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pearlywritings · 6 months

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A guide to motivate the General

synopsis: just a couple of messages and maybe a call from his loved ones is all Jing Yuan needs to find it in himself to finish his work and go home.

pairing: Jing Yuan x fem!reader

tw: fluff, domestic fluff, dad!Jing Yuan, Mimi being a huge spoiled baby

word count: 2.1k+ words

A loud yawn echoes in an empty space of The Seat of the Divine Foresight. The general squints, but immediately shakes his head - as much as he’d love to take a nap, there are still some urgent cases he has to attend to. It’s so quiet and lifeless with everyone being dismissed. Oh, what he would’ve given to be far far from here…

He knows, however, that dwelling on such a matter is just a waste of his resources. Instead of feeling jealous of the guards and secretaries he let go home three hours ago, he opts to redirect the remnants of his energy to the last pile of papers he’s already halfway through.

But just as he reaches for another document his phone vibrates, screen lighting up momentarily, but even a second-long glance is enough to see who the message is from.

And he can’t make his wife wait, can he?

As he carefully puts the ink brush down the device makes a sound a couple of more times, indicating that there are three messages already. Quickly typing eight numbers of his passcode - two most important dates of his life - Jing Yuan swipes away all the spam that has gathered there this evening. His thumb lightly taps on the messenger and goes right to the chat with you, tired golden eyes gaining a bit of their usual shine.

Good evening, my love. I suppose you weren’t lying when you said you’d be quite busy. Didn’t want to disturb you before, but I hope Yanqing wasn’t covering you up, telling me that you ‘dutifully ate’ the dinner I asked him to bring you earlier.

Jing Yuan chuckles. Ah, isn’t it wonderful to have a loving doting spouse who cares so much for her husband. Of course he took a break and ate his dinner - how could he ever deny your home-cooked meals? It would be a crime against your marriage.

Ignoring for a moment your two next messages, the man starts typing an answer.

Good evening, beloved. Yes, I’ll be here for another hour it seems. But I am planning to return home tonight, don’t worry. Yes, the dinner was delicious, thank you. And you know that boy knows better than to lie to you.

Though he, personally, finds your infuriated face adorable, not scary. Sending the message, he skips to the next ones.

Look who’s been waiting for your return

And the video attached. Not thinking too long, he presses play.

He is quick to recognize your shared bedroom and from the angle you were filming you were clearly in bed. He can see the double doors of the entrance, some of the furniture and fine tapestries decorating the walls. But the main focus is obviously the big lion pacing back and forth in the space between the bed and the doors, occasionally stopping, glancing at the wooden obstacle, huffing and continuing its pacing. Then he hears you sweet melodic giggle and his heart melts and then immediately bursts when your voice enters the recording.

“She’s been like that for the last half an hour. She clearly misses papa.”

At the word ‘papa’ Mimi swiftly stops and looks at you and then at the door. Her tail slowly moves.

“No, Mimi, sorry, but papa isn’t home yet. Though I am sure he will soon.”

She seems to understand you, because another huff of dissatisfaction passes through her nose and she butts her head against the left door.

“Jing Yuan, you better hurry, before she figures out how to open the door and go bother ‘her cub’. I barely managed to separate the two.”

As the video stops, the general can’t help but snort, mouth covered with his palm. Eyes glance to the side, to the photo frame sitting snugly on his table - of him, you, held against his side with one arm, and a little girl perched comfortably in the crook of his other one. The smiles the three of you presenting are joyful and he can recall why - the day was brilliant, after all.

Not given an opportunity to wonder however, his attention is brought back by another vibration - looks like you still have something to say.

True, but it never hurts to make sure.

Want me to wait for you?

Oh, he’d love for you to be awake and welcome his exhausted body into your embrace, but at the same time he wants you to have a night of good sleep before tomorrow. Even so…he can allow himself to indulge just a little bit, right?

Warmth swirls in his chest when you pick his video call.

“Hi, pretty,” a lazy smile tugs on the corners of his lips when he sees your cozy form - hair let down, a pillow tucked behind your back and two thin straps of the chemise resting on your beautiful shoulders.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he sees your eyes taking into his own visage, noting his tired gaze, messy hair and a palm supporting his chin. “Are you calling me to answer my question?”

“Yes and no. Just wanted to see you before you go to sleep,” and that is enough of a response to you.

“How sweet of you, Yuan,” there is a guttural noise in the background and he sees your eyes dart behind the phone. “Ah, looks like Mimi heard your voice. She started running around the room. Searching for you, Mister,” even though there is a hint of reproach in your voice, the general knows you are simply joking.

“My apologies. It seems I made all my girls wait. Speaking of my girls, how is-”

Suddenly you gasp and your body seems to jump and for a moment the phone tilts backwards and Jing Yuan has to stare at the ceiling.

“My dear? Everything is okay?”

“What-? Ah, yes, yes, it- Mimi, stop! Ouch, your paw is heavy!”

The ceiling is clearer now - you must’ve put the device down in an attempt to (what he can only guess) fight off the lion that jumped onto your bed, finally figuring out where the voice was coming from. Loud grunts and your noises of discontent with occasional complaints are the only things he can hear for a couple of minutes. Reasoning that it’s better if he stays silent for the time being, Jing Yuan sets the phone against the photo frame and returns to the paper he was about to review.

It’s almost three documents later - wow, a quick peak of his loved one is doing wonders to his worsened productivity - when the commotion settles down and you pick your phone back, heavily exhaling with an annoyed look on your face. Jing Yuan decides to simply turn to you, hand still skipping through the papers.

“I swear, this overgrown cat is the biggest baby I’ve ever dealt with. Here, look, papa is here,” and you practically shove the device into the animal’s muzzle. Big nose sniffs around, and, not finding the familiar scent of her caretaker, the lion gives you a side eye, which makes your husband choke on his laughter. The maned head whips to the left, keen hearing obviously picking a well-known voice.

“Who taught her that jumping onto the bed is okay?” You are in his sight again, fingers running through your hair, now no different from his own messy locks. “Right - you. I couldn’t get her off and barely managed to put this bulk down. You better pray she decides to leave on her own accord, or you are sleeping on the floor tonight.”

Yes, your annoyed expressions are truly marvelous. How he wished to be there with you and shower your puffy cheeks with dozens of kisses, cradling your face in his big warm palms. It would be so lovely.

“I’ll just go and sleep with my angel then. I am sure she won’t be against having dada by her side.”

He hears Mimi yawn loudly and you make an ‘oof’ sound, promptly lifting the phone.

“Everything is alright?”

“Yeah… She just dropped her head onto my lap. And is staring at me, quite offended.”

“Oooh, now you are stuck,” he can't help but smirk, relishing the roll of your eyes. He knows better than anyone how heavy his pet is. Even he feels a strain in his back whenever he picks her up. Or maybe he is just getting old.

“Wow, thanks, General Obviousness. Mimi, your papa is so-”

Abruptly you are interrupted again, but this time by a quiet, almost inaudible sound of the doors opening. He sees your body lean forward and by a warning “Mimi, stay” he knows you are pinning the animal down. Which can mean only one thing…

“Mom?” A sweet sleepy voice of his daughter proves his assumption right. Suddenly, hearing just one word from her, the man wants to abandon what little work he has left and rush home to envelope the little wonder into his arms, hear her giggle and call him “dad” or “dada” or “papa” - he'd take anything, really, as long as it’s from his little one.

“What is it, baby? Having trouble sleeping?” Oh, but your voice is so beautifully tender, he wants to have it directly caress his ears, while he is cuddled into your body, your fingers running through his thick hair. Aeons, he is losing focus.

“I heard Mimi running,” the little voice gets closer and Jing Yuan sees how your shoulder tenses - the arm is undoubtedly wrapped around the lion’s body. “I thought that daddy came home… has he not yet?”

Now, he really wants to get home as soon as possible.

“No, sweety. But guess what? I am talking to him right now. Want to say hi?”

As you are leaning back, your husband reaches for the phone, holding it properly in his hands, heart skipping a beat in anticipation, waiting for the girl to climb onto the bed and settle at your side.

Stars above, she is a carbon copy of him. Fluffy hair, tucked behind her ears not to obscure the vision, keeping the pretty liquid gold eyes on display, a beauty mark under her eye is charming, just as a lovely smile, stretching mouth when she finally catches the glimpse of her father.

“Papa hiii!” Her little hands wave happily at him, a toothy grin even wider than before. Pure excitement written all over her drowsy expression is adorable, so cute in fact, that Jing Yuan fists the shirt on his chest in a silent cry of his heart.

“Hi, my little sparrow,” he speaks softly, gazing at her with so much love, while his mind is screaming with joy. “I am going to be home very soon. But I want you, and mama, and Mimi all to go to sleep.”

“But whyyy,” she whines, pouting. He also hears the lion grunt, as if understanding what he is saying, and you just shake your head with a small chuckle.

“Because papa wants you to be well-rested. He promised us a walk tomorrow, right?” Your hand goes to rest on top of her head, patting. “It’ll be too bad if we are sleepy, don't you think?”

“Mama is right. I know you miss me, baby, and I miss you terribly too. But if we want to spend the whole day together, doing everything you, princess, want, I have to complete some of my cases. That's why I am going to say my good night’s and get back to work to finish it.”

The white-haired girl sighs, dropping her head, letting the heavy fringe escape and cover her eyes.

“Being an adult is awful,” he hears her murmur a complaint and can’t help but agree. Though, if he wasn’t an adult, would’ve he ever had you and her? “But I get it, daddy. I am a big girl!”

“That’s my girl,” he gives her an encouraging smile, when she lifts her eyes again to look at him from under the bangs. His smile is almost immediately mirrored.

“So…” Jing Yuan catches your gaze (you have been watching this whole exchange with a fond look in your eyes) and shares unspoken affection. “Good night, my love.”

“Have you soon in my arms, dear,” you blow a kiss and he makes a grabby motion with his hand, bringing it to his very heart.

“Baby,” the girl perks, wiggling in her place and tucking her hair away when his attention is focused on her once more, “sweet dreams. I promise to stop by and kiss you on the cheek.”

“I'll be waiting- I mean sleeping! Have fun with work, daddy.”

“I will. Rub Mimi’s tummy for me, will you?”

“Mhm!”

Giving the two of you one last glance before hanging up, Jing Yuan is filled with the new found motivation. At that moment he thinks that busying himself for the full duration of the day is absolutely worth it, if he gets to give his girls undivided attention tomorrow.

And he will be damned if he lets something ruin it.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x fem!reader #jing yuan #dad!jing yuan #hsr fluff

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wannaeatramyeon · 10 months

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Fem!reader Isekai in Lookism ?

Anon, so sorry I'm answering this exactly 3 months later. You're my last request from May and I was soooo close to deleting it because I have had exactly zero ideas. Then I got partly inspired by @honeyhotteok fic here and now I'm running on less than 3hrs sleep in work and it's your fault. Oh yeah, and I've completely twisted the ask as well. It's not even close. So all that wait was for nothing 🙇🏻‍♀️

Adventures of YOUR part time job in the Lookismverse

G/N. You work the graveyard shift in a convenience store. You meet bizarre characters on different nights. Part 2

There's something wrong with people your age these days.

Everyone seems to be either in a gang or up to some shady shit. Seriously what is going on. Is this all a big joke that only you aren't in on?

Just the other day you swear you saw a group of guys in boiler suits punch through some walls across the street. Like what the fuck? What did the wall ever do to you? And then someone apparently called Tabasco starts chanting something about Burn Knuckles and oh my fucking god it's 11pm please shut up.

Oh course you never said that, you still have some sense of self preservation.

And how does anyone even have the time for all this. Between school and this part time job, you barely have enough hours to sleep.

You miss Daniel, the coworker who you haven't seen for a good year but used to gossip into the early morning with. He always seemed a bit nervous and fidgety when you voiced your concerns and observations, but you just assumed he was a nervous and fidgety kinda guy.

There would have been some fun stories to share. Instead now you work the graveyard shift on your own.

Case in point, the guy standing in front of you looks like one bad conversation away from a mental breakdown.

And really you're not in the habit of checking out customers but he cuts a striking figure. Every exposed inch of skin besides his face inked, and (you silently ask for his forgiveness for the objectification) the biggest chest you have ever seen. What even is this guy eating? What is this guy injecting? Lifting?

The question is almost out of your mouth but then you see the look in his eyes and slam your lips shut.

Nevermind. You ring his purchases through and tell him to have a good night.

You're restocking the shelves when you notice a guy with a scar across his lip and nose, dripping blood from god knows where all over your freshly mopped floor.

Which is alarming in itself but come on man. Look at the floors. You're making it so fucking gross.

He notices you watching him, gives you an apologetic look and says he'll take care of it.

He makes a quick call and in comes 26 guys, one after the other and they line up in front of him.

You know it's exactly 26 because you counted all 26. And you've also watched all 26 pairs of dirty shoes trample over your previously nice clean floor.

The blood drippy guy asks politely for the mop and bucket and you think this must be some sort of prank because why the hell is this even necessary. 26 guys to share your one solitary mop and bucket and to clean a goddamn floor that you managed in 10 minutes.

"Get out." He blinks at you, taken aback by your tone. "Or I'm calling the police."

"You can bring your pups in!" You call out to the emo teen lurking outside.

Health and safety be damned because look how fucking cute these dogs are!

He hesitates but then the rain grows heavier and all three rush in.

You miss the suspicious glance he gives you, too fixated on how adorable the dogs are. You don't even mind their wet fur or muddy paws because look at these little babies!

And huh, this guy must really love them too with his, you squint, God? Dog? hoodie on. D'aww that's so stinking sweet.

Damnit, you knew these two would be trouble the moment they stepped foot into your store.

The tall blonde just gives off a distinct creepy vibe and the shorter one has his entire eyebrows shaved off.

Shaved. Off.

You couldn't help but stare when you put their purchases through and noticed some regrowth and stubble. Is this a trend you missed out on? Either way you're glad because there's no way you're shaving off your own eyebrows.

They converse in Japanese, not even saying a word to you. No thanks or anything, which is fine you suppose. But then they pay you in fucking yen.

They're out the door by the time you see the cash and fuck. Your boss is going to go apeshit when he finds out.

"What do you think, sweetheart?"

A new blonde guy addresses you tonight and for crying out loud, you just want a quiet shift.

What do you think of his white suit? With the garish LV logos? That it's tacky as fuck. That anyone with any sort of taste would never ever wear that. You keep your actual thoughts to yourself and instead just say it's fine.

That does nothing to subdue the blonde. He does stop talking to you though, and just mutters bitterly under his breath. You catch the words blind and tasteless.

His partner smirks at your response.

And isn't that a whole other kettle of fish because it's currently 2am and you're indoors and who the hell wears sunglasses right now. You think he's a douche of the highest calibre.

The smirk is wiped from his face when he asks for cigarettes and you ask for ID. He doesn't have it on him.

"No can do. No ID, no sale."

He leans aggressively into your space, and reveals his eyes peering over his sunglasses.

My god, what is up with this duo? One with the tacky suit, and this one with the ugly black contact lenses.

You don't budge and the guy is dragged out by the blonde cackling.

Ugh. That laugh gives you a headache for the rest of your shift.

You really wish customers would stop involving you in their conversation.

This one, who looks exactly like how you would imagine a SoundCloud rapper that has their mother following them and no one else, asks you to listen to his music.

He insists that he's good as the blonde girl rolls her eyes.

You listen to about 10 seconds and make up your mind.

He's wrong. He's very wrong. You want to suggest he gets checked out at the doctor because clearly his ears aren't working properly.

Instead, you mention you like Duke Pyeon, he's more your taste. Has he heard of him? It's the wrong thing to say though because this guy looks angrier than you've ever seen anyone.

"Don't start Vin, I've seen you listening to his music." The girl scoffs.

'Vin' shouts in indignation and storms off with his friend trailing closely behind.

"Can I help?" You ask with your customer service voice and customer service smile.

He has been standing in front of the hair dyes for a good ten minutes as his friend looks increasingly bored and you can't blame him.

"No thanks, I'm just browsing," he responds and you tell him you'll be just over there if he needs anything.

You kill some time playing on your phone, look up, and both of them are still in the exact same spot.

The one with the H on his neck looks about ready to tear his hair out.

"Come on bro, just pick one!"

"No Warren, this is important. I need it to suit my new aesthetics."

You shrug and return back to your kitty kat restaurant game.

"Cool glasses," you tell the guy walking around the store and he looks affronted at first before realising you're being sincere and gives you a small smile instead.

You wonder if you can pull off orange tinted glasses too or whether you'd just look like an idiot. It's probably the latter you decide when you ring up his energy drinks.

"I'm a boxer," he offers, as if you're judging the amount of caffeine he's going to slam down.

"Ok?"

"I need it for my training."

"Sure."

You've seen weirder purchases and weirder combinations. The people coming in looking frantic and buying a single plunger or pack of toilet paper never fails to make you chuckle.

To be honest the amount he's buying is a bit nuts, and you wonder if he's going to drink it all in one go. You probably wouldn't sleep for a year if it was you.

"Enjoy your training," you say, heaving and handing over the bag of 19 cans.

A mute blonde gestures at you

You try to use some sign language, but he looks at you as if you're crazy. At least you think he does but you can't see his eyes.

Somehow you're able to decipher he's lost his dogs. Four. Golden retrievers. And he asks if you have seen them.

(Huh. Do you have telepathy? Do you have the gift?)

You tell him no and he sprints out.

You spend the rest of your shift trying to move things with your newly discovered psychic powers.

Spoiler: you have zero powers. Zilch.

You think you might be having a stroke.

Because on what planet did this K-pop idol think the disguise would work. Cap and mask on but tufts of pink hair poking out and dressed completely in white.

It's like he's asking for attention and for people to ooh and aah over who that could be.

As he leaves, you shout that you can't wait for his next album. He turns around in complete shock that you recognised him, as if you solved the world's hardest puzzle.

It's a good job that DG has such a pretty face because what an idiot.

You hear two voices mention the words Daniel Park and your ears perk up, wondering if it's about your old colleague.

Nah. You're just being silly. It's not an uncommon name at all and too much of a coincidence.

"I haven't seen Daniel in ages! Have you heard from him, Zoe?"

"No," you see her friend shake her head from the corner of your eye.

The brown haired girl tilts her head in thought, "I wonder how Zack is doing too. I haven't seen him in so long."

"Ohhh~ you miss him!"

"O-of course I do! He's a friend!" She blushes bright red and you chuckle to yourself.

'Friend', sure.

For the rest of the shift, you reminisce about how you used to tiptoe around your feelings with your boyfriend, Taehoon, too.

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dianagj-art · 7 months

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How long do you typically spend on a drawing? Of the ones you've posted, which took the longest? Which was the quickest?

It really depends on what I'm drawing and how "finished" I do them

For example these kind of skectches don't really take me much time to do (specially when the poses are very simple), I can do a bunch of these in a few minutes no problem, then there are the ones when I add grayscale or colors that take a little longer

Then there is this kind of drawing that are finished with lineart, colors and shadows but each of them took me a different amount of time

The Gemini one took me hours to make (how many I dont really remember) I spent a lot of time on the sketch mostly because I was trying to figure out how Leo's arm worked, then spend around 3hrs doing lineart and chossing the base colors, and I had to do it twice because...

reasons...

The bottom left with Coin Toss Michael, took me less, even when it was a challenging pose I managed to figure that out quick enough, the most time consuming part were the chains because I hand drew them. I don't remember how long it took me to do but I did it in one or two sittings, probably took me aorund 5 hours to make (and maybe thats too much, might have been less)

And the bottom right was a fast one too, probably managged to do it in under 3 hours (I think the hardest part was to match proportions with Trainee that is cropped out)

And then there is things like this, I actually have the proccess recorded (minus the sketching and planning) and can tell you that it took me around 15 hours to make these two pages (I might one day edit that and make a speed draw)

But again, it really depends on what I'm drawing because this commission (that aparently I haven't posted yet) that I also have some of the proccess recorded, it took me around 2:30 hours to do inks, colors and shading

Most of the time I dont really time myself, when I know more exact times are when I record my screen for future speed draw videos (that I always forget to edit) or because I was watching something in the background so I know it took me X amount of movies or episodes or youtube videos so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oh! there is also this lil animation I did that took me 4 hours, I only know that because it says so in my tags

#hmmmm i should edit those videos #i have more that i thought saved #might do it for my patreon soon #anyways hope you enjoyed the info dump #dg rambles #dg asks #dg art

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boundinparchment · 1 year

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Blasphemous Rumors - I

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Marriage of convenience. Slow burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Available on AO3 here.

You glanced at your calendar and then the clock above the open door to your office, the shining metal hand hovering at three minutes to the hour. The cherry wood walls glowed from the afternoon sun that managed to push its way through the clouds. Such days painted the eternally frozen tundra in a vista of sparkling crystals, light refracting to the point of blinding any who dared gaze upon it. Snezhnaya was a hell unto itself, even on a good day. Fitting, you thought, for the land that did not love its people.

Two minutes.

Usually he was here by now.

But then again, Lord Harbinger Dottore did as he pleased and when he pleased. You wouldn’t be surprised if the man sent another in his place. If that was the case, you hoped it was at least one of his older copies; explaining your calculations and why it wasn’t appropriate to submit a receipt that simply read, Three assistants and a consecrated beast, for monthly budget reviews. The younger ones, especially from his days prior to being a Harbinger, tended to argue so passionately that it scared the other accountants into going on lunch early at his mere presence.

How lucky they were.

At one point, you’d been brave (or perhaps stupid) enough to ask Lord Harbinger Pantalone why he didn’t handle the budget analysis himself when he had to be the one to approve it. Your boss merely smiled that same patient smile he alway wore when clients wore his patience thin and said that it was a conflict of interest.

Right.

Or perhaps you just like throwing people to the wolves for sport, you bastard.

You rolled your shoulders slightly, willing away the tension creeping up your spine. Lord Dottore picked up on that every time and would often use it to his advantage if he could. Not today.

The papers on your desk were arranged by each particular Segment’s budget, neat piles of receipts and requests. Of all Harbingers, Dottore’s budget was often the most expensive due to the nature of his work and that all of it was shared amongst his copies; that very reason was why you were confused to be assigned to his accounts when it made more sense for Lord Pantalone to handle it personally. Curiosity occasionally tickled your mind when you read some of them, wondering just what a Harbinger might want with a Chasm expedition, a trip to Mondstadt, and a special order of Fontaine-made steel cages. Sensibility got the better of you when you realized that the stains on the paper weren’t ink but dried blood.

Over the years, you had gotten used to figuring out the handwriting differences to determine which expense belonged to who. They were all Dottore but for disbursement and record reasons, breaking it down just made sense.

“If you’re going to spend the next minute staring off into space, I have plenty of other matters that require my attention.”

You jolted at the voice as your name punctuated his sentence, hoping you weren’t already burning with embarrassment. Lord Harbinger Dottore stood in the threshold of your office, arms crossed, lips tugged into a disappointed frown. It was difficult to tell whether it was his oldest Segment or the Harbinger personally at first glance, until you caught a glimpse of the Cryo Delusion pinned to his lapel.

You stood and gestured to the front of your desk, where two chairs sat. He shut the door and took neither of them.

“Forgive me, sir. I’ll make this as quick as possible.”

“Please do.”

You went through the piles, pointing through each itemized request, the estimated cost, and the approved amounts. Every so often, he shook his head, offered an explanation for why the cost needed to be approved and the timeline involved.

“The amount needs to be approved by Lord Pantalone in this case,” you said. “A few million mora and what sounds like an expedition involving multiple staff members working overtime to meet a deadline needs more than a vague reference to an idea, Lord Harbinger.”

Dottore scoffed softly but didn’t push the matter. You continued on through each pile, a total of six this time, before reaching his own personal expenses and budget. Red herrings in each budget were circled and not accounted for nor reimbursed, as usual.

When you first took over (the last accountant had been a victim of the mechanical bird across the Harbinger’s shoulders and it took weeks to get the blood out of the carpet), you made it a point to ask about the items that didn’t quite fit, ones that had a larger description and more involved than what was submitted on paper. It was a game, you realized, when he didn’t argue in their defense further and took his bank notes and mora with nothing more than a thank you.

Your predecessor had, according to Lord Pantalone, approved every budget of Dottore’s without question, you came to learn in your yearly review. Your detailed nature was a mark of your dedication.

It had taken everything in you not to laugh right then and there. Little did your employer know that you had hand-copied several ledger books the night prior and dropped them off in the post that morning and received an anonymous deposit hours later.

“Everything else, with the exception of this,” Dottore tapped the pile of receipts from one of his younger, bolder Segments who grinned too much, “is finalized, then?”

“Yes. I can have the invoices paid this afternoon, write out the promissory notes to approved parties, and have your withdrawal requests in the next few minutes.”

“Fine.”

You slid the usual withdrawal form and pen across your desk and he signed it without even a second glance. Dottore pushed it back across the polished wood with his middle finger, a subtle sign of his disapproval at having to wait on another for his additional funds, and you filled in the rest as necessary.

“Would you prefer I have a messenger bring everything to you, Lord Harbinger?”

“You finished earlier than anticipated; I can spare the time, provided you are…expedient.”

You couldn’t agree more. The sooner he was out of your office, the better.

The floorboards creaked as Dottore shifted his weight and turned away from you. From the angle of his head, it seemed as if he was assessing the small collection of personal items you kept in your office on the far wall. A few books, mostly professional, a little trinket you bought back from your first and only trip to Liyue last year, a small reproduction of a landscape painting you once saw in Fontaine.

The perks of working for a Harbinger: every once in a while, travel was required. Not that you stayed in one place long enough to enjoy it, of course.

You scribbled out vendor names and amounts owed, sorting them into the same piles as the receipts. By now, some of the names were second nature, although some clearly less legitimate than others. Not your problem, of course, but it was something to note in your next bundle of notes to mail.

“Here you are, Lord Harbinger.”

Gloved hands took the papers, flicked through them, and he gave an approving hum.

“Do let me know as soon as Regrator approves the final amount. I have deadlines.”

“Yes, Lord Harbinger.”

You stood and bowed at the waist until you heard the door open and then shut with a shuddering slam that shook the windows of your office that faced the hall. It was impossible to ignore the startled sound of a colleague passing by, taken aback by the sound, and as you straightened, they sent you a sympathetic expression.

Their Harbinger, Arlecchino, often left screaming.

Your shoulders rose and fell with a sharp sigh and you were determined to get back to other tasks. That was, by far, one of the more pleasant interactions you had with the Second Harbinger.

Familiar footfalls from further down the hall, from the corner office, revealed your boss before you heard his voice. Always so sweet, disarming, in front of everyone, calling for an old friend rather than a colleague of higher rank. Through the sheer curtains that provided some semblance of privacy in your office, you caught sight of the Ninth Harbinger passing by, as if hoping to catch Dottore before he left. The two Harbingers were thick as thieves despite their rank difference; it was well known that they collaborated on much of the weapons design for the Fatui and elsewhere, a balance of power and the means to mass manufacture it.

It was impossible not to miss the way Dottore hesitated, his head turning slightly in your direction, before following Pantalone back down the hall and towards the Harbinger’s office.

He blamed you, clearly. But there was no way Lord Pantalone would know, not that quickly, you reasoned. You didn’t need to see his eyes (not that you ever had) to know he had been envisioning your death for such an inconvenience.

You glanced at the clock and made a mental note to include the mention of their meeting in your report.

____________________

It wasn’t until the double doors to the opulent office were closed that Dottore spoke as he folded and tucked away the accountant’s documents into his coat’s breast pocket. He reached up and took off his mask to run a hand through his hair, pushing the long strands back.

“What do you want, Regrator? I have other matters to attend to. I have little time for socializing.”

The Ninth Harbinger scoffed as he rounded his desk, dragging a hand across the gleaming surface as he went. The wide window behind the desk, between two sweeping bookcases filled with books that deserved to be in an archive rather than Regrator’s office, provided a view of the Palace grounds; an easy way to keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.

Sandrone’s information network was more efficient but then again, Dottore mused, Regrator was not known for such things. Opulence and the visual impact of the power it offered did far more than it was given credit for.

“Your last budget was far above the usual average, Dottore. The Jester and the Tsaritsa are only willing to overlook so much when results have been less than ideal.”

“I am far above reproach from you, lest you forget your place, Regrator.”

“And here I thought we were friends, Dottore.”

Pantalone turned away from the window, golden eyes meeting crimson before falling onto the scale on his desk. Idle fingers found a stray piece of mora from a tiny pile and placed it on one side, tipping the balance.

“Your expenses are one of many. The facility in Liyue cost a large investment and as far as your reports are concerned, you don’t even use it any more.”

“It didn’t yield results. Once the Ruin Guard manufacturing process was understood, it served little purpose after that.”

“You cannot just continue to bleed the Fatui dry because you got bored, Dottore. That’s not the only instance, either. There’s the refinery in Fontaine, the Delusion factory in Inazuma, the fact that you are consistently the only Harbinger to constantly need a stream of assistants because many of them never come back from a mission…”

Every line item was met with another piece of mora being dropped onto the scale, as if Pantalone was tallying Dottore’s expenses personally. The Second opened his mouth, vile words on his tongue, but the other man held up a hand, silencing him.

“I am aware of how crucial your inventions and research are, that isn’t the question. But to continue to be wasteful with more money and manpower is irresponsible and you aren’t the only one affected…”

“Just say that you can’t skim off the top as much as you’d like. There’s little sense beating around the bush.”

Pantalone’s glare was met with a sharp-toothed grin.

“Yes, there’s that, too. But I answer to Pierro as much as you do. I have investors who get upset if they lose a single mora as it is. If you were any other client, Northland wouldn’t lend to you based on a lack of return from the investment.”

Dottore rolled his eyes before he shifted his weight and began to pace. How dull. He didn’t need to waste his time on such drivel, friend or not.

“What do you want, then, Regrator? Some projects are slower than others; every little detail must be accounted for, just as you sit and count your gold and adjust your ledgers. There is a difference between efficiency and haste.”

The metal heels of his boots pressed into the plush carpet and Dottore had no doubt that Regrator would bemoan the wearing down of the fibers upon his exit. It’s what the man deserved for wasting his time. It was the banker’s job to deal with this, not his. If he wanted this level of bullshit, he would have played by the Akademiya’s rules.

The silence in the office, save for the ticking of the large clock in the corner (Fontaine made, Dottore well knew) and the scratch of Pantalone’s pen on paper, was beginning to claw at his mind. Why call him in if there was no purpose to this lecture about financial responsibility? He was above all of this.

“I have a proposal for you,” Pantalone said at last, capping his pen.

Dottore clicked his tongue in disapproval when the other Harbinger simply pushed a piece of paper across the desk and then folded his hands under his chin. The Second Harbinger strode over and picked up the document, the ink not yet dry.

“A contract, Regrator? How unbecoming of you.”

Golden eyes narrowed, irises barely visible. “Prove to me that you’re able to keep a commitment and I’ll give you carte blanche on future budgets.”

“You’re ridiculous. This is stupid.”

“There’s no greater commitment than marriage.”

Dottore hummed in disapproval.

“You can pick anyone you want,” Pantalone unfolded his hands, gesturing with his hands open. “But it cannot be someone whose name you do not know.”

The Second’s eye twitched. Names. What did names matter? Dottore grimaced at the concept that the piece of paper in his hand outlined.

“And no, it cannot be a Segment or me,” Regrator laughed. “We’d kill each other.”

“Your wife stole the Tsaritsa’s coat and from what I’ve heard, you two don’t exactly get along. What’s the difference?”

“Our arrangement is…beneficial.”

Nonsense. Absolute, illogical, nonsense. He barely had the time to manage his own projects, even with his Segments, and Pantalone was proposing to throw a spouse into the mix?

Besides, no one would want to marry him. At least, no one with a brain. The status of his position would lend itself to viable candidates in any other situation, if he were anyone else. Most trembled at the mention of his name, let alone in his presence.

But to not need approval at all…to be free from all of the bureaucratic bullshit and red tape…

“Oh, and it has to be at least somewhat believable, Dottore. An actual commitment of a year minimum, whether or not your tiny heart cares about them at all. If you fail, each Segment gets their own accountant and must have signed approval for—”

“You’ve made your point.”

Dottore put the contract back on the desk and held out his hand, palm up, awaiting a pen. When the instrument was placed into his hand, he scribbled his title and shoved the paper back to Regrator.

“You’ll regret this offer, Pantalone.”

“We’ll see.”

The Second Harbinger replaced his mask and turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t want to look at that disgusting, smarmy grin any longer than he needed to.

Marriage for a year, a commitment, in exchange for unlimited funding. Easy. He’d finished projects in that amount of time with promising, even optimal, results. A year for the one who figured out how to save time and preserve his perspectives and survive for centuries was nothing.

Believability, however…the limitations on knowing the person’s name…

He never learned names. They were unimportant, trivial, transient things. He had better things to do than learn names…

As he walked back down the corridor, out towards the length of individual offices, something gnawed on his brain. The stipulation for knowing a name meant the pool of people he had to choose from was…ridiculously small.

It had to be someone comfortable with his rank, used to the world of the Fatui, at the very least.

Dottore slowed to a stop as he came upon a familiar door, now open.

That could work.

His feet carried him towards the threshold and over it, finding a face he had seen numerous times already, buried in a ledger.

Yes, he reasoned. This could be tolerable.

He didn’t speak, not until you looked up at him, a silent question parting your lips.

“Marry me.”

#fic: blasphemous rumors #dottore #il dottore #female reader #dottore/reader #il dottore/reader #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader #marriage of convenience

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averagewriter-inthedark · 1 year

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Can You Keep Up? 🔪 | Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz Imagine

Takes place during the events of Inglorious Basterds

Inglorious Basterds Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz x female basterd!reader (romantic), the Basterds (platonic)

Content Warnings: profanity, light angst, war, murder, blood, violence, n*zis, hate crimes | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 2.7k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: Sgt Hugo Stiglitz had a reputation long before becoming a member The Basterds. Killing Nazis and ending the war were the only thinks he cared about….until a new basterd entered the picture. One who had her own reputation in America that rivaled even some its most notorious gangsters.

————————

“You should tell her,” Wicki mumbled in German, which would do nothing to hide their conversation since the person they were referring to spoke German. Had she been closer to the pair they surely would’ve been found out.

Hugo groaned, pitting a glare to the Austrian, “No.” Wicki rolled his eyes.

“One of these days the others are going to notice how you’ve changed in the last few weeks.”

“I have not changed!” The German defends, whisper-shouting while checking to make sure she wasn’t in their proximity. Eyes locking on her figure, he found Y/n scalping her latest kill. Quickly he turned away, the image of her tackling the Nazi down from a tree branch appearing in his mind, the stoic expression he wore faltering. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen a person do and boy did it make him feel things.

But then again, Y/n L/n was not an ordinary soldier. Hell, she wasn’t even a soldier.

A native of the city that never sleeps, the cards of a promising life were not in place for Y/n. At a young age petty crime was her ticket to surviving. Pickpocketing off of unsuspecting tourists, stealing cars from junkyards, and making quick cash by taking whatever opportunity presented itself. That was her life from childhood to the end of adolescence.

Right around the age of 21 in 1930, the midst of prohibition, Y/n found herself at the bar of a speakeasy owned by one of the most notorious mob bosses in the city. Now when one thinks of organized crime and all its associates, women never have a place amongst the ranks. It’s just how things worked—patriarchy and sexism in all.

Y/n had already garnered herself a reputation in the underground world of New York. Known by only the name, The Rose, due to the red inked rose tattoo on her neck, Y/n was listed on the top ten most wanted in the city. Doing jobs ranging from burglaries to ‘get rid of them, leave nothing behind’ as they came to her as long as they paid well. And by well, we’re talking Y/n couldn’t have a bank account open for they would be suspicious of the depositing amounts.

No eye witness had ever been able to give a detailed description for the NYPD to develop a composite drawing. Y/n was a ghost among the living. Making her dangerous and a myth to many who refused to believe a woman could be capable of the crimes she committed. A lot of the hits she was responsible for had the police believing it was rival gangs. Nothing was traced back to her save for burglaries where a witness reported, “whoever it was, I think it was a woman. There was something about their physique and voice in the few words they spoke that had me thinking it wasn’t a man.”

So yeah, Y/n was a professional criminal at the ripe age of 21. A literally hit woman who was damn good at making things appear as an accident. Becoming an associate of a mob boss was not what she envisioned, but leave it to a man who’s also a ghost to the public eye able to uncover a fellow one.

“How’d you know who I was?” The vodka from her martini hit her tongue as she took a sip. Eyebrows raised at the man beside her, dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit, she noted the two men in suits flanking him. That in itself was enough to piece together he was someone important. Then he got to talking and before long Y/n formally introduced herself knowing the jig was up.

“A man like me has his ways.”

“And I’m assuming a man like you is someone who likes to keep his presence quiet. Yet, you took a risk by approaching me. Why is that, Mr. Falcone?”

“I’ve got a job for you.” This has her tilt her head, intrigued by the proposal.

“What kind of job?”

“I’m aware one-and-done is your style,” he starts, removing his glasses and placing them in his pocket only to remove a Manila colored envelope. “But I’m willing to offer you something more permanent. It means you’ll have to stop any and all business with competing employers,” he was referring to rival gangs and families. Basically Y/n would be an associate in his ranks. “But I can assure you,” the envelope slides over to her, Y/n immediately taking it into her hands to peek inside. “any and all needs would be provided. I’m sure you’ll find the pay more than sufficient than what you’re normally accustomed to.” Inside was at least $20,000. Twenty wads of ten $100 bills stacked together. The man was right in his assumption of money Y/n obtained on a job—ranging between $3-7k depending on what needed to be done.

Y/n was quiet for a moment, finishing her martini before turning back to Falcone. “Forgive me for being so blunt, Mr. Falcone. Your offer is gracious and tempting, but I thought women have no place in the mob. Why would you want to work with me?”

“Because you’re good at what you do,” he stated the obvious, motioning for the bartender for two glasses of whiskey. “You’ve managed at such a young age to turn the boys in blue upside down over your looming presence. And they still have yet to uncover how deep your ledger bleeds in this city. They only believe you’re responsible for all those bank heists and the last person the mayor’s God awful son was seen with.” Y/n withheld the smirk threatening to form.

“But I know from whispers in the dark the number of people you’ve successfully indisposed. And I know you’ve managed to accumulate that many because you know how to work with men’s weaknesses. How they are so captivated by the rose before them, they fail to see the thorns. Why wouldn’t I want to work with someone of such talents?” Passing over one of the whiskeys, Falcone lifted his own. “What do you say, Miss. L/n? Do we have a deal?”

The clinking of glass signaled the signing of the unwritten contract penned beneath the dim lights of Falcone’s speakeasy. From that moment on Y/n was an official member of the Falcone crime family. Their hitwoman to be exact where she maintained her double life for nearly twelve years. Bathing in the riches, living the high life. All while keeping a low profile where Falcone’s dirty work was never traced back to her and vice versa.

Unfortunately, mistakes happen. Costly ones where everything crumbles in the blink of an eye.

Well it didn’t all crumble. Technically the FBI was only able to prove Y/n was responsible for one count of federal racketeering. Any other crimes—nearly 50 to be exact—they believed she did had no hard evidence.

Let’s face it, they damn well knew it was her. But Y/n was really good at her job. Only reason she got caught was her getaway driver fucked up by turning left instead of right where a squadron was waiting for them. One look at her tattoo and the feds were busting down the doors of the police department.

But dragging her ass to Alcatraz to become the first female prisoner was not the plan the feds had for Y/n. At the turn of the new year in 1942, America had entered World War II following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Troops were sent off to Europe each week, nurses deployed, and supplies to aid the allies.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Y/n choked on the smoke from cigarette, handcuffed by the wrists and staring at the agent like he was insane.

“Not in the slightest,” he blew out his own smoke. Placing his bud in the tray, the agent leaned his elbows on the table, “listen, Miss. L/n, it’s either this or prison. As much as my colleagues hate to admit it, you’d make a great spy. We’re offering your freedom—full pardon and all—in exchange for your cooperation with the OSS for however long it will take for us to win this war. The Army already agreed.”

Y/n stayed silent, deep in thought while finishing her cigarette. Go to war, become a spy for America, and try to not to die before it ends. Or waste away in a prison located on an island with no chances of escaping and remain there until she dies. “Fuck it, guess I’m going to Europe.”

Touching down in France Y/n was hauled to the OSS base camp, still chained by the wrists and ankles, where she was introduced to the General. From there the rules and regulations of her position were relayed on top of being assigned to the squadron deep behind enemy lines known as The Basterds.

One could imagine the reaction the squad had when their newest comrade was revealed to them. The only warning they got was, “bring her in,” before a smirking chained Y/n waltzed in with two soldiers flanked beside her.

“Hello, boys.”

Donny just about swallowed the toothpick in his mouth. The younger basterds wide eyed and mouths agape while Hugo and Wicki appeared confused. Then there was Aldo who was visibly flabbergasted, “What the hell is this?” It wasn’t everyday one saw a woman in handcuffs guarded by armed escorts. But despite her innocent demeanor, there was something sinister lying behind her gaze. “Who is she?”

“Your new mercenary,” the general plainly states.

“This pretty little thang?” Donny wants to laugh, earning an amused smirk from Y/n. Aldo shushes him a glare at the same moment the general does.

“This pretty little thing could make your death look like an accident, Donowitz.” The comment had Y/n roll her eyes. Now that has the Basterds intrigued…and a little concerned. Their reaction made her chuckle.

“Believe me gentlemen, it wasn’t my idea to join you on the front lines. But, the FBI said it was either this or Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz?!” Smitty gasps. Off to the side Hugo leans closer to Wicki, whispering in German, “What is Alcatraz?”

“It’s a federal prison in California located on an island where they send the worst of the worst criminals. They say no one can escape once they’re locked within its walls.”

So, from what Hugo observes, this woman happens to be one of the worst criminals in America.

Aldo, just as appalled, follows up with, “Now what on earth did you do that would have the feds sending you to the Rock?”

“My job,” she shrugs in response.

“Which was?” There were dozens of ‘jobs’ with a one way ticket to Alcatraz. Mostly gang members and mafia bosses. Serial killers and bank robbers. Its most famous residents being Al Capone, George Kelly Barnes, Robert Stroud, and Alvin Karpavivz.

The general slaps down the file in front of Aldo, “killing people for money, money laundering, blackmail and extortion of politicians on behalf of the New York’s mob, robbing almost every bank in the city, and bombing the Wall Street Journal.”

“Now general,” Y/n tsks, receiving horrified expressions from everyone in the room. The metal from her handcuffs clanked as she held palms up, “That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think? After all those are only accusations. None of which can be proven,” her nonchalant tone combined with the not-so-innocent smile gave indication the general spoke the truth. “Except for the blackmail one. That I did do.”

The Basterds were pretty much hesitant of Y/n up until the first time they saw her in action. Not only did she lure a patrol of Nazis to them, but she took down six of the ten with. One for each bullet in her pistol. All the Basterds were beyond amazed, but none more than Hugo.

It was like he was seeing the female version of himself when Y/n invoked her talents with a blade on a Nazi. Effortless when sneaking up behind or jumping from a branch onto their shoulders. Never missing her target when firing her pistol. The fear she produced when a Nazi recognized the tattoo on her neck. Word got around quickly among the German army of the female basterd who looked as delicate as a rose but possessed thorns unlike any other.

Hugo, a man of few words, couldn’t help but be curious of the American. Y/n noticed it too with how many times she caught him staring at her. Finally she had enough of his staring and confronted him one night when they were on watch, “Penny for your thoughts, Stiglitz.”

“You speak German?” His tone was of surprise, making her smirk.

“I speak many languages. German, Italian, Spanish, French, even Gaelic. It’s sorta a necessity for the job I do—interacting with people from all parts of the world.”

“Job….” Hugo repeated under his breath, “you are a professional criminal? That is what Donowitz was saying.”

“Oh so you believe gossip now?” She teased, though making no motion to deny the accusation. “Good to know you boys talk about me in your free time.”

“Is it true?” Hugo persisted, making Y/n straighten her posture, no longer finding humor in the conversation. The tone had shifted to a serious one.

“Will you look at me differently than you already do if it is?” Was her challenge. Not waiting for his answer she continued, “I’m only guaranteed my freedom once this war ends for the things they caught me for, Hugo. Confessing to you the ones they didn’t…..well why would I admit guilt? A smart criminal would never.”

To be honest Y/n technically confessed to Hugo she was in fact responsible for all the crimes the general had informed them of. Though vague with her words, Y/n spoke with her eyes. Showing Hugo her true nature without voicing the truth.

From that moment on there was an unspoken connection between the two. A mutual respect and understanding for each other that was different from the other Basterds. Hugo could rely on Y/n to have his back and vice versa. Never did they question the other’s decision or actions even if the Basterds disagreed. While it took a few months, they eventually considered them friends instead of mere comrades.

He didn’t know when he started to see Y/n in a different light. Maybe it was when he watched her dance in a tavern with Omar and Aldo. Or maybe it was when she shot at the nazi sneaking up behind him from her sniper's den. He found peace in the moments they would sit by the fire and not say a single word. Admiration in the way she didn’t give a fuck about what people thought of her. Held her ground and owned her mistakes. Maybe it wasn’t full blown love Hugo felt for Y/n, but there was a deep fondness for her.

Whatever it was, Wicki seemed to catch on.

Like right now when he spotted the blonde observing Y/n scalping her latest kill. Trying to get Hugo to man up and confess his feelings to their fellow Basterd was like teaching a toddler simple manners. “I don’t see what you are so afraid of, Hugo. You two are friends. And from what I’ve seen when you’re not looking, I think she feels the same.”

Hugo couldn’t ignore the slight skip in his heart at the assumption. Still stoic, the German shrugged his shoulders, “We’ve got a job to do, Wilhelm. There’s no time for—.”

“No time for what?” The two men jump at the sound of Y/n joining their conversation. Neither noticed she had moved from her spot.

“Nothing,” Hugo sputters out, placing his knife back in its holster. In his head he was hoping to whatever God she didn’t hear what they were saying. So much as catching the word ‘she’ Y/n would know it was her given she was the only woman in miles.

Tilting her head, Y/n keeps her expression neutral. “Wicki, can you give Hugo and I a moment alone.”

“Of course,” the man excuses himself, bidding a glance to Hugo on the way out. Once he was a good distance away and none of the other Basterds were in sight Y/n approached Hugo. He waited for her to speak, but instead was left stunned at the feeling of her lips pressing to his cheek.

“Wh-what was that for?” A smirk is her response.

“I think you know,” she throws a wink. “You and Wicki’s forget your voices carry.” Red flares on Hugo’s cheeks, but he manages to calm it down. Y/n only widens her smile, “Don’t worry about saying what you feel,” she gives another kiss, though this time on the corner of his lips. “I can see it in your actions.”

Spinning on her heel, Y/n starts making her way back to the others when Hugo calls out to her, still shocked by what had taken place, “What does this mean then? For us?”

“Whatever you desire, darling,” Peering over her shoulder the woman gives a cheeky smirk, “think you can keep up?”

#hugo stiglitz imagine #hugo stiglitz x reader #hugo stiglitz #Hugo Stiglitz fanfiction #Hugo Stiglitz x y/n #inglorious basterds #inglorious basterds x reader #inglorious basterds imagine #inglorious basterds fanfiction #til schweiger #quentin tarantino characters

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toast-writes · 11 months

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Struck By Cupid's Arrow (Daryl Dixon x Reader)

Description: It's Valentine's Day (or close to it, at least), and you're trying to come up with the perfect gift for Daryl. Gender isn't specified, no use of (Y/N). [Also I wrote this in February, and haven't wrote in awhile. I apologize if this is kinda bleh, but I figured it was decent enough to post here lololol]

Words: 1,280

Warnings: nothing but sappy good times

You sat at the small, cluttered desk in your bedroom, peering out the window as you watch the trees sway with the bitingly cold wind; the branches and ground below were covered in a blanket of snow. You thought maybe if you watched nature do its thing, you'd find that groundbreaking inspiration for the project you were working on, because Valentine's Day was rearing it's soft, rosey face right around the corner, and you had no clue what to give your boyfriend.

Balls of paper were crumpled at your feet, each one containing a sappy poem scribbled inside. Your hand lay still on the paper with a pen gently nestled between your index and thumb.

"Why is this so hard?! I jus- aw, biscuits!" The pen had left an inky puddle onto the paper. You sigh, wadding it up and tossing it behind with the others. Everything had to be perfect. This was your first Valentine's Day as a real couple, and you'd be damned if things weren't gonna go as planned.

"You know what," you speak to yourself, pulling out a pair of scissors and red construction paper, "I'll just make a card." You always thought you were at least halfway decent with the whole "arts-and-crafts" thing, so why not put your skills to the test and just craft something together.

After a another few failed attempts, you look at the little arrow-pierced heart with a slight sense of pride. It looked (almost) like a card you'd find at the store! The hard part is coming up with something on the inside.

You chew absentmindedly on the end of your pen as you ponder over good one-liners, then it hit you. A smile stretches across your face as the ink flows gracefully against the paper.

'Cupid, you've struck me with your arrow ♡' '

It was cheesey, sure, but the sentiment and meaning was still there.

Your heart gives a giddy leap as you think about giving it to Daryl. Even before, this time of year always brought joy to you. You loved nothing more than to, well, love. Whether it was family or friends, but this time? You had someone to call yours, someone to share a romantic love with, and that brought even more happiness to you.

The plan was for Daryl to stop by in the evening, and the two of you would exchange gifts then. You had annoyed Daryl about it all week.

"Hey, don't forget we've got Valentine's plans in a few days!"

"How could I forget when ya've been talkin' my ear off about it every damn near day."

Right on schedule, there was a gentle rapping at the door, and you practically flung your self down the stairs with your hand-made gift behind your back. You opened the door with an excited, "Hi!!" and invited the man in, giving him a quick peck to the lips.

Candles dimly lit the living room, their sweet, alluring aroma filled the air. You really did put in some thought to this, wanting every second to be magical. Daryl was not one to "celebrate" this kind of holiday, unlike you. He never really saw himself as romantic, or loving for that matter. He didn't understand the whole concept of a day revolving around chocolates and flowers, or couples being ext-

"Do you want a glass of wine?"

That piqued his interest. He follows you over to the couch as you tried your best to keep the card hidden from sight before "discreetly" setting it on the end table under a book, and take a seat.

The cork releases from the bottle with a loud 'pop!' and you fill both glasses about halfway.

"I would've made a spaghetti dinner to go along, but I don't have spaghetti." You tell him, a small frown etched on your face.

"S'alright," he replies, reaching for the wine and taking a gulp, "you've done plenty." His words were sincere and you could just melt with the love you felt for him.

"Mm-" he let out a noise of acknowledgement with another mouth full, "almos' forgot." He pulls out a silvery chain and gestures for you to turn around.

"I thought you said you weren't gonna forget," You taunted, a playful smirk playing at your lips.

"Shut up an' close yer eyes."

The cool metal nips at your neck, contradicting the warmth of Daryl's fingers. That familiar fluttery feeling worms its way into your chest again as you grow more and more eager to see what laid so delicately at your chest.

Daryl grunts, signaling you to open your eyes, and you let out a happy little gasp. The most beautiful, dainty moonstone necklace wrapped with wire in the shape of the tree of life sat so sweetly against your skin, glimmering in the candle light.

"Found it in one o'them gift shops up the way. Reminded me of ya."

You turn back to the archer, engulfing him in a hug. He tenses a bit at your touch, but just as quick melts into your arms, hugging you back.

"This is so sweet of you! And all I did was make you a-"

You pull away, a wave of embarrassment coating your cheeks with a warm kiss.

"What'd'ja make me?" He pushes, curiosity lacing his voice.

'Oh, god. He's not gonna like my gift. He got me a gem and I made a dinky little card.'

"Um," you start, averting your gaze, "I don't wanna exchange gifts anymore."

You go to stand up, but quickly get pulled back down by your wrist.

"Ya did not talk m' damn ear off abou' this holiday fer days jus' to chicken out at th' las' second."

The two of you stare into each other's eyes at a stalemate.

"I ain't leavin' without no gift." He finalized, leaning back into the couch with his foot resting over his knee.

'Crap.'

You reach behind you, carefully holding your little card in both hands and shyly hand it to him, "don't laugh."

His brow creases as he takes the gift into his hold, looking over every detail and snip you made before opening it.

You palms grow clammy as you watch his eyes flick over the words inside, and his mouth noticeably twitches.

'Fuck, he's gonna laugh at me he thinks it's stupid.'

"I love this." He admitted, a gentle half-smile danced on his face.

'Oh?'

"You, uh- you do?"

He nods, "yeah." His chest swarms with tender love as he reads over it one more time. Not many people have done what you did to express their love or appreciation for him. The fact it was all hand-made, and the time it must've taken to set everything up helped him come to the realization that he is loved.

Daryl may still not totally get the hype for this holiday, but after everything you do for him, he does understand what it's like to be struck by cupid's arrow.

#fanfiction #daryl x you #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #twd #twd x you #twd x reader #the walking dead #beginner writer #writeblr #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fluff

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yeonhwrts · 2 years

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— 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 . . ୧

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 : implied smut , fluff i guess?

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 𝟒 𝐔 : this is for @jaysbestie ! I hope you love this 🤍 thank u for joining my 100 followers event ( > < )

i was on my Taylor Swift feels , so i wrote this while listening to dress by Taylor Swift! I'd recommend to hear it while reading this :)

You slowly opened your eyes, yawning as the morning light sparkled across your chest and face. You instinctively reached over to grab your boyfriend, Soobin, but found that his side of the bed was empty and cold. You pouted and rubbed your eyes. Dating Soobin was all you could ask for, he's amazing, incredible, but he was an idol and has a schedule to follow. He often times left early in the morning and sometimes would only return at 3 in the morning .

It was your favorite thing to wake up to him pulling you closer into his body, intertwining your legs together. But today would not be one of those days. You were used to it, though. You sat up on the edge of your bed and slid your toes out into the chilly morning air. You placed your slippers on and opened your dresser next to your bed and pulled on one of soobin's hoodie.

You stretch your arms above your head and shuffled your way towards your bedroom door when you spotted a gift bag sitting on your vanity chair. You stared at it for a moment, your hand resting on your cold doorknob.

It’s a long black silky dress, with petite straps and a slit down the side up to the thigh. It was simple but a bit flirty. You were surprised as Soobin rarely ever bought you clothes, knowing how picky you were, and it made your heart skip a beat knowing Soobin pictured you in this dress and wanted you to wear it. You smiled back at yourself in the mirror.

You twirled around, clinging the material to your body. When you stopped, you noticed a little note on the floor that must have fell out of the bag when you took the dress out. You bent down and picked it up, black ink written messily in Soobin's handwriting .

‘Make sure you’re wearing this when I get home tonight’

You realized he must have wanted to take you out when he gets home and you feel your heart leap like you just started dating.

You went about your normal day, getting a quick shower and breakfast in, then heading to work.

The hours ticked by so painfully slow. You kept checking the clock as you sat at your work desk, typing away.

When it finally reached five o’clock, you happily made your way home, excited for your date with your boyfriend tonight. Soobin texted you around six letting you know he’s on his way home and you jumped up from your cozy seat on the couch and made your way upstairs.

You slipped the dress on and admire yourself in the mirror, “Wow i really do look good in this .” You said to yourself, laughing. You paired the dress with your favorite black heels and you heard Soobin walk in the door. Your hair and makeup was already done from work so you grabbed your purse and made your way downstairs.

Soobin set his keys down on the kitchen table when you walked in to the kitchen. He was wearing a black shirt and fitting dark jeans. His hair fell all over his face and you could smell his cologne making its way to your senses.

You smiled as he looked over at you and his eyes almost fell out of his head. “Shit- Y/N,” He mumbled. You giggle at how caught off guard he was, the sight of you in that dress enough to make him drop to his knees right there.

You walked over to him and did a little twirl, “It’s beautiful, thank you,” you blushed as Soobin caught your hands in his and looked you up and down.

“So, where are you taking me tonight, soobinnie ? ,” You asked, intertwining your fingers in his. His eyes were still busy inching over your figure when he finally looked up at you. “To the bedroom,” he whispered huskily.

You feel your core grow warm at his husky voice and your cheeks heat up. “What?” You ask, slightly confused, but still smirking.

“I wasn’t planning on taking you out anywhere,” He said quietly, his fingers now tracing over your accentuated hips. You felt goosebumps form on your arms as Soobin's slow touch teases you.

“I only bought this dress for you to take it off.”

navi!?

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natcliachen · 23 days

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TASK 001 - THE NEWS

LOCATION: Natalia's Apartment in Paris, France DATE: Friday, September 2, 2005 TASK: How does your character react to learning of Richard’s passing?

Natalia had come home on her lunch break for a bit of a reprieve from work. Geneviève was deep into her preparation for Fashion Week. It put the entire studio on edge, making everyone from the stylists to the designers antsy and ill-tempered. If she had to suffer through another rant about a change Geneviève made that the others didn’t agree with, she might just bury a pair of 10-inch shears into one of her coworkers. So, for her sake — and she supposed everyone else's — she was spending some time away from them.

She was in her small kitchen, finding solace in a chilled bottle of rosé when she heard a knock on her door. Her first thought was that it better not be anyone from work with more piffling complaints about Geneviève’s choices. When she pulled open the door to find a courier on the other side, her brows pulled together. She wasn't expecting anything. After a quick signature, she received an envelope. She figured it must have been an invitation of some kind since people texted these days.

Reading that the piece of mail had come from Woodrow, Natalia quickly went through the important dates she knew were coming up. Richard’s birthday had passed, so perhaps it was something for Mrs. Tristan? She didn’t get further than one or two steps from the door before she opened the envelope to find out.

It was a letter, not an invitation. In pristine handwriting that she recognized as Mrs. Tristan's, it detailed the news of Richard's death, an invitation to his subsequent funeral, and that she and the rest of the wards were left Woodrow House and its estate in equal parts. I urge you to come together in this time of need, it said. Richard’s funeral will be held on Sunday.

She blinked, her gaze wandering off momentarily to try and process what she'd just read before her eyes found the letter once more. She went over it again and again to make sure there was no mistake in how she understood it. Each swirl of ink. Letter by letter. Word by word. But every time she made it to the end, the reality remained stubbornly unchanged: Richard was... dead? The thought felt like a cruel joke, a surreal twist in an otherwise ordinary day.

She couldn't say how long she'd been staring at the letter before she finally noticed the trembling in her fingers. Then very quickly, she became aware of everything else: An unsteadiness in her chest. A tightness in her throat. Before she could give the reaction any more room to grow, she knew she had to move. There was a flight to book. A suitcase to pack. A very fussy designer to disappoint.

[This entire conversation is had in French. But because no one wants to go through the trouble of Google Translating dialogue line by line, it's being written in English.<3]

"I'm flying back to New York tomorrow." Said and out of the way. Geneviève always appreciated how direct Natalia could be. She didn't see any point in changing how she communicated just because of the subject matter.

"Yes, and I'm leaving for Santorini tonight." There's a laugh. Natalia squared her jaw. Her boss thought she was joking.

"I'll be gone for a week. Two at most," she added.

That was enough to get Geneviève to look up from the design she was working on. There was a look in her eyes she's never seen before. A cross between fascination (likely over what Natalia was saying right now) and disbelief (that she would say it at all).

"You seem to misremember what our roles are, Natalia. I'm the one that gets to leave out of the blue while you stay behind and take care of things."

Natalia swallowed slowly. While she'd normally take more time to consider what she was saying, the words that left her were... unrefined. Showed a lack of tact. For the person she was speaking to. For her future. Her mind felt so clouded by the weight of what she'd read an hour ago that she was having trouble feeling much of herself at all.

"Richard passed away. I'm needed at—" Home. "—Woodrow. There are things that need to be taken of."

There was a shift in Geneviève's demeanor — momentarily — but a shift she caught all the same.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The condolences felt odd to hear. Natalia only just considered that she might be hearing more of it once she returned.

"But you can't leave," Geneviève continued on. "Not right now. We're deep in our preparation for Fashion Week. You're needed here. You know I can't stand the level of buffoonery some of these people are capable of. We can send flowers. An extravagant arrangement. I'll even pay for it."

"My flight is booked. I've packed. I'm only here now because it felt important to tell you in person."

Geneviève's lips sat in an unpleasant twist. Clearly astounded by the amount of gall Natalia had. Her audacity was something her boss liked about her, but clearly not in this moment.

"Don't push me, Natalia."

"I'm going whether it's okay or not."

They shared a heavy, heavy stare. An entire conversation had without any words. Natalia recognized a fiendish anger in Geneviève's eyes. Some disappointment over the realization that perhaps they weren't as similar as she thought. Possible regret over how she had let the lines blur between them. The comfort they shared with each other, built through catty talks over others and a few careless evenings in each other's beds, building to a point of casual betrayal.

"If you leave... you don't come back."

Natalia wasn't a fool. Of course it was something she considered going into this conversation. But the news of Richard's passing drowned out all other thoughts — especially ones with reason. She'd never felt such a desperation to be anywhere before. Like she couldn't breathe properly until she got there. She'd throw her whole life away, without much thought, if it meant seeing the dark mahogany walls of Woodrow again.

"Then I won't come back. I wish you the best for Fashion Week."

She'll be bringing a lot more luggage than she thought to the airport tomorrow.

#wrhq.task #i've rewritten this a bajillion times and still hate it ahhh

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chalkscene · 2 years

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fruits basket ⇢ YOU HAVE A SURPRISE FOR THEM

ft. kyo sohma, yuki sohma & hatori sohma

“perfect,” you mutter to yourself as you’ve finished plating the starter and the main course for your surprise dinner for KYO. with a lot of time to spare, you take a quick break before preparing the last dish, admiring your dimly lit home adorned with led candles you’ve set up around the place. at the center of the dining table sits a glass vase holding a small carnation, kyo’s birth flower. you even took out your finest tableware for this. lately, kyo’s been working hard—a lot harder than usual—and though he never admits it, you can tell he’s exhausted so you figured you’d do something nice for him. everything is perfect, you think. you’re too giddy when the dessert starts to come together that you don’t hear the front door open. “what’s all this?” you swear you feel your heart drop. if you didn’t have a tight grip on the mixing bowl, you would’ve spilled the batter all over the floor. you quickly spin on your heels and face kyo. “what are you doing here?” you ask with urgency that confuses the orange-haired culprit. “i wanted to surprise you and come home early.” “today? of all days?” “i thought you’d be happy.” a flash of hurt in his eyes makes you backpedal, “i am but this was supposed to be a surprise.” you gesture to the ingredients on the kitchen counter with a sigh before shooting kyo a scowl, “and you ruined it.” laughing, he makes his way over to you and pulls you into his arms to press a soft kiss over your frown. “i didn’t get the reaction i hoped for so you ruined my surprised, too. we’re even.”

“how was your final?” you ask YUKI over the phone. “it went well, i think.” “i’m proud of you!” you punctuate it with an exaggerated mwah that he can’t help but laugh, already feeling the exam-induced jitters slowly leave his body. “tell me that when i’m sure it went well.” “i just know it did and we’re gonna celebrate together.” upon hearing the mention of your reunion, he smiles to himself, mentally counting the days until he’s back home, “i can’t wait to see you again.” “oh, that reminds me,” you suddenly perk up, “have you gotten the package yet?” “what package?” “i sent you something. should be there any minute now.” “wait. what’s the occasion?” he tries to rack his brain, silently praying he didn’t forget an important date but you must’ve sensed the worry in his voice because you quickly reassure him. “nothing, silly. i just miss you.” he feels his shoulders relax as his anxiety dissipates at your giggly tone. “i miss you too.” as if on cue, the doorbell rings throughout the apartment. “hold on, i think it’s here.” at the instant yuki swings the door open, he almost drops his phone. “yeah, i’m here.”

after hanging up the phone, HATORI returns to his home office. you wait for him to notice the surprise you left a few minutes ago when you snuck into the room, carefully placing the pen you’d recently bought for him on his stack of paperworks - the side with the cursive engraving of his name facing up. soon enough, he calls you over. “sweetheart, do you have an extra pen?” you glitch, unsure if you heard him right. “um… why?” “mine’s dried out.” at his response, you feel your whole body stiffen. all you can think about is how that pen was expensive. “did you check?” “i did.” “are you sure?” one nod from him is all it takes to have you darting to his desk, immediately snatching the pen from him. “what? i just bought this.” once you’ve given it a once-over, you scribble random swirls on hatori’s notepad to test it out and to your surprise, the ink comes out flawlessly. clearly amused by your predicament, your boyfriend barely contains his laughter. its deep reverberation usually makes your heart flutter but right now, you want nothing more than to strangle hatori sohma with your bare hands. “jerk,” you grumble. you halfheartedly shove the pen onto his chest but he takes your hand altogether and pulls you onto his lap before placing a tender kiss on your jaw. “thank you.”

#🍊.txt #fruits basket #fruits basket imagine #fruits basket headcanons #fruits basket x reader #kyo sohma #kyo sohma x reader #kyo x reader #yuki sohma #yuki sohma x reader #yuki x reader #hatori sohma #hatori sohma x reader #hatori x reader

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fancy-rock-dove · 1 year

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Chapter Head Art for Maybe Sprout Wings (Full set)

I have had just, So Much Fun working on these. This story really is built on such a great concept, and with such fantastic worldbuilding, and with action so thoroughly in tune with its themes that it really does reward digging into. @moorishflower's writing kills me in the best of ways (and in the sleep deprivation kind of ways but I have no regrets), and designing them was a great time. And on top of that, everyone here has been just, so lovely, so I'm very excited to post the full set of chapter head illustrations!

Stylistic consistency continues to elude me, but hopefully these look like a matched enough set regardless. Cursive titles are the chapter titles, block print is my own title for the illustration. Just for fun, and in tribute to the (probably truly unhinged) amount of time I spent thinking about Symbolism while making these, I'm including one selected Fun Fact relevant to my thoughts on some part of each of these at the bottom of this post in case that interests anyone!

Ch 1: Baobabs are some of the oldest living flowering plants on the planet and can live up to two millennia. I have a lot of feelings about the sheer volume of life these trees can contain (both spatially and in time) and what that means for how we look at them.

Ch 2: If Abel were looking to avoid anachronism, he could still absolutely have left out books that were machine-printed with moveable type, but they'd probably have to have been in Chinese or Korean, from somewhere that had already widely adopted the technology by the 14th century.

Ch 3: Homer's works contain what is believed to be the first written mention of apples in Ancient Greece. Its writing is about as many centuries removed from the events of the Odyssey as the events of this chapter are from the first recorded mention of apples in England.

Ch 4: An ink quill is definitely more aesthetic, but graphite had actually been discovered in England and pencils invented in the decades prior to Shakespeare's first writings. It's entirely possible he could've been jotting down quick notes with a pencil like any stagehand today.

Ch 5: Though Corinthian style architecture is named for the Greek city of Corinth, with which it's associated, its inventor Callimachus is actually thought to be Athenian. The spiny, curling acanthus leaves used in its motifs are generally associated with long life, immortality, and rebirth. Go figure.

Ch 6: Symbolically, clovers are a sign that others are thinking of you. They're associated with good fortune, and apparently also male energy, and seen as a sign of protection. Excellent Fiddler's Green groundcover here.

Ch 7: Three-masted, fully-rigged ships became common in Europe by the 16th or 17th centuries during the Age of Sail because the extra space for sails became more necessary with the increase in open-ocean voyages. Making them the go-to type of vessel for both trade and exploration.

Ch 8: The simple but effective design of drop spindles is largely unchanged from their first documented use in the first century CE. there's evidence of their use for spinning (making a single, stronger thread from many disparate fibers) dating back at least to the advent of agriculture, some 10,000 years ago. Definitely what I picture Clotho using.

Ch 9: The fractal, branching structures of roots, lightning, and Lichtenberg figures are all self-similar: you can get much closer and they'll still appear very similar or identical to the way they were at a distance.

Ch 10: The throne room scenes of Sandman were shot in Guildford Cathedral. The Dreaming's Castle was intentionally designed to be a mashup of a whole ton of architectural styles, but the facade and throne room definitely feel gothic or neo-gothic. It's been a classic for centuries and the gothic-style window is definitely the kind I picture Hob's room having, at least on days the castle's feeling a bit fancy.

Ch 11: The item at the front left there is a weaving shuttle. According to Artemidorus, while dreaming of most kinds of looms indicates that you should expect rest, dreaming of a warp-weighted loom -- the kind which was common in bronze-age Greece and enables multiple people to work together on the weaving -- indicates an upcoming journey.

Ch 12: I feel like I've already talked about the symbolism of this one elsewhere, so for this one, instead of a fact, a comment (that I found fun): The binding circle in this only shows up in areas covered by the puddle of the Dreaming Sea, the means by which the nature of the "gilded ring" was elucidated. :)

Ch 13: Greek ships often had eyes on their bow, which among other things, was intended to imbue them with some will and ability to avoid obstacles. The Argo famously had eyes and also some innate awareness/intelligence, and could actually speak to the crew.

Ch 14: While Calliope, muse of epic poetry and eloquence (and the one invoked at the beginning of the Odyssey) is associated with a book, scroll, or tablet, Erato, muse of romantic poetry and love stories, is depicted in crowns of rose and myrtle. My title for this one was very nearly just (Invocation pt. ii). Also, I have a headcanon that Dream has only seen very bad performances of the Odysseyif ( he's seen any at all) since antiquity. Any show that literally begins by calling his ex is something he's not gonna stay for unless he's really sure she won't actually show up.

Whew! thanks to anyone who actually read to the end of my rambling here! Clearly this whole story has been really, really fun to just turn over in my mind. Cool stuff just keeps falling out of it! Since I would literally be two photos under Tumblr's limit on this post otherwise, how about a couple bonus alternate versions at the end here? Because why not?? I added some red accents to a couple of these for fun, and though it doesn't fit the for the chapter headings, I do think it looks cool!

#Maybe Sprout Wings #fic rec #my art #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #long post #sorry?#how do I write art posts idk #dreamling

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cheeriecherrymain · 1 year

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The Bottom Of The Inkwell [Chapter 2]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Chapter Warnings: a couple of swears Proofread: no beta we die like men Chapter Summary: Your friendship with V develops, despite the great differences in your lives, and as the years progress, your feelings morph into something deeper.

You stare at the page in front of you for what feels like minutes. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, you have no idea how to reply to the question. Who are you and why is your writing showing up in my notebook? That’s a damn good question, you think.

But you don’t want to leave this supposed person waiting for too long - they’re probably already impatient enough as it is.

I don’t know why, you scribble honestly. I didn’t even know things like this could happen.

The next set of words do not appear for a little while, leaving you to anxiously watch the paper.

Was it magic, maybe? The paper? Or the pen? The pen made more sense, in your opinion - the shop you’d pinched it from had been filled to the brim with strange objects, glowing ominously in the dim light, exuding all kinds of unusual vibes. And the way the silver box had called to you, as if possessing a voice that whispered right in your ear.

Take me home, it had said.

And you did. Against your better judgment, you’d stolen something, and something valuable no less.

It has to be magic.

I think it’s the pen.

Your eyes dart up from where you’re glaring a hole in your desk, to gloss over the new words appearing.

I’ve been using it for months, and nothing strange has happened. It must have activated because you have its twin.

How do you know it’s part of a set?

It’s an educated guess.

I don’t believe that, but whatever. The box my pen came in did have space for a second, though I couldn’t find it anywhere in the shop. Where did you find yours? What does it look like?

You watch with great interest as you learn that the other tool had been found in a gutter of all places - caked in mud and various other questionable debris, your new friend had almost overlooked it. If not for the pale shine of the nib, it would have been ignored completely, and possibly lost forever.

Maybe they both need an owner in order to make them work. The words wouldn’t know where to go otherwise! And then it would just…be a normal pen. Or it would explode. I’ve heard that magic can be kind of explodey.

I haven’t seen enough magic to verify that claim. But hey, do you think we could test a few things out? I want to know more about what’s going on with these things, but I need your cooperation.

You purposefully hold your hand away from the paper for a couple moments, nearly vibrating in your seat with excitement at the prospect of having something to do while you’re trapped in your room.

That sounds like a good idea! But maybe we can start tomorrow morning, when we’re more awake?

—

Over the next couple days, you and your new friend run numerous experiments in an attempt to figure out how the pens work.

On your end, you try out each of the different nibs - they all created a different type of lettering, ranging from quick and simple, to flowing and intricate. And they all appear in the other notebook.

You both try different pieces of paper, varying in size and texture, but the result is much the same: no matter what surface you write on, the words appear in the first books you’d used. You even try scribbling on your desk at one point, but nothing happens…aside from a swatch of ink now being forever ingrained in the dark wood.

One thing that you do learn about the pens, is that they seem to be able to send messages regardless of whether or not you’re using actual ink.

Discovering it had been a total accident on your part, though. You’d been bored while waiting for a reply, and you’d been spinning the little wand around on your fingertips. All it took was a small fumble, the sharp tip pointed downwards as it fell, piercing through the skin of your opposite hand.

There hadn’t been a lot of blood from the small wound, but it had been enough to well up in the nib. You’d scribbled it across the paper instead of cleaning it off with a rag, earning both surprise and concern from your penpal. As soon as you explained what had happened, he’d all but demanded you try out different shades of ink - after you cleaned yourself up.

By the third day of working together, you run out of tests to complete. The two of you have mapped most of the parameters of the pens by that point, with your few remaining questions being ones you couldn’t answer at that point in time - was there a limit to the distance between the pens? What if one of you lost it? What if one broke?

We can figure it out in time, you tell him, doodling a cheerful face beside your words. But since we’re going to be penpals, we should know what to call each other.

What makes you think that this is going to be a regular thing?

You frown.

But we’ve been getting along so well. I like talking to you, and I think you like talking to me, too!

Yeah, but you could get in trouble. What if someone found my notebook, and it had your name penned in it?

I don’t follow.

I know your birthday, I know what city you live in, and I know how old you are. If someone steals my paper, they could figure all of that out. So if your name was also here, you’d be a target.

That sounds…incredibly paranoid, don’t you think? Why would anyone go to that length?

That’s just how things are, where I live.

You sigh deeply, saddened that you won’t even get a name for your new friend. However, when he continues writing to you, telling you that you can call him V if ever the need arises, your heart soars. He pretends to be aloof, you think, with a knowing little smirk, But he really does want to continue being friends.

—

The truth in your theory becomes clear over the next couple of weeks. You and V talk every day, asking questions about each other and trying to learn as much as you can. You play little games on the paper with one another, though he has a tendency to win - you have no idea how he’s cheating, but you know he is. Somehow.

Even when your mother finally relents to you your freedom, V still keeps you company. You think you’ve grown closer to a boy you’ve never met, than you have to anyone your parents have ever introduced to you. He doesn’t possess the same snobbish demeanor that so many of your neighbors and peers do, though you’ve noticed he can be a touch prideful.

Still, you think he’s earned it, considering how adept he is at what he does.

V is an inventor of sorts, you’ve learned. The first thing he ever made that worked as intended was a mechanical boat, complete with a motor and small fuel tank. In the years since then, though, he’s expanded to more complicated projects - ideas that could really improve the lives of a lot of people!

If he could ever get them to work like he wanted them to, he’d told you, somewhat bitterly.

When you’d inquired as to why his designs weren’t functioning, he went on a tangent; explained to you that a lot of what he does is based on trial and error - he didn’t have access to many reliable books where he was, so learning about the way things worked was through word of mouth or…failure.

Unfortunately for him, failure was expensive, and money wasn’t something his family had much of. I’m lucky enough to have a place to live, and both my parents, he’d scrawled, though you could almost hear the hopeless tone of his voice.

You wish you could help him. Where he was in the world, you wish you could do more for him besides just sympathize. He’s brilliant, and creative, and he wants to change things for the better.

You had all the books you could ever want - whatever you asked for, your parents would get it. If you had a way to get those books to him-

You pause for a moment, an idea beginning to form in your mind.

V, what if I gave you the books you need in order to keep making things?

What?

I have access to as many books as I could possibly want! I can’t send you the physical copies, but…maybe I could read them for you. We have a way of talking to each other, so maybe…maybe you write down any questions you have, and I could find the answers!

You. Would really do that? For me?

Of course! We’re friends! Plus, my parents would be fucking thrilled if I took an interest in something other than writing. It’s a win-win situation.

Are you sure you’re okay with that, though? Because I don’t want you to get bored in a couple weeks and then give up. If you do this, I’ll need you to do it.

I promise! I know we’ve only known each other for a little while, but I really feel like we could be good friends. I like you a lot - you’re kind to me, and you’re smart, and you make me laugh. I want to do this for you.

I- okay. Should I…start asking questions? Right now?

With a smile, you tell him that he can write whenever he pleases, but that you won’t start replying until the morning. The clock on your wall claims it’s nearly past midnight, and the light from the lamp on your desk is really starting to hurt your eyes, which already sting from lack of sleep.

V is quick to bid you goodnight, but right before you close your notebook, you can see one of his numerous questions beginning to appear in the pages.

Your heart flutters.

—

As you had hoped, V becomes a very dear friend as the months go by. You work hard to get him as much information as he needs, scouring through book after book to answer specific and difficult inquiries, until you also become adept enough in the subject as to offer your own suggestions.

He likes to keep his projects to himself mostly, but he’s always happy to share when your ideas worked, or when something you told him was successful. It fills you with a strange sense of pride, to know that you’re helping someone so amazing - you know he’s going to do big things with his life, and make great changes to the world. You just know it.

And yes, as the years go on, you perhaps realize that your feelings towards him aren’t entirely platonic…but you don’t utter a word of them to anyone, least of all to him. What would you say, anyways? ‘Hey V, I know we’ve never met before, but you’ve permanently altered the course of my life just by being my friend. I love you?’

No way in hell.

Sure, you were openly grateful to him for giving you the opportunity to become interested in mechanics and technology, and sure you deeply admired him as a person…and sure, he had been your biggest encouragement when you’d first started to create your own little mechanisms, even though they were utterly useless…but…

You can’t.

You can’t risk your friendship like that.

At first you’re saddened by the fact that you’ll never be able to have him in the way you want. You’re sad you’ll never be able to touch him, or kiss him, or hear his voice or the beat of his heart, or learn his little habits.

But as you grow older, it doesn’t bother you as much. You’re happy to have his company, in whatever way he’s willing to give; he’s still insightful, and he still asks questions when he’s not able to find the answer on his own. He still encourages you, and helps you work through your more complicated projects.

He even supports you when you tell him that you want to submit your application to Piltover’s Academy.

Your parents were furious about that one - you’d interrupted their plans to marry you off as soon as you turned nineteen.

They had agreed that they wouldn’t interfere with your potential acceptance to the prestigious school, but had made you swear that -should you be rejected- you would start entertaining potential suitors. With your mother’s failing health, you know that they were hoping to see you married within the year, even at the detriment to your potentially bright future.

Which is why you’re so nervous.

Sitting at your desk, chewing your nails, and staring at the large embossed envelope in front of you. It’s unopened thankfully, so you know that no one has been tampering with it, but its very presence nevertheless fills you with dread.

What if I didn’t get in, V?

You won’t know until you open it.

But the academy is for smart people. Like you! You have such a natural affinity for making things, and you’ve got such drive and passion…

And you…don’t?

I don’t know. What if I’m just…some rich girl who thinks she’s better than she actually is? What if I’m not what I think I am?

Listen, I can’t speak for the academy, but I can speak as someone who holds an amount of disdain for bigheaded, superficial pilties. You’re as good as you think you are. You’re smart, you’re resourceful, and you want to change things for the better. If the school doesn’t see that, then it’s their loss.

You take a deep, quivering breath, and straighten your posture.

I’m taking your word on it, V.

Sick of waiting and digging yourself into a deeper hole of anxiety, you grab the envelope and shred it open, nearly tearing the contents in the process.

You don’t read the entirety of the letter on the first pass, looking only for key words that can hastily tell you whether or not your future would go the way you wanted it to.

And then you see it.

“We are pleased to welcome you as a member of the student body in the new year,” you whisper, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as the words begin to blur. You sob a couple times, allowing the tension to seep out of your body, and then wipe at your eyes with a sniffle.

I got in! V, think of all the things I get to pass along to you! I’ve heard that the academy library is unparalleled by any other.

But your friend is quiet.

Worry once again begins to form a pit in your stomach.

Hey, is everything okay?

Apologies, there was a delivery.

Your shoulders sag with relief.

I…would also like to apologize for something else.

What? V, what happened?

It’s nothing bad, I promise! I just wasn’t sure about telling you…I suppose I didn’t necessarily lie about it, but I did withhold information. Willingly.

V, You’re stalling. Just spit it out!

I applied to the academy.

Pardon.

I got my acceptance letter a few days ago. I didn’t want to tell you about it, because you get so anxious about these kinds of things - I knew you’d get flustered and start doubting yourself. And you know what happens when you get into one of those moods.

You wince.

Yeah, I’d rather not have a repeat of The Summer Exams From Hell. I value my sleep too much.

I’m sorry for keeping this from you, though. I…don’t like not telling you things, if I’m being honest.

Hey, I understand why you did it. There’s no sense in one of us freaking out when neither of us could be freaking out. You’re okay, I promise.

You pause.

You do know what this means though, don’t you?

…no?

We! Can! Be! Roommates! V, this is gonna be incredible! We’ll finally get to meet in person, and I can hug you, and we can talk, and it’ll be amazing!

Your friend is idle for a startling amount of time. You can see a couple of ink dots appear on the page where he might start his next sentence, though his words never come. He’s hesitating -something he never does- and it makes your anxiety start creeping up your throat.

I said I don’t like being dishonest with you, and. I need to tell you. You’re one of the people I care about most in the world. Your friendship is invaluable, and you’ve done so much for me, I can’t even begin to repay you. I don’t know how I ever will. I…

Your heart flutters hard in your chest, as you hang off of every word.

Was he about to…?

I don’t know if I’m ready to meet face to face.

Your stomach sinks as your hopes are dashed.

It’s just…a lot will be happening all at once, and there will already be so much change going on - I just don’t want things to be uncomfortable between us. You’re my best friend, but the shock of actually seeing each other might…I don’t know.

Make things weird?

Precisely.

Your chest aches at his admission, in such a way that makes you want to curl up underneath your blankets and cry until you fall asleep, but you suppose you understand. You’d been long distance friends for so long, and you came from different walks of life - it would be a big deal to suddenly meet.

It hurts, but you’re not going to let it break your friendship apart.

Whatever you’re most comfortable with is alright.

I’m sorry.

There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s a really big step, and you’re already going to have a lot to get used to. It’s okay to not be ready. Just…promise me one thing?

Anything.

Promise we’ll meet someday at least? Even if it’s not now, or even soon, I want to be able to hug you at least once in my life. Okay?

That sounds…doable.

Promise me, V.

I promise.

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #The Bottom Of The Inkwell #academy life begins next chapter and if im lucky my brain will make it chaotic

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you-wanted-anarchy · 6 months

Text

The Dire Mechanic - A Short Story

I don’t enjoy my job. The last guy didn’t either. I don’t imagine there’s many people who would want to introduce people to their makers, day in and day out. But someone has to.

Tonight it was Matthew Parker’s turn. I started the routine writing on my clipboard. I like to talk to myself as I work. “Parker, Matthew. 43, M. Automotive technician.”

“That’s me,” Matthew sighed, from underneath the Impala he was servicing moments ago. “You OSHA?”

“I’m more like, the guy they don’t want to call.” I liked using that line. It scared people just enough that they usually started to wake up.

“What the hell’s that sup— hey. Who turned off the radio?” Matthew’s annoyance turned to confusion. He was coming around, but he didn’t get it. I almost didn’t want to make him.

“No one did, Matthew. It’s still playing, right now. Come see,” I called, as I stepped a little closer to the vintage car. The ones who go quick tend to figure it out slow for some reason. Matthew started to move but realized the first problem soon enough.

“I’m. Stuck. That don’t happen. The hell? Help a brother out, would ya,” he asked me, a slight note of panic creeping into his deep voice. I put my clipboard under my arm and reached down to grab his callused, grimy hand. I didn’t mind, I don’t get dirty anyway. Anymore, that is.

“Whoa!” he called out, “how’d you.. what?” His confusion deepened as I pulled him straight through the car he thought he was still servicing.

“Look at the radio, Matthew. The light’s still on, see?” I gave him a second to find something normal again. Grounding tends to help after a traumatic experience, after all. “Now look at the car. What do you see?”

Matthew paused for several seconds. “The poor girl. She’s.. what happened?” I knew he was understanding now.

“She fell,” I answered shortly. I was tired, and Matthew was old enough to do the math.

“But then I— Oh. I did. Damn. Are you some kind of God? I never believed in all that,” Matthew said, his confusion dissolving as we looked together at the tragic scene. Two broken bodies: his, six inches thinner than it was this morning, and the Impala’s, two feet lower than it had been a minute ago. The wheels weren’t supposed to be on the ground yet, but when you don’t maintain your lifts…

“I am not God,” I chuckled, shaking myself out of my thoughts. “You can call me the Mechanic, if you need to talk about me.”

“They call me that too. Or called, I guess. Yeesh. Don’t look too good under there, do I?”

“Not really, nope. Seen worse though. Let’s take a walk,” I suggested. I like it when they have some humor. It’s easier than working around denial. As we walked together, the garage and the street slowly faded into arbitrary nothing, swirling hues of dark blue and grey making up all we could see. Walking was unnecessary at this point, but it made conversation a little more casual, and no one likes looking at their own dead body for too long, it feels good to move away from the scene.

“So, what’s it for me now? Where do I, yknow. Go?” Matthew’s question was reasonable. I was starting to like the guy a little bit. Not an easy thing for someone like me.

“Would you mind answering a few questions? Nothing you haven’t done before, but it helps get everything in order.” I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t want to. They usually don’t cooperate as well. I have a job to do. I don’t have to like it.

“Sure, I guess I got time.” More jokes. I really don’t like getting attached, but there’s no need to be rude to a dead guy.

“Can you tell me your employer’s name, last then first, to start?” I clicked my pen twice as we spoke, and as I wrote the name I repeated it back, as usual. The ink glowed an ugly red in contrast with the abstract darkness of our surroundings. “Miller.. Ashton… thank you,” I said. As I continued the usual spiel of questions, the routine allowed my mind to wander again.

I wondered how long Mr. Miller would scream when I handed in the form. Doubtless, a while. Eternal punishment comes in all shapes and sizes. Getting a man killed is just as bad as killing him yourself. Did that make me a murderer? Probably. Aren’t all Reapers though? What else was a Reaper, if not just another kind of killer? What if we cause the deaths we visit?

I shook myself off that line of thinking. I was doing justice. Someone had to pay the price, to keep the balance for Mr. Parker here getting into Heaven for free. The one who caused his death. The man who let him get flattened by a ‘68 Impala. Yes, that was it. This was the right thing.

“Holy moly,” Matthew said. We were here. Good old pearly gates. They had lost their luster to me long ago, but to Matthew it must have been the greatest thing since the socket wrench.

“Holy, yes. That’s the idea anyway— excuse me a moment,” I said to him, turning to Saint Peter. “Add this one to the list, will you bud?” I told him. He didn’t have much choice after all. We all play our roles. As he tucked the form I’d just filled out into an opalescent desk drawer, I could swear I heard Ashton Miller’s screams already. But he wouldn’t see justice for at least another decade, more than likely. Shame.

“So I just. Walk on in, now?” the man asked, already stepping forward, doubtless by no will of his own. Nonetheless, Peter nodded, waving him in, before turning to me silently. His somber expression spoke centuries of the pain I only had known for a few dozen years. My one and only friend in this - quite literal - hell of a job. We all play our parts.

Be careful at work. The last face anyone wants to see is the Dire Mechanic. But usually, for the ones I meet. It is.

I walked an arbitrary path back to solid ground, pulling my clipboard from thin air, and started to talk as I wrote again. No rest for the wicked.

#short story #religious trauma #no more writers block #musings of a degenerate #dire mechanic

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sunny6677 · 2 years

Text

Glamour

A BATIM x Fem!Reader

CHAPTER 1, PART 1: RECORDING GOLD.

TWS: SMOKING, BATIM, CROWDS.

A/N: In celebration of Batims return, I've decided to make this.

----------------------

1932, February 3rd

On a bright and beautiful Sunday, just in the midst of Brooklyn, a glamorous star by the name of Y/N L/N was asked to do some voice work for one of the background characters.

Y/N L/N was a star who had been casted in several movies, and was idolized by many.

Whatever she wore, the crowd would wear too. Whatever she did, the crowd would do too. Whatever she said, the crowd would agree upon.

To many, she was an icon of the fashion world; she had her own style, a style many would come to adore even after her vanishing.

She, with her slip dresses and high heels, would soon run the world. The world was a fashion show to her, and all she had to do was walk the runway.

On the cold, winter day in the afternoon-- Y/N approached with mobs of people following after. She payed them no attention, only looking ahead and smiling if the person approached politely enough.

The clacking of her heels was faint in the buzzing of the crowd, she could barely hear her own fragile voice attempting to answer the questions.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Cameras would snap pictures of her no matter what she did. For no matter what she wore or no matter the way she behaved, the crowd was still mesmerized.

"Y/N! Y/N!" Random people in the crowd cried after her. She was starting to walk faster, in the hopes that she'd approach the studio soon. The clacking of her heels grew louder as she finally spotted the large figure of the building she wanted to desperately see.

Growing impatient, she began to speed toward the door, only just noticing a man stepping outside. It was the man who had called her to the studio; Joey Drew himself.

Ah, yes. He had a voice anyone could recognize due to his rising popularity, real southern and jolly at that. A mustache and face similar to Walt Disney, it was almost surprising they were not related at all.

He was about 5'9 in his height, and had a toothy smile that anyone could smile back at. She noticed his light blue eyes for a moment, and caught them staring back at her.

Approaching his figure quicker, she finally found herself making it to the door. He gestured for her to come in, and of course, she quickly nodded.

He opened the door for her, bowing his head like a gentleman. She in return bowed her own, and entered the studio with a quick fumbling of her own body.

She panted heavily, as Joey hushed joyful nothings to the crowd and bid them an adieu-- for he then smiled at them, and closed the door.

"Hohoho! There you are, Ms. L/N! How are you doing this fine day?" He asked curiously, holding out his hand as an offer for her to be able to stand up stablely again.

She glanced down at his palm, and only groaned; sliding her hand up the wall and attempting to grasp his hand with her free one.

"Ohh.. I'm alright. Long day is all." She answered.

"Hahaha! I understand! Here at Joey Drew Studios, we get a lot of those! But we're doing just swell!" He replied.

"Well, I can see that, Mr. Drew;" She glanced at the dusty atmosphere of the corridor, "but if I may, are we going to walk on over to the recording Studio soon? I believe that I have a lot to do today, so if we could just--"

"Hoho! Don't worry, I've gotcha covered. Hey, say-- along the way, why don't I introduce you to some of the staff members?" Asked Joey.

"Well, I suppose if it doesn't take too long--"

"Great! Now let's get going!"

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The yellowish aesthetic of the lights gave her sparkling golden dress an even more amber glow. Her black jacket only remained a dark yellow, calmly glittering with the airs eery feel. A cascade of dark ink dripped down from corners of the corridors, giving the place an already creepy aura.

She followed behind Joey mindlessly, wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into. She wondered if there was even a janitor around the place. Maybe she would be able to suggest something like that to her probably new boss later.

As she stepped into the music department, Joey's cheerful voice erupted again: "And here we have the music department! Why, when you get the job, I'm sure you'll be able to fit right in with everyone here!" Y/N only nodded and gazed around the room in response.

They walked past employees presumably doing their jobs; some stopping to take a glance at the woman they didn't even think they would see in their work place. She heard gasps erupt from their mouths, mumbling and chattering between workers. Joey only grinned at the whispers.

"See? People here already like you!" He whispered with a smile.

"Well, I'd say that's a relief." Y/N tried to grin back, feeling the substance of her lipstick against her lips slightly as she forced the corners of her mouth upwards.

While she did appreciate the constant praise she received, she didn't exactly feel comfortable with the fact that she'd most likely be working there soon; so she would probably receive it more often then usual.

Joey only watched with soaking eyes of constant euphoria as more and more of the employees stared in her direction, his mouth nearly trembled with the attention she was getting.

Finally, he turned to her and said; "I'll go ahead and get Mr. Lawrence-- you are singing for your audition after all."

"A-- Ah.. right." Muttered Y/N, only just remembering that she was supposed to sing. She could sing fine; in fact, that was basically her entire brand. She just had one thing that most people who loved to sing would dread: stage fright.

"Hmm.. why don't you go ahead and make yourself comfortable in the recording studio? Me and Sammy'll be up there in a bit." He suggested with the iconic toothy grin that he always gave everyone. Her lips quivered, but she smiled back at him with a twinkle in her eyes. "Of course, sir."

"Here, the doors this way." Smiled Joey, gesturing to the door.

"Thank you, sir." Replied Y/N. Walking up to the door, she twisted the handle and stepped inside the room, and took in the sights. The rook was big-- gigantic in height and practically able to swallow any and all who stepped inside.

Matching with the studios orange and yellow color, there was a projector on top of a balcony like place from above-- but no light emitted from its core.

Several chairs were scattered around one area of the room, and a piano was in the corner next to what could only be presumed to be the recording place.

The microphone from above and the papers lying on the top of the stand was what gave it away. If she were correct, she'd probably be doing voice work with Susie Campbell often.

Susie Campbell was the actress for Alice Angel-- one of the main characters for the animations. She was Bendys love interest, and although she was more of an angel, little devil horns sprouted from her head.

From what Y/N knew, Susie loved her character more than anything. Y/N wouldn't tell her, but she and Susie did share the same mutual love over Alice.

Taking a few steps foward, she took a seat on a nearby chair, and rested her exhausted arms around the upper part of the chair.

She sighed, and thought of her day so far. Her crispy bacon and eggs that she had for breakfast this morning in a rush, her hurried attempt at getting ready, everything was practically a mess today.

Spreading her legs in a cuddle of complicated knots, she took a deep breath and only hoped that she would be left alone for a minute or two.

Musical instruments were layed around different parts of the musical area, Y/N wriggled her fingers-- only imagining the complicated work of a musician.

She found herself with the desire to smoke a cigarette; it was what she had always done whenever she felt stressed. But she had forgotten to take her purse, and internally, she cursed herself for doing so.

"Ah, shit.." She whispered softly in light frustration. For a few moments longer, the studio didn't breathe.

But a breath came; and light peeked out from what could only be the door.

A whining creak sounded from its opening, and she cringed at the sound physically.

Disguising her face with polite nothing, she prepared to greet what she could only assume to be Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Drew.

But instead-- what came was a broom slightly sliding in.

The pair of hands holding it was revealed from the slight hiding of the wall-- and finally-- a figure she didn't recognize slowly peeked in. Emerald green eyes stared back at her.

And.. whom she was staring at was..

"O-- Oh! Ms-- Ms. L/N?"

#batim #read the tws #batim x reader #batdr #sammy lawrence #joey drew

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springvaletales · 15 days

Text

Waking Up (From the Perspective of Someone Who was Fully Lucid)

((A companion piece to this one, because the more I worked on the worldbuilding around the Curse, the more I looked back and realized that Michael would not have been coherent enough to hold a conversation that quickly, and it Bothered Me enough to make me write more.))

It had been thirty-one hours since they'd brought Michael home from the Deadlands keep, and Vashael had yet to leave his side.

Velenna had warned him that Michael wouldn't awaken on his own for at least a day, if not more. The amount of mana that the curse (he was cursed, and had kept it secret) required to reform his body was enormous, and Michael's depleted reserves would have to regenerate before his body would have enough energy to be awake. Knowing this, Vashael stayed by his bedside anyway. Whenever Michael woke, he wanted to be there. He had to be there. He had to reach out every few hours to check for a pulse (eerily calm, but there nonetheless) and watch his friend's chest rise and fall in slow, steady breaths.

It was the only thing that reassured him this dream - this second chance where he didn't cause his best friend's death - was real.

Velenna left him to it, for the most part, only entering the basement to stoke the fire that warmed the house, or offer the prince a meal. Occasionally she would check on Michael, but she alway seemed sullenly satisfied with what she found, and never did more than adjust the blankets covering him or gently card her claws through his hair in a motherly way. Vashael watched these moments in silence, and hoped that her lack of differing treatment was a good sign. He wondered how many times had this had happened for such a situation to become routine for her; for Michael.

It made him feel ill to think too long about, so he sought out a distraction from his thoughts.

It felt almost intrusive to look around Michael's room without his permission, but Vashael had never been good at sitting down and doing nothing. His eyes couldn't help but wander around the stone and wooden walls and take in how an unused corner of a basement had been walled off and turned into his friend's personal haven. He'd been there before, of course, but it had never been for too long. Most of their nights together happened on the road, or while camping, or in taverns, or even in Vashael's own bedroom in the palace. Michael had always made the visits to his level of Velenna's home quick ones...usually just long enough to retrieve a book or a scroll that would have been useful to their latest adventure.

The room was fairly simple in its decorating, with a bed, a desk, a vanity, a small bookcase, two chairs and a pair of small woven rugs to fill the space. Vashael would have found it rather spartan, if not for the enchanted snapshots pinned all over the wall between the desk and bookcase, and the books stacked on the chair or turned down on the rug, as if the reader would be back at any moment. The desk was covered in parchment paper and maps stained with charcoal and ink, and on its top edge were several small boxes filled with scrolls, a closed torchflower, and nearly every single stone that Vashael could recall gifting to the man. Small brass figurines weighed down the edges of the topmost map, or served as markers on paths marked out across the hand drawn landscapes.

Vashael couldn't help but notice the resemblance between the figures (a dragon, a cobra, a bull, and a crane) and their friends, and how the marked path followed the route Naoka, Haaruma, and Bashur were supposed to take on their current quest.

The rest of the room, however, felt almost sharply divided from these fond reminders of Michael's inquisitive nature and care for his friends. The top of the vanity - which itself was pushed up against the wall opposite the bed - was covered in a thin layer of dust, despite the spotlessness of the room around it. The mirror was covered by an old piece of heavy, tattered cloth, and slightly askew, as if it had been thrown there once and never adjusted. It didn't seem like it was used much.

The wardrobe squeezed into the alcove just beside the bed showed more signs of active use, and one door stood ajar, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to close it when they left. Inside, Vashael could see a few clothing items hurriedly folded on the floor, rather than hung on the rack above. Most of the clothes were simple linen or cotton with simple designs in muted shades of red or brown, or spare uniforms for Bethany's Tavern. One coat was carefully hung on the back of this open door - all fine silk and soft fur trimming - and Vashael felt his lips move to smile at the sight of it.

He'd bought that coat for Michael just months ago, after seeing him eye it longingly in a shop window when the group had stopped in Redfeather City to resupply on their journey home, and still remembered the look of surprise and cautious joy on his friend's face when he'd found it laid out on his bed at the inn later that day.

The only other thing of interest in the room was a series of tally marks scratched into the headboard of the bed. Vashael wasn't quite sure what these were for, but he had a theory...and it made his skin prickle just to think about. Were they a counter for how many days Michael had laid in bed, too exhausted from the side effects of his resurrection to get up? Or were they a counter for how many times he had come back?

Vashael was standing across the room, staring at but not really seeing the collection of enchanted photographs pinned up to the wooden walls as these thoughts whirled through his head when a sudden sharp gasp broke the silence that had reigned almost supreme for more than a day. The prince spun around to face the bed, and his heart soared to see those blue eyes open.

"Michael?" His joy quickly turned to concern as he rushed to the bedside and leaned over the human, and Michael stared through him for a second or two before his eyes managed to focus. "What's wrong - are you hurt? Should I get Velenna?" He fretted. He'd seen with his own eyes that the grievous injury that had caused his death was healed without even a scar to show for it. Was something else wrong?

Instead of answering, Michael started trying to sit up. Vashael froze in shock for a moment (Velenna had said he wouldn't have the strength to move for at least another day after waking) before he sat down on the edge of the bed and gently pushed his friend back down against the slope of pillows.

"Hey, hey, don't get up..." He admonished. Michael's response was a frustrated huff, even as he relented and stopped fighting to rise. He tried to reach out his right hand instead, but it visibly shook from the effort to lift it just a few inches. Instinctively, Vashael took Michael's wrist in his left hand and pressed the human's palm to the front of his silken shirt.

"Listen, Velenna said you're going to be all worn out, for a while." Vashael started to rub his thumb across the back of Michael's hand, and that seemed to calm him more. "Anything you need, your mother or I can get for you, for now." Michael looked at him, and whispered something, but the prince couldn't quite make out the words. He kept up his soothing circles as Michael's eyelids fell halfway, despite him still struggling to talk, and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"...you were right, by the way." Vashael said quietly. Michael's eyelids flickered open a bit further as he was spoken to, but he still seemed to struggle to focus. "That was very scary." Michael's lips moved again, and Vashael stared at them as then formed a jumbled apology. His own lips pressed into a thin line in an effort not to quiver, and he fought down the emotion rising to the top of his throat. There was no need to get emotional. Everything was fine now.

Everything was fine.

....

"Before you died-." Vashael stopped himself when his voice cracked in grief, and swallowed thickly. He stopped rubbing his thumb over the back of Michael's hand and shifted to cover it with his palm, instead. "I held you until you passed, you know." He said in a quieter voice. He wasn't sure how much Michael remembered of the previous few days - Velenna said it was never much - but he wanted his friend to know that he hadn't been alone. "I listened to your heart stop, and then you fell apart in my arms. Quite literally." He laughed, and the sound raked like claws at his heart as he cast his eyes down to the patchwork bedspread.

There was nothing funny about watching your lover die because of your own stupid decisions.

"...Velenna wasn't surprised, either. She knew exactly where you would be." Vashael felt his eyes begin to sting at the implication this rose, and the lump in his throat did its best to strangle him. "Why did she know that?" He looked back up, but Michael's eyes were closed. For a moment, Vashael's heart sank. Velenna had said that these moments of wakefulness would be short, after all....but then he felt the cold fingers pinned beneath his twitch, and curl against the fabric of his shirt. Michael's eyes still didn't open, but his lips moved. His voice came in cracks and rare, whispered words, and though Vashael strained to catch them in the silence, the only words he could make out were 'I', 'stupid', and 'sorry'.

The prince's heart sank again. Was Michael blaming himself?

"Hey..." Vashael cradled the side of his lover's face with his free hand, and Michael's eyes snapped open, as if startled. He didn't pull away, however, and quickly relaxed as if the prince's hand were the only thing holding his head up. Maybe it was. "I'm...I'm sorry, too." Vashael said quietly. Something hot slid down the side of his face, and he tried so hard to ignore it.

"I'm the idiot who thought we could handle those bandits ourselves. I almost got us both killed-...." Michael's eyes still struggled to focus on his own, but Vashael held their gaze when he could. "If not for this...curse..." His voice cracked again, and he had to stop to regain his composure. Gods, but it hurt to say out loud. "...I would have gotten you killed." He started to shift - to readjust his balance on the edge of the bed - but before he could pull away, Michael's free hand met his and pressed insistently.

He had little more strength then a light breeze, and Vashael could have easily pulled away, but he didn't. He let Michael hold his hand in place and nuzzle against his palm, and watched his blue eyes flutter shut again as he whispered the clearest words of the night:

"I'm still here."

"...you're still here." Vashael agreed with a weak smile, stroking his thumb across his friend's cheek. This action proved to be too soothing, and Michael's head grew heavier in Vashael's hand until he could slide it out from beneath without resistance. Carefully, Vashael shifted his weight and climbed over Michael to lie beside him on the mattress, all the while still holding his other hand. The bed was a little too small for someone of Vashael's height, but he simply let his feet hang off the end as he curled up alongside his best friend.

#mun's writing #((written at work and un-beta'ed))#((no beta we die like men))

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nacregames · 1 year

Note

Hello! Sorry if this is a stupid or uninformed question, but may I ask why you are moving from CoG to Twine? I'm only asking because I myself was planning to write IF on CoG but have since seen a lot of authors move platforms, and I have no idea why...

Hi! It's not a stupid question at all. There are many reasons why I personally switched from CoG to Twine, but I think the main reason why the majority did was because of the toxic community over there.

I've never been truly active on the forum, but it was apparently bad enough for lots of people to talk about and that's how I heard about it too. Some of the readers were said to be very rude to the authors and others, who showed support were suspended for very banal reasons. Also the mods did not take care of the situations properly and actually caused everything to escalate further by applying the guidelines and rules to their own liking/opinion. It was a very messed up situation all over.

I think this will make you help understand better: [link]

The "breaking point" for me though, was that this little evil man called Jason S. H. (CoG staff) supported NFTs and let me tell you friend, I will never ever touch that BS and all that other crypto currency shit. Nor will I work with or for somebody who supports it. I don't care if it was just an idea or his own personal opinion or whatever, I just didn't want to risk falling into that pit and so I decided to switch to Twine as early as possible. I didn't like the idea of being on edge and having to worry about this, especially since that man already has his little villain campaign going on over there and it's spreading like a virus.

Apart from that...well you can do whatever you want with Twine, while you obviously can't with Choicescript. You see, cs is a very easy and practical coding language and it was so much fun using it for my game, but as fun as it is, it's just not worth the trouble. You can do the same and more with Twine. You can even save your game, add images, music, and overall give your game a personal touch. The options are limitless and there's no one to tell you what to do.

Twine is an open source narrative engine and the community is already big enough to make the learning process as good and fast as it was with cs. It was very difficult at first since there were so few authors using it, but that's not the case now. Even if you have are a very slow learner or have a hard time coding, if it's your story you want to share, you can do that.

TL;DR: Long story short, ppl on the CoG forum (mods and readers alike) were mean and Twine offers so much more possibilities to design your game and has way less restrictions!

If you need a quick rec of narrative game engines, here's a list:

Narrat is a very nice engine too, but since it's still new, it's not as "fleshed" out as Twine, but there's a community to help with problems for it too, and it grows with each day! I'm personally trying to figure it out, since I plan to use it in the future.

Inkle writer (or Ink) is pretty much the same, though way easier to use since you can literally just click which command you wanna use and it inserts it itself. Like e.g add a variable or make a choice etc. It's actually a nice tool for scripting purposes, tho I'm not sure how much exactly you can do with it, so there's that.

You could also just use Ren'py. It's generally used for VNs, but you can just as well use it for strictly text-based games. The community is huge, you can always ask for help and you can code the wildest things with it since it uses python. I mean it's said to be for beginners, but I found it more difficult than Twine, so take that as you will. But anyway, I don't think there are any restrictions to either Twine or Ren'py tho I'm just an amateur and are throwing wild guesses in here lol.

#i've rambled quite a lot but hopefully this will help you understand #CoG #cog drama #choice of games #twine #narrative game engines

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