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sandsorghum · 5 months ago

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A Promising Ruse

You've been friends with Higuruma Hiromi for six years, his colleague for two months and now he's asked you to be his girlfriend...for just one weekend. What could go wrong?

a/n: AKA I give our favourite exhausted attorney a spin around the FakeDating!Trope. (Yes, we get to meet his family). Planning for this to be a multi-chapter fic, I was feeling goofy when I wrote this...

Normally, he'd be able to fend the hoard off on his own, more than comfortable being the resigned if badgered bachelor, however beleaguered he is by aunts pestering him with arrangements to meet with their "tennis club president's daughters".

Eagle-eyed and adeptly Higuruma weaves through the room so the mob of matchmakers can't converge on him all at once, adroitly avoiding engaging in any conversation which extends beyond a couple of minutes. His ears are alert to their wheedling praise, gauzy as their wolfish grins; No, he hadn't gotten a "super chic, new" haircut recently, it's in fact the exact same style he's been wearing for the past five annual family reunions.

Really, it's only troublesome when they make the concerted effort to attack in packs, deflecting and diminishing his deadpan defenses with their tittering. Inevitably one of them will comment on how this oh so brilliant demonstration of comedic wit makes him even more of a catch, and the others will pile on, sadistic in their ignorance as he writhes and wilts under a barrage of trite pleasantries, hardly informed by reality.

Has he- has he been working out???

He's almost too shocked by the insidious insipidness of the compliment to be annoyed, but Higuruma curses his lack of foresight anyway; Why hadn't he printed out that medical report with its urgent warnings about his cholesterol levels? He could've shoved it and all this facetiousness in their faces, triumphing in their stunned silence.

Instead he swiftly chugs down a half-full bottle of beer (hoping against hope one of them observes the velocity of the disappearing act as a penchant for alcoholism, or any other vice) then mumbles something about getting a refill, would they want one?

Higuruma kicks himself as the question slips from him and his aunts lunge, gushing about what a "considerate, fine young man" he is, surely deserving of a fine, young lady and oh, they just so happen to know where he might meet one, she does yoga, or fencing or makes her own hand-poured soy wax candles, see, they have a clip of her conducting a craft workshop at the village fair, demonstrating for all the little kiddies, gosh she's so good with them isn't she, Higuruma should save her contact, here they'll just take his phone so her name's spelled right-

Higuruma is contemplating how he can make stomping on his mobile with both feet look like an accident when he spots a miracle - a life raft lashed together with chicken carcasses and vegetable scraps. He grabs the dinghy of dirty dishes, excusing himself and does his best to conceal his cringe as one of his aunts remarks on how rare it is for a man to take the initiative on domestic duties to a chorus of approvals.

Wielding the plates as a shield Higuruma races from the dining area, tactically retreating across the drawbridge into kitchen as he scurries towards the sink with its reassuring moat of suds.

Of course it's not an entirely foolproof strategy, he could be cornered in the kitchen too; castle turned Alcatraz with a volley of pointed comments about his complexion whizzing over the turrets of the trays, those dark circles shadowing his face identical to bullseyes for how targeted his uncles' brusque inquiries are. Fortunately, all he has to do is suggest the wok needs a more thorough rinse, would they like to assist him? And then blessedly, they beat a hasty retreat and Higuruma gets to enjoy some solitude...for all of ten seconds before his gambit comes to bite him in the ass.

Some cousin pops in with their latest toddler in tow, cheerfully offering unsolicited advice, fussing about the stove top in a scheme to offload the infant clawing at his hips onto Higuruma, holding out the crimson faced cryptid doing its best impression of a banshee. It's the cousin closest to his age whom, up until a few years ago, had faced these very same ritualistic trials engineered by their relatives. Higuruma can't help feeling betrayed; so much for surviving the prisoners' dilemma together, or their fraternal bonds forged in the fires of their aunts' chirpy interrogations. Brothers in arms no longer.

Hastily Higuruma starts stacking and drying pans, occupying his hands and furiously buffing utensils till the spoons are concave mirrors catching the rich marinade of his misery, knowing he's running out of tines to shine while the shrieks and whines of the nominally humanoid spawn continue to climb and climb, his father fumbling awkwardly, haphazardly trying to hiccup his miniature replica with an odd jostling rhythm.

An unexpected saviour appears at the 11th hour, the aunt who owns the house sweeps into her kitchen, drawn to what is an apparently angelic cacophony. The heavenly host relieves the parent of the screaming cherubim, cooing some excuse for the colic baby (and an erroneous assessment that they aren't from the tenth circle of hell).

Too late however, Higuruma realises this is less divine intervention and more Grecian pantheon machinations as the aunt drops her guise of allyship, the formidable adversary commanding her emissary with a breezy, "Oh, Oetsu, don't forget to tell Hiromi about your charming co-worker! You were telling me she has a really pretty voice, when your company did a karaoke night right?"

Cousin Oetsu clears his throat and Higuruma shoots him a wounded glare. Et tu, brute?

"Yeah! She did quite a charismatic rendition of Livin' on a Prayer."

It takes every fiber of Higuruma's already strained optic nerves for his eyeballs not to roll to the ceiling. Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, he grits his teeth and spits a Hail Mary.

"I heard your 8-month-old son learned to sit up this spring?"

Cousin Oetsu and his aunt bare their teeth, with the kind of vicious incandescence that makes it into history books, accompanied by ominous pictures of looming mushroom clouds. It makes his bones brittle, but Higuruma knows he's bereft of any other choices.

Croaking his defeat, he mutters the nuclear question, "Did you record it?"

Higuruma doesn't know how many eons have elapsed when he finally stumbles out of the kitchen, having survived 27 folders of videos and photos (and what? TikToks as well now? what are those?) of babies doing incredible variations of very little to nothing at all - in most of the footage, the tiny creatures at least seemed as equally perplexed as him as to why their mere existence warranted this much wonder and fascination. He scarcely gets a moment to brace himself with a burning swig of amber liquid before having to deal with his immediate family.

Fortunately Higuruma has had years to practice, to perfect subtlety with those nips of whiskey vaccinating him against his mother's withering sighs, his father's jabs about his job prospects, his elder brother's boasts about the latest island resort he's invested in, and so on. But riding back to his apartment on the last train in an empty cabin, Higuruma has to admit to himself that what he can't outmaneuver is Time and the fact that yes, (he hears this in his mother's beseeching drone) Grandma's 95th birthday is coming up and a 96th doesn't seem an exceptionally realistic prospect; the dowager deserves to at least feel like all her descendants are on the track to her antiquated concepts of success and happiness, right?

So he enlists you, or not so much enlists as bribes you; A bargain, a steal really, doing just three weeks of your paperwork but you have his parking lot for the rest of the year - and you get to relish the normally poised, polished as silverware, eloquent Higuruma Hiromi out of his element; a rare chance to see this forthright, courtroom commanding orator with razor sharp intellect become an evasive, even sheepish, blushing boy outwitted by a nonagenarian in her tea parlour? You almost bruise yourself with the pinch when he implores you to pretend to be his partner, mumbling it around his mouthful of bourbon during a post-work week drink/drowning session. The request is garbled through the alcohol, but it doesn't do enough to disguise his desperation.

Higuruma Hiromi, at your mercy, in your debt - the rarest of opportunities. In all honesty he could have offered a measly three days of paperwork for this golden chance; but lucky for you your morose faux Romeo is none the wiser.

It's going to be a summer potluck type of thing, out in the country for a few days. You send him photos of sundresses listed on several boutiques' sites, to assess what would be, in your words "an appropriate amount of ankle to reveal in front of his relatives?" and you're sure you'd have heard his eyeballs rollicking to the back of his sockets if you weren't too busy inelegantly snorting out an espresso through your nose at his reminder that any sackcloth cowls or ermine fur-trimmed chemises will be at your own expense. How does he of all people know what a chemise is anyway?

But after that, you don't ambush, much less consult him in the cafeteria again about your fashion choices.

However, when the day comes, you wonder if your attire is sufficiently modest or if he's found something to nitpick about your chiffon midi dress with its square neckline. Met with his prolonged silence, you mentally race through the reflection you'd checked before opening your door to him; The silhouette isn't too snug, flattering without being figure-hugging, it traces rather than accentuates your waist and while there's a leg split along the long cream skirt embroidered with sunflowers, it ends a mere couple inches above your thigh. All things considered, very demure and unlikely to be the cause of hushed whispers or cardiac arrests from any female relatives aged 40 and up. So, you have half a mind to reach for Higuruma's pulse as he stands stock still on your front step without a single word, with saucer plate eyes. Scrutinizing as usual, you're sure.

Perhaps you had some strands out of place? You tuck a lock behind your ears and press your cherry tinted lips together.

"I have a band tee and an ancient pair of bermudas I could change into instead," you offer drolly, notching a fist at your hips.

Higuruma blinks, as if ridding himself of pirouetting black spots, a penalty for staring at the sun.

"Uh no no, it's fine. We should get going, it'll be a long drive."

You nod once, adjusting a strap along your otherwise bare shoulders, and Higuruma considers accounting for his abrupt onset of muteness. He registers your faintly concerned expression and racks his brain for an explanation; Maybe he could say it was something to do with how he's only ever seen you in a rotation of black or dark blue pantsuits and corporate attire - yes, that reason could hold water - until a memory of you in a particular navy pencil skirt trickles unbidden into Higuruma's mind and he blanches, just as he did back then when he'd bumped into you during that morning commute...

"Higuruma?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if the car you rented was an automatic. My license does apply to manuals, but it's been a while since I've driven one."

"Oh yea. Yes, it's an automatic." Higuruma pats his left pocket, then his right, then checks the inner lining of his jacket, before finally pulling it out of his left pants pocket.

You keep the snigger off your face though you suspect it's sidled into your tone; luckily, for whatever reason, Higuruma's focus doesn't seem to be as laser pointed as it usually is.

"Okay, just let me get the Yakitake from the fridge," you hum.

"Yaki..take?"

"Yep, the place has really taken off. They recently opened a fifth outlet at Akasaka. I got it since your grandma enjoys cheesecake."

"She does..." Higuruma diverts the quizzical drawl in his voice to his gaze as it trails instead toward the large, glossy paper bag you pass him while you lock the door behind you.

"You mentioned it a few months ago, when we had that 71 year old accused of a string of B&Es into that bakery chain."

"Oh, right. Still don't understand why someone would try to steal sourdough starter. Or how it'd be kept in a safe."

"That place is popular for a reason, but too crowded! I get my sourdough from this reliable place, it's not far from Ichigaya Station. Shame they don't sell them in quarter loaves though, but at least they make for good croutons. I'll let you sample it next time."

"Croutons?"

"No," you say, unable to keep the giggle at bay this time, "a sandwich."

"I think I'm more of a vending machine shokupan kinda guy," he comments, unlocking the door on the passenger's seat side for you.

"Just by necessity, and you don't even like the tuna mayo!"

You continue to chide as you slide into the vehicle, "Nobody does - it's always the last flavour. Even those vacuum packed fish bars get sold out first."

You hear Higuruma's restrained sigh ghost over his words even above the sibilant hiss of seat belts being pulled into place.

"They're not so bad once you've had them three or four days in a row," Higuruma mutters, starting up the engine.

"A BLT," you declare, as the straps snap into their slots with a definitive click,"When we get back I'm introducing you to BLTs."

"I'm acquainted. That's how I discovered I dislike lettuce, especially raw."

"You know, I don't think I've ever recalled you being in the vicinity of a vegetable."

"Actually I had three of those martinis last Friday, so three very briny vegetables."

You stare at one of the most inarguably brilliant attorneys you've ever met in the span of your entire career, banking on silence to prompt an elaboration of his bizarre statement. When it doesn't come, you say slowly, "You know olives are a fruit right."

Higuruma fixes his gaze dead ahead through the windshield. You wonder if he'll put a crack through it.

"I knew that."

There's a two second gap, before he adds, "They were vodka martinis. I was referring to the potatoes it's distilled from."

You clap a palm over your mouth just in time, but the snicker that gets repressed reroutes to your shoulders instead, and you're certain the quiver will carry to your voice, so you simply say, "Sure, Higuruma. Sure."

The ripple of your mirth over his syllables is too enticing not to confirm what's in his periphery. Higuruma's gaze flickers to his left then snaps straight back onto the road; he's not about to risk a demerit point for being distracted by an unexpectedly blinding beam.

Perhaps he should get his shades out from the glove compartment; he can't let you see his focus waver.

This was supposed to be a simple, smooth drive after all, except now he can't help but wonder if this peculiar, unfamiliar tautness in his chest bodes ill for the ruse ahead of both of you...

@houseofsolisoccasum

#higuruma hiromi #higuruma x reader #higuruma hiromi x you #higuruma hiromi x reader #hiromi x reader #hiromi x y/n #hiromi x you #sandsorghum #APR #a promising ruse

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maeby-cursed · 1 year ago

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➴ OH, STUPID CUPID ! ♡

✧ a/n: happy valentine's, dear angels ! ♡

Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

Why would he, after all? It’s merely a capitalist ploy to keep the consumerism engines turning. You can disguise greed in glittery pink polish and white chocolate bonbons but at its core, it won't change its nature.

And so, he spends St. Valentine’s like he would any other day; gets up at dawn, works until his hands are peeled and his back aches and gets home to eat whatever he has left over.

It’s a good routine, the most stable one he’s found for himself in years.

He can't recall a time where the fourteenth of February meant anything at all.

(Except for that one year that it had.)

But he won't think of withered flowers or laughing kisses or other sweets that have since rotten in his memory. A woman, a child, an apartment downtown.

That is all long gone now. The apartment downtown had gotten expensive, and the child had grown older. The woman had gone long ago and there were no more flowers or kisses or laughter.

It’s all capitalism, it’s all vapid and stupid and childish.

So, Toji Fushiguro doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. That is until you come along, knocking on his workshop’s door.

You’re obviously lost, mumbling an inquiry about how much you could get for selling a motorbike you keep referring to as "an old piece of garbage".

He can't help but snicker at your wording, a little chuckle that grows into a full chest laugh when he sees what you’ve dragged to his shop. It’s painfully obvious that this thing isn’t yours.

You keep holding the handlebars with careful hands, sparing few disgusted glances to the vehicle, as if its mere existence wounded you.

He asks how long you’ve had it, and where you got it, and how much you’d like to get.

You answer back curtly: two years, your ex, nothing as long as you get rid of it.

You seem annoyed just by having to be there and for some unexplainable reason this amuses him to no end. Maybe being surrounded by car engines in a small workshop with no windows is starting to affect him.

“I’ll take it.”

You raise your gaze from the dusty headlight, shocked by his offer.

“You will?”

“Sure thing. You don’t want it, I could use some new parts, I’ll just scrap it.”

You let out a sigh, relieved, and all the tension dissipates from your shoulders.

“Oh, that… well, that would be great! Thank you.”

Your smile makes him stop in his tracks. Pretty and warm and familiar – something dangerous. His head travels back.

After a second that lasts forever, he acknowledges what you've said, grunting as his only response and getting back to the store with you in tow.

“Could I leave it with you now or…?"

“Bring it back next week, I don’t really have a place to put it right now, y’know?”

You look around the place. It’s full of buckets of paint and car parts, no decor but stacks upon stacks of metallic shelves full of objects you can’t recognize. You chuckle awkwardly, seemingly in a better mood after the compromise you've arranged.

“Right, uhm… Actually, I'm not here next week, could I come back tomorrow?”

Toji turns back to stare at you, and for the first time, really sees you. You look young, probably in your mid-twenties, of bright eyes and shiny hair, and that pretty smile that keeps fluttering over your lips.

He hasn’t done this in a long time… But maybe…

“I close at 10pm today, why don’t you come back then?” he says, closing his fists to stop them from sweating.

Your wondering eyes freeze on him then, and your lips part slightly. He just can't stop staring.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. Don’t you have any plans?” you ask, shyly.

“I don’t believe in that crap.”

Shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

“Oh,” you whisper. You're still grinning up at him, but your expression has lost its warmth, instead replaced by a polite awkwardness and doubtful gaze, and now he's kicking himself in his head.

“Sorry, did that bother you?” he asks, hiding his guilt with a smirk.

“No, not at all!" You laugh, playing with your hands. "I… just, I don’t mind it, I guess.

"I know it's not even a real holiday and that it's merely a product of capitalism, and that it’s all about sales and consumerism and all of that, but… I find it nice, you know? Having a day to be with the people you love…" You look around his shop once, before giving him a shy stare. "It’s sappy, I know.” You end with a shrug, your ears flushed.

Toji doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just breathes and takes it in.

Oh, he’s grown bitter, hasn’t he? Old and sour.

His son is out there right now buying flowers with his friends, his coworker is on a date at a fancy place, his one and only friend is buying chocolates for his wife… And he’s here at 5pm, with his hands dirty and his neck sweaty and the prettiest woman he’s seen in a long time in front of him, with no plans for tonight and a lovely smile hidden by a familiar sort of nervousness.

What is wrong with him? Is he truly that fucking stubborn? Can't he deal with a bit of pink?

He’ll admit that he's never minded the chocolates and the roses – even if they aren’t his favorite – and that he always laughs at the cherubs and the cheesy postcards. Of course, he won't talk about how he still hums old 50s songs while he works or how he indulges in a bit of dessert when February rolls around, though.

But he knows. He's always known.

So, maybe it’s not all about the money. Maybe it’s more about being accompanied for once since he was twenty three and alone. Maybe it’s more about taking a shot at getting something good back.

Maybe it's not all capitalism, not all vapid and stupid and childish.

“Yeah… I guess it’s not all that bad.”

“I do like it… sometimes,” you finish, as if completing his train of thought. This hasn't happened to him in a long time. "I’ll be back tonight then…?”

He recovers quickly, smirking briefly before turning to clean his hands with a rag.

“Sure, at 10pm," he says, over his shoulder.

You laugh, cheerful once more, and begin walking to the door.

“It’s a date!”

And, God, he really hopes it can be, if only because it’s Valentine’s Day.

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk imagines #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushiguro imagines #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #fushiguro toji fluff #fushiguro toji imagines #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fluff #toji imagines #toji fushiguro #jjk

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yyprompts · 24 days ago

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PLEASE make a list of 100 rare words. PLEASE. 🥹

Usually I'd say no, but I'll do it this once...

I'll make a list of 50 and post another 50 tomorrow, then link the other one back here. 🤍

50 Rare Words in English Language.

.Luminiferous (adj.) - Creating, transmitting light.

Ailurophobia (n.) - An irrational fear of cats.

Heliolatry (n.) - Religious worship or reverence of the sun.

Selcouth (adj.) - Strange, rare, and marvelous simultaneously.

Unipara (n.) - A woman who gave birth to one child.

Snowball (v.) - To increase quickly in size, intensity, or importance.

Assail (v.) - To attack someone violently, heavily criticize someone.

Accountrement (n.) - Items of dress, equipment, or other items used, worn, or held for a particular activity.

Atelier (n.) - A workshop or studio, usually one utilized by an artist or designer.

Coruscate (v.) - Giving off or projecting light in bright flashes or rays.

Empyrean (adj.) - Relating to heaven or the sky.

Sumptuous (adj.) - Very rich, luxurious, or detailed in a way that appears expensive.

Desolation (n.) - A complete state of emptiness or destruction

Pastiche (v.) To imitate the style of another artist or piece of art.

Laconic (adj.) - A person, speech, or writing style that utilizes little words.

Snuggery (n.) - A cozy place such as a bedroom or den.

Vagrant (n.) - A bird straying or forced off it's usual migratory route.

Imperil (v.) - To put at risk or endanger.

Cabotage (n.) - The transportation of goods or passengers between two areas within the same nation.

Penitentiary (n.) - A prison intended for people convicted of serious offenses.

Imago (n.) - The unconscious idealized mental image of someone, usually a parent, which influences the person carrying it.

Hallux (n.) - Your big toe.

Ragamuffin (n.) - A person, usually a child, in ragged or unclean clothing.

Xanthopsia (n.) - A color vision deficiency causing predominantly yellow vision because of the yellowing of the optical media of the eye.

Derecho (n.) - A line of intense, widespread, rapid windstorms or thunderstorms that travels a great distance and is primarily characterized by it's damaging winds.

Nemophilist (n.) - A lover of the forest.

Woolgathering (n.) - Indulgence in aimless thoughts or dreamy imagining.

Patella (n.) - Synonym for kneecap.

Polydipsia (n.) - Excessive thirst.

Ligature (n.) - Any material tied around a blood vessel to prevent further bleeding.

Natter (v.) - To talk casually, usually about unimportant things.

Henpeck (v.) - A woman continuously criticizes and orders her husband/male partner around.

Sedulous (adj.) - A person or action that shows dedication and/or deligence.

Ultracareful (adj.) - Extremely careful.

Crapulence (n.) - A terrible sick feeling someone gets after drinking too much, or a stomachache from overeating.

Trigger-happy (adj.) - Ready to react violently, especially by shooting, to any provocation.

Rutilant (adj.) - Glowing or glittering with red or gold light.

White-hot (adj.) - Hot enough to radiate white light and heat.

Hodiernal (adj.) - Of this day, relating to the present day

Mondegreen (n.) - The mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase that gives it new meaning.

Yclept (adj.) - By the name of, having the name of.

Farrago (n.) - A confusing mixture.

Turophile (n.) - A lover of cheese.

Glabella (n.) - The part of the forehead above and between the eyebrows.

Zetetic (adj.) - Proceeding by inquiry, investigating.

Corrugate (v.) - Contract or cause to contract into wrinkles or folds.

Striate (v.) - To mark with long, thin parallel streaks (striae).

Variegated (adj.) - Displaying different colors, especially in patches or streaks.

Splodge (n.) - A large blob or smear of something, synonym for splotch.

Nacre (n.) - Synonym for mother-of-pearl, a smooth irredescent substance forming on the inside of mollusks.

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askviktor · 4 months ago

Note

Knock Knock Knock….. “Ehm, excuse me, Hi! M-my name is Onyx, i'm from the fine arts department of the academy…”

* sweaty hands, eyes avoiding, stumbling on words *

“I…. I was wondering if, you, the two of you, have time for getting your portrait painted together?...” * hands fidgeting *

“I, I would normally have my assistant to do these kind of inquiries, cause.. I.. I have bad social anxiety….. But she - she has currently, other tasks to attend to…..”

* looking at the floor *

“It, will take a couple of hours, I, we, the art department, will of course compensate you two for your time…”

* rapid breathing, trembling hands *

“Its, its for the Piltover archives, it will be shown off at the next Progress day, and afterwards hung in the hall of importance….. ehm….”

* eyes watering, small voice *

“Please say yes….. The council will cut my funding if we, if I…. If I don't produce something of importance soon……”

* swallowing back tears *

“I won't be able to afford my living quarters… Id have to move back to Zaun… Id be the laughing stock of the entire fine arts department… And the council… And, and….”

* visibly shaking hard *

“Please make an appointment with me… It doesn't have to be today, just… I just need proof that im not.. a… waste of money…Please…”

Viktor glances at Jayce, raising an eyebrow at the sheer desperation of the visiting artist, then speaks in a measured, calming voice.

Ah… Onyx, was it? There is no need to work yourself into such distress. If a portrait is what you require, then I believe we can accommodate your request, yes, Jayce?

He continues with Jayce’s approval.

Indeed, we are no strangers to the pressures of proving one's worth to the council.

But, you are neither a waste of money, nor should your value be measured by such things.

Viktor turns and heads back into the workshop, speaking firmly as he finds the nearest stool.

You mentioned compensation, but that is not necessary. If this will aid you in keeping your place within the academy, then consider it done. Simply tell us when and where.

He sits and smirks at Jayce.

Besides, I am curious to see how you intend to capture his good side.

#arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor lol #viktor #arcane rp #arcane roleplay #viktor league of legends #arcane #arcane lol #ask viktor #viktor rp arcane #viktor roleplay #viktor rp #askviktor #arcane ask blog #viktor arcane rp #arcane rp blog #arcane rp viktor #arcane roleplay blog

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sobbingscripter · 3 months ago

Text

I am now doing.....

🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ wlw/ mlm / mlw / gn reader / trans reader

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ personalized (like, descriptions, names, preferred pet names and you know, literally you but as a lead in a fanfic)

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ it's basically YOURS afterwards. It won't be shown or shared with anyone, other than being proofread by my beta reader

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ commissions will be prioritised over regular posting

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ i won't write minors; scat; beastiality; vomit; noncon

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ minimalistic banners are free but if you want a custom, fancy pants banner, then its a dollar. regardless of how many customizations.

⋆.˚🌸༘⋆ Ko-fi

word count~

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･1k = $5

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･1.3k = $6

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･1.6k = $7

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･1.9k = $8

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･2k = $10

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･2.3k = $11

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･2.6k = $12

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･2.9k = $13

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･3k = $15

🌺⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ max: 8k = $25

each 300 words is $1

*i won't charge you for if i go over the word count. i've got a tendency to do that anyway*

kink count

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･3 = $1

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･5 = $2

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･8 = $3

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･11 = $4

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･14 = $5

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･17 = $6

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･20 = $10

*this part gets a lil' expensive because like... fitting in a bunch of kinks is low-key hard and takes quite a bit of workshopping*

character count

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･2 = $1

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･3 = $3

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･4 = $4

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･5 = $5

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･6 = $6

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･7 = $7

💮⋆.ೃ࿔*:･8 = $10

*if you want 8 dicks, we're gonna need to have a talk about that. not judging, just curious*

🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🩷

Any inquiries can be sent via asks, comment on this post or private messages

#commission #sobbingscripter #smut writer #smut author #commissions open #writing

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sonic-takeover · 1 month ago

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Hey Omega, if Silver invites you on a picnic please say no and don't go. If you go with him he'll be making a terrible organic social blunder. He needs to go alone in order to make a romantic confession to another organic person who should also hopefully show up alone. It's the chameleon house guest, Espio. We don't want this to be as drawn out and dramatic as when Sonic and Shadow got together after all, what with all the unnecessary suffering and etcetera.

It is my understanding that a "picnic" is an event involving the consumption of nutrients in an outdoor setting. I am incapable of engaging in this behavior, thus I would have no reason to attend. Observation: Silver has not mentioned this event or person to me aside from a brief introduction. I do not believe he will involve me in this event.

*Sticks climbs into the workshop from the window* Where is it.. where is it.. *She starts rummaging through Tails' things*

Inquiry: What are you doing?

Aagh, I'm just lookin' for some binoculars. Maybe somethin' sharp to put in my traps.

*Omega watches her for a long moment* ... You are hunting?

Yeah, how'd you know?

Deductive reasoning.

Nicccee. Anyway, I'm gonna see how many gogobas I can trap before lunchtime. Wanna join me? Amy's still asleep and I could use the extra muscle.

I do not have organic musculature. But I will still accompany you. *He looks at you for a moment, then turns to leave out the garage door*

#ask blog #sonic ask blog #ask #sonic #sth #sonic the hedgehog #ask sonic #anon ask #sticks answers #sticks the badger #omega answers #omega e123 #bigass house #mission: wellness check up #espilver #silver the hedgehog #espio the chameleon #picnic #gogobas

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cherryfennec · 10 months ago

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¿What is Dimentio's relationship with each of the members of Team Bleck? ¿Does he really consider them friends? ¿What does he think of them? ¿Do you like doing activities with them? And if so, what activities would they be?

I'm not really much of a character writer in my eyes but personally I currently kinda see his relations like this:

O'Chunks

Dimentio likes to humour O'Chunks and his way of thinking. He tends to be more open towards people that are prone to suggestions and the big guy is a fine example of that. He shows more of his playful side with him and tones down his wordplay just for the guy ("Mmm... I do enjoy a good chunking…”). O’Chunks is an open book to Dimentio that he doesn't need to explore, he has enough information about him and there isn't a lot that he could get him to do for his own benefits (that is until the Floro Sprout experiment). O’Chunks is very loyal and focused on the Count so Dimentios schemes would have little potential wiggle room with someone with such one-dimensional motives. In the end O’Chunks isn't really worth a lot in his eyes but he still treats watching and listening to him as a form of entertainment. They don't really spend much time together outside of meetings.

Mimi

Mixing the fact that Dimentio likes to poke into peoples secrets, be it for gathering dirt or curiosity for knowledge, and that Mimi has a bit of a brat personality, you're left with somewhat of an ‘annoying sibling relationship’. He likes catching her on lies and correcting them, even if the truth is embarrassing. He knows how much she wants to impress the people around her and how much she hates his jokes, which makes it more rewarding for him to follow and annoy her. However since her pride wouldn't allow ignoring even subtle mockery, she actually responds (most often with the first reply she can think of). Then the cycle repeats. She's someone with no benefits to him, just like O’Chunks, however in contrast to the warrior she actually makes it worth the trouble by acting on what he says. Other than meetings he probably follows her in the Castles hallways.

Mr.L

This one is neither like O’Chunks or Mimi. Mr.L is someone who is both valuable to Dimentios visions and entertaining to spectate. Since he's a person required to achieve the magicians goals, Dimentio tends to listen carefully to what the man says. He gathers ‘ammunition’ and then confronts the mechanic in his workshop or hallways, poking him for more information. Mr.L is a person who actually does respond to Dimentios inquiries, but instead of always saying whatever is at the tip of his tongue he can at times reply either with a different intriguing question or a self aware sentence. It's a fun game to Dimentio, he found someone else just as talkative as him who also isn't a total moron despite having moments of acting like one. He would follow Mr.L around the hallways and even into his ‘workshop’, that is until a little accident.

Nastasia

Dimentio finds her a little annoying. She's not very talkative, somewhat smart, and treats her duties with focus. He knows that she doesn't trust him so he doesn't talk to her unless he needs to. She’s a potential danger to him as she has eyes everywhere and doesn't take his words at face value. She knows something is up and tries to subtly to make whatever the jester is trying to do harder. At one point she started dragging Mr.L around with her, due to a certain event, just so he couldn't be left alone with Dimentio in a room. But in the end it doesn't matter as shes just another small inconvenience he will overcome. He does find it a little amusing that she tries though.

Count Bleck

To Dimentio the Count is worth as much as The Prognosticus he holds. He's hard to talk to and let's his emotions dictate his actions. He would be a threat if not for the fact that after the Void is opened he starts caring less and less about what people around him do and waits for the script to finish. Dimentio does sometimes try to get a reaction out of him just for kicks (such as asking if the name Timpani rings a bell). He takes pleasure in bringing people down and the Count, despite his looming demeanor, doesn't fight back.

Would he call any of these people friends? Not genuinely. Dimentio seems like the type of person who makes friends for benefits rather than because he has emotional attachment. The same goes for hanging out, if he ever participates it's to entertain himself either by mocking or spectating (he tends to easily fall for his curiosity). But that's just my perspective!

#spm

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twizzyburger · 1 year ago

Text

Redemption

caught..

part 1!

tags!❀

Captor!König x Engineer!F/NB!Reader

In a digital cataclysm, documents erupted like an insidious storm across the vast expanse of the web, their clandestine contents laying bare the identities of thousands—soldiers, scientists, and amongst them, you were exposed to the unforgiving scrutiny of the virtual tempest.

“We got them…”

Amidst the orchestrated messiness, the room unfolded akin to an engineer's inner sanctum. Commanding the space was a substantial desk, its gleaming surface marred solely by the scattered remnants of papers strewn across both the desk and floor in a harmonious symphony of unbridled inspiration. A glass whiteboard, embellished with a maze of equations and intricate models, stood guard against one wall, bearing witness to the perpetual cerebral ballet that unfolded within. Blueprints graced the encompassing walls like revered manuscripts, revealing the chronicles of meticulously devised weaponry. Delicately crafted miniature weapon models, elegant yet potent, adorned the shelves, murmuring stories of functionality and design.

You sighed, the weight of frustration heavy in the air, as you furiously scribbled on your pad, attempting to rectify a flaw in one of the prototypes you had been diligently working on. The room echoed with the rhythmic dance of your pen against the paper, a silent symphony of dedication. Suddenly, a disruptive banging shattered the cocoon of concentration around you. Annoyed, you tossed the pad onto the desk, irritated that anyone would dare to interrupt your solitary focus. The door swung open, revealing a soldier who entered in haste, speaking at an accelerated pace, leaving you bracing for the unexpected intrusion.

“Everything!Everythingwasleaked!Wecan’tgetaholdofDr.Leon!Everythingwasleaked!Soldiers,scientists,everyone!”

You stared at the soldier in confusion, the rapid stream of words leaving you struggling to grasp the urgency in their message. Frowning, you held up a hand, a silent plea for them to slow down and articulate their message more clearly. "Take a breath and start from the beginning," you urged, a mix of irritation and genuine curiosity flickering in your eyes as you waited for the soldier to unravel the reason behind their sudden intrusion.

“They leaked everything! Dr. Leon is in another country, he can’t take deal with it and our signals have been cut off!”

Your inquiry about the leak causes your mind to race with the sudden revelation. The soldier swiftly details that all classified information, including yours, has been compromised. A surge of concern tightens your chest, prompting both of you to hurriedly head to your computer. With a flash drive from Dr. Leon, you deftly maneuver through the digital maze, inputting a protective code to shield the exposed information from prying eyes.

A sense of triumph illuminates your face as the safeguard activates, preventing unauthorized access to your sensitive data. "Dr. Leon provided this for emergencies," you share, your voice tinged with a blend of relief and gratitude. The once chaotic room now stands as a fortified defense against the digital intrusion that loomed, threatening to unveil your identity to the world.

With a nod of gratitude, the soldier acknowledges your efforts and swiftly exits the room, leaving you to reclaim the sanctuary of your workshop. As the door closes behind them, you return to your desk, picking up your notepad with a renewed focus. The urgency of the situation lingers in the air, but you find solace in the familiar dance of pen against paper as you continue to modify and refine your designs.

…A sudden bang startles you, and your eyes dart towards the door. A fleeting thought suggests it might just be routine shooting practice, but before you can dismiss it, another loud bang echoes through the air. Alarmed, you yell, uncertainty gripping your senses. The unmistakable thud of boots pounding in the hallway draws your attention, the cacophony growing louder and more chaotic. A tense realization settles in, shattering the illusion of routine, as you brace yourself for the unexpected tumult that now encircles your once-quiet workspace.

"Where are they?!" a voice with a distinct German accent echoes, a hint of urgency cutting through the air. The voice, slightly high-pitched yet carrying a rough edge, raises your concern. A series of more bangs and a thud against your door intensify the chaos. Reacting swiftly, you stand and make your way to a nearby closet in your room, seeking refuge and concealment amidst the unfolding uncertainty. The echoes of commotion linger in the air as you brace yourself for the unknown presence outside your door.

Another resounding bang reverberates through the room, and with a sickening crack, the hinges of your door surrender to the relentless force. The door bursts open, hanging precariously from the damaged frame. Panic courses through your veins, and you instinctively hold your breath, pressed against the back of the closet in fear.

As the intruder strides into the room, you catch a glimpse through the crack in the closet door. The man is tall, towering over the space with an intimidating presence. A hood shrouds his features, casting a veil over his intentions. Your limited military training pulses through your veins, a meager defense against this imposing adversary, knowing that you could not beat this mammoth of a man. The closet becomes a fragile sanctuary as you silently pray that the looming threat passes without unveiling your hiding place.

#könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #könig #konig cod #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #cod konig #mw2 konig #cod #call of duty #x reader #fanfiction

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emotionally-mature-mechanic · 1 year ago

Note

[sisyphus paced outside the actual workshop part of the workshop]

[there were several things he wanted to talk to mechanic about - the announcement otto had told him about, why he was even still here if he served no purpose, and the confusing thoughts hed been having about himself]

[he was trying to figure out how to approach the human about it, something made difficult by his past. but it would be easy to accidentally draw mechanics attention]

-@emotionally-anxious-spybots

[The workshop itself was a mess, honestly. More than usual. Still, despite the clutter and chaos of it all, the man inside managed to catch sight of the robot hovering by the door. Identifying him as Sisyphus from the hat, he paused as he wondered whether he should go over, not wanting to startle him.] [Eventually, though, he decides it'd probably be alright to do. Struggling to his feet, he makes his way over to the other, stopping a comfortable distance away.] "Hey, bud. You alright?" [He asks, tilting his head slightly. It may not be the best time for all of them, but he'll always do his best.]

#workshop inquiries #emotionally mature mechanic #emotionally anxious spybots

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fangbangerghoul · 3 months ago

Text

Seven Sentence WIP Wednesday Thursday

@mercars-musings tagged me yesterday and shared their fun post and I finally got a moment to make a post! Thank you always for the tags I appreciate them even if I am a little slow sometimes!

This wip game is a Frankenstein's monster of a game!

Now in my pinned post I did put that I was on a creative hiatus until June...buuuuuttttttttt I have been working on something lowkey. Purposefuly been writing at a leisurely pace since one of my classes this semester is a writing workshop, and I have to do a lot of critiques and original writing on my own. So, under the cut will be some of my favorite lines from a doc I have been working on.

"The realization of what was just lost settled along the dark tunnel of her skewed vision."

"Those eyes she adored and felt forlorn to gaze upon some days."

"They are a lingering memory and regret wrapped neatly into a future with endless possibilities, none of them being the one her heart had desired the most."

"There was something cold about the way he did it, but Sophia knew it never helped their conversations for her to ever take anything personally. He was usually like this."

" “No?” Bright hazel eyes finally set their sights on her in inquiry. His hands had stilled and his face frozen into its normal half frown"

"She used her hand to try to calculate how much time the public transport would take, and her brows furrowed at how narrow the time frame for the eta and the meeting were. 'Shit.'"

this is my lads fic

if you are reading this far consider yourself tagged

#fang writes #wip wednesday #wip whenever #i swear i am still on creative hiatus #i just sometimes find a second to write for fun #im not really sure i am going to post the full thing but i am sharing it with moots

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successinsider · 2 years ago

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#Success Insider #entrepreneur #founder #Tim han #Tim Han LMA Course #LMA Course

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year ago

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By: Michael Powell

Published: Apr 22, 2024

Yesterday just before midnight, word goes out, tent to tent, student protester to student protester—a viral warning: Intruders have entered the “liberated zone,” that swath of manicured grass where hundreds of students and their supporters at what they fancy as the People’s University for Palestine sit around tents and conduct workshops about demilitarizing education and fighting settler colonialism and genocide. In this liberated zone, normally known as South Lawn West on the Columbia University quad, unsympathetic outsiders are treated as a danger.

“Attention, everyone! We have Zionists who have entered the camp!” a protest leader calls out. His head is wrapped in a white-and-black keffiyeh. “We are going to create a human chain where I’m standing so that they do not pass this point and infringe on our privacy.”

Privacy struck me as a peculiar goal for an outdoor protest at a prominent university. But it’s been a strange seven-month journey from Hamas’s horrific slaughter of Israelis—the original breach of a cease-fire—to the liberated zone on the Columbia campus and similar standing protests at other elite universities. What I witnessed seemed less likely to persuade than to give collective voice to righteous anger. A genuine sympathy for the suffering of Gazans mixed with a fervor and a politics that could border on the oppressive.

Dozens stand and echo the leader’s commands in unison, word for word. “So that we can push them out of the camp, one step forward! Another step forward!” The protesters lock arms and step toward the interlopers, who as it happens are three fellow Columbia students, who are Jewish and pro-Israel.

Jessica Schwalb, a Columbia junior, is one of those labeled an intruder. In truth, she does not much fear violence—“They’re Columbia students, too nerdy and too worried about their futures to hurt us,” she tells me—as she is taken aback by the sight of fellow students chanting like automatons. She raises her phone to start recording video. One of the intruders speaks up to ask why they are being pushed out.

The leader talks over them, dismissing such inquiries as tiresome. “Repeat after me,” he says, and 100 protesters dutifully repeat: “I’m bored! We would like you to leave!”

As the crowd draws closer, Schwalb and her friends pivot and leave. Even the next morning, she’s baffled at how they were targeted. Save for a friend who wore a Star of David necklace, none wore identifying clothing. “Maybe,” she says, “they smelled the Zionists on us.”

As the war has raged on and the death toll has grown, protest rallies on American campuses have morphed into a campaign of ever grander and more elaborate ambitions: From “Cease-fire now” to the categorical claim that Israel is guilty of genocide and war crimes to demands that Columbia divest from Israeli companies and any American company selling arms to the Jewish state.

Many protesters argue that, from the river to the sea, the settler-colonialist state must simply disappear. To inquire, as I did at Columbia, what would happen to Israelis living under a theocratic fascist movement such as Hamas is to ask the wrong question. A young female protester, who asked not to be identified for fear of retribution, responded: “Maybe Israelis need to check their privilege.”

Of late, at least one rabbi has suggested that Jewish students depart the campus for their own safety. Columbia President Minouche Shafik acknowledged in a statement earlier today that at her university there “have been too many examples of intimidating and harassing behavior.” To avoid trouble, she advised classes to go virtual today, and said, “Our preference is that students who do not live on campus will not come to campus.”

Tensions have in fact kept ratcheting up. Last week, Shafik called in the New York City police force to clear an earlier iteration of the tent city and to arrest students for trespassing. The university suspended more than 100 of these protesters, accusing them, according to the Columbia Spectator, of “disruptive behavior, violation of law, violation of University policy, failure to comply, vandalism or damage to property, and unauthorized access or egress.” Even some Jewish students and faculty unsympathetic to the protesters say the president’s move was an accelerant to the crisis, producing misdemeanor martyrs to the pro-Palestinian cause. A large group of faculty members walked out this afternoon to express their opposition to the arrests and suspensions.

As for the encampment itself, it has an intifada-meets-Woodstock quality at times. Dance clubs offer interpretive performances; there are drummers and other musicians, and obscure poets reading obscure poems. Some tents break out by identity groups: “Lesbians Against Genocide,” “Hindus for Intifada.” Banners demand the release of all Palestinian prisoners. Small Palestinian flags, embroidered with the names of Palestinian leaders killed in Gaza, are planted in the grass.

During my nine-hour visit, talking with student protesters proved tricky. Upon entering the zone, I was instructed to listen as a gatekeeper read community guidelines that included not talking with people not authorized to be inside—a category that seemed to include anyone of differing opinions. I then stood in a press zone and waited for Layla Saliba, a social-work graduate student who served as a spokesperson for the protest. A Palestinian American, she said she has lost family in the fighting in Gaza. She talked at length and with nuance. Hers, however, was a near-singular voice. As I toured the liberated zone, I found most protesters distinctly nonliberated when it came to talking with a reporter.

Leaders take pains to insist that, for all the chants of “From the river to sea” and promises to revisit the 1948 founding of Israel, they are only anti-Zionist and not anti-Jewish. To that end, they’ve held a Shabbat dinner and, during my visit, were planning a Passover seder. (The students vow to remain, police notwithstanding, until graduation in May).

“We are not anti-Jewish, not at all,” Saliba said.

But to talk with many Jewish students who have encountered the protests is to hear of the cumulative toll taken by words and chants and actions that call to mind something ancient and ugly.

Earlier in the day, I interviewed a Jewish student on a set of steps overlooking the tent city. Rachel, who asked that I not include a surname for fear of harassment, recalled that in the days after October 7 an email went out from a lesbian organization, LionLez, stating that Zionists were not allowed at a group event. A subsequent email from the club’s president noted: “White Jewish people are today and always have been the oppressors of all brown people,” and “when I say the Holocaust wasn’t special, I mean that.” The only outward manifestation of Rachel’s sympathies was a pocket-size Israeli flag in a dorm room. Another student, Sophie Arnstein, told me that after she said in class that “Jewish lives matter,” others complained that her Zionist beliefs were hostile. She ended up dropping the course.

This said, the students I interviewed told me that physical violence has been rare on campus. There have been reports of shoves, but not much more. The atmosphere on the streets around the campus, on Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, is more forbidding. There the protesters are not students but sectarians of various sorts, and the cacophonous chants are calls for revolution and promises to burn Tel Aviv to the ground. Late Sunday night, I saw two cars circling on Amsterdam as the men inside rolled down their windows and shouted “Yahud, Yahud”—Arabic for “Jew, Jew”—“fuck you!”

A few minutes earlier, I had been sitting on a stone bench on campus and speaking with a tall, brawny man named Danny Shaw, who holds a master’s in international affairs from Columbia and now teaches seminars on Israel in the liberated zone. When he describes the encampment, it sounds like Shangri-la. “It’s 100 percent love for human beings and very beautiful; I came here for my mental health,” he said.

He claims no hatred for Israel, although he suggested that the “genocidal goliath” will of course have to disappear or merge into an Arab-majority state. He said he does not endorse violence, even as he likened the October 7 attacks to the Warsaw Ghetto uprising during World War II.

Shaw’s worldview is consistent with that of others in the rotating cast of speakers at late-night seminars in the liberated zone. The prevailing tone tends toward late-stage Frantz Fanon: much talk of revolution and purging oneself of bourgeois affectation. Shaw had taught for 18 years at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, but he told me the liberated zone is now his only gig. The John Jay administration pushed him out—doxxed him, he said—in October for speaking against Israel and for Palestine. He was labeled an anti-Semite and remains deeply pained by that. He advised me to look up what he said and judge for myself. So I did, right on the spot.

Shortly after October 7, he posted this on X: “Zionists are straight Babylon swine. Zionism is beyond a mental illness; it’s a genocidal disease.”

A bit harsh, maybe? I asked him. He shook his head. “The rhetoric they use against us makes us look harsh and negative,” Shaw said. “That’s not the flavor of what we are doing.”

We parted shortly afterward. I walked under a near-full moon toward a far gate, protesters’ chants of revolution echoing across what was otherwise an almost-deserted campus. I could not shake the sense that too many at this elite university, even as they hoped to ease the plight of imperiled civilians, had allowed the intoxicating language of liberation to blind them to an ugliness encoded within that struggle.

[ Via: https://archive.today/ziQes ]

At the core of what they call "anti-Zionism" is the belief that "Jews control the world." Left-wing conspiracy nuts and right-wing conspiracy nuts are now collaborating, it seems.

Zionism | ˈzīəˌnizəm | noun a movement for (originally) the re-establishment and (now) the development and protection of a Jewish nation in what is now Israel. It was established as a political organization in 1897 under Theodor Herzl, and was later led by Chaim Weizmann.

Somehow this justifies slaughtering over a thousand, raping dozens, and kidnapping hundreds. And for brain cell-starved students to defend and support terrorists who would happily slit their throats.

It's hard to take the "we're anti-Zionism, not anti-Jew" thing when they intimidate and attack Jews without bothering to ask them what they think. In reality, it's just cover for their antisemitism. When they don't make the distinction, we should stop pretending it's a distinction at all.

#Michael Powell #Columbia University #useful idiots #hamas #hamas terrorism #hamas supporters #pro hamas #student protesters #student protestors #antisemitism #israel #palestine #pro palestine #islamic terrorism #islam #religion is a mental illness

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sudriantraveler · 2 years ago

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Duncan's Accident Report

It was evening on the Skarloey Railway.

A very battered and bruised Duncan sat at the back of the workshops. His driver was sitting at a desk nearby with a pen and paper as Duncan dictated to him what to write.

Dear Sir,

I am writing in response to your request for additional information in block 3 of the accident report form.

I put “poor planning” as the cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation, and so I trust the following details will be sufficient.

I am an industrial engine by design. On the date of the accident I was working alone near the incline at the Skarloey Slate Quarry.

Work had to be stopped early, as the brakes on the incline winding gear had broken. However, I saw that there were some loaded slate trucks left over at the top of the incline which, when weighed later, were found to be slightly in excess of 46,000 lbs.

Rather than go and bring the trucks down myself using the longer, more winding path through the back of the quarry, I decided to send them down using the incline.

Since the brakes on the incline winding gear were broken, I decided to couple myself to the winding cable to ensure a steady descent as the trucks began to roll down.

You will note, in block 11 of the accident report form, that I weigh just under 18,000 lbs.

Due to the shock of being jerked forward so suddenly, my driver fell off the footplate and was unable to apply my brakes, and I was also unable to disconnect from the cable.

Needless to say I proceeded at a rapid rate of speed up the incline.

At about the halfway point of the incline I met the trucks, which were now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed, in spite of some of them having become derailed and hanging over my line.

This explained the fractured smokebox, minor scratches and the broken funnel, as listed in section 3 of the accident report form.

Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until my front end was buffers deep into the winding house.

Fortunately, through the impact I had remained connected to the cable, and managed to hold on in spite of beginning to experience a great deal of pain.

At approximately the same time, however, the trucks hit the buffers at the bottom of the incline, with several becoming uncoupled in the impact, and the remaining trucks being broken open and losing their loads of slate.

Now devoid of the weight of the slate and the uncoupled trucks, the remaining trucks weighed approximately 9,000 lbs. I refer you again to my weight of 18,000 lbs.

As you can imagine, I began a rapid descent back down the incline.

In the vicinity of the halfway point, I met the trucks coming up.

This accounts for the two fractured rear buffers, broken cab window and several dents along my cab and bunker.

Here my luck began to change slightly.

The encounter with the trucks seemed to slow me enough to lessen the damage I sustained when I crashed into the pile of slate, and fortunately only three crankpins were broken.

I am sorry to report, however, as I sat there in the pile of slate, in pain, unable to move, I became disconnected from the cable, and I sat there watching the empty trucks begin their journey back down to me. This explains the two broken cylinders.

I hope this answers your inquiry.

Signed,

Duncan

Inspired by this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cf0_KQQeTjc

#ttte #ttte duncan #skarloey railway #ttte shitpost #workplace accidents

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