#can i get a refund on three days of my life

[swordymacaroni]

🎀Screw a breakup, you ever write 5000 words of a fanfic and realize you kept switching between tenses every two paragraphs?

[ms-demeanor]

Sometimes college professors like to hop on my posts lamenting the sorry state of syllabi these days and joke about how they haven't thought that far ahead in the course themselves, or talk about how they struggle to complete a schedule for their students.

With all due respect, that's your job. If you can't do your job, you should have a different job. If you need help, ask your colleagues or your department chair or *someone* because I know that professors aren't given a hell of a lot of education on how to educate, so you probably *need* help.

But every single time I make one of those posts I get anywhere from ten to thirty messages, replies, reblogs, and asks say "oh man, that's exactly why I had to drop out of school; I couldn't keep up with the assignments because I didn't know when they were due until the week they were due."

I have been a college student in three separate decades, and "not having a schedule of assignments in the syllabus" is new to my experience. That shit didn't fly in the 2000s or 2010s and I think it likely has to do with professors being overly reliant on apps.

AT A MINIMUM your syllabus should have:

Contact information (including preferred method of contact) for the professor

Office Hours

Grading Policy

Assignment schedule.

Your assignment schedule doesn't necessarily need to have the exact page numbers of every reading or a full assignment sheet for each project, but it should have things like:

December 1st - Major Project 3 second draft due December 9th - Quiz 10 December 12th - Major Project 3 final draft due December 15th - Final Exam

If you end up presenting a more thorough schedule with readings and homework later, that is acceptable to present a week or two into the semester but it is absolutely insane to me that students these days don't know what homework they're going to have to get done over Thanksgiving break during the first couple weeks of class.

If I had three professors at once who didn't give me a schedule, how on earth would I know if I was going to have to read three chapters of a novel, take a midterm and turn in two stats homework assignments, and complete a history research paper the same week that I'm planning to travel to see family? If I'm aware of this from the beginning of the semester I can make sure not to pick up extra shifts, or I can plan to leave a day later to accommodate the midterm, or I can start working on the paper early to complete it before the due date but if I don't know what's going to be due when, I'm going to have a big problem.

If you don't give your students a schedule you are communicating that you don't care about their schedule, and that you think it's their responsibility to contort their life (and their job, and their other classes) around your class, and honestly my advice to students in that situation is "drop in the first week and pick up another class". That's actually part of why I recommend signing up for one more class than you can really manage - if you get a professor whose class looks like it's going to be a disaster because they don't have a schedule, you can bail before the withdrawal period and get a refund for the class.

I'm only in one class this semester but the professor's response has fully dropped me into "Fuck it, I guess I'll fail" mode and I don't even know if I can pull myself out of my current D grade because I don't know how many assignments we have left in the semester.

This is a shitty way to run a class. If you can't do better than this, you shouldn't be running a class.

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Woe, Crack Baby Shitten au be upon thee.

(@bamsara 's little doodle of Nari being dubbed Cult Babysitter and holding a little lamb irrevocably changed my brain chemistry. So of course, I'm now making it everyone else's problem with the headcanon that Narinder is good with children of all ages.)

A couple of months before Lamb gets captured, they meet another lamb or a very small flock that have to split up very quickly after meeting since there's more chance of the lamb species surviving if they aren't all together. In the meeting, Lamb agrees to try continue the lamb species and gets pregnant via *magic* or afab.

Of course, all of the lambs are captured and killed with Lamb being the last, still a few months away from giving birth.

But then they are chosen and resurrected by The One Who Waits.

Fun fact: a fetus can survive for a few minutes after the death of the carrier. (Also this is a world with magic and gods in it. Logic means nothing to me.)

Lamb starts their cult, crusades across the lands and meets all sorts of allies and enemies. All while quietly mourning their entire species and the child that never would be.

Right up until they go into labour.

The baby is lamb through and through with soft wool, wide eyes, tiny cloven hooves and floppy ears.

But the influence of the crown is blazingly obvious since the baby's wool is jet black and they have three red eyes.

I can't tell which would be funnier. Lamb giving birth in The Lonely Shack or while they are physically in The Gateway just post-beating Leshy. Like they were in active labour right throughout fighting Leshy and had no idea. Either way, it's Shocked Pikachu .jpeg all around. (My fucking KINGDOM for a doodle of this.)

Various dot point shenanigans under the cut

There are two ways to go about this. But either way, Baby is not staying in the Cult. Too dangerous, especially if word gets to the Bishops about there being another lamb. So Lamb can and will speed-run this shit. So it takes them about 4-6 years to fully defeat the Bishops.

Baby stays with Ratau:

Lamb goes and yells at TOWW. They are panicking because they have no idea how to raise a probably-half-god baby.

Narinder has no idea what happened right up until Lamb comes in screaming about him being a Baby Daddy and child support.

Ratau is Grandpa now. This is his fate. He embraces the Grandpa life.

Baby learns how to play knucklebones before they can speak.

Shrumy tries to wager with Lamb/Ratau for the whole Baby. Once and only Once.

Baby's first word is dice. Or die.

Baby worships TOWW, but they are a Baby and don't really comprehend worship so the small shrine gets a lot of flowers, neat rocks and some drawings. Narinder always gives a lot of gold for them. And No, it's not favouritism. Shut up.

Baby knows curses. This is concerning for everyone except Baby.

Baby gets a little TOWW doll. It's their favourite, it goes everywhere with them and washing it is a nightmare for everyone involved.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower because of the doll.

↑ this action will have consequences.

When Baby is not so baby, they make stuff out of their wool for TOWW and for his disciples. Or asks their parent to help them make stuff.

Cue Lamb awkwardly giving the three some very wonky scarves or hats.

Baal loves it.

Aym refuses to take his off. Ever.

Narinder is actually upset cause his doesn't fit. He's too big. He had to wear it like a little ring.

Or Baby stays/is brought to the Gateway ala Aym and Baal situation:

If Lamb gives birth in the Gateway, everyone is getting a free midwifery education and free trauma. The cats want a refund.

Ya know when a baby instinctively clasps their little hand around a finger and it's like a crime to pull away? That but with Narinder's big ass claw that Baby can only barely cling to.

Aym cries the first time he holds Baby.

Baal straight-up refuses to give Baby back for a good hour.

Lamb visits at least once a day.

Lamb also brings baby things since a baby will do what a baby will do.

Depending on how old Aym and Baal were when they were gifted, Narinder is either learning all of this for the first time or is reminded of how challenging baby care can be.

Narinder purrs = a zonked Baby.

Baby's first word is Vessel.

Baby is taught to fight. Lamb doesn't like it but accepts it.

Baby has a little lamb doll. It is only due to the fact the afterlife doesn't have dirt that they avoid the nightmare of trying to wash it.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower since they refuse to be parted with him for long.

↑ this action will have consequences.

Lamb teaches Baby about being a lamb and if Aym and Baal join in, well who are they to deny their child's only friends/guardians this?

Narinder and Lamb figure out how to get Baby to teleport to the Living World and Baby gets to visit Grandpa Ratau.

Post-game shenanigans.

Narinder: Give me back my crown. Lamb: Ok. Sure. Narinder: I will now sacrifice my most devoted follower (the Lamb) for my freedom. Lamb: *Kill Bill sirens*

Lamb somehow doesn't kill Aym and Baal and instead kidnaps them via Indoctrination Circle out of spite/ reluctance to hurt them.

Narinder feels betrayed that the Lamb would refuse like this and kidnap his acolytes. He was going to resurrect them! He can't fully commit to raising a child while being the God of Death.

Lamb feels betrayed that Narinder would want to kill their child. After all they've been through together! After the way they saw him treat Baby with such gentleness and now he wants to kill them?!

This comes out in the very final moments right before Lamb goes to give the final blow.

Narinder: You are a vengeful false idol and a traitor! Lamb: At least I'm not a monster who wanted to kill my own child! Narinder: Wait. What.

This devolves into a massive argument with divorced-couple vibes.

Narinder is insulted and a bit hurt they thought he would kill his own child.

Lamb is hurt that Narinder would just demand their sacrifice without even talking to them about the whole situation.

Either way the lesson learned is Narinder needs to be more blunt and Lamb needs to not jump to conclusions.

So they are left with a newly usurped Narinder and a newly crowned Lamb. Oops.

Baby is with Ratau when all of this is going down.

Baby is happy their family is all together properly. Baby is Not Happy about this whole cult thing demanding attention from Their Baba.

The Cult is baffled by the sight of their leader with both a baby and a Spouse? Bitterly Divorced Ex? Estranged Co-parent?! What ever it is, most of them have elected not to touch the whole situation with a 10ft barge pole.

Baby learns what the word Father is and how that word refers to Narinder.

Baby calls Narinder Father/Papa/Daddy. Instant KO.

Narinder somehow gains a small hoard of children that like to follow him. Baby Does Not Approve.

Baby also Does Not Approve of this newly formed rift between their parents.

Cue Parent Trap level of Shenanigans.

Aym and Baal are recruited.

The Hoard of Children are recruited. Baby now Slightly Approves.

Narinder and Lamb have an Actual Conversation after the 18th time they get locked in the confessional together.

This of course evolves into Narilamb.

Bishops are saved from purgatory.

Despite all attempts otherwise, Baby is introduced to them.

Shocked Pikachu .jpeg x4

Maybe after a few more years, not-so-baby Baby wants a sibling.

This got so much longer than I thought but yes. Shitten Shenanigans: Accidental Child Acquisition flavoured.

[java-lava]

My Favorite webnovels/Webtoons/Webcomic/Whatever;

The Remarried Empress

My Gently Raised Beast

I Became the Villain’s Stepmother

Born as the Second Daughter

My In-Laws are Obsessed with Me

The Tyrant Wants to be Good

Men of the Harem

The Matchmaking Baby Princess

Who Made Me a Princess

For my Derelict Favorite

I Thought My Time Was Up

I’m the Queen in This Life

Tricked into the Heroine’s Stepmother

Woes of a Male Lead

Baby Tyrant

Hello Baby

Go Away Romeo

Monster Duke’s Daughter

Divorcing My Tyrant Husband

From a Knight to a Lady

The Male Lead’s Girlfriend

When the Third Wheel Strikes Back

A Heart for the Emperor

My Husband Changes Every Night

Edit to add(I’m constantly updating this);

The Twins New Life

I Got Pregnant with the Tyrant’s child

I’ll Raise You Well in This Life, Your Majesty!

The Evil Princess Dreams of a Gingerbread House

I’m the Soldier’s EX-Girlfriend

I Adopted the Male Lead

Villains Are Destined to Die

The Crown Princess Scandal

Marry My Husband

Perfect Marriage Revenge

Boyfriend of the Dead

Refund High School

Siren’s Lament

Empire’s Cutest Little Hostage

A Tender Heart; The Story of How I Became A Duke’s Maid (dropped due to SPOILERS the child being the ml and his nanny being the fl)

I Hold the Tyrant’s Heart

Lout of the Count’s family

I Am the Villain

The Crown Princess Scandal

The Dragon King’s Bride

Please Kill My Husband

The Reason Why Raeliana Ended up at the Duke’s Mansion

Am I Your Daughter?

Taming the Marquess

Pricilla’s Marriage Proposal

Crowning my Feral Prince

Under the Oak Tree

Finding Camellia

I Raised a Black Dragon

Adeline’s Darkest Night

Wish Upon a Husband

My Husband, My Sister, and I

I’m Being Raised By Villians

Talented Baby Squirrel

The Greatest Estate Developer

The Little Princess and Her Monster Prince

Surviving as the Tyrant’s Daughter

Father I Don’t Want This Marriage

Ten Ways to Get Dumped by a Tyrant

I Will Live The Life of a Villainess

Vampire Husband

Cursed Princess Club

What the Evil Dragon Lives For

1HP Club

Days With You

Batman: Wayne Family Adventures

Love Me to Death

Suitor Armor

I’ll Be the Matriarch in This Life

How is This Hot Duke Just a Background Character

My Three Tyrant Brothers

You Are Obsessing Over the Wrong Person, Lord of the Tower!

Beware the Villainess!

It’s Not Your Baby!

Being Loved for the First Time

I Will Divorce the Female Lead’s Older Brother

Everyone’s Princess

Villainess Have More Fun.

A Wicked Tale of Cinderella’s Stepmom

A Stepmother’s Marchen

The Beloved Fake Saint

Daughter of the Archmage

How to Hide the Emperor’s Child

The Male Lead’s Little Lion Daughter

The Crow’s Prince

The Reason for the Twin Lady’s Disguise

Adopted by a Murderous Duke Family

If anyone wants a one-shot based on a character from any of these, let me know

If anyone know where I can continue reading these for free, pls let me know (I’m broke);

Empire’s Cutest Little Hostage

A Tender Heart; The Story of How I Became A Duke’s Maid (nvm. About this one, I’ve been told that the child IS the Ml)

I Hold the Tyrant’s Heart

Lout of the Count’s family (found on Tapas)

Crowning my Feral Prince

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag angel baby @guiltyasdave <3 • 18+ under the cut! MDNI!

wip #1 • far too familiar a stranger…feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

a long time ago, logan howlett knew a woman with your face…

i couldn’t not write a ‘worst!logan coming face to face with his tragically dead love interest but from wade’s universe after wade forced her to help them stop the TVA and hating her for bringing up that time in his life until he doesn’t anymore’ fic.

it's crimson because i felt that making whole new mutant reader would be sort of confusing so this fic is in the to the bone universe but it's not the same timeline...if that makes sense lmao

Wade Wilson is the worst neighbor in the entire fucking world. It’s really something you should have known sooner, like ‘the very first day in your new place ending with him breaking in through your window fully suited up after counting the floors wrong and bleeding all over your brand new pottery barn throw rug because he was still a little too concussed to walk’ sooner. Even after that whole fiasco left you with a broken window latch and a beyond fucked non-refundable $80 carpet, you still let yourself entertain his crazy. Just like everyone else whose life Wade crashed into, both physically or metaphorically. And once he's in, you can never really get him back out again. So yeah, maybe this whole thing is your fault. Maybe getting thrown into a barren, dusty void with two somewhat failed X-Men is just all your bad karma manifesting in one huge finger from the universe.

wip #2 • red and yellow kill a fellow! feat. logan howlett & wade wilson

logan doesn’t appreciate you letting wade get one up on him…

finally finally finally getting off my ass and writing logan x reader x wade! i was inspired by this one episode of satc (which is like my favorite show ever bee tee dubs) where charlotte goes out with two guys at the same time and she has sex with one but not the other until one of them catches her with the other guy and they all break it off.

my vision is a little different cause instead of getting mad and leaving when logan finds out reader fucked wade and not him, he figures it's his turn to get even. aka wade in the cuck chair and loving it.

The three of you pass a BMW sitting in a no parking zone, all four windows rolled down as Madonna blasts through the speakers. "So," Wade says, voice breaking the silence for the first time in five minutes. "Who white-washed your guts better?" You nearly trip over your own feet, whipping your head to gape at Wade. "Fucking excuse me?" "You know," Wade shrugs, like it's a perfectly normal thing to ask. The leisurely pace of his stroll not slowing, his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. "Who carved the lyrical railway better?" He just keeps going as you stare at him with a repulsed look on your face. "The number one stud that's stuffin' your muffin? That's takin the ol' bald-headed gnome for a satisfying stroll in the misty forest. Pick one hot stuff, they all mean the same thing." Before you can even answer there's a rough, questioning grunt from your right and your stomach flips. Oh. Logan, he was still here too. Still here and right next to you, listening. Oh yeah. "You fucked?" You still haven't slept with Logan yet. You turn to him face slowly, eyes a hair wide as you take in the sharp raise of his brow. "Um..." "Whoops," Wade snorts from somewhere behind your shoulder. "Cat's out the bag."

wip #3 • it's the easiest thing (just love me and eat me) feat. logan howlett

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

the same requested sub!logan fic from last wednesday just with a new name and weirder energy! like this has really gotten away from me and turned into something that i can't really explain well enough to make it sound like chill...

lots of religious imagery and symbolism...and some metaphors of cannibalism...idk i'm just a girl with religious trauma and a weird blood fetish sue me.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church. The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of it like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship. Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion. The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. The sound of your name pulled from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered. You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

kisses!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing @superhoeva

[redak-ted]

i have more incorrect quotes and its the fruity four + the certified dilf and his traumatized husband

Miles: Man, traffic's a pain in the assssss.

Hobie: Daddy's home!

Gwen: Just call him Bayer, or Bear or something, Daddy is reserves for your mother to use.

Pav: I'm about to have one less girlfriend in a minute.

Miles: This food is too hot… I cant eat it.

Hobie: You’re very hot, and I still eat you.

Everyone at the table: silence

Gwen: YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING!

Pav: One dinner… I just want ONE DINNER!

[The group is a prison cell that was just hit by an earthquake]

Miles: Uh, I'm gonna roll a perception check of… 4, and see if our cell is, uh, in any way damaged by this quake

Hobie: You're in a prison cell :)

Gwen: You did great. Well, I got a 10-

Hobie: You're in a prison cell with bars on it

Pav: I got a 1!

Hobie: You're in… a cube-shaped place.

Miles: On a scale from “damn Daniel” to “fre sha vaca do”, how are you feeling?

Hobie: In between “it’s an avocado, thanks” and “how did you defeat Captain America”, but as a solid answer I would say “I don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger”. How about you, Gwen?

Gwen: Probably “road work ahead”.

Pav: I speak many languages, and this is none of them.

Miles: Dammit, Hobie!

Hobie: What?! It wasn’t me!

Miles: Sorry, force of habit. Dammit, Gwen!

Gwen: Not me either.

Miles: Oh…Then who set the house on fire?

Pav: whistles

Miles: On the count of three, what's your favorite cake? One, two, three-

Miles and Hobie, in unison: Chocolate cake peanut butter frosting with chocolate chunks!

Gwen: Our turn, Pav! One, two, three- vanilla!

Pav, deadpan: I've never had cake, what is cake.

Gwen, about Miles: Apparently we’re getting someone new in the group.

Hobie: Are we stealing them?

Pav: New or used?

Gwen: Wonderful responses, both of you.

Gwen: Just be yourself.

Hobie: 'Be myself'? Gwen, I have one day to win Miles over. How long did it take before you guys started liking me?

Pav: Couple weeks.

Peter: Six months.

Miguel: Jury’s still out.

Hobie: See, Gwen?

Hobie: 'Be myself'. What kind of garbage advice is that?

Miles: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Hobie: What if it bites me and it dies?

Gwen: Then you’re poisonous. Jesus Christ, Hobie, learn to listen.

Pav: What if it bites itself and I die?

Peter: That’s voodoo.

Pav: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Hobie: That’s correlation, not causation.

Miguel: What if we bite each other, and neither of us die?

Peter: That’s kinky.

Miles: Oh my God.

Miles: Bye Hobie! Bye Gwen! Bye Pav! Bye Peter! Bye Hobie!

Gwen: You said ‘bye Hobie’ twice.

Miles: I like Hobie~

Miles: That's it, we're gonna go out and find what we need!

Pav: To the city?

Miles: Yeah, no matter what!

Peter: Well- How exactly do you propose we do that, exactly?

Miles: I… I don't know!

Hobie: Oh come off it, be serious!

Miles: I am serious!

Hobie: You're insane!

Gwen: Why, if only we were all wiener dogs, our problems would be solved!

Everyone:

Miles: What???

Gwen: Or maybe it was a basset hound!

Hobie, panicked: YOU'RE ALL INSANE!

Miles: What did you guys get in your yearbook?

Gwen: 'Prettiest Smile'

Pav: 'Nicest Personality'

Miguel: 'Most likely to start a bar fight'

Peter: 'Least likely to start a bar fight, but most likely to win one'

Miles: Would you guys be there for me if I was going through something?

Hobie: Nope, absolutely not.

Gwen: I hope it sucks, whatever you're going through.

Pav: I hope it emotionally scars you for the rest of your life.

Peter: I hope you reach out to me so I can ignore you.

Miguel: I can't wait to go to your funeral, knowing I could've changed that outcome.

Squad reactions to being told ‘I love you’

Miles: Thanks fam!

Hobie: oh no

Gwen: cries I love you too

Pav: Sounds fake but okay

Peter: A flustered mess

Miguel: can i get a refund

[the-offside-rule]

Daniel Ricciardo - Does Your Mother Know?

Requested: yes

Prompt: Does Your Mother Know - Abba

Warnings: mentions of a one night stand

Daniel sat in the meeting room of the McLaren technology centre. He was out two days ago but couldn't shake that hungover feeling. "You'd wanna act sober Daniel, Zak is coming in soon." One of Daniel's engineers said. Daniel groaned and sat up, forcing a neutral kind of smile, hoping he came across as fully recovered. Daniel was full awake once he heard the door open and in walked the American with what looked like an assistant. "Alright, how's everyone doing today?" Zak asked in his usual chirpy voice. "A lot better today." Daniel lied. Daniel looked over to the assistant who looked like she had just seena ghost. "Who-" Daniel stopped himself from speaking further. Fuck. Surely this was a nightmare of some sort. No way she was here. "Oh sorry, I almost forgot. This is my intern for the month. She's acting as my assistant. Daniel, guys, this is Y/n Y/l/n." Y/n and Daniel stared at eachother and when they were required to look at something else, they still managed to glance eachothers way. 'This cannot be happening." Daniel thought to himself. "There is no way she is an intern here. No...fucking...way."

Daniel moved his way through the crowd, trying to make his way to the bar for another drink. His friends only brought him out so he could try get over his ex. It wasnt working. They insisted that he tried to make some moves on some girls but he wasn't feeling it. He wasn't quite ready to move on, which he thought was perfectly okay. But with how everyone was telling him he was wrong, he was starting to rethink himself. "Jack Daniels and coke." He shouted over the music. He finished the last dribble of his previous drink and set it down. "Oh come on! It's just sambuca!" He heard a girl beside him say. He turned to see a girl with four shots of sambuca and her three other friends laughing and telling her no. "We aren't drinking, Y/n. We're going back to our flats. There are these really good looking guys that want to get with us so we're not ruining this for us just so you can drink!" Daniel pulled a face at how rude they were being. "You don't ditch your mates for some dick!" The girl shouted, standing up for herself. "No? Well I'll gladly ditch you!" And with that, the other three walked away.

Daniel was confused. He's never seen such a second in his life. The girl turned back around and stared at the shots. It was like he could almost see her train of thought, whether she should down them all or chance asking for a refund. The girl then turned to him and gave a light hearted smile. "You'd hardly like to do some sambuca, would you?" Daniel chuckled and nodded out of pity. "Of course. Can't turn down free shots." She said two over to Daniel and kept two for herself. "Alright, ready?" He asked. She nodded and the two backed their shot. Daniel coughed as the sambuca tickled his throat, but when he turned over to the person he was doing the shot with, she had a straight face and ready to do the next. "Jesus, how do you not even make a face?" He asked, reluctantly grabbing his second. "I'm used to it. It just tastes like Bonjela." She insisted, clinking her glass with Daniel's. "Do you think you like it because you maybe drank too much?"

"I didn't drink too much. I never drink too much." The girl replied. The bar tender put Daniel's drink down in front of him and held out the card machine so Daniel could pay. He swiped his card along the screen and slid the bottle of coke over to her. "Drink this, it might make you feel better." He said. She shook her head and slid it back over. "Water makes you feel better. Not coke." She waited for the bar tender to come back and asked him for a glass of water which was gotten quite quickly. She started by taking sips. She'd been here way too often recently. "You're quite handsome." She said. Daniel was taken back by her sudden compliment. "Don't take it in a weird way. You don't even need take note of it. I'm probably drunk." Daniel laughed.

"You're very young, no?" He asked loudly over the music. The girl shook her head and drank the last of her whiskey. "Not at all! I'm 24!" She replied. Daniel chuckled. "Does your mother know you're out here trying to chat up drivers?" He asked. "Who says I'm trying?" Daniel let out a light hearted laugh. "There's that look in your eyes." He said. She looked confused. "What ever do you mean?" She batted her eyes. "Does your mother even know you're out?" He teases. "Im not not young."She paused. "But what mother doesn't know, won't hurt her." Daniel felt a smirk growing on his lips. "Care to dance?" She asked. Daniel looked around but couldn't see his friends anywhere. His gaze fell back onto her, before he agreed. "I can dance with you." He said. "We can do a lot more than dance." The girl tried to say it quiet enough, but Daniel had caught it. "What? You want to chat? Or we can flirt a little maybe."

Once the pair found a place to dance, Daniel pulled her in closer. "I know what you want but you seem a little young for that kinda thing." She groaned. "I'm not young. I'm old enough to know what I want and when I want it." Daniel looked at her through hooded eyes. She was driving him crazy. He couldn't bare remember the reason he was in the club in the first place, but he was more than happy to be there now. "Do you think we should go somewhere more private?" She asked. "Only if I get a name." She replied as quick as he asked. "Y/n."

"Daniel." He took her hand and led her out into the carp park at the back of the club, opening his McLaren sports car, and climbing in with her. From then on, everything was a bit of a blur.

"And that concludes our meeting." Zak announced, standing up to leave. Y/n stood up, holding her laptop into her chest and walking out quickly to avoid any further conversation with the Australian driver. Daniel caught onto this and chased after her, trying his bets to play it off as casual. His eagerness to speak to the intern earned some very confused looks from other engineers in the meeting room. "Y/n!" He called after her. "At least let me introduce myself properly this time!" Y/n spun around and looked at him blankly. "I knew you looked so familiar in the club. I knew I knew you from somewhere. I just feel so fucking dumb." Y/n said. "If it's any constellation, I feel stupid as well." Y/n arched an eyebrow. "Well I usually ask girls out first before I- well-" he paused. "You know what I'm on about." Y/n gave a light hearted chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, I get it. Ugh, this feels so weird." Y/n admitted. "It does. How about wr resplve it over lunch? Maybe dinner?"

Y/n didn't expect that but nonetheless, she played along. "Is this some half asked way of asking me out?" Daniel smiled. "Only if it worked." Y/n felt herself giggling like a school girl, leaving Daniel unsure as to what her answer really was. "I can do lunch." And so, Daniel walked to the canteen with the intern. Where will this take them? Who knows. I'm sure it can only end well though, right?

[goatsandgangsters]

So we had lots of fun in Chicago, it was a really great time, we liked it there! 

UNTIL THE SINGLE WORST FLIGHT EXPERIENCE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE

it took 💫✨ 28 hours ✨💫

like, I fly multiple times a year and no hurricane or blizzard has EVER fucked up my day like this

so our original flight out of Chicago was Sunday, but bc of the storms every flight to NY from like noon onwards was delayed. and you know how delays are, every hour they push you back another hour, until you've wracked up Many Hours of delay

And finally, at like 9 pm, they canceled every flight to New York. This was at MINIMUM seven flights all cancelled. at 9 pm. with 7+ planes full of people now stranded 

And then the gate agents all left!! Didn't help rebook people, didn't answer any questions. Just left. Literally "not my problem, call customer service number." there was NO ONE in that entire airport To Help

Oh also fun fact: because the cancellation was due to ~weather, their policy is that they don't have to provide any overnight accommodations. For several planes full of stranded people. 

And there ARE no alternative flights because MANY PLANES OF PEOPLE all tried to rebook to the same place at once. There is not a SINGLE flight on Monday to any of the 3 New York area airports, or to Philly, or to those little airfields in Connecticut, or to Boston

There is absolutely nothing until Tuesday. It is Sunday. They are refusing to put anyone up in a hotel. Also it's Chicago on the night before the DNC, so good luck on last minute hotel reservations 

Finally, after an hour on hold, I get a (GENUINELY LOVELY, I love him) customer service guy who's like "I can get you back to New York tomorrow via three different flights" and when you've been stranded already for several hours that sounds like a recipe for further disaster. So instead we opt for a direct flight to DC the next morning and then spend additional money getting train tickets home from there

We are now left overnight in the airport with nothing but a $15 food voucher and those shitty tissue-paper airplane blankets (which, also, I had to walk to an entirely different terminal to get myself so.)

(There are also additional flights full of stranded New Yorkers who weren't even IN Chicago originally, they got rerouted mid-flight from other places and grounded, it is well past midnight and some of them aren't going to be able to get a flight out until WEDNESDAY)

We spend the night in the airport. I sleep for maybe 50 minutes. Do you know they vacuum airport terminals at really weird irregular intervals all night long? 

Also additional fun: I checked a bag. I am concerned about this. I express this concern to an employee who tells me to just track my bag in the app. The app says my bag is going to DC. I have doubts. I talk to the gate agent. He says the computer says my bag will go to DC. I still have doubts. 

I am correct. It does not go to DC. So I call the baggage helpline. I am on hold for an hour again. I finally get someone who tells me that my bag is still in Chicago and they won't mail it to my home address, but they WILL send it to my nearest airport and THAT airport can decide if they're going to mail it to me or not?? No, this doesn't sound right to me either. But fret not, because he put a NOTE in my file that an AIRPORT IN NEW YORK CITY should GIVE ME A CALL PERSONALLY when they receive my bag! Do you want to hold your breath, because I don't. 

So to recap:

Total trip time from door to door: 28 entire human hours

Hours of sleep: one.

18 of these 28 hours were spent in an airport and I no longer have any sense of reality

I also do not know where my bag is. I do not know how I will obtain my bag. It contains my all-time favorite shirts AND our gorgeous jstor tote bags that we got for free so like, this is somewhat Dire

I've had an hour of sleep 

I have not yet had the time to call and demand both a refund for my flight AND compensation for having to book additional expensive amtrak tickets just to get home because they couldn't get us any closer to New York thAN OUR NATION'S CAPITAL

I was told by the (genuinely lovely and ONLY helpful person in all this) customer service guy who rebooked me that I absolutely will be refunded. I am again not holding my breath, because I have been told many things and very few of them have been true

[ktsumu]

three ticks and i’m home.

pairing: dainsleif x fem!reader, 4.2k words

summary: gods are never innocent; neither are godless men.

(or: a timeline of dainsleif's grief through the life of his broken watch, one that ticks backwards and the one you fixed, first.)

note: someone tell me to stop reading his lore and i will. beware for plot holes because genshin is nuts. crossposted to ao3 also!

content: major character death, destruction, angst, talk of children, you're a clocksmith, angst with like a sprinkle of fluff in one scene, a lot of worldbuilding regarding khaenri'ah + the cataclysm

Five years before.

Dainsleif is a serious guy.

He needs to be — it’s a must-have quality for a Commander. He smiles at children that look up to him, doesn’t leave bars with women who want to. His schedule is so tight that some say it wears a corset, or at least his friends do. He takes his job with the pride of a boy who grew up watching the soldiers march, a boy who now leads them.

Dainsleif runs a tight schedule.

That is, until his watch breaks, and disorder comes soon after.

He complains in the bunks for twenty minutes that night about the chaos his time regulates until one of his friends recommends an old friend, a clocksmith in the heart of the city. 

( “Get a digital one while you’re there. That thing’s ancient.”

“People are allowed to like old things, Halfdan.”

“Not things that break like that.” )

Dainsleif visits you the next day, setting the metal watch on your counter with his arms crossed. His brows tug together and his expression is more wary than it is expectant.

“Can you fix it?” he asks.

You look it over, rubbing your thumb over rust. “Who’s it from?”

“Can you fix it?”

You set the watch back down, looking back up at him with a little grin.

“For a price, Commander.”

Dainsleif swallows, rolling his shoulders back and digging out his wallet.

It takes you four hours to fix his ancient watch, and you even get the rust off of the band for him. You clasp it back around his wrist and tell him to get back to work when he tries to thank you, standing around for way too long. When he leaves, you set aside and refund his money.

15 years since the Cataclysm

“What do you mean you can’t fix it?”

“They call us horologists, sir. Not magicians.”

Dainsleif huffs, leaning on the counter and shaking his head. “My friend recommended you,” he says, pleads. “He said you can fix anything. Even this. Did you try?”

“I—”

“Try.”

The watchmaker tilts his head, an unsure look on his face. Dainslef’s shoulders fall. “Please,” he whispers. “Try.”

The man purses his lips, sighing, and extends a hand. His fingers wriggle.

“For a price.”

Dainsleif takes out his wallet and pays him double what he paid you — the watch takes four days to fix, and he doesn’t remove the rust. Dainsleif collects it with haste.

“Sorry, couldn’t change the time,” he tells his client. “That thing will always run backwards.”

Dainsleif nods. “Oh.”

Four.

Your favourite day is Sunday.

Dainsleif allows himself one day to relax, one day that he’s mandated, and what day other than a day reserved for a god you never had would be a better fit? On Sundays, you stay in bed, under your linen sheets and against his chest. Neither of you move until absolutely necessary; sometimes hours, sometimes less.

“Breakfast soon?” he asks. 

“I thought maybe a little while longer.”

“That’s fine.”

“Ugh, I love it when you agree with me,” you tease, giggling when he scoffs. He agrees with you most of the time; you’re reasonable people. 

Dainsleif sighs, humming when you curl further into his side. He's a serious guy, but that doesn’t count on Sundays. Not during your beautiful, godless mornings. He raises an eyebrow at the vase on your dresser, “Those are new.”

“Hm?”

“Inteyvats,” he comments, “the flowers.”

“Is it so wrong of me to show some nationalism, Dain?”

He grins, shaking his head as you laugh. You laugh and it shakes your shoulders. You laugh and it shakes his chest. 

“I just didn’t know you liked them,” he says, “that’s all.”

You settle, humming against the cotton of his shirt. “I love them.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Maybe someday, we’ll have someone to use their name.”

He thinks for a moment, “A daughter?”

You tilt your head back so you can see him, to the point where it aches to hold yourself up like that. “Would that be so bad?”

Dainsleif thinks for a moment — you and a daughter. “No,” he says, “not at all.”

“That’s down the road, anyway,” you laugh. “You know what isn’t?”

“What?”

“Our anniversary,” you say, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “How do you want to celebrate it?”

Dainsleif thinks about your one year anniversary, lying in bed with you on a Sunday, talking about a family and the flower you’ll start it with. He thinks about how content he would be if you did nothing at all but this; lie against his side and kiss his jaw, talk about the daughter he hopes will look just like you. He doesn’t think he could ask for anything more.

“This is okay.”

“Mm, alright,” you say, your smile against his collarbone. “I love you.”

Dainsleif tilts his head so you can stay where you are. “I love you," he echoes, "I love how you speak our language.”

“Oh? What’s so special about it?”

He smiles to himself.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Fifty years since

The watch breaks again on what would’ve been your seventy-fifth birthday.

The smith Dainsleif found this time looks over the stuttering clock hands, the numbers written in something unintelligible to him. He tosses it in his hand, a curious look on his face. “Old watch, no?”

“Very. Could you restore it?”

“By ‘restore�� you mean…”

“Fix it to tell time,” he clarifies. “And to still tick backwards.”

The clocksmith looks up with curious eyes, one of his eyebrows quirking up. “You want me to fix it ... to be broken?”

“If you can.” 

He hesitates. “I’ll do my best.”

Dainsleif lets him swivel around in his chair, flicking a light on over his desk as he hunches over. The shop he operates out of is personal, messy — never Dainsleif’s style, but he can admit it is quaint. Quilts and sewn tapestries line the walls, textbooks from the Akademiya line a bookcase filled with papers; a frame hangs on the wall.

A painting of a flower; inteyvat.

“Excuse me,” Dainsleif coughs, “I can’t help but notice your painting.”

“Hm? Oh, the flower.”

“Yes — you know where it’s from?”

The smith hums a laugh, nodding. “Khaenri’ah hasn’t been gone long enough to forget it.”

Dainsleif swallows. “I was just surprised to see it, is all.”

“Most are,” he replies, his eyes not leaving the watch he works on. He rummages through his drawer for tweezers. “It was a gift for my daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes,” he replies, happily. “We named her after them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath.

Three.

When Dainsleif comes home from his shift, you’re sitting at the table with your chin resting in your hands.

“Good evening,” he greets, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his boots. He doesn’t seem to notice that you don’t reply in the twenty or so seconds it takes to writhe out of his uniform, or that you don’t bother to even look in his direction at all. The only time he realizes that something in the room has shifted is when you move away from his kiss. “Hello?”

You grit your teeth.

Dainsleif crosses his arms, slowly rounding the table to face you from across it. “What is it?”

You look up at him, finally. “Where’s my blueprint, Dain?”

He blinks. “I — your what?”

“Don’t act dumb,” you say with a pointed finger, your head shaking. Your body might as well be, too. “My analog blueprints, digital ones — they’re all gone and guess who is the only one I trusted enough to tell?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. “It wasn’t me,”

“Who else was it, then?” you shout, standing up to try and match his height. “Who? Tell me, Dainsleif, who else could it have been?”

He swallows, pulling one of your dining table chairs out. It squeals against the floor like it hates him just as much as you do. “Sit, please.”

“You know what I think, Dain?”

“Sit down, please.”

“I think you stole them for the factories you Guards don’t tell anyone about,” you whisper, “the metal soldiers you make.”

“They’re field tillers,”

“Field tillers don’t have missiles in their chest,” you spit. The air thickens as you shake your head.

He gestures to the seat you once sat in, but you don’t bite. Not that easily, not ever.

“Lie to me again and I’m gone for good.”

Dainsleif swallows again, folding his hands and looking down at them. You’re scorned and he’s holding the heat; there is no explanation he can offer that makes this look any bit okay to either of you. He’s dug his grave — now, he lies in it, shovel at his side.

“Tell me,” you plead, “tell me what you’re making an army for.”

Dainsleif shakes his head.

“Gods don’t like godless men,” he says, so low you hardly hear him. So simple, like he's being reasonable.

You shake your own. “Godless men don’t even like themselves.”

His eyes meet yours.

“I want my designs back,” you tell him, more desperate than you let on. “Every page, every scribble, everything. And I don’t want anything made with them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath, his eyes averting themselves back down to the table. He doesn’t need to see your face anymore — not when he knows you’ll hate him once he tells you.

“You can’t.”

“You—”

“I can’t,” he says. “It’s too late.”

150 years since

“Wow, this watch is beat.”

“It is — can you fix it?”

This one is in Fontaine, the clocksmith is — she’s eclectic, a little disorganized like you were, with a scary love for crushed velvet by the look of her shop. There’s metal dust everywhere and things that don’t belong to clocks or watches, but someone swore up and down she knows her stuff. Knows it well, too. 

She looks back up at Dainsleif with a wink. “Got Mora?”

He tosses a pouch on the counter. “Anything you need.”

He doesn’t bother watching what she takes from it, instead opting to turn and watch the bustling streets outside. He’s fond of Fontaine, it’s full of life and running water — every shop is full from wall to wall.

The girl he’s trusting to fix his watch is trying to speak to him, but he’s not listening; all he can see is the eye of a Ruin Guard that hangs in the window of a pawn shop across the street; marked down to half value, less if you trade-in for credit. Dainsleif thinks about the lives those parts were worth almost two centuries ago. 

No one in Khaenri’ah was ever worth just a couple hundred coins. 

Two.

Taverns in Khaenri’ah have so many songs that they fill walls with the lyrics.

They are loud and they are lively — you know something’s wrong when you catch one quiet and half-empty. The windows all made of stained glass, rustic to contrast the world around them; taverns in Khaenri’ah are like a world of their own. In them, people dance like such.

You dance that way, yourself. Not with him, but it’s nice to watch you spin again.

Dainsleif watches you clutch someone’s shoulder; he doesn’t know who he is but he’s wearing his uniform, someone he leads. He thinks he remembers you saying that you made an exception for him — you don’t date ‘snobs from the Royal Guard.’

(Dainsleif has hope that, maybe, you still remember your pact and, maybe, you try to keep it now.)

The wooden floors groan beneath stomping feet and gliding boots, the room a whirlwind of exhausted workers and the select few from the Guard that deem little places like this worthy of their presence. 

He catches your eye for a second, only one, but your smile fades quick enough for your dancing partner to whisk you around again. A blur of your dress, and then, you’re grinning again.

Halfdan sets a drink down on the bar in front of him, kicking out the stool beside Dainsleif and sitting down. He follows his commander’s eyes and they land on you; they typically do on Friday nights.

“It’s alright,” Halfdan says, with a heavy-handed pat on his back. “Everyone has the one that got away.”

Dainsleif shakes his head, you laugh against his knight’s chest. “It’s different.”

“How so?”

“It does not matter, now, does it?”

“Mm, and yet, you’re still watching her.”

Dainsleif sips on the drink that was brought to him, turning to face the bar instead. Halfdan purses his lips, drumming his fingers on the table.

“You know,” Halfdan says, “I worry about the … field tillers.”

Dainsleif nods. “They’ll work.”

“Godless doesn’t mean we need to create our own, Captain,”

“You don’t know the things that I do,” Dainsleif cuts, harsh but not mean. “All of this has been discussed before. Let us make the orders, Halfdan, let yourself follow them.”

Halfdan hesitates.

“Captain Dainsleif,”

“Halfdan.”

“I apologize for overstepping,” he says, “but I’m just afraid of what will happen to us.”

Dainsleif rolls his shoulders back, nodding subtly. He clinks the bottom of his glass against the table.

“I am too,” he replies, tilting his head back and his glass up.

When he sets his glass back down, swallowing with a wince, he turns around. You’re the only one still on the floor, and you’re looking right at him.

500 years since

Dainsleif has spent his life figuring out where to drink. He finds that Mondstadt is the best place to.

The taverns there are quiet enough, and he isn’t bothered by anyone — they’re less lively than the ones way back when. It's a blessing that he isn’t haunted by the laughter, and a curse that he forgets what it sounds like. The tap beer is good, too. Mondstadt only serves you in bottles or chilled glasses.

But Dainsleif knows that no good comes after two in the morning, and nothing good comes from watching the Knights of Favonius pour in. 

(It’s a little too familiar; he’s watching his bloodied soldiers laugh and topple to the bar.)

Dainsleif leaves enough Mora to cover his tab and tip, and bolts for the door.

He makes a beeline through the center, cutting the body of the bar in two as these faces he recognizes comment on his attire. He knows he looks like a fish out of water, he feels like a fish out of water. Five hundred years spent in this place and he still feels hated — he’s sure the next five centuries won’t change.

He knocks shoulders with someone near the door: “Woah there, pretty small hallway this must be, huh?”

He’s about to apologize, too, maybe count it as his crooked form of atonement, until he looks the guy he hit in the eye. Yes, eye — there's only one showing. The other hides beneath an eye patch.

He’s looking at him, but somehow, he’s now looking at you.

He’s lost in them, his eyes, and this new guy seems to notice — judging by the way he’s dressed, Dain guesses he’s a captain. He clears his throat.

“I know you’re heading out, but maybe another drink wouldn’t hurt?”

Dainsleif panics, because now he’s trapped. He doesn’t see you until he sleeps — not until he’s locked in bed somewhere, until it doesn’t matter what he says because no one else is there to listen but you and him. He can’t see you here, and he can’t see him.

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that I'm in a rush. I apologize for hitting you.”

(He doesn’t get very far.)

The man takes his wrist, making him turn around. 

“Please?” he asks, but it’s not really begging. More like a proposition, probably. “I’m not sure how to say that in Khaenri’ahn.”

Dainsleif lets out a breath.

One.

It is your old day, Sunday , when Dainsleif enters your shop again, the broken watch on his wrist thrumming against his pulse point with every jerk of its hands.

The bell rings above your door and he’s almost surprised the door isn’t locked — he remembers unlocking it for you after he had to go, way back when. Kissing you goodbye, apologizing for holding up your business. You aren’t far, either; you come out with a smile that fades quicker than he likes to admit.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” he says, all too formal. He winces, almost. “Uh, it's broken again.”

“Of course it did. It’s ancient.”

He just sighs a laugh, nodding, undoing it from his wrist, from beneath his sleeve. “Yes, it is. Do you think you can fix it again?”

You glance between him and the watch. Him, and the watch. “Let me see it.”

“Of course,”

“Okay.”

You examine it with delicate fingers, screwing off the back of the body with a small driver, squinting at its insides. Dainsleif watches you.

“Dain, this thing isn’t gonna last long.”

“I don’t mind. I can pay double.”

“Why do you like this watch so much?” you laugh, dropping it on the counter and crossing your arms. “I mean, they don’t pay you enough for a digital?”

Dainsleif shakes his head. “I like this one.” He coughs. “You fixed it, first.”

“Yeah, and I’m shocked it still works.”

“You craft well.”

The two of you don’t speak for a moment; you dwell on the watch, its body pulled apart on the table. Your fingers pull at your threading jeans, and Dainsleif must see you mutilating your pants because he leans on the counter, lowers himself to you.

He lets you look at him for a moment. “What is it?”

“Nothing,”

“What is it?” he asks again, like it isn’t the second time.

You take a deep breath, tilting your head up.

“I’m sorry about your designs. Every day.” He shakes his head, looking in behind you. Your desk is still full of paper. “I will reap what I sow, and that’s the only comfort I can give you.”

“I know.” “I’m sorry. Endlessly, I am.”

You huff. “I’ve had better things since. It’s not what bugs me, Dain.”

“What is it, then, my dear?”

Your tongue pushes against your cheek, regretful hands reaching out to grip his own. It’s like you know you’re doing yourself no favours, but you’ve always been a masochist.

“Are we going to be okay?” you ask. “Not us. This place.”

He can tell you’ve been sitting with this thought alone, he’s just not sure how long. Since you brought up the field tillers? Since his last expedition? When was he last here, he’s not entirely sure.

His thumb wipes over your knuckles. He doesn’t tell you whether you’re going to be okay.

“I will protect you,” he whispers, “even in my dying breath.”

The second time he meets the Traveller is when they ask him.

“What happened to Khaenri’ah?”

ZERO.

There is little you can see in smoke and ash. What Dainsleif can see, it is blurry and most likely dead.

(He doesn’t want to think about what happens to those who live — simply surviving is not enough, they’ll seek retribution in the living, too.)

He feels guilty for saying it, but he was glad when the castle fell — relinquished of his sworn duty, free to run to where your shop lives. It came down in a blow of fire, the castle did; more than just four mighty walls, built of minerals made to last. He’s afraid to think of what happens to simpler stones.

(He runs like you stand a chance.)

He’s running in the opposite direction of other people — hell, he’s directing them out of there. Whatever is behind them is a lost cause, for him it’s a little hope. The havoc being brought down on this place is proof that they’re not allowed to have hope, but he promises it’ll be his last bit. He’s assuming they can hear him when he prays for it.

The windows of your shop are blown out. He ignores the sound of crunching glass because you’re screaming his name.

(You stop when you see him, swallowing it. He drops to his knees and says you’re allowed to yell, even when he’s there.)

“Dain,”

“Just breathe, hold on,” he breathes, chest pumping as he starts to heave the rubble off of you, the thick pillars that bar you from moving. He lifts one, another falls down. He lifts that one, and another, and another.

“Dainsleif.”

He’s still heaving, grunting now. Sweat lines his forehead and he’s coughing up soot he smelt ages ago.

“Dain,”

He’s crying.

“Dainsleif,” you spit, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head. “You’re hurting me.”

“I have to get you out,”

“To where?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Where are we going to go?”

Dainsleif doesn’t cry intentionally. His eyes are so wet that he can’t see clearly and they’re cleaning off his cheeks, but if tears were invisible you would never be able to tell.

You shake your head. “I’m not going to die in the street.”

“Don’t be so blunt, dear, please.”

“There is no other way to p-put it,” you say with a shiver, swallowing the hurt that threatens to spill out between your teeth; you smile instead. You feel weak already, even weaker in front of a commander. “Don’t cry about it,"

“I can’t stop it,” he chokes out, shaking his head. He cradles your head in his lap, brushes back your hair until his fingers get caught in knots. “There is nothing I can do.”

The weight of your life, his world, is in his lap, and he thinks about tomorrow. One, or both of you, will be dead, and yet that weight will still be there.

“There’s no one but the gods that could stop this, Dain,”

“I—”

“I love you,” you gasp, “I forgive you. I love you.”

“No.”

“Say it back, you stubborn, stubborn man,” you grit. 

(Dainsleif keels over you, and he says it back. He repeats it until he feels your grip on him loosen, until your head lulls the other way. He repeats it until he feels sick and out of breath, because he knows he will never say it again. He repeats it until he's about to gag.)

He remains in your shop for the next few hours, unmoving, leaned up against the front desk that amazingly still stands. He’s holding your hand.

Dainsleif waits for something. Probably a sentence, to death or otherwise. He waits here for a chance for the roof to cave in, or to be struck down by someone that finds him. He hopes the gods get to him. He hopes this shop still stands if they pry him out of it. He hopes they call him Atlas and tell him to hold it up.

“This watch is never gonna work.”

Dainsleif blinks at the man across the counter, who looks at him with raised eyebrows — probably in shock that he even thought it was fixable — and a condescending frown. “You are sure?”

“Dude, this wasn’t supposed to work the last time you had it fixed. This looks like it’s centuries old.”

“It…”

Is. He doesn’t finish that.

“It’s an heirloom,” he says instead. “It's impossible, then?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty good at what I do, but this is … miracle talk. This should have been up-cycled three hundred years ago.”

“I see.”

The two men stand in silence for a moment, and the clocksmith brings a hand down on the watch.

When he strikes it, he knocks the last bits of air out of its lungs; the watch ticks a final one, two, three times, and Dainsleif hears laughter to his left.

He turns, and there you are.

You’re sitting on a bench, alive, breathing. You’re holding a popsicle and leaning back like you don’t have a care in the world. 

Dainsleif thinks of all the things you can say to him. That you blame him, that you love him, that you hate what he did. That you wish he could save everyone, that you wish he could’ve maybe saved you. That you’re thankful you died and never had to live as a curse. That you think of him, too.

(You don’t do any of that.) 

Instead, you smile, close-lipped and gentle. And you wave.

The watch stops after the third tick. He loses you in a blink for one second, and you’re gone.

“Can you hit it again?”

“When I tell you that was its last life, I really mean it. I’d guess it had ten of them.”

He swallows, nodding, staring down at his broken watch. He’ll never see you again, hear it tick three times and go back to your bed on Sunday, hear it tick three times and listen to you say you love him in his native tongue. He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw you one more time.

He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw it one more time. 

“So? You gonna try and bargain, or…?”

Dainsleif is staring at the bench you were just in; his fingers itch for it. If he has to spend the next lifetime looking at that bench, he’s going to do it alone, and he’s going to learn how to do it without you.

You deserve to rest — he was the one cursed to live forever, not you. You did not die in vain.

He turns back to the clocksmith, who honestly looks pretty bored of him by now.

“Can I sell the parts?”

[yesbutmakeitgay]

Once Upon A Time I Used To Know A Girl

Chapter 14

Carol Danvers x Reader

Masterlist | This work's masterlist | AO3

Summary: At last, you get your stuff back.

Angst, Slow Burn, Amnesia.

Word count: 800

Think Of You In A Better Light

It’s been a couple of days since your encounter with Captain Marvel, you have been mostly keeping to yourself, staying in your room, recovering from the fight.

You hear some noise outside your quarters and slowly get up to investigate. You open the door and find The Captain putting down the last of three boxes full of stuff you recognize, trying to cram something in one of them.

"What are you doing?"

"Bringing your things back." She doesn't look at you.

"What you got there?" you ask, pointing at her hand.

She finally looks up and hands you the small object, "Just take it," she commands. You accept and open it to reveal a golden ring.

"I don't wear jewelry."

"It was in your drawer, it's not mine." Her tone turns bitter. She knows full well what it is even if you don't remember. The wheels in your brain start turning as you stare at it.

"Well, that's the last box," she mumbles before walking away, leaving you perplexed.

You take the boxes inside and go through the stuff in them. You're digging through the last one looking for your favorite hoodie when you find a Polaroid picture of you and Carol, she's wearing a big smile and you are placing a kiss on her cheek, you have never seen anyone look this happy. Your heart drops a little, but you’re unsure why.

You try to ignore the sensation and begin putting all your belongings away.

Kamala and Valkyrie lounge in the common room, the girl is excitedly describing her last mission with the Young Avengers.

You enter and interrupt their conversation, "Was either of you, goons, gonna tell me I was engaged to Captain Marvel?" you demand, offended.

"You what?" Kamala is shocked by your words.

"You weren't, not yet, at least," The King is quick to respond, "you remembered something?" She maintains a calm tone, you pull out the small box with the ring inside.

Kamala gasps loudly, "Where did that come from?"

"She gave me my stuff back."

"She saw it?" Valkyrie is suddenly concerned.

"She handed it to me personally." Your voice is full of indignation, Val makes a pained expression.

"That's a very nice ring," the girl feels the need to point out, you side eye her, "at least now you could get a refund?"

"I don't even know where I got it."

"I do, but you're not gonna like it," Valkyrie reveals, making both of you look at her, "it was a gift, authentic Asgardian gold," she explains with pride.

You scoff incredulously, "Will you take it back?"

"Keep it as collateral for when Fury inevitably kicks you out of here," she's only half joking.

"How much is it worth?" Kamala whispers.

The King grins, "More than your life."

You spend that night looking at the ring. After what Val said about it you don’t even dare touch it, but you stare at your reflection on it for a long time. As far as you can remember you have never thought about getting married, least of all, to the woman who almost killed you days before.

You put the velvet box down on your bedside table and see the Polaroid placed upside down, the image seared into your brain. The Captain you just met looks nothing like the woman in the picture and you can’t remember ever being that happy before. The dissonance created in your brain brings you a familiar headache, there has to be another side of this story and, maybe, now that she’s back you can really start to get some answers.

"You got the goods?" You extend your arm to retrieve the small object, but Valkyrie pulls it out of your reach.

"Uh, uh, uh, not so fast, when are you planning on giving it to her?"

"I don't know, I've been thinking about it for months, everyday I wake up and I just want to be married to her already." Your voice is full of excitement.

"I know I met you first, but I have to tell you, if you hurt her I will end you," Val playfully threatens you.

"Oh, come on, if I hurt her she can end me on the spot herself, I’m not afraid of you or her." Your lips curl into a dopey smile.

"You are so whipped," she teases you.

"You know I've loved her from the moment I met her, I took full months off work just so I could hang out with her, then she convinced Fury to let us go on a mission together, not a single day goes by where I don't feel so in love with her."

Val chuckles and hands you the ring, "Go on Romeo, take care of it, it's the really good stuff."

"Thank you.”

"Always."

Chapter 14.5

Didn't see that one coming, huh?

Tags: @graniairish @carols-photonblast @thelittleliars @unicorniusfallapatorius @prplepeony @eringranola

Let me know if you wanna be tagged :)

[saficswrites]

Commissions are OPEN

Do you like Fire Emblem, gay women, supporting artists, or just really enjoy my work?

Because I’m on VGen now, and I need your help to get verified!

Until I’m verified the only method of transaction available to me is paypal, which severely limits what I can write, not the mention I don’t trust that company within a hundred meters of my livelihood.

This is however a necessary step towards me actually making a living doing this hobby that I adore, and I don’t mind writing sfw fics too.

Thus you are all invited to the Safics… something, it’s an event and I have no idea what to name it. 

The way this will work is that I’ll be opening a batch of safe for work commission slots on VGen for a really low price, and if commissioning artists isn’t your thing you can still help out by sharing or reposting this announcement to increase its reach!

These commissions are likely some of the cheapest I’ll ever offer, and for the price-to-word ratio they will probably be far and above the best deal I’ll give outside of other events like this: I am offering 750-1,000 words, fully edited, for $10 USD. The fics could also potentially be longer if they click with me and I get inspired! In that case, there would be no extra cost associated with the commission despite the total word count surpassing 1,000 words.

That’s 75-100 words for every dollar you spend, and that’s not even factoring in the time spent proofreading and editing!

Because of the nature of this being a larger batch of commissions it may take a bit of time to get all off them done, but I promise to keep my prospective clients updated on their fics progress (including letting them know when I’ve started it) so long as VGen offers me the tools to do so, which I’m sure it does.

The current plan is to release four separate batches of three commission slots, but that may fluctuate as the event goes on.

Additionally, how much say you have in the finished product is also completely up to you! 

-Do you want to mostly be surprised after giving me your prompt? I’ll do it without any input.

-Do you want to have a big say in the direction of every aspect of the fic? I can share excerpts or even the entire draft at multiple stages to make sure it’s going a direction you approve of, while also gathering feedback and advice from you to help make it as good as possible.

-Do you want a mix of those two options? Because I can do that too.

I have experience with both extremes of the writing process from my pretty extensive work offering free requests on Tumblr, for anons I didn’t really have much choice in the matter but when possible I would dm the requestor to ask how much involvement they wanted, and in some cases even share the entire fic as I was writing it!

Because it’s only ten bucks and I’m sure there are at least some fees attached, payment IS due up front, but if for whatever reason I find myself unable to complete the prompt adequately you’ll receive a full refund AND get to keep a pdf of the work in progress draft.

Making this experience as good as it possibly can be for the both of us is something I strive for, but that does go both ways. Overworking myself super hard and burning at this stage out would be catastrophic, and it is something I’m wary of, so because of that the amount of hours I work in a given day will be capped to help keep my work life balance reasonable.

To put all the information in one place: you will receive 750-1,000 words that amount to a fully edited realization of your prompt created to the best of my abilities, either as a pdf file or a google doc.

I cannot give any concrete information on how long each fic will take to be ready, both because of the fact these are batch commissions and because I’ve never done something quite like this before, but I do promise to be transparent with you and offer a full refund (so long as I’ve not yet started on your fic) if the wait becomes too much.

Batch comm rules:

Requests must be safe for work, no horny and no over the top violence. Trust me, there’s a reason I will stop accepting Paypal payments the moment I am verified.

I retain the right to reject any request for any reason, even something as asinine as not vibing with it. Forcing myself to create something that doesn’t click with me will result in a final product that neither of us will be happy with and you deserve better from a commission than that.

They gotta be gay. Well not exactly, but Safics is my name for a reason, I’m not super interested in writing mlw or mlm fics, I am completely on board with nblw though. This rule applies much less to platonic fics but I do generally prefer to write stories that are not about men. Also it should go without saying but trans women ARE women and I am completely comfortable writing them, in fact I actually enjoy it!

Because I am underselling myself here tips are appreciated if you really enjoy your fic, but they are in no way necessary much less expected. Positive reviews would be appreciated as well, perhaps even more-so since those are one of the requirements to get verified.

vgen.co/Safics

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 3: That Was the First Time I Lost Her

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader “Sugar”

Summary: It only takes a little digging.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: More angst, insinuations of creep behavior, making shit up about Westworld, a million questions and no answers, will be E in later chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Sugar's got some soul-searching to do, and there are very few people who can help her with that. Where Cognitive Dissonance had a lot more Westworld characters in it, this series is gonna have a few cameos from Kingsman characters and you better believe this is one of my favorites. Enjoy!

Cross-posted on AO3

Decoherence Masterlist   ||   Whiskey & Westworld Masterlist

It takes you three weeks before you say anything about Jack to anyone. Three weeks of going back and forth from your job, sitting in front of the large glass screen your work is projected on. Three weeks of seeing the world you live in - advanced far beyond Sweetwater’s rustic charm - in a new light, knowing there’s someone living in it that feels so out of place. Now, you feel out of place too. 

In that time you argue with yourself back and forth over what happened that fateful morning.

He’s a delusional man who violated your trust.

But he didn’t act delusional. Didn’t try to push you to come with him, didn’t try to get your number or find out where you live. He gave you a way to contact him, but didn’t press when you didn’t promise to.

But how did he find you?

That thought twists your stomach. Had he used some database to scour personal records for you? Had he been trailing you and you never even noticed? It clearly didn’t go to plan for him, but what had he planned? 

He wants to “explain.”

The most you would do is call him. Only to tell him to be prepared for a lawsuit. Maybe to scream at him a little more about how violated you felt. Definitely not because you want to know what he could possibly say to make this make sense.

Why are you entertaining this?

This is where you always come to a halt. You can reason around most of your internal arguments, make good decisions that would make your parents proud, but it’s when you get to this question - why are you still thinking about this? - that you falter. 

Because his plea - let me explain - and the furtive way he looked at you - I am a host - tug at something you hid away for the year since you saw him. That there was something more to Jack, but not this obvious of a betrayal. 

I didn’t get to tell you something that night. Something important. 

He tried to tell you something that day on the train platform. What was it?

I was a coward, and I wanted you more than anything Sugar. 

He was going to tell you he loved you. And it was going to shatter your heart to hear it, so you showed him the photograph. Because it would hurt less to prove him a fantasy. You forced him to reveal the machine behind the man, because he was going to tell you he loved you.

Right?

But if this is the last moment I get to say it before you leave my sight, I have to. 

I need you to know.

Was this it?

It’s Dina that helps you gain some clarity, though not in a way you imagined.

“I had my trip to Westworld refunded, ruined my whole vacation,” she says nonchalantly over lunch. The “cool bridesmaids” actually stuck together after the bachelorette, and you see Dina every few months for a boisterous lunch and catch-up. This particular revelation, two weeks after Jack sauntered into your life and left you with a handful of mirror shards for memories, makes you choke on your drink. 

“You were going back?” you finally ask once you can breathe again. Dina smiles knowingly, swirling her iced matcha latte loudly in her glass. 

“I’ll admit, it’s pretty fun. Only went once since the party, it’s damn expensive, but I was really looking forward to my third visit. Sounds like there’s some operational issues.” You listen with as much nonchalance as you can muster, but Dina smiles coyly at your ruse. “Didn’t see your man there last time. Maybe he was just for you.” 

You scoff, a clammy sweat on the back of your neck sending goosebumps down your arms.

“They probably rotate them,” you say weakly, thumb smearing away a drip of coffee from the lip of your cup. 

“Listen, baby, maybe this isn’t my business, but if Jack still gets you this fired up, it might be worth talking to someone about it,” she says gently. Your heart leaps into your throat, worrying that your face has given it all away.

“What, like a therapist?” you laugh, trying to put on a bright smile but you’re practically thrumming now. Dina scoffs instead.

“Hell no, my girl Ginger. She used to work for Delos, doing…programming or something. One conversation with her will definitely ruin the magic for you. Like seeing Mickey without his head on in Disneyland.” You both giggle at the image, trying to school yourself into a calm that won’t betray how close to the truth she is.

“She left on bad terms, so she’ll tell you the truth about shit. Doesn’t care about her NDA, or much else for that matter. She’s a badass,” Dina says, scrolling through her phone and typing quickly. “Ask her your questions, get your dreams dashed, and move the fuck on.” Dina means well, but the worry gnawing in your stomach draws much of your attention away.

Former Delos staff could definitely tell her if Jack was a host, or a fucked-up guest, or a host based off a guest that is now playing a terrifying game of switcheroo. 

“Promise she won’t think it’s weird?”

“She loves to dish about it, you’ll be making her week.”

Ginger doesn’t want to meet in a public place - I’ve seen a little too much of what can be done to risk it - so she invites you to her condo instead. You almost back out, shame and nerves getting to you, but the need to know grows at a greater pace. So, bringing two coffees and pastries (not from the shop where you saw Jack, you don’t think you could go back there), you climb her third floor walkup.

She’s business chic with a dazzling smile, a collared shirt under a sweater with dark-washed jeans. Her hair is spiked through with honeyed highlights that compliment her brown skin. A pair of serious horn-rimmed glasses frame her face, but look fresher on her than any academic. 

“Hi, I’m Dina’s friend,” you start as Ginger leads you into her home. Dina mentioned she was a programmer, and her design aesthetic screams “I care more about my processor chips than artwork.” Stacks of hard drives on tables, large manuals of computer code on shelves, all neat and tidy in a controlled chaos way. She brings plates for the croissants as you sit at her table, rolling your opening remarks in your mind as she settles across.

I had a strange experience in Westworld that made me question everything. Can you tell me if I’m crazy or not?

Before you get the chance Ginger speaks. 

“Dina told me a bit about your situation,” she says simply, regarding you with rapt attention and sparking intelligence. The confusion must have slapped across your face, because Ginger barks out a laugh just shy of impolite. “I made her spill the beans, I’m too suspicious otherwise.” 

You sigh audibly, covering your face with your hands.

“Great, now I’m just pitiful,” you bemoan, joining in on the laughter. Slouching back in your chair, you share a look that radiates I guess we’re here now.

“So, you had questions about hosts. Maybe one in particular. I haven’t worked for Delos in a few years, but I’ll do my best to help. God knows those assholes keep their mouths shut tighter than their assholes,” Ginger says, waiting for you to lay out your questions. So many bubble up, but you let the most important come to the forefront:

“How can you tell a host is a host?”

Ginger’s smile turns conspiratorial, cocking her head to one side.

“One really got to you, huh? Made you think he - or she - was real?” 

You twist your hands in your lap, shoulders tensing for laughter.

“It’s silly, right? A host is a host and a person is…completely different.”

Ginger talks as she darts around the room, gathering items - a laptop from a desk, a silver and orange hard drive, a handful of cords. She gestures with her hands while she speaks, face softening with the passion that shines through,

“It’s a testament to how well we programmed them. They’re supposed to trick you, keep you in the illusion. I was more in design and aesthetics, moved into expressive programming before they culled my team.” When she catches your eye, the first etchings of confusion on your face, she backtracks. “I designed the exteriors - faces, bodies, you know - before I moved into writing code for their facial expressions and body language. Cram years of what we as humans would observe and develop over a lifetime into a little computer chip. They learn too, just not the same sorts of things. They’re designed to interpret our body language, give us what we need before we think we need it.”

What had Jack read from your body?

Ginger plops down at the table, fingers moving quickly over the keys and eyes trained on the glowing screen. 

“But Delos axed my team, said something about ‘new coding avenues,’ the assholes. Just didn’t want to pay us if they could automate us. But!” She hits the last key and folds her arms, finally looking at your nervous posture. “They didn’t pay me well enough for my IP, so I took everything I could get my hands on. Most of it’s too outdated for them to care about, but I’m pretty goddamn proud of it.”

She motions for you to sit on the same side of the table as her, waiting until you’re settled to drag a window onto the screen. It looks like tiny image thumbnails all neatly stacked, face after face scrolling by.

“So who is it?”

You steel yourself for whatever answer may come next.

“Jack Daniels.”

Waiting for a confused noise, for a bad search return, for some reason to hate the man who came back to you, instead you get a knowing laugh.

“Ah, I’m pretty proud of that one,” she says, typing in Jack’s name and pulling up a profile. “I was going through a very dashing cowboy phase, wanted something a little Burt Reynolds, a little Robert Conrad, flirtatious but a disaster at it, smooth talker.” As she talks she tabs through sketches, achingly beautiful pencil drawings of his hawkish nose, the pout of his lower lip, the tilt of his head up to look at something. 

“Then fucking Sizemore dumped him in that shitty Golden Circle timeline, which was a goddamn waste. Gave him a terribly written, cliched backstory and half-assed his motivation to make a shockingly underthought double cross villain arc seem edgy.” Ginger pauses on a dystopic photo, Jack standing in a glass and concrete cube, hand on his jutted hip and a smile you’ve been in the path of aimed right into the camera. You can almost hear his voice.

You can have all the Whiskey you want.

“Our cowboy deserved better than that,” she sighs. Managing to break from your reverie, you try not to stumble too badly through the most important questions.

“And he’s not…based on anyone else? There’s no Jack lookalike wandering the streets?” You try to make it airy, joking, unsure of your success. Thankfully Ginger skims right over the tremor in your voice, tapping into a file that details every scar and freckle over the expanse of his skin.

“If only. Unfortunately, the best men are designed by women. I’ve never met someone quite like Jack.”

Neither have you, and the implication settles heavy in your chest. 

You spent an hour more with Ginger, peeking into the secret workings of Delos and picking at flaky pastries without appetite. It’s more out of politeness than interest. Half of the things she shows you flow right through your consciousness and into the ether. 

Jack is a host. 

From the mouth of his…creator? Herself?

Maybe that combination of features could find its way in nature, but not his story, or the intimate details you both know in very different contexts. The groove she drew in his lower lip pulled softly across your stomach. The graphite glint in his eyes lifting to capture yours. The thick strokes that built a hand you’d felt hold your face so gently. 

Ginger knew him as well as you did, certainly more so, and there was no better explanation for what this means. 

He’s not a man. So what is he doing here? How is he here, in a world you never thought he could enter? 

Thanking Ginger for her hospitality and her patience, you take the longest way home possible. The rhythmic beat of your feet on concrete lets you ruminate. The air is warm across your cheeks, errant breezes dancing around your aimless path. The “park” has never been your favorite place to soul search, the lack of trees and tightly governed shrubs clashing against what you consider wilderness. Today, however, it’s so stark and blank as to clear your mind.

If not a host in a world built for pleasure, what is Jack? How can he survive in this world without a narrative, a directive, a fucking charging port for his battery? Does he run on batteries or did they slap a solar panel in that gorgeous head of hair?

Dropping onto a bench you bury your face in your hands, fighting the urge to laugh madly. You've seen under the facade and now you’re left with even more questions, and there’s only one person who can answer those. 

“Jack Daniels.”

“Hi. It’s…”

“Hey. It’s…it’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“I didn’t know if you would at all, after all that.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

There’s a pause while you gather courage, but Jack jumps in first.

“Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last time. I saw you and I meant to sneak out before you saw me, but…it was just a perfect mess, huh?”

Right to the meat of it then. Somehow that makes it easier.

“Did you know I would be there?”

Another silence, but you wait for this one to end. Jack sighs heavily, and your body aches.

“I knew you could be there.”

“And you were…what? Waiting to get up the courage to talk to me?”

“Something like that.” Jack sucks in a breath. “I had some questions of my own. I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers.”

This admission dazes you. All Jack knew of you in Westworld was a lie. The footing feels more even knowing he’s just as trepidatious as you. 

You sigh deeply, pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead.

“I think I should let you explain.”

A softer sigh tickles your ear.

“I’d really like to do that, Sugar.”

You scoff.

“You still call me that.”

“Sweetest thing I’ve…”

“Please, Jack. Don’t. Not right now.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not…I’m not sure how I feel about everything yet. This is all frankly terrifying to me, and I need some time to understand it.”

“I understand. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the same rodeo as before.”

Lips curling up, you warm to his words. Same old west charm. Same teasing lilt. 

Same old Jack, but maybe more than you thought.

“Can I see you Friday?”

PREVIOUS NEXT

[schrodingersschlong]

Thank you to all the horny folks in my notifications recently, this blog always picks up traction whenever I stop posting and take a long break for some reason!

That being said, I am getting financially desperate - I had to quit my last job in early May because the work conditions were killing my body, and the upper management made it very clear they didn't like having a trans man in the warehouse - fingers crossed that this next job I applied for actually works out and I can stop being unemployed. In the meantime, if you guys like what I post here, I'll gladly draw whatever you may ask for if you're interested in buying!

I don't care how gross your interests are, I'll draw for you as long as you're 18+. Come furries, come piss folks, fandoms that get you put on a DNI, etc etc etc, you're all welcome. At the end of the day I have rent to be paid, who am I to judge?

The few times I've posted my explicit art it's been taken down due to tumblr's post-2018 Community Guidelines <3

Prices below - Please DM for example work. 💜💜💜

• I'm not assuming this post will take off, but just in case, let's say I have 15 spots open. 0/15 claimed.

- ROUGH SKETCH (No upcharge for Headshot/Half-body/Full-body) - $5.00 USD

- LINEART (No upcharge for Headshot/Half-body/Full-body) - $8.50 USD

- SHADED LINEART, NO COLOR/ONE COLOR (No upcharge for Headshot/Half-body/Full-body) - $10.00 USD

- LINED & COLORED, NO SHADING (No upcharge for Headshot/Half-body/Full-body) - $15.00 USD

- LINED, COLORED, & RENDERED (No upcharge for Headshot/Half-body/Full-body) - $20.00 USD

- SIMPLE (MONOCHROMATIC OR JUST LINED BACKGROUND W/O SHADING) BACKGROUND - + $5.00

- DETAILED (LINED, COLORED & RENDERED) BACKGROUND - +$15.00 USD

- ADDITIONAL CHARACTER (1) - FREE

- TRANSPARENT/SOLID COLOR BACKGROUND - FREE

- ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS (3+) - +$5.00 Per additional characters past 2 characters.

I always check in throughout the art process and send progress pictures of the sketches to make sure it's done how you want! You have full freedom to make changes along the way, all you have to do is ask.

I require half of the full payment up front, then the other half once the piece is completed. If I am unable to complete the piece within three weeks time for whatever reason, life events, damaged equipment, etc, and you do not wish to wait for it to be completed, I will refund you. Still, unless it is a fully rendered art piece, I can complete most pieces in about a week on average.

If you buy a simpler art piece, love it, and decide you want it fully rendered, I'll complete it for you for the price of a full render minus what you already paid! (Got a sketch, want it rendered? $20.00 -$5.00 = $15.00)

[absentlyabbie]

teen me did not think i would live to see the age of 36. more than that, she didn't particularly want to.

that kid had been ground and beat down enough and boxed in by her present she couldn't conceive of a future at all, much less a good one, and so figured none was best.

i bought a mattress today.

my current one is only 5 years old, but it was bought floor-model clearance and started sagging to one side within 2 years (don't do memory-foam only, friends.) i've suffered on that damn thing for three years after that, and i wake up every day in pain.

but today i bought a new mattress. because i needed one, and because i could. because i'm finally in the kind of financial situation where i can afford to do that with a tax refund.

i am 36 and i have a good job with people i like, good benefits and the best pay i've ever had, i live in a nice apartment in an area i love with my best friend and our cat. and i can afford to do things like get treats from the bakery on the weekends and, because suffering every night is awful, buy a new mattress when i need one.

that teenager couldn't have seen this as possible. not through well into my 20s either. she had no clue this was coming, that here was where she'd be at the age of 36.

five years ago when i bought the previous mattress, it was a financially fraught and precarious move, living still with my best friend and our cat, but in a miserably shitty apartment in a place we hated, making barely enough to pay bills each month. five years ago me had a vague, maybe slightly dim hope that someday things could get to the sort of place i'm in now, but she didn't know either.

and neither do you. you have no idea how good your life might be in five, ten, fifteen years. how content you may be, how happy. even if you can't imagine good as a future possibility for you. you don't know.

the only way to know is to stick around and find out.

to take every small comfort, tiny joy, and little contentment in your now as another anchor, to build the life you want, or that's better than the day before, tiny step by tinier piece, every little improvement you can grab onto and keep.

it doesn't just happen. the road to good will contain probably a lot of suck, and even when you reach good, there's no such thing as perfect. you do have to make efforts, and hope for some luck, and accept help from the people who love you.

but the first, most important foundational thing you must do to reach those good days ahead is to stick around and find out.

[a-d-nox]

*SALE* holiday leftovers: build your own plate

[ status: CLOSED ]

hello, my friends/followers! i am so excited yet sad to announce this sale. firstly, i am excited because i never thought i would ever hold a sale AND WHO DOESN'T LOVE A SALE!!! secondly, i am sad because this is the LAST CHANCE for you to purchase all of the below reading options (unless i see fit after this sale to re-instate any of them as options). i am grateful for everyone who has previously purchased a reading from me and thus helped me to see a trend in the readings everyone enjoys!

a few things:

- please note that with the sale i am likely to have an increased demand.

- the sale will last from today (november 22nd, 2023) until november 29th, 2023. BUT if the demand gets too high i am at my leisure to close/end the sale early.

- you must fill out this google forms. if there are issues with the link please dm me.

- all readings are non-refundable.

reading options ->

drink options (1.50 USD)

apple cider: a tarot reading. you ask a series of 3 yes or no questions (they must all be different questions). you may chose if you want to hear the why or why not.

cranberry juice: a tarot reading used to identify the energy that surrounds you and how can you best protect your energy.

espresso: an archetypal reading. i use the fantod pack, a creepy little deck, to tell you what disturbing image you are. from the waltzing mouse to the burning head to the body bag, this deck keeps you guessing and i can tell you how you can beat the elements of this strange archetype.

pumpkin juice: a tarot reading. a short reading regarding the energy of the day (or surrounding a situation) and what you should look out for.

appetizer options (3.00 USD)

baked brie: a matrix of destiny / wyrd web reading. side hustle potential assessment based on the wyrd web.

cheese ball: an astrology reading. pick three things you wish to know about your mercury return cycle (what your communication style will be like this cycle, what your voice is like, how your thinking changes, your health changes, perspective changes, your writing style or endeavors, social media trends (your online status), short trips you could be taking, your mannerisms and how they change, your mode of transportation / transportation woes, etc.).

cranberry brie jalapeño poppers: an astrology reading. pick three things you wish to know about your mars return cycle (your confidence and lack thereof, sex life, what will make you angry / frustrated / aggressive / competitive, your impulsive behavior, where you are dominant / a leader, the challenge(s) you face, etc).

cranberry-glazed turkey meatballs: using the green glyph's rune deck, i give general advice on any given subject matter.

fried mashed potato bites: a tarot reading. why you struggle in romances. warning: harsh / brutal honesty.

mac and cheese balls: using the green glyph's oracle deck, i give general advice on any given subject matter.

popover: a matrix of destiny / wyrd web reading. a generational number combo assessment based on the wyrd web.

pumpkin hummus: a tarot reading. what is your strength and what is your weakness - great for job applications as well (i don't care if you want to copy and paste it for use in your applications).

sugar roasted nuts: a matrix of destiny / wyrd web reading. a love assessment based on the wyrd web (matrix of destiny). assesses what is stopping you from finding love, what your romantic partners are like (the ideal and toxic versions), and how you can keep love flowing towards you in this lifetime.

sweet potato bites: a tarot reading. vibe check on your mind, body, and spirit as well as advice (if needed). this is NOT a medical assessment and can NOT be used as a diagnosis.

side options (6.00 USD)

mashed potatoes: a tarot reading. seven card draw evaluation of the energy of each day of your week ahead as well as advice to make the week the best and most efficient that it can be.

rolls: a tarot reading. best bet for any topic NOT seen in the list - will address the past, present, and future regarding your question as well as the energies involved.

sweet potato casserole: a tarot reading. stuck between two options? this reading will help you weigh pros and cons as well as tells you the potential outcome of acting towards either option.

main course options (20.00 USD)

turkey: using the green glyph's lenormand deck i give general advice on any given subject matter. this a reading using the maximum amount of cards in a lenormand deck.

glazed ham: a tarot reading. at a crossroad in life with three options and no clue which to go for? this one is for you - lets you know where each leads and gives advice cards as well.

duck confit: a tarot reading. the current vibes of each energy associated with the astrological houses (1h-12h).

[loquaciousquark]

I see @eponymous-rose doing these sometimes and I've always thought it was so much fun, so here's a Day in the Life of a clinical Associate Professor™. For reference, I've been seeing patients & teaching at my current university since finishing my residency almost a decade (!!!!!) ago.

9:30 - 10:00 - Precious precious office hours, spent answering emails from students, colleagues, and a guest speaker from a national organization I'm trying to coordinate an event for in two weeks. Everything's lined up except the venue (all our regular lecture halls are booked), and of course we discover this just outside his window to refund his airline tickets. Rats.

10:00 - 12:00 - Clinical lab! I'm coursemaster for two complex lecture/lab courses in the spring (protip: never let admin do this to you), so right now I spend most of my week in the classroom. Friday AMs are my advanced procedures lab, & today the students are doing intradermal and subcutaneous injections of the forearm and eyelid. This course can be really scary for them, so I go to a lot of effort to get them mentally and emotionally prepped, practicing approach and needle manipulation, etc. All of them do wonderfully, and even after cleanup and taking the biohazard bag down to disposal, I'm out on time.

12:00-1:00 - Guest faculty candidate lecture! Our full-time faculty has been down by about five people for a few years, and we also have three more of our remaining full-timers out on medical leave until late February, so we are hurting for help. This applicant gives a phenomenal talk on diversity and optometric scope across the several continents she's taught in over the last twenty years. It's an extraordinary talk and I honestly learn more geography than I expected.

1:00 - 2:30 - Lecture! Advanced procedures lecture to the third-year class, usually the only barrier between them and their weekend. I really like today's lecture and it goes well, and even the chronic dozers in the side seats stay awake.

2:30 - 2:45 - Intended to be an interview/tour with the faculty applicant, except here comes the first wrench. Just as she gets to my office, the colleague delivering the speaker lets me know she's having tech trouble with her Zoom-in guest lecturer and also there's a very upset student in the hall outside the classroom. I go down with her right away; student is okay, just got some very bad news, and when I'm sure they're settled with their friends & support system I help the colleague with the tech.

2:45-3:10 - Tour finally happens! The students we encounter are chipper and cheerful (not always the case in practical season!).

3:10-4:00 - Meeting with my clinic coordinator to prep for next week's practicals. My other big course this semester caps with a high-stakes clinical entrance exam; in essence, the students must perform a complete, independent eye examination from start to finish, and they can't enter clinic with "real" patients until they pass. The setup & scheduling for this practical (which runs over three weeks) is probably the most complicated logistical nightmare of my year. However, my coordinator is amazing, and within the hour she has a detailed list of both her tasks and mine and will report back as each prep step is done.

4:00-5:00 - Desperately trying to finish this schedule, answer my most urgent calls from patients, and finish some time-sensitive grading. Another colleague comes by and asks what I thought of the guest speaker, and when I say I didn't get much time in my interview with her, she suggests I tag along to the faculty dinner with her tonight at 5:45. A fantastic idea! I'll just wear what I have on, yeah?

The faculty dinner is at a five-star steakhouse. I'm wearing scrubs and a pullover.

It's okay, I have time to make it home and change! I can make it!

5:15 - I accidentally overwrite 90% of my completed schedule with an old, mostly blank copy, and don't realize it until after saving multiple times (I was on a different tab in the spreadsheet).

5:15 - 5:45 - Meticulously recreate the schedule as quickly as I can. I've already emailed out some assignments to the students, so I can't start over from scratch (which would have honestly been faster). Finally finish & send out the details to needed parties.

5:45 - 6:35 - race home, feed the dog, change into slacks and my favorite blazer, race out to the steakhouse.

6:35 - 8:30 - I arrive just before the salads come out, hallelujah! I have the best steak I've ever eaten in my life, as well as have a fantastic conversation with the candidate and the other faculty. The time honestly flies by, and when I realize what time it is I'm feeling very guilty about leaving the dog. Still, I'm sure she'll be a fantastic fit for the program, and it's honestly a relief to have my questions about some of her experience answered.

8:50 - home at last, at last!

8:51 - I discover my fly has been unzipped all night.

8:52 - 9:00 - I indulge in paroxysms of shame until I rationalize that the restaurant was incredibly dim, I was sitting the whole time, and my undies are also black. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.

9:00 - now - hot bath, a book of poetry, and a double bourbon. After today, I feel like I've earned it.