tragedy-of-commons

[tragedy-of-commons]

self-talks

・❥・aventurine x reader

★ wc: 730+ ★ no reader type or pronouns used or specified ★ cw: aventurine is his #1 hater, mentioned death/ways to die, set during 2.1 quest, written by a mentally-tired high schooler, lowercase intended, lazily proofread ★ no summary for this one, notes at the end ★ if you get what’s happening i’ll give you a cupcake

“[name] doesn’t really love you, y’know.”

that voice. the same, agonizing tone that held itself high as if the owner knew every secret in the world. how aventurine hated how it followed him like an ant and he was a basket filled to the brim with succulent insecurities - as if they themselves were ripe, appetizing pieces of fruit.   

the tinted shadow, or should he say figured, of himself wouldn’t stop drilling those words into his head. aventurine tried to prevent the words from bothering him but he couldn’t shake them. it was agonizing having to hear his ‘future self’ talk about you as if you thought he was the last pawn left in a chess game, waiting to be used for the greater good. 

“that’s not true.”

because he knew you. then again so did he. future is often wiser than present but if that’s the case then why did he feel anxious at his words? 

shaking his head like a parent who caught onto their child’s lie, the ‘shadow’ tsked in mock disappointment. “honestly, i thought you were self-aware of the majority of one’s actions. are you so blinded by the scorching love that [name] provides that you cannot even see that you’re burning?”

he wasn’t burning, and you weren’t so bright that he wouldn’t be able to see anything else besides you, either. it was infuriating how this version of him - more of a shell than aventurine was in the present time, hollowed out and left to rot on a tree branch of desolation - seemed to believe that he was wiser than him about the love of their? his life. 

aventurine was as loyal as he could be to you without pushing past his boundaries (which were often as weak as a dam made out of twigs when it came to you). he could say the same about you, the absolute truth to anyone but him. bringing a hand up to his hair aventurine scratched it roughly in discomforting thought. all of this ‘he said, he says’ was making him go crazy.

or crazier than he already is in this deforming dreamscape of twisted memories and second-takes. if he ever gets out of this ‘living nightmare’, the first thing he’s going to do is charge up to veritas and-

“i wonder if [name’s] flocked to ratio yet. clutching onto him as soft weeps leave puffy eyes.”

okay, buddy.

“what’s your deal?” aventurine hissed at the amusement drawn on his face, covered hands digging crescent shapes into his gloves. “you seem so adamant in getting me to believe [name] doesn’t love me, yet i’ll probably never-“ cutting himself off with a quick bite down on his tongue, letting it go swiftly when metallic laced his taste. 

he couldn’t think like that. that anxious feeling that sunk into his stomach as if it were made of quicksand tried to open and claw its way out of him.

if aventurine could not ever see your face or hear the voice (that he wanted to put on a record and play it repetitively), he feels as if he would rip out all of his hair that you adored combing your fingers through, floss it through his teeth, tie it up, and ha-

a shaky exhale, “there’s a high chance i’ll never see [name] again, so what’s the point of getting me to openly despise everything that pertains to…what’s the point?”

he only smirked in response, the expression on his face was akin to looking in a mirror of opposition to aventurine’s own. he hated how he looked.

oh. so that’s it, huh? could it be that his ‘future’ version seemed to be nothing more than what aventurine himself already imagine what his future would be like, was that it? whom was molded with clay laced with nothing but pure self-hatred without you being there to swat them away.

inhaling sharply, pain shot up through aventurine’s head as he doubled over. he clutched his head and gritted his teeth as if he had a severe brain-freeze, shaking it as he stomped a foot to the ground as if he were in a tantrum. in all honesty, he looked like he was. 

puffs of frustration left him as he glanced up, eyes meeting his own heavy, irritated ones as he stared into them with ferocity. “oh aventurine”, he spoke to himself as he blinked away.

“you’ve got to stop talking in mirrors.”

me if writing bad characterization for my fics was hilarious 😹😹😹 seriously though i need to character study him more. take this while i go cry into my pillow over exams 🙏 this didn’t go as i originally had in mind but we ball!!! i hope this flops harder than a fish on a deck after it has just been caught i hate it sm

#✧ gwen's recs #okay buddy. bell. listen to me LISTEN TO ME #inserting reader into the confrontations with future aventurine and all that… GENIUS #feeding off his present insecurities and situations #i do love a good ’face yourself’ moment #but oh he’s just so….. HES REALLY GOING THRU IT HUH…. #‘that you love to run your fingers through’ and the detail #about him wanting to loop your voice #ughh i love sm

[tragedy-of-commons]

Aventurine has lost.

Though he is still standing upright, and he has all of his fingers and toes, this is anything but a win. If seeing you cling to the waking world is a product of his luck, then he hopes that his suffocating embrace is blessing enough to keep you awake. He’d make a bet on his own life any day, and has made a bet on his own life on many days, but never would it have been in his predictions that yours would be at stake.

He knows he’s not good enough for you, but he thought himself useful enough to protect you from harm; the same way you welcome him back with open arms and shield him from the scuffing and scraping and turning as a cog in the machine.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Aventurine doesn’t recognize his panicked voice. It reminds him too much of a young man that he was forced to bury without sympathy. “I’m finding you help, okay?”

(his unfinished part ^)

#✧ my musings #it was silly i think #aventurine x reader

[tragedy-of-commons]

hello dear <3 i was thinking an iced hibiscus tea for arlecchino, perhaps? feel free to decide the specifics and details on this one hehe

“i have an order ready for arlecchino! an iced hibiscus tea, for arlecchino!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: Arlecchino's child is struggling, but she is there to reassure them. ii. CWS & NOTES: no warnings applicable. platonic arlecchino & gn!reader. house of the hearth!reader. angst & hurt/comfort. 1.5k words. iii. A/N: the way i ran to get this order done- THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO WRITE THIS ILY /p

It was a cold day in the House of the Hearth when Arlecchino called upon one of her children for nothing more than a simple chat.

One of the unspoken rules of the House was that the most leisurely of discussions were only a preface to something deeper; layers of ulterior motives hidden underneath an innocent invite for tea. Some children had never glimpsed the privilege of being summoned to her office, while others found themselves carving a dent into her seat cushions with the number of times they sat in them. But one thing remained unchanging with every visit: their Father would send for them with a purpose, and they would not leave until it was fulfilled.

When [Name] received word that they were to visit Arlecchino’s office at 7:00pm sharp, their first instinct was dread; for the dozens of possible reasons for them being the one to be called upon. Musing upon the ‘why’s shifted their mood from the dull thrum of anxiety to sweeping waves of confusion. As far as they were concerned, they had no due cause for such a meeting with the Director herself; no failed missions to be reprimanded over, no shady plots of subterfuge to be exposed. They weren’t any rowdier or more troublesome than any other of the children, so the list of matters that would merit a visit was short.

Still, they knew better than to avoid the call. 7:00pm, they stood outside the office, hand poised over the door. They closed their eyes, knocking on it sharply and wincing at the echo that reverberated off the walls.

Three short raps. A smooth, calm voice, from inside the room: “Come in.”

The doorhandle creaked loudly as it turned. The door was old, and rather heavy, so it took a gentle shove to push it fully open to reveal the neat, cozy office inside.

“Ah, [Name], you’ve arrived.” Arlecchino greeted them as they entered. She was seated behind her desk as she usually was, with a full tea-set in front of her. As they slowly approached, she motioned towards the plush chairs opposite her. “Please, take a seat. I have been waiting for you.”

They quickly settled into the closest chair, hands folded in their lap. The room was quiet and cold; enough to send an uncomfortable prickle down their spine. Arlecchino paid no mind to their uneasiness; her hands were busy deftly arranging the teacups on the tray. Once she was satisfied with their placement, she then moved to pick up the teapot.

“I have some new tea from Liyue,” she hummed, gently tipping the teapot to let the dark red drink fill one cup, then two. Steam rose from each, cutting through the chill of her office. “Hibiscus. It’s quite sour, but I have added a spoonful of honey and sugar to the brew to sweeten it.”

She held one of the teacups out, and they clasped both hands around it with a murmured thanks. As they moved to take it from her, the side of their palm brushed against her fingers—icy cold, enough to make them shiver with a single touch.

“Your night has been well, I am assuming?” Arlecchino asked, taking a sip from her cup.

“Yes,” they murmur, bringing the tea to their lips. It was hot, but just enough not to burn their tongue. The honey she had added did little to mask the sour taste of the hibiscus, but it created a lightly sweet aftertaste that was pleasant enough to warrant a second sip.

“And your days, how have they been?”

They frowned, scanning her expression for any hint of what she wanted. She was clearly speaking to them in search of something, even if she didn’t say it aloud. A mission report, perhaps? They had already submitted the paper copy to her desk, but if she had missed it, or it had gotten lost with the rest of the paperwork handed in that day, she could be waiting for them to recount the mission directly.

“I returned from the mission you sent me on,” they blurted out. “I… it was a success, mostly. No casualties. Minimal injuries. And I also—”

“No need for a summary, I’ve read your report.” Arlecchino cut them off smoothly. “I want to know how you are, not how your mission went.”

They almost choked on their tea. Arlecchino raised an eyebrow at their sudden lack of composure, and they hurriedly covered it up with a half-hearted cough. “S-Sorry… you want to know how I have been… feeling?”

“That is correct.”

The air was thick with silence and the bitter smell of hibiscus, until they blurted out a quick “Fine! I’ve been fine, thank you.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Interesting. I have been hearing curious things,” Arlecchino said casually. “Some of your siblings seem to have noticed a change in your behaviour. You aren’t sleeping as well, your mood has been significantly worse, you haven’t been joining during social activities. There is clearly something wrong.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” they said weakly. Their feeble attempt at normalcy was nowhere near convincing enough to fool her, and they knew it. They were a passable liar in the best of circumstances, but she was the one person who would always be able to see right through them.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

They couldn’t look at her. One look into those sharp eyes, one wrong word and they would crumble right there in her office. They had to keep it together for as long as it took to convince Arlecchino they were alright and be dismissed from her office. They only needed to hold back the burning behind their eyes until they were far away from Arlecchino and her pressing words and bitter tea, and could quietly fall apart.

She was waiting for an answer, but they could hardly breathe through the lump in their throat, let alone formulate a response. If she stopped now, saw them for what they were—a lost cause—and gave up, it would be fine. But instead:

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, and something inside them snapped.

Tears burst from their eyes, spilling over their cheeks and down their face. They gasped, choking back a cry, holding a fist to their mouth to stop the hiccupping and wheezing breaths.

“I’m sorry,” they sniffled, rather pathetically. They kept their head ducked down low, unable to bring themself to look up into her undeniable face of disapproval. If they were any stronger, they could grit their teeth and make up a spiel about how they would do better next time, but instead they had to cry.

Now, not only were they going to be reprimanded for letting their emotions affect their work, they would be scolded for crying as well.

“Now, there is no need for crying.” Arlecchino stood, scraping her chair against the floor. They flinched away from the jarring sound, shrinking inwards with their tear-streaked face hidden in their hands. As much as they tried to stop them, the tears kept flowing into their palms. The walls were shifting closer with each second, and the thick scent of the tea filled their lungs until it choked them with that cloyingly bittersweet scent—

They jumped, as something cold touched their fingers. Their hands were carefully pried away from their face, revealing Arlecchino kneeling in front of them, with an unusually concerned expression on her face.

“I’m not upset with you, dear.” She said gently. “If that is why you are apologising.”

“You’re not?” they asked slowly. It had to have been a lie, but with how softly she said it, a part of them couldn’t help but wish it was true.

“Of course I’m not. But do you know why I’m not upset with you?” she asked. Hesitantly, they shook their head. “I’m not upset in the slightest, because I know whatever is clouding you is something that you will work through. You will emerge the victor of this battle, no matter what it is.”

They made a strangled sound, and felt a new wave of tears form. Arlecchino sighed, pulling them to their feet and against her chest.

“You are strong,” she said softly, carding her fingers through their hair. “You are capable. You are able to overcome whatever hardships you are facing, no matter how much they wear on you.”

She kissed their temple, her cool lips feeling almost warm pressed to their skin. While she lingered there, she whispered to them, softer than a mother’s touch. “You are strong enough to face this on your own, but even if you aren’t you will always have me here behind you.”

Their hands stretched out to grab the back of her jacket, shuddering out a breath. If Arlecchino minded their teary face being pressed against the front of her clothing, she didn’t comment on it; she only murmured more reassurances as she held them close.

“Just breathe, dear.” She whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

#she is truly Father at heart #this fic is so warm #thank you avery #✧ gwen's recs

[tragedy-of-commons]

stumbles . i-i wanted to say my url c-changed , senpai, from hanyi-writes to flower-yi for your taglist .. t-thank you somuch 🥺🥰

HELP i saw senpai in this notification and blanked . hello user flower-yi… love the new url ‼️

#updated! #flower-yi

[tragedy-of-commons]

lay your life down and pretty

various hsr x gn!reader | wc: ~2k

In which you die (or they've already lost you).

tags/warnings: character death (reader), it's implied in dh's part but explicit and semi-graphic in hanya's, descriptions of mara and the insanity that comes with it, hardcore angst, hurt no comfort, there may be Lore Inaccuracies

notes: this was originally supposed to be four parts. i'm sorry it's only two but it's just been uhhh... hope you enjoy & thanks for the incredible support lately <3

Dan Heng makes the best pancakes.

You’ve expressed this undeniable fact to his face multiple times, louder in their progression just to see the tips of his ears burn that endearing red. These declarations are reserved for breakfast. At this time you also chide him for trying to weasel his way out of eating the most important meal of the day!

And he’d sigh, letting you hound him about food options until he’d crack under the weight of your grin and end up mixing batter at 7:30 in the morning.

(“I tried flipping them in the air once and the pancake slapped me in the face,” you’d regaled, head resting idly on your fist.

Dan Heng stared into the black of the skillet. “...Somehow, I don’t doubt it.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” you huffed.

He almost let not-quite laugh slip then, but because of his stuck-uppery, he just managed to look peeved. “I would appreciate it if you passed me the butter.”)

Instead it is around 9:00 in the morning, and Dan Heng is alone. 

He’d stayed up late the night before doing some reading, causing him to oversleep and rush the process today. He’s almost burned his hand on the stove eye twice, nearly dropped an egg on the floor, and has just narrowly avoided burning the batch. Dan Heng is not clumsy (not like you were), and he is painfully aware that he is late.

After he plates the food, the oven clock reads 9:19. He gathers everything, including two sets of utensils and one awkward wad of napkins - before setting the table by heart. Your plate goes in front of the chair closest to the window, and his goes in front of the one adjacent to yours. 

The rhythm of distributing each item eventually leaves him with empty hands. Everything is ready, but there is still something colossal missing from the scene.

Dan Heng stares hard at your empty seat before taking his own. 

The pancakes are blackened around the edges, but it’s nothing a good heaping portion of syrup can’t fix, and the smell that wafts upward is sweet and inviting. The sun’s rays shining in from the outside world paint the kitchen in flecks of light that occasionally catch on his arm when he brings his fork to his mouth.

Resigned, his silverware clatters noisily to the table.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m sorry that I was late.”

Predictably, there’s no response. Dan Heng’s throat feels like it’s closing up on him, and the syrup definitely isn’t helping. He dabs his mouth with his napkin for a good long while.

He is sorry. It wasn’t enough that he’d stayed up late the night before, but that he deliberately kept glancing at the clock and counting the hours until daylight arrived - reminding himself that if he drifted off, the next day would come much sooner.

He isn’t the type to procrastinate either. Even when you’re not here anymore, you seem to have a profound effect on his character. Dan Heng pinches the bridge of his nose. The sound of his voice echoing off the walls of the lonely kitchen is unwelcome. “Happy birthday.”

It’s strained, imperfect, and painful; which only serves to remind him of your insistence on celebrating his birthday as well. You had practically prostrated yourself at his feet, begging him to let you fuss over him - even if it made his vision hazy and palms sweaty. He needs to return the favor, even if the mere idea of another important date passing him up without you makes him want to hide.

So here he is. 

Here he is, floundering terribly, missing you terribly, loving you terribly. Dan Heng wrenches his hand from its secure position in his lap to drum on the table.

“I got you something,” he says. “I… I didn’t know which color you’d prefer more, so…”

You’d tease him into an early grave if you were able to see the knitted oven mitt he’d picked out over two months ago. It’s an almost hideous shade of teal that he’s sure you’d love, especially since you forced him to bake with you regularly.

(He was shopping with March 7th when he’d seen it and then reflexively dumped it into his basket. His companion only asked him if he was planning on using it as kindling for the fireplace.)

Dan Heng closes his eyes and slides it over to your placement. For a second, he almost fools himself into thinking you might magically appear to brush fingers when you accept the gift with a bright smile. He has no such luck.

Your breakfast is getting colder, and there’s nothing to be done today; his friends, as much as he can say he appreciates them - also meddle quite a bit. His schedule was mysteriously cleared up and he was gently encouraged to go home and take the day off. The feeling of three pairs of eyes drilling holes into his back as he complied was a bit too potent to be coincidental.

So he sits there and pretends he’s eating with you for as long as he can. The stutters in the familiar rhythm that comes with today are things he can smooth out over time, even if it feels like a betrayal to you. You would never see it like that, which is why he can even live in a home without you in it at all.

(The oven mitt rests beside your full plate until the afternoon, because he cannot bring himself to clean up just yet. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to.)

Dan Heng is not a man who can afford to hope, but he’s already been in debt since the moment of his birth. If just one of his prayers is granted, he hopes it’s the one he runs through his mind every night:

In the next life, please let us cross paths again. And if there’s room for it, please let me love you for as long as I can.

He’s never been one for optimism, but it’s all he looks forward to.

Hanya’s hands cradle the expanse of your face.

Her fingers ghost over any healthy glow remaining in your cheeks. You’re slipping, rightfully so, but does it make her a monster if she wants to claw and rifle through the sands of time to search for any universe where you were spared from this cruel fate?

(She thinks it does.)

You can’t get the words out, but there’s a resigned film that glazes over your eyes - one that tells her that she needn’t lie about where you’ll be going. Your mouth forms silent syllables punctuated by wheezes that will surely send her careening under the depths of the unconscious at record speed.

“Han.. ya,” you croak, “Stay.”

“I will,” she promises, because she needs to - over and over, until you remember it always, even when you’re gone. Even when you’re suffering through the last moments of your fledgling life. “I will remain here.”

Her duty as a Judge of the Ten-Lords Commission is to oversee life and death on the Xianzhou. When Hanya drifts aimlessly like a spectre between inky darkness and blinding daylight, it has occasionally struck her that one day she might have to oversee yours.

Presently, your mind is being swallowed by the maw of mara, a madness that she’s all too familiar with; faced with her dull countenance, she must have witnessed thousands succumb to the fate of infernal life. 

“D-Don’t cry,” you beseech. There isn’t much time until you’re no longer Hanya’s secret reprieve, but instead a writhing abomination - and she only has herself to blame. Had she not embraced you so tightly, would you be free of this curse? Would you still be smiling and dragging her by the hand through Exalting Sanctum?

“I will not send you there,” she breathes, “You are not deserving of—”

The agonizing cry you let out next is still beautiful. Even now you can mitigate the emptiness that’s dug its claws in her heart so deep that it’s become symbiotic with the organ. However, instead of the empty, Hanya feels its distant relative: the pins and needles. The hollow white noise crackles until she’s pierced with an arsenal of skeletal knives.

She could take it, and she would take it, if it meant that you weren’t about to die and then awaken again as a monster that desecrates the very concept of you.

She releases your now matching tear-stricken cheeks before seizing both of your arms. The thrashing has crept in, meaning that there isn’t much time before you start sprouting leaves and weeds like a statue abandoned by its devotees. 

A sharp inhale through clenched teeth. “You have… to. M’gonna hurt—” you convulse in her grasp, “—somebody...”

Of course you’re worrying about others right now. Kindness is a relic of the past that you’ve somehow managed to exhume, restore to its full glory, and gift to Hanya like she deserves to touch others’ lives in the same way you have. 

Every shopkeep knows your name, face, voice, and smile. Your warmth is infectious - even before she knew you in person, she knew of you by word of mouth. Xueyi had told her that the reason Huohuo was so resolute in her duties lately was because of “the person who defeated a bunch of reprobate hooligan bullies tormenting her”. 

If her big sister held you in high regard, she figured you were one she wouldn’t mind exchanging greetings with if you ever crossed paths. However, the thing about you is that you always give more than you take; you too eventually gave her your smile over tea, your opinion on her writing, and a perspective from the light she usually only smothers upon first contact. 

It seems that it was just a matter of time before Hanya extinguished you.

“You are not ready,” she begs pitifully, “You are not!”

She knows it’s never about being ready. Bad things always happen to good people - to sons, daughters, friends, big sisters, and lovers.

Lovers. 

The word is foreign on the tip of her tongue. It’s strange to be actualized and even stranger to ascribe that label to your relationship, but Hanya doesn’t know what else to think when the knives stab her over and over to the elegy of I love you, I love you, I love you.

The trek from Fyxestroll Garden to the Alchemy Commission is sizable. The Dragon Lady could see you and do her best, but she’s seen where that’s led; best efforts gone to waste, inconsolable loved ones given false hope because they were too stubborn to let go.

Is that what she is? Too stubborn to let you go, even when she’s brought this karma upon you?

(Yes, something ugly whispers, this is your penance. Now it’s theirs too.)

“I...” you let out a strangled groan, and when your chest jerks upwards, it barely registers that you brush your lips against hers. There’s tears and snot everywhere, and you’re getting stronger - too strong for her to hold. Hanya’s forearms ache with the strain as gingko leaves begin to ravage your humanity and rip you apart.

The transformation process is cruel, but she promised to remain by your side. Twigs protrude from your neck, nestled between thorny brambles that poke and prod. You are not a Cloud Knight, so your screams aren’t muffled by armor - or muted by the numbness she feels when dealing with other cases. 

It’s too real, it’s too much, and it’s not enough.

Drowned out by the previous mantra of I love you, the background vocals of I’m so sorry peter off into whispers that are soon lost among the sickening squelch of Xueyi’s blade cutting through you in one clean motion. The tip of the sword rests over Hanya’s heart, stained with your blood.

“...That’s not them anymore,” her sister says. It’s off-kilter, the way her brow is furrowed in a silent apology.

One can only hope.

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee

#—stellaronhvnters. #dan heng x reader #hsr x reader #hanya x reader #hsr dan heng x reader #hsr hanya x reader #honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #danheng x reader #dan heng hsr x reader #hanya hsr x reader #hsr dan heng #hsr hanya #honkai star rail #✧ my works

[tragedy-of-commons]

Hello, congratulations on your milestone! 🎉

May I have (for the mix-and-match 😚) Dr.Ratio and the word-concept "bathtub"? 🫢

Take your time! ❤️❤️

this one was fun to write too (as per usual with ratio) i've written for dr ratio so much in the last two weeks i think i am becoming him.... Im slowly morphing into veritas ratio please save me... THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING this was lovely :3

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

“No way. You take bubble baths with a rubber duck?” 

Veritas freezes for no longer than a millisecond before whipping his head around to see you in the doorway of the bathroom. He’d been relaxing just moments ago, sinking into the hot water with his eyes closed, and yes there was a rubber duck in the bath with him but that was not by choice. It just happened to be there when he ran the bath, and he opens his mouth to argue but is quickly cut off by your endless rambling. 

“Anyways, I came to wash your hair. One of your assistants told me you just left in the middle of your usual work hours, and I thought, ‘wow, how odd, the Ratio I know would never do that!’ And then I thought, what better way to cheer my dear friend up than keep him company and wash his hair! It did look a little greasy today.” 

“I am not your dear friend,” he argues mockingly, but the bite in his voice falls short when you circle around the bath and set down your paraphernalia on the tiles next to you (a microfiber hair towel, shampoo, conditioner, some miscellaneous hair foams and sprays that he really does not trust you with). “You are the most insufferable person I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Get out of my bathroom.” 

“This is our bathroom now, Ratio. We’re a community, you and me.” 

“It’s ‘you and I.’”

“Exactly! You and I, a community. You’re getting the hang of it now.” 

Veritas sighs, surrendering any potential of a relaxing evening to your whims. This is, unfortunately, how it usually goes, and he has yet to make a real effort to stop it. A voice in the back of his head taunts him because at his core, he has zero desire to stop it at all. 

“Come on,” you keep babbling, threading your fingers roughly through his already-damp hair. It’s not a pleasant sensation at all, and he winces and holds back a pained yelp. “It’s kind of like going to a spa, or whatever. I’m trying to pamper you. Be grateful!” 

“There’s nothing to be grateful about when you’re trying to scalp me,” he could push your hands away easily, bat you off and make you leave. Instead, though, he gives you a minute to tame your inelegant movements into something gentler. He hears the sound of a bottle uncapping, and then your hands are back on his scalp, lathering honey-scented shampoo into the layers of his hair. 

“Is this better?” you ask cheekily, tracing circles in his hair, digging your fingertips in and scratching just a little bit, hard enough to feel it but light enough that it’s still soothing. Veritas sighs through his nose, deep and heavy and sinking back into the water. There’s no mocking retorts, no quips, no sarcastic tone, just the even cycle of his breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding in his ears. If he tries hard enough, focuses enough, he can hear yours too, but it makes his stomach twist with an uncomfortable, unnameable feeling. 

In your bundle of things that you brought, there’s an empty plastic cup, and you use it to scoop water from the tub and rinse the foam from his hair. Veritas feels wholly exposed, for obvious reasons among others, and the urge to kick you out still sits heavy in his chest. Right next to it is a warmth, though, something holding his sensibility hostage, something that finds this more comforting than it would be if he’d sat in the bath until the water went cold, all alone, without your hands washing his hair clean of oil and grime and the weight of his research. 

You break him of his reverie, but the sudden sound of your voice isn’t as intrusive as he anticipated. “You know, you should start using this oil thing for your hair, I got it from one of my coworkers,” by now, his hair is completely rid of any remaining shampoo, and your hands are rubbing a thin layer of conditioner into the ends of each strand, “and it’s supposed to help your hair grow. I think you’d look great with long hair, Veritas, don’t you agree?” 

“What, do you think about that often?” It’s supposed to be something snarky, something to shut you down before you dig too deep, but you never catch the hint—it’s your best and worst quality. 

“Maybe,” you admit, heft in your words, a density that needs to be cut open and examined. He’s good at that—good at looking and prying, but he’s the worst if he’s next to you. You’re nowhere near as thorough of a researcher as him, but he thinks (with a sense of embarrassment) that when the subject is him, you’re the most qualified person around. “Wouldn’t it be nice? With your hair all down to your shoulders, maybe. And if you really think it’s a hassle to take care of, I’ll just do it for you.” 

He’s perfectly capable of taking care of his own hair, thank you very much, but the idea of having you wash it for him, brush out the tangles in it every other day is appealing to a starving man like Veritas. He aches, and the skin at the nape of his neck itches. 

“You’re saying nonsense,” he says, and he can feel the way his brow has tightened and he instinctively goes to chew at the dead skin on his lips. “My hair is perfectly fine the way it is.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” you respond, “just giving you options.” Your hands finally leave his hair, and suddenly the water in the bathtub feels frigid and icy, and Veritas represses a shiver. “Your hair is squeaky clean. Now, get out of the bathroom! It’s my turn to hang out with the rubber duck.” 

“Would you—?!” Veritas turns to glare at you, but the impish grin on his face makes him falter. You’re incorrigible. “The duck isn’t mine! And you have your own bathroom. Stop invading my space.” 

“Sigh,” you say aloud, because you’re corny and theatrics are written into every part of your personality. “Oh, grandest Ratio, I really did think we were friends, but you wound me so deeply! All this time has meant nothing to you! All this new shampoo that I bought just for you, gone to waste…” 

“For gods’ sake,” he mutters, reaching for a set of pajamas that you’d so conveniently taken from his own dressers and brought with you while on your mission to wash his hair. “Turn around so I can get dressed and then you can use the bathroom. So annoying.” 

“Not annoying enough to kick me out, though,” you say, and you’re completely right, and Veritas will admit that one day, but certainly not today.

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin @hanyi-writes

#I MUST NOT PROCLAIM MY LOVE FOR HIM INTHE TAGS #I MUST NO💥💥T #oh nora the monster you’ve awoken #it’s real it’s visceral and it’s going to send me to HELL #oh my god. clueless genius that lets you wash his hair. #nothing is more important to me than dramatic reader and veritas ‘don’t entertain their theatrics’ ratio #THE RUBBER DUCK IM GIGGLING SO HARD #would place it on his head and let it topple off for laughs #though i’d get verbally torn apart #the vibes are immaculate #I LOVE IT #✧ gwen's recs

[tragedy-of-commons]

જ⁀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀 — 100 follower event !

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ welcome to our grand opening ! in honour of your faithful patronage — we are giving limited-time tickets to our latest performances.

𓍢ִ໋ please take a look at the list of performances below. we hope you find something to your liking.

𓍢ִ໋ of course, our music house must be kept with the utmost care, hence, abide by the rules and treat our staff with respect. of course, don't forget to dress in your finest clothing.

𓍢ִ໋ currently our house is only providing tickets for honkai star rail. these include the aeons and unreleased characters. you can only request one character per performance. however, feel free to enter our house again if you feel obliged.

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ here is our repertoire of performances by our orchestras, soloists, and dancers.

𓍢ִ໋ to quickly note, when sending your request please say, “a ticket for ( performance name)” this helps with organizing our guests. furthermore, a reblog will be highly appreciated, thank you !

🪞𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄 ノ a classical dance of the swan mixed with the tender swirl of the abyss. ( lovers that slip through each other's grasp. angst. )

🎠 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ノ a play between two emerging from the long capture of winter, searching for each other in spring. ( friends that lead back to each other, again and again. fluff & angst. )

🃏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 ノa dance rife with passion and the seething need to conquer the odds, at unprecedented costs. ( lovers that love in the arms of others. angst. )

🍴𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 ノ a string quartet of collection and recollection. sweet and bitter. ( lovers that collect each other, piece by piece and display it in peculiar ways. fluff & angst. )

🦪 𝐒𝐀𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐀 ノan orchestra rite of freedom found beyond the confines of spoken language. ever-changing yet eternal. ( intimacy that blossoms in unexpected and subtle ways. fluff. )

🪩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ノa play of fourteen grand riches uncovered by two intrepid academics that abruptly vanish upon the fortnight. ( when two people unite in unforgettable ways: a bond that blazed yet burned with vibrancy. fluff & angst. )

🪰 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ノ a dance of two vile butterflies that tare each other's wings apart, plummeting to the ground- together- in harmony. ( loathing that transforms and blossoms. fluff & angst. )

🫧 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 ノa solo pianist who drew ardency from notes and took sips of the moon. all in hopes of reaching the heavens. ( lovers that hold deep wishes that then come true. fluff. )

🪐 𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐒 ノthe orchestra song of retribution and hope for a sun that has long set. ( a gradually rekindling bond between two ill-fated souls. angst & fluff. )

⚖️ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 ノ a ceremony of all our artists in which the ceiling comes crashing down. ( in which lovers do the unthinkable. angst. )

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ the house of musica is expected to depart on may 31st, thus, our box is open from now till that date.

𓍢ִ໋ we look forward to receiving you and other esteemed guests far and wide. once again, the house of musica bows down and welcomes you, let the limelight consume you wholly.

#LOOK LOOK

[tragedy-of-commons]

so i’ve finished two parts but im. so tired and burnt out so might release them both separately a week apart since it’s gonna be busy and and

#should not be stressing about this probably HELP #AUUUUUUUUUUUGHHJJ #✧ gwen: collected miscellany #negative cw

[tragedy-of-commons]

hello, could I request a model! Dan Heng x fashion designer! Reader? Here’s some keywords if they might help, tiredness, praise, warmth, try-on. The timestamp is 17:57, thank you so much!

as always i had too much fun with this... i love the idea of model dan heng but i still made him an awkward wet rag in this one (because i love him) THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST!!!

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

You greet Dan Heng with your usual warm smile and a “hey, love” that never fails to fluster him. He’s heard it from you a handful of times now, visiting your studio a few times a week at your request for fittings and some brainstorming sessions. He thinks that the frequency and timing of his visits is definitely unnecessary from a professional standpoint, but he’s not planning on bringing that up any time soon. Not when your hands are so kind, light on his shoulders as you guide him through your studio. 

“I started on the pieces that I showed you the sketches for, um, last week, was it? I’m kind of losing track of time.” Dan Heng wouldn’t tell you out loud, but he can tell. There’s a huge table in the center of the room, and he can barely see its surface beneath all the cut fabric and tracing paper and tangled thread from your serger. For someone working under deadline after deadline, you’re handling yourself better than he would, but he still can’t help the heat of concern flickering in the crease of his brow. 

This is your debut show, he knows as much. So he won’t meddle with your workflow. Only hope that you can somehow pick up the signals that he’s sending you to please sit down and maybe drink water? 

“I need you to try them on,” you tell him, a gentle command as you hand him a hanger draped in silky fabrics and delicate laces. “There’s pants and a lace shirt. I’ll turn around while you change, but you need to be wearing pretty much nothing underneath these, if that’s okay. And then I’ll hem your pants—let me get you some shoes…” you’re trailing off, passing the clothes to him before turning around in a rush to find him a pair of heeled boots. 

The fabric is— it’s nice. The pants are some kind of silky, lustrous material, dark blue and cool on his skin, and the shirt is embarrassingly sheer but you’ve seen him in and out of clothes in the last month often enough that he can’t really be too sheepish about it now. What does make him flush, however, is the look on your face as you turn around to stare at him, black heeled shoes forgotten in your hands as your eyes flit across Dan Heng’s form. 

He can hear the soft breaths that you take, no more labored than usual, but it feels so intimate and so quiet that his palms grow damp. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he waits for you to— say something, anything, tell him to take it off and go home or maybe stay, instead. The back of his neck feels itchy and he’s pretty sure you haven’t blinked yet. 

“The, um. It looks…” you’re trailing off, again, but you’re also walking towards him until you’re so close he can hear your breathing even more distinctly than before, along with the rustling of your own clothes as you lift up a hand to play with the ornamented collar of his shirt. “The color is nice on you. It’s different from the other pieces I’ve made you try, right?” 

Dan Heng only has enough strength to nod in response, the rest of his energy taken away by the feeling of your finger tips on the soft, pliant skin beneath his jaw. He’s sweating— so much, it must be gross, but he can see you chewing the inside of your cheek as you drag your fingers to the seam on the shoulder. 

“I was thinking a sash around the waist, but I don’t think it suits this outfit. Maybe I can add something like that to the pieces from last week, though.” And you’re back to your usual self, much to his dismay. Your rambling is endearing and tender, but your previously weighted gaze has now lightened, focused on the waist of his pants and the hand-sewn hook-and-bar closure, and Dan Heng misses having it trained on him. You’ve never been this close, this warm, this focused on him in particular, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to fight the urge to take your hands between his own. 

“Dan Heng,” you say his name, breaking him out of his anxious reverie with a quiet call. “You have a lot on your plate for this show. You have three outfit changes, which can be a lot, but I know you’re capable. Do you know you’re capable?” 

He wants to say this is silly, that you’re the last person who should be telling anybody else that they have a lot on their plate, considering that you’re sewing more than a dozen garments all on your own, with no assistants besides your in-and-out mentors who rarely find time to help. He says none of that, though, because your gaze is trained on his again and he’s busy hoping you don’t notice all the little involuntary twitches in his face. 

“Yeah, I’m— I know.” 

You smile, again, something saccharine and addictive and he wants to chase it, over and over and over. “Good. You’re my favorite model, you know. It’s important that you’re ready.” 

Dan Heng could say a million things. He could say this is unprofessional, or joke and say that he’s currently one of your only models, or tell you that he’s always ready as long as he’s wearing something put together by you and your hands alone. Instead, he nods like a fool, stumbling over a weak “okay” and trying to ignore the way his stomach twists when you laugh a little. 

“I’ll be doing your makeup for the show, too. I hope you don’t mind that. I just wanted to do something specific for you,” and it’s hit after hit with you, and his throat squeezes again because you’re still smiling and talking all about him like he’s your prized gift, and he really really doesn’t hate it. “You trust me with an eyeliner pen, right?” 

His mouth is dry, but he forces himself to joke back before you kick him out for being so awkward. “I trust you with a needle more than I trust you with a makeup brush.” And you laugh, and his stomach still hurts but the tightness of his mouth loosens up into a diffident smile. It’s just a joke, really, because he wouldn’t mind you handling a brush against his face, or the gentle press of your fingers on his cheeks and on top of his eyelids, or the awestruck look you give him every time he tries something on, or the weight of your hands on his shoulders when you drag him around your studio.

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin @hanyi-writes

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or general taglist (navi) to be tagged in upcoming works!

#OH MY GOD ANONS BRAIN SO HUGE #YOUR BRAIN SO HUGE #he is such a sopping wet cat in the rain… with those eyes and that stone face he really could score any modeling contract he wants #oughhhjh #and reader’s creativity AND THE THE THE!!! GETTING CLOSE AND LITTLE SHARED PUFFS OF BREATH #i’m gonna explode why is he like that #GIGGLIGN #✧ gwen's recs

[tragedy-of-commons]

writing dan heng is soul-healing,,

#✧ gwen: collected miscellany

[tragedy-of-commons]

I don’t know which author needs to hear this right now but even if you never update your wip i would never regret reading it a time of joy is never wasted

#ily mhie /p

[tragedy-of-commons]

counting backwards — throwing muses. 0.8k words.

Fog has found a comfortable residence nestled in Aventurine’s brain—a bustling one, strangling clear thoughts and fond reminiscence and expertly avoiding those gnawing memories he wished it would swallow.

He looks into the mirror, he shows his teeth. He hopes, to others, it looks like a smile and not a snarl—though, to him, he still looks afraid, and he swears he can still see the yellowing he had earned after so long of not being able to care for them (despite how the gold of his wealth had cancelled it out long ago and chased it off).

It was voracious, clamoring like a starved man, armed with an achingly empty stomach at all times; it was nimble, and it trembled whenever he did—with hunger, sickness, the cold, or fear, he didn’t know, it was a toss up—skin melded to bone. Yet, as much as it ate at his clairvoyance, it didn’t grow—it just… lingered, in the corner of his cluttered head, emaciated and shaking. It stared at him. It had his eyes, and the same blond hair.

He keeps practicing. He wants his expression to be bright like a future that is looking up, like the sun during the first glimpse of it after rain, and infectious—but it was bright like a warning sign, like the sun beating down on an arid and drought-stricken desert, and diseased. That wouldn’t do. His sight was bleary, and his hair was a mess, and he fell asleep in last night’s clothes; nothing about him screamed refined or expensive or high quality or worth anything at all.

It felt fearful, in a way, but it cared for its host just as the weather outside did. Maybe even less. It rained for Kakavasha, but this? This didn’t change for a thing. All it did was fast forward the time on the clock. All it did was steal from him, little by little, thread by thread, coin by coin, unraveling, rusting, wasting. But that was fine. He had money and memories to give now. He had the means to feed both himself and it. He was generous—he always was, but now he could truly afford to be without sacrifice.

For as long and well as he had played the role of carefully crafted, embellished with gold and beholding bones of wrought iron, every rotting rope making him up was one rainstorm away from snapping.

Speaking of Kakavasha, he didn’t remember much of him. All that lingered was the fear, because as much as he washed the blood—his kin, his kills—off of himself, that little frayed part of him, wide-eyed and with no more tears to cry, remained playing dead under its current.

He combs out any tangles sleep had imparted in the strands of his hair. He washes it out—the scent of the soap doesn’t take long to leave him with a headache, so he rinses and replaces it with equally migraine-inducing conditioner. He combs through it until he no longer looks unkempt or unwell.

That fog is still here. He should remind himself to grab his keys, just in case.

He hooks his finger in the corner of his mouth, pulls it back a bit further to check for any plaque or pieces of food left on his molars. There is none. He keeps looking. He straightens out his clothes, stares and bores holes into every last crevice that could hide a tell. He stares and stares. He remembers a time when he had no reflection, only sand and kin, only a guess at what he looked like. That was long ago.

In the mirror, when he still only saw himself in the faces of his family, mauve hair fell, and her voice still echoes: “What’s worth more to you, Kakavasha—the life in your veins, or the gaze you share with those incinerated bodies?”

What is more important to you, Kakavasha, the blood that keeps your heart that deserves nothing but death beating, or the blood that makes you Avgin, that ties you by something indisputable to the only thing you ever learned how to cherish?

That was what she meant. It was a stupid question.

He fixes his shirt one last time. He grabs his keys.

He knew how to answer, then, and he still does now, because he would drain his arteries of every last drop if it meant seeing them unpainted with theirs again—for the color to return to their faces, the life to their dull eyes—

He closes the door behind him with a soft click.

But that can’t happen. So he will continue to dress his wounds, cut his losses, and survive, until he inevitably joins them.

(He will never join them. They are dust, scattered in fragments across space. He will be buried in a lavish coffin.)

#It stared at him. It had his eyes #and the same blond hair. #i do think that this is so very beautiful #WHAT IM SO GLAD U WENT IN THIS DIRECTION WITH THE SONG???? #“He will be buried in a lavish coffin.” #<- ohhh blessings are curses my beloved. all of the wealth now at his disposal #and in a way - that is his luck. even if it can do nothing for the boy snarling at him in the mirror like a skittish stray #if he could remember.. it probably wouldn't do him much good anyway. #SHAKING YOU BY THE SHOULDERS #SOMEONE HOLD ME DOWN RIGJT NOW I CANT DO THIS I CANT #your brainrot has Reanimated me #i'm afraid #✧ gwen's recs

[tragedy-of-commons]

gwen it is CRITICAL that you know i spent many minutes rereading the tags on ur reblog of my dr ratio drabble They warmed my heart dearly,,,, and u quoted the hole in the ozone layer line which was by far my favorite line that i’ve ever written in my entire life I’m So Happy It Made You Laugh .,,,,ooughhh,,,, wiping tears from my Eyes,,,,,,,

OF COURSE!! pleas e his eye twitching along with it 😭 i enjoyed reading abt him very much,,,, you do him Justice

i have a feeling i'll be rereading it often HELP

#nomazee #SCREAMS SHAKES EXPLODES

[tragedy-of-commons]

the thing i’m working on should be done by next week?? roughly?? not dead 🗣️🗣️

#✧ gwen: collected miscellany #i’m just kind of in exam and crunch hell #rn #my first various work :3c

[tragedy-of-commons]

Um hello! Is the 1k event thingy still up?? If so I would like to request a classmate! Dr ratio x reader at 2:47 am?

it's actually sickening how much fun i had with this i was giggling at my own jokes while typing this out... this was so fun to write THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!!

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

A blaring, aggravating, shrill sound wakes you up. Your hands go to cover your ears, protecting your sanity from the noise ringing somewhere from the tangle of sheets on your bed. Hands flailing around desperately to find the source of the piercing chimes, you writhe around in agony until you finally latch onto your phone. 

The brightness of the screen digs into your corneas as you lift up the device to see the caller ID of whoever had the guts to bother you on a school night. 

It comes to no surprise that the caller name reads “VERITAS FUCKING RATIO” in all caps with no contact photo. Your eye twitches and the grip on your phone tightens, just a hair away from leaving finger-shaped dents in the metal. 

Begrudgingly, you answer the call, tucking the phone next to your ear with nothing less than displeasure. “Veritas. Why are you calling me at—” you pull your phone back to check, “—almost three in the morning?” 

“The works cited page,” Veritas Fucking Ratio informs you matter-of-factly. There’s no hint of sleepiness in his voice, nothing that could possibly chip away at his good image, of course. “You did it in the wrong format. It’s supposed to be APA. This is a science project, not a literature project.” 

You might kill him. The project in question is to be presented tomorrow— today at ten in the morning. Ratio and you had been working on it for an entire two weeks, broken up into intermittent hour-long sessions because he was adamant that you split up the work instead of rushing to do it all the night before. Stupid self-righteous gorgeous beautiful academic genius-freak. Yeah, it definitely helped you in the long run, but he acted so sanctimonious about it that you refused to admit the benefits. 

“Veritas,” you imbue the syllables of his name with poison, as much as you can when you’re swaying as you sit up on your bed and fighting demons to not fall back asleep. “This is such an easily-fixed thing. Do you know what time it is right now? Why are you even awake? You know, I am supposed to get a full seven hours of sleep every night, and I was already cutting it short today, and you woke me up before I could even hit REM sleep. Do you know how upsetting this is? Fix the goddamn works cited yourself!” 

For once, Veritas is at a loss for words. The other end of the line is so quiet that you have to double check and make sure he hasn’t just hung up on you. Perspiration builds on your palms, thinking that this is it—this is the exact moment that you make Veritas-Fucking-Ratio snap and delete your name off the project credit slide, and you’re going to get a 0 because he will wipe off any evidence of your work from this plane of existence, and you will spend the rest of your measly life chasing after your MLA-turned-APA works cited page, too-little-too-late. 

“I’m awake because the— well.” He pauses, and his voice sounds so far away and unobtrusive that you’re almost worried. Your breath stills in the middle of your diaphragm. Waiting. “The works cited is one thing. But I wanted you to look at the slides, if you can.” 

If you can, he says, as if he’s giving you a choice, which he literally never has during this entire process. You had no role in choosing the topic, or the slide theme, or what days you worked on the project, or how often you worked on the project (because god forbid you procrastinate a little bit, right?!), but now, at almost three in the morning, Veritas is saying something along the lines of oh please my dearest project partner, I request that you open the Google Slides at once, but only if you would like to! I would never infringe on your free will at three in the morning, because I respect you as a partner. Or something like that. That was pretty much the gist of it. 

A raspy sigh escapes you, and you claw your busted laptop off the nightstand next to you, opening it up and squinting at the LED screen as you punch in your passcode. “You know, I have done a good job at going along with all of your whims, Veritas, the least you could do is fix the works cited for me. Seriously, how did you even miss that? You’re so detail-oriented, but you didn't even realize the format was wrong until tonight? Who even cares, seriously… it’s just a slideshow…” 

Your voice trails off as the slideshow presentation finally loads in. You see Veritas’ default profile picture blink in the upper right-hand corner, signaling that he’s viewing the slideshow with you. The slideshow which has apparently undergone a huge makeover. 

It’s—pleasant to look at. This entire time, you and Veritas had been editing a default, white-background black-serif-font-text slideshow. He refused to change it, telling you that it’s unprofessional to do anything too embellished, to which you fruitlessly said, Veritas, we will die early deaths because of the hole in the ozone layer, would you at least make it easier on my poor soul by letting me choose a pokemon-theme slide? Veritas had pretended like he couldn't hear you (in a very quiet library room, mind you), but the twitch in his brow gave him away. 

Now, though, the slides are decorated. It’s a really nice theme, complete with custom icons and graphic blobs of color—your favorite color, might you add. It’s—pretty. Dare you say, cute, but you think Veritas would vaporize your entire presentation if you called it cute. 

“Did you— this— did you pay for this slide theme?” 

“You— n— mn,” he trails off into an unintelligible mash of mumbling, and you hear a loud THUD that sounds awfully like the phone being thrown onto a mattress. Fabric shuffles around, before you hear Veritas’ voice again, clear and composed. “Sorry. I dropped my phone.” What a loser, and a liar, and an endearing freak. You really wish he video called you because you need to see his totally-very-ugly face. 

“I thought this was unprofessional, Veritas,” you say teasingly, a smile lining your words as you try not to giggle right into the phone. “What made you have a change of heart?” 

“Nothing,” the typical firmness of his voice has returned, much to your dismay. “The works cited is still wrong. You have to fix it.” 

“Oh, whatever you say, honored Ratio,” you open up your trusty citation-generator, ready for a long fifteen minutes of copying and pasting information. “Hey, you must be free after class tomorrow, right? Since the project is pretty much over, right?” 

“Yes,” Veritas answers after a moment of hesitation, only a hint of doubt in his voice. 

“That’s great. Keep your schedule clear, then.” 

(You fix the works cited slide, wish Veritas sweet dreams, and then wake up in the morning to completely ace your presentation. The minute the period ends, you drag him out of the classroom and into a coffee shop, paying for some five dollar pastry and joking that it’s payback for the cute slideshow theme that he definitely paid five dollars for. Veritas is an awful liar, and you tell him that, and he can’t even find the strength to deny it.)

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or general taglist (navi) to be tagged in upcoming works!

#✧ gwen's recs #AUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #i am so in love with you veritas ratio #THIS GOT SO MANY GIGGLES OUT OF ME NORA #“vertias FUCKING ratio” 3am caller just to tell you about your MLA citations #Veritas #we will die early deaths because of the hole in the ozone layer #“would you at least make it easier on my poor soul by letting me choose a pokemon-theme slide?” #AASIBAUHSBADUBAYDBAYUDBAYDBADLMFAO #and he.. he..... paid for a fucking google slides theme after you complained enough and YOUR favorite color. #that is a love letter #AND HE WOULD HAVE THE STUPID DEFAULT GOOGLE ACCOUNT ICON #vs reader's candid face or their Meme #“god forbid you procrastinate a little bit” AHHADDHHA #the classmates trope is so good #type of guy to veto your VERY funny closing slide #BE PROUDDDD

[tragedy-of-commons]

WAAA THANK U FOR THE TAG ANN

i love all the options sm ,, the creator did such a good job !!

tagging: @staarri, @scribs-dibs, @milksnake-tea, @toorurs, anybody else :3

I found this super cute picrew and made myself in it so y'all should try it too!!

Tagging @aroacehanzawa @tevinterspirit @huabeam @sugarcarnation and anyone else who wants to try it (you can say I tagged you)

#games n stuff #CHOMP CHOMP

[tragedy-of-commons]

100 FOLLOWERS EVENT !

hello hello everyone!!!! just a few days ago, i hit 100 followers!

first of all, i want to thank everyone who picked up my works and dedicated a portion of their time to reading it. it means a lot! writing is a journey i've decided to embark on as it has been an interest of mine for such a long time, and i'm glad that you're all here with me!! this milestone wouldn't have happened without the stellaronhvnters network, the oracleofstars network, and of course to the people who supported me on my journey. (you know who you are!!!)

in celebration for this milestone, i've decided to open my asks for requests. for those unfamiliar with how i run my blog, most of my writing comes from a moment of inspiration—which is, actually, a fancy way to say i write on a whim—so this event gives me a chance to bounce off someone's ideas and bring them to life!

this is also to bond with you guys over your favourite characters... giggles mischievously 😭😭

(more utc!)

naturally, as this is an event (and a time to put in requests!), rules must be put in order. here it is as follows:

i am a sfw blog, so anything nsfw is prohibited. suggestive content is allowed but limited.

romantic and platonic scenarios are both allowed! i will, however, prohibit any romantic scenarios with underage characters.

genres i will write for range from fluff to angst :D

it is entirely up to you how to decide phrasing your request. you may add concepts like, for example, 5:00AM, etc. (fics based on songs are allowed... :3)

as this is a multi-fandom blog, anyone from any fandom can go on and put in a request. i will list both the fandoms and possible characters* i will write here;

- honkai: star rail (veritas ratio, jing yuan, blade, topaz, acheron, argenti)

- genshin impact (alhaitham, kaveh, ningguang, thoma, kaeya, diluc)

- love&deepspace (basically all of the love interests—this includes caleb, by the way. looking at someone in particula

- twisted wonderland (trey clover, deuce spade, azul ashengrotto, jack howl)

- tentatively, jujutsu kaisen—more so from the reason i may deliver not so accurate characterisation of whom you'll request for. i am, however, up to the task of writing for the characters :3 (megumi fushiguro, satoru gojo, suguru geto, shoko ieiri, yuji itadori)

if you have any fandom in mind that you think i'll write for, feel free to ask if i do!

*characters listed here are examples.

this is more so a reminder than a rule, but please be polite and respectful when writing your request! remember, i am entitled to refuse any requests i deem unreasonable.

the event duration will be from BST+1 april 21, 2024 to april 27 2024. as this is one of the (official) times i've opened my requests, i want to take it slow as to not overwhelm myself!!

if you have any questions, don't be shy to send in an ask. once again, thank you to everyone for making this milestone possible! ♡

IMAGE FOUND ON pinterest

DIVIDERS BY @/saradika-graphics

#AAA CONGRATS ON 100!!! #ill make sure to put in a request when they open up :D #EVENT EVENT EVENT