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schwender-exe · 2 months

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Yet somehow further devlog #6

Ahoy all, it's around that time of the month again where I show off what I've been working on! While, this time I don't quite have a game ready to be shown, I do want to show some tools and scripts I've been working on in the meanwhile in preparation for a game genre I want to try and tackle.

#1 Dialogue scripts!

Since my on/off break at the start of the month, I've been reworking an old dialogue tool I've made starting way back when I was still working in Love2D. Originally, it was hastily put together, not quite understanding the full scope of how it all worked, but hey, it ran. Since then, I've ported it over to Godot and been making major improvements, taking some notes from my event system script (a script which lets you queue "events" to run in a specified order, waiting for each event to be completely finished running before continuing to the next one.) to make it its own thing!

Since the original Love2D version of the script, I've always wanted to reproduce something I saw from a tweet (which I can't find anymore, of course), which showed the in-house 'dialogue script' reader which was easy to write/read and even color coded on top of that which made it even easier to read! I remember being so inspired by that original tweet that, well, after all this time I can say I finally made something practically on par with it! here's a little snippet as an example:

This doesn't show the full scope of what I created, with ~17 keywords total, some of which having different effects depending on sub-keywords, eg. "money add 100" or "money remove 100", etc.

While it's not modular enough for me to 'pack it and ship it' out for the masses (trust me, I'd have to make a lot of changes for it to properly work more modularly and fit into others' projects), but I'm proud of what I created nonetheless.

#2 Point and click buttons

I've messed around with a point and click style game for a while, but never really got far into it because I always like things working a very specific way, and one thing I could never get working how I want them to is buttons. Specifically, the ones Godot has by default. They do their job, but at the end of the day it doesn't fit exactly what I want out of them, especially for a project like this. So I set out to code my own buttons, heavily based off and using what Godot have already set up.

Behold! ...Yeah, I know it's not much to look at, but it was hard! I swear! I mean, check this out:

I fit in a few different mouse detection types (think of it like the button's hitbox), and different ways the button will react on hovering over it! I know, I know. probably not very exciting, but it was fun to program together and get working! There's a lot more on the back-end, specifically with that mysterious "Hover Name ID", which I can set to be 'undiscovered' (like in the screenshot) if it's a location on a map, or maybe you want to have an area locked off and hidden until you progress through the story a certain amount? Perhaps the name of a character changes until a sudden twist?! all easily done with a line or two of code rather than having to wrestle the code down and change it to work a specific way.

#3 Put it together and you have yourself a Visual Novel

Yeah, that's right. I'm working on a visual novel! Hah! Well, that is as soon as I'm able to get what I deem a fun and exciting story and manage to get it out of production and available for everyone to play. Now, some might say "why not use an engine/framework that's already out there and built for visual novels so you don't have to do all this work? Like Ren'py?" and to that I say... fair point. However, I've always loved writing some of the backend scripts, even if they aren't the most pretty. They get things done the way I want them to, which means I can work more efficiently and have fun making scripts and whatnot along the way.

I know this isn't exactly the most exciting for anyone who's used to seeing me post cute pixels and miles of progress, but something's clearly up with me lately and until I get to the bottom of it I'll have to inch forward with my progress and show what I've achieved, even if it's not the most exciting.

tl;dr I made some nice backend tools which allow me to more quickly work on some fun project(s) in future, hopefully.

As always, for anyone who would like further knowledge, feel free to ask! And to all those who read this far, thank you!

#gamedev #godot engine #pixelart #pixel aesthetic #pixel #art #indiedev #gaming #artists on tumblr #devlog

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gardengobbo · 11 months

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So remember how I said in my last post that my duvet takes like 600 years to dry? Yea it's still in the dryer. Steven's headed to bed, and I've got another 20 or so minutes to kill, so I'ma just keep rambling on about my plants.

Might queue this one, might not.

This is going back probably, 3 months now? This year's gardening (Addiction? Habit? Obsession?) spree started in March, I think. I'd decided to move a bunch of stray catnip plants that were up beside the house in a weird, awkward to harvest, spot. I discovered that fact last year when I went to sit and snip them and it was just not happening easily when I was wedged between the fence and house in a weird half squat. So I dug up the plants before they really started to grow and moved them over to the garden in front of the deck. In this section, there are three rose bushes and another chunk of the tall grass like stuff. I should really find out what that shits called. It's not a full sun spot, but it was better than beside the house and I just needed to get em in the ground again. They only stayed there until probably the beginning of May? Whenever it was that I woke up one morning and chose gardening, and a whole new type of back pain.

When I started tending to my garden, it was full of weeds. A lot of them were creeping outside of the wooden post edge line thing. I'd forgotten to take a full before picture, but in those above you can see how much crap was in the garden there. I took the photos after spending some time getting the weeds out front infront of the garden first. I don't recall if I did all that, and then the garden bed too in the same day or not, but when I was done it was already looking so much better. After the weeds were out, I moved the previously transplanted catnip to this garden bed too. Some of them were looking a bit sad and wilty by the time they got moved though, I have to admit. This would also be when two of the three chunks of random catcus were moved over here too, as per my mom's request.

I just did the smart thing and instead of guessing constantly, turned on the date grouping for my photos so I can see when I did shit. The previous stuff was done May 7th. Jumping forward to the 11th of May, I was learning how to use the fancy ass fiskars dandelion remover (when it works it's weird cause the roots of the danielions look syraigh up like rat tails and it kinda wigs me out?) and discovered I'd missed a whole lot of catnip beside the house still. So of course, I had to dig it up and add it to my collection. At this point I'd also asked my mom why there was a random bushel of lambs ear in this garden bed when all the other lambs ear was in the opposite side of the yard. She thinks I brought it with me from our previous place, but I dont think I did? At least not intentionally. Either way, I went to move it to the other garden and found it was entirely infected with ants so I just lawn waste bagged it. I also found the last missing chunk of random cactus to put with its other chunks.

Meanwhile, inside the house...

I was feeling so confident in my growing skills that I actually bought myself some seed trays, a grow light bulb, and some lavender seeds to try and grow some from scratch. I'm really not a huge flower person. I love big green leafy plants like the haustas and such. But I also really like the idea of growing things I can use. Obviously the catnip is a very good example of that, and is something I might even be able to sell. (That's a whole other story. Perhaps it's own post later.) So along that line of thinking, I've also been experimenting with making cold process soap. My thinking was lavender is not only pretty, smells good, and a sort of bug repellent for the garden, but also something I can use in my soap making endeavors. But also I was kinda looking for corn seeds as a joke because of something Steven had said, and they didn't have any but I saw the lavender so I said YOLO and snagged a couple packets.

At the same time as setting up these guys, I also potted two different cala lily bulbs my mom had given me, a roll out butterfly flower mat mix thing in to a planter, and some apple seeds I had gestating in the fridge for a few weeks at that point. All of the pots except the planter one got put under the grow light in my kitchen area. The planter I just left outside for normal sun since it was meant to just roll out into the garden.

How is everything inside doing? Well, I'd tell you but my duvet is actually finally done drying, it's 4am, and I can hear the early birds chirping outside so I am heading to bed now.

Stay tuned, and stay safe!

Toodles!

#catnip garden #catnip #gardening

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belphies-cuhm-sluht · 3 years

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hello! could i request some h/cs for the brothers? mc is bored out of their mind so they start throwing really cheesy pick-up lines at the demons? for example 'if your heart was a present, i'd like to be sentenced to life'... they're already together but *insert shrug emoji* how would they react? thank you!!

Brothers x GN!Reader Reacting to Cheesy Pickup Lines Headcanons (HINTS OF NSFW)

Lucifer

He could already tell something was up when you walked into his office giggling, skipping right over to his desk and laying your hands flat against it, staring straight at him. “Yes, Darling?” He had already turned his attention back to his work, the sound of your giggling still ringing in his ears as he waited for you to tell him whatever it was that had you in such hysterics. “Is your… is your dad a pirate? Cause you could’ve fooled me with a booty like that!” The way you wheezed at the end of your sentence had him biting his cheek to keep a straight face, but he wouldn’t let his serious demeanor fall, not yet, not with you around.

“No, you know who my father is. Now, if that is all, I’d like to get back to work.”

Once you had finally left his office though, clearly proud of yourself for even being able to get the words out around him, a soft chuckle escaped his lips, shaking his head as he went back to his work. Humans were so strange sometimes.

Mammon

You were walking down the hallway, headed for your room when you caught Mammon just leaving his. You had planned this for a while, loving the way he would get flustered whenever you said something even remotely flirty to him, now was your chance to get him. “Hey, Mammon!” You called out to him, noticing the way his lips pulled up slightly just at hearing you. “Hey! Yer lookin for me, I knew it. What’s up, Y/N?” You took a deep breath, holding back your laughter as you tried to look seductive. “I’m wearing skittles chapstick. Wanna taste the rainbow?” Queue a flustered, and for once speechless Mammon. His eyes darted around the hallway to see if any of his brothers heard before looking back at you.

“O-Oi, Y/N! Ya can’t just say those things to anyone! ...But, I’ll come by your room later to taste the rainbow.”

You were now the one flustered, biting your lip as you walked straight to your room after mumbling out a soft “okay”. You don’t even have Skittles Chapstick on you right now.

Leviathan

He was so invested in his game, his eyes didn’t even leave the screen when he reached his hand into the chip bag, bringing it up to his lips and chewing loudly. You were pretty sure he hadn't even blinked in the last hour. He said he liked having you around when he was gaming, like you were a good luck charm, but you were getting tired of watching the screen, and unlike him, if you stared at something too long your eyes felt like they were burning. So you did what any normal person would do to get another person's attention. “Hey Levi, I think I lost my phone number, can I have yours?” It didn’t work quite the way you wanted it to, considering he is a tech geek, although he did finally pause his game to grab your phone.

“Y/N, your number is in your settings, all you have to do is find it. Plus you already have my number. Did you lose it?”

The pick-up line went straight over his head, and he went straight back to playing his game.

Asmodeus

When you walked into his room you weren’t shocked to find him staring at himself in the mirror, murmuring about how cute he looked. He wasn’t easily flustered, you were bored, and you wanted to see if maybe you could get a soft blush to form on his cheeks. It was kind of like a small game that you were playing with yourself. “See if I can fluster Asmo as much as he flusters me” was the name of the game. “Hey, Asmo, can I ask you a question?” You started it off naturally, watching him as he turned to you, beaming happily when you sat on his bed. “Of course, Y/N! You can ask me anything!” He moves to sit down next to you, grabbing your hand to hold in his own as he looks at you expectantly, waiting for your question. “I seem to have lost my virginity. Can I have yours?” His mouth dropped, and for a second you thought you got him, until he started laughing.

“You’re adorable Y/N! I lost mine too, but maybe we can try to find ours together.”

It definitely didn’t turn out the way you planned it to go, but at least by the end of it you both were flushed, so you still kind of won your game in some way.

Satan

You knew where to find him, holed up in the library where he had been spending most of his time lately. You hadn’t seen him smile in a while, so you thought that maybe you could at least get him to laugh, just a little bit. He didn’t even smile when you walked into the library, his eyes following you as you fell back onto the chair across from him before burying his face back in the book. “Did you come to find a book or are you just going to watch me read mine?” He didn’t sound irritated, although most people would take it rudely, you knew better. You shook your head, preparing yourself mentally before you opened your mouth. “Actually, I was just thinking, it’s a good thing I brought my library card, because I’m checking you out.” He groaned, but you saw the corner of his lips twitch before he looked up from his book again.

“Maybe you should use that library card to check out a book on better pick up lines.”

He rolled his eyes, slowly closing the book and motioning for you to come sit with him though, so you must have done something right.

Beelzebub

The sound of glass jars being shifted around in the fridge led you straight to him. You knew he’d be there, he only even hung out in two places in the house and you had already checked his room. He must have heard you coming, turning around to greet you with a wide smile when you entered the room. You were bored, and you loved hearing him laugh, so you walked straight to him, standing between him and the fridge, smiling smugly up at him. “What’s up, Y/N?” He asked, waiting patiently for you to tell him what was on your mind. It must be important if you risked getting between him and his food. “Just call me milk, cause I’ll do your body good.” You tried to sound seductive when you said it, but you couldn’t contain your own laughter when his own filled your ears.

“That’s a good one. Maybe I’ll have a nice tall glass of you tonight before bed.”

His add on only made it better, and you found yourself scrolling through your phone, calling out cheesy pick up lines to him for the next hour. He thought they were hysterical, keep em’ coming.

Belphegor

You were laying next to him, his sleepy eyes staring adoringly into your own. His blanket was pulled up to his chin, and you could lay like this for hours just looking at each other, you usually did, but tonight you wanted to have a little fun. You wanted to make him laugh. Pillow talk was sweet and all, but you’ve had your fair share of that. It was time for pillow pick up lines. “You look tired, Belphie.” You started it off casually, knowing immediately where you were going with this. He rolled his eyes at you, letting out a small snort. “Very observant, did you just notice?” You pulled the blanket up to cover your giddy smile, talking softly behind the fabric. “Yeah, you must be tired, cause you’ve been running through my mind all day.” You wiggled your eyebrows at him playfully, giggling lightly when he ran his hands over his face.

“Oh, father… that was awful. You’re such an idiot sometimes.”

You knew he didn’t mean it, and even if he did, you were his idiot. At least he didn’t kick you out of the bed.

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plasmapop · 4 years

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(1/2) hey, this is a pretty broad request but i'd rly rly appreciate it if you could answer in as much detail as possible :) ive won a few things here and there for my poetry but if im being real i have no fuckin idea what im doing lol. i have literally no technical knowledge of poetry (e.g. how to manipulate form/metre/the diff types of poems) and as a result i write everything in freeverse. my biggest strength is probs being able to create strong/emotional imagery but like

hello! there is a Lot happening here but i will try!

i answered a question about writing in metre here. i learnt about forms and metre and stuff in like. year 7 english class, where we got told the names for different feet and also what sonnets and villanelles are. The Rest Is All Google. there’s a wiki page with a list of poetic forms and for various catullus translations i was just going like. oh that sounds cool! cinquain time babey!

but also i only really write metrical/formal poetry when i’m translating things and most of my own stuff is free verse…… or is it?????? imo free verse literally! doesn’t! exist! first of all because lots of “free verse” poetry secretly has metrical lines. one of my fave poems is postscript by seamus heaney and for a While i was like. how is the ending so Familiar and Conclusive! and then i noticed that the final line and also a bunch of other lines are Secretly Iambic Pentameter. free verse is also Fake because it is not Free. formal poetry feels like way less effort to me because with a sonnet, you Know where the lines have to end. there are fewer Decisions To Be Made. but to make “free” verse not just prose with linebreaks, you have to think about Every Single Decision! you have to find the best place to end each line and get the sounds right and make sure the rhythm of every line fits together right! and you can figure out how to do That by reading free verse which is good, and seeing what lines start and end on and why it works, and by reading free verse which is Bad (dare i say r*pi k**r) and trying to figure out why the linebreaks are where they are (it’s arbitrary). the tldr is that once you can recognise formal/metrical things, you can notice them in the poetry that you read, and then see what effects they create, and then do that yourself. nice!

The Content Of A Poem However! idk if it’s technicality which adds to the meaningfulness of a poem so much as how the meaning is expressed. which yea is in words which are arranged technically, but is also in the choice and arrangement of images and stuff. poems That I Like i feel have a Cool Idea which is then expressed in Cool Imagery…. but it is the idea that is the cool and important thing. which isn’t to say that an interesting image can’t develop into an interesting idea, but that if a poem is just oh ichor pomegranates hands oh darling [reference to greek myth] teeth then like. what does that Say. is there actually anything to untangle behind that. sometimes? anyway. in a display of hubris im gonna go through how i wrote my timothy corsellis prize poem as an example of how to do whatever the fuck im doing

The First Thing is figuring out what a poem is About. i read a bio of anna akhmatova and Made Some Notes, and then read the lines abt cuneiform in requiem and went oh! gilgamesh! -> people and writing are both clay -> the idea that people are stories as much as writing is -> the fragility of clay as either writing or people

then i did some Thinking about how the only mention of writing in requiem is the cuneiform, but akhmatova couldn’t actually read cuneiform. which lead to the tension between text as immortalising or incriminating. thinking about Text made me think about Textiles, and then i got the image of requiem as like lace. “history with the gaps already woven in” stays all the way until the final version.

THEN i was thinking about differences between lace and clay. lace has holes in it, but memorialisation through textile production is still memorialisation through Production, whereas cuneiform holds memory in Impressions, which are Absences. so then i made a list of things with holes in that i might want to use elsewhere in the poem. near the end it kinda turned into fun and related images that are Not about holes

next is more thoughts abt the cuneiform image in requiem and what it Means, re: a face only memorialises when it is near death or affected by death? here is where i figured out that i wanted to keep the lace image, but say that requiem is Not like that, because memory is an Absence, and because for akhmatova a text/textile would be incriminating. “what she describes, she cannot write down” happened here, referencing one of the quotes at the start of requiem, where a woman in the prison queue asks akhmatova if she can describe it, as in, is it describable at all?

once i had the central ideas of people as unreadable texts / memorials without words / tension between memory as presence or absence, i tried doing. a Coherent Draft. stanzas here started “the winter” but in the final version start “in those days” because i realised. if you’re talking about how it’s Cold, you don’t have to mention that it’s winter, and also to reference an akhmatova poem that repeats “in those days” a bunch. it might be pwoah?

when i figured out most of the images i wanted and had vaguely functional sentences i Clarified the ideas / order of ideas / message i wanted in the poem so i wouldn’t get confused, and then i rearranged bits of drafts, and then rewrote several more drafts. “what she describes, she cannot write down” turned into the opening “she can describe this, but not write it down. / to write it down would be like making lace: // history with the gaps already woven in, unravelling” etc etc which! you may notice! means the first two lines are iambic pentameter, which is Neat Like Lace, but the line about Unravelling is where the metre Unravels also. i also just made the sentences Nicer. stuff like adding in sound effects so lines resonate with one another (drown/down/sound at the end of successive lines) and splitting the poem into numbered sections, which i decided to do because it didn’t feel like a continuous narrative so much as several approaches to an idea, and also bcs requiem itself is split up like that.

And Then Finally i came up with a title like. 4 minutes before the deadline for sending the poem in :/

hopefully that was Vaguely Useful? most of my poems start with a Fun Idea, develop through me overthinking an image for that idea that i think of while half asleep, Get Really Complicated And Accumulate Imagery, get Clarified and also tidied up, and then submitted right before the deadline. The End.

#Let's Hope The Readmore Works #also. wow talking about drafts is Fun #r #Anonymous

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 4 years

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Can you do 04 for the winter prompts x jurdan?? I'd love you forever.

so it’s been approximately 84 years since i received this ask, but it inspired me so much that it sort of spiralled out of control, and now it’s gonna be the start of a multichapter fic! thank you for your patience and for the inspiration 🖤💫

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it’s been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just…” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

*****

AN: thanks for reading, my loves! hope you enjoyed. this is the first part in my multichapter Jurdan College AU called “We’re All Mad Here”.

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squirenonny · 6 years

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Hey :) Just saw a swap au by a very talented artist (iacediai) and idk if you already know about it, but I'd loooove to read your thoughts! Have a nice day/evening/night!

Ahh! Yes! I’ve seen that post. It’s actually sitting in my drafts waiting to be queued, because I p much add things to my queue in batches of 100-200 about once a month. (Here’s a link for anyone who’s not sure what we’re talking about.)

First of all, A++ designs, I love them so very much. Loverboy Hunk and Sunshine Pidge are probably my favs, but I love them all.

I don’t have thoughts specifically about that role swap combination, but a while ago I saw pepplemint’s role-swapped!Lance art, and boy did that give me ideas. Specifically for a limited role swap AU where the only real *swap* is that Lance went to Kerberos in Shiro’s place.

Lance and Keith trained under Shiro after graduating from the Garrison. They were rivals, not least of all because Keith and Shiro were so obviously friends that Lance felt ignored outside of training

Shiro was originally supposed to pilot for the Kerberos mission but was in a car crash or something similar that injured his arm to the point he needed to have it amputated. This was, like, six months before launch, so at first the mission is just delayed–there’s no one to take Shiro’s place, and everyone at first is hoping that if the Garrison pays for the top of the line prosthetic maybe Shiro will still be able to go. (After all, they’ve already pumped so much money into this mission and into Shiro specifically.)

But Shiro’s recovery is slow, and PTSD + reduced dexterity mean he just can’t fly at the same level as before. So the Garrison decides they’re going to find a new pilot and have Shiro train them, since he knows better than anyone what this mission is going to require.

This is about the time the show would have started–one year after the original launch date. And the Garrison needs some gimmick for the media to “salvage” the mission from a PR standpoint. Shiro was literally the face of the Kerberos mission, and the public is more concerned about his recovery than the Garrison’s expedition (which is… you know, a good thing? But the Garrison cares about the publicity. They want the Kerberos mission to drive recruitment and all that.)

So they go to the next graduating class of fighter pilots and say, “Hey, guess what? One of you is going to be the youngest solo pilot in history, and you’re going to go farther than anyone else has ever gone. Ready? Cool. Now duke it out for your spot on this crew.”

(In more PR-friendly terms, obviously, but that’s the intent.)

Keith and Lance are the two top contenders, so both get to undergo training with Shiro. They’ll both have the full training, just in case there’s another car accident or something, and the Garrison is running it almost like a reality show, getting the public invested in the Big Question of Who’s going to pilot the mission???

The decision is ultimately Shiro’s, and he’s as pissed off about the spectacle of it as Keith is. (Lance, conversely, is absolutely loving the attention.) He doesn’t know what the public opinion is, and frankly, he doesn’t care. (It’s about 60-40 favoring Lance, but the Garrison bigwigs are split the opposite way, because Keith is Iverson’s golden boy the same way Shiro was–just a little less inclined to put up with bullshit.)

Lance is sure Shiro’s going to pick Keith. Frankly? So is Keith. Both of them are shocked when Shiro picks Lance.

Lance and Keith have a big fight after it’s announced, and they didn’t talk once in the last month before launch.

It’s now about two years later than canonverse–Lance is 20 for most of the mission, but they launch when he’s still 19, purely for the headline “Teen Pilots Landmark Mission to Kerberos”

The Galra still attack, and the disaster still goes down in history as pilot error.

Pidge didn’t have to sneak into the Garrison–she entered openly a year before the mission launched, has her own crew, and is the top communications cadet in the Garrison. She wants to wreck shit when Sam, Matt, and Lance are declared dead, but Shiro talks her down. (He stayed friends with the Holts even after he was removed from the mission, and through him Pidge knows Keith.)

So Pidge takes a week or two off from classes to grieve and to talk with Keith, both of them stoking the flames of their anger. Pidge doesn’t buy the official story and when she returns to classes she starts hacking the Garrison computers–secretly–looking for the truth.

Keith, in contrast, fully believes Lance was at fault and blames him for killing Pidge’s family. He doesn’t think any of them survived, and he has no outlet for his anger, so he starts going on long flights into the desert–which is where he stumbles upon the Blue Lion’s cave.

Hunk graduated along with Keith and Lance, having been Lance’s engineer as in canon. He spent the year/year and a half after graduation working on Garrison ships, but when Lance “dies” he quits and opens a restaurant/gets a job as head chef at a restaurant instead. He can’t stand working at the place that reminds him of his best friend.

Shiro is a regular patron at Hunk’s restaurant, and the two are pretty good friends, all things considered. He knows Pidge and Keith distantly–Keith mostly as “Lance’s rival who’s actually a pretty cool guy” and Pidge as “Shiro’s friend who’s always on her computer looking at technical diagrams.”

Pidge and Keith both wind up at the crash site in the desert as they do in canon. Lance has visible scars and a white streak in his hair, but he has a cybernetic eye and maybe a prosthetic leg, too, instead of the arm Shiro has. Keith and Pidge break Lance out mostly to get answers about the Holts, and once they have him, they kind of panic because, hello, they’re now fugitives.

Keith calls Shiro and tells him exactly nothing except that Lance is at their shack in the desert. Shiro was at Hunk’s restaurant when he got the call, and Hunk overhears. He rips off his apron and demands that Shiro bring him along, so the five of them are once more all together in the Blue Lion’s cave when she chooses Shiro.

Shiro still kind of thinks of himself as Lance’s mentor and it takes a while for them to get used to the changes. Because Shiro is still happy and mostly healthy and he wants to protect the younger paladins, Lance especially, but he can’t deny that Lance is far more suited to protecting the rest of them. He knows the enemy, he has practice fighting, he’s a scary good sniper and just as deadly in the heat of battle. Lance ultimately becomes the team’s leader, while Shiro acts as their emotional support.

There’s also friction among the younger paladins–a much deeper rooted conflict between Keith and Lance than in the show, and Pidge’s festering resentment about the Kerberos mission (she knows it’s not Lance’s fault, but she and Keith fueled each other, so she can’t quite let it go). Hunk is 100% on Team Lance, so he initially doesn’t get along well with Keith or Pidge, and Lance just isn’t interested in repairing bridges other people burned for him. It falls to Shiro to play peacemaker and get them all on the same page.

And yeah, idk where the plot goes from there except more or less the same way canon goes, but there’s lots of angst. ^.^’

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lymricks · 6 years

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If you're into it and have the time, I'd love to see the scene in which the kids give Billy his winter coat in a little more detail. Also maybe a Billy/Hopper interaction? Or a Billy/Joyce conversation? I have such a thing for watching Billy interact with the people who love and care about Steve. Your head canons about these relationships work too, if you've got any you want to share!

Hi Anon!!! It’s a gift giving holiday for some people, so here’s a Chicago-verse gift giving fic where the termites give Billy his jacket.

I’m hopping on a plane in a few hours to go on an Exciting Adventure with my best friend. My queue is all loaded up and I’m sure I’ll be around a bit, but feel free to drop prompts in my ask box for me to do when I get back/on planes. I hate flying and I’ll be very bored. See you in the new year, everyone!!!!

the one with the winter coat (now also on ao3, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to link it on this stupid app), ~1500 words, T

Harrington has been gone for one hour and twenty four minutes. Billy has given up on trying to act like he’s Totally Fine hanging around the Harrington house with Harrington’s ex-girlfriend and six teenagers. He’s bored as shit and they’re all fucking weird as shit and Hawkins makes his skin crawl.

He’s here for Thanksgiving and the turkey better be fucking incredible.

Harrington had pressed a kiss to his temple one hour and twenty–five, now–minutes ago before running out to the store with Jonathan. A few quick things, he said. A few quick things Billy’s ass. He should have just gone with them. Except–

“I ran into your dad at the grocery store that one time,” Harrington had murmured. Billy had been sitting on the Harrington’s kitchen island and Harrington was standing between the v of his thighs. The sentence made Billy flinch away and cut his gaze, but Steve’s hands on his thighs had kept him from jumping off. “I’m just saying I don’t think you should come with me for this,” Steve had continued, and he’d run his hands up Billy’s thighs and kissed at Billy’s lower lip. Sometimes when Harrington did that Billy felt like he was drowning and it was maybe the best thing he’d felt probably ever. It made him want to say yes to whatever Harrington was asking of him. “I don’t want your dad to surprise you.” It’s a fair point, Billy has to concede that. He doesn’t want to see his dad, doesn’t want him to appear beside the eggo waffles, doesn’t want to hear the low undertone of his voice, or see his stupid fucking mustache. That’s why–when they’re in Hawkins–he almost never goes anywhere without Harrington as an escort. That’s why–right now–he is wandering aimlessly around Harrington’s house while Nancy pointedly does not stare and all six teenagers track his movements like some sort of birds of prey.

He’s going to have to come back and do this all over again for Christmas, although probably at the Byers’s house. They’re only here because Harrington’s parents are out of town for the holiday and the kids like all the different rooms in the house and Harrington’s bigger tv.

Back for Christmas. Billy doesn’t want to come back here ever. Twice in less than a month is–a lot for him to know is coming.

“I need a smoke,” he mumbles to the room at large, grabbing his brown leather jacket–the same one from high school, he loves it and they’re expensive to replace–and wanders out into the backyard. “Fuck,” he says to the empty air outside, tipping his head back to exhale smoke in a stream at the starless sky. He’d never come here in high school, but he’d been four houses over once. He can still hear the echoes of the sirens he’d run from after climbing out that girl’s window, laughing, with his pants half off.

Billy breathes in cold air and smoke. He should have gone to the store, but in the eight months they’ve been together, Billy’s been back to Hawkins, been staying at the Harrington’s house, been chauffeured around in the passenger seat of a borrowed car that Harrington’s driving a lot of times. He thinks people have probably put two and two together about Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, but he wonders–all the fucking time–what people in this shitty little town think about the Harrington boy being in some sort of arrangement with that no good Hargrove kid. He doesn’t mind being the no good kid so much as he minds the things it must make people think about Harrington–about–about Steve.

He pats his pocket, but there’s no more cigarettes there and already Billy feels jittery with the knowledge, like he’s drowning and not in the good way. He hopes someone else has a pack, but who’s he going to ask? Dustin? He’s still half-grinning to himself at the thought of asking Dustin for a cigarette when he slides the door open and steps back inside. It’s too cold to stand outside, especially without a cigarette. Even while he’d been smoking, Billy was fighting the biting Indiana chill.

The kids are huddled together just inside the door. Dustin has both hands on his head. Lucas is looking back and forth between Mike and Dustin in disbelief.

“He’s already got a jacket,” Mike is saying, waving his hands around.

“It’s not a winter coat,” Will answers. He’s standing more in the middle of the circle and he cuts his gaze to El, who nods. “It’s not very warm,” he adds.

“We also already bought it!” Lucas rolls his eyes then turns the full force of his glare on Mike. Billy’s impressed by how intense it is. Kid’s been practicing in the mirror, maybe. “So this whole conversation is stupid.”

“We have to do it for Steve,” Dustin explains.

“For him, too. He’s cold,” the weird girl–Hopper’s daughter, El, adds.

“I already said we should do this,” Max says, and she huffs on a big sigh. “He doesn’t–it’s right to.”

“And we already bought it,” Lucas says again.

“I just think it should be the right gift,” Mike snaps and when Billy steps closer Mike’s holding both hands up, looking a lot like surrender even if his mouth is pulled down at the corners. “It’s his first official gift. We got Steve something way better.”

“Shut up,” Max hisses then, and her bright eyes meet Billy’s across the room. shoving Mike’s shoulder. As though they all have one brain, six pairs of teenage eyes turn in unison to look at Billy.

“Right,” Billy says slowly. “I can just–”

“We have something for you,” Dustin shouts it, bursts up from where he’s hunched over at Lucas’s shoulder clutching a lumpy, paper-wrapped square. The paper is just plain and brown, but when it’s thrust into Billy’s hands–the rest of the kids behind Dustin poking their heads over his shoulder like some sort of cartoon–he can see that there’s drawings on it.

“Will did them,” Mike says helpfully when Billy runs a finger over one.

There’s a series of crayon and pencil images. His Camaro, long gone now, and Billy crouched in a leather jacket, staring–moodily, he would definitely call the expression Will Byers drew on his face moody–out a window. There’s the Byers’s house, and a rough sketch of the necklace Billy never takes off, and one of Max that Billy recognizes as a real moment from a few months ago–her with both hands around his wrist, trying to drag him to the ground. She’d been trying to win a particularly aggressive game of basketball. Billy hadn’t called her foul.

It’s the drawing in the top left corner next to Dustin’s messy handwriting–which reads To Billy from Termites–that Billy’s gaze stops on. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The drawing is a scene from their old apartment in Chicago. He knows it by the tiny kitchen window Will’s drawn behind the couch, the one Harrington always left Christmas lights up around. The drawing itself is of Billy and Harrington. They’re sitting on the couch next to each other. Will’s drawn them with their knees bumping, with Harrington’s cheek flopped lazily against Billy’s shoulder, with Billy’s arm stretched out behind him, his fingers just curling over Harrington’s shoulder.

Billy has never felt vulnerable in front of teenagers before, not really. He wonders, looking down at this package, if he’s going to fucking cry.

“There’s actually something else inside it,” Dustin says. When Billy looks up he’s rolling his eyes, but Will’s cheeks are tinged red and Billy lets his mouth curl into something that, under a microscope, under extreme duress, he might admit is a smile.

“Open it,” Dustin says.

Billy does. Slowly and with–with reverence, really–he peels back the corners. Underneath the wrapping, which is in itself the best present he’s ever gotten–is a warm, dark winter coat. There’s no fur lining the hood, like Harrington’s has and which Billy makes fun of endlessly. It’s just simple. It just looks warm. He sets the paper down carefully on the table and sheds his leather jacket, pulling it on.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Max breathes. “You know how to say thank you?”

It breaks the moment, and Billy’s so grateful to her for it, because he doesn’t know what to do with his face. He chucks his old jacket at her face and then Mike is grabbing El and dragging her back toward the tv because a show he likes is on it, he can hear the music, come on hurry and Lucas tries to help Max fix her hair.

It’s just Dustin and Will, then, looking at Billy in his new winter coat. Billy pushes hair out of his face, doesn’t really know how to say thank you for something like all this.

“Told you it was a good present,” Dustin says, sounding smug and looking at Will.

“I was on your side!” Will exclaims.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “It’s. It’s really good.”

Then the door swings open. Jonathan shouts for the kids to come help carry groceries in, and Billy is left standing alone in the Harrington’s house for a silent two minutes. He can just sort of hear them outside, the rustle of plastic bags, the slamming of car doors.

Harrington is the first through the door. Billy can hear him drop plastic bags in the kitchen, listens to the sound of his footsteps as he comes closer. Harrington appears, suddenly, in front of him. His cheeks are pink from the Hawkins cold and his grin is warm and immediate the second he sees Billy.

Billy feels like he’s drowning. He reaches for Harrington like he’s a life vest. “Nice coat,” Harrington says, sounding a little surprised when Billy tugs him closer and slides his hands into Harrington’s back pockets, but leaning into Billy’s chest all the same. “They’ve been nervous about that for three weeks.”

Billy looks up at Harrington’s big stupid eyes and feels warm in a lot of different ways, all at once.

#you'll lose the blues in chicago #my fic #harringrove

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