but he made it very clear that he is focused on his career when they talked a few weeks ago, and she feels like she isn't ready to be a mother.

She doesn't have a steady job and doesn't want John to pay for every single thing if they were to have a baby. She wants to be financially stable, which she is far from at the moment.

As soon as she throws on a pair of black sweatpants and a one of John's red Devils hoodies, she walks out the door with the keys to the apartment.

It's colder outside than she thought it would be. It's been a little warmer outside than it usually is for mid-February, but not today.

The closest drugstore that is open isn't very far from the building she and John live in. She buys two boxes of tests, each box containing two tests each. That should be enough.

Her hands are shaking the entire walk back to the apartment. She has no idea if it's because she's cold or because she's nervous.

She doesn't think that John would tell her to get an abortion if any of the tests came back positive. She doesn't think he'd leave her to raise a baby by herself, but she is certain that he probably wouldn't be very happy about it.

Her phone dings with a text when she walks into the apartment. The first thing she sees is that it's six in the morning. The second thing she sees is that John texted her even though it's three in the morning for him right now.

johnny ♡ - 6:19 am i can't sleep so i wanted to let you know that i miss you. hope you have a good day when you see this <3

(Y/N) frowns and calls him instead of texting him back. He picks up the phone after two rings. "I wasn't expecting you to be up when I texted you," he says on the other end of the line.

"I don't feel good so I've been up for an hour," she admits to him as she walks into the master bathroom that's attached to their bedroom. "Why can't you sleep? I thought the jet lag would've gotten better by now." He's been gone for four days already.

He lets out a breathy laugh. "It's just one of those nights," he replies. "Plus I actually do miss you. I was thinking about you so I sent you that text."

She pulls the tests out of the plastic bag. "Such a romantic," she comments. She knows that there's a smile on his face that she can't see right now.

"You said you didn't feel good though," he says after a moment of silence between them. "What's going on?"

With a soft sigh, she says, "I woke up at five and ended up on the bathroom floor for a little bit. I think I'm okay." She's still very nauseous, but that could be her nerves since she's about to take a pregnancy test. "Um, I was going to wait to tell you this but since I have you on the phone, I am currently standing in our bathroom right now with two boxes of pregnancy tests on the sink because I was throwing up and I'm a little late for my period."

She's met with silence. Total silence. John doesn’t say a single word for about thirty seconds.

“Baby-”

“Don’t say that right now,” John snaps. She has to bite her bottom lip to keep from wincing at his tone. “I thought- we are safe every time. Do you really think that you’re pregnant?”

With a shrug that John can’t see, she replies, “I threw up. I never throw up and I’m never late for my period. I’m just doing this to make sure. I have multiple tests that I’ll take to double and triple check.”

More silence, except this time it’s a shorter moment than last time. “I need to, um, go to sleep,” John tells her. “Let me know what happens.”

“John-” she tries to say, but he’s too quick in hanging up the phone. Her throat closes up and her nausea returns at full force.

She retches into the toilet with a cry. “Fuck,” she cries as she recovers.

The pregnancy tests stare at her from the sink as she throws up again.

Yeah, she really has no idea what she’s going to do if one of those comes back as positive.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She’s angry.

That’s all she’s been feeling since that morning John hung up on her when she told him that she might be pregnant. That morning was two days ago.

He’ll be walking through the door any minute now. She’s sitting on the couch waiting for him.

If she’s learned anything in the past forty eight hours or so is that she’s more ready for kids than she thought she was. She loved a baby she didn’t actually have. She didn’t tell John the tests all came back negative because she was grieving a child that she wasn’t even expecting.

Keys jiggle in the door around eleven in the morning. It swings open and reveals a tired John Marino. He drags his suitcase in behind him and shuts the door once he and his things are in the apartment.

“Good road trip?” she asks from the couch. “Didn’t hear from you after you hung up the phone on me so I hope it went well.”

John freezes and looks over at her. “I, um … ” he trails off. His eyes fall to her belly. “Are you?”

She chucks one of the negative tests at him. “No,” she retorts as he looks at the test. “I’m not.” She pauses. “I want to know what you would’ve done if I was pregnant. You didn’t even hesitate to hang up the phone when I just mentioned the possibility that I was pregnant.”

He leaves his bags by the door and walks over to where she’s sitting. She’s doing everything in her power not to cry because right now, it seems like they might want two completely different things. Couples who have differing opinions on children rarely ever work out.

John takes a seat beside her with the test in his hand. “I wouldn’t leave you to raise a baby alone,” he tells her. “I also don’t think I was clear in our conversation before. If we were to expect a baby, I would need some time to get myself together but I would love you and Baby Marino so much. I wouldn’t leave either of you. I’m sorry if that came across as me leaving. I’m just not ready to start actually trying for kids.”

A tear spills onto her cheek and her bottom lip shakes.

“You wouldn’t run?”

“I wouldn’t run,” he assures her. “Like I said, I might need a second but I would never ever leave you to raise a baby alone. It takes two to make a baby and it’ll take two to raise one.”

John reaches out to brush away the tear that has rolled down her cheek. She leans into his touch. Usually when he comes back from a roadie, she’s immediately in his arms. Today she had to hold back because of how mad she was.

She blinks a few times and he comes back into focus. He has a small smile on his face. “I think I’m more ready to be a mother than I thought I was,” she admits. “I was so ready to love our baby and was more upset than relieved when those tests came back negative.”

“We’ll have a baby,” John tells her. “I promise. Just give me a little more time, okay?”

“Okay.”

She gives in and moves closer to her boyfriend. He wraps his arms around her instantly and she buries her face in his neck. John kisses the top of her head before he rests his cheek against her forehead.

“You’re okay though?” he questions. “Since you were throwing up.”

With a nod, she says, “I think it was food poisoning. Ate some bad seafood the night before.”

John laughs and shakes his head. “You would mistake food poisoning for being pregnant.”

“Shut up.”

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MASTERLIST

have a request ? check out the guidelines !

wanna be added to the taglist ? fill out this form !

taglist : @dasiysthings @equallyshaw @dancerbailey3 @love4lando @sweetinsatiable @mangoluver

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Steve is stoical when he’s sick. He’s not accustomed to getting a whole lot of sympathy for his childhood illnesses. He’ll either soldier on taking a lot of medicine or, if he’s really too sick for that, isolates himself saying he doesn’t want to spread germs. Which is reasonable, but mostly he just wants to get it over with in private and not annoy everyone else. Even his usual affectionate clinginess, when he’s in love, gets shut down.

Eddie is utterly pathetic when he’s sick. This becomes apparent their first winter together when he catches, in Steve’s opinion, a pretty mild cold. Still, Eddie’s sniffling and coughing and whining, sitting on the couch with his knees pulled up inside Steve’s biggest sweatshirt, so he tells him to go to bed and try to sleep it off.

Eddie goes to bed but if he’s trying to sleep you wouldn’t know it. His plaintive calls of “Steeeeeeeeb” echo down the hall. His head hurts. His tummy hurts. He needs more pillows. He needs a drink of water. He needs more tissues. Steve takes care of these requests in a pretty brisk way because he does love the guy but jeez, he’s being a wimp. When he makes a point of ignoring the “Steeeeeeeeb” because he knows Eddie has everything he needs and is just looking for sympathy, he comes trailing down the hallway wrapped in a blanket, croaking a request to have Vick’s rubbed on his back.

It’s all so annoying that when Steve inevitably catches his cold he decides to be just as pathetic so Eddie can see how he likes dealing with a whiny, needy invalid.

And Eddie kisses him on the forehead and calls him a poor baby without detectable sarcasm and makes him a honey and lemon drink and gets him all bundled up comfortably on the couch to watch Murder, She Wrote while he makes a quick run to the drugstore, and he comes back and makes him his favourite soup for lunch and reschedules a D&D game to stay home and take care of him. That last one makes him croak (it’s a very croaky cold), “Jeez, Eddie, I’m not dying.” Eddie tells him to shush and take his medicine. He got him the nice cherry cough syrup.

He gets better about two days faster than he would normally recover from a cold so maybe there’s something in the Eddie treatment after all.

[stephxgingrichx]

„I can never decide if Steph is the coolest or nerdiest person in all of Blackwell. Maybe both? She's definitely queen of the indoor kids, with all their weird roleplaying games and sci-fi shit.I guess her dad is a video editor. She makes some sweet cash by selling bootleg DVDs. Don't knock the hustle. And I'm pretty sure Steph does all the backstage technical work for the school plays, which checks out. Another thing about Steph: she's into girls, and she doesn't give a shit what anyone else thinks about it.“ - a special walking weirdo about Steph

Friends describes Steph as a "restless type" and as "queen of the nerds" who has grown her passion for tabletop role-playing since her time at Arcadia Bay. Moreover, she's characterized as a "creative force of nature" and as a "queer and proud, musical, nerdy powerhouse.

Steph was born in Oakland, California but was raised in Arcadia Bay, Oregon. After graduating from Blackwell, Steph moved to Seattle, Washington to study video game design but ended up being pulled into the art and music scene there, and teamed up with her then girlfriend Izzie to form the two-piece punk band Drugstore Makeup, with Steph on drums. The band eventually wound up in Haven Springs, Colorado playing at the local bar the Black Lantern. Steph ended up falling in love with the small town and its charm and decided to remain there. Her passion for music ended up landing her a job at Rocky Mountain Record Traders becoming both the store's manger and the local radio DJ.

[lemonhemlock]

I'm not sure if you have already answered this but what do you use for your hair!!! The length is amazing!!

thank you so much! 🫶

i use some curly-girl-adjacent products to try and tame the crazy amount of frizz i so easily get ☠️ but the one thing i am adamant about and never, ever go without is a leave-in conditioner and for years and years my go-to has been Aunt Jackie's Quench Moisture Intense Leave-In Conditioner (the green bottle). it really is a game-changer as it makes textured hair a lot more manageable

i used to LOVE Aunt Jackie's Fix My Hair Intensive Repair Conditioning Masque to use as a regular conditioner in the bath but it got banned in the EU bc of some ingredient i'm not even sure was dangerous (this may just have been overzealousness). they may have changed the formula, though, bc i see it's commercialized on some sites so i will have to check it out. it was truly unique & i miss it so much!

but the main idea still stands - to use a mask or a deep conditioner just like a regular conditioner. they're more potent and work better for frizzy, curly hair. nowadays i just use the drugstore pantene pro v hair biology masks. they work surprisingly well and are very good at detangling my hair

as for shampoo, i do try to use something with lighter surfactants on my length, but on the scalp you have to be careful to cleanse it really well & exfoliate if necessary with something stronger (like salicylic acid maybe). also to avoid build-up on the hair strands. but, then again, stronger surfactants also make the texture more difficult, so it's always a balancing act!

other rules i keep to are:

- the only time i brush my hair is in the shower when i have conditioner on. i never, ever brush my hair at a different time unless i absolutely plan to braid it immediately. people with curly hair know that brushing destroys the integrity of the curl and leaves one looking like a mop 😂

- i always air dry and use microfiber towels and sleep on a satin pillowcase

- i always braid my hair at night

all of these things keep the hair from getting too tangled and help with frizz

for thickness and length, idk what advice to give bc i've never had a problem in that department (god's favourite, i know 🙏). i regularly dye my hair and after 3 months i always see the visible growth via my dark roots :)) i think my hair takes dye pretty well bc it doesn't have a worse texture than before (thankfully). i do get regular trims to keep the dead ends at a minimum though

[ourladyoflight]

LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE

name: [_ _ _ _ _ _ _] , but known more commonly as "Angel"

eye color: Blue- a shade that seems too deep to be natural.

hair style/color: Blonde and silky- will form locks if it's down, but most commonly worn in an ornate bun.

height: Most often 5'11"

clothing style: A simple sort of ethereal- her usual robes are white, and flowy enough to keep her comfortable without limiting her movement. If she's wearing human clothes, she'll tend to drift towards light/neutral colors, and "academia" type clothing- but she's been known to enjoy a sundress from time to time, and won't mind experimenting with new trends or items she hasn't encountered before.

best physical feature: If you ask her, her wings!! She also has a positive view of her own scars. (But if you ask the mun, her face- her resting expression is what makes her seem approachable and warm!!)

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE.

your fears: " I don't know if I truly fear much of anything anymore, aside from failing those dear to me here. I'd go through anything to keep that from happening. "

your guilty pleasure: " ... I didn't understand how to use a microwave for a short time, and would laser food instead to heat it up ... I still do it sometimes ... "

your ambitions for the future: “ It used to be saving Kazuya's soul, and that alone- nowadays, I'm a little less sure ... I think that, should any other conflict of supernatural proportions arise, my aim is to prevent or limit any damage to Earth that they'd cause. "

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS.

your first thoughts waking up: " Although I do not truly sleep, I'm usually very excited for new things I will learn about! For instance, there was this interesting recipe for cake rolls, and ... "

what you think about most: " An equal split between things I can no longer change, and the things I can make better today. ”

what you think about before bed: " I still don't tend to sleep, dear asker! But I usually think about my family come nighttime, and the humans come morning. "

what you think your best quality is: " My dedication, I think. I love strongly, and I'm not one to give up easily- though it can be just as much of a curse as it is a blessing. ”

WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: “ Hm ... I suppose either would be alright for me, though single sounds lovely. I'd just be content to be around the person who'd asked me on one. ”

to be loved or respected: “ Respected. I can't ask or expect everyone to love me as I love them, but I can only hope they would respect me enough to allow me to try. ”

beauty or brains: “ Heart. ”

dogs or cats:  “ Yes !”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU…

lie:  “ By a literal definition, no- but if you'd consider a lie to be an omission of the truth, then .. Rarely. ”

believe in yourself: “ More now than I used to. ”

believe in love: “ Always .”

want someone: “ ... ”

LAYER SIX: EVER BEEN…

been on stage: “ I suppose the type of stage would be important.. Perhaps, a few times, though I wasn't the main focus. ”

done drugs: “ ... From the drugstore? I did try an antihistamine once ! ”

changed who you were to fit in: “ Yes, and I'd like to think I've gotten plenty of practice. I can't just walk around Earth with wings on full display. ”

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES.

favorite color: “ Off whites and blues. Maybe gold, too .. ”

favorite animal: “ I enjoy all of them, but rabbits and avian creatures have a special place in my heart .”

favorite movie: “ I've very recently finished Kiki's Delivery Service! "

favorite game: “ Animal Crossing! I enjoy speaking to the villagers. "

LAYER EIGHT: AGE.

day your next birthday will be: “ I don't think I've ever celebrated a birthday of mine- and it would be rather difficult to translate it to a human calendar ... ”

how old will you be: “ To angels, or to humans? ”

age you lost your virginity: “ ...? What do you mean lost ? I didn't set it down somewhere, did I ? "

does age matter: “ I suppose so ..? I think I'm usually perceived as being around my late twenties or early thirties by most humans, and I would generally apply that sort of age range to anyone else. ”

LAYER NINE: IN A PERSON.

best personality: " I don't think I would have much of a preference, but I'm usually drawn to people who are considerate. "

best eye color: “ No preference. ”

best hair color: “ No preference. ”

best thing to do with a partner: " Goodness, I don't usually think about this .. I would be happy doing anything they'd enjoy, really. I enjoy getting to learn about what others enjoy. It makes me feel more complete, if that makes sense ? ”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE.

i love: “ Earth.”

i feel: “ Grounded.”

i hide: “ Pain. ”

i miss: “ The way things were before. ”

i wish: “ I could have done more. ”

TAGGED BY: @demonsfate !! Thank you for the tag, this was so much fun!! 💜

TAGGING: You, and anyone else who sees this!! 💜

[luxe-pauvre]

It doesn’t feel like a very spiritual world. Can’t sleep one night, since the blue light burned its way to the back of my brain while I was writing a dozen cover letters for a dozen entry-level job applications that will be thrown away by an algorithm before a human being ever sees them. Passing by the homeless man and his dog on the street, reaching for my pleather wallet, realizing I have no coins or bills to drop in his McDonald’s cup because my phone pays the subway fare. Can’t sleep the next night: took my Vyvanse too late. A new coffee shop opens up, it has a self-referentially generic name and a bevy of venture capital firms behind its real estate acquisition. The old coffee shop that used to be there had orange walls and an old leather chair that I mindlessly scratched my initials into while I was supposed to be reading some book to impress someone, or the internet, or myself. I can’t remember. Sometimes I feel more like a board-game piece (yellow was always my favorite) than a person. But there are ghosts in the machinery of this lithium-ion life. Sometimes white and wispy, sometimes red and bleeding. They are summoned by the “Suggested Memories” of the photos app, an “On this day…” from a social media app, a stray birthday reminder respirated from the dying gasp of Facebook. They feel different, somehow, from the reminders of former friends and lovers that live in shared summer songs played over drugstore speakers, or the stolen and stale-smelling t-shirt in the back of the closet. Maybe it’s the ulterior motive of memory, a company trying to find a way to squeeze one more post out of you, one more hour to obsessively check likes and engagement and passively scroll by more ads in the process. Maybe it’s the strange and plasticine way these algorithms sort life into boxes: days at the beach, Summer 2016, photos of cats. I suppose the uncanniness of this sorting would be preferable to my phone being able to detect the real and rhizomatic nature of memory, generating slideshows behind license-free jingles with titles like “nights when I missed my dead dog” or ���pasta dishes I pretended I wasn’t scared of eating.” The live grenade of pain and discomfort embedded in camera roll photos and social media posts is not detonated by the surprise of its suggestion, but by the callous and transactional reason for which they are suggested.

Charlie Squire, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Archive

[ilgaksu]

For the ask game: 1, 23, 30, 50

From these writer asks, which I am LOVING answering

1. I answered this one (about fics I'd recommend as a primer to my work) here, but you should let me know if you agree with my choices. I'm curious what someone else would pick???

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

OHHHH I'm trying to think and drawing a blank. I think I want to try and deconstruct tropes a lot more than write to the letter of them, but all of the ones I can think of right now are ones you can guess from my work generally. I would LOVE to write a historical court drama for dmbj but I have written those before....I even had a historically accurate Golden Age of Piracy one I plotted and never wrote.....uh, help. Maybe werewolves? I've never wanted to but I think it's more I haven't found a route into the idea that compels me yet.

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

Trans Xie Yuchen (and also generally always, lmao.) I am drawn to work by the implicit challenge of it, and I am immensely grateful to the sensitivity readers I have had and continue to have, but writing the majority of my dmbj fic, including that aspect, hasn't just affected my fic but me as a person irl. I think art affects our lives in ways we don't expect, and maybe ones we should have, and I always pick work to push the limits of an idea, or elaborate on it. Honestly I get terrified work feels repetitive when it becomes such a huge body of work as the heihua extended universe has.

(I'm not sure how well-known this is, but let you blow what's left of my right mind was me teaching myself to write a transmasc lead alongside sex scenes. Simultaneously. not what you want, but what you deserve is the first attempt at writing pwp with penetrative sex. the boy behind the drapes, the girl inside the crate is both a labour of love and the bane of my life in terms of a work I'm trying to do justice to.)

50. Answer any question of your choice, or talk about anything you want to talk about!

I regularly order two drinks at once in cafes because I genuinely want both, and one of my hobbies is going to supermarkets while abroad. Triple bonus if I can try country-specific drugstore makeup.

Sisi Empress of Austria is one of my favourite historical figures, mostly because of a bootleg version of Elisabeth das Musical I saw on YouTube at 17. I do not speak German.

Also, the Sultanate of Women in Ottoman history is one of my more recent historical interests, so if anyone has any book recommendations I guess?

Sorry I couldn't think of any fic ones, I'll have to dream some up another day

[furinana]

When I was playing the iOS version of SMT1, nobody could drink. If you tried, there was an extra line of dialogue where the bartender says something like, "Aren't you a little young?" and gives you juice instead. I don't know if it's just an international release thing, if it was added in the GBA or PSX port, or what. Felt a bit like they were trying to weasel out of a 'representing minors consuming alcohol' offense.

I always thought the Heroine was in her twenties by the present, but since she's the rebel leader and everyone's after her, she never shows anyone her ID.

Enforcing drinking laws might have made sense in the present, but after Tokyo is destroyed, why do the bartenders care? And how would they know that these random travelers are under twenty, if IDs aren't produced anymore?

I think it makes more sense if nobody cared about underage drinking laws by the time you reach bars. If memory serves, Kichijoji only has a cafe, and you only get bars once you reach Shinjuku. By then, things have gotten so bad that bars might start selling to anyone who can pay.

But really, we all know that if anyone's irresponsible, it's the bars of SMT2, for serving alcohol to two-year-old Aleph.

Hah I was very much suspecting it was a retcon. And that's because MT2/SMT2 already had an euphemism for beer which was Magical Fizz. 

So I'm guessing they gave up on trying to be subtle and removed the lore of the protagonist having alcohol altogether for later rereleases? So teenager drinking bad but using guns and killing people still good?

Anyway since we’re at it, let’s compare the 8/16-bit era of mainline games chronologically on the drinking aspect:

In the SNES version of Megami Tensei, while they don’t specify what kind of drink you’re having, from Nakajima’s reaction it seemed very satisfying. The name of the shop is even “Poison Bar”, for goodness’s sake. 

That being said, considering the game is a completely different (and far simpler) take on the story from the original novel, we can easily label Nakajima doing underage drinking and frickin gambling in the Underworld as non-canon. 

ACTUALLY, I skimmed through its NES version and I don’t think any of those features were supposed to exist in the first place. Which means MT2 was where bars started being a thing:

NES and SNES for comparison. Yeah, the exact same English words are written in the Japanese text for the drinks. You know, something I can’t help but get awfully curious for is that while in later SNES titles the main character freely drinks liquor, in the game where this feature made its debut he’s literally the one who can’t have it.

No booze allowed for the MT2 protagonist. Only soft drinks. Even though both of his partners can have beer. It’s never commented why. If there are age differences, it’s not apparent. And they live in devastated version of Tokyo so rules would be far more lax.

It’s funny because this is the same game where the protagonist can go to a drugstore to get high from herbal medicine. Yeah you read it right.

And he can keep going for a LONG time.

...and overdose to the point of falling on the floor paralyzed and unable to do anything, much to the heroine’s chagrin.

On that note, there’s a single instance in the entire game where the MC finally is offered actual liquor. From... a guy that was Satan's disguise.

Paralyzed AGAIN, Takuma? And imagine getting roofied by goddamn Satan. 

Maybe the reason bartenders don’t serve him specifically is because people that are familiar with him know he’s a danger to himself. Considering that [redacted] happens in a point of the game... yeah. You better stop and just fucking listen to what Asuka says to you, boy.

SMT1 is where the protagonist finally can join the fun with his companions. Everyone drinks the same thing. Equality baby! And no euphemisms!

They could drink in bars both when Tokyo was normal and after it got destroyed by the missiles, so I don’t think the excuse of “oh, the apocalypse made people stop caring” work, at least with the same weight as in MT2.

...AND THEN the sequel brought Magical Fizz back. Probably because SMT2 took cues from MT2 and/or they thought the word was still hilarious (I also do, ngl).

This little dialogue of the barman not letting you drink any more doesn’t show up in other games with the bar feature. Makes you wonder if Aleph is a lightweight since [redacted] or if other bartenders are just... irresponsible as fuck. And yes I’m also counting you on this, crazy MT2 drugstore girl.

One of the big highlights of SMT2 is getting Aleph shitfaced so he can temporarily get enough MAG to win the dance contest. Look at this madlad. Aleph must be great at parties.

You know which other infamous drink makes a comeback?

SUPER MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILK

Fairly enough, it’s exclusive to the Center’s bar. You know... the place where the Law side is located. No sinning next to angels, Aleph.

SMT:If is the game where some surprise factor indeed reaches the player since it happens inside a high school (and yet somehow our first-year protagonists can have liquor bottles stored in their pocket to either offer to demons or chug them down themselves). 

Let’s be honest, this would be an unusual thing to keep around even for adult staff! It’s a school goddamnit. Unless they got it somewhere else like... perhaps the Underworld since Hazama connected both places together.

Actually, such “is this allowed?” age aspect is even commented by a NPC but for the gambling feature:

Considering the type of people you partner up with in SMT:If (and subsenquently the P1/P2 cast to some degree), the protagonists displaying delinquent behavior might very well be what they went for compared to the more ambiguous “left-to-the-player” interpretations for MT2/SMT1/SMT2.

With the exception of our good glasses girl, look at the rest of these hooligans!

Anyway I stick with my interpretation of the main cast of SMT1/2 being on their twenties (or looking as such like Aleph) while the rest are just teens playing with their luck.

[othernaut]

In the city where I live, there's an underground pathway that connects many major office buildings, subway stations, tourist/entertainment facilities, and malls. Mine is a cold city; this is a place built to serve semi-wealthy people in the wintertime, people who want to go from their office job to the baseball stadium after work without having to deal with surface-level snow, ice, slush, salt, people.

This pathway is impossible to really close. There's too many entrances, too many office towers whose lower stairs lead directly into its food courts and galleries. Being a place primarily designed for use during (and then slightly after) the workday, all of the shops and amenities close down in the early evening. The subway runs until 1:55 in the morning, but they lock the washrooms at 8 PM. Once rush hour's over, it empties fast - but it's open all night.

In design, this place resembles an upscale mall stretched out over a kilometers-long mad tangle of angled hallways and pillared galleries, decorated in shuttered Cinnabons, drugstores, and one-hour dentists. The surfaces are artificial marble, gold-tinted mirror, washable white tile. The chorus of an entire downtown core's worth of HVAC infrasound hums through the grouting, through the buried pipes. It's an immediate labyrinth, peppered with helpful, incomprehensible signs: numbers and arrows pointing in incongruous directions, contradicted by the next helpful sign. To exit north, travel east. To go home, stay forever.

It's liminal as shit, is what I'm getting at. And I know exactly what the liminal horror monster is because I've run into it several times.

In the conspicuous quiet of an empty mall, sound echoes strangely. Your body is suddenly the noisiest thing there is. You hear the rattle of the keys in your pocket bouncing off the walls; your breath is a ragged animal sound, quick and raspy. Every phone notification strikes with the sudden intensity of lightning. You are very aware of yourself, aware of the fact that every little creak in your bones, every stumbling step is broadcasting your position to anything nearby.

Because you can hear them, too. The footsteps. Not yours. They, too, echo strangely. They are a sure and steady tap of leather soles against tile floors, even and confident. The halls twist their provenance, making them sound at times distant and multiplied, at times right by your ear. You hear them diminishing, growing distant, and then you turn a corner and they're right there, so close, chest to chest.

The monster is the person you meet in a place not meant for people. You're their monster, too.

Because maybe in a minute there'll be nervous laughter, apologies; maybe you'll notice the scared stiffness in their spine, the way their placating smile doesn't quite reach their eyes. But in that moment of contact, there's just the fact of them there, right there, in arm's reach, and you know the infinite violence that people are capable of, and you wonder if you're between the gaps in the security cameras, and you wonder if anyone will wash your brains off the tile after they smash your head against the wall, and their hands are up, and their teeth are showing, and all the rabid uncertainty has your every nerve fried, and -

Because I don't live in a liminal horror game (yet), I have yet to be redacted by a surprise person in an underground mall. But the notable thing, to me, is that all the abject awfulness of being trapped in a liminal space with a monster is in the edge-up - in hearing them, in not knowing where they are because you don't know where you are, in the panicked data your brain collects to track them adding to the uncertainty and unreality of the space around you.

When you see them, they're too close to run - elevator close, concert close, looming, touchable - and all that uncertainty blossoms into glass-edge terror. The terror itself is uncertain, all paranoia; easier if it was a Slenderman or something. But if it's just a guy? A person can do anything - and a person shouldn't be here, just like you.

Thoughts on Liminal Horror

So this has been kicking around in my head a while, and I woke up with some actual coherent thoughts on it that I'm trying to capture before I lose them.

There was a tumblr post I saw before that I have long since lost about how liminal horror should NOT have a monster and isn't just "oh you're alone somewhere". And I couldn't agree more! But I haven't been able to articulate exactly why. Liminal, as a word on it's own, means transitional. Liminal spaces are real things that are places where you are on the WAY to somewhere. Liminal doesn't mean infinite spooky mazes, is my first point.

A liminal space could be hallways on the way to an office. Maybe you're trying to get some government bullshit completed. Maybe you're on the way to a doctor you're not entirely familiar with. A liminal space could be the terminals in an airport, as you try to make it to your flight in time. Or a highway you're driving on while looking for a particular exit. Or a carpark as you look for where you had parked among seemingly identical cars. You've been in liminal spaces so so many times. The point is that the spaces themselves aren't what you're really paying attention to. You're thinking of what you'll do when you get there, or going over the things you'll need to keep track of when you arrive. The directions you have to get there, maybe.

So in your MEMORY, and especially your dreams, these spaces take on a peculiar quality. They're SLIPPERY. It's hard to remember any details of them, because you weren't really focused on them. It's just a miasma of "i was in a hallway" or "i was on a road". Maybe a few weird details jump out on you, but it only serves to blend together the rest of the journey. So, when we elevate liminal spaces to HORROR, the first thing we do is lean into that. Impossible spaces because your memory genuinely does not care what any part of them is like save the ending.

Impossible spaces because we tap into that part of you deep down that is unsettled if you try to remember them, and wonders if maybe they really HAD been so weird when you were in them, and you just didn't notice.

This is getting longer than I thought, so may as well put in a cut!

So. I've explained WHAT liminal spatial horror is as well I was going to be able to, I think, but I haven't really articulated why a MONSTER feels like it kneecaps the entire premise.

Have you ever been lost in a liminal space? Keeping in mind that "liminal space" is a thing we all encounter constantly and not shorthand for creepy pastas. Have you ever wandered unfamiliar areas that normally you wouldn't even be paying attention to, increasingly desperate that you won't get to your destination in time? Are you going to miss your flight? What if you can't get your government bullshit taken care of in time? Or your doctor's appointment will skip you and you already waited so long to get it. Did you already miss your exit?

That fear is what I'm focused on here.

It's hard to make you feel that fear in an artificial way.

Even if we give a character in a game all sorts of motives to reach a destination by a certain time, you only feel annoyed at the time pressure, not really *scared*. And although the person lost in a liminal space rarely can just give up and leave, YOU, the player of a game, can.

So liminal spatial horror tends to distill it down to a single fear: where is the exit.

Of course, simply "wanting to leave" is rarely pressure enough to *rush*. And I can see why adding a monster is a quick trick to add that 'going so fast you can't navigate' vibe to the experience.

What I'm saying here is that the time spent is the POINT. That you can slowly build up to that desperate pressure to rush.

You can emphasize that desperation a more subtle way, a way my favorite instances of liminal spatial horror do: bodily needs. You are in a space clearly created by humans, and yet without a single human need met. There are no water fountains. There are no bathrooms. There are no vending machines. Nowhere to comfortably rest. If any of these things do exist they are empty or corrupt in some way.

The temperature, in my favorite experiences, is noted to be wildly incorrect. It's freezing cold. It's burning hot. It's not even remotely the temperature you'd expect an office building full of humans to be.

At first, this leans into this desire to reach a destination, ANY destination. Maybe you can't find the way OUT but maybe you can find out "The Truth"? Maybe if you keep going and going and going you can figure out why this place is LIKE this.

If a human made this space it had to be intentionally to torture people. How fucked up do you have to be to sink this many resources into doing something like this? How long did it take to make? Why did no one notice?

If a non-human intelligence made this space maybe you can find out WHY? Maybe... maybe they were trying their best but didn't realize how uncanny valley and dangerous it would be to a person? If no intelligence was behind it at all, maybe you can find out HOW? Maybe it's a reflection of our collective unconscious, or the planet mimicking the increasing amount of man-made works on itself? But as you continue on and on, as a real living human being in an impossible liminal space horror situation, you realize it doesn't matter how or why or when or any of the questions you dangled in front of yourself like a will-o-wisp driving you ever further in.

Because you realize you're going to die in here. Maybe it'll be the thirst. Humans can only go a few days without water. Maybe hunger will be what finally gets you. Its hard to tell how long you've been in here when any clocks you find in the hallways are all frozen to the same time and the sun hangs over the infinite highway like an immovable, swollen eye. But the hunger is ever present.

There's always exposure. Cold, hot, never anything between. How can you be freezing to death in an office hallway?

That isn't right. That isn't how it should be. Starving and freezing and dying of thirst is something that happens to people OUTSIDE civilization. It would make sense if you were lost in the woods but you can SEE sign after sign of civilization and other people for gods' sake!

How could this be happening? Why isn't anyone coming to help you?

And then we draw back, to you-who-is-consuming-this-fictional scenario. Because the point of horror is to get the person in the chair riled up, not just the character within the fictional premise.

Are you thinking about how often people starve and freeze and die of thirst in our own civilizations? Inches from the trappings of safety? With no help coming?

Are you thinking of how many desperate people navigate government mazes of plaster and brick and paper and online forms, driven forward by the hope of government aid or food stamps or HELP. How many people hunker down in a freezing subway or under a bridge on the highway or other public space knowing that no one SEES them because they're all transitioning from one space to another?

You probably aren't. Not directly. But we all know we're closer to freezing to death under a bridge or denied life-saving medical care in an office than we are to being a billionaire, right?

And there's something about that, deep in our gut, that resonates. That thread of reality in the safely fictional that keeps us coming back. Unable to articulate WHY but also thinking that liminal horror is somehow SCARIER than mere monsters. We all know that deadly predators are unlikely to get us. Adding a monster lets us move our too-real-fear to a safe target. And it's valid to want to do that! To decide spatial horror is too much, to want to thin it out like adding ranch dressing to a too-spicy chicken wing.

But that's why I think that the monsters are an artificial add on. And not a part of spatial horror.

[temporary-enthusiasm]

Okay so listen. I was at the drugstore and was running on like four hours of sleep when Lips of an Angel by Hinder came on and I got super fucking emotional about it and my brain told me I had to HankCon it. SO this has living in my head rent free for the past couple months. I had to write it, but also couldn't handle making it angsty.

* * *

Hank was fine.

Sure, he drank a little too much sometimes. Maybe even a lot too much most of the time. But he still showed up for work. Not on time, but he showed up. Because he was fine.

Sure, late at night when the rest of the world was asleep he would sometimes sit at the table with an open bottle of whiskey, a gun loaded with a single bullet and a picture of Cole out on the table. But he’d never actually pulled the trigger. Because he was fine.

Hank was fine. He said it so often that he really thought it was true. It wasn’t until he met Connor that he realized exactly how fine he wasn’t… and at the same time realized that maybe he could be something more. Maybe he could even be happy.

[longeyelashedtragedy]

fanfic wip guessing game: finger, nipple, teeth, beard

i feel like someone has asked me "beard" before LOL

uh

finger:

“The first day. You came to our table. You didn’t trust us...You were right.”

“Šime, you’re drunk.  Stop. Just go back to sleep.” 

“Nnnnnn...I....” Šime jabs his finger at the cross on his chest like he’s trying to stab himself. “ ‘s why i have this. Thought it could change how I was—”

“Šime. Shut the fuck up.” (mare liberum--i think this is from the draft of the 2nd-last chapter!)

-

“Mason, I don’t think you can understand.  My marriage is what it is, and that’s my business.  But if I could…” They’re stopped at a red light and Frank uses the opportunity to take Mason by the chin with his strong, thick fingers.  “If I could, Mase.  It would be just you and me, and I mean it with all my heart.” ('bitter mutual cheating')

-

But there was something he could do

The train bumped along and he trimmed his fingers on the cold windowsill, listening to a playlist Mladen—Petrić—had sent him.  (ivan coming of age)

-

Granit uncurls his fingers—they’re stiff from how hard he’s been clutching Erdin’s bathroom counter—and pushes Milot’s head back. (dangerous AU flashback 2)

-

“Sex on the beach,” Jamie muses, ruffling Frank’s hair, and each finger has too much weight.  “Trying to make an Ayia Napa joke, is he?” (you rearrange me till i'm sane)

-

Aaron scratching his fingers through Rob’s fluffy hair and behind his ears.  Rob looks up at Matt a little concerned but also a little…Matt can’t define it.  Spaced-out? (some puppy play fic i never knew what to do with)

-

“It’s alright,” he says. Granit won’t know what he’s saying, but he’s barely conscious of Granit being there. “You lived a good life. It’s alright…” He runs a finger down the man’s cheek. “It’s alright. Shhhhh…” (dangerous AU christmas chapter)

nipple:

 Granit slips him another bundle of 100-euro notes.  That gets him the right to put his hands on Angelo’s chest and touch his skinny stomach and little nipples.  Sure, money can’t buy love, but Granit knows he’ll never have that anyway, and money can buy all the rest of it. (dangerous au flashback 2--I did this one last night but it's the only WIP with nipple in it lol)

teeth:

“Luka and I went down to take a look at the Neroverdi, last night, like you asked.”

“Snuck on board, actually.”  Luka grins, and the familiar sight of his long, crooked front teeth makes Dejan feel calm.  No matter what happens to him here, his friends are the same as they always are.  (mare liberum)

-

He’s hungry, he’s starving, and making next to nothing doing seasonal work at the apple orchard just down the road from the tiny town the dark-haired boy led him to.  He’s filled up on apples.  The sour ones, the sweet ones, the ones that dry out his tongue, the ones with the squished bruised bites that taste sweeter than the sweet ones.  His teeth hurt from all the sweetness.  He’d slipped a tube of toothpaste made for sensitive teeth into his pocket at the drugstore a couple weeks back.  The dark-haired boy had whispered that it was okay, and stealing toothpaste was easy compared to his past.  But it hasn’t made a difference.   (ancient lovro majer and luka ivanusec + witch!Livi fic i was writing for zuzu and the deathpond but still haven't finished)

beard:

Their foreheads bump together and Sergio kisses her, or maybe she kisses Sergio.  Either way, they kiss out of a shared feeling of something.  Her thumbs run over his beard.

“You feel a little like him,” she whispers.  “But you have much nicer muscles.  You wouldn’t catch him in our weight room if you paid him, you know?”  She runs her hands along his side and gropes his firm waist a little.  “The laziest footballer I ever met.” (revenge pegging!)

-

“Thanks,” Frank says.  “So are you, Jamie.”  His beard is always trimmed to a perfect length and his hair looks nice and thick—Frank worries his is thinning. (10022, this went by yesterday already haha)

-

and there we go!

[oonajaeadira]

I just found your PATS series and I am loving it!

I was wondering how a session might go with PATS after the reader has been sick and had to skip a session or two until they were better. Does he help them out with any remaining body aches?

Thanks, friend!!! Glad you’re having a good time! <3

I assume by this ask that maybe you were ill at the time and I’m sorry to hear that. But yes. He loves a good challenge and he’s set on making his clients feel good and relaxed. I’m sure he would. 

In fact...

Truth or Dare: This is Enough for Now (GTTT PATS)

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

Warnings: smut intimacy under the cut

It’s not the news he wants to see on the portal chat.

–I won’t be able to make it again this week

You’ve missed the last two sessions due to illness, which means it’s been three weeks since you’ve been on his table. Three weeks since your-skin-against-his. Three weeks to think about his choice in the game. And what he was going to ask you to do as his reward. 

At first he thought to take advantage of the break. Let himself simmer down. Didn’t work. If nothing, it just keeps you at a low boil in the back of his mind.

His groan of frustration isn’t directed at you. It’s selfish want coursing through his veins. He misses you–plain and simple–and he fucking knows it.

–I’m sorry to hear that. Still feeling under the weather?

–I’m doing better just residual achiness 

–You’re no longer contagious?

–No

–If you want, we could just do a regular massage, relieve some of that ache.

–That sounds glorious. I’d love that. But i’m still weak enough that the effort of getting there is going to knock me over. If only you made house calls

He watches the light on his portal blink for a few seconds, knows full well that he’s about to fling himself recklessly over another line. But there’s a loophole here to exploit, a brilliant little gift you’ve given him. He shelves his preference for the week, sacrificing truth for the only other choice–

–Dare.

–?

–Dare.

–I don’t understand

–Preciosa. It’s Thursday. There’s something you want, and I’m choosing dare.

Your light blinks for a few seconds. But you pick up the thread quickly enough.

–I dare you to make a house call

–Is your billing address your home address?

–Yes

–Leave the door unlocked. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be there in 20.

He makes it in 15.

________________

He leaves his shoes inside your door next to a sealed cardboard box, the kind you pack belongings in. Perhaps you’ve elected to take that job after all. But a quick look around your tidy-but-cozy living room doesn’t reveal any others. Maybe you’d only gotten so far before you got sick. Or there are more elsewhere.

As he moves through the space on his search for your bedroom, he finds your home aesthetically pleasing, not quite what he expected and yet fitting. He’s learning some things about you. Full bookshelves. A few interesting art pieces. He can certainly guess your favorite colors. It’s an entirely new space but surprisingly, he doesn’t feel like a stranger interloping; it’s comfortable here. 

It smells like you.

The bedroom isn’t difficult to find, and he leans against the doorframe for a moment.

Looks like you fell asleep waiting for him, tucked into a little ball on top of the covers. You sleep…differently here. He can’t put words to it, only that your energy is not what he’s used to. Less…held. There’s a blanket on the end of the bed he uses to cover you, leaving his small bag of toys and massage oils on your bedside table before making a necessary investigation of your bathroom.

Good sized tub, clean. Plenty of towels. Drugstore pain medication on the counter, looks like you’re still needing that. Okay. On to the kitchen.

On his way back through the hall he finds another bedroom, empty except for a cleared, abandoned office desk. Looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for a while; coffee rings make a mandala on one section, dust and grit outlining the ghosts of items past, the varnish worn where hands had rested at a keyboard. Tracks in the carpet underneath only highlight the absence of a chair.

He saw your laptop and files out on the dining table where it looks like you’ve set up a place to work from home. This isn’t your desk. It never was.

He’s well aware of your divorce. What was it Shell said? Something about the guy and a neighbor woman…

Fucking idiot.

He wonders for a moment where the ex is and if you still have any contact with him. How much or little you’ve moved on…

In the kitchen he finds the glasses on his first try, chooses one from the cabinet and moves to the refrigerator to see if you prefer filtered water. But before he opens the door,  familiar writing catches his eye. His writing. His latest assessment sheet is magnetically clipped to the fridge as well as….

A neatly folded sheet of hotel stationary with your name scrawled on it. 

The note he left for you in the hotel room.

“Hello?” Your voice calls out from down the hall, ripping him back into focus.

“Hey. I’m just getting you some water. Tap okay?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

As the glass fills, he eyes the note. He’s not exactly sure how he feels that you kept it. That you have it somewhere where you can see it daily. He thinks… He wants…

He takes a deep breath. Steles himself for the revelation.

He wants to take care of you.

“You have a nice place.” Setting the glass on your bedside table, he sits on the edge of your bed as you smile gratefully up at him. “Very well-kept.”

“Thank you. Just don’t look at my bookshelves. I haven’t dusted in ages and you’ll be able to tell how few books I’ve read lately…”

This wins a chuckle. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Tired. Little achy. This bug just took a lot out of me.”

“I see you have painkillers. When was the last time you took some?”

“Yesterday.”

Delicately lifting one of your hands, he starts in on a palm massage, rubbing firm, slow circles as you instinctively take a deep breath and let your eyes softly close. “Well. Maybe we start there. I’m going to run a bath. While we wait for it to fill and for the pill to take effect, I’ll work on you here. Then we’ll move to the bathroom, okay?”

“Okay.”

It doesn’t take long for him to return with the pill bottle, to lift off your shirt and oil his hands while you take a dose.

“I want you to sit up and hug your knees. Chin down.”

The only sound is the distant rush of water as he climbs up on the bed behind you, warming the oil by running his palms over your shoulders. Then he begins to work you like a column of clay, shaping his Venus, thumbs riding the canals on either side of your spine, finding the soft curves of your arms, the sides of your breasts, down through your hips, pressing you into the form of you. He loves the strength of his own hands, their ability to (judging by your moans) push the ache down and out of your muscle. Wrapping his fingers around your arms and sliding them all the way down to the wrist, he releases your hands from around your knees and signals you to lean back into him, putting a hand to your forehead to ease you to his shoulder. Then he reaches around to work the muscles of your thighs, your hips, watching your soft expression in his periphery–the way your heavy eyelids fight to stay open and follow his hands on you–the rise of your breasts as you breathe for him. 

He leans into you when you roll your neck to press your forehead to his cheek...

He doesn’t need to tell you anymore. You give into him, fit against him, instinctively breathe and hold when he wants you to now. You’ve come so far since that first session when he worked so hard to get you to trust him…and you’d worked so hard to just let go…

But still, with you here and his mouth at your ear, he won’t drop his encouragement, especially when you hold and then sigh so pretty for him, “That’s nice. Good. Starting to feel better?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Good,” kissing the crook of your neck, letting his lips linger a bit before pulling away, he rocks you forward. “Let’s get you into that bath. I’m going to do some point work on you.”

At the tub, he gently helps you step over the rim, lowers you down into the liquid warmth, and slips a folded towel behind your head before standing to strip down.

“I’m going to need you to make room for me between your legs.”

Even though your eyes are closed and you can’t see it, he mirrors your soft smile with his own, carefully stepping into the tub and slowly kneeling down, careful not to allow it to overflow. Here, he starts with your feet, pushing into pressure points, flexing and rotating your ankle joints, working up to the back of the calves and holding the drainage point there. “Breathe.” Moving one of your legs across him, he presses two fingers up into the hip joint, watching for the twitch in your brow. There it is. “Tender here?” You nod. “Normal after you’ve been in bed a while. We’ll take care of that.” Small circles, steady pressure, strong fingers, eyes on your face until it smooths out and your tendon relaxes. He’s got you.

This is what he loves to see; you, tranquil, giving over to him, trusting him to do what’s best for you. It’s not only you at your most beautiful, it’s a reflection on himself. It means he’s never hurt you. Never let you down. That he makes you feel good. 

This is what he needs.

It’s time for a change.

He’s up and motioning you to slide forward a little so he can fit in behind you, get in to work the sacrum points at the base of your spine under the warm water, finding the little divots and working his thumbs in small circles until your flesh melts under his palms, tender, supple, giving in. Then the shoulder joints. The base of the skull. Pinpoint and zero in. Reactive pressure. Sustained attention. Reading you. His hands know where to go, understanding what needs to be done, knowing every inch of your musculature. Assessing that all is in working order and he’s made a full sweep of the main points before he pulls you back into his chest and just comes to rest.

“How do you feel?”

“Perfect. I could sleep here for a week.”

“Bed’s probably the better choice. After after a glass of water. You wanna do that now?”

“A few more minutes here?”

“Okay.”

He leans back and lets the breath take him, takes your weight onto him, looking down through his lashes at his bronze legs framing your own in the tub, listening to the errant drip of the faucet or the sucking swallow of the overflow drain whenever you both breathe in air and bring enough mass to displace some water.

“Thank you for coming,.” you hum, your back vibrating pleasantly against his torso.

“Least I could do, considering you’ve missed two sessions this month, figured this might make up for it.” The tinkle of the water off his hand takes over as he brings it up to stroke your shoulder. “Besides. If you’re moving, I might as well get you into as many sessions as possible before you go.”

“I’m not going.”

It takes all his concentration not to let his hand stop or alter in its slow trace over your skin. “No?”

“No. I dropped down to a part-time position that allows me to work from home. I’ll just have to find something else to supplement, I guess.”

“I see. I thought I saw a moving box by your door.”

Your breath hitches. “That’s…I found…some of my ex’s things. I was going to take them and drop them at his apartment. Keep losing the nerve.”

“Mmm. Been there.”

That’s… Shit. He didn’t mean to say that. Two words too much information. 

But enough to sound like encouragement to you, apparently.

“At least he moved out of the neighborhood,” you drone. Flat. Controlled. Measured. “He and Angie across the alley…I wish she’d left her husband and gone with him. But they stayed married and worked through it and now she gives me dirty looks as if it’s my fault… It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t. If it wasn’t her, it would have been someone else… Not like it was the first time…. It doesn’t matter. I deserved better and I know that now.”

Is it the closeness? The warm water and your warm bodies together? Your weight on him, pinning him down? No. It’s this… quiet, unvarnished truth you’ve just trusted him with. Being in your home. Stillness.

It’s the stillness together.

In his room he’s usually working his hands over you, working his body over yours–through yours. Stillness is for your sleeping, for his retreating, he does not come to stillness with clients.

Yet suddenly, he too could sleep here for a week. Wants to just let it all bleed out into the warm water. And he’s going around the hallways in his mind, manually shutting off all the alarms.

“If it’s okay, Preciosa, I’m not going to fuck you tonight. I want you to rest and get yourself back in working order.”

“That’s fine,” you sigh, running a hand along his knee. “I probably wouldn’t be any good to you right now.”

He’s not sure how to answer that as you lay on his chest and softly breathe. As your fingers circle his knee and gradually come to a stop. As he inhales the scent of your hair. 

This is plenty good for him. This is just enough. Just for tonight.

___

___

NEXT

SERIES MASTERLIST

[bijoharvelle]

Father's Day has been...hard.

Claire can remember being younger, being, like, ten and her mom taking her to the corner drugstore to buy a Hallmark card for her dad. For Jimmy. She would dutifully write a personal note into the blank space -- something about how she loved him and would forever, how she was thankful for how he raised her.

And then an angel walked into her father and walked away.

After that, things were so fucked up, Claire hardly even noticed Father's Days passing. One time, she was slipping a candy bar into her pocket at a gas station and happened to see, through the fuzz of a bad reception, what was clearly a commercial for Father's Day. At that time, though, she was still something sharp and acidic so she just snorted out a laugh and walked off.

Now --

Well.

It's not any easier, really. Because her father is still gone. There's still that hole there. Having new and different and good doesn't heal the fact that she lost her Dad. Jimmy wasn't perfect, sure, but he was good. He tried. He brushed her hair when she was little and he sang her Beach Boys in the car on the way to soccer practice. He took her to soccer practice.

She misses him, so much sometimes that it feels like her chest might crack open. She's not usually enough of a sap for things like commercials to get to her but this one has a dark-haired dad and a little blonde daughter and they're dancing how she and Jimmy used to dance: her up on Jimmy's feet, arms flung out wide with hands laced together.

She almost doesn't pick up when the phone rings but then she does. "What?"

"I -- " His voice is still gravel and razor-wire and that's one saving grace. He might be wearing her dad's face, still, but at least he doesn't sound like him. "I'm sorry. I could feel -- You were praying."

"No, I wasn't." Her words are harsh but she can't regret it because it's to hide the fact that she's crying.

"Right. I'm sorry. I felt -- Anyway. I'm sorry to bother you, then. I was just worried."

There's a pause of dead air, the two of them just breathing. And then Claire says, "Wait." Which was unnecessary, because he was clearly gonna wait for her to hang-up first but. "Wait. Maybe-- Whatever. What are you doing?"

Another stretch of silence. Then: "Dean was in the middle of showing me...a movie. I left to call you."

Something that's almost a smile finds its way onto Claire's face. "Oh yeah? I guess you weren't too impressed with his taste in movies, huh?"

A sigh rustles static across the connection and then Castiel says, sounding the most put-out she's ever heard him, "There are always cowboys."

Claire laughs at that, honest to god laughs, and it's a little watery but it's good. It almost fucking hurts, but it's good. "When we hang-up, I'm gonna send you a song to play for Dean, okay?" The chorus for Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other is already rolling through her head and she would give anything to see the shades of red Dean'll turn at that.

"All right, Claire."

His tone is a little lilting, dragging, like he's expecting a goodbye.

"But. But not yet. Okay. Tell me-- I dunno. You're good? I mean, I guess you're good, if you're watching movies with Dean."

"Yes," Castiel says. "Yes, I'm good. How are you, Claire?"

She looks around her. She had been watching some dumb teen drama on Hulu when the commercial popped up. Alex is across the room, on her bed, headphones on and eyes trained on whatever game she's dungeon-crawling her way through. Downstairs, Claire can hear Jody and Donna laughing together, if she listens hard enough. Across the hall, Patience and Kaia's room is quiet, which means those two nerds are probably reading some geek novel or lore book Sam sent them, or something. And Claire --

"Yeah, I'm okay," she says, softly, like she means it. "I was thinking of you, actually." It's a confession, an admission.

"Were you?"

"Well. About Jimmy. I--" Her breathing hitches and she thinks Castiel is holding his. "Could I tell you about him?" She doesn't know why she says it, hadn't meant to. But it's out there and she can't take it back. And it's stupid, because Castiel was possessing the bastard for, what, a year? More? He probably knows her dad better and in more ways than she ever could

But: "I'd like that, Claire. Very much."

So she settles down further into her bed and starts talking.

[magniloquent-raven]

soulmate au part 3!!!!

(read part 1 and part 2 here)

it takes three weeks for anything to happen.

they see each other at school, exchange glances in class, brush past each other in the hallways, fingers grazing as their shoulders bump, incidental touches that wouldn’t draw attention but still leave billy tingling and giddy and embarrassed at himself but…

he’s still getting used to having a soulmate. a real, tangible person he can reach out and touch.

and maybe he’d get used to it faster if he could touch him more, but life keeps conspiring against them. they can’t seem to get a second alone. when it isn’t steve’s kids are crawling all over him 24/7 it’s neil breathing down billy’s neck because he ran out on one fucking class.

well, and then had to lie to neil about why, which was probably what put neil on high alert, but still.

three goddamn weeks.

and neither of them have been patient about it. steve keeps writing billy notes. in the middle of class scrawling things like you have nice eyes and i wanna spend time with you and billy can fucking feel how smug steve gets about making him blush. it’s all he can do not to make a scene in front of half their peers. sometimes he’s not sure if he’d punch steve for being an asshole or kiss him for being sweet.

or both. he can do both.

but mostly he wants time, and somewhere to just...be. with steve.

and he gets that, three weeks after their conversation in the parking lot. steve’s parents will be out of town, and his kids have some stupid game night planned. max keeps asking to go but pretending she isn’t, badly feigning disinterest, and best of all, neil and susan are planning a weekend trip to visit susan’s bedridden aunt a few hours away.

billy is determined to take full advantage of those thirty-six hours. neither of them will acknowledge it directly, but he knows max will tell neil he was home all weekend if she has to. he has no reason to be nervous about being caught, or anything else. it’ll be fine.

it’ll be fine.

he tells himself that over and over but it doesn’t stop him from checking every corner of the house in case neil’s hiding behind a door somewhere before he can even think about getting ready to leave.

he checks again after he’s showered and dressed.

thankfully max is already gone, so she’s not there to see him pacing around like a neurotic rat in a maze.

it almost worse that he isn’t just anxious, he’s excited. and it’s making him twitchy.

there’s no plan. they aren’t going on a date or anything. he’s just...going to steve’s house. steve’s empty house. he’s going to be alone with his soulmate. the list of reasons why that scares him is endless.

and he’s not sure if he’s more terrified of the possibility that steve won’t ask about the makeup thing or the possibility that he will.

knocking on the harringtons’ front door is. an experience. it shouldn’t be. it’s just a fucking door. but billy’s palms are sweating and suddenly he has no idea what he’s even going to say, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder even though he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, and it feels like he’s been standing on the porch for a fucking eternity but—

his worries don’t exactly melt away when steve opens the door but there is a warm flutter in his chest that’s...new. and distracting.

and steve smiles at him all sunshine and chocolate, and the second the door closes behind them he grabs billy’s hand, wide-eyed, questioning, watching billy’s reaction.

his palm is just as sweaty as billy’s and it’s gross, but also kind of comforting.

“hello to you too,” billy snickers, and steve visibly relaxes, lacing their fingers together properly.

“hi,” he breathes quietly, his gaze soft, but intense, focused. “waiting sucked, okay. i’ve been wanting to do that forever.” he shakes their joined hands for emphasis.

“...that all you were waiting to do?”

steve’s grin turns sly, and his gaze drops a little. “no.”

billy wants to kiss him. he wants to be kissed. he wants steve’s mouth on him, somewhere, anywhere, right now. it’s a nice mouth. he’s spent a lot of time looking at it, and thinking about it, about the way the steam from the showers turned his lips so, so red, wet and slick and both too close and too far away, wondering what he’d taste like—

but steve turns away, taking all the air in billy’s lungs with him. it’s so jarring a shift that billy actually sways a little before he gets ahold of himself and lets steve tug him by hand and lead him upstairs.

the wallpaper in steve’s room has to be some kind of hate crime, but billy doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because there’s a beige bag sitting conspicuously on top of steve’s neatly made bed. the clear plastic top is zipped shut, dusty with age and spilled powders, but billy can still make out tubes of lipstick and eyeliner pencils through the haze.

he stops in the doorway and stares at it, thoughts at a stand-still.

steve’s still clutching his hand, tighter now, and no longer pulling him along. “i—uh. the bag was my mom’s, i think. found it crumpled up under the sink, so, like. she probably doesn’t even remember it exists. and the stuff in it is...new.”

“...new,” billy echoes faintly.

“yeah. yeah, i—i bought it. had no idea what i was looking for though, so i hope i did alright.”

billy blinks at him.

“was—was that okay? i know maybe isn’t exactly a yes, but i kinda hoped it could be, y’know? it’s—it’s totally cool if it isn’t. if you’re—if you’re not up for it. or…” he trails off awkwardly and grimaces.

billy takes a breath. “i’m up for it,” he assures steve with more confidence than he feels.

and steve absolutely beams at him. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

turns out steve not knowing what he was looking for meant he bought...everything.

as billy pokes through the mess he tries not to feel too apprehensive. or at least tries not to let it show. too much. he chews his thumbnail, picking up an eyeliner pencil with the other hand. it’s good shit, all the products are, with fancy names for colours and designer labels. it’s all leagues better than the drugstore clearance shelf crap he lifted as a kid. which doesn’t make this any less nerve-wracking.

“it’s been a while since i did this, so. don’t expect it to be, fucking, art or anything.”

steve shuffles closer from his spot at the foot of the bed and touches billy’s knee. “the eyeliner earlier this year…?” he gestures vaguely at his own face, eyebrows raised.

“friend of mine did that,” billy mutters.

and then his whole goddamn life came crashing down around him because of it.

his anxiety spikes, and he drops the pencil back into the pile, shoving the bag away. “i can’t fucking do this,” he snaps, and he’s halfway standing already when steve reaches for him, alarmed.

“billy, wait—” the hand on his elbow is soft, gentle, but he still flinches away. steve withdraws, fingers curled, lips parted, shock and hurt at war on his face. “i’m sorry. i—shit, i’m sorry—”

“don’t.” billy shakes his head, pulling away further. his lungs hurt. there isn’t enough air in this room. “just—forget it. this was a mistake.”

he’s through the door and heading down the stairs before he can think about it, before steve can respond. he wouldn’t have heard him anyways, not over the echoes of his father’s voice that follow him no matter how fast he flees.

but he stops just short of leaving. stands on the ugly little mat by the front door and stares down at it, his forehead inches away from resting against the wooden doorjamb.

he doesn’t want to leave.

he doesn’t want to go anywhere but back upstairs.

and...he kind of hates it. he has no reason to want that. he barely fucking knows steve, and he certainly doesn’t owe him anything. not a look at his authentic self or even a fucking apology. nothing.

so why does he want to give him all of that and more.

why.

it’s fucking terrifying and ridiculous and confusing and…

“billy?” steve calls out tentatively, far enough away that billy doesn’t startle. he’s making his way down the stairs.

if he’s gonna run, it’s now or never.

now…

or…

he turns around, and leans back, his shoulder thudding heavily as he hits the wall. his eyes itch, and rubbing them doesn’t help.

“billy…” steve’s right in front of him now, hovering just shy of being close, worry etched into every line of his face. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have pushed, i’m sorry—”

“not your fault,” billy mumbles, muffled against his palm. “stop apologizing, harrington.”

steve sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “i...uh.”

“you were gonna do it again weren’t you.”

“...no.”

billy snorts quietly, head falling against the cold wallpaper at his back. “fuck,” he exhales, hand dropping to his shoulder. “look, this is...threatening to be the best fucking thing that ever happened to me, and good things don’t just—it never lasts. it always blows up in my face, and you should know that before you get caught up in it too.”

there’s an awful, drawn-out pause while steve purses his lips and tilts his head and looks billy up and down, his gaze gentle despite the scrutiny.

“i want to touch you,” steve says quietly. he waits for billy’s hesitant nod before he wraps his arms around and tucks his face into the crook of billy’s neck. “i’ve been waiting for you my whole life, hargrove, you’re not scaring me off that easily.”

and...billy always wanted to believe in the romantic notions people wrote about in songs. soulmates being destined for each other. epic, unconditional love. he never had any reason to believe it was real, but he clung to it anyway. despite the part of him that was wary, afraid of putting too much stock in something that might break his heart later on.

so for steve to just outright say it like that…so matter of fact. the reality of the situation smacks him in the face a little.

he puts his hands on steve’s waist, slipping under his shirt to rest against soft bare skin. touching him feels...right. when he lets himself feel, lets himself be here, in the moment. the sweet scent of steve’s hair, the warmth of his breath, the soothing pressure of his fingertips smoothing the wrinkled fabric of billy’s shirt. it all adds up to a feelings that billy can only describe as home.

not home like the place, but home like the warmth of sunlight and sand between his toes, ocean spray on his lips. a feeling he’s always had to chase to capture, but somehow it’s...here. quiet and still, and nothing like he’s used to, but it’s here.

and his touch seems to put steve at ease as well, he practically melts into billy’s embrace, which does strange and addictive things to billy’s heart.

but he can’t just shut his fucking mouth and enjoy the moment.

“bet i could, though. scare you off. i might, some day.”

“billy,” steve sighs, and pulls back enough to look him in the eye. “trust me when i say, you’ll never even make the top ten scariest things i’ve seen.”

and he wants to scoff, or feel insulted, or push the issue, start a fight, but. there’s a hollow look in steve’s eye. it’s not the face of some sheltered rich boy who thinks he’s a big man, no, there’s truth there. billy believes him.

stopping the tide of questions is almost physically painful, but he knows there’s no going down that road today. he’s hiding enough of his own skeletons to be sure they aren’t ready for that yet.

he might just be ready for something else though.

“i wanna try again.”

steve blinks at him, confused for a beat, two, and. “oh!” his lips part around the exclamation, distracting billy for a moment. “the—the makeup? you don’t— you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” he hesitates, and then presses a brief kiss to the tip of steve’s nose, startling a smile out of him. billy grins back. “i want to.”

[pi-creates]

How did you Travis’s face to animate what did you do cause I’ve been trying to do a model swap of him

If I remember right, S1 and S2 are weird in that some characters end up with very few animation or data files, and I think it's because they "borrow" files used by other characters in the cast - so it might depend on who you are trying to swap him with that could cause certain animation to not load/overwrite correctly.

Just for reference, I tried swapping Doug out for Travis in S1 E1 and Travis seems to have speaking animations that work there even though Travis has no phoneme based animations. This could be because Travis "borrows" his animations from Doug to begin with, or Doug and Travis are drawing from the same pool of animations - I'm not sure, I don't fully understand why some things work and some things don't, I tend to figure things out through a lot of trial and error.

But for visual reference that a Doug and Travis swap at least works - here's the results of me testing out the scene where Doug and Lee talk in that caged area outside of the Drugstore.

(pointless gif is pointless, but you can see he is animated)

I'll put some of the nitty gritty of what I did under the cut, maybe something in there will help you...

=====

For starters, I will just say that I replaced the anichore, data, and txmesh ttarch2 archives for "S1E1" and the "ProjectSeason1". But if you're trying to do this swap in S2, I don't think it's necessary to also replace the "ProjectSeason2", but don't take my word for that as certain.

I extracted everything for S1E1, S1E2 (because this is where some of Travis' files were likely to be), and the ProjectSeason1 archives. Then I went through those and put all of the relevant Travis files into a side folder, separating them out into sub folder for the animations, data, and meshes.

I then copy this folder so I can rename the files without losing the originals - because I want to make sure there are "normal" Travis files in the archives when I'm done as well as the renamed files to replace Doug.

After renaming the base files, I then copy over the "normal" files since I know that Travis' normal files don't appear in S1E1.

For reference, this is the contents of my three folders with everything that I'm going to use to add or override information in the archives...

Anichore:

(note that all the files are in the folder, I have just separated them so you can see the clear distinction between the "normal Travis" files and the ones I've changed to override Doug's files)

Data:

Txmesh:

I copied the contents of those folders into the previously extracted folders for S1E1 and ProjectSeason1. Then I rebuilt the archives and replaced the archives in the Archive folder for the game.

I hope something in here is helpful.