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aohendo · 2 years

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ello

i have a question actually if ya dont mind, how do you go about writing? just like in general, do you start before having a WIP intro, how soon do you start talking abt it/writing it, how much do you prep, literally all and any advice would be appreciated tysm <3

Hey, buddy!

I'm gonna preface this with the usual disclaimer of "what works for me might not work for you because human brains are squishy and cool" and all that good stuff. Pick and choose or completely disregard, as with all writing-related stuff, the choice is yours!

This is long, so hold onto your boots and here we go.

The concept stage is normally pretty straightforward for me. I'll be trying to take notes in class, at work, whatever, and my brain'll wander off and go "okay, but--but what about a giant pack-moose?" and bam, off I go (re. Prince for Hire). In this stage I'll normally develop the main character(s) or the situation/setting--whichever the stray thought fairy didn't grant. That'll usually take the form of scribbling out a few characters' names to get a sense of the time period/language-base (Kiris was the first character, but Iiriok Nelovskevouk of Dargoulvga was the first named character, and his name accordingly set my naming practices for the Novgor Plateau). If I had a character first, I'll come up with a setting/situation I think would challenge them. Once I have an idea of a character and situation (and realize, when I say "idea," it really might just be a name) I'll scribble out a page with that person/setting. So, for Prince for Hire, that makes the first scene I ever wrote for it Kiris escaping in a queen's bathtub across a giant lake because the queen just discovered he was a conman. Did I keep that scene? Myeh.

Nominally from there I'll try and rough out a plot. Having spent considerable time reworking Attenuate/Reverberate because I didn't rough in a plot, this is the one step I really would recommend you consider doing. By "rough out", I mean I came up with a few vague plot points. For Prince for Hire, there are only four I'm working with: 1) Kiris enters the competition to rule the Plateau; 2) Kiris teams up with Batar and eliminates the competition; 3) Iiriok is accused of being an imposter, convinces the empress otherwise, and Kiris volunteers to help Iiriok find the imposter; 4) Iiriok wins. Not much of an outline, really. But I've found that if I try and get any more specific than this, I won't end up writing it because I'll have tricked myself into already knowing what's going to happen. That said, I absolutely recommend you choose yourself a favorite plot structure (Save the Cat, Three Act, Five Act, whatever) and keep its major scenes in the back of your head. Vaguely adhering to a structure will make drafts two and three a helluva lot easier.

Once I've got a vague direction for the plot, I'll jump in and start writing. I personally use Word with default settings, as that's what I've been writing in since elementary school. I try and start near the front of the story, not caring much about the opening chapter, because I figure it's free words and the opening chapter will change. TBH not worrying about making the opening chapter at all remotely interesting helps me make everything behind the "opening" interesting. As I start to figure out the characters, maybe doing some more worldbuilding on the side, scenes I actually want to write start rolling in. I'll divert to go write those in what's usually a separate document (like an AU). After about 10k in the original document, I'll have a pretty good idea of whether or not the story is going where I want it to go. In the case of Prince, it wasn't, so I shelved the very first attempt at it and then started adding directly to the "AU" doc with all the changes I wanted to make.

I find I write best in the mornings or the evenings, and that afternoons are slow AF unless there's something else I should be doing, in which case, we're good to go. Depending on how fascinated I am staring at the blinky cursor, I'll handwrite. Handwriting for me also works well because it takes effort for me to read my own handwriting, so there's no chance of self-editing while I'm going for it.

On the topic of self editing, for first drafts what I like to do when I know something is going to need reworking, or need a hint input before, or is missing something, or I just really want to skip to the next scene ('cause again, I prefer the linear thing when possible), I'll stick it in <<>> triangle brackets. It's easy to search. Some people I've heard use a word, like elephant. Others use square brackets. Whatever shape you like best, just the key is that you want it ctrl-f -able. Putting things in brackets makes it so editor me doesn't butt in on creative me's time. It's gotten to the point where I even do it while handwriting, as a note for when I type it up to consider dealing with it (or, again, pass it off to draft two future me. I owe future me several coffees for all my little <<triangle notes>>).

Somewhere in here I'll try and come up with a synopsis type thing. TBH these usually turn out more as query-letter type things for me, but whatever. That's what the WIP intros for Attenuate and Prince for Hire are. These I've found help guide me, and keep in aligned with the general tone of the piece. If you'd like, I'd be happy to try and wrangle up the advice I used for writing those.

If I realize I'm having some trouble wrangling the character (mostly apparent to me by the 15k mark), I'll pause, break out the notebook, and play arm-chair psychologist with them. What I'm looking to find in these sessions is a version of the classic "goal-want-need." I don't like being that structured though, so for me I go with Goal 1&2, Surface Belief 1&2, Actual Belief 1&2, and Need. At the bottom are the pages I did for Madison (Attenuate/Reverberate) and Kiris (Prince), and what that looks like in my OneNote. Their need--and the beliefs they need to overcome to get there--will give me the overarching emotional direction of the plot.

TBH I'm pretty sloppy on my worldbuilding. I usually figure it out as I write the first draft. Did I know that tea was going to be a very important, entirely truthful ritual for the princes' competitions? Nope. Not until I needed to kick the plot into gear and hit Kiris with the inciting incident, then bam, Prince Nazvili was ordering him to tea and he was freaking out because that isn't the way things are done.

Throughout this entire process, I'll also keep a running checklist of things to-do. These are things I'll usually <<note>> somewhere in the actual first draft manuscript, but which apply to the manuscript as a whole rather than that one specific section. Basically, if it's going to require a major change or continuity for longer than three paragraphs, it gets a to-do box.

Sometimes, I'll find that what I have just isn't working. That's what the "stuff I 2022" document is for! It's a hodgepodge of ctrl-x'd things from every project I've worked on this year that just weren't working in the main manuscript. Like a shipyard, I guess. All the words still exist if it turns out I want to add them back in or need to reference something, but they're basically in the recycle bin. The things added here vary in length from a sentence to a 30k segment (although the longer items generally only happen during later drafts).

Finally, the real way I keep the ball rolling? Work on it every day. Sometimes "work" will be that one miraculous 5k day. Sometimes it'll be half a word (actually though. There was one point in Reverberate where I just didn't have the mental energy to really work on it, so I tapped in the "Th" of "this" and that was it). Sometimes "work" will be coming up with characters, or figuring out worldbuilding, or dealing with some of the <<notes>>, or even just adding a comma. If it somehow progresses the WIP, it's work.

Anywho, like I said, that was long AF. I hope it helps, and never hesitate to ask questions :)

The armchair studies for Madison and Kiris. If you can read these, I salute you.

[image IDS: two graph paper pages full of scribbly handwriting. Both begin with Wants… Believes… Believes… sort of in columns. They continue, with white space, answering back and forth questions which grow increasingly personal. End id]

#writing resources #long #very very long #writblr #writerblr #writing #hendo's toolbox #also completely unedited

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horsemeatluvr23 · 3 days

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the juppet !! i just realised he is jerma posing i swear that was unintentional...... i spent so long digging thru muppet concept art and looking at old puppet designs just to end up doing a rly simple drawing but. i love joehills!! i have only been watching them for like 4 years but their videos r so special to me :3

#i would love to do a more complex drawing inspired by muppet concept art at some point... just wanted to give myself a bit of a break #i've been spending So much time on these drawings every day n it's not really sustainable for me to be spending multiple hours every day #when i have so much work i should be doing...... but i rly enjoyed this silly little muppet even if it's v simple for my standards #tbh i'm surprised i even made it this far into the challenge.. we're like two thirds in ?!!?!#i've only ever completed an art challenge once and that was inktober in 2018... and those were SIMPLE drawings #my standards are a lot higher than they were 6 years ago... but also there's extra pressure because i'm posting these #and i know i don't Have to post them but. it's a way of keeping myself accountable because i am terrible at that without outside motivation #omg why do i always ramble So much in tags this is ridiculous i'm so sorry if anyone actually reads these....#anyways i rly hope my people drawing skills r improving..#i doubt there will be noticable difference but i hope i feel at least a little more confident by the end of this #hermitaday #horsemeatluvr does hermitaday #horsemeat gallery #joehills #joehills fanart #joe hills #joe hills fanart #hermitcraft #traditional art #unedited sketchbook drawings 4 the win (i've given up on scanning n editing these or even taking them in proper lighting... too much effort)#i'm just a little guy

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mamawasatesttube · 3 months

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i accepted im not finishing the timkon vday fic today and instead launched into yet another new wip instead. i present to you: a snippet of kon vs his deeply repressed medical trauma, featuring core four and what is gonna be some gratuitous kon & clark fambly focus...

The voices are still talking, too loud and too fast to understand. Kon tries to breathe harder, his heart racing—the beeping doesn’t help—and looks around frantically. Where’s the exit? He just came through a door, but he doesn’t know where it went—

A gloved hand settles on his arm, and a cold wipe that smells of alcohol scrubs over his skin. Kon tilts his head to see what’s happening.

A needle glints in the doctor’s other hand. They’re prepping his arm for intravenous injection.

“NO!” He jerks away, terror flaring through his stomach. It’s so poignant it almost drowns out the agony. His TTK flares, too, and the doctor and the needle in their hand fly across the room, far away. A flash of light and a person with chestnut hair catches them, so they’re not hurt.

Good. Kon didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He just—he just wants them to stay away.

He’s safe for the moment. Kon sobs for breath—

“Kon!” The person from before, the one lying and saying it’d be okay, appears again. They grab Kon’s hand and squeeze it. “Kon, she was only trying to help! You’re safe, I swear—”

Kon jerks away. “Don’t—don’t lie to me—” he manages. He needs to get up. He needs to get out of here. He needs… he needs…

When he tries to sit up, pure agony lances through his entire body. It radiates out from his gut and spears up through his chest like lightning, so sharp he can’t breathe and stars sparkle across his blurry vision.

What did they do to him?!

He isn’t safe here, he needs to get out of here! It’s only gonna get worse the longer he stays; they’ll get another doctor, another needle—he has to sit up, he needs to move—

Strong hands clamp onto his shoulders and hold him down. Despite all his strength, they hold him down. Kon cries out, a new wave of ice-cold terror spearing through him. “No! No, no let me go!”

“Cassie, you’re scaring him!” the other voice says, tugging at the new person’s wrists, completely ineffectively. “We need to calm him down, not—"

The new person, Cassie, ignores them. “Kon, listen to me.”

Kon shakes his head, terrified. “No no no no no!”

“Kon, you can’t hurt the doctors. They’re trying to help, okay? You’re badly hurt, and they’re trying to help, but you need to let them do their jobs!”

Another person in surgical scrubs approaches. Kon barely hears what they say over all the roaring in his ears, but it doesn’t matter. He knows how Cadmus operates.

“…you restrain him until we can administer anesthesia?” he overhears. It’s enough. He hyperventilates, sobs for breath, shoves ineffectively at the strong arms holding him down. Desperate, he shoves at Cassie with TTK. Thankfully, that has some effect: she yelps as he shoves himself a few inches off the bed, but then sharp, white-hot pain sears through his entire body, and his vision blacks out.

When he comes to, Cassie is over him again, and—and—

Glowing, golden ropes wind tight around his shoulders, his wrists, his thighs, his legs. He’s completely pinned to the bed. One end of the ropes is wrapped around Cassie’s hands.

He can’t move.

He can’t escape.

No. No no no no this can’t happen again, they’re going to hurt him and he needs to get out but he can’t—he can’t—oh, god, this is happening again and he’s just gonna have to take it, and—and it already hurts so much, he can’t take it—

Kon chokes on another sob. “Please,” he begs. “Please please please please—”

Cassie looks anguished. “I’m sorry, Kon,” she says, but she’s not sorry enough to let him go, so it doesn’t matter. “It’s for your own good, I swear.”

He can’t move. He can’t move and it hurts and he can’t move and it hurts and no matter how hard he struggles, he’s pinned, and it hurts it hurts it hurts so so so bad, and oh, god, he’s trapped. He’s trapped, he can’t—he can’t—

Terrified, Kon does the only thing he can think of.

“SUPERMAN!” he screams. “Kal! Kal-El! Please, please—help me, help me, don’t—don’t let them do this to me again, Kal, Kal—”

There’s a pinch in his arm.

The needle.

Kon falls silent.

It’s… it’s really happening again, isn’t it? No matter how much he fights and screams and pleads. They’re gonna cut him open and hurt him and put him back in the tube. They’re gonna make him just another slab of tissue. An experiment and not a person. It’s happening again. And he can’t stop it. He can’t escape.

He can’t escape.

His chest hurts. A single tear rolls down the side of his face into his hair.

The door slams open. Kon’s gaze snaps over.

“What is going on here?”

Superman stands in the doorway, resplendent in all his glory. He’s an even more welcome sight than the sun, and even though Kon can’t move thanks to the golden ropes, he whimpers, fingers twitching as he yearns to reach for him.

He looks furious.

#rimi writes #its like completely unedited so far bc i only edit once im done with a complete draft but hey. my writing process!#also i just have Feelings about kon looking to clark for safety when he feels helpless. thats superman. he saves everyone.#theyre family... clark is kons idol and hero and he admires him so much... and kons just clark's lil guy...#kon #clark #injury cw #medical trauma cw

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strangersatellites · 1 year

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pride, envy, wrath, gluttony, greed, lust, ao3

Seven Deadly Sins Series (NSFW 18+)

sloth (noun) - a state of mind that is apathetic, lazy or sluggish. It is the act of knowing the right thing to do and failing to do it.

tiny cw for somnophilia. this is an established relationship with off-screen kink negotiation. but if somno isn't your thing, I'll see you at the next installment.

Eddie wakes up to his boy curled over his chest and sound asleep.

He’s got one of Eddie’s hoodies on with the hood pulled up over his messy, messy hair and his pretty, pretty lips rest open and inviting where his breathing is soft against Eddie’s collarbones.

He could kiss him awake. He really could.

But he goes to stretch his sleep-stiff muscles and is wide awake in an instant. Reminded by a soft whimper and furrowed eyebrows that he fell asleep with his fingers tucked inside his boy’s body, soft and wet and warm. Still sticky and swollen with Eddie’s spend from the night before.

So sure he could kiss him awake.

But he could also let him sleep.

It’s still early. Eddie can tell by the way the room is lit that deep morning-blue just before the sun. They don’t have to work today, either one, so they have plenty of time to rest.

He should let him sleep.

One thing to know about Steve Harrington is that he sleeps like a rock. Eddie thinks he could genuinely sleep through anything.

So he’s not particularly gentle when he shifts his weight off of himself and gets him on his stomach.

He swings a leg up over Steve’s and settles between his legs. Spares himself a minute to just look at him.

Top half covered and cozy in Eddie’s clothes. Black Sabbath tour dates stretched across his strong shoulders and down his back. Thick muscles of his thighs leading up to cute, bouncy cheeks. Eddie’s favorite freckle stained bright red by a welt the shape of his hand.

He has to breathe so he doesn’t pass out. There’s something about Steve when he’s like this. When he’s leftover messy and sleep-warm and naked except for something of Eddie’s. Something that makes Eddie feel like he could black out if he thinks about it for too long.

He indulges himself and gives the handprint on his ass a tight squeeze and light smack just to watch it shake. Feels his eyes roll back in response.

Grabbing at the inside of one of Steve's thighs, he hitches it up until he’s stretched out and exposed. Sees him shove his arms up under the pillow and settle once more.

It's the sight of his boy’s hole, still red and puffy and open, that finally has Eddie spitting into his own hand and shoving into his boxers.

One hand on his dick, and the other pulling Steve open, he fails to stifle a groan that rattles through his chest. Knows he could come just from this view alone. Knows he has.

But he forces himself to slow down, at least long enough to watch the way he spits down over Steve’s hole and watch the way it slips inside. To hear a quiet hitch of breath and do it once more.

Just as he feels himself getting closer and closer to release, he tugs himself out of his underwear and shifts up on his knees until he can press the head against Steve’s entrance. Pushes down slow and strong until it pops inside. A shiver runs down his spine at the feeling and this time Steve’s hips shift and Eddie freezes.

He freezes and he hears soft whines and whimpers but Steve’s face is still slack and he settles eventually.

Luckily for him, Steve almost waking up does the opposite of deter his impending orgasm.

His next breath in is stuttered as he falls over the edge. Fills his boy up and leaves him messy.

He flops back into his spot and drags Steve back up over his chest. Wraps him up tight in his arms and dips two fingers back up inside him. Keeps him sticky and filled, just the way he likes.

He drops a kiss to his hood covered head and falls back asleep, soft and sated.

*****

The second time Eddie wakes up it's to the strong muscles of Steve’s naked back as he works himself back down on his dick.

He drops his head back down with a hissed out “Fuck, baby,” as his hands reach up to grab at his hips.

Steve turns his head to look back at him and fuck what he said earlier. This might make him black out.

“Morning, babe,” he purrs with a slow grind to his hips that sends Eddie reeling.

He barely suppresses a shocked laugh. “Good motherfucking morning to me!”

Steve does laugh. Eddie can feel it. Can feel the vibrations roll through his body and thinks this is the closest he’s ever getting to heaven.

He works up a rhythm, slow and deep. Lazy in the still early morning.

There’s a pout in his voice when he whines “Can’t believe you didn’t fuck me.”

Eddie tightens his hands and hopes he leaves bruises. Loves hearing his boy bitchy and pouting.

“Wanted to wake up on your cock, Eds,” and now he’s just being dramatic to rile him up.

At that Eddie shoves him down with everything he’s got. Holds him still when he tries to squirm away. Tries to steady his own breathing and not to lose control when he feels him clench tight at the full feeling. Knows he feels it deepest this way.

Pastes on a saccharine smile when he speaks. “‘M sorry sweetheart. Still filled you up though, hm? You feel it?” He asks with a slow grind upward. Feels more than he hears Steve’s breath get punched out of him.

Hears him giggle, soft and sweet. He clenches tight again and this time Eddie winces. “Sorry babe. Yeah, feel it. Feels so wet. So big. So good.”

His movements are still slow like syrup when Eddie lets him up. He’s got his hands braced on Eddie’s thighs and he can feel where he traces the ink of his tattoo with a soft touch and hums under his breath.

Slides his own hands up the expanse of his back and marvels at the way the muscles shift under his skin.

He loses himself in the feeling and before he’s really ready to let it go Steve’s whispering “So close, Eds. Make me come.”

And that’s all he really needs and he’s shoving his hips up, up, up in time with Steve’s soft cries. Feels him go tight and rigid and shake apart.

Soothes his hands up and down his sides with a quiet litany of “That’s it baby. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Rocks into him once, twice, three more times before he’s spilling into him again and dragging him back and down to wrap him up in his arms once more. Steve fights and squirms until he’s facing him.

Eddie peppers his pretty, red, tear streaked face with kisses and bumps their noses together.

“You wanna shower baby?”

Steve scrunches his nose up and Eddie’s heart might as well not even be in his chest anymore with the way Steve has it in the palm of his hand.

“No,” he breathes into the quiet between them. His hand tracing shapes across Eddie’s face.

“Wanna sleep. ‘M sleepy.” He nuzzles himself up under Eddie’s chin and breathes him in deep.

And maybe Eddie should exercise some control here and make him shower. He has come inside him a total of three times now and he still wants to sleep. But cleaning up can wait.

He likes him messy anyway.

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seven-winged-liar · 17 days

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✨Happy Star Wars Day!!!!!✨

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septimus-heap · 3 months

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Okay here's the fic snippet

Is this how it feels to have a mother? Boy 412 found himself wondering, Marcia's arms still warm around him. He'd managed to climb halfway into her lap when he was crying, and she never seemed to like being touched, but she held him now like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sniffled again, and resisted the urge to vigorously shake his head to rid himself of the thought. It didn't matter if this was what having a mother was like. Marcia was the ExtraOrdinary Wizard. She could not be his mother. She was probably only holding him like this because she pitied him.

But-

But if he was allowed to choose - and he wasn't, that wasn't how mothers worked at all (not that he knew very much about them) - he would choose Marcia, he thought. The first adult he'd ever met who'd been nothing but kind to him, even though he'd tried to get them all killed. Probably the person he trusted most in the whole world.

He could always pretend, right? Marcia didn't need to know. No one ever needed to know, and it would only be for tonight, for right now. Only because he'd had a dream he was back in the Young Army, and curling up against someone who was much bigger than him, and hadn't hesitated to whisper reassurances into the still air of the cottage, had made him feel further from them (further and safer - if there was one place no one could hurt him, it was right here) than ever before.

He leaned back against her, listening to her breathe.

"Better?" she whispered, and he nodded.

He expected her to push him off her then, now that he didn't need the comfort, but she made no such move, only hummed quietly in response. Boy 412 didn't move either. Marcia didn't seem to mind, so he was perfectly content to stay right where he was, warm and comfortable. His eyes seemed to close without his permission, his thoughts going fuzzy.

SO. YEAG. FIC <3 I said it was self indulgent and by god I meant it. This is a snippet from smth that's going to be much longer than this ideally (probably only like 2k words max but that is long for me) so the beginning and end r weird but that's not my problem <333

#sep talks #septimus heap #marcia overstrand #if its ooc blame it on them both being halfway asleep #my writing #<-wow I don't think I've. Ever used that tag here actually #also this is completely unedited. So

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pfhwrittes · 5 months

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i’m trying to dredge through my various B&Q memories (and talking to friends who used to work with me in B&Q) for inspo and i just remembered something that happened and dear god. i’m imagining simon and price’s reaction to being in that situation.

so the store manager decides to reorganise the warehouse. he doesn’t check with price or more importantly simon about this. he just hops on the forklift, puts up the signage to say the forklift is in use and bans everyone from entering the warehouse (not an unreasonable request, pedestrians vs forklifts has never ended well historically, but the balls of that man to ban simon from his warehouse jeeeesus).

you don’t actually know that’s what he’s decided to do until the store manager is barking out over the tannoy “all available staff to the warehouse, that’s all available staff to the warehouse. NOW.” and because you’re a) available and b) nosey as fuck as you’ve never been allowed in simon’s warehouse, off you go.

when you arrive, it’s carnage. there is paint everywhere. for a horrible moment your brain provides you with the elevator scene from the shining but substitutes the river of blood with 625 litres of brilliant white matte emulsion instead.

“what the actual fuck”

aaaaaand that’s soap. he’s materialised out of thin air next to you and is surveying the damage with a visible aura of pure horror. your stomach lurches in sympathy because that’s his stock that’s slowly dripping from the abandoned pallet. and the racking. and the walls. jesus fucking christ. it’s everywhere. everything in a 2 metre radius is covered in paint. including the stock, the store manager, and simon.

simon, who has the store manager pinned by his neck to the wall next to the safety notice board.

you can’t see simon’s face, his shoulders look like they’re carved from granite with tension, but you can certainly hear what he’s shouting in the slowly reddening face of the store manager.

“you useless, dangerous cunt!”

you flinch backwards. you’ve never heard simon so angry.

“you could’ve fucking killed someone! you’re fucking lucky that you didn’t kill yourself!”

you turn wide eyed to stare at soap, who’s mouth is hanging open in shock. you turn back to the scene playing out in front of you as simon roars in rage again.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?! answer me!”

simon shakes the man in his grip but doesn’t actually let go. you watch as the store manager’s face turns puce in a combination of rage and trapped blood flow. oh christ, are you about to witness a murder? you think you’re about to witness a murder. what the fuck.

“simon. that’s enough.” price’s voice is a whip-crack of fury that breaks through the tension of the scene. you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding as he wades into the fray. price stops behind simon just an arms length away.

you don’t hear what price says to simon, but he drops (actually drops, fucking hell) the store manager who splutters and coughs trying to catch his breath desperately.

“y-you’re - fired! what the fuck -!”

price grabs simon as the enraged man lunges towards the store manager.

“take a walk simon.”

you and soap hastily move out of the way of simon who storms out of the warehouse and onto the shop floor barking a stern “move!” to a mixed crowd of customers and colleagues desperate to get a glimpse at the soap opera levels of drama happening beyond the warehouse doors.

“you, don’t move” price points a threatening finger at the store manager before turning to face you and soap. “johnny, get over here. get the spill kit.”

soap snaps to attention and moves further into the warehouse, skirting the pooling paint as carefully as he can manage. you flex your hands nervously as the full force of price’s attention is aimed at you. god, you want to melt into your black safety boots to avoid his commanding tone and the banked fury that is present on every line on his face.

“love,” price’s tone softens slightly as he addresses you and you’re grateful for it, “go after simon. he needs a clean uniform.”

you nod and spin on your heel, before you leave the warehouse you chance a glance back over your shoulder and see price looming over the store manager.

as you make your way across the shop floor, you have the horrible realisation that someone is definitely getting fired today. you shoot up a prayer to the retail gods that it won’t be simon.

#retail hell au #cod fic #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #this is based off a completely true event #including the stock flow manager pinning the store manager by the neck to the wall #unedited so please forgive the typos/grammatical errors #also tenses? i don’t know her

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smidgen-of-hotboy · 2 months

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Out in the Cold Field, pt. i

Hello Travelers. Friends. It is an old song, a love song, and we're gonna sing it again. This part of the story takes place BEFORE what Zeph is currently writing. Long before. This is the story of Buddy, Vespa, and Jet.

@ananxiousgenz @urjover @one-joe-spoopy @demonic-panini @waters-and-the-wilde @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @the-private-eye

“You are going to bed, and when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to start being grateful for everything. You don’t know how good you got it, Kid, until it’s all gone. Until I’m gone.”

Having recurring nightmares about her childhood was not what Buddy had planned for her future, but these are the cards she was dealt and had to play with. She let out a long groan and raised her hand to rub feeling back– and raised her hand– and raised her hand–

Something was wrong with her. Everything felt terribly heavy and sharp and not at all normal. She thinks back to the last thing that happened before she woke up:

Docked the Carte Blanche, disembarked, and headed into town.

Talked with the locals, confirmed her location, and started her trek down the road to find the train tracks.

She found the tracks but ran out of food. The wind picked up, whisking the scarf around her neck away with it. She could’ve turned back to chase after it but would’ve lost the tracks if she had. In every story she knew the train tracks only revealed themselves to those who were lost. And if you turned away or walked back, they vanished, and would not show again until it was your time.

With no other choice, Buddy pressed forward.

The wind picked up, the snow fell heavier, the cold nipped at her skin, and… then she fell. Stumbled more like it, less than graceful, disgrace to her mother (wherever she disappeared to).

Her knee throbbed. Still is throbbing. But that isn’t it. What happened between then and now and why is she here? She should be dead. She should be… unless…

She isn’t dead.

Against all odds, somehow, Buddy Aurinko is still alive. And she should be bursting with joy for this second chance.

So why was she so damn angry.

“It’s not fair.” Her voice rasps. She licks her lips and clears her throat. “It’s not– fair!” With every last ounce of energy Buddy has left, she pulls on her limbs. Slowly she brings herself up just enough off the cot she’s been laid out on to get a better view of the room. Her eyes jump from one wall to the next and fall on a lone figure huddled in the corner over a small fire. When was the last time she had seen a fire?

The figure’s shoulders rolled back. They stayed seated on a stool, hunched over a pot set on the fire. They turn just enough to look at her. Their face is covered by a thick scarf and goggles.

"Oh good, you’re awake.” Their voice is low rumble sending chills down her spine. They turn back to the pot to stirs its contents. Buddy frowns, resuming her fight to get her arms to cooperate to pull herself up. A drop of sweat rolls down her temple. “I would not move if I were you. You were lying in the snow for a while.”

She hisses through clenched teeth as a jolt of pain runs up and down her arms and legs. It doesn’t go away. “It’s frostbite. Because you were out in the cold for so long without proper cover, you developed frostbite. You have frostbite.”

She grunts, falling back on the cot with a snarl. “Who the hell are you?” She snaps at the large figure. They set their spoon aside and turn around on the stool. They lift their goggles, revealing soft, kind eyes. Wrinkles creep in at the edges.

“The Unnatural Disaster, but you may call me Jet.”

Buddy snorts, “And I’m the fucking sun goddess, Aurora.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Aurora.”

Her frown deepens as she flops back on the cot. “Frostbite… how bad is it?”

“Terrible. Your right hand was pinned under your body so maybe two of your fingers were affected the worst. And your left arm was stretched out so far, I would be surprised if after a few days you get to keep even one finger. I’m less sure about the damage to your face though. Only time will tell.”

Buddy hums. The Unnatural Disaster– Jet– had no pulled a knife on her yet. He also had not chopped her into bits, yet.

“Frostbite…” She tilts her head and can barely make out Jet’s figure past her mess of red curls. “Why did you save me?”

“Because you would have died. I cannot allow that.”

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

Jet hums pushing his goggles up into his hair. He crosses his arms while leaning back slightly. “Well, if you can get up and crawl out the front door, I will not stop you. I will not stop you nor will I save you a second time.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid, Aurora, I do not joke.”

Buddy smirks. Jet seems honest enough. And its hard to tell from this angle but that might just be the hint of a smirk on his face too.

“Where did you get the fire from? I thought there was no more fire on the Earth.”

“And you would be correct,” Jet nods down at the fire. “This is the last one. My partner stole it from Hades.”

“Partner?” And Hades? Jet knows a way down to Hades. Or at least his partner does.

“Work partner. Associate. They–”

“They got fire, from Hades? How? No one who goes down there comes back. They haven’t shared any resources with Above in centuries. Not since Persephone died.”Jet frowns and gets up from his stool. He crosses the room to Buddy’s side in two strides. Slowly he brushes her hair back from her face. “Our work allows us to travel to Hades. And my Associate stole this fire from Hades. We are on the lam.” He bends closer and his voice drops to a whisper, “Now why do you care so much about making it to Hades? What happened to make you want to die?”

#ask to be tagged or removed #zeph and i have been hollering about this for a couple days now #also this is completely unedited so mind the errors #things are subject to change #also also i am an angst writer be warned.#you will cry once or at least be on the verge of tears by the time I'm through with you #zeph is evil. i am straight up rude. take your feelings and i do not give them back #the penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #tpp hadestown au #out in the cold field #private eye's keys go jingle jangle #a hotboy's writing

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buglaur · 2 years

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the calloway boys are going as stardew boys this year

#ts4 #i couldn't find any clothes that looked like harveys so #i spent like 2 hours making that top #i think i'm getting better at combining meshes #ALSO THANKS HAUNTEDTRAIT FOR POINTING OUT GSHADE #CAN TAKE TRANSPARENT SCREENSHOTS #how did i not know!!!!#this screenshot is completely unedited #besides a bit of liquidifying #i might start playing the legacy again tonight #but i'm not sure i'll still be awake by the time i get the chance lmao

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thesunshinecourts · 2 months

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countdown to tsc: apr 6., 2024, 07:48 pdt

17. your bed after travelling // jean moreau thinks about belonging

They had an away game against UT Austin, which was more exhausting in flight time than as an actual form of competition.

It’s three hours to Austin from Los Angeles. (“Non-stop flight time is 2 hours, 55 minutes,” Sebastian says, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose because he thinks it makes him look cool. It makes Jean want to spit on him. It makes Jean think about Kevin at age thirteen, when he dubiously tested out reading glasses at the recommendation of one of the doctors at Evermore. That kind of makes Jean want to spit on Sebastian more, but he restrains himself. Kevin Day at the beginning of teenagehood is not a crime that anyone should have to answer for, save the man himself and maybe Riko. He can’t, though. He’s dead.

It still thrills Jean, that thought, explicit and direct and true. It had been a fantasy for years, the kind he could never share, and certainly not with Kevin, who had loved Riko as desperately as he had come to fear him. It had been a wish, once or twice, entrusted only into Renee’s steady hands, the kind phrased not as a request, but as an expression of guilt given to the only person to whom he could lay himself bare. It is a fact, a gun pointed by Neil and a trigger squeezed by Ichirou and a new type of shackle on Jean, still heavy, but lacking teeth.

No, Jeremy Knox’s Sunshine Court has no such skin-torn, blood-soaked, jagged edges, except those which Jean brings with him. It’s almost harder to bear.)

Three hours to Austin from Los Angeles, meaning six hours round trip.

Jean is used to playing for that long on the Ravens’ court: a much more punishing endeavour than any training plan Rhemann and his cohort of coaches at USC could come up with. Playing the game against UT is laughably easy for Jean, at least when it comes to stamina and skill. Patience is a different matter, but while the Trojans are no Ravens, they are an exceptional team. When Jean makes his meagre attempts at forbearance, he thinks to himself that he is lucky to not have been a Fox. He would likely have lost his voice, given the arguing necessary to whip them into a vaguely-tolerable shape.

Kevin had always been better at that. Jean is not a natural teacher. He taught Kevin French out of loneliness, and he taught Neil to survive out of necessity. Kevin would always have been more suited to the walking catastrophe that called itself the PSU Foxes Exy team.

Belonging is always easier, Jean thinks, when one has a foothold. Personality aside—and truly, Jean has never met a person more stubborn than Kevin, which is less a compliment and more an expulsion of grief—Kevin would always have been better-suited to the Foxes than Jean, for Kevin had a man who would never turn him away simply because of who his mother was, even without knowing Kevin was his son.

Jean does not envy Kevin his father. Jean prefers not to think of fathers at all.

So no, the game is not especially taxing. The Trojans have a strong roster, and are less inclined to allow personal pique to have a say in which players get substituted, and when. (This isn’t to say that there is no personal pique to be found amongst the Trojans; whilst Jean’s experiences with them thus far have proven—if exasperatingly—that the Day Spirit Award has been rightfully awarded all these years, he’s also discovered that Alvarez has stroppy tendencies when she’s tired, and Jeremy’s occasional remarks about the Ravens are cavalier not out of ignorance, but a quiet disdain for their conduct.

So it’s not that the Trojans are all foolish Golden Retrievers rolling over to show their bellies to the world; it’s mostly that none of them are Riko, and nor are they Foxes. They can afford to offer grace as they move through the world. Jean is not sure he can.)

The flights are infinitely worse, because without an Exy racquet in his hand and the court beneath his feet, there is no escape from Jean’s own head.

The flight to Austin is better, of the two. It’s still not ideal, but Jeremy and Laila sit Jean firmly between them and essentially force him into conversation. It’s mostly grudging, and almost entirely about the upcoming match—there is not a single player at UT who Jean finds compelling, but one of their assistant coaches is a former player who once suggested something rude about Thea, who responded by checking him so hard when he next had the ball that he sprawled to the ground and slid three metres across the court.

Jean enjoys this story. He thinks Laila and Jeremy did too, from the way Laila’s eyes gleamed and how Jeremy’s voice had a laugh in it when he said, not exactly a strategy in our playbook, but I daresay it would have been satisfying to watch.

The flight back to Los Angeles is worse.

The ache from the game is settling into his body now, muscle and flesh and bone. It’s not enough to draw him out of his own head.

One of UT’s dealers had pitched herself right at him, driving herself into his hip. That level of force wouldn’t usually have knocked him over, but there’s an old ache there from Riko’s fingers and favourite toys. Mostly Jean stays standing, but sometimes he gives in.

When Jean had lived in Abby’s spare bedroom, there had been a revolving cast of visitors, though there was more frequency than variety. Renee had visited most, then Wymack. If Jean counts the times he shut his door and refused to let Kevin into his room and Kevin stayed in the kitchen asking Abby questions in a quiet voice that was never quite quiet enough, then Kevin probably takes third place. Otherwise, Jean thinks it would be Aaron.

This was less about Jean, and more about the lesson he could provide in Abby’s hands. Jean didn’t care. His whole life had been made of debt and pain and prodding. Cool fingers re-dressing his wounds—all steady hands and clinical efficiency and blunt responses—was almost a balm in the face of it.

Besides, there was something comforting in his lack of expectation. Jean has no idea what most people want from a doctor. He’s heard grumblings about bedside manner and seen some memes through the Twitter timeline Xavier and Alvarez inflicted upon him, but he found his greatest relief in the way Aaron inspected all his wounds without flinching.

Sometimes Kevin would come quietly into the room, and Aaron would roll his eyes at him, and then look to Jean, as if waiting. Jean did not mind so much if Kevin came in with someone else, like Renee or Aaron or Thea. (Well, he had minded very much the time he came in with Thea, but that was due more to the lack of warning. Thea herself had been someone Jean found himself missing.) He liked it more when Kevin came in with Aaron, which was less to do with their behaviour—Aaron was more likely to tell Kevin to shut up or fuck off, but Renee’s quiet presence was equally effective at keeping him in check—and more to do with the fact that Jean preferred to speak to Renee alone, because she was the person he could trust most in the world.

Once upon a time, that had been Kevin, but then Kevin left Evermore, and left Jean, and the first time Jean heard from him in months was when a terrified Kevin called him to beg Jean to tell him that the rumours were false, that Edgar Allan was not coming south.

The rumours had been true, and Jean Moreau has never been a liar, not even for Kevin.

Jean thinks about this as he thinks about the thudding ache at his hip, where Aaron’s fingers once re-dressed a wound, where Kevin had placed a cool compress years before, where Jean’s younger sister had once drawn a rose when they were five and seven, because a rose had been the only thing she had known how to draw.

He supposes it still might be. He wouldn’t know.

Jeremy shifts in the seat beside him, and Jean cracks open an eyelid to glare at him. He hadn’t even realised he’d shut his eyes, but no matter. He cracks open an eyelid, glaring, and finds Jeremy making a half-apologetic, half-beleaguered expression back at him. It’s an astounding combination, one he would have considered impossible prior to the Trojans, but sometimes Jean wonders if it’s less that Jeremy is particularly talented at facial expressiveness and more that no Raven ever had cause to teach Jean what apology looked like in the lines of a furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“Sorry,” Jeremy whispers, as if the facial expression wasn’t enough. “Were you napping?”

Jeremy has known Jean for several months now, so Jean feels as if this is a foolish question. He makes a derisive noise. Something flickers in his chest when Jeremy shakes his head, looking rueful and amused and sleepy-soft all at once.

Jean ignores it, obviously.

“Right, right, Mr No Naps,” Jeremy says. Jean has suffered many indignities since his arrival in Los Angeles, but being dubbed something that a six year old child would name an especially belligerent cat is a new low.

“We’re not that far now,” Jeremy says, glancing up at the flight map in interest. Jean looks over. He’s right. Twenty minutes or so. “Which means there’s no point in sleeping…” Jeremy continues, almost cajolingly. That gleam from Laila’s eyes earlier seems to have jumped to Jeremy’s as he looks at Jean.

Jean sighs, surrenders. He seems to be doing this a lot lately. Riko never managed to break down that last final inch, that holdout within Jean that refused to lose his accent or stop speaking French to Kevin or any of the tiny rebellions that Neil dismissed but Jean needed in order to have any pieces of himself left for Renee to save that day.

Riko tore every concession from Jean’s bare throat, but the Trojans seem just as adept as getting what they want out of Jean with teeth bared in smiles instead of snarls.

“You should have knocked over that backliner,” Jean says. “He’s a lunk. He would have taken seconds to get up. You could have scored in that time.”

Jeremy, because he is terrible, laughs. “You have such a way with words, Jean,” he says, but he sounds amused. Almost infectiously so. “I ought to be able to score without knocking anyone down,” Jeremy points out.

“Yes,” Jean agrees immediately, “but until that’s the case, you should drop them.”

There is probably something seriously wrong with Jeremy Knox, Jean thinks, watching him laugh. He seems as delighted as ever by Jean’s honesty. He won’t abide unfair barbed statements to his team, but he always seems game to field Jean’s criticisms himself.

It’s only right, Jean thinks. They’re Kevin’s favourite team, and they took Jean in when the backlash would be far greater than whatever meagre thanks they managed to get out of Kevin. Of course there’s something wrong with them.

They pass the rest of the flight in much the same manner, until the descent swoops a little steeper than expected and Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut and grips one hand over his arm rest and the other over Jean’s forearm. Laila wakes up during this, blinking sleepily at Jeremy, before saying, “Oh, babe, your cuticles look awful,” which makes Jean look incredulously at her and Jeremy laugh.

Sleepy chatter gets them through disembarking the plane, and baggage claim, and onto the bus, winding all the way back to campus, traffic egregious even at this hour. Alvarez tows an exhausted Laila by the elbows with an excruciatingly fond expression, Sebastian almost snaps his sunglasses underfoot when they slip off his nose before Derek says, “Dude,” while Emma throws up an arm to stop him in his tracks, and Jeremy half-stumbles into the door before he gets his key in the lock and opens up their room.

Tomorrow, at some point after breakfast and coffee prepared with entirely too much creamer by an overzealous Cox, Jean will marvel at that thought. At the ease with which it sprung to his mind: their room, meaning Jeremy’s and Jean’s, meaning Jean’s, meaning that which belongs.

In the morning, he will think about what it has meant to be Jean Moreau: his first home lost to him through a transaction, where he was an object and not a person, a thing to barter and not a boy with a bed and a family and his own mind; Evermore, his second place to exist, where his bed was so often a landscape of his own destruction; and that bed that he slept in when staying with Abby, crisp and clean and safe and entirely, undeniably unknown to him.

Kevin asked Jean once, when they were younger, to tell him about his home. Jean had looked at him and asked in the blankest possible tone, what home? A home is a space you’re meant to belong, Jean had meant, and there was no place like that for him. There was Riko and his chains, and everyone told Jean that was his place, but he would never call that home.

In the morning, Jean will think about this, and what it means to have a space that belongs to you – to be a boy who owns something for once, instead of just being owned –

In the morning, Jean will think about this, but for now, he kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and falls onto his bed, a place he trusts enough to sink into a dreamless sleep, long enough to start to soothe his tired bones.

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silverseaming · 1 day

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#completely unedited but it's love day in my game #so have some fluff #meg calloway #kit calloway #calloways extras #also ignore the fact that meg isn’t pregnant here..#my game is a little ahead of the posts

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astralstarlight · 2 years

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sleep habits !

w/ layla and mona

a/n: this has just been me manifesting that i'll get c6 layla <3 i love her and mona so much!!

Layla sleeps in short bursts – a couple hours here and a few minutes there. When she actually does fall asleep, it’s restless sleep. Sometimes she gets the proper eight or nine hours a night, and yet, it feels like she’s gotten nothing. It doesn’t matter to her anymore. Her body might need the rest but her brain simply won’t let her have it.

She stretches her whole body with a quiet huff, taking the time to look around her. The House of Daena keeps its doors open indefinitely, so most nights it’s crammed with other students, trickling off bit by bit once they’ve had a decent amount of progress on their work. Tonight, it’s just her. All the bright lights are causing her eyes to feel like they're on fire. Archons, how long has she been sitting here just sketching?

Her eyes trail back down to the table. Scattered sketches strewn across it, each diagram annotated with her neat handwriting. Your padded shoes step across the cold floors of the Akademiya, echoing throughout the empty building. She hears you before you even turn the corner and come into view.

“Layla?” Your clothes are thrown on haphazardly, and you’re holding a hot cup of… Layla tilts her head. Is that tea? As you get closer, she gets the chance to really look at you. Dark eyebags loom under your normally bright eyes, and you blink slowly, the tired blinks of someone abruptly awoken from sleep.

Layla feels guilt churning inside her stomach, twisting and kniving its way up her throat. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I still need a few more minutes to summarise.”

“Okay.”

She expects you to go back to bed, return to the comforts of home, away from the harshness of fluorescent lighting and back to the natural lights from the stars shining through the open window. What she doesn’t expect is for you to continue to pad across to her side, taking the chair next to her with a muffled huff. Her eyes follow your motions, watching as you cross your arms under your head, pushing the cup towards her, and shutting your eyes.

She swallows. “Won’t you be more comfortable back in bed?”

You mumble something that sounds suspiciously like an insult, and Layla raises an eyebrow. You slide one eye open, peering at her as she’s frozen in her seat, hand still grasped around her pen. “You’re not there.” You say, louder and clearer. The cup is nudged just a little bit more in her direction.

Layla knows that smell. She’s made it for you, so many times in the past. A warm cup of tea, for drowsiness and restful sleep. You know it doesn’t work for her too, she’s told you that repeatedly. Still. Layla takes the cup in her hands, taking a single sip and feeling the warmth run through her bones. A contented sigh leaves her lips. Still, it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like being taken care of every once in a while. The thought does count after all.

You’re leaning up on your hand again, eyes barely open to look at her. “If you want me to go, you’ll have to drag me back with you.” The threat does not really feel like a threat when Layla knows for a fact that you will doze off again within the next ten minutes.

Instead she smiles, a small smile towards your sleepy state. “Then stay.” Layla replies, setting the cup down. She sees you out of the corner of her eyes getting comfortable again, and she almost begins to tidy her drawings into a pile. But she doesn’t, and soon enough, she hears your breathing become quieter and even. Everything in the library becomes still, once again.

Layla finishes her work just before dawn, and she celebrates with a yawn, stretching out on her chair before deflating back into a relaxed stance. It’s finished. An accurate map of the stars lays in front of her, charted to precision again. She glances over to you, still asleep. You’ve barely moved at all during the night.

She brings her fingers to brush the strands falling over your face, pausing as you wriggle in your sleep, and resuming the motions once she’s sure you’ve settled.

“There’s no way I’m strong enough to carry you back, silly.” She whispers, followed by a kiss on your forehead.

So she settles for this instead: dragging her chair closer to yours and curling up next to you in the same position, elbows and knees touching. Matching her breathing with yours is easy enough, and she sinks into a deep sleep with no dreams.

And even when you wake up the next morning with intertwined hands, complaining of a stiff neck and missing your first class of the day, Layla still knows, from the grin on your face, that you don’t really regret a bit of it at all.

Mona dreams vividly. She dreams of the past, the present and the future in torn fragments. It’s voices and screams, and then languages she cannot name, and at its worst, she dreams of fire and burning, and wakes up in a cold sweat. The worst of nightmares tend to happen just before she wakes up to find you’ve disappeared from the bed next to her. The sheets are rumpled and there’s a distinct dent in your pillow from where you lay, so she knows she hasn’t been imagining you there.

And yet, where were you? Rarely do you disappear on her like this, and whenever it does occur, it’s because you’ve had something big on your mind. Restless nights. Sleep does not come easy to the both of you.

Perhaps she shouldn’t curse the two of you like this just by thinking it, but Mona has always had a distinct feeling that the cause of your distress may have been because your stars have become aligned with hers. Intertwined perhaps. She hasn’t dared to consult the stars to be certain of it. She doesn’t want to see the blatantly obvious star-crossed lovers label over the relationship between you and her, and she certainly doesn’t want to guess at the ending it may have. For once, curiosity hasn’t gotten the best of her. Yet.

Mona tugs her shoes on over her feet, walking the few paces to her front door and yanking it open, prepared to hunt the streets (and forests) of Mondstadt to search for you, only to find you right outside the door. She freezes in her steps. You’re leaning against the handrail outside her house, arms crossed and looking upwards.

Mondstadt’s lights are nowhere near bright enough to dull the night sky. It lays itself before the both of you, stretched endlessly and filling the dark space with twinkling stars. At the sound of the door opening, you take a sharp breath in.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, at the same time that Mona states: “you didn’t wake me.”

The two of you share a smile. Mona waves the issue away with her hand, moving in to stand next to you.

You sigh. “What was it this time?”

“Fire and destruction.” Mona shrugs. This sort of dream has been happening a lot recently. “I don’t know where or how.”

“They’re just dreams, you know? They don’t need to have a proper meaning to anything.”

Mona knows this. She knows there isn’t any point placing validity and reason on things completely out of her control, and there is definitely no point in trying to pull substance from something she can barely remember after she opens her eyes. But these dreams… “They’re too vivid.” She says at last, fingers twirling at the ends of her hair. She wears her hair loose to bed, unravelled from the usual updo for daytime travel.

A gentle tug on both of her fingers pulls her towards you, and you’re running your thumb over her knuckles as a sort of comfort. “Yes, but you really can’t do anything about them until you know they’re a proper issue. Or until the stars show you something different.” Mona opens her mouth to retort, but you brush a finger over her lips. “I’m not telling you to forget about it. Just…” You trail off, evidently at a loss for what you wanted to say.

But Mona gets it. She sends a confident nod back to you. “Then you’re not allowed to worry for tonight either.” She intertwines your hands properly. “Come back inside with me.”

When Mona decides on something, there’s not really much you can do to argue about it. So you let her chastise you about not going out dressed warmly and you let her guide you back under the covers. You hadn’t even noticed you were shivering until she reprimanded you about it. Mona tucks you in, making sure all but your face is under the blankets before clambering in herself and curling up next to you.

As always, you fall asleep quicker than she does, and Mona is left staring at your sleeping form with one arm thrown over your side.

She watches peacefully for a moment, before her mind returns to her own.

Yes, there are things out of her control. There have always been things out of her control. There will always be things that she wishes would never come to an end, but endings are a constant of life. Despite this knowledge of a universal truth, she still wants this. She still wants you and her to be in her control, avoiding disaster after disaster. So she sends a little prayer instead, to keep you here beside her for as long as you both will it to be.

Barely satisfied with all she can do, she drifts off to sleep. It’s a restful sleep this time when you’re by her side. She dreams of nothing of great importance that night, but she wakes up to the sun on her skin, and the feeling of softness and warmth.

#— alathea writes #genshin x reader #layla x reader #mona x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff #genshin x you #i love them both vv much #this is also completely unedited atm so please look away from grammar mistakes etc <3 #layla genshin impact #mona genshin impact

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