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drabblesandimagines · 11 months

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Promises

Leon Kennedy x female reader Fluffy nonsense, taken some liberties with timeline of RE2R.

“There.” You hop off the desk and turn back round to admire your handiwork, hands on your hips and tilting your head a little at the banner now hanging from the ceiling tiles, surrounded by streamers. “Hey – does that look squint to you?” It had looked level when you were stood up there, but now you’re back on the ground the banner proudly displaying Welcome Leon looked a little off.

“Does it matter?” Edward steps behind you, files in hand after rummaging through the filing cabinet. “He’s not going to take a spirit level to it.”

“No, but…” You sigh, tilting your head in the other direction to see if that made a difference.

“You were off the clock 40 minutes ago, rookie, and I ain’t paying overtime.” Branagh’s voice booms from his office door and you turn, shrugging your shoulders in acknowledgement. He’s got his jacket over his arm, briefcase in hand, looking to be heading home for the evening.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I just wanted to get this up before I left for the day. He still starts the day after tomorrow, right?”

“Mm-hm. I don’t know why Chief Irons is insisting on this morale-boosting bullshit.”

You hold your tongue – calling it bullshit is exactly why the captain is insisting on it, and when Branagh had tasked you to do something to make the new recruit – one Leon S Kennedy – feel welcome upon joining the force, you’d thought the idea was quite sweet. It had been daunting enough for you almost six months earlier, joining a police station where everyone else was a few years your senior and friends for a good while. It had been difficult gaining their respect, proving your worth but, hey, you had it now… more or less.

Branagh sighs – you must’ve been pouting. “It’s not squint, rookie.” He walks over, looking at the banner and streamers with a stoic expression. “As long as you haven’t wasted taxpayers’ money with that and that weird lock puzzle you’ve set up, then I shouldn’t complain.”

“No, sir. I got the locks from storage and the banner and streamers are all on me. And we could re-use it, if you switch some letters around…”

He scoffs, taking in the sign again. “To what?”

“Er…” You look at the letters. “O clown melee.”

Branagh sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go home.” He turns to your fellow officer, then. “Edward, I expect that report on my desk first thing tomorrow.”

“You got it, Lieutenant.” Branagh nods as he leaves the room. “Why are you so excited about the new guy anyway, rookie?” Edward is at his desk now, flipping through the pile of arrest records.

“Isn’t it obvious, Edward?” You grin, picking up your rucksack from beneath your desk.

“Ah, you want a boyfriend, I get it.”

“Ugh.” You scoff. “No, it means I won’t be the rookie anymore.”

Edward cocks his eyebrow at you before shaking his head. “Nah, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line is casual, upbeat. It’s nice to hear after the last 24 hours has been anything but. It matches the photo in the file you have, one finger still besides his contact number. Blonde hair, cute face. Too sweet to come here now.

“Leon Kennedy?” You try and steady your voice, sitting at the desk in Branagh’s office. You can see some streamers dangling from the ceiling and you hope the broadcast that’s been playing for the last few hours can’t be picked up on the line.

“Speaking. Who’s this?”

“I’m with the Raccoon Police Department.” There’s blood on your forearm, but you’re not sure if it’s yours. “I know you were meant to start tomorrow, but there’s been a… delay with the paperwork. Our end, not yours. We’ll be in touch with a new date.”

“Oh. That’s…” He sounds disappointed, but if you told him the real reason he wouldn’t believe it. You don’t believe it. “Er, that’s okay. Thanks for letting me know. You’ll definitely been in touch?”

There’s a bang at the window. A man, blood dripping down from his mouth, a gouge out of his own neck snarls at you through the pane of glass.

“We will.”

“All rig-” There’s no dial tone, no beep of disconnection – just silence. They’ve cut the phonelines.

Seven days of hell. This wasn’t covered at the academy – whatever this is. They said it was a radiation leak at first – that was what was making people act so feral. You’d seen the worst of humanity over the days and no-one seemed to be coming to help anymore. The army had been drafted in, at first evacuating bus-loads of civilians out before that was deemed too risky. They then tried to quarantine everyone, everything in but nothing is working – blockades go up, they come down, more and more people die, your colleagues die.

Or do they, really? Scott, Ford and Carlsen were definitely upright, shuffling towards you the third or fourth time you resorted to shooting them in the head.

The police station was designated a shelter, a sanctuary. It’s a sturdy building, that’s for sure – solid walls of a former art museum – but it’s not enough to stop whatever has happened to the people you tried so hard to protect.

You don’t know where Phillips, Edward or Branagh are, or if they are still even them. It’s impossible to know how long you’ve been down in the cells now – power’s out, it’s dark all of the time. The only way you know that time has passed at all is by the hunger pangs in your stomach.

You’re just glad that they’re not for human flesh.

Yet.

You’d found Irons down here. His last orders were for everyone to stay in the station itself, but Branagh had sent you down, reluctantly, in the hopes of finding any sort of supplies that hadn’t already been picked apart. Everyone assumed the chief was dead - hadn’t been seen in days. As you’d headed down to the cells, you’d heard raised voices, arguing. You couldn’t work out what they were saying at first, concentrating too much on the fact that they were real voices, saying real words and not guttural growls.

Chief Irons holding a gun in a man’s face, forcing him into in a cell and slamming the door shut is not what you’re expecting to see.

“Don’t just stand there,” the new prisoner called out to you, “help me! The guy’s a madman. He’s been selling us all out to Umbrella this whole time. He’s responsible for this all!”

Chief Irons turns to you, pupils blown out, looking fed up, gun still held aloft but now in your direction.

“What are you doing down here? You were told to all stay up in the station.”

“Sorry, Chief. We thought… Branagh told me to come down. What’s going on?”

“Er, hello! Did you hear me?” The man is holding the bars of the cell. “He caused this.”

You ignore your gut in the presence of authority, “Is it wise, sir, to leave him in there? He’ll be a sitting duck.”

“He’s not the only one.” And you see his trigger finger flex.

You run then, an attempt at a sprint from the adrenaline, but there’s a hot, searing pain in your thigh. You’re fast, but he’s faster, an arm wrapped around your windpipe, cutting off the oxygen. You stomp on his foot, jerk your head back, anything to try and make him release his grip but the world is swimming before you.

Perhaps this is the most peaceful death you could wish for.

There is a bitter feeling when you wake up, locked in a cell further down the corridor from where you’d been, without your gun, thigh tacky with blood and painful to move. There is a crude bandage wrapped around it, preventing blood loss but it feels more a death sentence than a blessing, surrounded by echoing snarls and rats that need kicking away.

You wake up to repetitive, methodical gunshots. Someone is going cell by cell, peering in and eliminating those inside.

Maybe the army is back, maybe they’re cleaning up the mess.

You’d fallen asleep sat in the corner on the cot, back leaned up against the wall. The rats didn’t seem to climb up here as much at least – you’d feel them before they managed to get a nibble.

The footsteps are getting closer and closer before a flashlight is shone around your cell, investigating every nook and cranny before it lands on your face, causing you to squint. You hold up your hands.

“I’m not one of them.” You plead, your voice raspy from sleep. You desperately want to cough but worry that’ll make too much of a them sound.

“Are you hurt?” The voice sounds fleetingly familiar. You blink in the light before it dips a little and you can see who’s wielding it.

Although his hair is mussed, a little bloody, you recognize the sweet face from the file on Branagh’s desk all those days ago and a certain something clipped on the end of his gun.

“You got your welcome present.” “Huh?”

“You’re Leon, right?” He nods. You get to your feet, cautiously, using the last of your energy to limp across to the bars, curling your fingers around them to steady yourself. You offer your name - as if it would mean anything to him. “I put that in your desk. Did you solve the lock or did you just smash your way through?”

“No, no, I solved ‘em.” He bites his tongue, doesn’t tell you that when he solved them was moments after he had to shoot that certain colleague in the head. “Did you put that all together?”

You smile, “And the banner – if it’s still up.”

“No, it is.” He wraps his hand on top of yours, maybe as desperate for human contact as you’d been. “Thank you – I wish I could’ve seen it on a day as it should’ve been seen.”

“Me too. But… why are you here? I told you to stay away.”

“That was you as well?” His eyes widen – beautiful blue things. If Edward could see you the smitten look on your face now, he’d be intolerable. He’d caught you making eyes over guys being booked in the past, after all.

“I wish you’d listened.”

“You said you’d be in touch.” He teases, before settling into something more serious. “I’m glad I didn’t cos it looks like you’re in quite the predicament. Why are you in there?”

“Long story. Can you get me out? There should be an override switch for all the cells – runs on a generator. Not sure if things have been messing with it.”

“I’ll work something out.” He smiles, squeezing your hand before he lets go. “Just… sit tight. I’ll be back – I promise.”

And, as you stagger back to the cot, head falling back against the wall, you believe him.

Time is fuzzy now, or maybe you’re just weak from hunger, weak from pain. Water from the cell sink has been the only thing that’s kept you going. But now there’s an alarm sounding and mechanical locks clunking and so much groaning.

Your name is being called, shoulders shaken but you can’t focus. You’re heaved up from the cot, arms wrapped around your waist and over someone’s shoulder. A hand squeezes your backside before there’s an apology and it shifts back to your waist. There’s gunshots, hissing, snarling, screaming, swearing all around you but all you can do is hang limply, catching glimpses of limbs and blood smears on the floor before it all goes black again.

“She’s dead weight.” A new voice – female – echoes around your head, though you’re in a different position now – cradled in someone’s arms, face pressed against the weirdly familiar feeling of a bulletproof vest.

“Ada.” A warning tone.

“What? You can’t carry her and shoot.”

“It’s fine.”

“Not where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?” You mumble, forcing your eyes open and up to see that picture perfect smile once more.

“Hey. How you feeling?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“I’m sure. This is Ada – she’s with the FBI.” A woman in sunglasses and a white coat shoots you a disinterested look. “We’re going to Umbrella’s lab. This whole thing’s a virus – we need to stop…” He smiles, noting your bemused expression. “I’ll explain later. You just rest, okay? We’ll find you somewhere safe whilst we deal with this.”

“Safe?” You want to laugh. “Good luck.”

Leon finds something though – an armored military truck the south side of town. No windows, a box of rations still intact.

“Okay, you stay set up in here.” He’s crouched in front of you, Ada hanging back at the door. “I promise I’ll be back for you afterwards.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He squeezes your hand. “I’m gonna keep it – just you see.” Leon gets to his feet and Ada steps aside as he exits, before peering at you over her shades.

“Here.” She withdraws a gun from within her coat, slides it over the metal flooring of the truck. “Just in case.”

Leon puts on a smile behind her, hand aloft in a wave and Ada slams the door shut.

You don’t need to check the barrel to know there’s only one bullet in there.

More time passes through a combination of consciousness and unconsciousness. Opening up packets of dry, dusty crackers that tasted euphoric on an empty stomach and bottled water, gun still within reach and blissful silence as the thick metal walls obscured all sound from outside.

The door opens, morning light flooding behind, illuminating Leon as an angelic figure – his shoulder now wrapped in a bloodied bandage. A woman sporting a ponytail behind him, a little girl too, but no Ada.

“You came back.” You breathe out as he crouches in front of you, taking your hand.

“I promised, didn’t I? This is Claire and Sherry, and we’re all getting out of here.”

You kiss him, clumsily, head still woozy, but his hand comes up to rest on the back of your head, holding you steady before someone clears their throat behind.

“Ahem, Leon…” Claire jerks her head towards Sherry, the girl staring wide-eyed.

“Sorry.” He’s flustered – adorably so – but he drops his hand from your head and helps you to your feet, keeping you close to his uninjured side. He presses his lips to the side of your temple as Claire and Sherry turn, mumbling into your ear.

“And I promise to come back for your kiss too.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in the bed, trying to catch your breath. You were back in the police station, hands grabbing at you from boarded up windows, guttural wet sounds from things no longer human.

There’s movement besides you, followed by a click, a soft, yellow light illuminating the room as a warm hand rubs your back.

“You with me, sweetheart?” Leon asks, cautiously. He knows how it feels to wake from a nightmare, how disorientating it can be.

You reach for his hand, lacing his fingers between your own, grounding yourself. You're in bed, you're home, you're safe, you're with him. “You came back.”

“Always will.”

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#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff

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krewekreep · 10 months

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Help Me Create Perfection

Tags: Evil Scientist AU, Reseacher!Reader, Mad Scientist!Sukuna, dubcon, enemies to…(have fun), boss/subordinate dynamic, God complex, Yandare realness, Breeding Kink Sukuna wants to defeat life itself…it’s Sukuna, kinda expect the worst.

Summary: 2.6K words. Ryomen Sukuna is on a quest to become God. What happens when his most prized researcher keeps messing up his experiment?

Author’s Note: Not Proofread, always editing. Am not STEM brained in any way…will likely do a part 2 just had to get the idea out. Big Dick smut in part 2 lmk if you want to be tagged

Experiment Mahoraga was thought up by the worst minds in science. Awful geniuses of the world gathering in the shadows of society using money and power to play God. The leading scientist Ryomen Sukuna was obsessed with playing God. Everyone weary of his despicable goal to create life for no other reason than to spite the heavens above. A truly abhorrent, unethical mad man willing to sacrifice anyone to achieve his goal. How useless and stupid all the other researchers were as they failed to report or remove him from his station. If anything, the more people complained how he had no heart and would do anything he gained promotion after promotion soon being someone you could not even mumble a criticism of in fear of retaliation. A once hidden and shameful secret mutated the entire facility now into Ryomen’s playground.

Once the invisible higher ups knew he could be trusted, now biological testing and his hidden goal of creating life was at the tip of his fingers. How prior to his unshakable status, his fellow researchers would clamor amongst each other whispering of how his enjoyment of the job…seemed far too weird and even perverse. How Ryomen until emboldened with indisputable power would be caught laughing and snickering to himself. How a few researches caught him late nights with a genuinely sinister scowl in the dark reflection of his computer. How once he didn’t need to fake nice he would smile that disgusting grin at being given positive updates on the progress if special interest to him.

As you spoke to him of the Experiment Mahoraga’s improvement, you felt his eyes on you in that penetrating, judgmental, authoritative way. How he had no shame to stare into your modest bosom and how he would laugh to himself at your pulling your lab coat closed and hugging yourself tightly. You didn’t back down from him though, yet knew better than to overtly or publicly challenge him. You had done good work in a breakthrough regarding genetics and although no one knew Ryomen’s true goal, Mahoraga being the dirty secret even the uncaring higher ups didn’t know about—being specially selected to join his team was not a blessing. The rumors of a hidden evaluation had you on edge. And for months until Ryomen plucked away who he wanted everyone was on guard. Some even quitting (disappearing) or becoming fumbling idiots. No one wanted to seem impressive to him. Being useful to Ryomen Sukuna meant you were in a dangerous position. Because no matter what there is no refusing Ryomen. So when your favorite coworkers Charlotte and Jeremy looked absolutely forlorn seeing you that morning…you wished you had understood their warning when they told you to call in sick for work that day….

Since the day you and four other researchers in a facility of over a thousand were specially chosen to join Ryomen’s team—it’s as if to the rest of the building you’re dead. You never went through the same entrance again, you never used the same keycard again, your lunch was never the same as anyone else’s, and soon you felt like nothing more than a well paid, well known work slave. How you and the other researchers names felt like bad words over time. How everyone began to move on and no longer even acquired as gossip the whereabouts or day to day of this special group. Charlotte and Jeremy burned out too, not out of jealousy or hate—your professional adults who very suddenly worked completely different hours and couldn’t even talk to them about what you did now. So your new friends are people who all have bonded over a shared sincere fear of their very scary boss and the fact if you guys can survive this what’s a good night out for drinks gonna hurt?

But Ryomen has a perfect ability to appear out of nowhere. Startling you all back to the actual reality your work dogs for someone who is only not called a mad man because the last scientist who did hasn’t been seen in years. How you just were a nerd into planets, numbers, and figuring things out. How you thought maybe you’d change healthcare forever: cure to cancer, cure to dementia, climate change innovations, better accessibility tech for everyone…you’re a good person with a good brain typing in data with a blaring migraine. Cause only God and Ryomen know what will happen if any of you fuck up Mahoraga. But there was a problem…the problem had been going on for three weeks now. It is becoming ultimately clear Mahoraga will not be sufficient if he is only of artificial intelligence and biology. It is failing to pass the basics of being something even composed to biological matter. A hulking bleached white amalgamation of various species. You would call it a monster but the researcher who did…hasn’t been seen in a while either. Whistleblowers disappear or are found dead. Other scientists who have called for Ryomen’s arrest are suddenly silent. It is just simply understood you want you go home and atleast sleep decent at night? Watch your mouth and mind your manners. And thinking about being the one who has to give Ryomen a negative update makes your legs begin to shake with anxiety.

“Ah! Y/N…” Lu, your coworker, looks over into your screen seeing the flashing red of a failed genetics test. He rests a reassuring hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. Lu was kinda flirtatious but overall just a nerd boy with a caffeine addiction. “I think you need to tell the big guy before he finds out…” You look over meeting his pensive expression with your own. “Lu…I’m kinda in a bind now cause…I didn’t say anything when it first wasn’t working because…obviously we know we can’t say something isn’t going right…” Lu pulls his rolling chair to yours, arm now snaking around your neck. He rests his head now against your shoulder huffing out mutual exasperation. “I worked and worked and worked. We added so much but all these things are just not congruent…we…” your voice drops to below a whisper. “We all know what he’s trying to do…and life can be created without human DNA…but he’s trying to create something in his image…and maybe just like his actual image this deformed monstrosity is just not meant to live…” you finally let it out. You and Lu silent, knowing and praying you weren’t heard. Lu lifts from you placing a hand on the back of your neck rubbing circles to calm you down. “For what it’s worth…I always hoped this thing would never get free of those tubes.” You both look over to the truly terrifying conglomerate of Mahoraga who now after two years of non stop work has only just shown signs of creating functional limbs.

“Are we supposed to work until we die? For something that doesn’t deserve life?” Before you could cap your question the heavy double doors separating you from the rest of Ryomen’s facility flies open. You and Lu quickly hurry back to your stations, anxious and tired. Ryomen with two other nameless assistants you realized were actually his henchmen since they never did anything saunter in. There’s a veil over Ryomen’s expression and you can tell he’s hiding something. But he walks past the both of you as if your nothing. He approaches Maharoga and with what seemed actual affection he coos: “Oh my child. My wonderful creation…” his tone drops. He’s angry. “How if I had the time you would’ve been completed and immaculate…” without another word he punches the glass tube holding Mahoraga. The glass splinters and you audibly gasp at his display of violence. Your heart beats out of your chest at the sight coming to terms with the fact evidently Ryomen was terrifying beyond his creepy intellect. “Yet, as busy a man as I, I’m stuck relying on peons…” his eyes narrow to you.

“You.” He begins his way towards you. His head high with an immensely deprecating glare. You wanted to run but your knees buckled. Your hands clasped to your chest as you could only freak out and succumb to the stress and his overpowering demeanor. He backs you into the wall nearest the double doors he entered from—you look away unable to face him as he hulks over you. “Y/N…isn’t it?” You quiver unable to form words. “Your name is ____ isn’t it?” The second time sounds like a threat. You shake your head with the utmost obedience, almost like an eager little dog reprimanded by her master.

“You find my child a monstrosity?” He bares his teeth, a frightening sight that makes you close your eyes in trepidation. He’s seething as his hot breath causes a shiver to roll through you. “Maybe you’re just too fucking stupid to figure it out? Huh? Hmmm?” He’s so disgustingly mocking as his eyes again fixate on your chest. “I didn’t vet every personnel here to choose someone who isn’t stupid but just acts like it. I knew what the problem was going to be the entire time…” he grips your chin forcing you to look him in the eyes. “I was waiting on you…” You shake your head in confusion. His grip just tightens causing a pain to shoot across your jaw. “Ryomen please! I am trying! You know I have! I’ve done everything I can! It is not meant to live. You are not meant to play God! You are not God! You’re an evil scientist and an even worse man! What will you do? Hurt me? Kill me? Make me disappear?!” You want to shut up. You feel your stomach caving in fear the more you speak but simultaneously if this is the last time your seen then who cares. If this is the last real job you’ll have ever then who cares? If he’s gonna be sure to ruin your life for the rest of your life atleast you won’t be complicit in whatever harm he and his ‘child’ will cause…fuck it.

“Ryomen…you are a sick human being. You aren’t even a human being. You are a monster your damn self. You want to create life because yours is empty, you’re empty! I hate you!” You sound like a petulant child. A grown woman with one of the most impressive resumes in the entire facility being brought to a babbling temper tantrum by Ryomen.

How you don’t know he had to find out who you were the minute people told him he had a new rival…

How he demanded IT connect his phone to the security cameras and how while he obviously got full access he only lingered on the ones with a new girl in a short but professional skirt. How he could tell you must live a freer life outside of work. How he didn’t understand why you’d do extra work or stay extra hours or help other people? That doesn’t advance you. He couldn’t understand why you would self consciously change how you spoke depending on who was or wasn’t in the room. He never had to do that and never tried. Why would someone smarter than other people care to look good to them? Why did you be sure you pulled your skirt down or brushed your hair or? Were you trying to look cute for the male researchers? Ah! A silly slut who will get up in the world by sitting on as many laps as possible…that day he didn’t really return to watching you.

But when he saw you smiling way too hard at a female coworker…rolling your eyes the minute some male who must annoy you began to talk…how he realized oh…maybe it’s not males. His curiosity is piqued so he sends one of his closer female assistants to feel you out. How you didn’t know that breasty coworker with the easy smile was sent to get you on a date to bring back info. And oh did she bring back info…typical STEM nerd but you really wanted to do work that mattered. And that making a change in the world was the best way to feel like everything you struggled to accomplish was worth it. Ryomen rolls his eyes, how about you change the world his way?

He brought you on because as far he heard and saw with his own eyes you had the power of Eureka. Nothing other than somehow when your eyes or hands got on something it was fixed, improved, advanced. He only knew himself to have such a balance of intuitive intellect and practical capability. He was not a fan of people who were weak or incapable. So why did you falter the minute you were put in a better position? Already at an established, distinguished, awarded institution…now amongst the upper rung of the global scientific elite. Ryomen could put you right next to him and you’d only what? Become a God alongside him? How his ideas would meet your diligence. How he could populate the world unbeknownst to everyone they all are of him, and therefore finally worth life. How he thought for once he was wrong…how maybe the one time he did expect the most of someone they crack under the pressure. How again he realizes he is alone in his plight to ascend excellence. He doesn’t want to be God, he believes he can do better. But he’s still begrudgingly mortal, his ideals cut in half by the limits of his body.

You were right. He couldn’t make anything in his image without something human. Something of him. He knew that all along. So how dumb of you to wait chewing your nails and pens to oblivion at every new configuration you tried. How you were the mad scientist unwilling to accept the facts before you. Maybe somewhere deep down understanding then what would entail…what offer might arise knowing you would have to tell him. How hard and angry his cock would get. Childish and entitled wanting nothing more than to feel how he spreads you. How he rested his head against his fist, canine protruding and dug into his lip as you spin around huffing at another failed attempt. How he resents you biding time. How if you just do what you’re supposed to and walk your stupid ass in this office the problem will be solved.

So when you allow Lu to get far too close to you, far too comfortable…and you admit you are failing him on purpose... Now he can’t even satiate his anger with the farce you just don’t know what he wants…but you do. So he has no choice now but take what he wants and youre already weakening in his grasp. You’re already crying your eyes out. He can only think on everything he’s done for you and low stupid you are to lack gratitude. How egotistical you are to think he hasn’t seen every time you’ve rolled your eyes at him. Or sucked your teeth. Or all the unsavory opinions of him you laughed at. How he’s let you disrespect him long enough and far beyond anyone else. If something completely artificial can be made whole with something human, of course two humans naturally can then create a sublime, supreme being…how he’s already past Mahoraga, that will be the pet. How he was thinking much too small, because a child…the possibility of a proper successor in every sense of the word…now you need to stop crying because it’s annoying. You’re about to be so happy, so accomplished. He’ll let you work. You’ll look even better standing next to him. You’ll still get your awards and books and funding yada yada but…you’ll bear him one son, one daughter. Maybe twins. He’ll figure it out. But right now he needs to confirm his theory you’re not Eve but something beyond. And that you’ll help him create life in more ways than one.

#x black fem reader #black fem reader #black fanfic writer #sukuna x reader #sukuna x black reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #yandere #yandere sukuna #yandere jjk #evil scientist Sukuna #poor breedable reader 🫤

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gorouenjoyer · 5 months

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-Differences-

We’re not too different

A fanfic mildly inspired by kamiverse’s tfl

(half cannon universe half modern au)

Themes - Romance, angst, smut, betrayal

Pairings - Gorou×reader, Lyney×reader, Neuvillette×reader, Zhongli×reader, Albedo×reader, Scaramouche×reader, Tartaglia×reader

Warnings- virgin!reader, Lyney is kinda a slut?-college!Lyney, college!Lynette, college!reader, collage!furina

Smut will be next chapter I promise<3

Opposites attract right?

We’re really different. Lyney and I have been friends since FOREVER, he was an orphan who was adopted and raised by this figure he calls “father” from what I’ve heard father is a fatui harbinger who was apparently a fellow Fontainian

We met because I saw Lyney on the street one day doing some fun magic tricks. He wasn't very well dressed so I’d thought that I would talk to him, maybe even help him out if he needed food as my family was well off enough to donate to charity.

Lyney seemed harsh at first glance, it turns out that day his twin sister Lynette got taken away by aristocrats. So that day I made a promise to be by his side forever and make sure nothing bad ever happens to him or his sister ever again!

I lost contract with Lyney after that and during that time he got adopted by “father” and my mom lost her high paying job for a “undisclosed” reason

Now we’re both in our early 20s and in college, all three of us are studying at “La institution de fontaine éducationnel” or IFÉ. Lyney is studying acting as he’s trying to perform at “la opera epiclese” at some point while Lynette is studying engineering as she is hoping to help her brother cut costs by doing repairs herself.

Lyney has always been extroverted and quite charming so Lynette is always complaining to you about how her brother has another girlfriend or boyfriend which you always respond to with complaining about how you're always single.

One day however you’re complaining to Lyney himself about being single while he visits your dorm which leads to an interesting conversation about a way to potentially solve that…

“What? You’re still single with your looks?” Lyney asks while leaning on the wall“WAIT! Does that mean you’re a virgin?” he taunts with a big dumb smirk glued on his face

“W-well uhm- Y'know what? That’s a really weird and uhm, invasive? YEAH invasive question to ask a female friend” you manage to stutter out with as much confidence as possible in this situation

Lyney laughs and offers you a bet, “If you end up sleeping with 5 men by the end of the summer I’ll offer you 200k, but the catch is that you aren’t allowed to fall in love with them. You have to sleep with 5 men, no strings attached” you stare at him with confusion while wondering how serious he is but then Lyney adds with a smile “Y’know what for every man after the 5th I’ll add another 50k”

Lyney extends his hand forward for a handshake “deal?” you think for a moment wondering if this is really worth it. You don’t have enough money to finish your course and with 200K+ you’ll have enough to finish your last 2 years of university, maybe even enough to spoil yourself a bit with new clothing and makeup.

The only problem was the time frame, you’ll only have 4 months for 5 guys? Surely I can’t do that right? I haven’t slept with a single guy for what? 20 something years? How can I sleep with 5 in such a short timeframe?

After a lot of consideration you decide to take up his offer so you reach out your hand, but suddenly in a random act of courage or stupidity you add “I’ll accept your offer but on one condition, you’ll be the first guy” Lyney looks taken aback? Confused? Uncertain? No idea, but what you can notice is the light reddining of his cheeks.

“What? Are you repulsed by the idea Lyney? How rude” you questioned in a jokey tone

Lyney’s eyes widened in shock “No no, not AT ALL. I was just surprised you asked in such a uncharacteristically bold manner” he exclaims in mild panic

“So when do you want this to happen?” he asks awkwardly

“Oh uhm.. Sooner the better I think but probably not tonight? You respond while fiddling your thumbs “Maybe in a few days? Y’know what I’ll message you!” you decide

After Lyney quickly and awkwardly leaves you message your best friend and roomie, Furina

10:48PM

-reader-: GIRLY YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED

-Furina-: Did your lonely ass finally get a boyfriend?

-reader-: BETTER THAN THAT

-Furina-: WHAT? REALLY? DID YOU WIN THE LOTTERY?

-reader-: Ok just combine the last two ideas

-Furina-: YOUR ASS GOT A SUGAR DADDY??? HOW OLD???

-reader-: TF NO?

-Furina-: I give up ;-;

-reader-: LYNEY SAID HE’LL GIVE ME 200K TO SLEEP WITH 5 MEN BEFORE THE SUMMER

-Furina-: WHAT?? ARE YOU GONNA DO IT???

-reader-: YEAH PROBABLY AND ON TOP OF THAT HE SAID HE’LL BE THE FIRST ONE :333

-Furina-: NO WAYYYYY SERIOUSLY? HE’S ACTUALLY SO FINE? I’M JEALOUS GIRL-

-reader-: You have a boyfriend who’s house you’re at right. now. HOW ARE YOU JEALOUS?

-Furina-: Uhm we don’t talk about thatttt, ANYWAYS GTG LOVE YOU POOKIE GL

-reader-: BYEEEEE<3333

You put down your phone for the night and decide to get ready for bed but while your trying to sleep all you can think of is what transpired today

When you wake up it’s already kind of late but your roommate isn’t back yet so you text her

11:17AM

-reader-: Hey wanna meet up at that cafe down the street later? Maybe at 12:30 if that’s good with you?

11:52

-Furina-: GIRL- I'M SO SORRY I SLEPT IN

-Furina-: 12:30 works BUT ALSO I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU WHEN WE GET THERE

-reader-: OMG OK SEE YOU >:3

A/N: I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG >W< I really wanted to get the pacing right for this fic cause I feel like I rush things

#fanfic #genshin smut #diffrences #gorou #gorou smut #lyney #lyney smut #tartaglia #tartaglia smut #zhongli #zhongli smut #neuvillette smut #neuvillette #albedo #albedo smut #scaramouche smut #scaramouche

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grison-in-space · 1 year

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Wrapping up the Guards! Guards! reread, I hit this passage from Vetinari to Vimes and have to pause to snicker because Vetinari is just so damn young here:

“A great rolling sea of evil,” he said, almost proprietorially. “Shallower in some places, of course, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, this is the opposite, this will triumph in the end. Amazing!” He slapped Vimes good-naturedly on the back. “Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don’t say no. I’m sorry if this offends you,” he added, patting the captain’s shoulder, “but you fellows really need us.” “Yes, sir?” said Vimes quietly. “Oh, yes. We’re the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you’re good at that, I’ll grant you. But the trouble is that it’s the only thing you’re good at. One day it’s the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it’s everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no one’s been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It’s part of the specification, you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack.”

Ah, yes, sir: because you are very evil, what with the assuming power largely, as far as I can tell, because you're offended by how poorly the system works; you whose first career move was to work to create stability in the city in a bid to minimize blowback, you who are above everything else practical and focused on utilitarianism. Uhhuh.

He's so young. Almost everyone in Guards! Guards! is, of course--Carrot with his law book most obviously--but with Vimes the alcoholic depression and the despairing cynicism has its hooks in so deeply that the overall impact is hard to see. By contrast, moving from Making Money to Guards! Guards! reveals a Vetinari who is almost embarrassingly green relative to the Vetinari who trains Moist: he is constantly making arrogant mistakes (ie "there's no dragons, that's nonsense") that his older self would be mortified to see, and then there's little pronouncements like this.

And for that matter, Vetinari himself should know full well that his "bad people" don't necessarily bother with much planning, either; just look at Mad Lord Snapcase. It's possible to view this through a Doylist lens--we just know a lot more about the history of Ankh Morpork by later books than Pterry did when he was writing this one. But I like to integrate Watsonian interpretations into my readings of the text, and so I enjoy thinking about this as partly a bid to undermine any support Vimes might be lending to any bids for power Carrot might make. After all, Carrot hasn't made any commentary about his sword one way or another; it's unclear to both Vetinari and the reader whether Carrot knows about the long lost heir of the city thing, and even more unclear what Carrot might choose to do in the absence of a giant flaming dragon having declared itself king.

Vetinari is in a fairly precarious place in this book, having been Patrician for only a relatively short time as far as I can tell, and after all there has just been an extraordinarily popular movement to replace the entire office of the Patrician with a hereditary king. If Carrot chose to, he could make life quite difficult for Vetinari: he might not win a theoretical power struggle, but he could certainly cost quite a bit of political capital and considerable public belief in Vetinari's ability to create stability. And Vimes, as Carrot's immediate supervisor and erstwhile human mentor, is the single person most likely to be able to influence Carrot away from that leg of the Trousers of Time.

It's an interesting way to plea for the support of a man like Vimes, I'll put it that way. It's wholly truthful and quite earnest, and it's not particularly manipulative: if anything, it paints Vetinari in quite a lot worse light than he could make a reasonable claim to being. It also avoids tugging on at least one equally truthful argument that could be expected to tug on Vimes' own sentiments: Vetinari is, for all his flaws and autocratic opinions, at the very least not a king. While he holds power, there will be no monarchs, no Lorenzo the Kinds to claim divine right to rule. I suppose it's also possible that Ventinari simply didn't know, of course, but--it's such an interesting little speech from a character perspective.

#discworld #guards! guards!

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yuurei20 · 11 months

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Ace Info Compilation part 10: Standing Up

Ace standing up to people in positions of authority who are objectively stronger than himself is a running theme: he accuses Trey directly of enabling Riddle (calling him pathetic), stands up to Riddle’s tyranny in Book 1 despite knowing his painful history, is the first student in Book 3 to try (and fail) to stand up against Azul, defends Epel from Vil in the opening of Book 5 and argues with Vil outright about his strict lifestyle rules, getting poisoned for his efforts.

Ace also tells Leona that it is “typical” for him to be “skipping out on the actual work,” saying, “Aren’t you supposed to be a housewarden? How about showin’ some leadership?” to his face.

Even after Leona proves himself Ace says, “I admit that’s helpful, but still…”

Ace is also harsh with Riddle outside of the main story, despite being his own housewarden: when Riddle loses his temper at a ghost during phantom bride (the ghost called him short) and sets it on fire, Ace scolds him for ruining their plans, saying, “You’re the lousiest suitor out of anyone who’s come so far!” despite Riddle’s apology.

Ace has a habit of saying the quiet part out loud in general, even when he is speaking to an upperclassman.

He insults Trey’s singing to his face and behind his back, teases Leona about Cheka, says that, for Diasomnia, Lilia is unusually friendly and complains about Jamil’s food in front of him.

Ace also pressures Rook to admit that he actually voted for Neige during the VDC as a devoted fan rather than because he was impressed with Neige's performance.

When Vil offers to compensate the VDC team for the prize money that his overblot made them lose out on, almost every team member immediately promises to donate their portion to Ramshackle dorm, with Ace following with, “talk about peer pressure.”

Deuce also struggles with the pressure to donate (“That money would go a long way for my family. But still…”) and Ace assures him, “Oh, I’m taking the money…I’ve been eyeing some new clothes and shoes lately.”

In exchange for keeping his prize money, Ace says he will treat the prefect and Grim to lunch at the school cafeteria. (Deuce offers lattes and dessert.)

Jamil says that Ace is closer to the third-year students in the basketball club than himself and Floyd and Ace himself says that he gets along well with upperclassmen from other dorms, so it is possible that he is just not intimidated by older students in general, thus why he is always able to speak his mind so freely (possibly a result of his older brother’s influence).

Riddle might be the only person who see call Ace out on his casual way of speaking to his upperclassmen, saying that Ace’s use of phrases like “stuff my face” is not any way to speak to his housewarden, he uses “uncouth language” and he wishes that Ace would dress properly more often as he can look like “quite the gentleman.”

Ace does, however, use honorifics with his, upperclassmen, referring to the 2nd- and 3rd- year students as “first-name-senpai.”

He refers to his fellow 1st-years just by their first names and he calls Sam, “Sam-san.”

He usually just calls Riddle “Housewarden,” but he will sometimes say “Housewarden Riddle” as opposed to Deuce’s “Housewarden Rosehearts” (every member of Heartslabyul on the main cast refers to Riddle in a different way.)

Ace teases Jack for looking so out of place as a “buff and brawny” person from Sunset Savanna at Heartlsabyul.

Jack points out that he is from the Shaftlands, to Ace’s surprise (“I thought everyone from there was all flashy and dapper and stuff.”)

Riddle insists that he sees “nothing amiss” about Jack being in the lounge and scolds Ace for being so narrow-minded about other countries and cultures.

#twstace #Twisted Wonderland #Ace Trappola #twstfacts #acefacts

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idk6123 · 4 months

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An Arranged Marriage For The Richest (Derby Harrington X Male Reader)

Derby life’s goal is to follow his father’s footstep and become as successful as him. Being the heir of an oil digging made his life so much easier. Being the richest of the rich. Buying expensive things a regular person needs to work for in a year or two. That is his life, and it’s all thanks to his father. Because of that, he listens to him dearly, to the point of choosing his future partner, which is Pinky, his cousin. Other people find it weird, but he doesn’t mind it. He does mind how much attention she seeks of him. To his luck, he got a better offer.

“You wish to speak to me, father?”

“Yes.” Inside of his office, Mr. Harrington sits behind his desk while addressing the issue. “I know you got an arranged marriage with your cousin, Pinky. However, we have to cancel that deal, because I found a better offer.”

Derby looks surprised. “Who is it?”

“It’s our rival, Mendez. With this deal, we can fuse the two biggest oil companies in America to become the number one in the world.” Mr. Harrington sounds excited with the plan. “We have dinner with them this Saturday, where you meet your future spouse. That being said, Mendez’s heir is a son as well, so you will be marrying a man, but I don’t expect that being a problem.”

“Of course not.” Derby honestly doesn’t care if he needs to marry off a guy or a girl. All he just wants to do is making his father proud. “Won’t that be a problem with your friends? Your son marrying another man?”

“They have nothing to complain about when we have twice amount the money.” Mr. Harrington assures. “His name is Y/N Mendez, remember that. Make sure to treat him like a gentleman.”

“Of course, father.”

With their fancy clothes on, Derby and his father are being driven by their personal chauffeur towards the Mendez’s mansion. It’s around the size of their own, with a gorgeous, well taken care garden. After they parked the car, they get to the gate and grants access to come in. Once at the door, they get greeted by the rich family.

“Mr. Harrington. It’s a pleasure allowing you to come in our house.” Mr. Mendez greets him with an arm. His wife is next to him. “And it’s an honor meeting you, Derby Harrington.”

After fancy introductions, they get in the mansion, seeing the grand entrance of the building. The guests put their jackets away and follow the couple to the dining room. Once there, they see their son.

“Y/N, this is Mr. Harrington, and his son, Derby Harrington.”

“Pleasure meeting you.” Y/N shakes both of their hands.

“Like wise.” Derby says with a handsome smile.

After some talking, the five of them sit down at the large dining table. Maids and butlers set down the plates of food that is freshly prepared from the chefs. As they begin eating their fancy food, the five of them chat, mostly about business stuff. Though since both teens doesn’t have much experience with it, they barely talk. That’s why Y/N begins to talk to his future husband.

“Where do you go to school?”

“Bullworth Academy. What about you?”

“Redwood Academy.” Y/N responds. “Isn’t Bullworth that school filled with psychos?”

“Sadly, yes.” Derby replies with a chuckle. “We have poor, poorer, and poorest. Brainless monkey’s without brains and nerds without any spine. I’m lucky I got 8 fellow preps that makes the school less horrible.”

“Sounds rough. My school isn’t any better.” Y/N smiles as well. “We have punks that don’t bother showering. Goths and theater kids that seeks attention. Teens addicted to drugs. It’s honestly sad that schools nowadays allow people like that on their ground.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. How about hobbies?”

“Swimming, poker, martial art. I’m considering shooting in the future.”

“Looks like we got the same interests as well.” The blonde says with a smirk. “I’m more of the art of boxing myself. It’s something my group takes pride in. My dearest friend, Bif, managed to secure us countless trophies.”

“Sounds like you’re real close with your friends. I’m guessing you’re their leader?”

“That is a good guess.” Derby complements him. “Let me take a guess as well. You’re one as well?”

“Of course. I’m inheriting my father’s company. I need to prove myself and others I can be a leader.”

Derby can share the same settlement. He didn’t expect connecting with his future husband this well. Pinky, for example, he finds her just annoying and demanding. Y/N, however, is someone he can relate to, and thus respect. He’s glad his father got this deal, because he would rather spent his future with someone like Y/N instead of Pinky.

Ever since that day, the two continue to get to know each other. Mostly by their parents setting up dinner parties and other events. Though they do meet up unofficially after school. They have been going steady, to the point Derby wants Y/N to meet his best friend, Bif.

“I didn’t know you liked the gents.”

“I blame Pinky for that.” Derby says with a chuckle. “Besides, if it’s an arranged marriage with someone’s son that owns another oil company. Luckily for me, he isn’t annoying.”

“Sounds like true love.” Bif sarcastically comments. “Don’t you think you should’ve describe him on what you like about him, or his personality.”

“I like about him that he isn’t annoying.”

Bif sighs, but smiles. “I would love to meet him.”

“Good. I bring him at the gym after school. Make sure not to be drenched in sweat.”

Bif leans against the ring as he awaits for his friend. As he looks at the entrance, he spots the blonde walking in, holding Y/N’s hand. Bif stands up and walks over to them.

“Bif, this is Y/N, my fiancé. Y/N, this is my best friend, Y/N.”

“It’s great to meet you. Derby told a lot about you.”

“I can say the same.” Bif makes sure to not mention about Derby’s comment about Y/N not being irritating. “Fiancé, huh? So it’s set in stone.”

“Well, there are some stuff our parents need to figure out, but I have zero doubts that won’t work out.” Derby says with a smile to his boyfriend.

“We hope to get wed after we graduate. Our plans are to study about running a company, but once that done, we’re CEO’s of the biggest oil company in the world.” Y/N says with a proud smile.

“Now we have to take care of Saudi Arabia and Chine, but let’s be honest, it’s only inevitable we have a war with them.” Derby adds.

“Which brings more profit.” Y/N also adds.

Bif can tell they’re meant to be together. “You two will be a great couple.”

“Thank you.” Derby replies. “Of course you will be invited to the wedding, as well the rest of the group.”

“Hey, how about we ask Bif for advice?”

“Hm? What can I do?”

Y/N looks back at him. “We’re discussing where to hold our marriage. We’re thinking about Paris, New York City, London-”

Bif continues to hear Y/N rambling about the most expensive wedding revenues with tens of options.

Months has passed, and the marriage is about to begin. They finally settle it down at The Biltmore Estate in North Carolina. It’s a bit smaller than they wanted it to be, but it’s good enough. Inside of the large mansion, Derby awaits in his room as he looks at himself through the mirror. Besides him is Bif, also wearing a tux.

“You look fine.”

“I don’t want to look fine. I want to look perfect.” Derby looks at himself with paranoia. “I feel like something is off. Suit fits perfectly… hair is well done…” He mutters to himself as he goes from one thing to another. “Face looks handsome…”

“You’re just nervous.”

“I’m not.” Derby assures. He turns around and looks at his back.

“Yes, you are.” Bif grabs his friend’s shoulder, forcing him to look at him. “You’re just about the marry the guy you love and spend the entire life with. This is natural. My dad felt the same way before the divorce.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m beyond happy this is happening.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t be nervous.” Derby remains quiet. “Look, you look perfect. Even without your tux, you do. I know. I talked plenty of times with Y/N. He loves you, a lot. He’s like another version of you.”

Derby smiles after feeling stressed. “He’s probably stressing about this too.”

“I would bet on it. Now, let’s calm down and prepare your speech.”

Soon the marriage starts. There was a major discussion between the two family who is the man in the relationship and after a while, Derby and Y/N stepped in that they both will be. So, they stand at the altar. Derby stands with his father and his best friend, and Y/N has the same at his side. Between them is the marriage officiant, who had a speech to address the merry couple. In the audience, there are friends of both spouses, as well their father’s coworkers and friends. Some of them are more… traditional to say the least, but the fathers still thought it was a good idea to invite them just to see the look of their faces when they see one of the biggest companies in the country fusing together.

After the speech, it’s time to have both spouses to say their vows, starting with Y/N.

“I know it isn’t a long time since we met, but ever since that dinner party, I had a gut feeling you are the one. And standing here today, that gut feeling isn’t just a feeling, it’s a fact. I’m glad I’m going to spend my entire life with someone that I can relate to. Someone ambitious, strong, smart and kind. I’m inspired by you and have the motivation to make this marriage better one day after another, as well our future companies, as CEO’s.”

Then it’s Derby’s turn. “I have to say, you took the words right from the mouth. The first day we met, I know we end up together. And like you said, we’re perfect. In general and together. As a Harrington, it’s an honor to marry a Mendez. Not just as a company, but also as life partners. I make sure to treat you well, and when the time comes, make sure to stand by your side when things get tough, as you will do with me.”

And so, the rings get passed. Each spouse having the same kind of expensive diamond ring to give each other. When done, they look at each other with a smile.

“I, Derby Harrington, take me Y/N Mendez as my lawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health till death parts us.”

“I, Y/N Mendez, take me Derby Harrington as my lawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health till death parts us.”

“May you know kiss the groom.”

And so, the two are officially husband and husband, with the entire room clapping. In the audience, the preps are beyond happy for their leader.

“They’re so perfect…” Gord begins to tear up. “They’re the IT couple.”

“May our- I mean mine wedding be like this.” Chad reacts with awe.

“They better not divorce like their parents.” Bryce points out.

Everyone is beyond happy, except Pinky, who’s feeling salty. “This could’ve been mine wedding!”

#bully #bully x male reader #bully canis canem edit #bully scholarship edition #derby harrington #derby harrington x male reader

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dandydingo · 1 year

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Why I’m Leaving Freelance Commission Work An essay about doing furry commissions by DandyDingo

Preamble First and foremost I’d like to state that this is not a post geared toward complaining about commissioners or fellow artists in my industry. I’ve simply noticed a concerning disconnect between commissioners and artists about several topics and wanted to make something that explains, clarifies, and elaborates on some of those issues.

I love the community I’m a part of and would like to see it do better! Though it’s a meme that if you want to make money as an artist you should become a furry, it’s actually a double edged sword that I’ll be trying my best to pick apart and display. The following points I’ll be rambling about are also based on my personal experiences working in this type of career for 3 years. I am by no means the most qualified but I’m not the least qualified either; this to say please take what I say with a grain of salt. It won’t apply to all situations!

With those disclaimers out of the way, get ready for a whole lot of reading!

What is this job and how does it work? Typically when someone is referring to a furry artist they mean an artist selling illustration commissions on a freelance basis. There are many different kinds of independent creators though and this could include someone who sells merchandise, makes a living off patreon with comic work, or does fursuits. For the sake of staying focused we’re discussing artists who specifically sell illustrations and work one-on-one with commissioners to accomplish this.

As any seasoned commissioner knows, the way an artist’s process works can be varied but typically involves:

buying an open slot for a commission type (ex: a painting)

handing over your references, requests, and paying

waiting for a work in progress image to approve

receiving the final product

This process is the basic premise, an industry standard if you will. The artist gets the benefit of controlling when they can take on work and the commissioner has the opportunity to communicate what they want at multiple stages of the project.

But why are there so many variations to what projects an artist will even accept, what’s in their TOS, and how long it takes them to do it?

Specialization The thing about many furry artists is we’re independent creators with little to no formal education in illustration. We’re not the type of artists you see putting together Magic the Gathering cards or developing a big title game. To expect that level of industrial standard with speed and quality would be ludicrous! This is what makes us appealing to commission though- you’re not going to find our product anywhere else and you’re supporting an artist you like directly.

In fact, every furry artist is a unique snowflake with their own specializations. This is partially since art takes a ridiculous amount of time to get good at. An artist is almost forced to choose what they can offer and what they’re going to invest in trying to sell. This can even be out of our control! For example, one of the running jokes with my slice of community is the fact that after drawing a single bird furry there was suddenly an entire flock asking me to draw their bird sonas.

Specialization directly rewards furry artists with more steady income / clients and thus they might have to restrict what they can offer. Again, learning to draw something new takes a lot of time. An artist who has never touched backgrounds will struggle a lot to suddenly try and include them in their work. This doesn’t mean it can’t be done or that an artist doesn’t want to. I would even argue this hyper specialization can often leave artists in a depressing loop they feel they can never escape from. If they suddenly draw something else it won’t sell, their personal interests have been buried by what actually works on the market.

Some artists do break this mold though and either enjoy the specialization they’re in or are experienced enough to draw whatever they fancy at a high quality. Perhaps even, their audience expects and celebrates an experimental approach from them which is something that’s true in my case. One of my most successful commissions were “surprise bags” where requests and edits weren't even allowed! Others are not fortunate enough to have that option though.

In any case, this is not the sole reason for the insane variety we see in furry artists and why their commission processes vary so much but it is a huge part of it. For context, the level of skill you see in my art took 5 years to get to and I would consider myself intermediate at best. It’s truly an underrated skilled trade.

Prices - Part 1 Cost of Living Money, everyone’s favourite non-controversial topic! So why is furry art so expensive?

It costs a lot to be a living breathing creature with a roof over your head and food in your belly. We all feel the current effects of inflation and ridiculously high rent. This is definitely a big reason why art can / should cost a lot and believe it or not MOST artists do not make minimum wage.

This doesn’t just apply to furry artists of course and I would be beating a dead horse on something we all already know, the economy is in a terrible state right now. It depends on what country / area you live in, what your living situation is, if you have any pets or health issues, etc.

In general though, that $200 price tag for a reference sheet doesn’t make the cut in most places. It might be the single biggest reason why I cannot continue this work anymore, the price I can sell something for is only so high but my workload will remain the same. That reference sheet will take me 2-4 days to complete no matter what if I want to maintain the good quality a commissioner is (understandably) paying me for.

Depending on what you're selling and where your experience level is at (the more experienced you are the less time it takes to complete something at an acceptable quality) a commission can take 1 hour to finish or it can take 12 hours. So… just do a lot of smaller cheaper stuff right?

Prices - Part 2 The Great Artist Killer, BURNOUT If an artist cannot manage to sell a few big things to meet their monthly bills they might instead switch gears to sell lots of small affordable things. This can mean doing 20-40 commissions a month at a back breaking pace. While all jobs slowly drain the life out of your soul, art demands a level of mental focus that is often overlooked and in the case of this career, you only have you to do the work that is required.

There is no one to cover your shift, there is no one to assist you, and if you don’t make your deadlines your reputation is at stake. The very same reputation of good work ethic that keeps your commissioners coming back the next opening. You must push through the burnout! You must work until your hand aches and bleeds! You must- there is no one to save you from this Hell!

If you try to be an affordable or high production artist this is the life you have to look forward to. Desperately churning out product as you retrofit your creativity and passions into a well oiled machine. Often to try and prevent this artists will raise their prices to something they can live off without breaking themselves or have a mix of high / low prices. A middle ground if you will, something that still doesn’t make the standard of living but isn’t a death march either. It’s a precarious and strange limbo with financial insecurity but hey… at least you’re not dead. It should be noted as well that most artists struggle with some form of mental illness and selling commissions might even be the only career open to them. This is not a topic I feel qualified to speak on but it does play an enormous role in experiencing burnout and the general struggles of this career.

Prices - Part 3 Afterthoughts While I wish artists could push for an appropriate living wage, I understand the commissioners' side as well. Spending $100 that could go toward groceries is just not feasible for the vast majority of us and so when we see something that is actually in our range, a $20 headshot or $10 sketch, we often hop on it without a second thought on the ethics of paying that low. It is okay to buy a treat for yourself that is within a price range you can afford though! You should never spend what you can’t nor should you ever feel pressured or guilty to buy something.

If a commissioner is concerned about paying enough I would recommend saving up and giving as big of a tip as you can! Artists are almost always underselling themselves and even just a $5 tip covers the cut that Paypal takes or buys them a coffee to get through the day. Buying what’s reasonable for you is absolutely still supporting them and a little goes a long way!

NOTE : any artist can experience burnout or struggle with meeting minimum wage no matter what they’re selling; this is a hard topic to pick apart Making Art - Part 1 The Process So how does making art work? That might seem like a silly question but it’s hard to understand when you’re not the one creating it. Given how closely a commissioner and artist must work together in order to achieve a desired result I think it’s worth breaking down what goes into making a piece. Of course every illustrator is different but here’s how it generally works:

Hope You’re Mentally Well Art requires mental concentration, particularly for something complex such as a city. Often a bad mental state can be worked around but sometimes the process stops here- you’re just not able to focus enough to measure out that perspective or break down the complex anatomy that goes into drawing a hand.

Find References An artist may need to take an hour or so to find the right references or to make thumbnail sketches. Especially if your client asked for something specific (like a particular brand of whisky) you need to know what it looks like and how it will fit into the piece. For small quick pieces though this is usually a waste of time and skipped.

Sketching Here is often where the commissioner sees the first glimpse of work done- the sketch! Some artists are messy, some are neat and tidy. They might be drawing you a reference sheet or a headshot but either way you typically get to take a glimpse at their blueprint and ask for changes before the rest happens. Sketches are easy to change and can be redone from scratch with the least amount of time lost if needed. It is the optimal step to work with the client on making sure expectations are met.

Rough Render To keep it across the board for all types of art (painting, cell shading, lineless, etc) we’ll call this part the rough render. A commissioner may be shown the flatcolor swatch to ensure markings were drawn accurately, the lineart to double check all requested details have been included, the rough lighting to give an idea of the mood… the list goes on and on! Some artists skip this step entirely if it’s not needed, there is such a thing as oversaturation when it comes to communication.

Final Product This is simply where the commissioner and artist part ways once everything has been approved, the final product! It may have taken hours or days to get to this step but either way it’s been completed.

Making Art - Part 2 When It Doesn’t Go Smoothly Sometimes an artist’s workflow is so rigid even a single missed day from bad mental health or a life event can have a cascade effect that puts them behind schedule. Quite literally an artist can only draw for so many hours before their hand (or body in general) physically gives out. I’ve had work days where I’ve tried to push myself in order to catch up, to the point of rubbing the skin off my finger enough to make it bleed. In the long run this can mean career-ruining cases of carpal tunnel in the wrist or hand and like with any other desk job; your neck and back aren't very happy about the workload either. Artist work days are often shorter than what’s considered normal which adds to the general difficulty of the career as well. While some artists can certainly work that full 8-10 hour shift, others might only be able to handle 3-6 hours before they can’t concentrate or are in too much pain to continue (speaking in long term for that one, it took a few years of regular work before I started having real physical issues from drawing too much). Given most are stuck at certain price points for selling their art it’s almost impossible to charge more in order to compensate for these possible missed days. It’s an issue with other careers as well which I do want to acknowledge; missing even one day of work could mean less groceries that week or cost someone their job in extreme cases. We truly live in a society! It should be noted though that keeping an impossible schedule is a huge stressor for artists who are stuck having to produce more than they can mentally or physically take on. They often know they can’t do it but what other choice is there- not buying the medication you need that month? This always seems to lead to something public and discussed a lot in the community; the instances of being issued a refund out of the blue or seeing a lengthy mental breakdown post about suffocating in the stress of it all. The wear and tear on creativity is visible as well. An artist’s work may become monotone or lifeless as they sink further from the weight of impossible to meet expectations. They might struggle to produce what they used to be able to as time marches on or simply feel unbearably hopeless. If the unsustainable workflow continues for too many years passion becomes strangled and real physical consequences are apparent.

Some are able to escape this or don’t have this issue! Others suffer in silence or might not be aware of the strain they are being put through, as is the case with plenty of other careers.

How Can I Support Artists? If you’re interested in making life easier for your favourite artist there are a few simple things you can do; specifically in regards to the commission process!

Read the Terms of Service This is not something you should skip over as it could detail how edits are handled, what an artist is willing to draw, etc. It's beneficial for everyone that the TOS is read.

Look Before You Buy Take a peek at an artist’s gallery and decide if you like their style before you purchase anything OR buy a small sample to see if you enjoy how they draw your character! I feel some commissioners don’t understand that an artist cannot change how they stylize on a whim (for example a semi-realistic artist isn’t going to suddenly draw anime). If you’re indifferent or you like experimentation then this isn’t something you need to worry about.

Have A Reference Sheet Although reference sheets are expensive, if you frequently commission artists and are able to afford it BUY ONE! It saves a huge amount of time and frustration- so much so that some artists won’t even consider accepting your commission without a proper reference sheet. Having to guess the body type or colors takes a lot of time and can easily be prevented!

Leave Wiggle Room Give an artist some room to breathe with a bit of artistic freedom! Do not expect them to get that exact #CCE5FF shade of blue you want or draw every single marking of a complex pattern. Lower your expectations if they’re that high, you’ll enjoy the piece more when you do!

Tip Particularly if you’re commissioning a character with a lot of detail or have very specific requests, leave a tip. Again all it takes is a $5 tip to make a difference!

Advice For Artists If you’re truly looking to get into this industry or have been in it for a while, here are some tips that can (hopefully) help make your job a little easier or get started. I don’t want to discourage people from this job by any means! We wouldn’t have the community we do without freelance artists. NEW ARTISTS

Start Small If you’re just starting out you’ll want to aim for the $10 - $50 price range with marketable pieces such as icons or chibis. You may have to heavily undersell yourself for a while to grow a client base. If you don’t sell anything at first don’t be discouraged! It’s perfectly normal to struggle for a while (even years) before you have anything steady.

Experiment Now is the perfect time to experiment and see what works and what doesn’t, what you like and what you hate. Try different platforms, different commission types and styles, whatever you fancy! The goal is to find a niche you can wedge yourself into, feel happy with, and work towards; not to fish around for immediate results.

Focus On Studying The more experience and tools in your belt, the better. For the first while you should be focusing on improving your art if you’re not at an intermediate level. Once hands don’t feel like such a struggle you know you’re at the right place! This will set you up to be more efficient and feel less frustrated down the road.

EXPERIENCED ARTISTS

Personal Time For the sake of your mental health you need to set aside time to do personal art, experiment, and relax. This could mean having a consistent day off, finding a new hobby, or making vent art just for yourself. Also, don’t be afraid to post personal art! You should not be apologizing for taking reasonable time to yourself.

Experimental Commissions Allow yourself to open weirder commission types from time to time. Maybe lately you’ve been really into drawing beach scenes, you could open a 2 slot commission that promises summer vibes. These could be filler between your bigger pieces or replace them every now and then depending on what you can get away with. Other examples I’ve seen are selling goretober calendar slots or $10 artistic freedom sketches. Just try to get yourself out of that repetitive loop if you feel like you need to, worse case it doesn’t sell!

It’s Okay To Quit Not all of us have this option given personal circumstances but there is no shame in leaving this career. Doing commissions even as a casual filler can rob you of the passion you once had for your hobby. If you feel genuinely unhappy with this job and come across the opportunity to safely leave, go for it! In my case I’m going from commission work to comic work, something within the same general field that I can do at my own pace.

Afterword Although I tried to cover as much as I could with this, I know not every issue of the relationship between commissioners and artists was addressed. There are artists who take large amounts of money and then ghost their commissioner. There are commissioners who negatively nitpick at every step of the process and leave an artist feeling like a beaten down dog. The furry community is huge with lots of different folks, there will of course be bad eggs that make things harder for both sides.

I simply hope this leaves commissioners with a better understanding of an artist's perspective and gives some well deserved compassion to the creative people that breathe so much life into our community. We as artists should also appreciate the clients that support us with positive enthusiasm. This special relationship doesn’t exist in a lot of places and I hope I've offered something to help furries have a better understanding of one of the biggest aspects of our community.

Written with much love for the wonderful people that have cheered me on over the years and the community that has always shown it's full support toward me.

#furry community discussion #long post #essay #dandydingo

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postmodernbeliever · 5 months

Text

Thoroughfare- Fox Mulder x Female Reader

Chapter Three: Two’s Company, Three’s a Crime Scene

table of contents <3

if you’d prefer my ao3 | word count: 4,317

TW: mentions of a body at a crime scene, some graphic description.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“No comments from the peanut gallery!”

“I’m simply saying that if you’d let me handle the directions, maybe we’d get there faster!”

You sighed as Fox screwed with the gigantic spiral-bound map he found shoved between the bench of your rental truck. When the two of you landed, you discovered something new about your fellow agent- he liked being in charge of not only picking but driving the rental car. You knew the Bureau provided money for the vehicle, but you had no idea it was within your purview to choose which. You might’ve picked something a little sleeker and smaller, like an understated sedan, but the man with the pen did not share your taste, so this time you didn’t get to exercise the privilege. Fox teased you as he signed the papers for an old Chevy pickup, saying, “Seniority, Piglet.” And now he was refusing to let you control the map while he drove the two of you straight into bumblefuck Kansas as if he had a foolproof inner compass.

“Seriously, Fox, come on. It’s dangerous to drive like this, just let me help.”

“I’ve survived every case this way, you know,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, alone! You’ve got me here now, and I’m not gonna let you crash the damn car while I’m inside!” You resolved, tearing the map from his hand and ripping it at the corner of the page. All you tore was the map scale, but he still shot you a dirty look.

“Nice going–”

“Enough!”

You wanted to believe you didn’t enjoy the way he bickered with you, but it kept the endless drive of dying grass and grey sky interesting. Fox had to double-check every direction you gave him on the way into Marysville, Kansas, at whose name you of course rolled your eyes. The snarky driver learned to stop doubting you about an hour in when he disregarded your order to make a right-hand turn and went left. It took him ten minutes to admit he was wrong and turn around. You graciously accepted his apology, but not before sticking your tongue out in juvenile triumph. Nearly three hours later with the late afternoon sun preparing to set, the rickety truck pulled past a sign that greeted Welcome to Marysville! and you found yourself in the middle of a quaint little place, seemingly empty, with rows of colonial buildings and businesses. You rolled the window down and felt the muggy spring air stick to your face as you poked your head out, admiring the center of town. You could feel your hair frizzing up, and you hoped you’d have time to fix it before you had to do any work. This was not the time to look anything other than prepared.

Fox piped up, “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m gonna make a pitstop at the police station before the motel.”

You huffed and fell back into the seat, and the man let out a soft chuckle. You combatted, “What now?”

“You’re like a little kid.”

“Am not!”

Fox quirked an eyebrow at you, silently proving his point, and your face melted into a playful smile. You stopped complaining and he turned his attention back to the road, where he surveyed for a police department sign. He found it on the corner of a block, but he nearly missed it- if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve mistaken it for just another shop. There were stately stone steps out front and two swinging doors that were reminiscent of a saloon, so you made note of the entrance for the next time it camouflaged into the rest of the town. Fox pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, which sputtered a bit, and you made a nervous face.

“Don’t worry,” Fox smiled, “I can just hotwire something if we need to.” When you made a face, he added, “Come on, I’m kidding!”

All you gave in return was a skeptical, “We’ll see.”

As he moved to open his door, he paused, noticing how you sat still. “Everything okay?”

In your head, you weren’t sure how to answer his question. One thing has been irking you since you landed in the Midwest, and that was how badly you wanted to nail introducing yourself; you’d thought over exactly how to pull your badge from your pocket, and how you’d assert your new title, but every vision ended with you screwing it up. You’d done this at your old job in New York so often it became second nature, but somehow this was different. This was bigger. You had so much more power with a federal badge. You wondered how Fox did it every time; if he was stern, or positive, or something in between. You almost wished you’d practiced it in the mirror, but that felt stupid to entertain.Yet now that it was time to establish yourself as the overarching authority, a beacon of hope to the people of this town and the families who have lost daughters, you were afraid to make a fool of yourself by either overdoing it or not doing it right at all. For God’s sake, you dropped your passport in front of the flight attendant- what made you think you wouldn’t blurt out FBI too loud in front of the sheriff? What would the citizens of Marysville think if the government sent them a detective who couldn’t even get her name out without stuttering?

Fox wished he could read your mind, but all he could do was watch your eyes glaze over. He reached out and touched your shoulder. “Anybody home?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Kind of,” you huffed, “There’s a lot I’m nervous about, you know that.”

“About the case?”

“Yeah, the case. And about doing well. Proving myself. Not letting you down,” you added at the end, to which he broke into an appreciative grin. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re lucky you have me then. I’m practically a diamond,” Fox winked, “Relax. I’ll take the lead.”

Fox might be a pain in the ass, but he was somewhat of a gentleman; after promising he’d lead you through things, he held the door to the station open for you, and you went inside first. There wasn’t much of a lobby. It was more like walking straight into a bullpen, and a calm one, at that. You saw three officers sitting at their desks; two working diligently on what seemed to be simple paperwork, and another with his feet kicked up on the desk and a newspaper over his head, snoring loudly. A faulty fan was whirring exhaustedly in the corner next to an open window. It was mundane everywhere you looked- dusty bookshelves, tidy filing cabinets, dust floating in the light beams spilling through the blinds. An aging woman was working the counter with fat librarian glasses perched on her hook nose and a frizzy, box-blonde French twist. Fox nudged your elbow politely, and you stepped aside to let him approach her first.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner.”

You watched him carefully as you fished your badge out of your jacket pocket and flipped it open. He held his own up briefly, barely long enough for anyone to know if it was real. You took it he never ran into that issue. His voice in introduction wasn’t stiff, but it was still assertive. There was a warmth in the way he spoke to her, and you thought maybe he was always gentler with older women, or possibly with everyone- he certainly spoke that way with you. You would’ve kept thinking about it if he didn’t keep going.

“I talked on the phone with a Sheriff Hale, he requested my partner and I come down and take a look at a string of murders?”

The woman smiled with all her teeth, and you could tell by the way her eyes sparkled that she liked him. Just like the lady at the airport. You wouldn’t have pegged him as a ladies’ man, but it made sense. He did have a unique charm about him.

“Oh, yes! Well, Sheriff Hale is out on a house call, ‘ya see, but he’s bound to be back in soon. I can send a call out for ‘im, if you like.” Her country accent was thick as molasses, and just as sweet.

“That’d be great, ma’am, thank you.”

“Oh, please, call me Mary!”

Fox laughed and confirmed, “Mary from Marysville, huh?”

Mary cackled like an obnoxious schoolgirl, and you had to bite back a laugh yourself. Fox stepped away with you as the woman hopped on the phone to speak with the sheriff, throwing glances his way all the while.

“Flirting on the job, Fox?”

“What can I say? I’ve got game, Piglet.”

A part of you wanted to know more, but there wasn’t enough time to try between his teasing comment and the interruption of frazzled Mary: “Excuse, Mr. Agent Mulder, sir?”

“Yes?”

“The- the sheriff says he needs you down at the Church of Saint Peter the Apostle as soon as you can, sir, down on the corner. There’s been another murder, dear Lord…”

Fox defaulted to you, and despite your apprehension, you were the first to head for the door. He called back to the woman with a rushed, “Thank you, tell him we’re on our way!” and the two of you hurried to the old pickup parked out front. He got it up and running and rushed off, and there wasn’t one complaint when you reached for the map and turned to the page with a closer view of Marysville, and told him where to go.

“Up on the corner, she said, but which corner?” You wondered aloud, and Fox kept his eyes on the road. You were just about to tell him to make a left when a beater came barreling through a stop sign at the intersection, wholly ignoring your right of way, causing Fox to slam on the breaks. You lurched forward in the seat and caught yourself by slamming the map against the glovebox. You flushed, feeling like an idiot for forgetting your seatbelt.

“Are you hurt?” Fox blurted. His hand reached out to brush some hair away from your forehead, checking for a bruise or blood, but all you could think about was how softly his fingertips ghosted against your temple. You didn’t feel any pain, but you sure were shaken up.

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me.” He dropped his hand and looked in the direction of the tin can that nearly killed you both, seeing its tire marks trailing down the road. “Where do you think he was going, driving like that?… Dick.”

He tried to let the insult slip under his breath, but you heard it loud and clear. You giggled, and he smirked at you, noting that you liked a slip-up here and there. You began to say something, but two more cars came hurtling down the street in front of the truck, laying on the horn at you for being stopped a quarter of the way into the intersection. Both loosely followed the tire tracks and made screeching turns a few blocks to the right. You looked to Fox for an explanation, who stared back with just as much confusion as you, and he took off, chasing the commotion. You clicked your seatbelt in hurriedly, holding onto the door handle. You weren’t one for speed, but you didn’t feel as unsafe as you would’ve expected yourself to. Fox knew the car well. He knew the dimensions, he knew how fast it could go, and he clearly felt comfortable in the driver’s seat because he was plowing through town like he was the one being chased. You saw a wild grin creep up on his cheeks, and your face felt warm. It was fun, going fast.

Just up the road, you saw red lights flashing in alarm, and a mass of cars pulled up in disarray outside a little church, including the three trucks that nearly killed you. It had to be smaller than the police station- it was wooden, with a weathered steeple that was shadowed by the falling dusk, and moss grew unabated over the windowsills. Teenagers and parents were prowling by the sheriff’s car, which Fox parked right beside.

“Holy shit!”

“Lord, that’s disgusting!”

“Lemme in, lemme see!”

The two of you hopped out and hurried through the hollering crowd of townspeople, right up to the ambulance that blocked them out, but didn’t hide their view. Kids peeked past the authorities with sick looks. Two paramedics met you at the yellow tape and passed some rubber gloves off, which you took gratefully, already feeling your stomach drop at the exclamations of the onlookers. When you finally got past the ambulance, you gasped at the crime scene which one deputy and the supposed Sheriff Hale were rushing to cover with tarps and close off. Fox held up the tape for you to duck beneath, and he followed as you stepped onto the scene.

“Sheriff Hale?” You inquired. “We’re with the FBI, you called for us?”

The older of the two men looked up. He had a beet-red face, which could’ve been from the intensity of the Kansas sun or stress; his eyebrows were bushy as beaver tails, and his stocky build made it hard to believe he did much more than paperwork. But nonetheless, he stood up and shook your hands as he greeted, “Thanks for getting down here so quick, agents. I reckon this is the fourth victim, she, uh… well, how about y’all take a look?”

You and Fox stood on the little dirt path that led to the steps of the church, lined with painted rocks. It looked like a children’s effort, a community project. There was a large crucifix marking where the peak of the building met the steeple, and a giant translucent sheet covered the steps; on the tall double doors, there were thick splatters of oxidizing blood and splintered wood. You knelt beside the younger officer, who was taking photographs of the scene, and made yourself known.

“What do we have here?”

“Looks like another murder, ma’am,” he frowned. You noticed his name embroidered into his uniform pocket: Deputy H. Jones. He was tall and skinny as a twig, with an endearing gap between his two front teeth. He looked too young to be a college student, let alone a police deputy. “A real shame.”

“Did you know the victim, Deputy Jones?”

“Sure I did, knew ‘em all. Lots… lots of ‘em went to school with me. This girl here, though, she was a good friend of my lil’ sister. Liane Jacobs. Real sweet girl. It, uh, it’s a rough thing to see, ma’am.”

Your heart sank at the thought of what it must feel like to be him. You reached to peel back the tarp, and it took less than a second for you to lay it right back down. You weren’t prepared for the sight, and had to choke down a gag. “Jesus Christ.”

“You ask me, Jesus ain’t got nothin’ to do with this, agent. Not a thing.”

Deputy Jones’s face fell pale as he walked away, leaving you to examine the victim. You slowly lifted the tarp again, careful not to reveal anything to the crowd gathering outside the confines of the caution tape. Despite the breakfast you had rumbling like rocks inside your gut, you took a mental note of the girl lying before you, gutted like a pig. She looked far worse than the photos in Fox’s file. Her entire chest cavity was splayed open as if her ribs had been ripped out all at once. The tissue of her dermis and lungs was a mixture of chop meat, all littering the jagged edges of her vertebrae, which were missing bones in all the spots the X-rays had in common. Her lower body was littered with bruises and cuts, especially around the hips and lower abdomen, yet her face was left untouched- not even a spot of blood was present to interrupt the porcelain appearance. She looked supremely calm, in contrast to her violent disposition; relaxed eyelids, perfectly tinted lips, flawless teenage skin. Her dark hair fell in Hollywood ringlets across her shoulders, manicured, well-placed, well-planned. You gazed up at the cross she sat rotting beneath, and you wondered what God would do, had he the choice to help you understand. You only stopped contemplating when a hand tapped the crown of your head, and you saw your partner looking down at you.

“Her name is Liane Jacobs,” you sighed, “The deputy knew her personally.”

“Seems like everyone did. Seventeen years old, grew up a mile out from here. She worked at the library as a part-time bookkeep and spent her weekends volunteering at this very church,” Fox informed. “The sheriff, deputy, and her parents all swore she was a good girl, a good friend. Devoted to her faith.”

“Look what it got her. So much for being devoted,” you grumbled, tugging Fox down to take a closer look.

A short-lived expression of shock crossed the man’s face, and then he was all business; he knelt over the body, close enough to give you the creeps, and studied the girl’s lacerations. You leaned back on the heels of your boots and glanced around, finding the bystanders terrified of how Fox seemed to dole over the dead body. You squirmed uncomfortably, realizing they must think you had a screw loose, too.

“We’re gonna need an autopsy on the body, but a lot of these mutilations match the other victims just from a visual deduction. The missing ribs, the bruising around the waist and legs. But this is way more aggressive. This is like the other deaths on steroids. The killer didn’t take nearly the same care removing the bones from her chest cavity– I mean, the last murders weren’t surgical by any means, but this? This is violent. Might as well have torn her apart by hand. Somebody is really angry. Maybe even crying out for help. It’s hard to tell.”

“Well, however they’re feeling, they clearly had something against this girl. I mean, they desecrated her, Fox. Her body is completely destroyed. I can’t even fathom what would possess someone to- to ruin a young girl like this.”

Fox nodded curtly, furrowing his eyebrows in agreement. Then his neck craned down, and he mumbled, “Hey, look at this.”

You watched Fox’s glove-clad hand dig into poor Liane’s jeans pocket, tugging out a thin string of wooden beads. It was uneven with little plastic beads between the wood bits, which told you it was homemade. The rosary looked almost charred, and the cross dangling at the bottom was splintered.

“Do you think it’s hers?”

Fox laid the chain in your palm and pointed to the little metal tag that conjoined the sides, where three initials were stamped: LMJ.

“Liane Michelle Jacobs,” he confirmed, “Seems like the type our guy would pick, don’t you think? Looks-wise. Even if she died differently, still fits the profile.”

You moved to drape the tarp back over the body, but not before taking one last look at her face. Liane looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her family couldn’t hold an open casket, and everyone would live with how she was found, discarded like roadkill on the local church steps, but she was still beautiful, and that was eating at you.

“I feel horrible.”

“This isn’t really the best first case to work on,” Fox admitted, “I wish it was something different for you.”

You wouldn’t have expected to be so moved by a dead girl. In all your years at college studying the world’s most prolific cases, learning how to compartmentalize, and doing fieldwork in New York, you had a stomach of steel. You could take any case, see any death, and solve it. But you’d never had the feeling you have now, as you see the fourth victim surrendered at the foot of a carpenter. Something dark surrounded her, something that nailed you to the steps. There was a force at work you’d never known before. Something was wrong. You couldn’t be sure if Fox felt it, too, but it was making it near impossible to separate your empathy from your logic. You just wanted to cover Liane, and hope that she didn’t feel any pain, and if everyone might turn their backs to you, maybe you could cry for a moment at the loss of an innocent girl to a monster.

Fox could see you fighting with yourself by the way you chewed at your bottom lip, eyes locked on the girl’s still face. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he had to say something.

“I know this is hard for you. Especially with all the pressure you’re feeling. But I also know having you here will help save other girls like Liane. You’re more than well-equipped for this. If anyone can do the job, it’s you.”

You tipped your head back to blink away a few tears that poked your eyes, and you let the plastic cover the body. Fox cleared his throat and said, “Come on, let’s go. Let the coroner take her.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Offering you a hand, Fox got you back on your feet and you followed him down the walkway towards the street. Two men shuffled over to scoop up the mess on the steps, and you had to tune out all the crying and commentary coming from the townspeople. The colors on the ground were distracting. Every rock was a different shape and size, all probably appealing to the child who chose them; there were paintings of houses and dogs, butterflies and crosses, mothers and fathers holding hands. Kids always seemed to draw what they knew best, even if their imagination took them to so many other places. You stopped short in your gawking and bent down, picking up one of the rocks lining the path; it was red, with a faded painting of a donkey looking up at a lopsided star. You turned the stone over in your hand, feeling the smooth texture, and found a neatly printed name on the back: Liane J. 3rd Grade. You pocketed the rock with no good reason and hurried to catch up with your partner who was waiting by the passenger door of the rental truck, lost in his head. When you reached him, he opened the door for you, and you slipped inside, suddenly deflated.

“I don’t think there’s much else to do tonight until we hear back from Sherriff Hale or the county morgue, so I guess we should head to the motel. I could use a second to settle in. I bet you could, too.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” You muttered.

Fox began to shut the door on you, but paused, eyes grazing over your face. You weren’t nervous anymore, but were something else. There wasn’t a touch of color in your cheeks, but your skin was still soft-looking, like your eyes. He didn’t like the softness of them, actually, since it seemed more like fragility, or frailty, than gentle. Sitting in the truck he’d picked, on his case you were unlucky enough to be placed on, you looked young and worn, eager and tired, your hair just sweet fuzz framing the face of a girl unaware of what she agreed to. That might be the worst part, how you looked, along with how he imagined you felt. It made his chest ache.

“Hey, uh, are you hungry? I know, bad time to think about eating, but I haven’t since before the flight this morning.”

You scrunched your nose and thought about the last time you ate. You recalled grabbing a power bar on the way out of the house in the morning, but you also seemed to recall passing it to Fox at the airport gate when he complained about being starving. So, you haven’t eaten at all. The nerves kept you full.

“Well, a little, I guess. I probably should have something.”

“How about I stop and grab us a bite on the way over? Sound good?”

You felt the shadow of a smile on your lips, and you nodded your head. Fox made up for the grin you couldn’t muster with all his teeth and shut the car door swiftly, jogging around the front of the truck to get in the driver’s seat. Without another word, he started the engine and backed away from the scene, leaving the Marysville authorities to pack Liane up and ship her off to the morgue. You watched the crowd watch, and you wondered how a town so small and close-knit as this one appeared could stand around and ogle a dead girl they claimed to cherish. You replayed the whole thing in your head- how you froze, how you almost cried, how Fox had to get you out. You were more than embarrassed at how you acted, but you couldn’t change it. You were just lucky he was the only one paying attention.

Blowing out a slow, sleepy breath, you flipped the map open to look for the motel, but Fox laid his hand on it and said, “It’s okay. I got directions from the Sheriff. He said there’s a burger joint on the way, too. You take it easy for now, okay?”

Unwilling to protest, you sat quietly in the seat and let him drive down the pothole-riddled road. You obsessed over the weight of the rock in your pocket, and it felt the way you did back with Liane’s body– dark, unnatural. You left it there and hoped no one would notice it was gone.

#fox mulder #x files #spooky mulder #the x files #fox mulder x reader #fox mulder x you #soft fox mulder #fox mulder x reader fluff #fox mulder fluff #txf #catholiscism #tw religious themes #religious symbolism

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ratsoh-writes · 2 months

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Main ten but lustswap instead of swap?

They're in a good relationship with their s/o, loving and trusting and all that good stuff. Just one thing. S/O is absolutely obsessed with goats. They love goats so much. Pics of goats on frames, room has goat posters, they have all the goat simulators. They want a goat... After alot of planning and work to actually get space for the goat and promising the goat will be their responsibility and they'll be such a good goat parent, they come home one day with a sheep... A jacobs sheep that they're almost certain is just a mixed breed goat. When informed that their beloved new pet is in fact, not a goat, they're devastated and don't know what to do

Sans: Oh. My. Stars. Ok ok he doesn’t mean to be mean, but this is fkn hilarious. Sans is on the floor in stitches when SO sadly breaks the news. And it doesn’t help that the little sheep who’s been getting the king treatment the week he’s been here makes happy little bleats wondering what’s so funny. Sans can’t even breathe enough to make a pun

Papyrus: what a travesty!!! The little “goat” was an imposter all along!!! Well at least now you two have a name for the fellow. The newly dubbed “imposter” joins you and papyrus for when you both go goat shopping for an actual goat this time. After all he’ll need a sibling!

Red: like sans, he’s cackling, crying, just absolutely tickled at how funny this realization was. Red likes the sheep a whole lot more and starts making daily jokes about how she’s SOs little mistake lol. He does feel a little bad though and will buy SO a goat secretly later to join the sheep in the pen

Edge: and what have we learned about backyard breeders? That’s right! To never trust them!! Honestly after you put in all that research you really should’ve caught on earlier! Edge is unsympathetic lol

Mal: oh noooo. What a shame! The dirty gross loud animal was an imposter all along! You should sell it off and just wait another year before getting another gross barn creature. … yea mal wasn’t happy about the sheep and won’t be happy about whatever goat comes next

Cash: no!!!! You’re not gonna get rid of little miss scammer are you? You won’t take his baby criminal? His illegal fake goat? His sweet darlin faker? Cash didn’t even care about the supposed “goat” until he found out this absolutely hilarious act today. Now he’s team sheep

Oak: oh, well let’s just buy a goat too then! No harm no foul. Oak just wishes he and SOs home was big enough for a cow too. He thinks they’re pretty animals and the milk is always a bonus

Willow: my stars!! And they didn’t tell you that it was a sheep!? Willow is fine being the bad guy if you want him to go back and complain about animal fraud. He’s sure he can get your money back!

Sparks: it’s probably for the best that this sheep is returned anyways. The poor thing is much too skittish around sparks. Something about his energy is off putting to the animal, and he’s increasingly saddened every time it runs at the sight of him lol

Salt: …. He’s frozen in spot. You poke his cheek and it’s like the floodgates open. He’s laughing so hard he’s crying. It wasn’t a real goat! All this time and effort and the little menace is a sheep! He’s dying, his sides hurt, he can’t feel his ribs!! Someone help him!!

#undertale imagines #undertale headcanons #undertale #underfell #swapfell #horrortale #lustswap

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

Off the Beaten Track

For The Slumber Party Writer’s Warm-Up. I got:

Summary: Your taxi ride takes an unexpected turn (2.4k)

Character: Lee Bodecker

Warnings: noncon, past trauma, allusions to cheating.

Please leave some feedback and reblog! Also check out the Slumber Party event coming up in February and support your fellow writers. We will be sharing other warm-up drabbles there!

You drop your bag on the seat, sidling in after it and pulling the door shut. You recite your destination as you buckle your seat belt. The taxi smells of the stale air freshener dangling beneath the mirror and a hint of woodsy cologne. The drive greets you with the usual, “how are you?”

“Well, you?” Comes the typical knee jerk response. It’s not entirely true or false. Middling, you’d say, at best.

“Busy day,” he answers as he idles behind the next cab, a row of them crowding the airport lot.

“Yeah, must be around here,” you utter as you take out your phone, scrolling through you work email. A dozen missed on the plain.

“Vacation?” He asks as he leans on the gas lightly, puttering behind the slow roll.

“Not exactly,” you reply after a moment, agitated slightly. You don’t have time for a chat. Most drivers just turn up the radio and drive, “work trip.”

“Ah, one of those,” he comments.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. Vibrant. Intense. Not what you expect.

“What hotel did you say?” He drawls in his twangy accent, “sorry, so many around here.”

“The Hilltop.”

“Nice place. Probably the nicest in town.”

You nod and look back down on your phone. Your company covered travel and accommodation, you didn’t care if it was the most expensive place in the state. You weren’t going to do much more than sleep between meetings.

“How far out?” You ask as traffic remains congested.

“Rush hour, I reckon, could be an hour.”

“An hour?” You echo and open Teams. Maybe they can meet you at the hotel.

“Yeah, once we’re clear of downtown, though, should clear out.”

“Hmm,” you pick your lip and stare at your phone. Complaining won’t make him or anyone else move faster.

“So, work trip, huh? Far from home?”

You hide your frown and rest your phone against your leg, “yeah, bit out of the way.”

“How’s your husband feel about that? You travel a lot?”

You squint. You could tell him everything. Your husband is away just as much. You may as well toss the ring. As empty as your home.

“It’s work,” you say noncommittally.

“Yeah, yeah, gotta make money,” he puts on his blinker as you ignore his glance in the mirror. He sure is talkative. You’re too tired for the conversation, “sorry, ma’am, hope I’m not bothering. Drivin’ all day, guess I get a bit bored.”

“It’s fine,” your reassurance is more brusque than you intend. “Jetlag, that’s all.”

He says nothing and flips on the radio. You almost let out a sigh of relief. That’s your signal to zone out. You pick up your phone and check your messages. There’s a conference room at the hotel, you can meet there, Barber confirms. You agree and lower the screen, shutting your eyes as you clamp a yawn behind your lips.

Your flight was spent staring at a wall of text and lines in a spreadsheet. The letters and numbers are burned into your retinas. You rub your eyelids and open them, glancing around sleepily. You watch the meter climb and your eyes fall to the ID displayed beneath it; L. Bodecker. The picture is too small to make out more than the dark hair and those eyes, brilliant even in print.

“Tired?” He turns the volume down.

“A bit,” you affirm and lean your chin in your hand.

“I’ll keep this down, I don’t mind if ya nap. I’ll wake ya when we get to Hilltop.”

You look ahead, through the windshield. You can’t see much past his shoulder. You sigh. Traffic is like a wall.

“Thanks.”

You close your eyes with no intent of actually sleeping. You’ll get yourself together and go back to your emails. You have a millions things to catch up on for the conference. Another yawn crawls up your throat. Once more, you hold it back.

You sit back against the leather seat, the car moving slowly, the motion lulling you. Just another second and you’ll open your eyes. Your phone vibes with a message. You’ll answer that. One more second. Two. Three.

🚕

The soft crunch of gravel drifts into your consciousness as you slowly awaken. Fuck. You didn’t mean to fall asleep. You swallow a yawn as you open your eyes, startled at the sight of the dark sky. It’s night already. You look at the clock, 7:43pm. Shit, you’re late.

You sit up, the seatbelt straining across your front, and glance around. You don’t see much. Trees, shadows, endless bush.

“I thought you said an hour,” you breathe.

The driver scoffs and keeps his foot sunk on the pedal, steering through the narrow path. Your stomach sinks like and anvil. You undo your belt and slide forward on the seat.

“Sir, you’re supposed to take me to the hotel–”

“You ain’t got much manners, do you,” he sneers, “now you sit back, you’re gon’ hurt yourself.”

“Right, sir, I’m calling the cops.”

You feel around for your phone. It must’ve slipped as you slept. You search the seat and bend forward as you stretch your hand out onto the floor. He tuts and takes a deep breath.

“Won’t get no signal out here anyway, but it ain’t back there,” he chides, “now, you sit back.”

“Sir, what are you–”

He slams on the break and your head hits the seat, jarring your neck violently. You grunt and recoil.

“I warned ya,” he snarls as you sense him stirring around, “put this on. Now.”

He reaches back without turning. You see only a dark strip of fabric, curved at the bottom. You don’t move and he wiggles it gruffly.

“Trust me when I say, honey, you don’t want me to come back and put it on ya.”

“Sir, please, I don’t know— what do you want? You can keep my phone. I got a mac in my bag, worth 1k, even used. Take my wallet–”

“I don’t need your money,” he insists, “now take it and put it on like a good girl.”

You tremble and peer around again. The buzzing of crickets and unseen critter of night creatures surrounds the car. You can barely see the bark of the tree closest to you. You take the cloth and feel it, a string connecting it in a circle. A blindfold, you realise.

“I– I can’t see anything, why–”

“Put it on, honey,” he coaxes as he steers on, “and if you keep mouthing off, I’ll have to do something about that too.”

You swallow. You might have been a bit blunt, but you weren’t rude. You don’t understand what he’s doing or why. You lift the blindfold and slip it over your head, an unbidden whimper rising as you pull it over your eyes. The blackness is frightening.

“Sir,” your voice quavers as the tires mulch across the ground, “I’m sorry if– I said something but–”

“You northern folk all got that lip, I heard it all before,” he interrupts you, “but not all your women look so fine as you. Fine enough I can handle the sass.”

You shudder and cross your arms. You grit your teeth and still your quivering. Fucking redneck. Creep. You put your chin down and steady your breath. Men. A swell off rage underlines the dread. It’s like Mr. Hansen and his wandering hands. At least that got you a promotion.

“Now,” he draws to a stop, “I just need you to do everything I say. Can you do that for me, honey?”

You don’t speak. You exhale and grab the door, pulling the handle. It snaps back without budging. Locked. He snickers and clucks.

“Honey, honey, honey,” his fingers tap, “that’s not what I wanted you to do.”

You could sob, scream in frustration. Why was it so hard just to live? Just to do your goddamn job? If it wasn’t some perverted manager it was this southern loser.

The driver’s door opens and you peek out under the edge of the blindfold, tilting your head. You lay back and turn, pulling your feet up as he comes to the back door. You listen as he pulls the handle from the outside and you kick. He catches your ankles, your heels slipping off and he sits on the seat heavily.

He shoves your legs down and hauls you up by your elbow. He slams the door on his other side as he wraps a thick arm around your neck. He holds you close as his oaky scent tickles your nose.

“I don’t wanna rush ya too much, let’s get to know each other first,” he brings his fingers up to pet your chin, a hint of alcohol laced in his breath, “I got a wife. She’s… a whore. She fucks everyone but me.”

You frown and try to wriggle free of his grasp. He’s strong. Very strong.

“I know, hard to believe, but you know women these days. They get a few compliments online and suddenly they got no fucking morals,” he snarls as he clutches your chin tightly, “what about you, your husband fuck you?”

You bite down. No words.

“When’s the last time, hm? If I had a thing like you at home, mmm, I would…” he trails his hand down past his arm and brushes the front of your jacket, slipping beneath to grope you through your blouse, “well, I’d do everything I’m about to do.”

His tone chills you. Your veins surge with ice and you hold your breath. You hide behind the black fabric, suddenly grateful for the barrier. You can’t help the visions of Mr. Hansen’s smirk, his hand on your ass as you walk him through your reports. The solid shape of his chest under your stomach as you grunt, soles slipping on the smooth office floor.

“Come on and lay back, honey,” he leans into you as he turns you to lay on the seat. “That’s it.”

You turn your face away as he lowers himself with you. His lips meet your cheek and he grabs your jaw to turn your head straight. “Now, I’m a gentleman, so long as you’re a lady.”

He presses his lips to yours. Your insides churn as his tongue glides along your mouth, poking inside. You growl and bite down. He retracts and yelps.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “you–”

He grabs your chin again and pushes your head down against the leather. He lifts himself, his weight painfully resting on your jaw as he adjusts himself, lifting his knees around you. He sets them down between yours, crushing your legs until the part. Your skirt rides up as he shifts, rocking the car as he puffs out.

He shoves his other hand up your skirt. As he meets the front of your satin panties, you wince. He tisks as he rubs along the smooth fabric.

“Ah, you expecting me? Or someone else?”

Your chest rise as you jut your chin out. Your body vibrates. Just fucking do it.

He forces his hand under you and grasps the back of your panties. He tears them down so they stretch between your thighs and urges your legs up. He hooks his arm under your knee and raises it higher. He leans against the strained satin, keeping you splayed as he plants his hand next to your head.

He grumbles as he struggles with the front of his pants. You ball your fists and keep them at your sides. The helplessness shrinks around you, the darkness closing in on you. He huffs and pushes your skirt up to your pelvis. You suck in another breath as he taps his dick against you, his tip slapping against your cunt.

He pushes between your folds, dragging up and down, “mmm, you ready for me, honey. Your husband’s a foolish man lettin’ you run around like this–”

You shudder into a growl as he teases you with his bulbous head. He’s thick, you can already feel it. He prods you, the pressure dull in your bones as he breathes through his nose and dips into you. Your walls are tight, resistant to his intrusion as your toes curl and every muscle knots. He sniffs and thrusts, forcing another inch.

He snarls, “fuckin’ tight—” he jerks his pelvis,”loosen up a bit–” he bucks again, his thick dick sends a pang up your spine. “Just a little more–”

He slams into you and you cry out. You hit the seat with your fist as his stomach brushes against you. He’s a fat fuck. Of course his wife doesn’t want to fuck him. He ruts again and you hold back the next whine. He’s fucking big though. It fucking hurts.

He rocks into you, your feet over his shoulders as he groans. You gulp down each noise that tickles in your throat. He drones on, panting as he fucks you harder and harder.

He stops and sits back on his bent legs. He holds onto your ankles, keeping your legs in the air as he rolls his hips. He slaps against your thighs as he loses himself in a frantic motion, hammering as his voice rumbles around the taxi’s cab, louder and louder.

“Fuck, honey, this is some fine pussy,” he purrs, “and I thought all you whores was the same. Fuck.”

You grit out a growl and throw your arm up to grip the back of the seat. He buries himself to his limit and yours, over and over, until you can’t stand it. Your legs thrum with a heavy pain and your back radiates hotly. You exclaim, wailing as he unleashes his fury on you.

“Yeah,” he pounds against you as he pushes your legs higher, the back of your thighs pulling tight, “yeah, you’re fucking sweet, ain’t ya? You gonna go back to that fancy hotel and think of this— think of me splitting you like a log–”

“Shut— upp—-” you gasp out as you drape your arm over your face, “shut—ahhhhhhh.”

He falls over you again, slapping his hand against the door above your head as his rhythm grows erratic. He rests his forehead against yours and snarls loudly as he empties into you, pelvis cracking against yours as he quakes.

He rams himself as deep as he can, sliding back with a long stroke and back in. Slowing as he fucks his cum in and out of you. His load drips out of your sickeningly and you resist a gag. His stomach is flush to your as he crushes you, coming to a stop as he stays sheathed in your burning cunt.

“I hope ya don’t get into too much trouble bein’ late and all,” he taunts and wiggles his hips until you flinch, “you can tell ‘em I got a bit lost.”

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #the devil all the time #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #one shot #but I'm open to maybe doing add ons for other characters mentioned...#navy and roo's sleepover #writer warmup

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violetlunette · 10 months

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Twst Spoilers for PlayfulLand

Also, a heads up, the joke below may come off as ranty and anti-Fellow.

Please don’t take this super seriously. This is just something my feverish brain thought of and wouldn’t let go of. While I have some disappointments with Playfulland, I did enjoy Fellow as villain and a character. While I have issues, it’s more because of my own expectations I had along my desire to see villains get their comeuppance than anything else.

Script;

Fellow: *Complains about educational institutions and how it shuts people out for not having magic or strong enough magic*

Yuu: Dude. You’re a human trafficker.

Fellow: Oh, what do you understand? You’ve all lived a privileged life! You have no idea what it’s like on the other side!

Yuu: DUDE. You’re a HUMAN. TRAFFICKER.

Other Yuu: Yeah, dude. There’s a lot a good points surrounding you and why you came to be the way you are, and we should explore those reason to prevent others from ending up like you.

And don’t get me wrong you’re an awesome villain and a great character but even so, you’re a terrible person.

Yuu: You kidnapped teens and young adults and subjected them all to a fate worse than death by turning them into dolls and trapping their minds in their bodies, unable to do a thing. On top of that, everyone who loved and cared about those people are still suffering as they wonder everyday what happened to them.

Other Yuu: And it’s not like you were forced, you willing chose to do this. You weren’t forced or tricked, you did this for the money. And to top it all off, you don’t even care! You only switched sides because you basically decided to throw a tantrum.

Other Yuu: So, as cool as you are, dude, fuck you.

#twst spoilers #twst #still sick #but at least I can edit and paint #twisted wonderland #mine #twst playful land #playfulland event

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sirianasims · 11 months

Text

Chapter 1

Humble Beginnings and Weirdly Colour-Coordinated Aliens

This is Alexandra Duchelli, or Alex. Welcome to this legacy challenge simlit story, where we try to experience as much as possible. Right, Alex?

“Awesome, legacies are so much fun! Big houses, amazing clothes, great adventures! I can’t wait!”

Uhm, Alex? You’re a founder. You don’t have any money, remember?

“Oh. Crap.”

Yup. So you better start earning some money so you can get a roof over your head as soon as possible.

“I don’t even have a toilet!”

There’s a bush.

“… Right, better get going.”

After Alex grumbles through the first chords, we try the city to see if we can get some tips.

Poor Alex isn’t having much luck, and mostly receives smug looks from stuck-up townies.

Giving up on the tips for now, Alex goes to the karaoke club to brush up on her singing skills as well. You can’t be a singer-songwriter if you can’t sing.

This is also a great time for you to socialise, Alex! You should try meeting some new people.

“Some of these townies are a bit too friendly!”

Oh shush, stop complaining.

“Seriously, can I go home? Everyone in this city is weird!”

Oh come on, you’re just overreacting because you’re embarrassed that someone saw your attempt at swiping a drink. Maybe stay on the right side of the bar next time?

“No, I’m serious. There’s a man and a small girl outside just… staring… at a brick pillar.”

… Fine, you can go home.

“I’m not sure this is better.”

Shush, we need to get enough money that you’re allowed to get a job. And the tips are too slow.

“Isn’t it a bit counter-intuitive that I need to earn money before I can get a job?”

I don’t make the rules, Alex. Besides, I’m busy worrying about the aliens.

“The aliens?”

Yes. Apparently, the aliens are flocking to Oasis Springs, and somehow they mostly manage to be beautifully colour-coordinated. It’s honestly a bit unsettling.

Anyways, we need to find you a husband, This is a legacy, after all. How about this handsome fellow?

“Uhm… he seems a bit bookish. What about that hot guy over there?”

Oh honey. That’s Don Lothario. He’s bad news, you won’t get anywhere with him in a legacy, he’s non-committal. He’d be great as one of those enemies you’re supposed to get, though?

Alex catches up with the neighbours and even scores a dinner invitation to the Caliente house.

Nina: “Oh yeah, Don lives here too. Mom moved him in, she claimed she thought he would be a great fit for me or Dina, but I think she really wants him for herself. Anyways, no one is getting anywhere with him, he’s completely useless.”

“Alright, I’ll give up on Don. I guess I’ll find someone a bit less…occupied.”

Alex, who are you talking to? You should be in bed, or, I mean, tent, those skill points take energy.

“Oh, I just met these guys. This is Johnny and Malcolm. Apparently they’re brothers but there’s a lot of drama going on in the family.”

“Eww, can I have something else to eat soon?”

I mean, sure, you can buy all the food you want, but then it’ll just take longer for you to get a job, and thus to get a husband and a roof over your head?

“Dammit!”

As we head to the museum, I wonder. Is throwing up on a canvas art?

We also need those handiness skills, so Alex starts some woodworking.

Meanwhile, I am distracted by the amazing choice of shoes here.

Alex, wasn’t there a vase there, just a second ago?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”

And so it continues on, with dumpster meals…

… voice training…

… more dumpster meals…

… and more impeccably clad aliens.

#duchellilegacy #duchellichapters #don lothario #johnny zest #alexandra duchelli #duchelligen1

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ibijau · 1 year

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It's also on AO3, but here's the hc/sqx ficlet just so I could get it out of my system

It was only the chance of having another calamity indebted to him that led Hua Cheng to agree to Black Water’s request. Aside from that, the whole affair was painfully ordinary. That Gods were immoral and self interested, Hua Cheng already knew. He’d seen what they’d done to His Highness, how they’d abandoned him, mistreated him, destroyed everything good within him, leading him to self destruction. Hua Cheng had seen the only good person in the world die. Compared to that, what was a god stealing a man’s fate to protect his undeserving brother?

Why Black Water felt the need to keep Hua Cheng updated on his progress was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he wanted Crimson Flower to know his investment was put to good use, although Hua Cheng had made no such requests. Or perhaps he just needed to vent his frustrations regarding his targets, and knew there was no one else who could be trusted with his confusion.

“Wind Master is only acting so generous because he’s never had to work for anything,” Black Water complained once, baffled once more by Shi Qingxuan’s insistence to befriend ‘Ming Yi’. “It’s easy to be nice when you’ve never suffered.”

Hua Cheng was struck by that remark to a degree that surprised him. He would later consider that they were days away from the anniversary of His Highness’s demise, meaning his thoughts were oriented in a certain direction. But when Hua Cheng heard this complaint from his fellow Calamity, his first thought was that he’d heard people say the same of the prince of Xianle, once. As adored as his Highness had been before disaster struck, there had already been those who would say his kindness was that of a boy too young and lucky to understand the cruelty of life. Even as a young child, Hua Cheng had found the argument dubious. Qi Rong had been proof that a life of comfort a kind man did not make.

Hua Cheng, bored after centuries of aimless existence, found himself curious about Wind Master, that god who shouldn’t have ascended.

It was easy enough to meet the Wind Master, who often left the heavenly realm to have some fun in the mortal one. Hua Cheng only had to take the form of a charming youth and he was easily invited to share drinks with a pretty and careless boy whose money never ran out. That first meeting left him disappointed. Shi Qingxuan could not hold the comparison to His Highness. He lacked the depth, the sincere drive to change the world for the better. Shi Qingxuan had nothing to recommend him except a pleasant face and a powerful brother.

The first had little appeal to Hua Cheng, who had seen more than his share of beauty. The second disgusted him, reminding him of Qi Rong while his cousin lived.

When Hua Cheng met Wind Master again, the god was an elegant woman with a mischievous smile.

They'd met by coincidence this time, Hua Cheng being interested in the same business that had brought the god among mortals. And he'd heard of course that Wind Master sometimes took a female shape, but Black Water had made it sound like something forced upon him. Instead, Wind Master seemed to truly enjoy that shape. An oddity, when Hua Cheng knew gods to be proud and desperate to maintain their reputation.

So was Shi Qingxuan, Hua Cheng found over other encounters. His pride merely rested on other foundations that all those parading peacocks.

Hua Cheng was intrigued. Fascinated, some might have said, though noone was foolish enough to voice that thought, and he refused to realise it himself.

As for Shi Qingxuan, his first reaction once he understood that he’d met the same charming young man many times over many decades was one of fear. Understandable, for one pursued by the Reverend of Empty Words. But seeing that his luck hadn’t turned, that Hua Cheng never caused him harm over any of their encounters, Shi Qingxuan warmed up again.

“Ghost or God or human, as long as you’re fun to drink with and harm no one, who really cares?” was the most he ever said on the subject, before dropping it for good.

Hua Cheng could have objected that he did cause harm, more than Shi Qingxuan could imagine. In an unkind world, he saw no reason to be kind.

Shi Qingxuan wouldn’t have understood.

Shi Qingxuan was an innocent, the same way His Highness had been until the drought and the plague. He still believed his brother was a good man, that justice would prevail. Yet he'd also seen enough of the world's darkness to understand that rules must be bent, that the line between good and evil could be a fine one, especially among gods and ghosts.

Hua Cheng was surprised the day he realised he was impatient for Shi Qingxuan's next visit to the mortal realm, though not as surprised as he might have been, once. After eight centuries of dullness, finally an entertaining person had been brought into his life.

An unfortunate realisation, perhaps, when Black Water had just warned him that he was finally ready to strike Shi Wudu. Hua Cheng suspected that Black Water would lack the resolve to eliminate both of the brothers that had stolen his fate, because Shi Qingxuan's warmth was pernicious. But Shi Qingxuan would hardly escape unscathed. Hua Cheng might get a chance to see how sincere that warmth was, once stripped of wealth and luck.

The idea was not without appeal. The suspicion that someone had once toyed that way with His Highness made it repulsive.

Hua Cheng might have to rescue Shi Qingxuan from Black Water's just revenge, then. This, too, had its appeal. It would cause an open conflict between two Calamities, yes, but Hua Cheng had no doubt he could win that war, and Shi Qingxuan's smiles might be worth letting the world burn.

#jau writes #hua cheng #shi qingxuan #he xuan #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 6 months

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The Workers in the Vineyard

1 “The kingdom from heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. 2 After agreeing to pay the workers one denarius a day, he sent them into his vineyard. 3 When he went out about nine o’clock, he saw others standing in the marketplace without work. 4 He told them, ‘You go into the vineyard, too, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ 5 So off they went. He went out again about noon and about three o’clocke and did the same thing. 6 About five o’clock he went out and found some others standing around. He asked them, ‘Why are you standing here all day long without work?’ 7 They told him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He told them, ‘You go into the vineyard as well.’

8 “When evening came, the owner of the vineyard told his manager, ‘Call the workers and give them their wages, beginning with the last and ending with the first.’ 9 Those who were hired at five o’clock came, and each received a denarius.

10 “When the first came, they thought they would receive more, but each received a denarius as well. 11 When they received it, they began to complain to the landowner, 12 ‘These last fellows worked only one hour, but you paid them the same as us, and we’ve been working all day, enduring the scorching heat!’

13 “But he told one of them, ‘Friend, I’m not treating you unfairly. You did agree with me for a denarius, didn’t you? 14 Take what is yours and go. I want to give this last man as much as I gave you. 15 I am allowed to do what I want with my own money, am I not? Or are you envious because I’m generous?’

16 “In the same way, the last will be first, and the first will be last, because many are called, but few are chosen.”

Jesus Predicts His Death and Resurrection a Third Time (Mark 10:32-34; Luke 18:31-34)

17 When Jesus was going up to Jerusalem, he took the twelve disciples aside and told them as they were walking along, 18 “See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the high priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death. 19 Then they will hand him over to unbelievers to be mocked, whipped, and crucified, but on the third day he will be raised.”

The Request of James and John (Mark 10:35-45)

20 Then the mother of Zebedee’s sons came to Jesus with her sons. She bowed down in front of him to ask him for a favor. 21 He asked her, “What do you want?”

She told him, “Promise that in your kingdom these two sons of mine will sit on your right and on your left.”

22 Jesus replied, “You don’t realize what you’re asking. Can you drink from the cup that I’m going to drink from?”

They told him, “We can.”

23 He told them, “You will indeed drink from my cup. But it’s not up to me to grant you a seat at my right hand or at my left. These positions have already been prepared for others by my Father.”

24 When the ten heard this, they became furious with the two brothers. 25 But Jesus called the discipless and said, “You know that the rulers of the unbelievers lord it over them and their superiors act like tyrants over them. 26 That’s not the way it should be among you. Instead, whoever wants to be great among you must be your servant, 27 and whoever wants to be first among you must be your slave. 28 That’s the way it is with the Son of Man. He did not come to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many people.”

Jesus Heals Two Blind Men (Mark 10:46-52; Luke 18:35-43)

29 As they were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed Jesus. 30 When two blind men who were sitting by the roadside heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, “Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!” 31 When the crowd told them harshly to be silent, they shouted even louder, “Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!”

32 Jesus stopped and called them, saying, “What do you want me to do for you?”

33 They told him, “Lord, we want to be able to see!” 34 Then Jesus, deeply moved with compassion, touched their eyes, and at once they could see again. So they followed him. — Matthew 20 | International Standard Version (ISV) The International Standard Version of the Holy Bible Copyright © 1995-2014 by ISV Foundation. All Rights Reserved internationally. Cross References: Leviticus 19:13; Deuteronomy 15:9; Deuteronomy 24:15; Job 30:8; Isaiah 51:17; Isaiah 51:22; Jeremiah 18:6; Jonah 4:8; Matthew 4:21; Matthew 8:20; Matthew 9:27; Matthew 9:37; Matthew 10:4; Matthew 13:4; Matthew 13:24; Matthew 21:1; Matthew 22:12; Matthew 23:11; Matthew 26:50; Mark 9:35; Mark 10:31; Mark 12:15; Mark 14:15; Mark 15:33; Luke 13:30; Luke 20:24; Luke 23:44; John 6:41; Acts 16:19; Acts 17:17; James 1:11

#parable of the Workers in the Vineyard #the request of James and John #Jesus heals two blind men #Matthew 20 #Gospel of Matthew #New Testament #ISV #International Standard Version Bible #ISV Foundation

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