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yinyuedijun · 2 months ago

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hiiiii i have not read or seen windbreaker my only interactions with it are bc some of my moots r into it now so ive read some fics and i saw tokyo vice on my dash and i was really pulled in by the summary so i read both parts and sincerity and the little prequel piece and oh my god it’s so good. i love the humor, the narrative voice is so witty. suo’s character is so intriguing bc as much as the reader loves and knows him there’s still so much going on that we can only guess at and i felt like that was communicated really well. i enjoyed the fact that sincerity and the prequel let us see their relationship at a different time and how we got to where they are in the present. im really interested in the reader and i felt like u did such a good job of weaving in the comedy to make some of her internal dialogue more lighthearted while still developing her emotional state really well. plus the smut was insane like 11/10 no notes. when the reader said she was excited for pussy inspections >>> like fuck yea me too!!! but anyways i loved the details we learn about her and how her fantasy is have really mundane romantic and vanilla sex. it really speaks to just how fucked up her life has been to the point where her biggest romantic dream is just to have regular sex with the man she loves. like ugh the angst interspersed with the comedy and smut was just chef's kiss. AND THAT ENDING??? WHEN HE THINKS SHE'S ASLEEP. like that did tug at my heartstrings especially when he talked about what their old friends think of him :(( and how if he was a better man he'd let her go. i read another organized crime x civilian fic for a different fandom a few years ago and it ended with the civilian person leaving his partner/his partner letting him go bc the deeper the partner he got into organized crime the more unhinged he became and how his mental state began affecting the civilian. thats a really condensed way of explaining but the events were crazy and it had me crying and screaming every chapter but that's something that ive never seen in other yakuza/gang/organized crime aus so i thought it was really cool to see how that is something that suo thinks about and has to come to terms with now that its been a few years and he can look back at his behavior.

but anyways i really really loved it and im gonna watch/read windbreaker as soon as i can now :)) so thank u for the wonderful fic 🙂‍↕️ and is tokyo vice over? i dont think i saw a completed tag on it on ur masterlist so i wanted to ask if u were leaving the world open

ANONNN I LOVE U SO MUCH TRULY THANK YOU!! 🥹 tokyo vice was an absurd self-indulgent project so I'm so very happy you gave it a shot despite not being into wbk!!! I must confess that it's wildly different from canon LOL but I do adore the canon series nevertheless, and I hope you enjoy it :-) (let us know if you do!!!)

I can't thank you enough for sending such juicy feedback abt tokyo vice, especially about the reader! I did find it somewhat stressful trying to balance the comedy of her narration with the horny and angsty and deranged events of the plot, so I'm glad that you liked that aspect of the fic !!! 🥹 and yeah despite all the comedy, she really is a traumatized meow meow. but it's okay, she can now have the normal sex of her dreams with the love of her life - as long as she can survive 4 months of orgasm denial before their wedding 😭

and LOL I love yandere charas with self-awareness so in general I love writing arcs where they love the reader enough to understand that they should let them go. the plot you're describing is sooooo up my alley and I think suo would absolutely have that thought process if the reader were even remotely mentally normal. unfortunately she is equally insane. I guess that is the tragedy of it for suo - he knows that he can never get better, and he also knows that as long as they are together, she can never get better either. fortunately for him, she could not care less ♥️

I do think tokyo vice is complete, but I do want to finish that sakura wip at some point and also write about suo and mc's sex life after they get together (which is very nasty premaritally and then really vanilla and emotional on their wedding night). I want to finish this kitsune suo pwp first though and finish my ffg commitments too 😭

anyway sorry for yapping so much HAHAH I'm just so happy that you commented on all these aspects of the fic!! thank you for reading and for sending such a wonderful ask 🥺💗

#yueshuo.asks #asks.anon

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f0rever15elf · 4 years ago

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I Just Need Five Minutes: Part 1

Part 1 of the Maxwell Lord “I Just Need Five Minutes” Series: Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4, Part 5 (Coming soon) Pairing: Maxwell Lord x f!reader Wordcount: 2,325 Rating: G Warnings: Death mentions Part 2 (Coming soon...)

Summary: Lord Corp has become the top business contender on the global stage, lead by none other than Maxwell Lord IV. His rise to glory has taken him from the lives of those he once loved, and you can only watch as he slips further and further out of reach. You had to stop it, before it was too late. You had to get inside.

A/N: This story is going to call a little bit on the comic book backstory of Maxwell Lord IV, most of which can be found in his wiki article, if you’re interested. I’m excited to write for Maxwell, his character has so much potential. And hopefully this will tide me over since the movie release has been delayed again.

Masterlist | Ao3

He was a genius. Shrewd, cunning, and charismatic. His way with words had everyone coiled tightly around his finger; he could sell holy water to the Pope if he wanted to. And with that silver tongue, that guise he wore to stroke the egos of those who ate from his palm and were none the wiser, he continued to climb higher and higher. More and more power fell into his grasp.

But a glass can only hold so much, and as his brimmed and spilled over with power and influence, so did he lose his humanity.

“Maxwell...what have you done?”

~~~~

The sun shines brilliantly in the summer sky over the wide yard in front of the Lord estate. In the lush green grass, two children play, no more than five or six years old. A boy and a girl, giggling and laughing over jokes and stories told in funny voices. It is the picture of innocence, purity. The little girl picks up a flower from the small pile they had collected, tucking it behind her ear before finding a matching one, tucking it behind the boy’s.

“We match now!” she beams in a way only a child can. “It means that you and I will be together forever!” The boy blushes at her words, soft blonde hair blowing gently in the summer breeze. His face is gentle and kind, shy even as he watches her with bright brown eyes that shine in the light. Tentatively, he sticks out his hand to her, pinky finger extended.

“You gotta promise! It doesn’t work if you don’t promise!” His serious voice makes the girl giggle before she makes a serious face, wrapping her pinky around his tightly.

“I promise! Forever and ever.” The boy smiles and nods as she says so, repeating her words back to her before they both erupt into giggles. From the balcony, the mothers of the two children look on fondly over their cups of tea. The sound of the children laughing danced on the warm breeze, pleasant in their ears. If only things could stay like this forever.

~~~~

Your pinky twitches as you stand before the gilded doors of the Lord Building, looking up at its windows, blinding in the sunlight. You would get in. You had to. Things had been put into motion that you need to stop, but the only way to do so is from the inside. With a shake of your head and a sigh, your turn on your heel, heading down the street towards home. It seems that nearly every screen you pass on your way has Maxwell’s face on it, selling empty promises and loaded bargains. And every time you see his eyes, they look a little less like the boy you use to know.

~~~~

“Max can’t meet you today, dear,” your mother says, petting your hair. To an adult familiar with grief and loss, the tightness in her voice would betray the tumultuous emotions she feels. To you, she just sounds uncomfortable, and you tilt your head in confusion. Fourteen years doesn’t provide much time to become familiar with the concept of loss, so you shrug, saddened you wouldn’t get to see your friend today.

Gone were the days of sitting in the grass to play, tucking flowers into each other’s hair. Maxwell was always busy helping his father to run the family business, and you would go months without so much as a word from him before he would show up at your door with a lily, smiling that dimpled smile at you. Promises always poured from his lips that it wouldn’t be so long next time before he came to see you.

But today… Today would change everything. Today, Maxwell’s father died.

~~~~

The door to your apartment slams shut behind you with a thud, shutting out the hustle and bustle of Metropolis. It’s small, but cozy, filled with your plants to bring a little life to the drab living room and kitchen. Taking a seat in the living room, you pull out your computer from your bag as you flip on the TV. It’s Maxwell’s face again, smiling at you with the look of a used car salesman who swears he wants only the best for his favorite customer. You know it’s not a real smile. Maxwell has a dimple when he smiles, and this charade didn’t. You shake your head as his promises of whatever you want in this perfect future fill the room, your eyes refocusing on your laptop, refreshing your emails. One meeting...that was all you needed.

~~~~

You let out a frustrated sigh as the door slams closed, your mother letting out a cry of surprise at the sound before coming to find you, resting a concerned hand on your shoulder as you throw yourself onto the couch.

“He still won’t see you?” Her gentle words just cause your heart to ache further and you nod.

“His mom greeted me, invited me in and made me tea. We chatted, but as soon as I asked about Maxwell, she stood up and ushered me from the house, asking me to not come by anymore since I couldn’t seem to stop asking for him.” You turn to look at your mother, tears in your eyes. “Why won’t he see me, Mom? Did I do something wrong?” Your mother’s heart shatters at the broken light in your eyes. She knew how much Maxwell meant to you, and that having him refuse to see you was tearing you apart.

“My sweet, you’ve done nothing wrong. Maxwell has a lot of responsibility to take on now that he’s running his father’s company. He’s very busy and doesn’t have as much time to see friends as he use to.” She brushes your hair behind your ear with delicate fingers. “I’m sure he still cares about you.”

“I miss him, Mom. I miss my best friend. It’s been three years since I’ve seen him...” Seventeen years of life and you still struggle with keeping your emotions in check, especially when it comes to Maxwell.

“I know sweetheart...When the time is right, you will see him again…”

~~~~

The alert from your inbox pulls you from your reverie, your eyes refocusing on the screen. As they do, your heart stutters in your chest

‘To Whom It May Concern,

We graciously thank you for your interest in Lord Corp. Mr. Lord has personally reviewed your product and would like to arrange to meet you on Wednesday at 3 p.m. You will have thirty minutes to make your sales pitch and answer any questions he may have. The front desk will direct you when you arrive. Please bring a valid photo ID and copies of your pitch for convince. Do not be late, Mr. Lord’s time is incredibly valued.

Cordially,

Sam Preston

Personal Assistant to the CEO’

You had gotten it. That moment you needed on the inside...you had finally gotten it. A relieved smile graces your lips as you begin to amass your files. You had one shot at this, it had to be perfect.

~~~~

You stand alone in the cemetery as you watch the caretakers laying new sod over the fresh grave. Your heart feels hollow, and only the black lace veil conceals the tears streaming down your cheeks from the world around you. Today was beautiful; cool and still with the birds singing in the trees as the sun warmed the earth. It was too beautiful for a day filled with such grief.

As the caretakers pack up their tools, one stops to rest a hand on his shoulder, passing along his condolences before continuing on his way. You nod gratefully before kneeling beside the headstone. It is modest, small and simple with a delicate engraving of a singular rose by your mother’s name. Black-gloved fingers trace along each petal and letter, your shoulders shaking with silent cries. You were now well and truly alone.

You shouldn’t have had to be alone. He should have been there with you, you had made a promise to one another. You were there when his father passed, and his mother. He didn’t even have the time to attend his own mother’s funeral, but you did. You mourned for him as they lowered a woman close enough to be your second mother into the ground beside her husband. So why were you alone now?

Where are you Maxwell?

~~~~

Your hands work to smooth the front of your dress down before you enter the lobby of Lord Corp. Slate gray with a simple black belt that held nicely to your figure but didn’t reveal too much. Professional and classy, with a dash of sexy. Nothing beyond anything any self-respecting company owner would don. Head held high and the bag you specifically reserved for important business trips and meetings over your shoulder, you make your way inside, up to the front desk.

“Welcome to Lord Corp, where the future is yours, do you have an appointment?” The intern who greets you sounds like every last bit of his soul has been sapped from him, and you pity him. Giving him a sad smile, you nod, pulling out your ID.

“I do, at 3 pm with Mr. Lord.” You give him your name as he takes the card, looking you up in the system before nodding, handing you back your ID and a visitors badge which you quickly put around your neck.

“Lily Solutions, you’re still on schedule. I’ll have you head down the hall. Take your first left, you’ll find the elevators. Take it all the way to the top and have a seat on the bench outside the double doors at the end of the hall. Sam will come and get you when Mr. Lord is ready for you.” You smile sweetly at the young man, thanking him before following your instructions. Your ears pop on the way up and you grimace, pulling out the folder with your ‘sales pitch’ inside, flipping through to make sure everything is in order. As the doors slide open and you make your way down the hall, you sigh. This floor was so much more opulent than the ground floor and you feel so out of place. Floor to ceiling paintings like the walls, depicting grandiose battles. Priceless vases and sculptures sit along marble pedestals. It’s like walking through a museum rather than an office, and your jaw clenches as you think about how he had come to acquire some of these items. When you reach the bench, you take your seat and cross your ankles to wait, trying to calm your racing heart.

“Lily Solutions?” The voice that calls out for you immediately grates on your nerves, high pitched and nasally. Looking to your right, so you a man in a pressed navy blue suit make his way towards you, and you stand to meet him, taking his extended hand. “I am Sam Preston, Mr. Lord’s personal assistant. Did you bring your requested documents?” The way he looked down his nose at you makes your blood boil, but you paste on the sweetest smile you can, nodding as you hand over the folder.

“You’ll find copies of all requested articles inside, neatly labeled for yours and Mr. Lord’s personal convenience.” Sam makes a disinterested sound in the back of his throat, snapping the folder shut before checking his watch.

“Very good. This way.” He strides past you and as soon as he is in front of you, you drop the sweet smile. Maxwell, why hire someone like him? You shake your head as Sam opens the door at the end of the hall, getting your salesman smile in place. “Mr. Lord, your 3 o’clock is here from Lily Solutions.” Sam ushers you inside and you are taken aback once again at how over the top the design of the office is. Floor to ceiling windows line the whole back wall with arguably the best view in Metropolis and the curtains that hang every so often are of a rich red velvet with gold filigree. The marble tiles cause the click of your heels to echo as you make your way to the center of the room beside Sam, your eyes locked on the man sitting at the large mahogany desk.

It’s been seventeen years since you last saw Maxwell, and your heart ached for the man who appraises you with shrewd and cunning eyes. With a wave of his hand, Sam nods, leaving the folder on the desk to make his way out of the room. The large oaken door closing echos ominously through the room as Maxwell stands, coming around his desk to face you, hands in his pockets. If he recognized you at all, he didn’t show it.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Lord. I realize your time is very valuable, so I won’t keep you long.” Maxwell chuckles humorlessly at your greetings, leaning back against his desk.

“You say that, but you bring me this fake, garbage company in an attempt for a sales pitch?” His voice is rough and hard as flint, no trace of that gentle sound he once had. “What game are you playing?”

“No game, sir.”

“I don’t believe you.” He pushes off of his desk, walking back around it. “Everyone has a game they play, and if you’re not going to tell me yours, I’ll have you escorted out.” When he picks up the phone, your heart leaps into your throat and you dart forward pressing down on the receiver, cutting it off. He glares at you in disbelief. The audacity, he thinks, is astounding and he would make sure you suffer for it.

“Maxwell, please.” His eyes flash at the use of his first name, something in the way it sounds in your voice bringing him to pause. “I just need five minutes.”

~~~~~

Taglist is open! Requests are open!

#Maxwell lord #maxwell lord x you #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x f!reader #wonder woman 84 #ww84 #my fic

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years ago

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alright babe heres the first 5 I saw: "why are you covered in neon body paint?" "best not to ask" and "I cant breathe, I cant-" and "I cant walk just go on without me" and " ive had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with" and "hey guys im here and im ready to bitch"

hey guys, saph and i were facetiming earlier and she dared me to finally answer this ask she sent in like fall 2018 except i had to use all the prompts and the result is…well, i’m not sure what it is. but its got criminal race and spot and a cryptic ass albert who makes lava lamps for his niece.�� so yah. enjoy!

warnings: its pretty much crack, but there is a brief anxiety attack

ship: platonic race/al/spot

word count: 2490

editing: no

Something a Little Off-Kilter

Race was nine years old when his ma grabbed him by the chin, turned his face towards her and told him in all her harsh Italian-mother sternness, “We do not run from people, Antonio. You have Mancini blood in your veins and Mancini’s do not run!” And Race, with eyes blurred from tears and nose dripping with blood from the fight he’d just fled, nodded vigorously before trudging miserably to his bathroom to clean up (and cry a little more).

But he’d learned two things that day. One: what a maiden name was and that his ma’s is Mancini and two: running is for losers who never want to stop running. And he’d more or less kept up that sentiment, even if it cost him a black eye and some dignity in some circumstances. Like that one time in eleventh grade when Spencer Reiding called him a fairy and in turn, Race had beat the living shit out of him until his little entourage had shown up and knocked him out cold. But seriously, ‘fairy’? It’s not 19-fucking-50.

Race supposes, though, that all good sentiments meet their maker at one point or another. Self-preservation over morals and all that, right?

“Floor it, Christ, are you flooring it!?” His grip on the ‘oh shit’ bar is white-knuckled and he can hear himself panting as he twists in his seat for what’s probably the hundredth time. The blue and red flashing of the cop car that had been following them is nothing but a speck at this point, but Race isn’t really keen on taking any chances right now. Tonight had been a close fucking call.

“Yes, I’m flooring it, asshole!” Spot shouts, swerving around a lone subaru that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the otherwise empty stretch of desert highway. Normally, Race would be surprised at the sheer lack of cars that are out, but he supposes 4 am in buttfuck Arizona is not prime time for travels.

Letting out a little whine, Race turns to face forward again, stealing a quick glance at Spot as he does so. He can see the faint worry lines on his face, reflected from the miniscule lights of the dash. They’d opted to leave the headlights off for optimal covertness, but the moonlight over the desert proves to be more than sufficient.

Spot’s anxious, Race can tell. He remembers a year ago when the two of them had first met in that dingy bar in Brooklyn. Spot had been nothing but a stoic mask at that time, only showing faint hints of amusement every now and then. It had been incredibly disconcerting, especially to Race who wears his heart on his sleeve, to behold such utter passivity, but Race had since learned to read him. Spending everyday together for twelve months is really the best lesson in a person’s tells, Race has found. And really, when he spares a second thought to it, their situation and relationship therefore, is a strange one. Two broke college grads down on their luck and bearing fuck all from their families meeting by chance and somehow finding themselves stuck in a loop of money laundering and identity theft in order to stay above ground. Maybe not the best solution to their problems, but hey, Race never claimed to be smart with his choices. And the rush of adrenaline is as much of a drug as the coke they sell on the side.

“God fucking damnit, is he still following us?” Spot says, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror.

“Dude, he caught us balls deep tryna break into a fucking bank. He ain’t gon’ let us off that easy.” Race says, “Jesus fuck I told you we should stick to the other stuff. We were making big cash just fine pulling paychecks from easy civvies.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can tell me ‘told you so’ when we get somewhere I can think.” Spot sounds exhausted and on-edge and Race himself is looking forward to this whole ordeal blowing over so they can find a place to ditch this car and grab a new one and maybe crash at some shitty inn no cop would think to look. Yeah, laying low for a couple of days sounds perfect right now. They don’t even have to leave the room. Denny’s orders in, right?

“Oh, I will.” Race says, sighing an internal sigh of relief as the distant lights of a small town come into view. Thank god.

Spot mumbles something that sounds like, “Fucking finally,” and eases up on the gas, turning abruptly once they enter the city perimeter.

They’ve gotten good at this: losing tails, but Race still holds his breath as Spot loops around the backroads of the town, looking for a place to dump the car. It’s a few minutes until Race can see the lights of the cop car reflecting off the drug store they’d passed upon first entrance and he hisses out another curse, jabbing Spot in the arm.

“Stop here,” He says, “If he finds the car, fine, but he sure as hell ain’t finding us in it.”

Spot looks like he wants to fight back, but instead, he surprises Race by pulling to a surprisingly quiet stop by an old auto-shop. He gestures for Race to get out and swiftly grabs their duffels from the back seat, tossing Race’s to him, both pausing when the cop car cruises in front of the alleyway closest to them. Inaudibly, they let out synchronous sighs of relief when it continues on.

They cheat behind the auto-shop and are barely settled into identical crouches when a quiet, “Psst,” captures both of their attention. Race jumps violently, only barely recovering in time to slap a hand over Spot’s mouth as he begins to shout in surprise.

“Over here,” the voice whispers again.

The two of them turn to look at where the auto-shop’s back door is now open and Race squints as the silhouette of a man comes into view. He can see the man waving a hand in front of him, beckoning them closer, before exchanging a look with Spot. A silent conversation passes between them, we’ve made bad choices before, what’s one more? And Spot shrugs a little before hoisting his duffel back onto his shoulder and tiptoeing towards the man. Race follows behind warily.

Now that he’s closer, Race can see that the man is about their age- young and a little rugged looking with hair that curls towards his jaw at the nape of his neck. His face and arms are splattered with- well, Race’s first thought is that it’s blood, but upon further inspection, he sees that it’s paint. Bright yellow and orange neon paint.

He has a lot of questions. Like, how the fuck did you notice us lurking behind your building at four am? And, why did you think it was a good idea to interact with two obviously suspicious looking men? But all that comes out is, “why are you covered in neon paint?”

Spot drops his head in a groan and the guy laughs somewhat maniacally, “best not to ask, it’s a long story. Well, actually it’s not. You see, it’s my niece’s birthday tomorrow and she really likes lava lamps so I’m hand making a few for her and that includes painting the bases and she’s going through that quirky eight year old phase where everything rainbows and neon is super cool, so I’m making them neon tie-dye,” he says it all in one breath and Race finds himself struggling to keep up, “anyway, the names Albert. You two look like you need some help. Wanna come in?”

The whole situation’s fucking weird, but Race and Spot exchange another look, this one holding the quick debate of, what other options do we got? And a moment later, they’re hustling into the dingy auto shop.

The lights are dim on the inside, but it’s a surprisingly cozy set up. The side dedicated to cars is immaculately organized, with a few hanging from the ceiling and others lined neatly on the ground, propped up on floor jacks where necessary. On the other side is clearly where Albert lives, with a couple curtains sanctioning off a twin bed and desk, where sure enough, three lava-lamps, varying in color and size, are set on a few sheets of newspaper.

Spot frowns as Albert locks the door, turning to them with a smile, “I’m assuming the cop car out there’s for you guys?” When Race and Spot don’t answer, he continues, too lighthearted for the situation, “Yeah, figured. Feel free to lay low here ‘til the threat’s passed.”

“If the police are clearly after us, aren’t we the threats?” Spot asks, “Wait, no, hold on, aren’t you gonna ask us what we did? Aren’t you put off at all?”

Albert waves a hand, “Nah, I do this all the time. Just don’t try to murder me and we’re good. You look like nice enough people, just a little down on your luck. I don’t mind you camping out here while ya need.” He sets off towards his desk, seemingly to finish the lava-lamps, “The door across from the supply closet is technically an office, but I stuck a mattress and some blankets there for people like yourselves. Feel free to crash. If the bull comes by, I didn’t see anything.” With that, he’s gone. Behind the curtain as if he’d never been there.

Race blinks, bemused, and looks at Spot.

“What the fuck did he mean, ‘I do this all the time’? Who the fuck is this guy?”

Spot shakes his head, looking more lost than Race has ever seen him, “Hell if I know.”

The office-turned-guest-room turns out to be more spacious than Race had anticipated and he and Spot are sitting on the mattress, munching on granola bars that were placed unceremoniously in a bowl by the door, when they hear a knock from outside.

Race feels a pit of dread form in his gut and he lowers his granola bar, appetite lost. It’s the cop, it’s gotta be. Who else would be knocking before dawn? And oh god, they’d left the car right out front, how much more obvious can they be?

Race glances at Spot, who’s also stopped eating, and hisses, “If he catches us, run. Go on without me.”

He means it, but Spot just huffs out a bitter laugh, “As if. Now shut up.”

They strain their ears, listening as Albert opens the door, feigning sleep they know he hasn’t gotten in his voice, “Officer. Is there a problem?”

They can’t hear what the cop says, but Albert’s side of the conversation is fairly clear, “Hm? Oh, the paint? I was working on a project for my niece and must have dozed off before cleaning up. Anyway, how can I help you?” There’s a pause, “Two- what? I haven’t heard anything about no bank robbers, that’s terrible! I- oh, that car, that’s…strange, that wasn’t here when I went to sleep. Sure, you can check around back, but I doubt ya’d find anything. I’da heard if someone were moving around out there and I didn’t hear nothing last night. Yes sir, I- oh? Nah, I’m afraid I can’t letcha search my shop. Not without a warrant. Mm, sorry officer. Yes, I understand the caliber of the situation, but it is my legal right to deny your entrance to my home without substantial reasoning. Mhm, but see, that’s a hunch. I don’t see no warrant. Okay, officer. Yes. just around back. Go ahead. Alright, officer, okay. Nice chat. Goodbye.”

The door closes a second later and Race lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. All at once, the adrenaline of the night hits him. They’d almost been fucking caught, Christ, what if they’d ended up in jail? What if they still end up in jail? He couldn’t survive jail, fuck, he wouldn’t even be able to afford and lawyer and shit-

His body is shaking, vibrating really, and a weight is steadily growing on his chest. Involuntary tears prick at his eyes and he brings a hand up to the front of his shirt, tugging as if that would release some of the pressure from his lungs.

“Race?” Spot sounds distant and Race turns to him, knowing he looks panicked, but having no capacity to change that, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Race says, voice high and pitchy, “I can’t really breathe, I can’t-”

“Shit, hey, it’s okay. I think you’re having an anxiety attack,” Spot says, sounding uncharacteristically gentle, “I know a lot happened tonight, but we’re okay,” He places a comforting hand on Race’s shoulder, “Just breathe, it’s okay.”

Race nods, closing his eyes and focusing on Spot’s touch, allowing it to ground him. A few moments later, he’s feeling calmer, if still a little shaken.

“You alright?” Spot asks, not removing his hand.

“Yeah, I dunno, man,” Race says honestly, “It’s been a rough ass night and all I want right now is something to drink and someone to cuddle with,” his eyes fly open as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that. He’s not sure why he said that. It’s not even like he and Spot have that sort of relationship, nor is he particularly seeking that out. But now that it’s out there, Race wouldn’t say no to some good old physical comfort.

Spot seems to sense that and laughs a little as he removes his hand from where he’s still gripping Race to sling his arm around his shoulders. It’s a little more intimate than they usually are, but friendly and comfortable nonetheless. Race takes a deep, shaky breath and rests his head back against the wall, leaning into Spot’s side.

“Yeah, it’s been a fucked up night and I think I’m still deciding whether or not it’s real or just some weird fever dream,” Spot says, “Like, who even is that guy? What the fuck is his deal?”

“Lord even knows,” Race says, “But I think I got my fill of crazy for a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They lapse into silence and Race is just starting to drift off when the door to the office opens and Albert pokes his head in, somehow covered in even more paint than before and holding up a bottle of tequila, “hey guys, I’m here and I’m ready to bitch. The cop is gone now, though I wouldn’t recommend skipping town just yet- better safe than sorry. Also, bank robbers, huh? Haven’t had your kind in a while. You’re a fun type, though the arson that I met last week was pretty spicy. Anyway, drinks? I know it’s early for alcohol, but I get the feeling y’all need it.”

Spot doesn’t even try to lower his voice as he says, “Yeah, I don’t think our fill of crazy is over yet.”

don’t ask me what that was about, i genuinely don’t know

thanks for reading, chiefs

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p-artsypants · 5 years ago

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Queen! I have come to ask another question if you don’t mind! After reading “Longest Night” I have been wanting to start writing so I can produce works as amazing as yours! The only thing is... I don’t know how to write well... For example my dialogue is boring like “Marinette said”, and when I end up writing a chapter it’s so short and fast paced. I want to produce a story like you did, long, intense, exciting! Do you have links, information, anything for a beginner writer? Much appreciated!

ME? QUEEN?? I’M HONORED!!

(I am not a professional writer, and what I say below is not gospel, but what I do in my own writing.)

Now, hold on. Boring? Let’s say simple. Which is absolutely fine. You have to start somewhere, and you only get better with practice. For me, I read a lot of older novels for examples of writing.

Tumblr talks about fancy writing. They like to say ‘don’t use said’ ‘don’t use their names over and over’. Except I totally do. If you use ‘said’ a lot, people stop reading it. It acts like a colon, like in a script. You can flavor it of course, by using ‘whispered’ and ‘shouted’ appropriately. Sometimes I just replace it with an action.

She moved closer to the door. “What did you say?”

That acts as a tag for the person talking. But you don’t have to come up with a hundred different ways to say ‘said’.

Same thing with name tags. The more you use careers, ages, hair color, anything, the more it interrupts the sentence. It’s fine to be simple and just use names. DON’T USE HAIR COLOR! I used to do it, but when I did notice that it wasn’t good writing, I started to notice it in things I was reading. If there’s only two people talking, one male, one female, ‘he’ and ‘she’ should suffice for tags.

Every time someone new talks, tag the dialogue.

Example of what NOT to do:

The designer exasperated, “Adrien, this habit is making your grades slip.”

The blond moaned, “Dad, you just don’t understand! I’m expressing myself!”

The father articulated, “yes, but rollerderby is a waste of time, and not to mention dangerous.”

The fencer uttered, “It’s who I am, Father! It’s in my blood!”

While none of this is necessarily wrong, I find it distracting. You can mention hair color once, to let the readers know that character’s hair color. But I wouldn’t use it as a tag. Using careers or age is fine if the character is not introduced. I used that a lot in Longest Night for the henchmen in the background.

An arm linked with his and pulled him away. “Oh Chat Noir, you shouldn’t drink that. The floor is dirty…”

Grimalkin whined, and met the eyes of the stranger.

No, not a stranger. A tall man, wearing a gray and pink suit with a hat. Mr. Ramier. “Thank you for stopping those muggers, even though you’re in no condition to do so.”

Grimalkin wanted to hiss and pull away and hide, but the pigeon man had always been kind to him. Unless he was akumatized, and even then, it was a relief to be fighting him.

“Come along now, the police will be here any minute.”

Grimalkin whined again and tried to pull away, with little effort.

“Mr. Kemper wants you to hide in the back room. No doubt they’re looking for you!”

He…wanted him to hide? That was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Grimalkin followed Mr. Ramier to the back room that Mr. Kemper was gesturing to.

Up until the bolded sentence, the owner of the store Grimalkin was in was only referred to as ‘the owner’ because he didn’t have a name. After Mr. Ramier says the name out loud, the tag changes from ‘the owner’ to ‘Mr. Kemper’.

In English classes all through High School, teachers told you not to use run on sentences or incomplete sentences. But, I tend to use both. In fiction writing, a lot of the rules don’t apply. Grammar is still pretty hard and fast, but sentence structure is more loosy goosy. Run on sentences for fast paces sections that go on and on and makes you hold your breath and hold the anxiety. And incomplete sentences. To make you breathe. Focus.

Commas and periods make you breathe. Which. is. why. you. read. this. sentence. like. you. have. Asthma. Using punctuation is a must, but it’s also a handy tool for setting the tone.

I write dialogue the way I talk in real life. Incomplete sentences, pauses, and stuttering in the form of repeated words with a dash. I was recently told by a reviewer that I use ellipses (...) too much in my writing, and that it’s distracting. So, use that one to your own discretion.

Marinette said, “Adrien, I need to talk to you.

Adrien looked at her. “Sure what’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know...I have feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“Feelings.” She confirmed, a little too firmly. “For...you.”

His eyebrows raised. “Are they...good feelings?”

Alya leaned in. “Good. Good feelings, Sunshine.”

“Okay, they’re good feelings. Would you care to clarify?”

She opened her mouth, pausing, and then, “No.”

“Marinette...” Alya gave her a look.

“Okay, yes. Alright.”

Adrien just stared at Marinette, his eyes kind. Never judging. He was her friend, wasn’t he? He cared about her. Surely, he’d never laugh at her or be offended by her being completely and utterly in love with him--

“I...I love you.” She blurted.

His eyes widened.

“I’m-I’m in love...with you. Is what I mean. I mean, anyone would love you. And even if I wasn’t in love with you, I’d still love you, you know? Even Alya loves you! Right Alya?”

Alya just rested a hand on her forehead.

“Right, so,” Marinette continued. “I’m just...just letting you-you know, know? And I hope that’s-that’s cool with you. That I’m cool with you, er, that you’re cool with me. Loving you.”

“Marinette.” Adrien said.

“Hm?” She squeaked.

“It’s more than cool. It’s amazing.”

Now, as far as pacing. That’s something you’ll have to learn as you go, because I haven’t found a hard rule for pacing. For Longest Night, I have sections that are very flowery:

Paris was a city trapped in time. The rain blurred the past from the future, the happy and the sad, the night and the day. Erik Satie tried to emulate this effect with his Gymnopedie, and the impressionist painters worked with soft edges to create an atmosphere of calming mystery.

Here, on the sidewalk somewhere in Montparnasse, Adrien and Marinette, or rather, Grimalkin and Lady Lacrima, stood in the haze, freedom and imprisonment blurring lines. They were out, Salo was dead…

But it didn’t really feel real.

This section creates an opening scene. It describes the setting and gives the audience a clear image in their mind about what it’s like. But there’s nothing actually happening. The main characters are standing still, and there’s rain. I could have easily just said:

It was raining. Grimalkin and Lady Lacrima embraced on the sidewalk. They were free, but it didn’t feel like it.

This is saying the exact same thing, only more concise and with less imagery. Now, if that wasn’t confusing enough, consider not dragging it on for too long. Leave some of it up to the imagination. If I pick up a fic, and the first three paragraphs are talking about how the light is so gently flittering into the room, I might just glaze over.

It was the perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. A soft bed, cradling her as if she was fragile, and a warm blanket weighing her to the bed. A soft ambient light held back the darkness, but didn’t pierce through her lids.

Marinette tried to open her eyes, caked as they were. The light was dim, illuminating gridded ceiling titles immediately above her. It smelled faintly of chemicals, while a droning hiss carried through the air. Her neck ached, but as she tilted her head, she briefly looked around the room. No one to her left, though she did see a strange machine and a metal stand, an IV stand. A tube ran from the bag down to her arm. A door cracked open revealed a bathroom and another door on the far side of the room was closed, but silhouetted figure stood in the window.

To her right, she found the owner of the voice, her own mother, sitting in a chair by her side, hand in hers, and reading from a book. Jane Eyre, as it looked. Farther down the bed, her father sat in another chair, his hand wrapped loosely around her foot.

Behind her parents, orange light filtered through the light curtains.

A bright red blob caught her attention. Tikki laid curled up on her chest.

A moment more, allowing her brain to digest all she could see, and she realized she was in a hospital.

I took the time to really flesh out the setting in this chapter for a few reasons. A) We’ve never seen this hospital room in the TV show, so we have no visuals for what it looks like. B) I’m describing it from Marinette’s point of view. She doesn’t know what the machines are for, and she doesn’t know who the person standing in the door is. I, as the author, would know, but even though this is written in 3rd person, it’s limited. I’m giving everyone the same knowledge that Marinette has.

I wrote a one shot that all goes very fast. It never really slows down. That’s because I never felt the need to slow things down. There’s a few sections where I really described the anxiety that Marinette was feeling, using her senses and what she was doing.

As Marinette looked across the three girls, her stomach churned with unpleasant feelings. Nerves, nausea, dread…

And idea popped into her head, speaking in a voice that sounded a lot like Tikki. But she simply waved it away with a shake of her head.

‘Please please please don’t be embarrassing and try to ruin this in a fit of jealous rage.’ Alya’s voice piped up, as the angel on the other shoulder.

She swallowed, and looked to Adrien.

He was hunched in his seat, his leg bouncing quickly. She couldn’t see his face, but his body spoke of uncontested anxiety.

Her voice crawled up her throat, resolution pumping through her veins, pounding in her ears, sweating through her palms.

This was a bad idea, a very very bad idea—

“Excuse me, Mr. Agreste?” She blurted, right as he was about to speak.

All eyes were on her, and she felt the immense pressure of it all. This was not like being Ladybug. These weren’t akumas and she had no authority in her civilian clothes.

“Yes, Miss Dupain-Cheng?”

Gabriel looked right at her, staring her down. But his tone held no judgement or impatience. Just curiosity.

“I was hoping, if it isn’t too late. May I also throw my proverbial hat in the ring?”

“You?”

“Yes. Of course, I know I wasn’t invited. So I understand if it’s a no.”

Gabriel was quiet a moment, thinking.

Adrien, however, was staring at her, mouth open, eyes wide. Utterly gobsmacked.

“Adrien, do you have any objections to having Miss Dupain-Cheng join the others in the interview?”

He breathed, his whole body relaxing in one sweep. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

Maybe it was the nerves, but Marinette could have sworn he looked relieved.

“Then I see no problem. Please bring your chair over with the others.”

“Thank you sir,” she said, humbly.

By jumping into Marinette’s head for a second, we kind of pause time. Just for a moment. Enough to make it interesting.

Wow this went on for a while. I hope it was helpful and that I didn’t come off as condescending anywhere! Happy writing!!

#writing help #ml #fanfiction #writing advice #Anonymous

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itsworn · 7 years ago

Text

She Came to Love the “Funky” 1970s Paint Job on her 1966 Pontiac GTO Street/Strip Car

Jennifer Murphy grew up a Pontiac-loving motorhead who drove a series of beefed-up Ponchos while living just outside New York City in Rockland County, New York. First there was a sweet 1969 LeMans that became her main steed and then a series of stout F-Bodies.

She met her boyfriend, Mike Spina, a little more than 20 years ago. The twosome made frequent trips to Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey, where they would take on a little bracket racing for weekend fun. A single mom on a budget, Jennifer didn’t have a racer to call her own, so Mike would let her drive one of his hopped-up rides. It was an enjoyable time for sure, but Jenn wanted to get a little more serious, and the best way to do that was to procure a fast ride of her own.

Poncho Picker

Since funds were limited, her purchase would need to be well thought out. She and Mike would need to address just the necessities for getting her down the track quickly and safely. She knew that if she bought a car with “some assembly required,” well, that just might not ever happen due to time and money constraints.

After looking at several cars that didn’t make the cut, Mike got a call about a GTO for sale locally. “I wasn’t actually looking for a GTO specifically, but I wanted whatever I bought to be real, not a clone or fake,” Jennifer says. When they checked out the Goat, “I wasn’t really thrilled with the paint,” she admits. “It showed its age and it was a bit funky to me.” That funk was a brilliant candy coat, with custom graphics laid out in a 1970s-style panel paint job.

On the plus side, the GTO ran well and had a four-speed between the buckets. It wasn’t an original car by any means, sporting several key modifications, and that was just fine with Jennifer. That would give her cart blanche to make changes without the guilt that sometimes comes with disturbing a stock ride.

The car didn’t come with any power options; the brakes and steering were manual. “So when it was time for a test drive, the owner asked me if I could handle the GTO,” Jennifer says. “‘Challenge accepted,’ was my answer!” She hit the street with the pumped-up Pontiac and put it through its paces. Jennifer didn’t pull the trigger on the deal that night, but over the weekend she could not stop thinking about that GTO. She knew she had to go back and get it.

Poncho Power

Once in her possession, it didn’t take long to get it to the track. It wasn’t the fastest ride, but bracket racing was a blast with her car! And a funny thing happened over time. That funky paint job started to grow on her. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a garage to keep the car in, so the elements took their toll on the vibrant skin over the next few years.

Recently Jennifer decided that the car needed to be refreshed. That meant a new paint job in addition to going through the mechanicals. But since she was now attached to the seasoned custom paint job, she decided the GTO should be reskinned in the candy paint, and the wild graphics needed to be replicated as well. The problem was sourcing a shop that could not only spray the candy coat but also duplicate the graphics.

They searched for some time for the right crew to handle the job before finally getting a break. At a large car show in Orchard Beach, New York, they spotted a similarly painted car—a low rider basted in candy red and sporting some crazy air-brushed skulls. Intrigued, they starting talking to the owner, Marco Flores, and told him about their paint dilemma. Turns out he had painted his extreme ride, and he offered his services to redo the paint and graphics on Jenn’s GTO.

They would wait a year or so until Marco secured a new shop in which to perform his magic, and then they had to wait another year while he caught up on previously promised work. When it was the GTO’s turn, it was brought to Marco’s lair, a dark, desolate, no-frills cinderblock garage, where the Goat was torn down to its shell. As parts came off the car, Jennifer had them cleaned and rechromed. The engine was pulled and rebuilt while Marco laid down the House of Kolor Kandy Apple Red and replicated the Pontiac’s graphics on the flanks and hood.

Once the paint was finished and the motor installed, the Goat came back to Jennifer’s, where Mike showed her the basics of rewiring a car. After that, the pair reinstalled the interior, replaced the axles out back, and checked off all the details. From start to finish, the restoration took about five years, but to Jennifer every second was well worth it.

Poncho Punch

This is no stock GTO by any means. The motor was built from a 400ci block, stuffed with 10.5 pistons and a Crane Ram Air IV cam, and topped with a set of 428 heads with Ferrea valves. Spent gases are sent into a set of three-chamber Flowmaster mufflers by way of Hedman Hedders. Shifting is done by a Muncie M21, and the power is laid down by a Chevy-12 bolt with 4.11 gears.

Other go-fast goodies include a Stewart-Warner electric fuel pump pushing go-juice through a half-inch line, an MSD ignition, and a Holley Street Dominator intake fitted with a Holley 650-cfm double-pumper. A homemade Ram Air pan sits on top, funneling cold air into this Poncho powerplant.

Many of the parts on the car now were there when it was transformed into a 1970s street machine, including the air shocks and the ladder bars. Boxed lower control arms and the two driveshaft loops were there when Jennifer bought the car. “There was also a stopper welded onto the clutch pedal to prevent it from traveling all the way up, which is an old racing trick,” she says. The cool finned M/T diff cover was also added during its street machine years.

The car was back out on the streets and at the track in 2012. It’s then that Jennifer and Mike christened her Pandora, as this “rejuvenation” process started with just a paint job and turned into them basically opening up Pandora’s Box. Though the process was trying at times, the results are just mind-blowing. This GTO is one gleaming nod to the 1970s, and built not only to look rad on the street but also to run wild on the track. It’s no doubt that to Jennifer, the best thing about this ride by far is that it’s hers. She got her Goat, and she couldn’t be happier.

At a Glance

1966 GTO Owned by: Jennifer Murphy Restored by: Owner; Mike Spina; Marco Flores (paint) Engine: 400ci V-8 Transmission: Muncie M21 4-speed manual Rearend: Chevrolet 12-bolt with 4.11 gears Interior: Black vinyl bucket seat Wheels: 15×4 front, 15×7 rear Rocket Racing Tires: 26×6.00 Mickey Thompson Sportsman front, 275/60R15 Mickey Thompson ET Street Radial rear Special parts: Mooneyes tach, AM radio, fuel pressure gauge, Rally dash, console, ribbon etched glass, custom paint and graphics

Longtime Pontiac enthusiast Jennifer Murphy loved racing her boyfriend’s cars at the local track, but she knew it would be more fun to run her own ride down the strip. That’s when she found this 1970s street machine and built it into both a wild cruiser and weekend racetrack bruiser.

Even though the “funky” paint job that the GTO wore didn’t thrill her when she bought it, she came to realize that it was part of the car’s personality. When it came time to restore the Goat, she tracked down an expert painter familiar with these kind of graphics and had the wild paint job replicated.

This GTO was originally ordered with a 389/Tri-power/four-speed setup, but when Jennifer found the car it had the 400/four-barrel/Muncie M21. She didn’t mind that the original engine was gone, as it gave her peace-of-mind when it came to changing things to her liking. She added the custom Ram Air pan since the scoop had already been opened up when she got the GTO.

Everything they could chrome they did. That includes the hoodscoop, heater core box, hood hinges, mounting brackets, bumper brackets (with tow tabs welded on), and master cylinder.

Since this would be a track car as well as a car show cruiser, Jennifer and her boyfriend, Mike Spina, built it up with both uses in mind. The car possesses cool period-perfect race pieces: ladder bars, two driveshaft loops, and a heavy duty 12-bolt rear (out of a Chevelle) that was assembled with Superior axles and track-friendly 4.11 gears.

The interior of the GTO has seen a few modifications and add-ons as well. The original buckets were redone by Jennifer, and she installed a set of fresh door panels and carpet. A Mooneyes tach sits on the column along with Stewart-Warner water temperature and oil pressure gauges. An aftermarket 1960s-perfect wood steering wheel keeps this ride pointed in the right direction.

“This says it all. That’s me,” says Jennifer about her personalized license plate.

The post She Came to Love the “Funky” 1970s Paint Job on her 1966 Pontiac GTO Street/Strip Car appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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