#and the set changes were smooth and efficient | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tunastime · 2 months

Text

A Gear of the Heart, Starting

just a little something I wrote for somebody's (@shepscapades) birthday back in November :3 after I asked what etho and bdubs would've been like shortly after etho's deviation. this is the few times before last life where bdubs realizes etho might be a good friend, and how their relationship changes. comes right before A Gear of the Heart, Turning! (4653 words)

Etho remembers quite a bit.

He remembers the ricochet of the explosion through his left side. He remembers a dozen errors across his vision, showing every unit damaged by the blast, the fractals of fracturing snaking up his arm, the shattered remains of his central programming lingering like a livewire.

Over and over he can remember the pitch of Bdubs’ voice and had to wonder his own diagnosis at that moment. Bdubs watching his android die in his name—he remembers that, too. Bdubs didn’t even ask for that. It was something Etho gave to him. He’s not sure he could even say why, either.

It remained a bitter flavor he couldn't identify, even as Xisuma assured him he was okay. Something had happened then, sitting on that floor, thirium in hand. Some movement in his chest he couldn’t place. It wasn’t anything physical, but it felt like some gear of his nonexistent heart had started, turned—rotated. And all he could do was ask himself why. What’s he supposed to do with that?

He doesn’t know. Fine.

Etho goes back to work at someone’s request. Not even his own request, either, so he has to wonder if maybe Doc put him up to it. Him being Bdubs. Him being Bdubs who shifted back and forth on his feet at Etho’s door—a facade of a base in the process of being designed. If one could even call it a base, yet.

And even though he was increasingly certain that Bdubs had been told to ask—and Etho asked him if he’d been asked to help, and he was adamant about asking by himself, that’s what he said. He said: “You think I gotta be told to ask people for help? I can’t just be doin’ things on my own?” and it had felt so much like doublespeak that Etho didn’t even fight to differentiate his tone.

But Bdubs had asked if he wanted to help with the horse course. Terraforming—it should be right up his alley, if he’s still into that kind of stuff. Figured he was the expert—or so it goes. Etho had nodded. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He supposes he could have easily said no.

But every part of him yearned to say yes.

So he did.

The dust sifts through his fingers.

Etho perches in the grass, partially hunched as he leans over his line of redstone, shrouded by the hill half-built around him. He’d spent most of the week prior carving out the lines of the track, setting posts for buildings, laying out blueprints for Bdubs to finalize. Today, he lays his line meticulously, dust shifting in his hands. They still shake a bit—nothing a human would notice, nothing that disrupted the flow of his lines, but the overworked gears still shifted in protest as he worked. He could see the faded overlay of the project in his vision if he focused. It crackled, slightly blue-yellow, orange glowing indicators where action was needed, where there were mistakes to be corrected.

It isn’t his redstone to fix. The lines under his hands were—freshly laid by his near-expert technique—but the deeper lines, noteblock announcements, droppers, doorgates, the flourish of the house course, weren’t. Etho smooths out the line he was standing near with his thumb.

There was nothing wrong with the laid redstone, really. It’s just. Well. It’s not even. It takes up so much space. It lacks the efficiency and tidiness he practiced to a precision. It radiated Bdubs in an overpowering way, one that might turn a gear of the heart—one he didn’t have, of course. Etho’s lines are neat, rigid, conforming to his perfect mental map.

He lets down his section of dust, drifting over to the dispenser system. He pushes a line further into place, brushing dust back from the side. Further on, where the line crosses, he readjusts it, he smooths them from start to end of line. His hands work where his mind recalculates, looking for errors along the redstone already laid out by Bdubs. Programs bubble up to assist; he dismisses a message, and another as he works. The line straightens from source to sink.

As he passes, searching for another correction, he hears someone above him. In the corner of his vision, another message notification pings: from Bdubs.

They’re all from Bdubs, actually, now that he notices in full. He blinks, mouth twisting into a frown. Whoops.

He hears someone—Bdubs, he realizes, as he notes the fall of his feet, and the sigh he hops down from his horse, the shuffle of said horse, hooves on grass—clear their throat. Bdubs shuffles around as Etho moves back over to his finished redstone, dusting his hands on the sides of his pants. He lifts the small bag of dust, twisting the tie shut around his fingers as he travels back up the line to recheck the connections.

“Etho?” Bdubs calls. Etho straightens, just on instinct alone, glancing up at the stretch of sky he can see. It’s bright blue, barely dotted with clouds, and the grass looks warm with sun. He fixes where the dust starts as he sections off the end, tossing the rest of the redstone over to his sling bag.

“Under the hill!”

Bdubs leans over the edge, tilting his head at Etho as he peers into the dark. It takes him a moment to find Etho’s face, partially obscured by black fabric and the fluff of wool around his collar. Etho tilts his head, raising his eyebrows.

“Did you need something?” he asks, arm hanging loosely by his side. Bdubs frowns, too, watching Etho’s expression. As his eyes seem to adjust to the dark, his gaze falls on the lines of redstone. He pauses there for a long moment. In that moment, Etho feels something in his chest grind, almost to a noticeable ache. If he could pull in a breath to settle it, he might have, but the sensation and minute sound passes as soon as he moves his hand to press flat against his regulator. Bdubs is gone when he looks up, reappearing only as he drops into the cavern, catching himself on the wall. He readjusts his cloak around his shoulders, shuffling into the low-light.

“Etho,” he says, still frowning. Etho looks him over. He watches Bdubs set his hands on his hips, but his heart rate stays even and his temperature level. The only thing that changes is the tone of his voice, fluctuating with a pattern Etho recognizes as forcing something. Bdubs takes a long breath in and lets it out. Etho’s eyes find the twitch of his fingers as he folds his arms, rather than the sharp curve of his mouth.

“Yes?” Etho asks. He feels his pump work a little harder. It kind of hurts still, whatever’s stopped working in his chest. He flicks his eyes, recalling a diagnostic, setting it to run in the background as he closes out of the overlays and the world returns to yellowish-grey. Bdubs is still frowning.

“You mind tellin’ me what’s wrong with this redstone?”

Etho blinks. The diagnostic comes up clear.

“What do you mean?” he says, his expression shifting into something copying amusement. He’s trying. He’s at least trying to mimic the emotions he sees. Soon enough it’ll feel natural, he’s certain. “What’s wrong with it?”

Bdubs snorts, which turns into a laugh, which turns into Etho smiling a bit wider, a bit more confusion lingering in his expression as he leans around Bdubs to check his meticulously placed line. Bdubs turns away from him, facing the system, the clock that linked the start gates to the timer below.

“What’s—” Bdubs scoffs, shaking his head. “What’s wrong with it? Etho—” he holds out his hand, waving Etho over. Etho lingers at his shoulder as he steps forward, peering over the curve of it and the moss and small leaves and flowers draped over his neck. “It’s too perfect.”

Etho makes a sound like a scoff now, a caught sound in his vocal unit, a stuttering start to his sentence that doesn’t form right away. He’s trying for surprise, the pitch of his voice rising unexpectedly.

“It’s too perfect?” he asks.

Bdubs nods. After a moment, Etho thinks he sees his expression shift, the high of his cheek rising. When Bdubs turns his head to look at him, just for a second, Bdubs is smiling.

“Bdubs,” Etho says, sighing, turning away from him, to his bag on the far side of the room. He shakes his head. That something-nothing in his chest flutters and fades and disappears all at once, instead replaced with the urge to smile back. Bdubs laughs, and Etho can imagine him tipping his head back, mouth curved up as he giggles to himself. Etho shakes his head. As he starts to pull away from Bdubs, he feels him catch his sleeve, holding fast to his elbow.

“Etho, wait—” Bdubs giggles. “It looks really good.”

Etho raises his eyebrows. Caught in Bdubs grasp, all he can do is look at him, head tilted, trying not to let the amusement show on his face. Bdubs giggles, face breaking again as he does.

“Etho…” he tries again, fighting back a smile. Etho tilts his head the other way, as if to prompt him further, looking for anything. He stays silent. Bdubs hand lowers slowly, that smile faltering just a fraction. Maybe he thinks Etho’s upset with him. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You gonna say anythin’? Or you just gonna stand there?”

Etho smiles, finally. He shrugs a little, glancing over at the fixed lines of redstone.

“I fixed your redstone,” he says cooly, sticking his free hand in his pocket. Bdubs blinks. He jerks away as Etho’s smile grows, shoving him hard in his shoulder. Etho wobbles for a moment, smiling to himself, scrunching up his face as Bdubs’ expression morphs. He does laugh, after a beat, poking Etho in the shoulder as he does. Etho hopes he can see the smile in his eyes. He saves, logs, keeps this moment. He’s sure in the low light that his LED spins yellow for a moment. It feels right. If there’s any feeling to catalog.

Bdubs huffs. Etho thinks he hears him say something under his breath. It sounds a lot like thank you.

It’s out of habit, rather than obligation, that Etho finds himself back at the horse course. Of course he ends up here, his feet moving him about as if his brain-not-brain had no thoughts of its own. Man. Some days, it really felt human.

He wanders across the plain, eyes lingering on fully-built buildings, knowing the schematics and plans, watching as those plans-now-buildings stretched higher above his head, where they nearly threatened to pop the sky wide open.

Bdubs had sat down with him earlier that week, papers spread out between them. He’d stopped by, actually—worked his way up the mountain to the base Etho had finally finished, papers in hand, looking like he was on the verge of collapse. He’d dropped the blueprints on the largest table Etho had managed to clear, spreading out the designs for huge, complex buildings. Etho watched him explain, listened for the inflection of when to offer suggestions, heard the way Bdubs’ voice grew quieter, almost conspiratorial, as he explained his palette. There was something methodical in the way Bdubs spoke, not only in the approach to his colors, but to his style. As much as it seemed eclectic and strange, he watched the pieces fall together as Bdubs spoke of his gradients. There was something deeper there, a precision that Etho, all of a sudden, in that room, craved to emulate. To write to disk. To save. To do more than just copy.

He’d built the horse stable first—all to his own specifications. It was Bdubs later who came in to detail, tilling up the dirt around to plant grass and flowers, sectioning off parts of the empty stable. It was almost difficult to compartmentalize that Bdubs was finished with it now. That they’d worked each line of the redstone and Etho had supervised the first steps of building, and now he could look up and see the very top, or almost, if he were to strain, of the spikes above the buildings.

And in just a few weeks, Bdubs was onto another project. Etho smiles to himself. He can’t help it. There was something rather comforting about that. Something about Bdubs dragging him along to help, pointing him toward the thing he was good at, and asking for help. Bdubs showing up at his door with plans. Bdubs cracking jokes with him, and looking for a laugh Etho couldn’t replicate yet. It’s like something clicked. Or was just on the breach of it. And Etho liked it.

Etho clears his field of view, taking in, instead, the stretch of sky where it met the ocean, along the line of hills and grass and flowers, and further still, to the smudge that looked like Bdubs. He blends in too well—the green of his coat barely noticeable against the field of grass that splayed out from the side of his build. There were still materials strewn about—chests half opened, shulkers stacked waist high.

Bdubs stands to the side of a dark grey and white horse, one hand placed on its nose, the other digging through his bag. Etho watches for a moment. Bdubs fishes around for that entire second that he lingers, searching for something, until he pulls out an apple. Another falls to the ground, rolling away from him. He holds out the fruit for the horse as Etho clears his throat.

“Hiya, Bdubs—” he says as Bdubs startles, twisting around to see him. He huffs, an immediate frown coming to his face. Bdubs turns to fetch the dropped apple, holding it high above his head as the grey horse nudges its nose into his empty hand. He pats it instead.

“Etho,” he says, tone thin. He sighs, shaking his head. “Scared the life outta me, you know that? You gotta make some noise when you’re walkin’ around.”

Etho smiles, a nice and easy reaction to the annoyance in Bdubs’ voice. It’s getting easier. At least a bit. The smiling part, that is. The inflection that comes with being happy.

“I’ll try next time,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. His hands find his pockets as he looks around, eyes following the path around the buildings. He’s sure the pollen and moss will be stuck to his clothes for days before he gets them out.

“Mm,” Bdubs hums, unconvinced. “I’m sure you will. Now, what’re you doin’ here? You don’t have anything better to do?”

“That’s a good question,” Etho says.

Bdubs turns back to him for a second, just a glance over his shoulder as he cocks his head to the side. He raises his eyebrows before he turns back to the horse, who’s started to nose at his bag. He drags his hand down its nose.

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t have an objective right now?”

“I never have an objective, Bdubs.”

Bdubs snorts again . Etho steps over, slow, minding the horse. It sniffs as Etho holds out his hand, nosing his gloved palm. He pats the horse's nose, somewhat stilted, smoothing over the soft bridge of his nose.

“Right,” Bdubs hums. When Etho glances over to him, Bdubs glances away, as if he’d lingered as Etho stepped over. He’s not moved from Etho’s side, which. Makes something fit into Etho’s chest in a way he isn’t expecting. He rests his hand on the horse's head, looking over at Bdubs in full.

“I can’t come see how the horse course is looking, now that you’re done?” he asks. Bdubs makes an embarrassed sounding noise, watching the rise of the buildings to their left. The horse sniffs, and Etho lifts his hand away, letting it fall to his side.

“I—I got excited about it,” Bdubs mutters. If Etho leans enough, he can see the beginnings of a flush creep over his cheeks, up the shell of his ear. Something about that, too. Etho looks beyond him, though, studying the rise of the buildings as Bdubs does. He nods to himself.

“I can tell,” he says, amusement slipping into his voice, almost naturally. Immediately, Bdubs whips around again, face twisted in offense.

“Hey!” he snaps. “You makin’ fun of me?”

Etho shakes his head, spreading his hands out in front of him as he does.

“No, no. Not at all,” he says, hoping the smile he’s giving is reaching his eyes. “I’m saying we make a pretty good team.”

Bdubs makes a little huff of a sound, but his posture and expression softens. Etho studies it from the moment it appears, trying to place the emotion behind it. He seems upset—but not from anything Etho said. He almost looks guilty.

“We’ve always made a good team,” Bdubs mumbles. Etho blinks.

“Since when have we been a team?”

“Since—s…” Bdubs blurts, then backtracks, folding his arms over his chest. “Well we’re a team now!”

Etho raises his eyebrows, stepping away from the horse and more around Bdubs’ side. He leans in a bit as he stands by his side, bumping their shoulders together. Bdubs doesn’t recoil. Instead, he pushes back, just for a moment, and they jostle. Bdubs hums, sighing through his nose.

“Are we?” Etho asks. Bdubs nods, short and firm.

“Mhm! ‘Cause I said so.”

Etho nods with him. There’s that thing again, a turning, jostling, in some part of his chest that really shouldn’t turn or jostle. He can feel his temperature tick up just a few degrees, a fan kicking on to settle the temperature, thirium sludging warm to cold through his limbs. A team, huh? He couldn’t beat Bdubs’ conviction, that’s for sure. Maybe it was a bit of guilt, then. Maybe something in Bdubs had realized Etho was much more of a help than a hindrance. Maybe Bdubs wanted a friend. Maybe he just felt bad and the feeling bad got to a point where he had to just do something about it. Etho didn’t know. He didn’t live inside Bdubs’ brain. And picking at Bdubs’ every emotion was a task enough to drive his processor into the ground. He could already feel another spike in temperature, LED glowing yellow-blue. Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Etho sticks his hands in his pockets.

“I’d like that,” he says, finally pushing out the words as his programming jumps into gear, “What’s our next project then?”

Bdubs goes back to jostling him before he turns away, moving from Etho’s side to collect his horse. Gathering the horse's reins in his hands, Bdubs pauses.

“Ooh…” he says, frowning a little. Etho watches the little furrow of his eyebrows—thinking. Bdubs is turning the idea over in his head. Bdubs steps back over with the horse in tow, already walking in the direction of the horse stable. Etho jolts forward, taking several big steps to match Bdubs’ pace. “Well why don’t you come back to the clock and we can talk about it, huh?”

“That sounds nice.”

Bdubs makes an affirmative sound, leading the horse around and into the stable. Etho watches him unlatch the gate, ushering the horse into the pen.

“I can put the kettle on and everything,” Bdubs says. He lifts the bridle out of the horse’s mouth, running his hand along the length of the horse’s nose. Etho doesn’t mean to watch him as he does, but the action is so purposeful. There’s a moment where Bdubs’ expression is unreadable—unreadable as in Etho simply can’t place anything on it. Unreadable in the amount it changes—something softer than he’s seen, something far away. Bdubs’ whole demeanor seems to shift as he stands still for a moment. Etho isn’t sure what to do with himself. He’s just standing in straw and dirt and stones, all of which he can feel under his shoes. He shuffles a bit, back and forth, to make his presence known, before he says:

“You know I can’t drink anything, Bdubs.”

And Bdubs rolls his eyes, squinting over at him, stepping away from the horse to hop the gate.

“Well you can at least fake it,” he grumbles. He folds his arms again, wrinkling his nose at Bdubs as Bdubs leads him out of the pen and into the open field around the horse course. The shadow of the buildings above them hasn’t changed, yet. The sun is still high and warm in the sky.

Etho laughs. At least, he makes a sound that he thinks passes as a laugh. Bdubs laughs too, though, so it must sound pretty convincing. He nods, the smile on his face feeling much more natural than he ever could have expected.

“I could fake it,” he laughs. “Sure.”

Bdubs grins at him. It’s nice. It makes the walk back to his base a little more bearable.

By the time Etho gets his invitation to the life game, he’s grown accustomed to being at Bdubs’ side again. He wanders around Bdubs’ base like he knows it, makes it a spot he chooses to map, to memorize. Bdubs checks in on him when he isn’t around as much—asks him how his builds are going, wonders if he needs help. Bdubs lingers in his spaces too, like a plant trying to root, gives himself reasons to stand in doorways just a bit longer, just enough to extend their goodbyes. It feels right—in a way that almost gives reason to Etho’s deviation. Maybe, deep down, from their first introduction, Etho had decided to glue himself to Bdubs’ side and not become unstuck. Maybe he’d simply put that decision, his first ever decision, into motion that day. It didn’t matter much as to why anymore.

When Etho gets his letter, he doesn’t open it. He holds it between two fingers, turning it over and over. He doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. There’s a dark red seal on the back, shaped like a heart. He makes a little sound, some sort of click in the back of his mouth, before he stuffs the letter in his pocket, half-folded.

He finds Bdubs exactly where he expects. Bdubs is sitting cross-legged in his garden, hands in the dirt, when Etho arrives at the crescent moon base. If he looks closely enough, Etho can still tell that Bdubs’ own letter sits on his window sill in the kitchen, unopened. But he’s really squinting to notice, so he writes it off for now as a flaw in his own sight.

Bdubs turns to him as he walks up. His hair is pushed back away from his face with his bandana, and his hands are covered in dirt, and he’s got a streak of black soil across his forehead that Etho tries not to look at for too long. Bdubs shoots him a toothy grin, going back to his bright orange tulips. If Etho looks long enough, he could probably guess the soil mixture, and tell him if it's good enough to be planting orange tulips in, but he doesn’t. Instead, he comes to stand behind him and Bdubs hums in greeting.

“Etho,” he says, looking up again, wiping the dirt from his forehead. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Etho says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He forgets who he picked the gesture up from, but it’s become part of his natural body language patterns now, so he won’t be stopping it anytime soon. “I just came to see how you were doing.”

“How I was doin’, huh?” Bdubs asks, amusement trickling into his voice. Etho smiles, feeling his face pull.

“Mhm,” he says. “That’s right. I can’t come and check up on a friend?”

Bdubs laughs, sticking his spade in the dirt.

“Oh, we’re friends now?” he says, still giggling as he turns around. “I thought we were just a team.”

Etho watches him lean back on his hands, legs coming out from under him. He tries to read Bdubs’ expression and voice for any note of insincerity, or play, or teasing, but doesn’t find anything he normally associates with Bdubs. This just feels true.

“I mean, I figured with how much we’ve been working together…” Etho starts, to which Bdubs startles, waving his hands.

“No, no!” Bdubs yelps. “Etho, I thought the same thing! I just wasn’t expectin’ it from you.”

Etho blinks. It feels owlish, small, almost a wrong reaction to hearing Bdubs say something like that. But it’s what immediately happens, before he tries to open his mouth, and no sound comes out. He waits for a moment. He assumes his LED spins, maybe even red, as Bdubs watches him, face paling.

“Oh,” Etho says quietly.

“We’re friends,” Bdubs says, voice much smaller than Etho’s ever heard it. “‘S that alright with you?”

Etho feels like the proper response would be to laugh, if he could really feel anything at all besides every gear in his chest halting and restarting themselves. He makes a noise that sounds almost like a cough.

“Mhm,” he says. He watches Bdubs’ shoulders relax and finds that his own posture sinks with it.

“Good,” Bdubs says, nodding along. “Was there anything else you wanted to scare me with?”

Etho knows this tone—playful. Teasing. He works up a smile and fishes the letter from his pocket, slightly bent. Bdubs’ eyes flick right to it, right to the red seal pressed into the paper. Immediately, he scrambles up, reaching for the note in Etho’s hands. Etho lets him grab it in his dirt-covered fingers, even as Bdubs tries frantically to dust off his hands as he notices. Bdubs turns it over itself, glancing up at Etho.

“It’s for you?”

Etho nods.

“It was on my doorstep this morning,” he says. “I can see you’ve got one in your window?”

Bdubs snorts, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I haven’t opened the damn thing. I’m excited up until the point I’m not, ‘cause I know I’m gonna lose again.”

Etho hums. As Bdubs hands him back the letter, Etho rests his hand on his shoulder, giving it a hesitant, light squeeze. Bdubs looks quickly down at it, before he’s back to staring at Etho’s face.

“Don’t worry, Bdubs,” he says, hoping his voice is full of amusement and affection like he feels like it is. “You’ll have me there this time!”

And Bdubs laughs, full and warm in his chest, and Etho jostles him around as he does, until Bdubs is smacking his shoulder and wiggling free. He picks up his fallen hat and his tools, and Etho follows him around the side of the house as he puts things away. As he shuts one of the chest, Bdubs says:

“You mean that, though? You wanna be on a team?”

Etho smiles, feeling his eyes squint, forces every ounce of new feeling into his words when he says:

“I don’t think I wanna team with anyone else, Bdubs.”

And Bdubs’ grin in excitement is more than enough to convince him he’s made the right choice.

It’ll be a long two weeks until the death game starts. When he returns home later that night, Bdubs’ plans for success turning over in his brain, recording for later, Etho reads over the letter enough to commit the page to memory. He keeps it safe internally as the letter finds its way to his bookshelf, half-sealed. Through him, like it’s just under the skin, runs an emotion he’s not yet familiar with. He hopes it's a good one, at the very least. He hopes so, as much as an android, a machine, someone just now familiar with the idea of free will, can hope.

It feels good, though. And something makes him think that everything will turn out just fine.

72 notes · View notes

lobautumny · 6 months

Text

So like, there's some really shitty video that this toy saw a while back about QoL mods in Terraria and how if you install all of them and then crank all of their settings up to the maximum, then the game basically plays itself. The whole video was weirdly hostile and vindictive and effectively just made fun of the concept of QoL features/mods as a whole. But it stuck in this toy's mind, not because the video itself holds any value, but because the core topic of how quality of life & accessibility features have a tangible impact on a game's design is really interesting and nobody talks about it with any kind of nuance.

So like, Terraria is obviously a very different game from what it used to be. But all of the raw content (hardmode, bosses, biomes, weapons, NPCs, etc.) that always gets the spotlight in updates only makes up a relatively-small portion of that outside of, like, the tinkerer’s workshop from 1.1, and damage classes being added in 1.0.6, both being relatively-early additions. The plethora of things that were changed/added to make the game look nicer also aren't the core thing responsible, obviously. So what is the biggest reason modern Terraria feels so alien when compared to 1.0.X versions, or even 1.1?

It's the quality of life features. Inventory management got exponentially easier/more efficient, you have a minimap at all times, smart cursor lets you expend far less effort mining and dealing with backwalls, there are special equipment slots for grappling hooks and light pets, grappling hooks are bound to a hotkey instead of being an item that you need to manually select and use, you can use items directly from your inventory instead of needing to place them in your hotbar and then select that hotbar slot, you automatically walk up 1-block inclines and open/close doors as you walk through them, there’s a plethora of features to make getting around the world trivial, the start of the game moves way faster due to the player getting access to better equipment faster, block-swapping exists… This toy posits that this is all why Terraria feels like a fundamentally different game. In old versions, it felt like you had to fight tooth and nail to get anything accomplished, but nowadays, everything feels all buttery-smooth. The main friction you encounter in progressing through the game is with boss fights, as Re-Logic obviously intends.

Now, obviously, it would be insane and stupid to claim that Terraria is a worse game, right now, than it was all the way back in the 1.0.X era, and it would be even stupider to claim that it’s worse because it has QoL features. However, this toy does not believe that every single QoL feature added to the game was inherently objectively positive or correct from the game's inception. Rather, they were natural, smart conclusions for Re-Logic to come to with the direction they decided to take the game in as it continued development. But this was not the only direction Terraria’s development could have taken.

There’s a very unique feeling to old-ass Terraria versions, and it sucks that tracking down and playing these versions is so goddamn hard. You only ever have a vague idea of where you are because there’s no map to use as reference so you’re heavily encouraged to keep most of your stuff on the surface, and to build infrastructure to connect important things underground/in the sky so you don’t get lost. Everything is so unwieldy that building a simple house and making it look remotely nice feels like a herculean effort, enemies kick your ass way harder earlygame due to decent gear being much harder to access, and there’s a lot more gravity to the choices you make in what gear you use, because it’s a lot harder to hot-swap your armor and accessories when you're not actually at your base, which is harder to get to/from due to the world being far more difficult to navigate, as a whole.

This all leads to an exponentially slower game than modern-day Terraria is, where every single thing you do needs to be deliberate and well-thought-out, and everything takes a much longer time to do. This toy remembers spending weeks as a kid building housing for the meager number of NPCs that were in the game back then, alongside farms for all of the potion-making herbs and a big obsidian generator, and all of that could be accomplished in a single play session in 1.4.X.

There is a universe in which Terraria saw minimal QoL updates and instead leaned really hard into this direction, making a slow, exploratory game where the player’s power level very slowly increments upwards and you’re encouraged to build largescale infrastructure rather than the (relatively) fast-paced boss rush where your power balloons out of control immediately and your infrastructure is a fast-travel teleportation network that takes minimal effort to set up that the game currently is, and that version of the game would not have been wrong, inherently. It would’ve been more niche, for sure, but it wouldn’t have necessarily been bad, or even worse than the current game is.

This is what makes this toy sad that old Terraria versions are so difficult to get ahold of, as well as what fascinates it so much about the retro Minecraft community. Speaking of, let’s switch gears and talk about Minecraft for a bit.

Minecraft, as it’s sure most of the people reading this are well-aware, has recently been having something of a renaissance in its retro community, the people who prefer alpha and/or beta versions of the game to the modern game. A handful of complete overhaul mods have come out for these versions (notably, Better Than Adventure and ReIndev) that put interesting spins on the game’s design, basically asking the question, “What if Mojang decided on a different direction for Minecraft to take from this point in time?”

A lot of these mods cast aside the instant-gratification convenience and linear progression of modern Minecraft in favor of slower-paced, more survival-ey gameplay, placing more emphasis on the act of exploring your world and gathering resources as the core gameplay loop as opposed to… Well, modern Minecraft really doesn’t have much of a core gameplay loop to speak of, and that’s sort of the problem, now isn’t it? This toy doesn’t want to get too far into all of this, though, as its thoughts on Minecraft’s game design are not the focus of this essay. Rather, it wants to put the spotlight onto Minecraft’s community.

An ever-increasing number of people have been growing more and more critical of Minecraft over the last 5 or so years. It’s obviously always had its detractors, but in recent time, there have been more of them that have gotten more vocal, and it’s become pretty normal to have the take that Minecraft has been getting worse lately. And a big culprit that people keep pointing to is QoL. One of the most common criticisms of Minecraft online is that quality of life features have made it way too easy to trivialize the process of blasting through the game’s content, getting obnoxiously overpowered enchanted diamond (or netherite) gear, reaching the End, and getting access to elytra and shulker boxes.

Despite both being excessively popular games that have been made far easier through their QoL changes and overall polish, that have both been in constant development for over a decade at this point, the critical responses to those features in Terraria and Minecraft could not be more different. This is amusing, and gets at something deeper with regards to game design that this toy doesn’t know it’s ever heard anyone actually say: Quality of life features are fantastic tools for reducing the noise that gets in the way of a game’s vision, but when you add them haphazardly and/or with no real vision for what you want your game to be in the end, you can very easily wind up accidentally removing a large portion of what could’ve otherwise become compelling parts of your gameplay loop. They need to be used intelligently, or they can, in fact, harm your game and make a significant contingent of your playerbase enjoy it less.

#autumn rants #game design #quality of life #minecraft #terraria

76 notes · View notes

astralarias · 3 months

Text

Skyscale Essay aka man I kinda miss the pre-skyscale days

Disclaimer that this is just my personal opinion and I don't hate the skyscale!! I think it's definitely a good mount for ease of access and is my second most used after the griffon! However, I've always felt it does take away from the other mounts quite a bit, so I wanted to go into that a little bit!

After mounts released with Path of Fire, the maps of that expansion and the following Living World 4 were built, in no small part, around the mounts themselves. Considering each mount’s unique ability and movement set led to what I feel was a very fun map design that almost was like a puzzle, and the mounts the missing pieces.

I could jump vast distances on raptor, then see a tall cliff and switch to springer to get up. At the top I might see a sand portal, and use jackal for a shortcut. At the other side of the portal, I could come across quicksand — the skimmer would fit this piece of the puzzle. Even with the griffon, the “prestige” mount, I would use a variety of mounts to get myself to a suitable launching point — and from there, a game with gravity and momentum began.

Although I can understand it may be frustrating to some to have to swap mounts often, I found that to be part of the immersion and fun. It felt like these mounts were not just transport but animals who filled different niches and belonged in the world, had adapted to it. It was engaging to me to look at where I wanted to go and consider not only the best but the most fun way to get there.

Then skyscale released. The change was felt, I believe, in the map that came with it. A lot of the map was just plain awkward and frustrating to navigate without the skyscale. You could get around it without the skyscale, sure, but it was a much less pleasant experience than before.

Ever since this mount was added, I feel the maps have been forced to cater to it, instead of the maps lending themselves to fun use of all mounts. Everything has to be designed with where the skyscale can go in mind. The puzzle-piece feeling of older maps is just gone for me.

Riding your raptor and see a tall cliff where springer would be ideal? Not any more. You’ll likely already be on skyscale, stay on skyscale, which is decently fast on land, and fly up the cliff. It’s efficient, but to me lacks so much of the spirit of GW2’s original mounts. Whilst you could still play this way — and I often do when solo — it’s become inconvenient to use other mounts when doing anything on a timer. Trying to get to an event, bounty, rift, etc? A flock of skyscales gets there first, bypassing any creative level design, and — oh, the event is over.

It just feels to me that skyscales, presumably intended to represent the freedom of flight, are just a roadblock in the way of more fun map design nowadays. The way new players whose only expansion is SotO are given an entire new way to unlock the skyscale, and given a permanent (to the SotO maps) rental skyscale — because the expansion is built around one mount, maybe two if you count the griffon at a stretch, and playing without it would be utter misery. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to give new players easier ways to get stuff at all, I really like it and it's something I'm always happy to see!! My concern is, when you’re fast-tracked to one specific mount, or else the expansion is blatantly unfun…that feels like such a reversal of the philosophy behind the original mounts — doing something new and unique, the idea of joy of movement. What’s joyous about the skyscale’s movement, that you couldn’t find in other games? It is wonderfully animated, but it has none of skimmer’s smooth grace or griffon’s dance with gravity. It just feels so bland, and brings down the map exploration aspect with it.

#i hope this makes sense fdghjfd i've talked abt this with friends so many times

45 notes · View notes

ynbabe · 1 year

Text

Lockwood & Co. X Fem!Reader:- Incorrect quotes pt.2

Y/n: Die. Lucy: Please don't die! Y/n: DIE! Lucy: PLEASE DON'T DIE! George, confused: Why are they yelling at a plant? Anthony, watching while eating popcorn: They bought it cause I told them to stop fighting and Lucy wants Y/n to accept it as their kid. George: ... Anthony: Y/n wants to co-parent.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: You know guys, sometimes I feel like Lucy doesn't like me much. Anthony: "Like"? George: "much"? Y/n: George: Change that to 'at all' and we'll talk.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

George: Why did you kidnap Lucy!?!?! Anthony: Ah- um- well- the reason for that is, uhh... Y/n: Sometimes, we must work together towards a common goal. George: NOT TO KIDNAP PEOPLE FROM DEPRAC!

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

*Everyone is playing a board game together* Anthony: I will put 'A' down to make 'A'. Y/n: I will add onto your 'A' to make 'AT'. Lucy: I will add onto your 'AT' to make 'RAT'. George: I will add onto your 'RAT' to make 'BIOSTRATAGRAPHIC'. Lucy: *flips the board*

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Lucy: What is it called when you kill a friend? George: Homicide. Anthony: Murder. Y/n: Homiecide.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Subs are so fun to play with. All you have to do is hint at what you might do, back them into a corner with a look, or grab their wrist in a certain way and they're a wide-eyed mess. Anthony, professional denier: What the fuck kind of Subway are you going to? Lucy, did not the dots yet: Substitute teachers deal with so much shit. George, brain cell haver: Guys.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

*In a horror movie situation* Anthony: I've got no service in my phone here. Lucy: Shoot, I don't have a phone. Y/n: Sorry guys, I just broke my phone with a rapier. George: Guys, my phone is a book.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Anthony: Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. Lucy : That's deep. Y/n: That means that ketchup is a smoothie. Lucy : That's deeper. George: ...You guys are idiots.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n on the phone after going missing for a year: Hey, I'm gonna come there, kick Anthony’s door in, and let him know that I'm baaack. George: That ain’t the way we do things here. You may have to go in there and run a con, apologise, and do the smooth-talking. Y/n: Okay, you come in with me, you do the smooth-talking, let’s go. George: No, we can’t go in there and kick down the door, that's how I introduced the two of you. We need a plan. Y/n: Well who makes the plans? George: Me. Y/n: Okay, what's the plan? George: You are gonna come here, kick Anthony’s door in, and FUCKING APOLOGISE FOR DISAPPEARING, YOU PSYCHOPATH.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Anthony: What's the most efficient way to burn calories? Lucy: Exercise more Y/N: Set yourself on fire! George: There are two kinds of people.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Anthony: Everyone synchronise your watches. Lucy: I don't know how to do that. George: I don't wear a watch. Y/n: Time is a construct.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

George, trying to get them to stop fighting: You know, We give Lucy flowers when she's down. Y/n: Okay. *Later* Y/n, see's Lucy laughing: *Reminds her of all the bad things* *gives Lucy flowers* Lucy, hyperventilating: ??? Y/n: I don't know, I'm confused as well.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Anthony: I told Y/n to grab snacks for everyone. Lucy, looking through the options: Why did you grab fruit snacks? Are you five? Who even likes Fruit Snacks? *Anthony, Y/n, and George raise their hands*

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

George: You’re just being paranoid. Again. Y/n: When have I been paranoid? George: Um, when you first met Anthony you thought he was a murderer…? Y/n: No one falls in love with me without having problems, I thought he was trying to lull me into a false sense of security! George: And last week you were sure Lucy was in a fight club! Y/n: She keeps trying to fight me! COINCIDENCE?! George: YOU THREW DAGGERS AT HER WHEN YOU FIRST MET *Later, when Y/n’s theory is proven wrong* George: Do you have anything to say for yourself? Y/n: I still think Lucy is in a fight club.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Anthony, about to do something stupid, points to George and Lucy: Distract them! I'll be right back! *leaves* Y/n, suggested the something: Okay! *five minutes later* Anthony: *returns and sees George and Lucy unconscious on the ground* What did you do? I said distract them, not knock them out! Y/n: There's just no pleasing you sometimes.

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #george karim #lucy carlyle #x reader #x female reader #x fem!reader #deprac

241 notes · View notes

darklydeliciousdesires · 4 months

Text

London Will Burn - Chapter Eight.

A new week means a new update, besties! :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,338

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

Those assembled at the table sat in tense wait, the vacant seats to be filled by Elliot as well as a mystery party seeming vast to the major players within London’s criminal network, the meeting watched by eight very intimidating, heavily armed African men dotted around the room.

Truly, they assumed they had everything sewn up. With Sean gone, as they concluded, Elliot was now the top player of the investors choosing, and with Asif and Lale exiled, London was all theirs. As the dawn broke on a new morning, a new London, they were primed to begin discussing the new balance, the new alliance and shift in power.

If only that decision was truly theirs to make...

A set of high heels tapping against the smooth, white floor alerted them to the arrival of another, shocked eyes widening as they took in the last person they’d expected. She was pristine in her black suit, Lale taking a seat at the table, nodding to Luan.

“Lale, you... I thought you were...” Ed began, the Kurdish woman’s eyes snapping onto him.

“All great forces have their resurrection.”

“And Asif?”

She smirked, reaching for the provided glass of water and taking a sip. “Now there is somebody who shall not be making a return.” The Pakistani might have saved her rather than ended her, as all had thought, but truly, it had been another to elevate her. Asif’s proposal had been good, but, as she’d learned after being helped up off the floor within his home out in Pakistan, by a member of the militia who had stormed the room and gunned him and his associates down, Catherine Cavanagh’s offer was better.

Lale was shrewd enough to always side with better.

If shock was the prevailing emotion at seeing the Kurdish gang leader alive and well, it could only be described as all-out disbelief when the final player revealed themselves, Catherine Cavanagh striding in to take her place at the table.

“I apologise for keeping you all waiting, but there was a loose end that I had to ensure remained tied up. Suffice to say that Elliot Finch shall not be joining us.” she began, incredulous stares all pointing right at her. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I have returned. What, did you just assume the Cavanagh’s to have died when my father did? Oh, no. No.”

“Catherine,” Marian began, her name bitten frostily between her teeth, Rin holding up a finger.

“No. Now is not the time for you to talk. Now is the time for you to listen, Marian. Surely you can do that, can’t you? I mean, I know being a rotten, duplicitous shit of a mother who sold her sons out for her own profitable gain comes naturally to you, but perhaps listening should, too.”

The young woman had some balls, she thought, but if nothing else, Catherine was her father’s daughter to a fault.

Marian was incensed. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

Straightening in her seat, Rin chuckled. “It is amazing, what can be attained through the assistance of hidden surveillance, or a direct set of ears,” she began, turning to Luan. “Thank you. My father always held you in great esteem. This does not change for me.”

Marian’s guts twisted, knowing that her associate had been working for another all along, their alliance not as tightly forged as she’d once thought.

“Now, to the rest of you. The investors you once worked under are no more. I saw to that personally, the ins and outs of such being none of your concern. Moving forward, the direct overlord you now report to is me, the fresh investors backing me fronting enough cash to keep business running just as smoothly and efficiently as it always did. We tire of the battlefield London has become. I think we can all agree that gang warfare is attracting entirely too much heat upon our enterprises. It is time to revert, and that means each and every one of you falls in line.”

A snort sounded through the quiet of the room, Catherine turning to view Mehmet, leader of the Persian mafia. “Do we have a problem?”

“Yes, Miss Cavanagh. We do if you expect me or my organisation to take orders from a little girl.”

She smirked, cocking her head, her eyes narrowed as she stood. A little girl was the teenager who had left London seven years previously. The woman who stood in her place was far from it, a hardened criminal, a prolific arms dealer who solely ran her now late father’s enterprise in and out of Africa.

In short, she was not to be fucked with. Mehmet might’ve done well to acknowledge that prior to opening his mouth and letting his misogyny flow out for all to see.

Her hand then reached into her jacket, pulling a glock from her concealed holster and firing upon him. He slumped, sliding from the chair onto the floor, blood beginning to pour from the single bullet hole in his forehead. Her eyes then turned to her nearby associate Atticus, who stood primed and ready. “Find his next in line and offer my terms. If he does not comply, scrub them all.”

He nodded. “Boss.”

Her threat needed no interpretation, Rin continuing to slowly walk around the table after holstering her weapon once again. “The laundering for narcotics will continue through Dumani Finance, Ed and Shannon I would like to keep you at the helm of such. Everyone sitting at this table, be assured that your cash will be washed, the drug machine will continue to turn, and from the ashes, the Wallace Corporation will rise, along with the buildings that shall once again begin dotting the London skyline.”

“May I ask, Catherine,” Ed began, diplomatic in his address as always, understanding well how the balance of power had turned on its axis. He also had no desire to be shot in the head if she so much as gauged the tiniest whisper of disrespect. “Why do you plan to elevate Sean Wallace once more? With Dumani Finance running the legitimate front, surely you need no further holdings?”

“Not for drugs, Ed, you are correct. For the guns that I will continue to run into Africa and the Middle East – Kurdistan especially - I very much do. My father’s footing in this city slipped the moment he became ill; I have now returned to stamp my mark upon it.”

Her nod to Lale at the mention of her homeland was reciprocated, the pieces of Catherine’s plan all tying together very neatly. “My proposal is quite clear, ladies and gentlemen. You either work in my new London or die in your old one. I feel my offer is more than fair. You will run your respective helms, but ultimately answer to me. Going forward, our new investors intend to make you all extremely wealthy people. It is now up to you, whether you sink or swim.”

They all looked to be accepting of her proposal, each leader voicing that entirely, all but Marian. With her son being given his power back, she knew that left no place for her in this new London, not with how Sean now viewed her. She left the meeting quietly, while drinks were poured, hands were shaken, and brand-new alliances formed. They did not loiter for long, each of them filing out, the second youngest woman within the room halted by an elegantly manicured hand upon her shoulder.

“Oh, and just one more thing, Lale,” Rin began, pressing that hand to her shoulder as she leaned in close to her ear. “If you so much as even wink at Sean Wallace again, I will cut your fucking tits off with a rusty razorblade. Clear?”

The Kurdish woman smirked, lifting her chin. “You have some fucking balls to make such threats against me, Catherine.”

“And you have the entirety of the money that funds the freedom of your people running through a fucking empire that I ultimately preside over, as well as the guns used for them to continue the firefight for said freedom supplied at ten percent over cost. Remember that.”

Rin might not have wanted him, but that did not mean anybody else could have him. Besides, she needed him focused, not getting himself caught up in anything swayed by his rampant libido. Not that Lale was ever likely to open her legs to him again after Sean had sold her out like that.

He had a penchant for wronging his lovers, it seemed.

Heading back to the fleet of cars, she and her African associates all left, bar the men who remained to clean up the former Persian mafia boss’s corpse.

“Silas, stop at McDonald’s on the way. I could murder someone for a McMuffin,” she spoke, the man turning with a frown.

“You eat that shit?” Reaching, he poked her slender thigh. “You will become chubby, boss.”

“Oi, you cheeky fucking knob!” she scolded, smacking his arm as he hissed a laugh. “Fucking watch who you’re talking to! Besides, it might be shit, but there’s no McDonald’s in Kenya, so you have no idea whether it’s worth the calories. Trust me, it is.”

He made a contemplative face. “Then I try this McMuffin also.” Fifteen minutes later, and he was chomping through the double sausage version of the breakfast item, Rin happy with her bacon alternative. “I accept I was wrong, boss. Definitely worth the calories.”

“See?” she spoke, washing it down with a sip of orange juice. “Told you. I’m never wrong, am I?”

He snorted a laugh. “And when you are, you are still right.”

“Exactly.”

For the last seven years of her own exile to Africa, taking charge of her father’s gun running enterprise porting in Mombasa from the reserve that lay twenty miles north, Silas and Sokoro had not only been her fiercest protectors, but her genuine closest friends. The men had even followed her across an ocean, to a land neither were familiar with in order to keep their titles as heads of her security, which comprised of a fifteen-man team, all ex-Kenyan military.

It was a well-paid job, and Rin about as delightful and funny as she was truly formidable, the latter they’d both had a hand in bringing out more from anything to skills in weaponry to furthering her proficiency in one-on-one combat. In short, they had assisted in priming her before returning to London, ready to take the criminal empire as hers.

She’d done so with such finesse, Silas was nothing but proud. As her father would have been.

“Morning, love.” She was greeted warmly by the embrace of her mother upon entering the kitchen, Diane pressing a kiss to her forehead. “How did it all go?”

“As expected, only one protested. We’re exactly where we should have always been, head and shoulders above the rest. I suppose I ultimately have you to thank for that.”

Of course, the notable people who were now funding the investment side of their empire were all contacts close to Diane, persons of extreme wealth, power and influence. “Well, I don’t like to toot my own horn.”

“Oh, bollocks, mum,” Rin snorted, moving to the coffee machine. “You toot it so much, anybody would think the cavalry were charging in.”

Although they’d been separated for seven years, their relationship had grown much fonder than it once was, most notably in the last five months since Rin’s return to be close to her father while he was dying, as well as putting the wheels in motion to facilitate the Cavanagh takeover of London.

Diane laughed, nodding to the machine. “I’ll take an espresso, if you’re offering.”

“Ah, I was just about to make one of those for somebody else.” Even after seven years, she remembered how he took his coffee.

“Hm.” Diane’s face was sour as she hummed her answer, tucking her hair behind her ears. “The ginger twat, I take it? He's in the conservatory at present, wisely staying out of my way.”

“Yes, mum. The ginger twat.” She heard a snort behind her, turning to see a clearly entertained Sokoro. “How’s he behaving?”

“White man barely says boo to a goose, boss. The doctor come in to check him, give him progress on his brother. Billy is well, arm is stitched and clean, eh.”

Rin nodded, handing the espresso to her mother before making a second. “Good, I’m glad he isn’t dead. He’s a sweet soul, Billy Wallace.” Much sweeter than his brother, that was for sure. In saving Sean’s life, there was no way she intended to allow his brother to perish, sending him to a private medical facility for immediate assistance.

It was upon arrival there that he’d been rushed into the care of a doctor whom for years had been paid well to ask no questions over the treatment of certain gangland related injuries. That very doctor had only left Mulford Hall ten minutes prior to her arrival home, after checking the health of her unwelcome house guest.

Once she’d prepared the coffee’s, the conservatory was where she headed, finding Sean in there, wearing the black jeans and dark brown sweater she’d sent a member of staff out to fetch. Noting that she’d gotten the sizes right to how she remembered him, it was not without a feeling of self-loathing, noticing that the thin knit sweater fitted a little snugger over his biceps than she was expecting, an area that seemed to have filled out more.

Damn her hormones for reacting.

“Thank you,” he spoke, taking the coffee from her outstretched hand, Rin stepping back to seat herself at the small table by the door opposed to by his side upon the sofa. “So, do I get to know yet, why I have been saved and brought within the frosty confides of Mulford Hall? If looks could kill, your mother would have withered me three times by now.”

“Can you fucking blame her?” she spluttered, pausing in taking the first sip from her steaming cappuccino.

He winced ever so slightly. “I suppose not.” A pause followed. “Now, the reason why I am here. Shall we get to it?”

Even when at a disadvantage, the man demanded to know the lay of the land. “London is no longer in the hands of the investors, or at least not the ones you knew. A new kingpin has risen to power, backed by a brand-new set of investors.”

He lifted his chin. “And who have you chosen to rise to this role?”

Oh, it was a delivery she’d been greatly looking forward to. “Me.”

And there was the payoff, his brow furrowing, clearly not expecting her reply. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard.” Her statement was delivered with all the biting chill of a Siberian winter, placing her coffee down. “Me. I control London. Well, myself and Luan, Lale, the Dumani’s and a few other notables from their respective outfits. I preside over them all, though.”

“Wait,” he frowned, unable to believe his ears. “Lale isn’t dead?”

“No, Sean. Her being dead does nothing conducive for my running of arms further into the Middle East. I’m sure by the time she catches up with you, though, you’ll probably wish that she was.”

She was taking way too much pleasure in this. His jaw tightened, and after the slugging he’d received in the early hours, it was an action which hurt like hell. “And where the fuck do I fit into all of this, exactly?”

“Back in your old role, running your family business. The Dumani’s front for the drug cash, and you will front for the weapons I will continue to run through Africa and the aforementioned Middle East, eventually South America, too.” Oh, she was so, so pleased with herself, and he knew he deserved it, every ounce of it, but fuck. It stung like hell. He had his freedom; but it was her boot that trod upon his coattails.

“Why me?”

“Because as insufferable, impulsive and reckless as you are, Sean, I need the Wallace Corporation revived. With the extra capitol from my gun running empire, I need legitimate footings in London to keep the cash washed, hence why you need to return to your place and this time truly refrain from fucking everything up,” she explained succinctly, sipping her coffee.

“So, Singer came to you as well then, yes?”

She snorted a laugh. “No, Sean. Singer fucking works for me.”

Fucking hell. Her words rocked him, learning of the reach she had, the power, how high she’d risen to be able to pull off what she had. While he’d slipped, she’d ascended. Quite deserving a fate, really, considering what he’d done to her. Still, it filled him with no sense of joy that he was effectively in her pocket now.

While he’d gotten back what he’d coveted with such determination, the Wallace name on top again, it was not without its pitfalls. The greatest being that he would still answer to somebody else, in this case a woman who quite clearly loathed him. He was alive, free of his enemies, free of the investors, but without the freedom or dominance that he craved.

“How did you do it?” he questioned, lifting his drink from the table and taking a careful sip. He was in more pain than he could ever remember being in, his throat feeling like it had been run over by a tank. “How on earth did you take out those of such power and influence?”

“Easy,” she shrugged, her mouth curling into a smile. “I aligned myself with those of much greater power and influence.”

“And me running the Wallace Corporation again, that was your only reason to do what you did for me?”

She scoffed, beginning to laugh. “Sean, please don’t embarrass yourself by thinking I did it out of any fondness or feelings of magnanimity for you.” Her words were tinged with the kind of ice that didn’t exist in her eighteen-year-old self, Sean thinking it was a pity she seemed to have lost that warmth. “There was another reason, but you don’t deserve to be made privy to it just yet. If you behave, work well and become the kind of man who would have shown your father wrong in what he estimated of you, then you shall be.”

He snorted softly. “Sounds ominous. And what if I demand to be informed right now?”

Standing from her seat, Rin walked to the sofa, grasping his jaw and lifting his head sharply. He went to knock her hand away, her other grasping upon his delicate throat in dominance. “You are in absolutely no place to make demands of me. Seventh room on the right upstairs, there’s a guest bed made up for you. You can remain here until your old abode is liveable once more. If I were you, I’d spend most of my time up there. In fact, I insist upon it. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The stare they exchanged was weighted by both frost and fire, Rin eventually releasing her grip, picking up her coffee and sauntering back out, leaving Sean feeling as if somebody had cut off his air. He didn’t need the figurative of that so close after experiencing the literal, rubbing his sore neck as his brow furrowed.

He had everything he wanted back, and none of it on his terms. He supposed he should have been grateful to her, yet the bile thrashed within his stomach like an angry serpent, spiny and cold, his grip upon the cup in his hand shaking as rage poured through him.

There he was, a prisoner of his own actions, his own poor choices, at the beck and call of a woman whom he’d wronged so long ago, at her mercy entirely as she’d laid out her ground rules for him to abide by.

And fuck, had she looked good while she’d been doing it.

Damn her.

#sean wallace fanfiction #sean wallace smut #sean wallace fanfic #gangs of london #gangs of london fanfiction #gangs of london fanfic #gangs of london fic #sean wallace x ofc #sean wallace fic #joe cole #london will burn #sean and rin

22 notes · View notes

rafaelsilvasource · 1 year

Text

9-1-1: Lone Star’s Ronen Rubinstein and Rafael Silva on TV wedding and the beauty of queer love

9-1-1: Lone Star fans will finally see TK Strand (Ronen Rubinstein) and Carlos Reyes (Rafael Silva) get married in the two-part season four finale

BY REBECCA LEWIS | Hello! Magazine, May 2023

After four years, some false starts, and far too many near-death experiences, 9-1-1: Lone Star fans will finally see TK Strand (Ronen Rubinstein) and Carlos Reyes (Rafael Silva) get married in the two-part season four finale on Tuesday May 16, 8/7c. But it's not going to be smooth-sailing, as fans have already been promised a tragedy that will strike — and change the trajectory of their lives forever.

"It's a blessing to be given these storylines," Rafael, 28, says on the set of HELLO!'s digital cover shoot in Los Angeles, "It's not every day that you get a story like this with juicy scenes where you have to focus and step up."

Fans already know that Lyndsy Fonseca will return as Carlos' best friend Iris, but the two episodes will see other surprises on-screen as TK and Carlos — known by their portmanteau Tarlos — lean on each other as they work through the shocking complications.

Ronen and Rafael met in 2019 when they were cast as TK, an NYC firefighter who moves to Austin with his father, Captain Owen Strand (Rob Lowe), and Carlos, an openly gay Latino police officer in the Austin PD.

Their relationship has become the focal point for the Fox drama, and a beloved character all its own, and the decision to have them finally wed means so much to so many, especially at a time in the US when conservative legislation has been attacking the LGBTQ community, making this wedding all the more poignant and important.

Over the past four years, the two actors have built such a bond on and off-screen that even among all the "chaos around us on set," as Ronen describes it, they are able to stay focused on telling their stories.

That connection also helped Ronen, 29, come out publicly as bisexual in 2021; he credited Rafael at the time as one of a few people, along with wife Jessica Parker Kennedy and stylist Chaise Dennis, for encouraging and supporting him to live his truth.

"I shouldn't be here," says Ronen. "Little Ronen's from the slums of Staten Island, growing up as a degenerate and fighting, doing drugs, and not going to school, we don't really get to come full circle to this sort of position."

Truth and love are what Rafael and Ronen both hope is the lingering legacy of this show, and these characters, no matter how many more seasons it stays on air. "I hope this inspires people, in the simplest way, to say, Love yourself," said Rafael.

When you think back over the last four years, and see the growth of Tarlos as a couple, and TK and Carlos as individuals, has there been anything that has truly surprised you?

Ronen: Not surprised, but I am most proud of their communication skills! We've seen the evolution of these two, and what were terrible communication skills!

I mean, Carlos made TK a beautiful dinner and then he stormed out like a little bitch! But it's all thanks to the writers; the fact that they were able to connect all the moments up to this level of communication which we saw in episode 16, when Carlos says, "Even if you don't remember who I am, I will stay in this, and love you and stay with you and support you and I'll introduce myself, 'Hi, you're TK and I'm Carlos and we're soulmates.'"

How have TK and Carlos changed you as actors?

Ronen: I don't even know where I would start. It's changed me as a person but as an actor it definitely has taught me speed and efficiency. After Lone Star, I'll be ready for any sort of set in any sort of situation. We're on this massive production, but sometimes it still feels like you're in an independent film when you get a script the day before.

This show has also given me the opportunity to provide a life for myself, and my wife, that I didn't necessarily have growing up.

I shouldn't be here. Little Ronen's from the slums of Staten Island, growing up as a degenerate and fighting, doing drugs, not going to school, we don't really get to come full circle to this sort of position. It's a blessing.

Rafael: I wanted to go to grad school before I booked Lone Star, but God has a way of showing you that life is your school. When I booked Lone Star, I felt so inadequate but now I realize it's healthy to have some doubt — and I love the fact that I talk about this now without any sense of feeling like an impostor, because if we don't talk about these things, we dehumanize these very human experiences.

Carlos has allowed me to learn a lot just simply by watching, listening and playing. I'm extremely grateful that it has changed me as a professional, and also the way I see myself, and the kinds of stories I want to tell. Now I say, 'Know why you're doing something and don't be shy to be yourself, go for the truth,' and I think that's something that this show has truly required of Rafael.

What would you say to 2018 Rafael who cried in the bathroom after his audition?

Rafael: Do exactly what you did and be exactly who you were. It's OK to feel all of those feelings — like you don't belong here because that is what you were being told, but you had to be that person in that moment in order to be this person here today I don't think there's such a thing as a coincidence.

Jim Parrack (who plays Judd Ryder) says, "Coincidence is God's way of staying anonymous," and for me it's a sense of trusting life and the work — and when I speak of this, it comes from a place of humility and not necessarily any attachment to religious indoctrination that is going on today to put others down.

I want to make that very clear, that it comes from my relationship with God, [and] a world where everyone belongs, everyone has a place, everyone has a voice and no one needs to close themselves off or hide.

Ronen, what has it been like building your relationship with Rob Lowe?

Ronen: I walked into the audition room for our chemistry read, Rob went to shake my hand and he looked me right into the eyes and he said, "Yep, that's it." We had a spark from the moment we met, but when Rob's on set, there is no time to mess around, everybody brings their highest game, and that's also why I love our father-son scenes so much.

We're very lucky we get given really special storylines; from the moment we meet those two, the bond is so strong and it's just been a beautiful place to build from - and now he's my best man at the wedding.

Does the pressure of the meaning of 'Tarlos' to so many, and what it has become outside of the show, get to you?

Ronen: No, I don't let it get to me. I feel like a lot of pressure is self-made; I don't know if this is just the way I was raised but I am able to compartmentalize really well. I stick to the root of things:the character, the story.

I do appreciate seeing what the fans think and and feel, and this actor-fan relationship is becoming really beautifully interwoven, especially when you get to meet the fans, but I'm able to separate the two. The core of everything is always the work, because if these characters aren't fully lived in and we're not giving our everything, we're not giving our heart and soul to these characters? Then I don't know if fans would necessarily connect with them as intensely.

I won't share what me and Rafa talk about, but the beauty of this whole situation is that I've been able to lean on Rafa, and Rafa has been able to lean on me through all this, because nobody knows what we're going through except for us. Fans can feel that we really care about these two guys — and we care about them maybe more than anyone because it literally is on our shoulders.

But I'm just very lucky to be on this journey with Rafa, because this could be really stressful if you're working with someone that you don't get along with ,or vibe with, on a professional level.

Rafael: As soon as you start making it about you because you were listening to people's opinions, or the critics… As an actor I need to stay focused because at the end of the day, the reason why Carlos and TK get so much attention is because the focus has always been on the character.

In theater, it's always about making it about the other person. When you're doing a scene, always make it about the other person, and that's the work that as actors we need to do with our characters, make it about the character. Forget the noise.

What do you hope the legacy of Tarlos is?

Rafael: I hope it inspires people, in the simplest way, to say, Love yourself.

We had these two broken characters that reacted very differently to their brokenness. One of them abused substances, the other one isolated himself, and both were responses to trauma. When you neglect who you are it's because that's what you were shown from your closest people, so we had two broken characters who came together because I think they were both yearning for a deep connection, not only with each other but with themselves.

I can only hope these two characters and their love can inspire you to, if not completely love and believe in yourself, but to start that conversation with yourself.

#rafael silva #ronen rubinstein #tarlos #911 lone star #ls season 4 #ls 4 pr #ls press #interviews #ls 4 bts #may 2023 #hello magazine #quotes

62 notes · View notes

tarlossource · 1 year

Text

9-1-1: Lone Star’s Ronen Rubinstein and Rafael Silva on TV wedding and the beauty of queer love

9-1-1: Lone Star fans will finally see TK Strand (Ronen Rubinstein) and Carlos Reyes (Rafael Silva) get married in the two-part season four finale

When you think back over the last four years, and see the growth of Tarlos as a couple, and TK and Carlos as individuals, has there been anything that has truly surprised you?

Ronen: Not surprised, but I am most proud of their communication skills! We've seen the evolution of these two, and what were terrible communication skills!

How have TK and Carlos changed you as actors?

This show has also given me the opportunity to provide a life for myself, and my wife, that I didn't necessarily have growing up.

What would you say to 2018 Rafael who cried in the bathroom after his audition?

Does the pressure of the meaning of 'Tarlos' to so many, and what it has become outside of the show, get to you?

But I'm just very lucky to be on this journey with Rafa, because this could be really stressful if you're working with someone that you don't get along with ,or vibe with, on a professional level.

What do you hope the legacy of Tarlos is?

Rafael: I hope it inspires people, in the simplest way, to say, Love yourself.

I can only hope these two characters and their love can inspire you to, if not completely love and believe in yourself, but to start that conversation with yourself.

#press #tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #911 lone star #tk strand x carlos reyes #ronen rubinstein #rafael silva

35 notes · View notes

olive-gardens-breadstick · 1 year

Text

part 2 of my hope!hob Pandora's box au

part 1 part 3

word count: 2079

Morpheus picks the candle up and rolls it in his hand, examining it. it's not really anything special, just a yellow prayer candle. The glass is completely blank showing off the candle completely. He runs his fingers over the smooth glass considering putting something on it, like a sticker or something. Does he even have any stickers? Does hope even like stickers? Does he know what stickers are? He shakes the thoughts from his head and instead thinks about what story to tell. He'd thought about it a lot over the past few days. He's lived so long. How could he possibly choose where to start? Would hope have some sort of request?

he eventually decides to just light it, maybe his audience will inspire him and everything will work itself out once hope is here. Morpheus grabs a match and lights the candle and for a moment, everything is still. Morpheus looks around not seeing anything change and wonders if he did what he was supposed to. Maybe he was supposed to light it on an altar? Moving to a small table in his living room, he notices all the lights in his house are getting noticeably brighter until he has to set the candle down on the little table and cover his eyes from the blinding light. He keeps his face covered until he can tell the light has died down. When he uncovers his eyes he sees hope looking at him with a confused look.

"why were you covering your face?" he asks as Morpheus blinks away the floaters from hopes entrance

"your entrance was very bright" he says rubbing his eyes "if i hadn't it would have caused some serious damage to my eyes"

"oh I'm so sorry" hope apologizes stepping back and pulling his hands seemingly into his chest "I didn't know I'll try not to do it next time" he says looking down.

"It's alright, I doubt you can help it" Morpheus says turning back to the little table kneeling "next time I'll just close my eyes and face the wall after I light the candle." he assures hope as he clears the table of its previous inhabitants.

"What are you doing?" Hope asks, peering over his shoulder.

"I'm making a specific space for your candle." He explains picking up the candle to wipe down the table. He doesn't notice the endless' start to glow behind him.

"like.. an, alter?" hope inquires expectantly. no one had ever made HIM an alter before, it was always for some lesser being, made to syphon from him through a god or deity, he could feel it while he was in the box. he felt the faint pull in his chest, the construction and destruction of temples and altars made for others in an attempt to reach him through them. to have an altar made with specifically him in mind, well, it was... flattering.

"Yeah, an altar. seems like the most efficient way to do this, to get you caught up when I'm busy. I can just leave you things and you can examine them to learn about the current state of the world." he explains, dusting off his hands and standing up "does seem a little bland right now though huh? I don't think my darker colors really match your candle though, gonna have to go out and get some white and gold stuff." he adds examining the bare 'alter' with nothing but a candle, 'hardly counts as an alter right now though'

Morpheus turns to face hope, noticing he's still wearing a tunic. "how about instead of a story we can go get you a new wardrobe and some stuff for your altar?" he suggests looking hope up and down "you'll have to change though, i think my clothes will fit you"

"i- i mean- yeah, sure, sounds fun." Hob can feel himself falling through the words, first the mortal makes him an altar then offers to not only buy him clothes but choose things for his altar? He stands there lost in thought for a moment until the aforementioned mortal speaks to him once more.

"Also, will you stay here if I snuff the candle? I don't want to waste it." he asks handing him a set of completely black clothes 'he doesn't want to waste it' hob thinks with a smile. "yes I will, is there a room I can change in?" after Morpheus helps him to the bathroom and leaves hope to change, he snuffs the candle and makes a small list of the things he knows he has to get:

gold tablecloth

white lace runner

small offering tray

one (1) nice outfit for hope

they'd have to go somewhere nearby, hope doesn't seem like he'd be too keen on travelling by anything other than foot. Luckily there's a small boutique and second hand store nearby where they should be able to get everything. hob walks out with the clothes slightly askew and holding a pair of shoes.

"I do not know how to put these on," he says, raising them slightly higher. Morpheus looks up from his list surveying hope in his clothes.

"I probably should've helped you, apologies" he says adjusting the clothes slightly "but you managed to get the socks on so overall I'd say this is a success" he declares, motioning for hope to sit down on the couch. as soon as he does Morpheus kneels to help hope with the shoes

"Will the clothes we get me today look like this?" Hope asks as he watches Morpheus tie the left shoe.

"no, were going to get you something nicer, these clothes are just easy to take off and put on" he explains tying the right shoe "makes the whole process of clothes shopping easier" he sighs looking up "ready to go?" he asks standing up, hope nods. "alright let's go then."

the shops truly aren't that far. a ten minute walk at best. They don't talk much as Morpheus is too lost in thought and hope is too enamoured by the advancements of civilization, so enamoured in fact that he almost gets hit by a car. If Morpheus hadn't pulled him back onto the sidewalk at the last second he would've been very uncomfortable. He takes a minute to process what's going on and notices he is very close to Morpheus, almost burrowed into his chest with his arms wrapped around him. and Morpheus is so very comfortable and warm with the long coat he has on an-

"Okay" the word cuts through Hob's thoughts like a xiphos as Morpheus backs up to look him in the eyes and holds out his hand "take my hand."

"why?" If hob were human he'd say he could feel the blood rushing to his face as his eyes widened. but he's not human so he could soundly tell you that he was glowing slightly.

"So you don't go, somehow unknowingly, stepping into oncoming traffic." he explains as he holds his hand up a little higher, hob takes it and they continue on their way.

Morpheus wouldn't say he was out of his depth when it came to clothes shopping, he just didn't buy color very offten. All of his clothes were various shades of black and dark grey with a few lighter greys (to which his students never failed to make a comment along the lines of 'busting out the spring collection I see' ) but looking at hope in his clothes... well he just didn't look right in black. but trying to figure out what base color to start with was tricky. black was out of the picture but yellow seemed too strong to use as a base. Eventually he settled on a white button up to layer with some sort of sweater. Maybe that's where the yellow could come in? He could worry about that in a moment, he should deal with the rest of the outfit first then the rest of the layers. He looked over all his options, made some choices and measured them against hope to get the right size and sent him to try them on and went looking for some layers. Maybe a blue sweater? but then the colors would-

"professor galanis?" uh oh "what are you doing here? its for sure not your style.'' This much was very true, though he hadn't expected to run into any of his students so he absolutely did not come up with a cover story.

"well, i-"

"hey, could you help me with this?'' The students' eyes go wide and Morpheus can't tell if the interruption is a blessing or curse but goes to help nonetheless. After defeating the buttons he hands hope a couple sweaters to try on and turns around to see his student still standing there.

"sorry about that I-"

"don't even worry about it sir." she says with a smile "sorry for interrupting your … outing." he’s going to get so many questions on Monday "i'll just-"

"actually, could you help me?" he will never hear the end of them "I'm not much of a color person and I need to pick out some accessories"

her eyes light up and she smiles wider "of course sir, i wasn't planning on buying anything anyways"

They spend far more time in the store than Morpheus had planned and by the end of the trip Hope has several outfits with accessories to match. The outfit he's wearing to replace Morpheus's clothes consists of a pair of cuffed blue jeans, a pale yellow sweater over a white button up, a string of fake pearls and a pair of converse.

"Thank you Ms. Tarcey," he says as they start heading out.

"no problem Mr. g, I came out to window shop and this was way more fun!" she says, opening the door.

"I'm sure it was," he says with a laugh "to show my gratitude, I'm willing to give you full marks on the writing assignment I know you haven't started." he offers as they get to the street watching as her eyes go wide and mouth falls open. "Now this is a one time thing. I will not offer this if you help me again." he warns, grabbing Hope's hand before he can run down the sidewalk to follow a dog.

"sir you have no idea how much that helps me" she mumbles, face still in total shock.

"I actually do," he quips. "have a good evening Ms. Tarcey. I'll see you Monday" he says leading hope to the secondhand store across the street.

"who was that?" hob asks once they're in the store.

"one of my students." Morpheus says inspecting a tablecloth. "I teach creative writing" he clarifies, putting the tablecloth back and picking up another. "What do you think of this one?" he asks, handing the fabric to hope.

The cloth is a rich yellow with a light shine, when the light hits it, shifting it reveals a pattern akin to Victorian woodwork, hob doesn't know that of course but he thinks it's beautiful anyways. He looks over to Morpheus who is carefully inspecting other tablecloths and table runners. hob notes how sharp his facial features are, how … elegant … they look. Morpheus turns back to him and he shakes the notion from his head.

"so..?"

"huh? oh, OH, yes i like it, it's perfect" hob chastises himself over how the words come out and picks up a thin lace table runner and pretends to examine it to keep his eyes from wandering. "this one's nice isn't it?"

"mm" he agrees silently, taking it from hob’s hand and putting it in the small basket on his arm and walking towards a different part of the store. As he's following a small dish catches hob’s eye, well it's not really a dish, it's a scallop shell with a castle on a hill painted in blue on the inside and the edges are painted gold. He carefully turns it over in his hand examining it closely.

"Do you like it?"

Hob turns and sees Morpheus is behind him looking over his shoulder "oh yes, isn't it cool?" he beams, staring into morpheus's very.. pretty.. pale blue.. eyes.

"It is very pretty," he says, taking it from Hope's hand, examining it himself for a moment before gently putting it in the basket. "lets go check out." he says with a small smile and hob glows a tad.

66 notes · View notes

lonestarbattleship · 11 months

Text

USS Texas History series: Primary Power

The round device at low, left is a motor generator set in Interior Communications compartment. Above it are two very old starter boards. The left one controls that m-g set. The right one controls a set that is out of frame. That one is dated 1918 and provided power to the newly installed Ford range keeper that generated firing solutions for the 14" guns.

Information from Tom Scott, a Volunteer at the Battleship Texas Foundation:

"AC power was certainly around by 1910 and was rapidly gaining traction throughout the country as the primary way of providing electric power, meaning the basic knowledge and technology for its use was available. So, the decision to use 120 volts D.C. on the ship wasn't based upon lack of ability. I am not aware of any historic documentation that discusses the Navy's decision for D.C., but what we can talk about are some of its advantages that contributed to its use and what was done to overcome its disadvantages.

AC current offers a couple of major advantages over DC, it's more efficient and its voltage can be easily changed using transformers. Fundamental to the nature of electricity is the higher the circuit voltage that serves a load, the lower the amperage required to run it, and vice versa. This made the use of 120 volts problematic because it required very large amperage circuits to power big loads like the 150 hp steering motor and the large number of motors sized 10hp and higher. My feeling is that it was selected due to the inability use transformers on a D.C. circuit to change voltage and the predominance of 120 volt loads on the ship that included hundreds of light fixtures and portable plug-in devices. It was simply easier to increase capacity and wire sizes to accommodate the higher amperage loads created by lower voltage than to increase the voltage design of hundreds, if not thousands, of small devices to match a higher system voltage.

Another issue that certainly affected the decision was the ability to reverse motors and control their speed. That was difficult to do with AC motors and was generally accomplished in the early 20th century with multiple winding motors that were complicated and very expensive. That's where DC offers two very significant advantages that permitted the use of simple and compact motor designs. It is easy to reverse any D.C. motor by reversing polarity, done by reversing its two power wires. Speed can be controlled by increasing or decreasing resistance in its its power circuit. That is impossible to do with A.C. motors. Small motor speed can easily be changed using a rheostat, or variable resister that uses a wiper on a resistive winding. Large motor speed control was accomplished using several large resistors that were switched in and out of the circuit with contactors. You could have almost smooth, almost continuous speed control if you had enough of them. Electric steering and its huge 150hp electric motor is the largest example on board that took full advantage of that method. Other motors, like those used to train turrets and elevate guns only ran at one speed, but had to be very accurately adjusted to the correct settings using resistor banks.

Regardless of the predominance of D.C. devices on board, the need for AC current and different voltages was present in the ship's earliest years of service and it greatly increased over time. The solution was to use motor generator sets, called m-g sets, on board where a 120 vdc motor would run an ac alternator to provide ac current and the voltage needed by a single device. In the Interior Communications compartment, there are several small ones dating back to 1916-18. There are also two very large ones synchronized together to power a large number of "selsyn (self synchronizing)" circuits that among other things, were used to provide range and bearing information from fire control towers to main battery plot and firing solutions to the guns. Others were installed in the dynamo rooms that powered the 40mm gun mounts and also provided a different dc voltage to the ship's degaussing system. However, most m-g sets were scattered throughout the ship, close to the devices that needed them. That way, they were able to avoid long wiring runs to reach the loads or changes to the overall system. They could tap into the existing 120 volt ship's system to get their power. That wasn't an easy task since it required careful engineering and design to prevent overloads or imbalances, but it was do-able.

One of the larger issues was to provide the additional power as large, new ac powered devices were added that included more radio and radar equipment, and 1.1" then 40mm anti aircraft weapons. To accommodate that, system capacity was increased 33% by replacing the four original 300kw 120v.d.c. turbo generators with four 400kw Westinghouse units. They also picked up significant capacity by replacing the big electric ovens and ranges in the crew galley with oil fired units.

So, there were significant compromises and shortcomings that were inherent to the 120 volt D.C. system, but it answered a number of almost unsolvable problems in 1910-11 when the ship was designed.

The resistor bank and contactors that controlled speed and direction for the 150hp electric steering motor.

Here are the two largest motor-generator sets on the ship. They are located in Interior Communications and provided power to the gunnery systems that provided all of the range and bearing information from the fire control towers, and firing solutions to the gun turrets.

Hidden in very tight compartments beneath the turrets are the electrical platforms that contained all of the electrical panels and equipment that ran the turrets. The black boxes on the right side are resistor banks that controlled motor speed on the shell rammers.

Here is one of the original 1912 controllers used on the 120 volt d.c. air compressors used to supply air charges that fired the torpedoes. The compressors were repurposed in 1925, when the torpedo tubes were removed, to serve the gas ejector systems on the 14" and 5" guns, but the old controllers remained. They were crude and simple, but they did the job well and were easily serviced.

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link

20 notes · View notes

goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 1 year

Note

No Hellsing because I sadly don't know her but Nikolina + 9 for the 50 tropes thing? ✨

9. There’s only one bed and we sleep as far away as possible from each other but wake up cuddling

AFDHFFHJD so… answering this nearly a full year later. I had this like 90% done in my drafts for ages and forgot to actually post it. I only remembered because I was scrolling through my inbox for any fun prompts I might do and saw the ask.

Anyway, ambiguously set at some point during R&R after the gang escape the white cathedral and meet up with Nikolai again. Let’s pretend Nikolina got separated from the rest somehow lmao

Featuring a Darkling tether cameo bc I am who I am as a person, I guess!

***

Alina didn’t mind sharing a room— it was more cost efficient, and likely safer if they had to leave in a hurry. Sharing a bed was a little more uncomfortable though.

“I think the innkeeper may have misunderstood,” Nikolai said slowly.

“It’s fine,” she grumbled, too exhausted to care very much. She sank heavily onto the one bed, unraveling the shawl around her neck that hid the collar. “It’s only one night.”

“I could try to get another room?”

She shook her head. That would just draw more attention to them, the last thing they needed was to be memorable.

They had been mostly camping out in the woods at night, trying to steer clear of populated areas as best they could. They wouldn’t have been staying at the inn at all if Sturmhond didn’t have contacts they were intending to meet in the morning. Contacts that might even help lead them to the rest of the group. Alina hoped they were safe.

Nikolai sat down beside her. “I’ll have you know, I snore horribly.”

“Wonderful.”

He gave the bed an exaggerated pat. “It doesn’t seem like a very good bed, to be honest. I don’t think it even has fleas. I could just take the floor.”

She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s no use if you’re stiff as a board in the morning. What if you have to run away because you bad mouthed someone?”

“That would be unfortunate.”

“You just stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.” And truthfully she was too exhausted to care much about propriety at the moment. And sleeping on an actual bed was a very enticing prospect. She suspected Nikolai was probably feeling the same way.

“I can’t wait to tell Oretsev you insisted on sharing a bed.”

She turned to glare at him. “I could still change my mind. No gloating.”

He held up his hands placatingly, but his grin didn’t slip. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave that part out of the tales of our daring exploits.”

“I just hope we’ll get a chance to recount tales at all,” she replied.

And that was that for the moment. They busied themselves the rest of the evening taking the opportunity to replenish their supplies, and prepare for the travel yet ahead of them. It was a careful thing, they both had recognizable faces. And the last thing they wanted was to be caught before the rendezvous in the morning.

Alina took her turn washing while Nikolai ventured out again to get food.

She’d quickly dressed again and was brushing out her wet hair when she heard it, smooth as silk, almost a whisper. “Where are you, Alina?”

Somehow, she didn’t jump. Though she felt the Darkling’s cool gaze on her. Though her stomach twisted with sudden dread. “I think telling you defeats the point of being in hiding.”

“Why run, Alina? You know I’ll find you eventually. The longer you take the less inclined I am to show you mercy.”

“I’ve seen what you call mercy. I don’t want it,” she bit out, just as the door opened.

“Suit yourself,” he replied, calmly, and with that the apparition dispersed.

Nikolai walked in some time later, carrying a tray of food from the kitchen downstairs. Slim pickings, but that had been the case for awhile now, with the drawn out civil war. And frankly she didn’t have much of an appetite after the Darkling’s brief visit. But she forced herself to choke down what she could.

To his credit, Nikolai seemed to sense that her mood had turned since earlier, if not the reason why, and so he didn’t make many attempts at conversation. She was grateful for it.

Then there was the business of sleeping. It was less awkward than she was expecting. She told herself she was too exhausted and in her own head to care very much.

So she extinguished the lamp, and lay down on her own side of the bed, carefully turned away while Nikolai changed. It was likely testament to his own weariness that he hadn’t made any quips or half hearted attempts to flirt with her.

She listened to the rustle of clothes and then the soft footfalls as he approached. The listing of the mattress. Despite everything she was very aware of how close he was, even when carefully keeping to his own side. The already cramped room just seemed smaller in the dark.

“This is preferable to sleeping on the floor,” he admitted, finally.

“Much easier on your delicate, princely sensibilities, right?” she replied without turning around. She was almost a little afraid to.

He only laughed.

Still, it didn’t take very long for Alina to fall asleep.

She woke some time before dawn, disoriented. Not quite sure where she was or how, except that it was more comfortable than she was used to.

Her memory caught up to her about a minute later. And the realization that she was very much not on her own side of the bed. Just who she was clinging to, and whose shoulder she’d buried her face in. From the steady rise and fall of his breath, Nikolai appeared to still be asleep. Fortunate, he’d never let her live this down.

Gingerly, she tried to disentangle herself without disturbing him. With any luck, they simply wouldn’t talk about this in the morning.

Send me a ship and a prompt for a mini fic!

#grishaverse #shadow and bone #nikolina #alina starkov #nikolai lantsov #long post #sorrry I still don’t know how to do a read more on mobile #a string of words #i ramble sometimes #all the bendy punctuations #ship ask game #ask games

31 notes · View notes

nichenarratives · 8 months

Text

Hurricane Heller 8

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton

last | first | next

8. Thoroughly Ambushed

That Monday morning starts like every other; Mordecai puts on a suit, brushes his hair and fur to acceptable standards, trims his jaw fuzz back and finally, chooses a tie. He favours the red silk frequently, but today he chooses a forest green Esther made - her first and only foray into needlework thus far. It's not his best, but it is sentimental, and after this weekend he's feeling nostalgic for simpler times, before his mother started trying to wed him off to a near stranger.

Smoothing the fabric into his waistcoat, he pauses when his gaze catches that of his reflection. With such a busy life, he hasn't noticed himself growing up; his round, childlike face has become angular, a sharp jaw fringed with tidy whiskers framing piercing green eyes set into dark fur. Ears no longer too big for his head sit attentively forward and balancing out his overall appearance, signature pince nez rest on a white muzzle.

His hands fall to his sides as he regards himself, wondering if it was a gradual process, or a sudden change. Had those changes been what prompted his mother to start seeking a match? He's aware some of his congregation were matched far earlier, almost as soon as their bar mitzvah occurred, but Mordecai hasn't had time to worry on such things before. Keeping a secret second life was plenty enough to focus on.

Nor do I possess such luxuries now. Taking a moment to straighten his tie and secure it in place with his silver tie pin, Mordecai grabs his satchel and heads out. It's still early - barely past eight - but he has a lot to do, with the new week commencing. Orders to finalise, stock to count and horses to vet for fresh odds flow through his mind, organising into a schedule by the time his key presses into the lock.

"It's Katz, righ'?"

It comes so naturally now; in a moment he's Elijah Katz, the manager of the races with no patience for imbeciles, entirely detached from his emotions for efficient business practices. Unfortunately, It also bleeds into Mordecai Heller outside of work, reducing an already restricted capacity for empathy in his real life. Mordecai considers it a tolerable side effect of living dual lives, one he's already resigned to when turning to face his guest with a scowl.

Three men stand just feet away, all wearing identical black suits and skinny black ties, the ornate golden tie pin clipping each in place making it painfully obvious they're part of the same organised crime syndicate. The two men flanking the last have a hand tucked into their blazers, signaling they're packing heat and ready to use it, expressions set similarly to Mordecai's own; cold and intimidating.

He knows he should be afraid, but his body refuses to feel it in his current state of mind. Instead, his gaze falls upon the third man, who stands with his hands on his hips and a grin on a pure black muzzle. A bushel of dark hair sits untidily on top of his head, his piercing green eyes shining from within a black abyss of fur as white teeth glisten when he smiles. "Elijah Katz?"

Mordecai narrows his gaze, an ear flicking in agitation. He's not yet sure who he's dealing with, but few citizens would so blatantly flaunt firearm possession beyond the police or the organisation. Assuming his own bosses wouldn't approach with such hostility and unaware of a rival crime syndicate in the area, he decides to play devil's advocate for the least likely option. "Am I under arrest?"

The black cat laughs loudly then makes a subtle gesture to his enforcers, who immediately take empty hands from suit jackets and turn their backs, bodies forming a makeshift perimeter between their boss and the public. A kid wanders too close and gets snarled at, whereupon his mother whisks the kitten away at breakneck speed to cross the street, and in turn others do the same, giving them space to talk.

"Ha! Fiores said you were a real card!" The feline chuckles and approaches Mordecai, offering a hand to shake. When the tuxedo doesn't take it after an extended pause, the slim black cat takes it back without offense, still smiling as he reaches into his jacket for a smoke and lighter. "The name's Hink. I was one of Fiore's hires, back in the day. Just like you, kid."

Not entirely grasping the scope of the conversation yet, the tuxedo sighs. Hink finally stops talking to light his smoke, a pause Mordecai takes full advantage of. "What precisely do you require of me? And please, be precise. I have an inordinately busy day ahead of me."

"That's exactly what I'm here about." Hink takes a deep toke of his cigarette, exhaling through his nose before he speaks again, waving his hand vaguely at the tracks. "Fiores sent them books you started to Mr Savage for the year's taxes, a whole stack of 'em. Even told 'im about that thing you dug up on Jimbo. He were real impressed, Katz. So impressed, he wants you on a new assignment, not in this shithole."

Mr Savage is not a name Mordecai hears often, but it's one he knows not to take lightly. He's above Fiores in rank, most likely an underboss for the head honcho himself. Getting his attention is not something the tom ever wanted; he wants to do his job, earn money and save. Yet here he is, apparently unfortunate enough to be seen, yet: A new assignment?

Mordecai frowns, the ire leaching from his features. A new assignment could mean a better wage, further opportunities and the chance to buy his mother a decent home far sooner. However, it comes with uncertainty; there's no guarantee he'll excel, and his old job likely won't be available if he falls from grace. Not to mention Jimbo's crimes were fabricated by the tuxedo himself. Should that ever come to light, being as far from Savage as possible would be preferable.

"I appreciate the recognition," he states carefully. "However, I will have to decline. I have no need for a new assignment."

"That's great, but I'm afraid I have to decline your decline." Hink crosses the few steps between them and swipes the key dangling from the lock before Mordecai can react. As he tucks it into a concealed pocket, he turns back to the tuxedo with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Mr Savage booked you a ride already. Would be rude not to take it, wouldn't it?"

Alarm bells ring in Mordecai's head, finally surpassing layers of suppression to conscious appreciation, warning the feline something is very, very wrong with this situation. Before he can assess an escape route however, Hink places a hand on his shoulder and firmly steers the adolescent towards the road. A car idles, its engine running, rear door slightly open.

Mordecai swallows nervously, not only because he's entirely unsure if he'll survive this encounter, but also because he's never been in a car before. He's well aware of the hysteria that first surrounded them - that raucous speeds could peel flesh from a man's face and liquify his intestines - and while he does not believe such idiocy, it doesn't sit well amongst his current anxieties either. "If I might just-"

"Nothing doin' here for you no more." Hink yanks the suicide door open wide with his spare hand then pushes down on on Mordecai's shoulder, the other coming his head as he's forced into the car. "You'll be thanking me later," Hink shouts as he slams the door behind him. "Don't worry, Katz! The tracks are in good hands! Fiores sends his regards!"

On all fours between two opposite bench seats, the smell of leather wax is the first thing to assault his senses, followed swiftly by a vibration through his hands and knees as the engine revs. The sensation shocks Mordecai into trying to stand but he struggles to balance in the moving vehicle. Eventually, he plants his hands on the ground and the rear facing bench seat to steady himself, stumbles to his feet and falls unceremoniously onto the bench, where he closes his eyes and takes a moment to inhale a deep, steadying breath.

Once re-centred, he opens his eyes and looks around, only to regret the decision as soon as his eyes fall on the seating bench facing the direction of travel. Three men take up the entire bench, but it's the burly characters flanking a smaller man that monopolise his focus. They're easily twice his width at the shoulders, a full head taller than the third man, and they each hold a pistol aimed directly at Mordecai's chest at their sides.

I'm going to die. Strangely, the thought isn't accompanied by panic or fear but rather, hollow regret. He's still only saved a fraction of the funds required to move his family out of their decaying home, and he's not even written a clue to where it is for his mother to find. If she doesn't receive the money, all of it, - especially his death - will be meaningless. Regret becomes a deep sorrow as his heart picks up its pace in anticipation of taking a bullet. I'm sorry, mother…

The third man hums quietly and turns a page in a brown file resting in his lap. It's a simple gesture, but enough to draw Mordecai back into the present. With no time for sentiments if he does want to walk out of here alive, he studies the third man to ground himself.

He's a siamese of average height and build, hands and ears tipped with coal black fur also present on his muzzle, dark patches that stand in striking contrast to a champagne pelt. He wears a navy pinstripe suit and matching hat, setting him apart from the black-clad cohorts, though a yellow tie is still secured with a golden pin, signifying his allegiance to the same syndicate.

Unnaturally blue eyes meet green as the man straightens, then rests an ankle on the opposite knee to prop up his file, expression remaining flat. Anxiety gnaws at the tuxedo, who has to make a concerted effort not to stare at the weaponry, but digs his claws into his thighs to maintain focus while still aware of his precarious situation. Now isn't the time for fear.

"Savage assumed you'd be taller." The siamese comments, then shakes his head and looks at his file. "But it's hard to take the measure of a man using an alias." Sharp blue eyes scrutinise Mordecai. "Savage doesn't like aliases, you see. They make him angry, makes him not trust you. So how about we start over, for his sake? You tell me your real name, and I'll ask my men to put their pieces away. Sound good, 'Katz'?"

It doesn't sound good, but he doesn't have a choice in the matter; if he refuses, he'll likely be peppered with bullets and tossed out the car into the ocean. Katz might be defunct, but thanks to Nataliya's prying father highlighting the need for a stronger story, he has another, more believable alias ready. Now, he just has to sell it, and he hesitates to make it feel more genuine. "...Fitzgerald. Isaiah Fitzgerald."

The siamese grins, dark lips curling into a satisfied smile. A gentle wave of a finger and the pistols are tucked away into blazers. Mordecai sinks into his seat in relief he's survived. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" His interrogator asks in such a condescending tone, Mordecai scowls. He doesn't seem to take offense as he closes his file. "I'll make sure to update your boss while you're on assignment today. He'll be pleased you were cooperative. You're a valuable asset after all. One Savage wants to make the most of."

That vague statement doesn't sit well with the tom. A frown overtakes his scowl, brows knitting as green eyes narrow. "I don't understand. Was I not as effective at the tracks? I can make alterations to-"

"You were real good at the tracks," the siamese interjects with a more genuine smile on his muzzle, now business has been concluded. Somehow, this smile is more unsettling to view than his last. "You should be flattered, kid. Savage is a busy man; he doesn't take an interest in people often, but those books of yours were impressive enough to make him pay attention. He wants to see what else that brain can do."

As they pull up outside a dilapidated factory on the outskirts of the city, a feeling of dread settles over the adolescent. He was expecting another accounting job, some front business in need of careful auditing. There's no auditing to be done in an empty warehouse. Dark ears fold with uncertainty as the closest enforcer opens a door and slides out, presumably to accompany him to his next destination.

"Go on," the siamese prompts the adolescent tom, his smile seemingly more sinister in the shadow of the factory. "Just don't fuck it up, Fitz. This high up the ladder, you won't survive the fall, not unless Savage decides you're worth a parachute."

#mordecai heller #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy mordecai #lackadaisy cats #fanfic #hurricane heller #no beta we die like atlas may #tracy j butler #niche narratives #hurricane heller chapter 8

13 notes · View notes

midnightsilver · 7 months

Text

Artist Process Post

Some process pics and behind the scenes for my Sam and Dean Costume artwork 😄:

My usual style for digital artwork is free-hand painting. I usually either build a reference scene in a 3D modeller or I draw a messy concept sketch from reference photos to get my basic shapes. Next I do a neater sketch on a new layer in Procreate and turn off my old concept sketch layer. After that I draw block colours on a layer underneath my sketch layer, before finally painting the shading and detailed features on a new layer over the top of it all. I use this process because I am a self-taught digital artist coming from a traditional art background. Plus I just really like painting 😄 - laying down colour in freehand brush strokes to build up my picture - it lets me adjust and change my ideas as I go (pre-planning is not my forte! 😅). However a lot of digital art originated in animation and anime styles, so it uses line art and colour fills in closed shapes to produce a much cleaner style. I thought I’d change up my regular process and give that style a go here and I’m really proud of my novice achievements 😄

I still started with a sketch of the boys. I drew the poses and body shapes in blue, using classic superhero poses and musculature. Then on a new layer I added the costume details in red. (I had loads of fun with this stage, it took me back to teenage me who used to draw comic book heroes instead of doing my homework 😂)

Next I lowered the opacity of my sketch and did some line work on a new layer. The trick here is to try and draw clean smooth lines in a single stroke and to make sure that the lines meet so that shapes are closed. (Later on you select individual closed shapes and fill them with colour, but if you have left gaps in your lines the colour floods out into other areas or fills up the whole page.) My lines aren’t the smoothest (I messy sketch for a reason! I have very shaky hands!!😂) and they also don’t have much nuance to them (lines should vary in thickness to add emphasis and flow to the design) but I was just pleased my work was neat-ish and still looking like my concept! 😄

The next stage is flat colour. This is a straightforward stage if you have taken time on the line work. I selected the areas that I wanted and used the fill tool to add my chosen colours inside the lines. (I also painted a freehand background to add atmosphere before I started on my shading.)

The final stages I did were shading and lighting. I drifted back towards my traditional painting style with the shading. Anime styles often use single colour shadows in block shapes, or gradient overlays to add depth, but instead I clipped my shading layer over the top of my flat colour (clipping a layer prevents you from accidentally going outside the edges of the layer below) and hand painted shadows, tone variations and highlights with freehand strokes and a blender brush. The final layer on top of that I used the hard light setting to paint on glows and shine.

And that’s everything. 😄 All in all this took me about 8 hours but that’s because I’m incredibly slow at line work 😭 (I spent soooo much time erasing and undoing crappy lines) and because freehand painting my shading layer is much slower than using block shape shadows - but I would need a lot more practice at that to make it look good, freehand painting is slower but it let’s me cover more of my errors as I go 😁. So while this art style for this pic is still not as clean or as efficient as typical anime/animation style digital artwork, I’m really pleased with the look of it compared to my usual loose style.

P.s. if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not an expert! This is not a tutorial, this is just an explanation of how I did this this time - and I’m learning more every day. If you wanna learn more about digital drawing from people who know what they are doing you can check out amazing artists like @kirathehyrulian and many others. 🤗

Stay awesome and happy Arting my friends

- Midnight

Art post on its own without the behind the scenes 😄

#supernatural #spn fanart #MidnightSilver #my artwork #artists process #digital drawing #sam winchester #dean winchester #wonder woman #superheroes

8 notes · View notes

parvuls · 2 years

Note

Can we talk about how much Ngozi’s art changed just over the first year??

YES, we can.

ngozi's art style changed a lot over all four years (by which I mean... seven years, irl). it matured the most throughout year 1, became sharp and fine-tuned between years 2 and 3, and then became more efficient throughout year 4.

(1.03 / 1.22)

it's literally impossible not to notice what drawing hundreds of comic pages did to her lines. they're much steadier, finer, and she has a lot more control over her movements, which makes the characters look less bulky [left], and more fluid and natural-looking [right]. but maybe the BIGGEST change is in the coloring. the first half of year 1 was flat and unsaturated, with minimal play of shadows and depth. in the second half of year 1 the color palette for each character was finalized, and is a lot richer than in the beginning.

this skill set also extends to angles: while on the left blurry lines are utilized to mimic perception, bitty still looks more or less in the same dimension as the background. on the right the angles, shadows and proportions do that work, and it's clear that bitty is standing closer to the viewer than the window.

and perhaps inevitably - ngozi just became a better comic artist. bitty's facial expressions in the beginning are exaggerated and unrealistic (to serve a specific goal), but as the year progresses ngozi managed to express micro-expressions far better, and tiny shifts could suddenly convey fear, or shock, or pain.

(2.05 / 3.13)

the changes between year 2 and year 3 are the least obvious. I'm almost tempted to throw in here the matter of technological advancements - there are exactly two years between these two updates, and things like photoshop versions or new editing apps can mean a lot in art quality.

but regardless, you can see those same things still getting better (albeit less dramatically). around year 3 ngozi stopped color blocking and started using more gradients, which gave even more depth to the characters' appearance; her lines were still getting finer; and drawing even MORE comic pages means the characters' fluidity is now perfected, and their poses are less comic-y and almost completely natural.

if it isn't obvious: year 3 is my fave, art-wise.

in year 4 we see a reversion. if you look closely (or even not that closely) you can see ngozi went back from using gradients to using color-blocking, and the lineart is more reminiscent of year 2 than it is of year 3 (heavier, less integrated with the coloring). still, the quality of the art makes it clear that this is not a reversion of skill; this is a conscious choice.

(4.02 / 4.25)

I have some theories about this choice - all revolving around the fact that coloring is incredibly time-consuming, and omgcp was already taking longer to complete than probably anticipated. maybe people who were here before me heard about it on patreon and could correct me, but my guess is that either she was working on other projects at the same time, and this art style is quicker, more efficient and requires less laser-precision to complete, or, possibly, she hired someone to help her do the coloring (which isn't unheard of nor unreasonable, when you're putting out SO MUCH art), and it'd be nearly impossible for them to get close enough to her style so she had to simplify it. this possibility is reasonable, but considering that she was still doing fanart for fun in other fandoms, also less likely.

all these changes mean that year 4 is neater and cleaner in appearance than year 2 or 3, and some slight changes to the color palettes also help smooth things out.

#asks #omgcp #omgcheckplease #forgive me for this long analysis I just love the omgcp art style SO MUCH #text

141 notes · View notes

birthedstars · 2 years

Text

Building A Family: 1st Trimester

TW/CW: Miscarriage Mention

AN: Gonna be a multi-parter(probably two or three). First part is mostly set up. Gonna try to work on it while I do request based fics.

[Morgan]

Morgan stared at the test between their fingertips. It was happening. Those mornings feeling sick. All explained by a set of blue lines. Morgan cupped a hand over their mouth, trying to stifle the sounds of their own sobbing. They and their partners have been trying for so long but…Morgan wasn't supposed to be the one to get pregnant.

Layla was the one who was excited most about the idea of being pregnant and dealing with all of the symptoms. She'd read all the baby books and every web article on how to get pregnant efficiently. Layla was the one who dealt with the loss of it most. The pain of trying and failing. Morgan's fingers tightened on the test and felt themselves get choked up. Why did they forget birth control? How would Layla react to something like this? She would be angry right? Would she hate her?

Morgan had never seen Layla angry before but the idea sent them spiraling. Their heart began to pound hard enough that they felt it down through their toes. Their breath started to hasten and grow in volume with their anxiety. Morgan felt sick to their stomach. Even worse than the morning sickness.

"How do I tell her? Should I tell Isaiah first? When should I-"

A door from the ground floor of the house opened and closed abruptly.

"Yooooooo, babe! I'm back and I got the groceries!" Layla's voice echoed through the halls.

"I-i'll be down in a minute!" Morgan shouted. They quickly stuffed the pregnancy test into their back pocket.

Morgan quickly steeled themself. They would wait for as long as they could.

Morgan walked down to the kitchen to meet their partner. Layla was beautiful to say the least. Purple and Noir black, curly hair that reached down to her shoulders. It was dyed that way, but it paired well with her vibrant blue eyes.

Between them, Layla was the more outgoing and confident type. Especially with how she dressed. Deep cut, v-neck crop top that showed off some cleavage and her midriff. Shorts were down to her mid thigh and accented the roundness of her ass.

"Hey babe," Layla planted a kiss on Morgan's forehead. "There are few bags left in the car."

Morgan nodded silently. It all felt awkward. Hiding something so life changing from her. Not knowing how to pull the words out of their own throat.

Morgan hurried through helping Layla with the groceries. Just looking at the food she'd bought made Morgan sick. Morning sickness again. Morgan did their best to shove it down until they got the chance to sit down.

Morgan swayed to the couch in the living room to rest and bite back the nausea. They rubbed their stomachs absently as they sat down. The unmistakable firmness of it made it worse.

Layla sat down on the couch next to Morgan, leaving barely even hairs width of space between. Morgan felt her hand trace their back. Her fingers lingering on Morgan's bra straps.

"You've only been home a few minutes and you're already…" Morgan tried to stifle a moan when Layla's hands gripped their thighs.

"Isaiah is going to be a little late, but who's to say we can't get started awhile," Layla pressed her body up against Morgan's, putting their back firmly on the couch.

Layla shifted her hand to the waist of Morgan's pants. Layla planted a kiss on Morgan's lips as she pulled their pants down and discarded them to the wayside.

It had been sometime since Morgan had sex with Layla without Isaiah. They'd forgotten how smooth she was, flowing from one point to another like a graceful serpent. Morgan didn't even realize that Layla had already reached up under their shirt and took a handful of their breasts.

Just the slight grasp of them made Morgan yelp. They were so sensitive. Why were they so much more sensitive now? It didn't take much more of Layla's playing for it to settle in. It was because of the baby. Morgan's body was already changing.

"Stop!" Morgan quickly grabbed Layla's forearm that was up their shirt. Layla looked up from between Morgan's legs in shock.

"Woah, what's wrong?" Layla stared up at them, eyes full of worry.

Morgan started getting choked up again. The words started catching in their throat like rust on a chain fence. Morgan did all they could to force the words out.

"I…I'm pregnant."

Layla's face went blank. No feedback at all. Morgan could feel tears well up into the bottom of her eyes.

"I'm sorry! I don't know what happened! I took birth control correctly, or maybe I didn't, I don't know!" Morgan started to unravel. "This was supposed to be your baby! Not mine!"

The bedroom was echoing with Morgan's sobbing and babbling until Layla got up from her position on the floor.

Morgan felt a slight sting on her cheeks, then warmth. Layla clapped her palms onto the side of Morgan's face.

"The only thing I want is to have a kid with you and Isaiah, stupid," Layla said, not breaking her eyes away from Morgan.

"Y-you're not mad…"

"Never," Layla said, not breaking her gaze. "Well, I might be a little sore, but the end means so much more to me. I love you Morgan, and this is the last thing that would change that."

Morgan felt their heart twist. Layla liked putting on a strong front when she was hurt, but this was genuine. No facade. Morgan felt another wave of tears spill out of their eyes.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's ok you big crybaby," Layla pulled Morgan close into a tight hug. "It's ok, as long as you let me rub your belly and listen to the baby whenever I want though. Unrestricted belly rubs for life!"

Morgan felt Layla's body stiffen a bit.

"Oh holy shit…we're going to be parents. We're going to have a kid." Layla continued, the realization just hitting her. "Isaiah is going to freak when he gets home."

Morgan sniffled and laughed into Layla's shoulder. How did they get so blessed?

[Layla]

Being treated like a fragile glass was the worst. Everyone is afraid that the slightest tap could crack you. That every bump on a table that you stood on was as apocalyptic as an earthquake. A slight tumble could shatter you across the ground, leaving you in disrepair.

Layla was sure people would be more and more sensitive around her now that Morgan was pregnant. Trying not to trip over their words or offend. Layla didn't care either way. But only Morgan and Isaiah knew that.

They did their best not to treat her carefully when Morgan's pregnancy was confirmed. It came out a few times now and then the past few weeks, especially today.

Morgan's first ultrasound was today. The three of them were walking through the parking lot of the OB/GYN office. It was a private practice that a friend of theirs worked at. They were pretty supportive of the trio's relationship so it was pretty comfortable.

Layla's chest tightened and stomach turned with each step.

Last time she was here, she was clinging weakly to Isaiah's shoulder and blood was dripping constantly from between her legs. That night was a nightmare. Probably the hardest she'd ever cried in her life.

Two years of trying. All of that excitement. And she didn't even make it to the first ultrasound.

"Hey, are you ok?" Isaiah asked.

Layla was startled out of her thoughts. The tall, slightly muscular young man moved beside her. His gaze didn't betray a whole lot of worry, as per usual, but she could tell by his tone that he was. Only a little bit though. Layla took a deep breath and put on a smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just ready to see what's going on in Morgan's belly is all," Layla said with a smile.

The practice building was fairly homely and down to earth. Wooden floors, light blue colored halls, pretty open for a mid sized building. It didn't have the sterile feel most hospitals had. Probably comes with territory of being family owned.

Almost immediately after signing in, A heavy set young woman with flaming ginger hair dressed in office scrubs approached them.

"Hey guys! I'm so, so excited for y'all!" The woman drew Isaiah into a spine breaking bear hug.

"Nice to see you again, Amber," Isaiah managed to say through her grip.

Layla didn't even get to say a greeting before dragging her and Morgan into a big hug. She was still as strong and excitable as ever.

"Let's get yall back to the examination room," Amber said, pulling Morgan by their arm.

Layla and Isaiah followed behind briskly just to keep up.

Amber somehow was always the most excited one in the room when it came to good news no matter what it was. She was an old childhood friend of Morgan's, but she always seemed to treat Layla and Isaiah like they were friends from right out the womb.

The group entered a room that was toward the back of the office. It was a room specifically for ultrasounds, so it only had the basic and most necessary equipment. A small display screen, a computer with the ultrasound transducer wired to it, and a bed already covered with the medical paper.

"Ok, Morgan, you can lay down right there and lift up your shirt over your belly," Amber instructed as she switched on the computer.

Morgan laid down on the propped up bed and lifted their shirt up to the bottom of their chest. Layla guessed that they were only two months in, but the brown skin of Morgan's stomach already had a noticeable curve to it. Even under a shirt it looked bloated sometimes. Their belly button was even a bit shallower than before. Morgan was a petite person, pregnancy was bound to be more pronounced on them.

Amber squirted ultrasound gel onto Morgan's stomach and pressed the transducer onto Morgan's gel covered abdomen right below her navel.

"Alrighty guys, let's take a look around," Amber shifted the transducer.

The breathing of all three soon to be parents slowed. Layla clenched to Morgan's hand and she felt Isaiah's fingers grip her shoulder. A bean shaped image appeared on the screen and a small, alien looking figure in the fetal position was within it. A vibrating beat echoed through the room.

Morgan clenched Layla's hand. Isaiah, stern as always, only stared at the monitor with wonder. They were real. Their heartbeat was strong.

"That's our baby," Isaiah whispered.

It was. Layla's eyes were glued to the monitor. Everything was so real. It was a live baby. Breathing. Slightly shifting and bobbing

"Everything looks good, heart beat is strong," Amber slightly moved the monitor a bit. "It's too early to tell the gender but, congratulations!"

"Hold on, what's that to the top of the screen," Isaiah spoke up.

Layla looked to the spot Isaiah pointed out. It looked like a sac next to their baby. Amber shifted the transducer up a bit to get a view of it. It was a shock to say the least.

Layla's jaw dropped. Two heartbeats were in sync within Morgan's womb. Two figures sleeping within them.

"Well, well, almost didn't catch it. Looks like you're having twins! Double congratulations!" Amber announced.

Morgan's eyes became as wide as saucers.

Isaiah couldn't help but go slack jawed.

Layla's face forcefully pulled her mouth into a huge grin that spread on her face.

"Well…I guess we know why I look so bloated already," Morgan's face relaxed and she chuckled bashfully.

Isaiah's expression was blank. Probably running several calculations and adjusting the budget they had for two babies already.

Layla felt like jumping up and down right then and there. She pulled Isaiah's still dumbfounded form close to her and Morgan into one big group hug.

They may not have been growing in her womb or even using her eggs, but these were her rainbow babies too.

And she couldn't be happier.

[Isaiah]

Isaiah fumbled through the kitchen cabinets in search of a can of tuna. Isaiah knew what he was getting into when he agreed to enter a serious relationship with Morgan and Layla. He knew what he was getting into when they decided to have children as well. Late night convenience store runs were gonna be his life for the next 6 months or so.

Sometimes their needs left him scrambling though. Who would ever wake up from a nap and decide they absolutely needed mint ice cream topped with Tuna? Why would he think to buy a ton of chocolate last week? It made his head spin on occasion.

Morgan dealing with a sudden onset of pregnancy cravings halfway through the 3rd month of carrying twins and Layla having what she calls "period cramps painful enough that she's going to kill god for making her this way" or something.

Isaiah put the tub of chocolate mint ice cream under one arm, a can of tuna in one hand, new Morgan's prenatal vitamins that they needed to start taking, a bag of dark chocolate in his mouth and some utensils in between his fingers. Just imagining Morgan eating the combination made him gag.

Isaiah walked up the stairs to the bedroom. The TV was only just audible with what sounded like a late night cartoon. Isaiah enters the room steadily just to make sure he didn't fumble any of what he was carrying.

"Jeez…I was only gone for 15 minutes," he muttered walking in.

Layla was cuddled up against Morgan side with her head resting just above their pregnant bump. She looked deep in sleep while Morgan stroked the curls of her hair. One moment she was boisterous as always, even in her complaints, and the next she was conked out like a sleeping cat. Morgan was still awake however, the fabric of their sleep shirt stretched subtly over their bump down to the top of their belly button. It was already starting to get one of those dark lines that leads through the navel too.

Morgan put a finger to their lips and shushed quietly as Isaiah placed the late night snack on the night stand.

Isaiah knelt next to the bed and put a hand on their swelling belly. It was so smooth. Morgan was bound to be on the bigger side. Being short, petite, and carrying twins was the recipe to having a big belly.

To say it turned him on would be an understatement.

It was a part of the "plan" of course. Morgan and Layla both knew of his fetish well before they'd even gotten serious about their relationship. Layla teased him about it when they first started trying for a baby and Morgan had gotten a little used to using that fact in dirty talk when he was getting close to cumming. However, now that Morgan was pregnant, the conversation never came up.

It didn't bother him till Morgan's shirts started to accentuate their form. It wasn't on purpose, they were just all belly. Isaiah's mind wandered as his palm rested on the warm skin of Morgan's bump. How big would their belly get on them? What shape would it take? Round spherical like it was a weighted ball or would the babies elongate their stomach instead? Would their bump drop early just with the weight of two babies. Their belly button, already shallow, popping out into a knob or being pulled flat into the swollen skin of their stomach.

Isaiah's anticipation threatened to consume him every once and awhile. When they got bigger it would probably be harder to repress his feelings, but he would put whatever made them comfortable first. Without hesitation.

Morgan took a scoop of the green ice cream and plopped it into the bowl. Then they popped open the can of tuna and dumped it right on top of the ice cream. They took in a healthy spoon of both in their mouth and smiled like a kid at a fair.

Isaiah's stomach squirmed. Ok, maybe there would still be some hesitation.

#nbpreg #maiesiophilia #preg kink #fluff #polyamorous relationship #twin pregnancy

75 notes · View notes