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allthingslinguistic · 1 year

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But by the end of my five years [as a copy editor], I felt intellectually and psychologically worn down by the labor I logged on my biweekly timesheets. Whatever roller-rink of neurons helped me spot aberrations from convention had grown practiced and strong, and it was difficult to read any unconventional sentence without reflexively rearranging it into a more conventional form.

Something had shrunken and withered in me, for having directed so much of my attention away from the substance of the stories I read and into their surface. Few people in our office, let alone outside its walls, would notice the variation in line spacing, the fact that Jesus’ was lacking its last, hard “s,” or whatever other reason we were sending the proofs to be printed again—and if they did, who the fuck cared? [....]

I can’t help wondering, though, whether there wasn’t something insidious in the way we worked—some poison in our many rounds of minute changes, in our strained and often tense conversations about ligatures and line breaks, in our exertions of supposedly benign, even benevolent, power; if those polite conversations constituted a covert, foot-dragging protest against change, an insistence on the quiet conservatism of the liberal old guard, and if they were a distraction from the conversations that might have brought meaningful literary or linguistic change about. In fact, I sense myself enacting the same foot-dragging here.

It’s fun—it’s dangerously pleasing—to linger in the minutiae of my bygone copyediting days, even if, by the time I left that job to teach college writing full-time, I was convinced that “correcting” “errors” of convention most readers would never notice was the least meaningful work a person could possibly do. I’m writing this, however, to ask whether copyediting as it’s been practiced is worse than meaningless: if, in fact, it does harm.

Do we really need copyediting? I don’t mean the basic clean-up that reverses typos, reinstates skipped words, and otherwise ensures that spelling and punctuation marks are as an author intends. Such copyediting makes an unintentionally “messy” manuscript easier to read, sure.

But the argument that texts ought to read “easily” slips too readily into justification for insisting a text working outside dominant Englishes better reflect the English of a dominant-culture reader—the kind of reader who might mirror the majority of those at the helm of the publishing industry, but not the kind of reader who reflects a potential readership (or writership) at large.

A few years before leaving copyediting, I began teaching a scholarly article I still read with students today, Lee A. Tonouchi’s “Da State of Pidgin Address.” Written in Hawai’ian Creole English, or Pidgin, it asks whether what “dey say” is true: “dat da perception is dat da standard english talker is going automatically be perceive fo’ be mo’ intelligent than da Pidgin talker regardless wot dey talking, jus from HOW dey talking.” The article leaves many students questioning the assumptions they began reading it with: its effect is immediate, personal, and profound.

In another article I pair it with, “Should Writers Use They Own English,” Vershawn Ashanti Young answers Tonouchi’s implicit question, writing, “don’t nobody’s language, dialect, or style make them ‘vulnerable to prejudice.’ It’s ATTITUDES.” Racial difference and linguistic difference, Young reminds us, are intertwined, and “Black English dont make it own-self oppressed.”

It’s clear that copyediting as it’s typically practiced is a white supremacist project, that is, not only for the particular linguistic forms it favors and upholds, which belong to the cultures of whiteness and power, but for how it excludes or erases the voices and styles of those who don’t or won’t perform this culture. Beginning with an elementary school teacher’s red pen, and continuing with agents, publishers, and university faculty who on principle turn away work that arrives on their desk in unconventionally grammatical or imperfectly punctuated form, voices that don’t mimic dominance are muffled when they get to the page and also before they get there—as schools, publishers, and their henchmen entrench the idea that those writing outside convention are not writing “well,” and therefore ought not set their voices to paper at all. [...]

Like other emissaries of the powerful (see, e.g., the actual police), copy editors often wield what power they do have unpredictably, teetering between generous attention and brute, insistent force. You saw this in the way our tiny department got worked up over the stubbornness of an editor or author who had dug in their heels: their resistance was a threat, sometimes to our suspiciously moral-feeling attachment to “correctness,” sometimes to our aesthetics, and sometimes to our sense of ourselves. [...]

There’s a flip side, if it’s not already obvious, to the peculiar “respect” I received in that dusty closet office at twenty-two. A 2020 article in the Columbia Journalism Review refers casually to “fusspot grammarians and addled copy editors”; I’m not the only one who imagines the classic copy editor as uncreative, neurotic, and cold.

I want to say they’re the publishing professionals most likely, in the cultural imagination, to be female, but that doesn’t feel quite right: agents and full-on editors are female in busty, sexy ways, while copy editors are brittle, unsexed. Their labor nevertheless shares with other typically female labors a concern with the small and the surface, those aspects of experience many of us are conditioned to dismiss.

I’m willing to bet, too, that self-professed “grammar snobs” rarely come from power themselves—that there is a note of aspirational literariness in claiming the identity as such. [...]

It makes me wonder if, in renouncing my job when I left it—in calling copyediting the world’s least meaningful work—I might have been reenacting some of the literary scene’s most entrenched big-dick values: its insistence on story over surface (what John Gardner called the “fictional dream”), on anti-intellectualism but also the elitist cloak of it-can-never-be-taught. The grammar snob’s aspiration and my professor’s condescension bring to mind the same truism: that real power never needs to follow its own rules. [...]

Copyediting shares with poetry a romantic attention to detail, to the punctuation mark and the ordering of words. To treat someone else’s language with that fine a degree of attention can be an act of love. Could there be another way to practice copyediting—less attached to precedent, less perseverating, and more eagerly transgressive; a practice that, to distinguish itself from the quietly violent tradition from which it arises, might not be called “copyediting” at all; a practice that would not only “permit” but amplify the potential for linguistic invention and preservation in any written work?

--- Against Copyediting: Is It Time to Abolish the Department of Corrections? Helen Betya Rubinstein on Having Power Over More Than Just Commas

#linguistics #literature #copyediting #copyeditor #prescriptivism #grammar snobbery #editing #writing #publishing

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sanhatipal · 11 months

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"Noble d'Apchier"

A little watercolor painting of Chloe,with the Zorn palette! I found out about this palette a while ago and I really wanted to try it out! (More on that below )

Chloe's hair is something I adore, it's gotta be one of my absolute favourite character designs ever,I love how swirly and fluffy it is,very fun to draw. I've drawn her normally before,I wanted to do one with her vampire eyes and fangs too. I decided to try to draw a white fuzzy rim around the foreground against the plain background,for a change,like in some of the VnC panels.

The Zorn palette,or Apelles Palette was a colour scheme used by Anders Zorn in the late Victorian/Early Edwardian era. It ,or something similar,might have been used by artists of old civilizations too, because it avoids the use of blue and green entirely: which would eliminate the need for rare pigments . It's essentially a colour mixing challenge,to draw the entire paintings with 4 pigments,2 basic colours: Ochre yellow, Vermillion,and Black and white,which can be mixed into different shades. It can be an excellent exercise and means for portrait painting

Modern artists use red instead of vermillion,but the essence is the same. So that's what I did too. I considered using vermillion,but I realised that it would introduce a lot of yellow tint, making the picture very warm. Which is usually something I prefer honestly,but not what I was going for here. Also,I need to consider the fact that I'm a watercolour artist,which is very different from the original intended palette. Zorn used oil paints,but other artists use it fine for gouache and acrylic too, however,that too is different from watercolor, because instead of mixing with white, I'll be diluting with water,which changes the composition of the palette considerably. So I went with these supplies: ochre yellow and red watercolor pencils (for me, basically watercolor pigments,I don't use them to draw,I grind and dissolve them in water),white and black watercolor tubes,and white ink. In addition: lineart with sepia,grey and black brush pens,which are well within the bounds of the palette

To be honest,I ended up not using the white paint tube at all,water makes more sense to me. I didn't use anything else though,and stuck with the original materials.And the results:

Does it work? Hell yeah. It's not perfect,but I'm happy with how she turned out

Was it restricting? That's kind of the point,to paint with some limitations

Was it hard? Honestly? No. Not at all. It's definitely very different from what I'm used to,I use a lot of colours both as is and mixed,but this was surprisingly easy. Perhaps because of my subject,which didn't have much colour to begin with

Do I recommend it? If you want a small challenge,or to experiment or practice colour mixing,definitely

Will I do it again ? Absolutely. I feel like I haven't utilised much of the potential of this palette. I ended up using mainly red and black, hardly any yellow at all. So I'd like to do something more colourful with this palette, perhaps a sunny painting of a gingerhead girl with flowers,and for this I'll probably use vermillion,not red

Anyways, that's all! If you read all this,thank you for your time!!

#chloe d'apchier #the case study of vanitas #vanitas no carte #VnC #my art #traditional art #zorn palette #vnc fanart #vanitas no shuki #jun mochizuki #case study of vanitas

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zelphin124 · 2 months

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SeasonTale - Chapter 6

I'm not super proud of this one... and it took forever to finally sit down and write it, but I hope you enjoy! There will be a poll at the end, so look for that as well. Here we go!

Masterpost

~o0o~

School was boring now.

Summer couldn’t bring himself to pay attention in his education. There was no joy in learning anymore. There was no joy in… well, anything. He had lost all motivation and will to keep going.

But he wasn’t sad either.

He was confused, mostly. After the procedure yesterday, he didn’t even enjoy throwing the ball up for himself anymore. When the kids played without him at recess, he didn’t feel sad either.

Every bit of emotion was gone.

Although Summer wanted to hate it… he couldn’t bring himself to.

He twirled one of his pens in his hand, watching it fly in different directions before the bell rang. Summer had never packed his bags so fast; and he planned to get out of there as soon as he could.

“Summer,” Summer!Alphys inquired. “Could you come here real quick?”

“Ooh Lemon is in trouble,” some of the kids laughed as they ran outside.

Summer couldn’t even bring himself to care about what they said.

“Hey, you had trouble paying attention in class today. Is everything alright?” The teacher asked, sitting at her desk and motioning for Summer to follow suit.

Summer obeyed, but he had to adjust so the sun didn’t block his vision. “Yeup,” he nodded. “Everything is just dandy.”

Summer!Alphys glanced at the desk, her fingers fidgeting with one another. Summer could tell she was worried.

And he envied that.

The way he saw her emotions, and the way they wrestled within her. He wanted that again. He wanted… He…

He couldn’t figure out what he wanted. He was tired, and sleep sounded amazing. It was one of the only ways to get rid of the nightmare that he lived in, but he couldn’t care enough to go and take a nap.

He existed. That’s all he could bring himself to do.

“You know that friend I was telling you about? Who wanted to play catch?” His teacher spoke gently. “He’s here, if you wish to play ball.”

“Sure, that sounds fun,” Summer shrugged, smirking and digging through his backpack. He pulled out the red ball and squished it in his hands.

It didn’t shine like it used to.

“Honey,” Summer!Alphys’ gaze locked with the skeleton’s. “Do you… do you have anything at home that you would wish to bring if you were gone for a long time?”

Summer looked away and stared at the red ball in his hands. “Nah, just this red ball.”

“Okay,” She got up, brushing off her bright yellow skirt. “He’s outside.”

Summer bounded toward the door, carrying his only toy in his hands. He opened the door and looked around. Most of who he saw were others in the school, but he saw someone who he didn’t recgonize before. His eyes squinted at the glorious light the figure held with him.

He was a goat monster of some sorts. His horns blended in with the magnificent crown on his head that glimmered like the stars. HIs yellow eyes were dazzling, and they bore such kindness within them.

Summer thought his cape was dope; its sleek white fabric on the outside completely sealed the night sky inside of the cape, that radiating hundreds of stars and galaxies within it. It changed whenever the creature moved. The only way Summer could compare it to was seeing the sun and stars in the middle of space.

The rest of his clothes were made up of the silky white fabric, with dozens of gold accessories scattered across his body. Chains connected various parts of his wear, and the two shoulder guards made his figure look broad and powerful. It was clear that he was older than most of the adults that Summer saw, but it came with a lot more wisdom.

In his hand rested a long, shining weapon. It had three sides and a pointy thing down the middle. Summer recalled that it was a type of spear that the Asgore monster formed. As a matter of fact, he looked very much like an Asgore.

But the skeleton couldn’t figure out what season he was from.

“Hello young one,” his voice roared like a thousand lions, but was as gentle as the morning breeze. “You must be Summer Sans?”

Summer nodded, his attention fully focused on the monster before him.

“My name is Solstice,” he smiled, giving a soft bow. “Do you want to play catch?”

The kid nodded some more, looking at the red ball and tossing it toward Solstice.

Summer watched as Solstice’s eyes gleamed with delight as he caught the ball. The goat tossed it from hand to hand before tossing it back towards him.

Summer faked a smile as he barely caught the ball. He’d never have a ball tossed back to him, so the angle he usually caught the ball didn’t help him.

“Oh, I did not mean to throw it so hard,” Solstice sighed as he approached the half-fallen over child. “Here, mind if I take your hands?”

“You’re… you’re not going to hurt me, right?”

“Of course not,” Solstice shook his head before looking up at Alphys, who had come out of the building to watch. Summer watched as they communicated with no words, but he couldn’t figure out what they were saying.

For the next hour, Solstice took the time to teach Summer how to catch and throw the ball better and more efficiently. Summer listened to every word and felt a glimmer of hope, despite is apathetic state. They tossed the ball back and forth; the only time they stopped was when Summer accidentally threw the ball into the twisted trees, which Solstice didn’t hesitate to get it out. They rotated a couple of times to keep playing in the shade, as the sun was unbearable in the afternoon.

While they played, Summer finally had enough time to notice the large ocean not far from his school. He caught the ball and pointed towards it. “What’s that?”

“That is the Tidal Sea, my boy,” Solstice smiled. “It contains beautiful waters and coves for miles under its surface. No one knows what’s on the other side.”

“Can we go there?” Summer asked, curious.

“Perhaps we could-” Solstice paused as Alphys motioned toward him. He sighed, kneeling down. His gaze had changed, and it unsettled Summer.

Why did his mood change? Did I do something wrong? Summer began to worry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you I’ll do better-”

“Buddy, hey, hey,” Solstice smiled at him. “You did nothing wrong, I’m just really concerned for you.” Solstice took his hand and tilted Summer’s face to observe it. “Did Summer!Gaster do this to you?”

“Y-Yeah,” Summer shuddered, remembering how it was done. “But it’s fine, I don’t want to talk about it-”

“It’s clear you don’t want this to happen again to you, huh?”

Summer stared at Solstice. How- How did he know? He thought, shaking his head in response. He would do anything to get away from his dad at this point. He remembered that he cared for his dad…

But that feeling wasn’t there anymore, just like the rest of them. All he wanted to do was avoid physical pain, but he couldn’t find the will to run away again.

“I’m with the rebellion,” Solstice informed. “I save many people like you from your dad and others who are cruel like him. If you allow me to, I’ll make sure you’ll never have to go through an experiment like that again.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a place in the mountains that we hold as refuge, we hide there so we can plan our next action of justice, and restore the kingdoms to their former glory.” Solstice explained. “Life doesn’t have to be like this.”

The sun started shining on Summer’s face, warming his bones. “That’s a lot of big words,” Summer smirked, thinking for a bit. Life doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way?

“You will learn them all in due time,” Solstice reassured. “I plan to teach you a lot of things.”

“We don’t have much time,” Alphys ran out from the school. “He’s coming, you must decide quickly.”

Solstice locked eyes with the boy again. “This might be the only time I get to speak with you. I wish to help you. Come with me and I’ll keep you safe. If you don’t like it, you can come back. Help us restore SeasonTale to justice.”

Summer could hear traces of his father’s footsteps. He recgonized them anywhere, for whenever he was near, bad things happened. He looked worriedly at the school door before grabbing onto Solstice’s sleeve.

“Please,” he begged. “I don’t want to be in another experiment.”

“Say no more, my boy,” Solstice hoisted Summer up on his back. “Hold on, we are going to get you out of here.”

“He’ll look for me,” Summer shivered as Solstice booked it into the forest, the sun becoming brighter and brighter as they went.

“Don’t worry, he- he won’t find us-” Solstice gasped between breaths.

“Where can we go that he won’t?”

There was a moment of interrupted silence before Solstice answered. He paused once he reached the ocean shore, whistling into the sky. He turned around and pointed inland. “You see those mountains way over there?”

Summer’s eyes widened, seeing the mountains he saw in his dreams. One covered with white shades and clouds that covered the sun. “Yeah?”

The skeleton’s eyes widened even more when he saw a huge creature land from the sky, folding its wings in and snorting out a cloud of smoke. It’s head was similar to a gaster blaster, and his wings and structure were all bone, expect for the inside of its wings and belly, which shined like the night sky.

“Is that a dragon?!” Summer gasped, bewildered that the creatures even existed.

“Yes, and you can pet him later,” Solstice walked toward the dragon and hoisted himself onto it. “Those mountains, we will be going there.”

Summer was too distracted by the dragon to pay attention, but one thing he did know, was that this was far more exciting than anything his dad did with him.

As the dragon took off into the air, Summer gasped and held tight onto the dragon’s neck, looking down at the ground. Everything became smaller as clouds brushed against the child’s face. Summer could see the entire landscape of the known land, including all the other kingdoms he never got to see before.

“Soon, all this land will be free from the Gaster’s hand,” Solstice explained as he steered the dragon towards the colder area of SeasonTale, up in the mountains. “And you can help rule it all.”

“Really?!” Summer smiled as something jolted inside him.

The goat smiled, sighing with relief.

“I promise.”

~o0o~

#seasontale #seasontale story #writing #chapter #utmv #undertale au #sans au #undertale #summer sans #summer alphys #summer gaster #solstice asgore #solstice dragon #WOAH IK THERE ARE DRAGONS #hehe #gosh there's so much here #and no motivation

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chiiroptereh · 1 year

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The bats of Pokémon through the eyes of a bat nerd (who also used no references so they're a tiny bit iffy)

Forgot to bring my tablet so I'm playing with dad's rainbow markers and pens. I kinda dig it actually but my phone cannot take proper photos of them lol

Nerdy stuff about design choices and lots of bat facts under the cut if you're interested in that!

Zubat is mainly modelled after Vespertillionidae and Natalidae species, inheriting both families' pointy faces and dense fur that often covers their eyes, making them appear blind (except zubat actually is blind). Their wings are broad, more akin to a Megadermatidae species, which was just a choice based off of the original design. Broader wings allow for increased manoeuvrability at the cost of speed in real species. Their legs are long and spindly, another trait borrowed from Natalidae.

Golbat still has zubat's woolly fur to keep its rounded appearance but has narrower wings as well as stumpy ears and a large mouth, all traits gleaned from free-tailed bats, the latter a trait specifically of the genus Otomops. They really do look like that sometimes yes. Its large feet are borrowed from the fish-eating myotis (Myotis vivesi) who frankly has even bigger feet than this guy. Bats are wacky lol

Crobat has a mostly furred face similar to Pteropid, Rhinolophid or Phyllostomid bats. Its ears are more fantasy and not modelled after any existing species. I had hairy-tailed bats of the genus Lasiurus on the mind while interpreting the little tufts on its bum, here they're meant to be fluff hanging off the uropatagium. It has very narrow wings similar to Molossid bats, and it fits for such a speedy Pkmn! (Fun fact: a Molossid bat was the fastest recorded vertical flight of any animal)

Woobat is inspired by Desmodus species, more commonly known as vampire bats. While their cousins the Honduran white bat (Ectophylla albus) is more commonly the interpretation, I chose Desmodus instead for its flat, heart-shaped noses and similar dental structure. The excess in fur is more attributed to the same families as in zubat, but with some more Lasiurine influence.

Swoobat's choice in inspiration was pretty obvious to me at first: the heart-nosed bat (Cardioderma cor)! The furred face and ears joined at the base is indeed inspired by Megadermatid bats but otherwise it has probably the most mixed influences of all these designs. I once again took the flat, heart-shaped nose from Desmodus species like I did with its pre-evo, and then its tail was adapted from Rhinopoma species (fittingly known as mouse-tailed bats!) as well as Molossid (free-tailed) bats. From an entirely nerdy perspective swoobat is easily my favorite, it really highlights a lot of chiropteran diversity whether intentional or not.

Noibat has joined ears like swoobat, inherited from Megadermatid bats (and sometimes Molossids) and is the first to have an actual nose-leaf, partially influenced by trident bats of the genus Asellia. I was kind of imagining that the bare patch between the tufts of black fur were present because they housed scent glands like in Emballonurid (sac-winged) bats who have similar bald patches. (I don't know a ton about Emballonurid bats unfortunately, so I'm not sure whether this is a family-wide occurrence or attributed to certain genii, lol. If anybody knows feel free to tell! I think some Molossids have scent glands too so heck throw them in as well)

Noivern is easily the most fantastical of the bunch, more dragon than bat, but it wouldn't feel right not to include him. He's got the same design choices on the face that its pre-evolution has (joined ears and nose-leaf) but otherwise doesn't have any more specific influences in batty terms. However, I turned the tragus into that little protrusion under the ear of the original design which I thought was kind of clever ;)

#traditional art #pokemon #bats #chiroptera #zubat #golbat #crobat #woobat #swoobat #noibat #noivern #lots of batty fun facts #mixed media

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angiecatz · 7 months

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Ja, Christmas Spirit Part: 1

König x F!Reader

A/N: Christmas came early, I know I said Dec.1st But I just couldn't resist!

Summary: “You, A young author, were gifted an enchanted pen that allowed you to unknowingly bring characters into your world. And you just so happened to be writing fanfiction with that pen. So, you are thrown into a cliche Hallmark movie timeline with your biggest fictional crush, König and the only way to send him home is to find your “Christmas spirit.” But can you bear to see him go?”

WC: 5.8k

The cold was the perfect time to write. You could be bundled up, have tea, AND be productive? What was not to love! No one could nag in your ear about going outside and getting sunlight. There wasn't much sunlight to get.

It was a big upgrade from the heat of summer that made you feel sweaty and tired. Those were the times when no writing got done. You mostly just slept through all of Summer.

For those reasons, you loved winter. Along with the fact that Starbucks was selling peppermint mocha again. To hell with everyone who said it tasted like toothpaste.

Maybe part of you felt sad that you were sitting alone in your room three days from Christmas. The only thing to look forward to is also the thing you dread. Writer's block had hit like a bitch this fall.

Now, you finally had some inspiration. You didn't even have to set your phone on mute nobody ever called anyway. You just turned on your favorite playlist and sat down at your desk.

The plan was to spend the evening writing about your fictional little worlds and AU’s.

You had everything set up, your papers, laptop, and tea. You already had a loose idea of what you would be writing. You had scrolled through Pinterest, and even made a board or two for the aesthetic.

First, you would start with the planning phase of writing in your trusty journal.

You opened your desk drawer and pulled out a small decorative box. Inside, laid on a golden silk plush pillow was the fanciest pen you had ever seen in your life. Even though it's already at the very least your fourth time seeing it, it still blew your mind.

With white and gold, it looked like something Marie Antoinette would have LOVED if she had been around for it. Straight out of Versaille. It must have cost a fortune, your best friend had bought it for you as an early Christmas present.

You hadn't used it when you got it. You wanted to wait for the perfect moment and this was it. You carefully closed the box and placed it to the side. Next, you placed the tip of the pen on the paper.

The ink flowed onto the paper like a gentle stream, letter by swoopy letter you wrote out the name König.

Yes, the perfect moment for the perfect pen was a fanfiction moment. You had to keep your dedicated readers fed after all. An x-reader of course. The little people scurrying around on Tumblr and Ao3 loved x-readers. They especially loved the tall man who wore a shirt as a mask and went around shooting and breaking backs.

You’d be lying if you didn't feel like barking every time you saw him. But that was your little secret, one only the anonymous people of the internet were allowed to know.

The writing came easy, and for once you didn't want to pull your hair out. ‘It’s all in the pen,’ you thought. It must be. This was too easy. The pen glided across the paper like a knife on warm butter.

You lost track of time and quickly filled out three whole pages of ideas. When you looked up, the sun had gone down and you could see the street lights on through your bedroom window.

How time flies when you're having fun. It took a great effort on your part to place the pen back into its box and close the notebook.

Even as you crawled into the warmth of your bed and closed your eyes all you could think about was a certain 6 '10 monster of a man.

You woke up uneasy. A deep gut feeling that you got even before you opened your eyes. A prey-like feeling, It felt like someone was watching you.

You knew you should open your eyes, but it was just so much easier to keep them closed. You even reached out to pull your blanket closer to your body. Maybe if you ignored it, it would go away. Yeah, that was a wonderful idea, You fought the urge to just pull the blanket over your head and hide. It was probably nothing. You would have heard if someone broke in anyway.

But no matter how long you waited, whatever ‘it’ was didn't seem intent on leaving. You waited in vain for a few more seconds.

Then you got the most wonderful thought, ‘Hey! I am a grown-ass woman. I ain't scared of no ghosts!’ So you snapped your eyes open fully expecting to see nothing but your room.

Instead, your eyes met the weird tactical pants of someone who is very much not see-through. Your eyes climbed the form in horror.

Up, up, up, and even more up, up, up, Until you reach the cold blue eyes, the only thing you could really make out against the dark backdrop of your room.

That is very much not a ghost. In your ‘I'm a grown woman’ thought you failed to realize that grown women have grown problems. And sometimes those problems are intruders here to rob and kill you… Or worse.

You would have loved to say you let out a good blood-curdling scream, but what came out of your mouth was more akin to the high-pitched squeak of a startled rabbit.

You scrambled out of bed as fast as you could, which proved to be not very fast according to the giant weighted blanket you insisted on sleeping with.

It ended up being you having to roll out of bed and then rolling too far onto the floor with a blanket tangled up in your legs.

The man just gave an amused high-pitched chuckle. Great now not only is he going to murder YOU, but he's also going to laugh and make you feel embarrassed while doing it.

He kneeled onto your bed to peer over the other edge to look at you, who was currently stuck in something that looked vaguely like the family guy death pose.

“Are you alright?” He asked in an accented voice.

Aw, how sweet, the burglar cares if you're alright! Perhaps if this was one of your stories you would think that gesture is sweet and kind of hot, but this is real life. And that question rang disturbingly.

After a few seconds, you had finally gotten yourself together and were able to stand up. Although maybe you shouldn't have, because the quickness of your movements sent a bunch of blood from your brain to your feet and caused you to stumble a bit and feel lightheaded.

Great. You are one hundred percent ready to fight off the strange man. Top physical and mental fitness! No chance you would lose! The man before you came into view as your eyes finally focused and blinked away the sleep.

Your first thought was ‘GODDAMN!’ His stature and build were very impressive and horrifying. Your second thought was, ‘What a strange mask’. Black with eye holes cut out and bleached tear streaks. It looked vaguely familiar. Scratch that it looked really familiar.

The man tilted his head to the side like a curious puppy, “Did you hit your head?”

You thought you must have, long before you woke up this morning. Might have even been when you were a baby and the hallucinations were just setting in today. There was no way in hell this mountain of a man before you was the König.

The one from a video game. He wasn't even a main character. You are not a woman of science but you are one hundred percent sure video game characters do not randomly come to life. There's no possible explanation in the entirety of the universe that would make this make sense.

But even the accent was to a tea, and you were pretty sure sniper hoods were not a common choice for burglars.

Unless this was some weird stalker that knew of your ‘obsession’. Again, flattering in fanfiction but terrifying in real life.

“What?” You managed to stutter the words out somehow.

“Maybe you really did.”

You felt the need to defend yourself, “I did not!”

“How the hell are you? How did you get into my house?!” You quickly added on. This was strange, your eyes darted around in hopes of finding something to defend yourself with. Water bottle, walmart heater, pillows. Yup, you were thoroughly unprepared to defend yourself.

“You already know who I am.” He slowly climbed back off of your mattress and returned to his full stature.

“No.”

There was that stupid fucking head tilt again, “No?”

“You’re just some crazy dude! I'm calling the cops!” As soon as the words left your mouth you realized that maybe angering him was not the best idea. He was back on the bed in a flash, his large arm stretched and his hands grabbed hold of your outstretched arm.

“What the fu-”

It only took him one hand to yank you onto the bed and soon you were on your back with him on top of you, using his body weight and hands to keep you pinned to your own mattress.

“Do not play dumb with me little lamn, now send me back,” His voice dipped dangerously low as he hissed the words out.

You struggled against his hold. You tried to rip your hands away, and buck your hips up in hopes of throwing him off, but none of it worked. It just made him press your wrists further into the mattress.

“What the hell do you mean send you back?! I don't even know who you are!” You bit back.

“Liar! I have seen your journals, I have seen that cursed pen!”

His hold wasn't letting up. This man was truly crazy with his nonsensical accusations.

“I really don't know! Let me go!”

He actually listened to you and let one of your arms go. You thought he had maybe come to his senses and was going to let you go. But no, he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a grumbled paper. His other hand stayed firmly over your wrist.

He managed to unscramble it himself and shove it in your face. Your eyes had to adjust a moment to make sense of it.

“A writer’s heart, pure and kind, Is the secret to unlocking the mind, For 'tis true what the tales say: That the path to our worlds lies this way.

Only once we find our inner hope, And unlock the secrets of the world at our scope, Shall the world be a brighter sight, For the spirit of love and joy must ignite!

Seek within, find your true self, And unlock the spirit upon your shelf, Then him, your spirit can save,”

It was in your handwriting, with the delicate nature of the pen. This was yours. Torn from a page of your own journal. The thing was though, you had no memory of ever writing such an absurd poem. You don't write poems. They were the one thing that ruined your high school English grade.

And you certainly wouldn't write such a pretentious one that sounded like it came from a Hallmark movie. You happened to have a strong dislike of the channel.

“What the actual fuck is going on?!” You demanded, and you snatched the paper from him with your free hand. You had long since given up trying to get out from under him.

“That is what I would like to know. One moment I was on the field and next I was in a white room and now here.”

“Then go back to the field I don't care! Just get out!”

“I CAN’T!” He yelled back. He was off you like a shot, you stayed frozen on your bed as he thundered over to your bedroom door. He was finally leaving, you thought. He yanked your door open so hard he almost ripped it completely off its hinges.

The noise of it slamming into the wall made you flinch. You sat up in your bed and watched him, too scared to try and escape.

His hand reached out, albeit a little shaky and unstable. His fingers had just barely grazed the threshold before he had yanked them back and a loud ZAP rang out through the room. It sounded like he had just run straight into a human-sized bug zapper.

“I can’t leave. I've tried everything.” He muttered as he clutched his hand.

Now that he mentioned it your room was in disarray. Your window was propped open and multiple books were scattered across the floor.

Things had just gone from murderer-level scary to supernatural-level scary. A category that was very very hard to wrap your head around.

A strange man, who just so happened to be a dead ringer for your favorite video game character, a strange letter, and now an unleaveable room?

You had to see this for yourself. You got yourself up and neared your door. You kept extra care to stay as far away from ‘König’(you might as well accept it by now). You didn't want to get zapped. That shit looked like it hurt.

But if you got zapped then maybe you weren't having some weird mental breakdown and König wasn't just some dude and the actual König.

Like ripping a bandaid off.

You braced yourself and you pushed your fingers through the threshold of the door, squeezed your eyes shut, and…..

… …. …..

Nothing. No zap. No excruciating pain. Nothing. Zip. Nada.

You were perfectly fine. You even waved your hand around a bit. König bristled up at this and stuck his own hand in the door beside yours. No zap. He too also waved his hand around a bit.

Wonderful. He had tricked you. He wasn't König and that stupid poem must have just been something you wrote after a really long night. This dude was an excellent actor. Could it be this is some crazy culty acting school assignment? You really need to stop coming up with such outlandish theories.

You pulled back your hand and jumped back in case he tried to grab you again.

As soon as your hand was back in the room there was a zap and König yelled out in pain. He jumped back like a hissing cat.

“What is this?!” He demanded.

“How the hell should I know?!” You responded.

In the distance, bells rang. With a soft jingle jingle that came through the open window. You looked back at König, and behind him, you could see tiny little snowflakes starting to fall.

That was strange. You rarely ever get snow. Not once in your life had you ever gotten a white Christmas. Must be global warming…

Enough of these games you thought, “Get out of my house.”

“Did you not just see? Don't you think I've tried?!” He gestured widely to your bedroom door.

“I walked out the door just fine!” To prove your point you backstepped till you were past the threshold of your room and in your hallway.

There was no zapping, not that you expected it this time. You were perfectly fine. You walked out the door just fine. So maybe trying to negotiate with some intruder you should make a run for it. So that's just what you do.

If he isn't faking the zaps then he can't run after you, and if he is? Well, you just hope your sudden sprint caught him by surprise and gave you enough time to reach your front door.

You had neighbors, nosey ones at that. If you ran out all crazy they would surely call the cops. Wouldn't be the first time they called the cops on you, this time it would be for a good reason.

You got all the way past the bathroom when you heard thundering footsteps behind you.

Shit.Shit.Shit!

Hearing someone much bigger than yourself run after you is another type of fear. You could hear him getting closer and closer with each step. He was much quicker than you, that much was obvious.

You had just barely graced the edge of the hallway when a strong, large, pair of arms wrapped around your midsection.

You shrieked as anyone would, You tried to thrash around in his arms but the tight hold he had on you only allowed you to wiggle a bit without feeling like a too-tightly gripped stress ball. If he used even a miniscule amount more of his strength you were sure you'd pop.

Your lack of ability to struggle allowed him to maneuver you like a rag doll. He flipped you around so his hands held you firmly right below the armpits. Your legs dangle uselessly.

He was shaking, and so were you. You were worried he’d start shaking you and demanding answers you don't even know the question to. That couldn't be good for your brain.

“How and why am I here?” König yelled the question he had already asked multiple times.

“Why would I know?! I just woke up to you standing over me!”

“What was that room then? And the letter?!” The angrier he got the more jumbled his pronunciation got, and his accent was slowly becoming more and more noticeable.

“I DON'T KNOW!” Your voice cracked and your tears threatened to spill.

König finally seemed to take your answer seriously, “You really don't know?”

“I’m just as confused as you are.”Now please put me down you thought.

He understood your silent plea and placed you back on your feet. He nodded and turned his head to the kitchen you both were just mere inches from. Here, he had a direct line to the back patio door.

He stepped into the kitchen with no problem. With a sense of confidence, he quickly stepped to the door, he had finally found an exit. He had gotten past your bedroom, only a few steps more and he’d be free.

As soon as his fist closed on the doorknob, an electrical current was burned through him, from the very tips of his fingers to the ends of his hair. His mouth just dropped open in a completely silent scream.

When he finally was able to pull his hand away from the old-fashioned door knob, he stumbled right onto the floor, twitching and convulsing.

You gasped and ran to his side. He might be some weird Call of Duty-dressed burglar but he was still a person. And if he died in your house aren’t you legally responsible?

Your mind ran through your limited knowledge of first aid. Why couldn't you have taken some classes sooner? Your research for fanfic wasn't nearly enough.

You placed your hands lightly on his back as he shook. You had to do something. You had to figure something out. You were running out of time. He would die. He would die right here on your kitchen floor and the police would come take you away.

Breaking Bad

YES! Yes yes yes that's right! You could remember it so clearly. One of the characters started convulsing so they turned them on their side. That's got to be right. T.V. occasionally gets medical advice right.

Isn't that only so they don't choke on their vomit? This dude doesn't look like he's about to throw up… Still, it's the best idea you've got.

So that's what you do. Inspired by Breaking Bad, you rolled the mammoth of a man onto his side. It took some effort, he’s completely dead weight and you haven't hit the gym in a while.

Eventually, you got it right. You have him propped up with some throw pillows from your couch in what you thought was the proper position.

Next, He needed help. Real help, not help from some random twenty-something woman who writes fanfiction in her free time. Help from a professional.

He balanced and did not immediately plop over when you took your hands off of him, That must be a good sign, right?

Nonetheless, it allowed you to race back to your room, grab your phone, and race back in record time. You kneeled down next to König again and typed in shaky numbers. You missed typing a couple of times and had to restart. Three numbers should be this hard, get it together!

9 1 1

The phone rang and rang. It rang for too long. Aren’t 911 operators supposed to pick up immediately? That's their whole point is it not? To answer in emergencies? He could die at any moment and nobody could be bothered to pick up the phone.

You must just be tripping yourself out, you reasoned. You're too freaked out and so the seconds feel much longer than they actually are. That has to be the reason.

You focused on Königs breathing instead of the ringing in your ear.

The line goes down with a long beep. No answer.

Shit.

So much for emergency services.

Well, that's just great. Now he's really going to die. You must be going crazy at this point. You look at your kitchen window from your spot on the floor. You could see it, the snow piled upon the window sill. Perfect and untouched. Such a strange thing. It had only just started snowing a moment ago.

Slowly bell chimes started to ring outside your house. It sounded like there were Christmas Carolers right outside the door. Maybe they could help?

You felt dizzy. Way too dizzy to be normal. Your phone slipped from your hand and onto your wood flooring. The edge of your vision went blurry.

When you woke again it was to the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread. You hadn't made gingerbread in a long long time.

You were warm and pleasant. Wrapped up in a knit blanket near a fire in your fireplace and some roasted chestnuts.

Strange. You could have sworn you had passed out on the kitchen floor with some dude.

Oh well, that problem could wait for tomorrow. You were way too warm and comfy to even think about getting up. There was some moving next to you, and the couch dipped and creaked.

That made you open your eyes. Right next to you, passed out on your couch is König(you couldn't think of anything else to call him), a blanket wrapped around him.

“What the Fuck….” You whispered.

You could hear Christmas music playing in the background, from your T.V. You don't listen to Christmas music. With much wiggling, you were able to free yourself from the confines of the blanket.

König managed to sleep through it. You were on your feet, thankfully in the same clothes you remember being in. The real problem started when you looked down at your coffee table. There was a platter of Gingerbread on a festive platter right in the middle of it.

You don't own festive decor or gingerbread. Did König do this? How could he have done this when just moments ago he was having a seizure on the ground?

Your question was answered by a blinding white light like a nuclear bomb had just gone off in the middle of your living room.

You shielded your eyes with the crook of your arm. A feminine disembodied voice spoke, “A writer’s heart, pure and kind, Is the secret to unlocking the mind, For 'tis true what the tales say: That the path to our worlds lies this way.

Only once we find our inner hope, And unlock the secrets of the world at our scope, Shall the world be a brighter sight, For the spirit of love and joy must ignite!

Seek within, find your true self, And unlock the spirit upon your shelf, Then him, your spirit can save”

The poem from earlier. The voice was not one you remembered so you asked, “God?” You weren't really expecting an answer but she did.

“No. I am the Christmas spirit.”

No Christmas spirit.The Christmas spirit. You almost laughed. You would have thought it was just some weird prank. But the blinding light was too true.

“You have things to do,” The Christmas spirit said.

“Things?” You asked.

“König must go home, he's not from here,” The spirit continued.

“You can't possibly mean….” You trailed off. There was no possible way König was the König from the video game. You had already gone over this. But a lot of things have started to seem possible lately.

“Only you can send him home, just follow my poem.”

How perfectly vague. Wonderful answer that wasn't even an answer.

“Oh wow, I'm the chosen one and the only one who can save him how original.” You said sarcastically.

“Only you can send him home, just follow my poem.” The voice repeated.

The light filtered out and the dimly light yellow lighting of your living room trickled in in its place. The voice and godly light were gone.

“I wasn't lying,” A male voice said behind you.

You looked over your shoulder. König was awake. Sat on your couch leaned over with his elbows balanced on his knees. He looked up at you with haunted blue eyes. That whole experience proved the limited story he had provided you with.

“The Christmas spirit,” you said.

“Ja, The Christmas spirit,” He agreed.

How absurd. People love to say things like “This only ever happens in movies” but this kind of shit really ONLY happens in movies.

“I would like to go home.”

“I would like you to go home.”

Wonderful then, You were both on the same page. You repeated the poem in your head. You ran over it till you found the first line that could be a clue.

“Only once we find our inner hope, And unlock the secrets of the world at our scope,” You mumbled.

“Hope?” König asked, “Hope for what.”

“Maybe we need to find our Christmas spirit? That's always what the characters in the movies have to do.” You looked around your living room, it wasn't decorated for the holidays at all. You never hosted so there really wasn't a point. The strange cookies and Christmas music was the only thing festive and they were not even yours.

So was that it? You just needed to decorate your house for Christmas? That was going to prove difficult by the fact that the back patio door was a death trap. You had an inkling feeling that the front door would be the same.

“I don't celebrate Christmas….”

“Neither do I,” You responded.

König shifted uncomfortably. Emphasis on uncomfortably, König was very very uncomfortable right now. Turns out it is kind of awkward to be sitting on the couch of some girl he had almost killed a few moments ago.

There was no way out either. Oh, what König would have given to be able to just run out and straight back onto the battlefield.

You, on the other hand, were not that uncomfortable. Just mildly annoyed and amazed that a real-life video game character that you had just been writing fanfiction about last night was sitting on your couch.

“Oh!” You said.

König jostled just slightly at your sudden exclamation.

“We can just look it up!” You don't know why you hadn't thought about it earlier. You had a perfectly working phone. If you ignored the 911 incident.

The results came up in seconds. You clicked on the first link.

How to find your Christmas spirit: 1. Focus on the present: Try not to get caught up in the past or worry about the future. Instead, focus on the present moment and find joy in the simple things around you. 2. Practice appreciation: Find things to be grateful for each day, whether it's a favorite meal, a beautiful sunset, or the time you have with loved ones. Gratitude can help shift your focus away from negative thoughts and feelings. 3. Spread kindness: Do something nice for someone else, whether it's baking some cookies, volunteering at a local charity, or simply offering a kind word. Helping others can bring a sense of joy and fulfillment. 4, Nurture your spiritual side: If you have a spiritual practice, consider incorporating it into your holiday festivities. This can help you find a deeper sense of connection and meaning during the season. 5, Take a break from the hustle and bustle: Sometimes, the busiest and most hectic times around the holiday season can make it hard to find your Christmas spirit. 6. Try to take some time for yourself, whether it's a quiet walk in nature or a hot bath, to reconnect with yourself and your inner peace. 7. Remember that finding your Christmas spirit is a process, and it might take some experimentation and trial and error to find what works best for you. The important thing is to be intentional about your efforts and to allow yourself to enjoy the holidays, even in the midst of their challenges.

Blah. Blah. Blah. A lot of worthless advice. You were honestly expecting to get something like “Bake cookies” and “Decorate your house.” Not a whole bunch of hypothetical feelings and emotions.

“Ok. So we're in the present.”

König nodded. You continued, “We need to not focus on the past then.”

You sat down on your couch, right next to König. You missed how he stiffened up and straightened his back. You gave him your name. Step one is taken.

“....König,” He responded.

“You're in the military, no?” You knew the answer. You had spent a lot of time writing fanfiction about him.

“Mercenary.” Yeah, one-word answers. He didn't seem to be all that interested in talking to you.

“We have to talk if we’re gonna find out Christmas Spirit or Whatever.”

“I still think we should just decorate.” He looked around your living room for areas to start with.

“Well I don't have any decorations, and I can't exactly go outside.” You huffed as you flopped back against the backing of the couch.

At your words, Koning jumped up onto his feet with an idea, “What if you can?”

“What? Yeah no I don't feel like getting shocked.”

“I couldn't leave the bedroom until after you did. Maybe it will be the same.”

Maybe it would. But that was a gamble. Either you can walk through the front door or you die of some strange electrical Christmas shock. But the thing is you don't gamble. You're pretty sure you can find your “Christmas spirit” inside your own house and stay very much alive.

“We don't know if it will be the same,” You sighed.

“We have to try!”

Wow. He seemed to really want out of this house. You frowned when he said ‘we’ he wasn't the one having to walk through an electrical field just to see the sun.

When you didn't respond König continued, “You have to have hope.”

His words were erratic as he made his way to your front door. You watched him but didn't bother getting up to follow him. You watched his wide shoulders hunch as he leaned down to look through your peephole.

“I can see your driveway that is good, Ja?”

“What else would you see?”

He ignored you. He stepped away from the door and stood there. Maybe he was counting the grain of wood, you thought. He stared for a long second. And then another. And another. König finally turned back to you with a confused dear, like he actually expected you to open it.

“I’m not touching that thing.”

König closed his eyes for a good, long moment, “You are right. I can't expect you to put yourself in danger. I should be the one doing the protecting.”

He turned back around and raised his hand for the doorknob. You shot up from your spot on the couch and shouted, “STOP!”

He froze and looked over his shoulder back at you, sniper mask wrinkling in weird places and catching to the shape of his nose.

“Don't do that. We know what happens.” You weren't about to have him convulsing on your floor again. That would be such a hassle, no other reason.

“You're probably right. I'll open it.” You said as you attempted to make your way to the door. You were stopped by Königs arm that flew out to act as a barrier between you and the door.

“I can not allow you to do that. You could get hurt.”

“What the hell?! A moment ago you were basically begging me to do it.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He lowered his arm, only to place his hand on your shoulder and push you back.

OH hell no! Now you have to do it. For nothing more than spite. Spite was a great motivator. You ducked under his arm and made a reach for the door knob. König was a trained killer. He had the agility and the strength to catch you before your hand even got close to the doorknob. He swapped you up into his arms and held you tightly against his chest.

Like this you could feel his heartbeat against his chest, you could feel every muscle in his contract and twitch as you squirmed in his hold.

“We will find another way. You will not put yourself in danger.”

You stopped squirming in his grasp. You knew you couldn't get out of the grip he had made that glaringly obvious this morning. You could admit defeat.

König placed you back on the ground, and you stared at your shoes all sad and mopey-like.

“Do not be sad. Girls like you shouldn't ever be sad. We will find another way.”

You nodded and pointedly ignored the ‘girls like you part.’ He seemed to take your response as the truth and your agreement and moved away from the door. That's when you made your second dive and succeeded.

“Scheiße!”

Your finger wrapped around the door knob and your eyes squeezed shut as you thrust your body against it. It flew open with your weight and sent you flying right into the snow. It was all silent as the snow started to work its way through your pajamas.

The snow crunched behind you as König stepped out of the house.

“That was very stupid.” He kneeled down next to you.

You gave him a half-hearted thumbs up, “It worked though.”

“That it did.”

You could hear the birds and some cars as they zipped by. It seemed the rest of the world was normal and you were the only one who had a video game character randomly show up in their bedroom. Lucky you.

Taglist: @bubbleseven @homicidalsquirrels

#konig x reader #cod x reader #cod x y/n #cod x you #konig x you #konig x y/n #konig mw2 #könig x reader #könig x you

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cherry-dr0p · 2 months

Text

Okay!! So!! For those who have been following my ramble blog, you'd know I got into TF2 as of recent

Even if I haven't played the actual game yet... Kinda nervous because Im not the best at those types of games but nonetheless!! I present to you...

TF2 Doodles 💥❤️

(As a new fan... Kinda)

Page 1 doodle page;

Started to draw this because I wanted to develop a style for drawing my top 3 fellas! But then I realised I haven't included Sniper much and I didn't wanna leave him out too much, therefore!

Doodle page 2;

This one didn't go as well as the first one >:(

The white pen I used on the plane kept malfunctioning (dont worry, didn't get it absolutely everywhere) in which it got on the drawing twice >:[ Was less than ideal but hey, look!!! Pretty colours! Focus on the pretty colours!!!

I also not fond of how I did his anatomy bit I erm uhh yeah. I tried XD

Though I do like the gun...usually not good at drawing guns but for this one, it looks nice :3

Medic doodle!!;

The black pen kept showing through the page... This is so sad guys /j

Anyways!! Got told to draw Medic (again) by my irl friends and who am I to deny drawing a silly doctor? We're just gonna ignore the fact I didnt go over it fully with pen >:]

Lil Pootis doodles :D;

Last but not least!! Probably my favourite of the bunch, Lil' Pootis!!! >:D

Dont get me wrong, I have not watched the series yet, but I saw these birds around Tumblr and if anything happened to them, I would be fuming >:C They are the sweetest... and my favourites ever... I love them...silly birds...

I will watch the series, though!! I swear! Im planning on it tomorrow if no other plans fade into existence from thin air.

So yeah! In conclusion, I probably need to practice drawing the fellas but I can do that! They are quite fun to draw anyways. I'll draw the rest of the mercs too, dw :3

Ive been lurking and the fandom (on Tumblr anyways) seems cool!! Was quite nervous to post this but I think its now or never or you only live once or something like that XP

#tf2 medic #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 fanart #team fortress 2 #100% normal about them #lil' pootis #lil pootis #I love those goddamn birds so muchhh...#doodles #Ive worked on these altogether for 2 weeks now I think approx #I cant even decide my favourite from those three... Grr too hard of a choice #silly #I had to include the Kiwi bird. there was no other way!!!!#Oof my camera refused to focus for most of these drawings. RIP

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 years

Text

pairing: deadlock cole cassidy x asian male reader (platonic)

req: no | wc: 4.39k

summary: After Overwatch's sting operation in the Southwest gang of the Deadlock Rebels catches one of their head members, someone has to interrogate him. Only so many people are up to the task, however.

warnings: swearing, the use of cole's previous name

a/n: no romance, just thought it'd be fun. reader is asian, raised in latinamerica.

"Ugh!" An Overwatch employee groaned. He couldn't crack this guy. The very same one smiles at him from the other side of the table. He was like a mosquito, and he hated mosquitos. Each question, each swat or attempted clap, resulted in a jab, a miss or successful bite. It never helped that mosquitos were prominent in his home nation. He figured that, once he moved into the well-kept American Overwatch Headquarters, he would never have to deal with one again.

"Oh, getting tired of me already?"

Boy, was he wrong.

He stands from the table, gripping onto his clipboard and pen angrily with one hand. His other hand was free and he tried his best not throw him a rude gesture, knowing that it would only make him smugger and maybe get him into a little bit of trouble.

The cowboy watches, smile never waning, as the employee leaves the room. Once the door clicks shut behind him and he sets foot on the clean white tiles and cool, air conditioned air of the outside, he lets out his rage. He seethes, grasping at his clipboard and practically pulling it apart. He eyes the vase nearby—no. No, he wasn't going to break it. It was probably worth an entire year's salary.

A door down the hall opens. Out of it, peaks a head and, oh shit, it was him, the genius of the American HQ.

He whistles, "Having trouble, Daniel?"

He's got a small smile on his face. "Oh, no, I'm having the time of my life, boss." He rolls his eyes, though they quickly roll back in place. Fuck. Fuck, he should've given that cowboy the finger. He was getting in trouble anyway. He bows his head quick, "Sorry, boss. Didn't mean it."

"No, no, it's quite alright." He offers a chuckle, "Though, I do recall you said you could handle it."

He did say that, didn't he? "I..." Daniel sighs, "I was wrong."

"Don't sweat over it. Piece of advice, you should leave the big bad guys to the experienced guys like me." So those were the BBG's? "That guy's one of the founders, you know?"

"Oh." He was? No fucking wonder.

"Tell you what, you can watch me work." What was so fun about doing paperwork? "I'll crack the guy, today, I promise you."

Oh, that kind of work. That, that was actually a good idea—a great one, in fact. A great learning experience too, he was sure of it. "It would be much appreciated, sir."

When a new questioner walks into the room without a word, Jesse is puzzled, to say the least. They settled in just as silently, fixing their clipboard, new and free from the previous man's furious scrambling, to be just right atop the table. Their carton coffee cup was placed on their non-dominant hand's reach so they may sip and write at the same time. They write a single thing on the paper, and he notices the ink doesn't smudge, it was certainly a pen better than the previous man's.

Finally, you speak. "Good afternoon." Yet a greeting is all you offer.

Jesse purses his lips. You seemed like a tough nut to crack. "Good afternoon." He replies politely.

"You worked with…ah, what did they call them?"

He stared at you, his eyes narrowed and an eyebrow raised. Clearly, he was unimpressed by your technique. There was no way you didn't know his gang's name, especially after the wreckage that went down and got him arrested.

He didn't recognize your face though. You hummed to yourself, scratching at your beard as though it were a magic eight ball that would be able to give you an answer. "Right," You snap your fingers, "the Deadlock Gang."

"What brings you in today?"

Oh, he doesn't know. Perhaps it was the Southwest Gangs that were putting strain around his apartment block? Or the lack of pie ingredients his favorite diner was in need of. Was it to put in a complaint about the weather? Surely the American government controlled it–

He stared at you plainly in return, keeping his growing disinterest hidden.

"Right, it's probably the sting."

Jesse doesn't allow his face to show emotion, yet it does anyway. In the span of a quick second, his eyebrows raise and lower. A sting?

"Yes, yes, the sting." You mutter deliberately loud to "yourself". "I think that guy is still there. Or maybe they replaced him for a new one?"

Your method of cracking a person, it was through annoyance. He could tell, especially because it was his favorite technique and also the one he'd used on that last guy, the amateur—but it was also the sort of thing he could easily ignore by staying silent. That wasn't McCree's style though.

He chuckles to himself, "I knew I couldn't trust all those guys."

"What was your boss's name? Ashe?"

He almost speaks up. Almost. Ashe wasn't the boss, he and her had equal authority. Although, now that he was captured, she was the only one left to command... unless he was able to get out here. Jesse believed himself to be on the optimistic side. He came up with most of the ideas and Ashe evaluated them, along with that robot butler of hers; although, most of his ideas were shut down. Anyway, what mattered was she wasn't the boss of him. You were just digging for a way under his skin.

That was true, but he couldn't say that. "Sure I did. The new guys offered new conversation. They kept the place lively."

"She liked the firepower, the men, the army. The Deadlock Gang was steadily growing and it certainly didn't sneak under Overwatch's nose." You raise a finger in his direction, "You didn't like that, did you?"

"Especially because you were dealing with so much death?"

Growth was only steady because death lingered around each corner. The death of his men, his friends, his family, haunted his dreams. Jesse didn't want to reminded of it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. The sound, "tsk", comes clear. He would crack you, soon, the same way you wanted to crack him.

"Tell you what—let's play a game of cards." You pull the deck seemingly out of thin air. It's free of its case already, loose from its shoddy refuge in your pocket.

"What kind of game?" Would it be poker? He fancied himself good at that.

"Dos mayor." You reply.

His Spanish was rusty (or nonexistent). What was that? Two major? Two oldest? Two most powerful? No, that was silly. Bountiful?

"Do you know how to play it?"

He was already fucking up with the name's translation, so clearly not. "No." He replies, truthfully.

"Okay. I'll explain some of the basics." You rifle through the deck for a card–it doesn't take long to find–and show it to him: two of spades. "This is the highest card. Heart, club, and diamond follow." He nods his head, he was familiar with it. The next card you pull out of the deck is a joker, "We don't play with these," You throw the first one, red, off to the side, the black one soon follows. "and, if you have any amount of cards that are the same number or letter, you can throw them together. You think that's enough to play?"

Jesse's eyebrows furrow, "I mean, is there more?"

You shrug, "Yeah. Don't seem all that necessary."

"You're missing many things here." He was in disbelief because of how much you weren't telling him. "Like, objective? Are there rounds or something? If so, how do I win a round?"

"Well, yes, there are rounds. Unlimited amount. Usually you play with four players. Each round is won when each player except for the last one who played a card passes, and–"

"Wait, wait, hold on." He pushes his hands outward, palms first, fingers splayed. "How are we gonna play with two?"

"I deal four hands, thirteen cards each. I choose one, you choose one. We play one game with those two hands. The next game, we play with the remaining two hands. Easy." He nods along, a go ahead. "Anyway, the goal of the entire game is to end up spending all your cards."

He takes a deep breath, takes the information in. Makes sense. "Okay."

"That good enough for you?" You raise a brow.

"Perfectly." He breathes again, to steady himself. Then he remembers, "What're we betting?"

You offer him a single, amused chuckle. "No stakes, no prizes, just a friendly game of cards between two friendly people—right?"

"No," He inclines his head forward, staring at you as if you were out of your mind. "without a prize, what are we playing for?"

"The satisfaction of a victory." You reply plainly.

He couldn't deny, the feeling was good. He'd felt it many times before. But it was "Not enough."

"What could you possibly want?" The question is rhetorical. You don't give him time to answer before you continue with a laugh, "I mean, I know what you want. But listen, doll," His eyebrows furrow. "I can't wipe away your crimes simply because you won a game of cards, same as the way I can't the wipe the blood off your name and hands."

He huffs out in disbelief–or at least that's what he thinks–and says, "And who says I feel guilty about it?"

You're expecting that sort of answer–that outburst–from him. You lean back in your chair, one hand still holding the deck and the other placed relaxed on the table. "Certainly not me."

He moves on from the topic. "Then I'll give you something. I'll answer a question."

Your eyebrows raise, quick but pleased. You lean forward again, attentive now, "Any?"

The fire in his eyes burns. It was a simple game, and he was good at games. "Yes. Or, well, it depends on what you give me."

"What do you want?" He's about to answer when you clarify. "Nothing big, nothing you know I can't grant."

"I don't know what you can grant. I don't know your stature within Overwatch. Well, I do know it can't be anything drastic." He scoffs, "I mean, the big guys are posted up in Switzerland, right?"

"Yeah," You nod, "you'd be right."

Just a friendly game of cards. The satisfaction of a victory. "I could go for a coffee."

You raise a brow. When he doesn't back down, you chuckle and lean, once again, back against your chair. "Okay." You agree.

Jesse watches as you deal the cards. He was never a good dealer, he was more a player. But this, you? You put shame to his gangmates, to his skilled dealers. You moved your hands expertly, shuffling using techniques he'd never seen before. They were flashy, that was for sure, and he could think of many ways that you could smuggle in some cheating here and there—but you promised a friendly game, and you were one of those clean Overwatch agents. Something in him was sure you weren't going to cheat.

Once the hands are dealt, you immediately take the one on your right towards you. He, unlike you, chooses his a little more carefully; though the only care he puts into it is to choose the hand diagonal to the one you chose, the one to his left.

Whichever hand is on which side doesn't matter anymore, as the rest of them are pushed away to clear the center of the table.

Without a word, you begin to organize your hand. He follows suit.

The silence in the room is only cut by the shuffling of cards. He breaks it, though, to begin light conversation, "Pardon me for askin'," He clears his throat, "but why did you call it "Dos Mayor"? I mean you, yer clearly not Hispanic." Being from Texas, he had an idea of Hispanic men. A lot of his peers were Hispanic as well. That's how he knew a little bit of Spanish. He didn't want to group Hispanic folk together, certainly not, but they all looked... well, not Asian.

"What you really mean is why is an Asian man speaking Spanish?" You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward a little to really look at him.

Jesse shuffles in his seat, clearing his throat yet again. The thick air surrounding him is awkward. He didn't mean to judge.

The settling shame of his question is broken by your loud laughter. "I'm just kidding. Really, I get this a lot."

He doesn't look up from his cards when he replies, "Doesn't make it any more righteous."

"You're right, but you're not as brazen as most." You punctuate the word with the wide movement of your hand. He nods curtly. "Well, how about I present to you my life story? I'm an Asian man, yes, but I wasn't born in Asia, nor was I raised much with its culture. Instead, I grew around my environment. I loved my country and I loved its culture. Perhaps I should've never left for America." You shake the thought off. "Anyway, regardless of my lack of Asian culture, Asian folk at my elementary school practically adopted me. They were particularly fans of Dos Mayor. I learned by watching them play. It was our biggest bond."

"That's nice." He doesn't know what to say, but he means those words. If he could convey the warmth of your story in his heart to you, he would.

By time he looks up from his hand, you have yours spread out like a fan so as to see only the important bits of each card. His own were haphazardly spread across his hand; and even though you had the same amount–thirteen and thirteen–his hand was much wider and yours was shorter and neat. Your face didn't give any clue as to whether you were pleased with your hand or not.

His mouth is slightly and dumbly open, not that he notices. He seemed shoddy compared to you. "...how do we start?"

"Usually the three of diamonds would start, but I don't have a three." He kept that in mind. "How about you? What's your lowest card?"

"Four." He says. "Four of diamonds."

"Go ahead and throw it."

Jesse does as you say, picking out the pair of fours in his hand. He raises them from the rest, but before he can throw them onto the table, you stop him. "Wait. Before we start, what's your name?"

He was stupid. He hadn't even told you his name. Neither had you, actually. "Jesse McCree."

His name was plastered on every wall in the Southwest in the form of a bounty poster. Accompanied with the name, came a digital image of his face, a mugshot from his earlier days. He had begun to grow a beard since then, and his hair had gotten shaggier and the brown warmed even more, but those details had also been added digitally. He was surprised you didn't recognize him.

You nodded your head with a hum. Before he can ask you for your name, you ask him another question. "And how many cards do you have in hand?"

"Thirteen." He replies, the confusion clear on his face. Surely you knew that?

"Okay." You reply, small satisfied smile upon your lips.

"What's your name?"

"(y/n)." The smile on your lips grows a tiny bit wider.

He shakes off the weird, miniscule details of your face and your questions, and throws down his pair of fours. Neither of them was the highest, the spade, so you could very well top that with a second pair of fours.

You click your tongue, your smile beings to show your teeth, and throw down a pair of K's, both of them the darn highest.

"Kay?!" He exclaims. "Two kings, for a–two damn fours?"

"Sorry, Jess," You allow yourself a laugh, "it's the lowest I had."

"Lowest I had." He mutters to himself in a mocking tone, a gesture which grants him another laugh. "Sorry my ass."

He rolls his eyes as you continue. The momentary obstruction of vision hides the quick movement of your hands as you throw your cards, beginning a new round. At the sound of the thin cardboard landing on the table, he looks. His eyebrows raise within a millimeter of his hairline, "What the fuck is that?"

You laugh as Jesse protests. "No, no, now hold on, what the fuck is that?" You don't answer. "Come on, man, tell me! What am I even supposed to do?"

"It's a fullhouse." The way you say it, quick and together as though they were the same word and ache pronounced with the back of your throat in a Spanish accent, strikes him weird. Nevermind the pronunciation, anyway. "Let me explain to you combos."

"Combos?"

"I'll say them in order of...power. Escalerita, staircase I guess, is five cards in order of power. Say, two, three, four, five, six. Their symbols don't matter. Colorin... Colorful? I don't know. It's five cards of the same symbol. Fullhouse, full house, is three cards of the same number or letter and a pair. A variant, I suppose, is simply a triple without a pair, you'd call that a triple. Bomba, or bomb, is four cards of the same letter or number with a single card of choosing. The simple version is the same thing without the single card, but you'd call it a bomb regardless."

Jesse huffs, "Alright." He knew you'd deliberately left out combos out of your initial explanation to pull that sort of crap on him. He stares down at his hand. At the sight of a combo, an escalerita, he has to make sure his poker face–regardless of the game not being poker–is straight. Nine through king, eight if he wanted to use it but it was already a pair.

"So you pass?"

"Of course I pass, damnit."

You chuckle and play the five of spades. Alright, he could do that. He played a six, six of hearts. Next, you throw the nine of spades.

You raise a doubtful eyebrow. "You're kidding me, right?"

Jesse sighs. You were already down to four cards and he was on ten! He had to get this combo out. He also had to distract you. "What makes you even think I'm guilty?"

He raises his hands, fingers turned outward on either side, and shrugs. "Serious."

"Because," You begin, leaning forward on your elbows, "Jesse McCree, we can link you to over a thousand crimes by name alone."

He glances down, just for a moment, and manages to catch sight of two of your cards. Two of diamonds, and ace of spades, the ace. He looks down at his own highest cards, two of clubs and a king which belonged to the escalerita. The next two piles will hold two two's and three aces. "Right."

With that exchange, Jesse throws down his two of clubs, confident that your two is lower than his. He'll get to throw his escalerita this next round.

Unbeknownst to him, however, you had more than one two. You throw it down, the two of spades.

Jesse groans. The poker face wasn't even going to matter now. What was he going to do, now that his highest card was part of a combo he so desperately needed? The answer, apparently was nothing as the next two rounds fly by and he doesn't, or he's unable to, throw anything.

A pair, the two highest aces, begins the next round. Jesse gives an annoyed "go ahead" gesture because this next card is your last. It was a two, another damn two; the two of diamonds.

"Fuck!" He shouts unceremoniously, angrily throwing down his remaining cards. They were nine in total. He hides his face in his hands.

"I don't blame you." You say, pushing the pile of discarded cards aside. "I had a great hand, the upper hand. A triple, two two's, two aces. Plus, I've played this game much more. You'll love that lucky moment when you win while your opponents only used one card each, all three of them."

He sighs into his hands, "Yeah."

The next games are all won, expertly, by you. Jesse calls it a problem of luck. Lady Luck, or Fortune, didn't seem to favor him today. She wasn't favoring him lately, as though the latest period of his life was shadowed from her gaze. For one, the Rebels were ambushed by Overwatch, he was captured, and he had been jailed for a week. And now he was losing, losing terribly.

He kept up his promise in answering questions, though, and he was actually being honest. The first couple ones were still odd. The ones following became even more serious.

"Do you like Bob?"

"The robot?"

"Yeah."

"Have you seen your parents since joining the Deadlock Rebels?"

"No."

The latest one stops him in his mental tracks. "What is your real name?"

"What?" He asks without a thought, in disbelief. He covers it quickly with a scoff, "Jesse is my real name."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" You chuckle, "You haven't exactly hidden your name since the very beginning of your rise to infamy. 'Sides, doesn't "Jesse McCree" just seem like the perfect name for a cowboy?"

Oh, so you agreed with him. That was why he chose it. "I don't mind if you lie." You continue, "Perhaps your name is a tricky subject. I'll take your answer in good faith. I'll trust you."

He hadn't cracked you, neither had you cracked him. If he answered this truthfully, you'd be getting to him. He didn't exactly want to reveal himself entirely to Overwatch. Yet... you were someone trustworthy. You were just one of them, one of their agents, but he trusted you. You had treated him well so far.

"I..." He takes a deep breath to psyche himself up. "My name is Cole."

"Nice to meet you, Cole." You smile at him. It reaches your eyes, crinkles their edges. It lifts your face with a joy he can't quite describe.

"I–" He doesn't expect this type of reaction. "I ain't telling ya my last name. I don't want ya tracking down my parents."

"I understand that, Cole. Thank you."

He nods.

The next game begins with his play, and oh boy, it begins spectacularly. He had the three of diamonds, but he also had two other three's and a pair to accompany them. He throws it down, full house, baby!

His ecstasy quiets when you shut him down with your own full house with a triple six. Still, he considers his play good. He made a dent in his hand.

He passes and you continue with the remaining three. The game continues somewhat normally. He throws a card, you throw one higher, so on, so forth. It seems there are no combos remaining in this game. You're down to four cards, and he's down to three.

You throw an ace to his queen, the ace. Your face remains as normal, with a passive smile, but he can see something in your eyes. Confidence. You were confident that you would win the round.

But no, nuh-uh, Cole wasn't going to let that happen. He throws down the two of diamonds, the highest card, he knows. You threw the rest of them last game.

Then, triumphantly, he raises his remaining cards high in the air and throws them down. A pair, and he was done.

Instead of groaning, just as he had, or throwing the rest of your cards on the pile like a sore loser, or even stomping your foot on the ground, you smile. It's genuine and it shines upon your face.

He doesn't let that bother him. Instead, he snatches your coffee cup off your side of the table and takes a triumphant sip.

Ah! The sweet, sweet taste of victory and coffee, bitter as it is instant and cheap for the office. He doesn't even know if a slice of his favorite pie would top this sweetness right now.

The man–barely a man, still more of a boy–before you was finally revealed to you. On one hand, he was a youth, thriving on attention and victory. On the other, he was the face of a Southwest gang, a rebel in every way.

That was how he wanted to look like. He was different from others, a tough cookie. He kept his hair long, obstructing his face. He was letting his beard grow out. He wore a thick leather jacket, weird in the way that one sleeve was long and the other cut short. It left you wonder what caused it. His cowboy hat would've been worn so that it drew shadows over his eyes. He wore rough, fingerless gloves, and his belt buckle was gold with the shape of a skull.

He wanted to seem strong. He was cool and collected, but that was only when he had the upper hand. Once he didn't, he behaved just as he was, a pissy teenager. He'd grow bolder, angrier, reckless. This was Cole.

When moments came by that "having the upper hand" wasn't a matter of importance, he behaved as he was, because you'd already cracked him. It wasn't because of his name, as he thought. You had given him everything necessary for him to trust you, and that, he had.

He loved his parents, he loved the Southwest. He wanted to keep it all safe, safe from Overwatch and the American government. Something had clouded his view, made him believe that both of those were just nosy, horrible authority. In the way that he cared for these people, you saw that he had a heart.

His victory celebration is interrupted by you speaking up, "Well done, Cole."

Cole tries to come up with something, a witty remark. He can't find it within him, which he finds weird, but he's still running on the high of victory. It doesn't deter him. "Thank you."

"You know, you can still do the right thing."

That makes him perk up. He narrows his eyes at you, "What do you mean?"

"Join us." You smile, "Join Overwatch."

#cole cassidy x reader #cole cassidy x male reader #overwatch x male reader #overwatch x reader #blackwatch x reader #blackwatch x male reader #🎟 // overwatch #🎫 // cole cassidy #🌸 // success!#🤬 // swearshirt

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welldonekhushi · 4 months

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Hiii just wanted to drop by and say i love Arjun sm

*offers you a small, shiny coin*

May we have some Arjun fun facts if you have time :0??

*accepts the coin* Aww thank you, Vasya! Glad you love our beloved Captain 🥹

And oh, sure! Dropping some Arjun fun facts down below! (Keep in mind some are angsty so you're warned)

Arjun has been in a couple of covert operations by himself, as he likes to work more in solitude.

The name "Arjun" means "lustrous, shiny white" and was one of the Pandava brothers from Mahabharata with a huge skill in archery. His son was named after "Abhinanyu", the son of Arjuna.

Arjun married Kavya after graduating from the IMA (Indian Military Academy) and planned to join the Para Special Forces of the Indian Army.

His favorite dish is "shrikhand", like Kavya as well since they both love sweet treats!

Arjun is about to be a Major.. just not yet. Maybe very soon 👀

After losing Lakshya, Arjun went into a somber state for a few weeks. Though, Lakshya gave him a chance to live, at some point he felt it was worthless when he didn't save his best friend along as well.

Arjun sometimes sees a little Lakshya in Aditya. The personality, the hairstyle, and the appearance triggers his memories, the reason why he is more strict yet protective for Aditya (can't lose him too *sniff*)

He also has a fountain pen of Lakshya, that he retrieved after his death. Lakshya used the pen to write poems in his diary, since he loved writing them. He believed the pen had some life that brought living into his poems. But, when Arjun wanted to use it again to write something in his diary, the pen's ink finished, as if life diminished in it fully, like Lakshya.

#did i end this with angst? oof sorry :')#but i hope you enjoyed the fun facts!#thanks for the ask!#vasyandii #oc fun facts #call of duty oc #captain arjun

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missmartin · 1 year

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Your spinning me around

(1998) Matt Stone x Black!Assistant Reader

Matt Stone was so bad… like why was he so bad?

You know when you have a job you like, but then sometimes it get insufferable in a funny way? That’s what it was like working for this man. But life ain’t no sitcom all the time…

You weren’t used to working for Beavis and Butt-Head types though god no. But it seems like the nation was while for this new show “South Park” little did you know it wasn’t any adult cartoon out now.

Should’ve actually watched the show first.

But this was your first real job I mean- “what are you thinking about?”

You look up at the white for-eyed man taping on your two cent desk you sigh running your hand down the paper you were “totally” looking at

“Nothing just… my job” wait “why do you ask?”

“Just…” he says pealing back a paper “totally” looking also “curious”

“Why?” You sigh why was he here? He does this thing, why was he always here? He had come out of his way to drive here I hope he knows that.

“You do that all the time you know” he says, why? “Do what?” “Ask questions, look into space, pretend that wig is real” he list. See? Insufferable.

You run a hand through your weave… which was in fact not a wig he was just stupid.. Not like you ever even wanted to admit it was a weave, you payed good money so you didn’t have to. “leave my quote on quote wig alone it’s real hair who are you to judge? Bet that thing growing on your head ain’t even real”

“Woah lady… I worked hard on this thing” he sits on your already dented desk and taps your shoulder with your pen “I refuse…” you sigh, the thing you meant to say was to out of line, to comfortable. “Nevermind” he gives you an “oh really” face, so difficult. He’s so bad at being a boss.

“You do that too, “nevermind” “no sir” “doesn’t matter”” in your mind you gave him a look alright, I think that’s why he comes here to list off your flaws.

“You should talk more it’s like” he sighs “your scared or something… I’m not scary am I?” You look up at him “you aren’t no” you reply deadpan

“Wow well… your scary too. You have to be fun a little man” seriously man…? He clouds your thoughts anyways… he’s totally messing with your hair again you look down to your right, and yep… and your heart sinks and your brain stings in sorrow

He doesn’t talk about the things he does, the thing he’s doing now. It was yes well… suffering… you didn’t need this. I mean to like him? God please. But he was such a flirt. A bad flirt.

#first post lol #Matt Stone x reader #for the sistas #part 2?#idk #Matt Stone x female reader #Matt Stone x you #baseketball x reader #doug remer x reader

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pheoblitz · 7 months

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Just some more Léir art and fun facts for you all!

You may notice that compared to the image of him as a kid, his hair is black here not white*. That is because he dyes it black. He doesn't like to stand out and he felt his white hair stood out, so he dyed it. More recently his partner would be working with him on making him more comfortable with having his hair however the hell he wants it rather than letting others dictate it. He does genuinely like dying his hair black no matter what others think because he likes how it looks personally. So he mostly still dyes it. Though on occasion he lets some of it grow out and stay white.

* Do note he is a fantasy character, so when I say his hair is white I mean it in the same way random characters have bright pink hair in naturally in shows sometimes.

Some more fun facts:

- Léir is Bi² but is scared of women when it comes to the concept of dating. So he never dated any. Regardless though, he still likes them.

- The feathers around his ears are supposed to be his. He embraces his shifterness and likes to proudly sport the fact even if he has to do so in secret.

- He has 3 magic items on him at all times. His glasses, his pocket watch, or his sword. Sometimes he swaps out the pen or the watch for a crystal flower.

- The sword is disguised as a pen that can write in the air, use itself to write, act as a wand, or in its sword form, kill most types of immortals. It was enchanted to be a weapon used to fight and punish immortals. Due to this and the fear of the horrible things he has made, he keeps it on himself. He doesn't want someone to get it and then go around killing people at random. That being said, even when he first made it 1000s of years ago, it was seldom used.

- His pocket watch has basic time control abilities. When he first made it, it was a sundial. It can change shape and form depending on the times and who holds it. For example, with Johnson, it is a regular wristwatch. The watch can also steal and break down someone's magic. It too was made as a weapon back when he was younger to punish those who broke the law where he lived many many many years ago. It was supposed to serve as an ultimate punishment that isnt death by stripping someone in a magic society of their magic. He also deeply regrets this, so he keeps it with him permanently in an attempt to keep it from ever being used. Though it was only ever used once before. Note it was also made for life 1000s of years ago. He wishes to destroy it but has yet to succeed in doing so, past him was very thorough in protecting it.

- His glasses translate things for him. It changes text he sees into his native tongue as well as tells him what someone said in that same language. He doesn't need them too, but he prefers his language over English, so it helps him be less stressed out when it comes to understanding things. But again, he would do just fine without them besides being lightly stressed.

- The flower is just a really strong blast of combined types of magic that hold the souls of very destructive people. He keeps it on him on occasion, mostly because he feels it is safer if he breaks it apart and gives pieces to people he trusts to make sure it never sees the light of day unless necessary. So each time he has it, it gets smaller and weaker. Eventually, he will only have 1 chunk left and plans to embed it into the watch to stop both it and the watch from functioning.

#art #artwork #digital art #my art #oc art #my ocs #oc #pheoblitz oc #ibispaint #ocs #oc drawing #my oc #my artwork #digital #digital drawing #digital doodle #oc lore #doodle #drawing

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ghostedglitch · 1 year

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happy one year to my hypnospace comic!

(and one day, just pretend i had this up yesterday shhhhh)

here's a little series of fun facts about making it

- started as a poem. i wanted to make a Millenium Anthem animatic and/or write a fic (i ended up doing the latter) but this came to me in the meantime and, being hyperfixated and eager to make something about it, it developed into a comic.

- that said, i was deep in the throes of an art burnout. i tend to make a lot of art around the new year, usually due to being in multiple gift exchanges, as well as working on my own things during winter break since i don't usually have the time to during school, and that wears me out. both this year and last i struggled with having energy to draw. however, i'd just recently found out a style that was pretty easy to work in even in that state: polygonal! so the comic is pixel polygons.

- the comic actually sort of ties into (and is directly quoted in the summary of) the aforementioned fic i wrote—which is called "do(n't) be afraid"—as evidenced by the focus on the HSPD badge as well as the Enforcer being almost a self-insert

- the typography is done by hand. i looked at the game's font file for the standard font and copied it. to this day i can pretty reliably just. handwrite in hypnospace font with the pixel pen. and i do! it's very space efficient!

- the dithering is also done by hand, because i'm a madlad. well, for each pattern i did like a portion by hand and then copy-pasted it until i covered as much area as i needed to, because i'm a madlad but i'm not a masochist. and then when i needed it again i just copied and pasted the layer and used a clipping mask to change its color. now though i have that big pixel brush pack on clip studio paint. so i won't be needing to do that again anytime soon.

- in panel 3 we see the Enforcer's face as well as glasses on their desk. like i said. pretty much a self insert. we also see their computer and hypnospace headband; i studied that intro video for this but between not seeing it a whole lot and the artstyle i was using being really simplified, i'm probably missing something lol

- in panel 4 we see dylan merchant at his desk. there's a calendar behind him. i actually looked up what day of the week was december 31, 1999 so i could circle it. it was a friday.

- the girl in panel 5 is supposed to be rebekah, the girl who likes squisherz and won the fan art contest but didn't get to find out because her dad took away her hypnospace headband. there's only one small picture of her to go off of, though.

- panels 7 and 8, which can also go together as one tall panel, were fucking FUN. what i did for the glitchy static bits was i made various clusters of black rectangles, each cluster on a different layer so i could copy and rotate them to fill more space. then on a clipping mask i used airbrush without antialiasing in white, RGB, and CMY. boom, static pattern. the elements from the game (the error message window, the cursors, the car) i had to copy by hand. see, the wiki doesn't have many screenshots, and if you try to screenshot the game or a video of it then it scrungles your image clarity. so i had to take those screenshots, eyedrop the colors from there, and then do such riveting and time efficient (that's a joke, it took forever) tasks as Count Pixels So Everything Is The Right Size. which for the shiny new HypnOS 2000 look was painstaking. look at those gradients. gradients everywhere. it was worth the work because it looks fantastic but man. and then to scrungle those elements i just used the rectangular selection tool, grabbed arbitrary bits and pieces of the things and Moved Them Elsewhere.

oh yeah babey

#harper babbles #hypnospace outlaw #hypnospace outlaw spoilers #not art

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101flavoursofweird · 1 year

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Emerald Trio Week: Day 6 - Wit

Spoilers: None really

Set: While the gang are still in the Human Realm

Warnings: None

Description: While in the Human Realm, Luz gives Gus her old DS and a puzzle game. Gus and Hunter get hooked.

“Luz, what’s this?”

Gus had been rooting through the boxes in the basement again. His latest find was a light blue device that looked and felt a little like Luz’s phone.

Where Luz’s phone only had one screen, however, this device had two screens, that could be opened and closed like a clamshell. And, it had more buttons than Luz’s phone!

Perplexed, Gus had flicked the ‘power’ switch on the side (What sort of power lay within this device?) and the dual screens had lit up. Was this power, in fact… electricity?

“Awww! That’s my old DS,” Luz said fondly.

“Your what…?”

Luz held out her hand and made a ‘gimme’ motion with her fingers. Gus passed her the ‘DS’.

Luz plopped down on the sofa. Gus watched over her shoulder as she switched the DS on. His eyes reflected the light of the screens.

“My Nintendo DS,” Luz elaborated. “It’s a games console—“

“Like the Nintendo Wii?” Gus gasped.

Luz had introduced them all to the larger white console, displayed on the television, in the living room.

It had been a fun (and much needed) distraction while they were all so far from home.

Gus and his friends had passed many an evening playing Wii Party, Wii Sports and Mario Kart. (Who needed real life parties, sports or driving when you could do it all in virtual reality?)

Luz and Camila usually went easy on the witches, but Vee was not so considerate; she’d thrash them all without a whit of shame.

Gus’s favourite game was Mario Galaxy, because he could explore all these different worlds and no one (Vee) would throw Blue Shells at him.

Luz replied, “Yes, it’s made by the same company— Nintendo— but the DS is more… portable. You can play it in the palm of your hand!” From the way Luz said this, Gus wondered if she was quoting an advertisement.

Gingerly, Luz pressed the bottom screen with her fingertip.

“Wow…” Gus whistled as the screen changed.

“It’s a touchscreen,” Luz informed him. She smiled sheepishly. “You’re meant to use this little pen called a stylus… but I lost mine way back—“

“Who’s that?” Gus pointed at the top screen— at the character in the title box. “It looks like a little man… with a hat!”

“Oh! That’s the main character from the last game I was playing…” Waving her hand, Luz introduced, “‘Professor Layton and the Curious Village’”.

“Professor Layton…?” Gus echoed, frowning. “What’s he a professor of?”

(The only professor Gus knew was Professor Hermonculus, who— despite Amity’s claims that he wasn’t that bad— had not left a stellar impression.)

Luz beamed. “Puzzles! …And archaeology, but mainly puzzles!”

“Jigsaw puzzles…?”

“More than that! There are picture puzzles, multiple choice puzzles, Maths puzzles… and worst of all, the Slider Puzzles!” Luz hissed like an angry cat.

“And these are meant to be fun?” Gus checked.

“They are— usually! You solve the puzzles and progress through the story….” Luz tapped the touch screen. “Let’s see… I’ll start a new game file for you, so you can play it.”

Gus was surprised— and touched— that she would trust him with he treasured DS. “Really?”

“Sure! I’ll see if I can find you a stylus…”

Tap, tap, tap…

Hunter’s eyes snapped open. Above him came the incessant sound of tapping on glass.

Was something trying to get into the house?

There were no windows in the basement… and— Hunter glanced behind him— Flapjack was fast asleep in his bird cage…

“Gus?” Hunter breathed, rising from his bedroll. Then, Hunter noticed the shape sitting up underneath Gus’s blanket.

Hunter— relieved and bemused— raised an eyebrow. “Gus,” Hunter repeated.

The shape froze. The tapping stopped. Slowly, Gus pulled the blanket off his head. For a second, Hunter saw a flash of white light.

“Oh— h-hey, Hunter!” Gus coughed. His eyes looked bleary.

“What were you doing under there? I saw a light— are you using magic…?”

Why at this hour? Was Gus working on some spell he didn’t want the rest of witness? (He had been acting shifty around Hunter lately…)

“N-no! It’s just… this.” With a sigh of resignation, Gus removed his hands from under the blanket. He was holding a human contraption that looked like a tiny television with two bright screens.

Hunter shielded his eyes. “What is that…?”

“It’s a Nintendo DS,” Gus said proudly. “Like the Nintendo Wii, but pocket-sized. Luz lent it to me!”

“So, it’s a game?” (Titan, Gus was already obsessed with the Nintendo Wii…)

“I’m in the middle of a games, yes!” Gus showed Hunter the screens.

Hunter squinted at a dark figure with a funny-shaped hat, and a smaller figure in blue. The pair appeared to be having a conversation with speech bubbles.

“It’s called ‘Professor Layton and the Curious Village’,” Gus gushed. “The professor and his apprentice, Luke Triton, are summoned to the village of Saint Mist… Saint Mist-air!” (This was said with an unusual accent— definitely not Spanish!)

“Uh… okay,” Hunter said, struggling to see what had gotten Gus so hooked on this premise. “And what are they doing in the village—?”

“Solving puzzles and the mystery of the Golden Apple!”

Hunter hummed. “Is that some kind of human treasure?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out! I’m on Chapter Three of the game’s story…” Gus lifted up the DS, beaming. “Want to watch me play?”

“I don’t know…” Hunter’s gaze drifted towards the desk— to the clock Vee had given them. It was just after two AM. “Shouldn’t we be getting back to sleep?”

The bags under Hunter’s eyes would look even heavier at this rate…

Gus’s eyes went very big— just like Flapjack when he was after more scraps of food.

“Please, Hunter?” Gus pouted. “ I could use your help with the puzzles!”

“Fine,” Hunter huffed, “but only for half an hour, alright?”

“Alright!” Gus patted the edge of his sofa-bed. Hunter sat beside him and watched as Professor Layton delved deeper into the mystery.

The next morning— well, later that morning— Willow woke up before Hunter and Gus.

Willow, who slept like the Titan on days she didn’t have school or workout sessions.

When Willow entered the kitchen and asked, rather worriedly, where the boys were, Vee answered, “They’re zonked.”

“Luz gave them a new games console,” Amity chuckled. “They were up all night playing on it.”

Luz groaned guiltily. “Maybe Professor Layton’s puzzles were too much for them… I should’ve started Gus on something easier… like Nintendogs!”

“Don’t give them the Nintendogs game!” Vee protested. “They’ll delete my husky puppy—“

“Your puppy?” Luz exclaimed. “What happened to my pug, Gutsy? Don’t tell me you deleted him…!”

Willow retreated from the kitchen as Vee apologised, Luz lamented, and Amity tried to console Luz over the the loss of her beloved Gutsy.

Sneaking down to the basement, Willow saw Hunter and Gus still snoozing together on the sofa. Gus’s head was resting against Hunter’s shoulder.

They looked so cute…

Willow lifted her hand to her mouth, smiling. Then she spotted what must have been the games console on Hunter’s lap.

What was that name Luz had mentioned— Professor Layton?

This game must have been quite exciting if it had kept Gus and Hunter up all night…

Gently, Willow picked up the games console.

Willow was more of a Wii Sports gal, but she could handle a few puzzles!

How hard could they be…?

#the owl house #Toh fanfic #the Owl house fanfic #luz noceda #gus porter #augustus porter #hunter clawthorne #hunter the golden guard #hunter deamonne #hunter noceda #willow park #willow the owl house #Thanks to them #my fics #my writing #emerald trio #emeraldtrioweek23

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concealeddarkness13 · 1 year

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The Writing Contest: Stars in your mind

Hello! I am doing this contest, and it’s tons of fun, and I would recommend it! I will be writing about Chess and Naivi for this contest, with Chess being the POV character! They’re from this story! This is the first piece! Tagging: @kataraseye, @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, and @drabbleitout! Content warning for some romance and kissing.

Theme 1: Stars

I sat up quickly with a gasp, fear still thick in my mind. But there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. It was just a fucking nightmare.

I swallowed hard and looked around. Everyone else was still asleep, thankfully even Naivi. It was still nighttime, and I could never get back to sleep after a nightmare, so I just stood up and walked underneath one of the floating islands. I found the vine I needed, tugged on it, and it instantly grew to connect to the island above it. It was an easy climb, especially with the closest moon lighting the night with a white light that made it look like it was almost daytime. But that was still hours away, unfortunately.

The purple grass recoiled away from me as I stumbled on top of the floating island. It was small and quiet, and I was away from the others, so I could think without worrying them.

I curled up and stared at the stars. Aeflin had been in the nightmare, and she had killed all of my friends and made me watch. She…she would really do that. She wanted me back as her experiment, and she would actually fucking kill everyone I cared about to get me back. And I had no idea how to fight her. Maybe it would be better if I just gave in…

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and I ducked my head into my arms. It was Naivi. Fuck. I had woken her up. I peeked out from under my arms to see as she walked over and sat down next to me, leaning against me. She stayed quiet for a while, just staring at the sky.

When she spoke, it was barely a whisper. “You had a nightmare again?”

I finally looked up, trying to laugh it off. “Nah, it was just a weird dream. A cat appeared and ate all my donuts.” (Don’t ask me how I know about cats and donuts. Fourth wall break.)

Naivi tilted her head and smirked at me. “And that was enough to bring you away from everyone else and look so forlorn when I found you?” She sighed and leaned more against me and kissed my cheek, and my cheeks burned. Fuck. “What’s going on, Love? Please talk to me.”

Tears blurred my vision, and I couldn’t take it anymore. “Aeflin. She’s going to kill everyone if I don’t do what she wants. And I had a nightmare about it. Where all of you were killed right before my eyes.” I ducked my head again as I started to sob.

Naivi stayed quiet for a while, but she did immediately wrap her arms around me, and I leaned into her touch, clinging to her shirt like she was my lifeline. She soothed a hand over my hair. “I know there’s really nothing I can say to help you feel less concerned about Aeflin. I worked with her for so long, and she is that ruthless. But you know what?” I actually looked up at her, and she was smiling so softly at me. “You’ve already been able to surprise her before. You helped save me. So, with all of us together, we’ll be able to beat her again.” She kissed my forehead. “You aren’t alone, Chess. And you also don’t have to do everything alone. We’re here to help you. I promise.”

My cheeks heated up more, and I leaned more against Naivi. But how could I rely on others? That would just be putting them in danger. If I was as fucking powerful as both Naivi and Aeflin said, I should be able to fight my own battles and not put anyone else in danger. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, though. Aeflin’s after me. No one else.”

Naivi laughed a little, hugging me tighter, and I was actually relaxing. “Aeflin hates the fact that I got away and you guys forgave me. She wants me to suffer as much as possible. Maisa is still pursuing Vesper. He won’t give up. It’s not just your fight, darling. It’s our fight. And even if Maisa and Aeflin only wanted to capture you, it would still be our fight because we care about you. I…I know how hard that can be to believe, but it’s true.”

My mind blanked out, which was at least better than trying to vehemently deny what Naivi said. So, instead, I tried to change the subject. “Aeflin hates you mostly because she could never be as beautiful as you.”

Naivi glanced over at me and gave me a slight squeeze, acknowledging that she knew what I was doing and that she was backing off. She smiled a little. “Yeah? She’s really that envious of looks?”

I snorted. “Nah. I can’t actually pretend that Aeflin cares about anything but her own experiments. But…” I looked over at her with a smirk and exaggerated my voice. “In the starry night, the light reflects in your eyes and the moon tries to take your beauty away, envious that you dare appear more beautiful.”

Naivi laughed, but she also bit her lip, so I actually flustered her! “Did you get that from one of the romances Killian has?”

I shrugged and leaned closer to her, still smirking. Our lips were inches apart. “Does it matter? It has effectively flustered you, and that was my diabolical plan all along.”

She took my prosthetic hand and brought it up to kiss my knuckles, still staring at me. “Unfortunately, now that you’ve told me your plan, I know an effective way to counter it.”

My cheeks burned as she brushed her fingers up my prosthetic arm. I’d never get over someone touching my prosthetics like they were as precious as any other part of me. “What…what do you mean?”

She leaned over me, dipping me back as she smirked. “Your prosthetics are beautiful, and your magic is enchanting, and I don’t find anyone as attractive as I find you.”

My cheeks somehow burned worse. “Well, you’re gorgeous, and I love your muscles, and you’re so comfy to cuddle with.”

She laughed and kissed the corner of my mouth fleetingly. Not enough. “And we’ll talk later about your worries, okay?” Her lips brushed mine when she spoke, and I could barely keep still instead of pulling her down and kissing her passionately. “There are people who love you and don’t want you to be hurt. Especially me.”

It was so hard to accept, but I tried to. Naivi loved me. She had helped me to be able to control my magic and not get hurt by it. Vesper, Thorne, and Jude wanted me to be treated like a person inside the enclosure, and they had fought for it even more after they met me. Creed just wanted me to be free. And I…I loved all of them too, which was why I didn’t want them to get hurt. But it should make sense that they wanted me to not get hurt too.

Finally, I nodded, and Naivi smiled softly and leaned down to kiss me passionately as I closed my eyes and just tried to accept it as I kissed her back. I was with people who cared about me, and that was ok.

#Writing Contest: Stars in your mind #writeblr #all's fair

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nuagederose · 1 year

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As the Seasons Grey | Chapter Twenty-One: A Saucerful of Secrets

ao3 link

“I can’t believe she took the pen I gave you,” Eric declared.

They had gotten back into his car and were about to head on back home, but he instead took a detour and rode along the water’s edge there in Sheepshead Bay towards one of those older, smaller bookstores. It had been quite some time since the two of them had actually gone out and done something all on their own, and without it being a weekend, as well. Christine sighed through her nose and shook her head at that.

“What’s worse is I didn’t mean to leave it there on the table,” she confessed.

“Oh, yeah, I totally get that,” he assured her as he clicked on the windshield wipers for the cold rains as they became torrential with each passing stoplight. “She must have seen it and thought, ‘hmm, this belong to Alex.’ But I still don’t get the logic there because if it belonged to him, then why take it? That makes no sense whatsoever to me.”

Christine felt a vibrating sensation against her thigh, and she took out her phone for a look at the screen; lucky for her, Eric pulled up to the next stoplight.

“Oh! There’s my mom.”

But the phone went right to voicemail before she could do anything else about it. She pressed the button for her inbox and listened to the message.

“They’re down at Kingsbrook,” she relayed to him. “Room Nine. Visiting hours are every day, eleven to seven. And here it is, almost eight o’clock, so we can go whenever we want.”

“Beautiful,” Eric said with a flash of a thumbs up to her. “When do you reckon we should go?”

“Well, let’s see… we both have school tomorrow, so maybe after school? We could drive down there rather than take the bus.”

“It’s only a few blocks from us, anyway.”

“She also said he’ll be there at least a week,” Christine continued, albeit with a slight tremble to her voice. “He’s stable, but it’s a long road to recovery, though.”

“And then he’s gotta go through rehab, too, I would think,” Eric added as the light turned green.

“Yeah. He overdosed on morphine, believe it or not.”

“Yikes. How’d he get morphine? Does she know?”

“No clue. They thought it was fentanyl at first, but they ran some tests and found it to be straight up morphine.” She sighed through her nose again, and Eric reached over to set a hand on her shoulder.

They reached the bookstore at the end of the block, only to find it closed early for the night, and with nothing more to add, they returned to their apartments. Once Eric parked out in front of her building, he put his arms around her one last time before she climbed on out to the rain.

“What time you want me to pick you up?” he asked her.

“Same time as usual,” she said. “The fun starts when the finals come about.”

“Oh, shit. I hope the final for Mr. Hansen’s class isn’t that bad.”

“Doubt it,” she assured him. Christine climbed out of the car and into the cold rain; she waved at him one last time before she made her way into the dry front lobby of the building. The other side of the hall was still silent by the time she unlocked her door and called it a night.

The next morning, Eric picked her up and they drove off to school together with those two boys Greg and Louie: the rain still had yet to turn into snow, although Christine had her worries that it was about to become that soon enough; she and Eric both walked along in heavy black boots while Greg and Louie both braved it in straight white sneakers.

Mr. Hansen was in for class that day, but Christine did in fact catch Alex in the cafeteria at the usual spot by the bar on the far side of the room, and with the mug that she had made for him in hand.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” she declared as she came within earshot of him.

“A little something to show some pride,” he explained as he raised the mug and took a sip.

“What’s in there, by the way?” She set down her bag on the table and nestled up next to him.

“Some black tea courtesy of Nelly,” he explained. “I confessed to her how I wanted it in my mug rather than a straight cup and she happily did it for me.”

He sipped on it again, and she looked past him at Nelly, who then flashed her a wink from the counter there.

“There’s a trio show coming on Saturday night,” he told her with a little twinkle to his eye. “You and Eric are both invited, too. The three of us will get you two the best seats in the house.”

“Oh, excellent! I hope he and I can come along.”

“How’s your dad doing by the way? Did you hear from your mom yet?”

“Yeah, she called me last night. He’s okay but it’s going to be a long road to recovery, though. He overdosed on morphine of all things.”

“I’ve actually known a couple of people who overdosed on morphine,” he recalled with a grave look on his face. “They both recovered but they looked like death had rolled them both over. I hope your dad can pull through in a single piece because all I know is it makes you feel sick, slows you down, and makes you hallucinate, and that alone is enough to make you weak after the fact. In fact, I should probably look more into that because it’s actually inadvertently fascinating…” His voice trailed off as he reached into his shirt pocket for something, and Christine recognized that shiny smooth exterior under the fluorescent lights, much to her shock and surprise. It was that exact pen that Eric had given her along with the sand dollar.

“Wow, uh… where did you find that?” she sputtered, and she resisted the urge to say it was her pen.

“Would you believe she gave this to me,” he said with a shake of his head. “Said she just found it and thought I would like it. I guess it’s one of those pens that the astronauts use up in space.” He then stopped for a second as he noticed the look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

She peered over her shoulder: Nelly had disappeared back into the kitchen and Eric was nowhere to be seen. She returned to him and the quizzical look on his handsome face.

“Eric gave me that pen,” she explained in a low voice. “That exact pen. I accidentally left it on the coffee table last night.”

He frowned. “Wait. When were you there? I mean, I know you were there, but when were you there after?”

“We came over the other night—right after you gave me those books—to see if you were home at all,” she explained. “Eric still had some questions he wanted to ask you. We got over here and found the door was unlocked.”

“I left the door unlocked for her because she lost the key,” he explained. “She was to drop off some things as well as a thing of money. I had to run out real quick to make a phone call—I was around the corner up the street because my reception kept going in and out.”

Christine shook her head. “I don’t recall seeing any money,” she confessed.

Alex gaped at her. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I was wondering why I didn’t see an envelope around there,” he muttered, and then he raised his eyebrows at her. “So, what you’re saying is this is stolen.”

“Yes.”

“And from you, no less.”

“Yes-sir-ee-bob.”

Without further hesitation, he handed her the pen and flashed her a wink.

“I don’t ever have to tell her,” he declared, to which Christine fetched up a sigh.

“Alex, Eric and I were both wondering…” She stopped, and then he lowered his glasses a bit for a look into her eyes.

“Why do you let her walk all over you like that? I mean, I know what you told me before but I just…” Christine shook her head and closed her eyes.

“What?” He cocked his head to the side and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“She makes it sound like you’re at fault by having a job and doing stuff for a living. It’s just so fucked to me.”

His face fell at that, and she shook her head and turned away from him as if she was about to climb off the stool.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she blubbered. “I don’t know why I—”

“No,” he stopped her. She held still: out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Nelly over there at the counter with a pair of baskets of food before her.

“No. No, no, no. Don’t.” Alex nibbled on his bottom lip and then he slid off his stool and sauntered over to the counter. Christine watched him, from the moment he nodded at Nelly to the thoughtful look that never escaped his face for one second. He set the basket of French fries and a gyro down before her before he slid back into his seat.

“That’s literally how it is with me and her,” he explained. “I try to tell her that—I need money and peace of mind, and… I really want to say that she just doesn’t get it because it’s not like she works all the time like what I do. She’ll go on assignment sometimes but that’s pretty much it. And it’s not like architects make much, either.”

“But why, though, is what I’m asking. Why do you let her do this to you when it obviously brings you great pain?”

“Well, like I said before, I still love her. I don’t love her nearly as much as I love you, but I do still love her. It’s hard to let go, especially when we really have done so much for each other.” He shook his head. “I guess sometimes moving on is the way to go, though, difficult as it may be at times.”

He picked up a fry and blew on the top before he took a bite.

“Oh, my god,” he said.

“Delicious?” she asked him.

“They’re perfect today,” he told her. “Nice and crispy with that Nelly touch.” He popped the rest into his mouth and closed his eyes.

“You know what I really want to do? Something I have pretty much always wanted to do but I just never had the money or the time to do it?”

“What’s that?” she asked as she picked up a fry for herself.

“World music. You know. Music from all the continents save for Antarctica. Instruments from all the continents. A music student’s wet dream and—” Alex set a hand on her knee, out of sight from everyone else’s prying eyes. “—an artist’s biggest fantasy.”

“You want me to be onboard with that?” Christine was stunned.

“If it ever happens, like… if we live in the perfectest of perfect worlds. I have the money and the time, and you take the plunge and go full-time art. Yes, I—absolutely would want you with me on it. Understand I promised the same thing to her, but she seemed on the fence with it, though.”

Christine scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Pfff, typical.”

He chuckled at that, albeit a nervous chuckle.

“Architects don’t make much, really?” she asked him.

“They make more than a teacher and a musician combined, I’ll tell you that.” She gaped at him, and he nodded at that. They fell into momentary silence as they indulged in their gyros and those hot French fries, straight out of the fryer. She could feel Nelly over there watching their every move as if she had her ear pressed onto the heartbeat of their relationship. In a way, she could feel their pulse, especially when she coaxed Christine into it to begin with.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” he finally spoke up. “Do you want to do art for real?”

“I’m definitely thinking about it,” she replied. “I’m going to sign up for drawing class tomorrow when it’s my turn to sign up for classes.”

“Excellent!” Though he had his glasses on, she could still make out the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I should teach art,” he suggested in a low voice.

“That’d be interesting,” she noted. “Art and music teacher!”

“I am kind of a Jack of all trades, after all,” he stated with a wink, a nudge of his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and another careful bite of gyro.

“I kind of want to draw you even though I can’t draw worth shit,” she declared, to which he chuckled.

“You can draw, you just need someone to nudge you along,” he assured her. “If you can pick up a pencil, you can draw. Let me ask you this, do you catch yourself doodling at all?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Not always, but I’ll do it when I have nothing else to do, though.”

She noticed that his eyes locked onto that shiny pen, which she kept before her there on the table.

“I want you to doodle me something,” he commanded.

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now! Doodle me something—the first thing that comes to mind.” He set a napkin before her and then handed her the pen. Christine swallowed, and she couldn’t help but feel the feeling of nerves within her. She had never been asked on the spot like that, and her mind fell blank as a result as well. She held the pen, that smooth surface against her skin, the power of the astronauts as well as the sailors, and she looked down at the napkin before her. She could feel that blank surface staring back at her, as if it was mocking her. She swallowed again, and she yearned for a big glass of water right then.

“Don’t overthink it, Christine,” he advised her. “Just relax and show me what’s going through that head of yours.”

She looked down at the napkin again, at those fine grains and slightly raised bumps across the surface. All she could think about was her father in the hospital.

Carefully, she brought the tip of the pen down to the paper and began to draw a human head with a view from the side, complete with the short hair which Kenny had donned for years. She made his eyes closed and his lips pursed, as if he was under anesthesia, though morphine alone was enough to keep him out of it for a time. She swallowed as she gave him a neck and a pair of shoulders, the latter of which were donned in a hospital gown. Alex propped his head up in the palm of his hand and watched every stroke of the pen.

Christine worried that she would make a mistake given the ink was permanent and could bleed through onto the table if she wasn’t careful enough. But she persisted. Alex trusted her and encouraged her to do it as she moved onto the arms, followed by the meter on his finger to the heart monitor.

Alex sipped on the last of his tea and munched on a few more fries, and all the while, he never took his eyes off of her.

She drew a curved line over his waist to signify the hospital blankets. She added a bit of hatching to the top and sides of the blankets for depth.

“You sure you haven’t really drawn before?” he asked her.

“Not really. I never felt good enough to carry it onward.”

Christine added the foot of the bed followed by some more hatching in the top of the scene to signify the darkness of the hospital room. She held still as he lowered his glasses and scanned it over in silence. She could feel the butterflies in her stomach as he tapped on the bottom of the napkin.

“Sign your name,” he told her. “Sign your name and give that to your dad when he wakes up.”

“He’s awake but—”

“Still. Sign your name and give that to him when you go see him.”

Carefully once again, she wrote her name right under Kenny’s arm, Christine Elizabeth Peck, in soft cursive. Alex leaned back in his stool and ate the last of his French fries.

“There’s an artist inside of you, Christine,” he encouraged her the way a teacher would. “In fact, I’m inclined to say that there’s a great artist inside of you, especially when I think about all that you had been through. You don’t realize it, but there’s an artist inside of everyone—and so many are not lucky enough to have someone else in their life to coax them along towards it.”

Christine let out a low whistle as she had no idea what to say to that. In fact, as far as she knew, it was time to head on back to class. It was one thing with the mug in his hand, but for her to draw him that right before his eyes made her feel as though she had been exposed.

Before either of them could say anything else, his phone rang, and he took it out of his pocket. He sighed through his nose as he looked on at the caller ID.

“Excuse me, my Strawberry Girl,” he said in a soft voice. Christine took one glimpse at it for herself, only to recognize that name and number even from a fleeting glimpse. He picked up his mug in his other hand, and that was when Christine took a look at the clock on the other side of the room. She scooped up his empty basket as well as her own, and she stacked them together for a second as she gathered her book bag, the pen, and the napkin.

She brought them over yo the trash can and padded outside to the cold gray: the clouds overhead hung low, and the wind was cold. She knew for a fact it was going to snow.

Christine stood on the top step of the stairs with the wind at her back as if it was guiding her along the sidewalk. He stood there at the corner of the street before her with his phone to his ear and his face directed in the opposite direction. She didn’t even have to see his face to see the pain there.

She nibbled on her bottom lip, and she didn’t even need the snow around her for her to coax the words out for herself, “What can I do to change your mind, Alex Skolnick?”

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