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septembercfawkes · 9 months

Text

Directionality in Fiction: Why You Need it & How to Create it

Every successful story has a sense of direction. The audience wants, and even needs, an idea of where the story is going. If the audience literally has no idea what could happen next, then that often means what happens next doesn't really hold any value one way or another. It's like Willy Wonka's river ride into darkness--confusing, awkward, and a little bizarre. It's hard to trust Willy Wonka to get you anywhere. Writers should avoid being like Willy Wonka, for several reasons.

Wait! you may be thinking. Don't we want our stories to be unpredictable? Isn't not knowing where the story is going more exciting?

Many beginning writers make this mistake (including yours truly back in the day). They think having no clue where the story is going makes it more of a page-turner. They may recall audience members happily describing a story, saying, "I had no clue where it was going!" or "I had no idea what was going to happen next!"

These are just expressions of emotion. In reality, for the audience to even have those emotions, they usually must have a sense of direction first.

It's a similar concept to being vague versus being ambiguous. Vagueness happens when you don't have enough context to tell what something is, if anything. Ambiguity happens when there is enough context to interpret something in two or more ways, and you aren't sure which it is. When audiences say, "I had no clue where it was going," often what they really mean is, "I didn't know which of the critical directions it would go."

A story that has no sense of direction is almost never as effective as one that does. Without a sense of direction, the audience can't measure what is progress or what is a setback. They can't get invested, because they can't anticipate anything. They can't feel tension or suspense or even surprise, because they can't hope or fear for what could happen, and don't have expectations for what is going to happen.

Instead of Willy Wonka's tunnel of terror, imagine taking a hike toward a beautiful waterfall (it can still be made of chocolate if you want). A twisted ankle, closed trail, or nearby predator is a bigger setback than if we had nowhere we were trying to go. A shortcut is a bigger leap in progress if we are trying to reach a specific destination. And discovering we're actually on a trail that leads to an active volcano is a bigger surprise.

There are two critical plot elements that will automatically inject directionality into your story. Then, there are a lot of alternative methods you can use to reinforce it, or that you can rely on when performing a rule break (more on that in a bit). First, let's go over the two major ones:

1. Goals

A character's goal immediately gives the audience a sense of direction. This is because goals are about an outcome. They instantly convey what the character wants to happen, or doesn't want to happen. In order to be effective, though, they have to be achievable and relevant. Who cares if your character wants to do magic, if magic is literally impossible in your setting? That's not a real goal--it's a wish.

There are three basic types of goals: obtain, avoid, or maintain.

Convey a clear, relevant, and achievable goal early, and your audience will not only have a strong sense of direction, but they'll be more invested--because they'll want to see if the character gets the goal.

Then, if you add how the character plans to get the goal, you'll reinforce the goal and sense of direction even more.

2. Stakes

Many like to define stakes as what is at risk in the story. I feel like it's more effective and more accurate to define them as potential consequences. It's what could happen if a condition is met. If Voldemort gets the Sorcerer's Stone, then he can return to power. If Frodo destroys the Ring, then he saves Middle-earth. If Katniss cuts down the tracker jacker hive, then she can get away from the Careers.

As you may have noticed, stakes are often tied to goals. They are often the potential consequences of meeting or not meeting a goal.

Stakes are about conveying to the audience what could happen. This gives what does happen, meaning.

Stakes also innately convey a pathway, a direction. If X happens, we'll go down path A. If Y happens, we'll go down path B.

I've never seen a story with too many stakes. I've seen lots of stories that don't have enough stakes. Walk the stakes out to create strong directionality.

And don't assume your audience will simply imagine the stakes on their own. Almost always, they want the story to tell them (explicitly or implicitly) the stakes. Almost always, the story is better when we clearly communicate the stakes. Avoid being vague. Help the audience imagine which important pathways the story could take.

These are the two most important, and most effective, ways to create directionality--they accomplish multiple major things at once.

However, this doesn't mean they are the only ways to create directionality.

And while they are almost always critical to a solid plot, that doesn't mean you can't ever break the rules and have them be absent on occasion.

If they are absent though, that usually means something else needs to be used to create directionality in their place (unless, of course, you are working with a teaser--but even they can arguably have a sense of direction). So how do stories without legit goals or stakes still work? Well, they probably incorporate at least one of the following things--which you can also use to reinforce directionality when you already have goals and stakes in play.

3. Dramatic Irony

Dramatic irony happens when the audience knows something the character doesn't. Often this is a critical piece of information, and frequently (though not always) it is implied that the character will learn the same thing at a later point in the story. In a horror, we watch the villain enter a dark room, and later see the heroine, oblivious, go in that same room. It's likely only a matter of time before the heroine realizes the villain is in there, and the audience anticipates that encounter. This creates directionality.

Even if the character never learns the critical information (such as the fact that Juliet isn't actually dead in Romeo and Juliet), the audience still anticipates how the character will interpret or react to what they do encounter (a Juliet who seems to be dead).

4. Convergence of Plotlines

In a story that contains multiple viewpoint characters, each with plotlines, it's often implied or assumed that these plotlines and characters will converge. We may start a story with a rich man eating a feast for breakfast, then taking his recent earnings to the bank. And after, we may cut to a scene where a poor, starving woman is begging, perhaps a block away from the same bank. The audience anticipates that these two characters will cross paths.

Sometimes the two viewpoints or plotlines don't seem to have anything in common, but the audience expects they will relate to each other on some level--they are in the same book after all.

Promise your audience a collision of plotlines, and you'll promise them a sense of direction.

5. Countdowns

A countdown automatically implies direction--whether or not the audience knows the consequences tied to it. We show a clock counting down, and we wonder if a bomb will go off or if another catastrophe will hit once it reaches zero. Or, it could be a countdown to a celebration, like the New Year.

Countdowns on a timer are obvious, but there are other types of countdowns too. A simple calendar can work as a countdown. In Christmas Vacation, an advent calendar is used to count down the days until Christmas. Each Harry Potter volume fulfills one school year, each chapter brings us closer to the year's end. So even when there isn't a dire goal in play, there is always directionality.

A deadline works in similar ways.

There can be a countdown when using up resources: Fuel is running out. Oxygen is limited. There is only one loaf of bread left to eat.

Illnesses and maladies can work as countdowns. There may be a countdown to when cancer wins, or when a spell leaves its target as an unseemly beast, permanently.

Countdowns always imply direction.

Knowing the potential consequences--the stakes--creates more tension and suspense, not knowing them creates intrigue.

6. Geographical Destinations

A destination naturally implies direction. In The Emperor's New Groove, Kuzco needs to make it back to his palace. Every step closer is progress, and every obstacle that blocks or pulls him off course is a setback.

But destinations can still work even when there isn't one specific destination yet established. Whenever you open a book that starts with a map, it implies a sense of geographical direction. You may not know exactly which place is the desired destination, but the map promises that the characters will be venturing to different places.

7. Passive Mysteries

Passive mysteries work by withholding context from the audience. Stuff is happening, but the audience doesn't really know what it means (think: vagueness). Because of the lack of information, no one is really doing anything to solve the mystery--there aren't any "leads." (In contrast, in an active mystery, the character has the goal to solve the mystery and has leads to follow.)

Teasers often work as passive mysteries (which is why I said sometimes even they have a sense of direction). The audience is promised that if they stick around, they will get the context they need, to understand what is going on. The audience is promised a direction.

Passive mysteries often can't hold an audience for very long, strictly because they work off vagueness. You need other elements in play to get readers to stick around.

Nonetheless, the promise of context does give readers somesense of direction.

Active mysteries create directionality too, but in the same way that goals do. In an active mystery, the goal is to try to solve the mystery, so the audience is promised a direction with that.

Directionality is important in every story, and not only is it important in the whole narrative arc, but it is important within acts, sequences, and scenes, too. Nearly every scene should have directionality, which should be established early on.

Once the audience has directionality, you can make the story more exciting and dramatic (and even "unpredictable"). They think things are going X direction, but something comes along that threatens that direction or even throws the characters off course and onto a new pathway, a new direction. Just like our (chocolate) waterfall hike. In any case, there should almost always be a sense of direction.

#writing tips and tricks #writing tips #writing help #writeblr #writing advice #writing reference #writing tip #writer #writing #fanfic

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olderthannetfic · 1 month

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I found AO3 pretty intuitive. Took me like 5 minutes to realize how all the little buttons work. They're pretty straightforward. Apart from the AND filters - took me a while to realize what type of filters AO3 used. Beyond that, I'm not sure why people have a hard time? Wattpad and FFnet are way more of a pain in the ass.

It's all about familiarity.

I mean, look, AO3 works how my brain works. When we first set it up, it was what we were all used to, more or less, but an upgrade. It was hard to even see how it could ever be unintuitive because this was just How Things Were. From the style of trope tags to the fact that there's an index of fandoms by media type, it was all familiar.

But that thinking is a trap.

It's easy to say "Oh, well, that person's just an idiot", and sometimes, the problem really is laziness or sleep deprivation, but a lot of the time, it's different cultural context.

By the time we were designing AO3, I'd had many rounds of formal instruction in how to use library catalogues of various sorts, familiarity with Delicious, years in LJ slash fandom whose assumptions form the metadata structures of AO3, etc.

There's nothing strange about going "Why are ship types a top level system of organization?" or "How do I search for genre X in any anime fandom but not in non-anime fandoms?"

It's strange to me, but it's not strange in the context of people who read fanfic overall.

It's not just about learning the search features that do exist: it's about unconscious assumptions about what metadata must exist.

If you don't know to look for something and you aren't coming from a culture where poking buttons is encouraged, you're going to take a lot longer to find things than if you already have a good idea of what's probably there somewhere.

To pick two very obvious examples:

If I were designing a gen-focused archive, I'd make genre a top-level organization system, like on FFN.

If I were designing a more x-reader-focused or One True Character-focused archive, I'd make the ship searches work like Character X/Anyone instead of having to click on each ship of your blorbo or each ship with Reader.

If someone has years of experience searching for some bullshit 'trickyfish' style nonsense ship name because they're on sites with garbage searches, they'll go to AO3, plug some words into the search bar at the top, and then feel like they can't find any relevant results because everything that turns up is just that word in author's notes on an irrelevant fic. They might even go to advanced search...

...and then totally miss that the sidebar filters are the best part of AO3, and they don't appear when you do a search search as opposed to starting from a tag.

Isn't Advanced Search the most... well... advanced search? On every other website, it is, but not on AO3.

Each new site/technology/culture/etc. a person has to learn takes time and attention. If you're exhausted and burnt out, that's hard. Even if you're not, it takes at least some effort. It doesn't Just Happen, not for every person and every new thing.

We should tell people to read the damn FAQ, yes.

But I can't say I always do that myself on every site unless I'm both having a problem and invested enough to care about solving it.

On an average day, most of us don't need to care why some people have a hard time figuring out AO3.

But if anyone is planning to design a site or needs to teach a bunch of kids how to use the library or something, it's worth keeping in mind just how many unconscious assumptions are hiding behind the idea of something—literally anything—being "intuitive".

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auteurdelabre · 4 months

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Please Mister Miller? Part 5 CheatingJoel!Millerxf!Reader

"Please Mister Miller" part 5

Rating: 18+

Words: 4.3k

Tags/warnings: Cheating, Unprotected P in V, Dirty Talk, Public Sex, Almost Caught, Joel has a ‘Daddy’ kink, car sex, mirror sex, Feelings

Summary: Joel has to run errands and you tag along. . .

a/n: I took a poll and y’all wanted to see this sleazy pair keep gettin’ off so I hope you like it! As usual drop the comments because I live for ‘em.

masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I'm heading into town," Joel says with eyes on everyone but you. "Gotta get some replacement lights and run a few errands if anyone wants to join."

It's the next morning and you're all around the breakfast table eating cereal and chatting about your plans for the day. You're seated next to Joel, eyes on your bowl as your thigh presses against his under the table. He keeps his leg there, not shying from your touch. It makes you feel warm all over.

"I can't," Sarah says, the lie she told you yesterday already on her lips. "I have to grab a few things from the storage locker before we go home."

She's really going to see Charlie one last time before she heads home.

"I'm going to the office for a few hours, remember?" Tess says through a mouthful, her eyes on her phone.

"Oh right," Joel says as if he'd forgotten.

"I could go with you," you say lightly. "I have a few things I need to mail off back home."

"Sure, if you want."

Joel shrugs back as if he couldn't care less. But seated next to him you see the swell of his cock under his jeans. He's eager.

That's good because so are you.

///

When you finally pull on your jacket and follow him to the garage an hour or so later you're forced to pause as you glance around curiously. You've never been in here, haven't seen this domain of his.

He's got a workbench meticulously organized with cork holders on the wall. But that's not what amazes you when you draw over to it. It's the tiny intricate carvings there, one of a snowman and another of an angel.

"I didn't know you carved," you say curiously.

Joel shrugs, not saying more. You know why, it's the same reason you don't share more about yourself. It's not relevant to what you want from one another.

"Ready to go?"

You nod, pulling yourself up into his truck and buckling yourself in. He backs out of the driveway, neither of you speaking.

For some reason this feels tense, the drive quiet and punctuated only by the gentle hum of the radio playing holiday favorites. Eventually the tension gets to Joel because he clears his throat.

"So you're goin' back tomorrow."

"Yep."

"You excited?'

You look at Joel from the corner of your eyes, amusement clear in your features. It's such a dad thing to say. He looks uneasy, his dark eyes flicking from you to the road.

"You don't have to pretend like you care," you tell him gently.

"Who says I don't?"

"Joel," you say the meaning clear.

This is fucking. This is carnal. This isn't a relationship. It's not a friendship. It's release, plain and simple.

Joel doesn't like this. You can see it in the way he drums his thick fingers over the wheel, his dark brows furrowed. He's a man who cares, even if he tries not to and so he tries another tactic.

"You got someone waiting for you back at school?"

You give a scoff. "Nope. Got dumped right before Christmas. S'why Sarah brought me with her."

Joel gives a humming noise, looking thoughtful, his presence calming. It makes you feel like you should continue.

"He was my first boyfriend," you say with your eyes on your hands in your lap. "When we broke up he said it was because he didn't want to settle down with the only girl he slept with."

Joel inhales slowly through his nose, your words upsetting him enough to now tighten his fist around the steering wheel.

"Idiot boy to let you go."

You give a weak smile, holding back the tears that build behind your eyes. "The worst part is I thought we were getting engaged."

Joel's eyes widen. "Shit."

"Yeah," you nod again. "But, you know, it was for the best. I've realized after this week with you that he was terrible in bed."

Joel lets out a surprised laugh at this; warm and full. It makes you smile to hear it. He says nothing further and the silence descends once more, but this one comfortable. Eventually you stop at a big box store with Joel jogging in to grab the lights he told Tess he'd bring home.

As you watch him you can't help but imagine what life as Joel's partner would be like. A cozy home with beautiful paintings on the walls. The smell of leather and wood shavings clinging to him as he rolls over in the morning, gathering you into his arms.

There's a longing there, a sudden desire for more than sex. A warmth that you weren't expecting when this all started.

Joel returns shortly with a box of lights under his arms and a plastic bag in the other. You look at his body, the wide shoulders and the strong thighs. Your eyes meet his and you see the desire in them as he winks at you.

If you can't have him as your partner, you'll have him now. You'll have him any way you can. Joel gives you a small smirk as he tosses the lights and bag in the back seat of the truck.

"If Tess asks, you and I had a hard time choosing the best set."

You and I.

His words rattle around in your mind.

You steal glances at him as the drive continues out of town, to where the trees are fuller, the landscape more desolate. You feel Joel's hand on your knee, fingers tracing small lines over the inside of your bare thighs.

You sigh happily, basking in the warmth of Joel's touch. When his hand slides higher you part your legs without hesitation, eyes watching from under lowered lids as his long fingers skate under your skirt.

His fingers curl under the fabric, ready to hit cotton and you hold a giggle as you wait for him to realize. He darts a look at you.

"No panties?"

"Nope," you grin.

"Good fucking girl," Joel murmurs approvingly. His voice scratches an itch deep inside you, making you preen.

Traffic is thinning but the roads are still populated enough. That doesn't stop Joel from curling his fingers into you, marveling at how wet you are.

"Always ready for me."

"Uh huh," you keen, hand flying to his. You maneuver his wrist slightly, pushing it deeper at that angle and crying out when it hits that sweet spot.

"That's right," Joel encourages with a grin. "You show me what you like."

He drives the truck, cock hard under his jeans as you give shuddering breaths beside him. His fingers dance over your slick clit as you try to remain composed, hearing as your cunt milks his fingers, your thighs quivering. He darts his eyes from you to the road and back again.

"C'mon baby," Joel urges you, his cheeks pinking. "Gimme a good one."

You do. Your hips buck into his hand as you cry out, body jolting in the seat and feeling your warm release dripping over his palm like honey.

You watch in a daze as Joel brings his slick fingers out from under your skirt to his mouth, licking slowly.

"Tastes so sweet," he rumbles.

You let out a small moan at the sight of it. Your hand reaches for the bulge in his jeans but he shakes his head, gently pressing your hand away to fold back in your lap.

"Not yet," he says with a voice of sin. "Be patient."

You don't have to be patient for much longer. In less than fifteen minutes you've arrived at the destination, a large dirt pile on one side, gravel stacks on the other. It looks like an abandoned quarry.

"Where are we?"

"Construction site my company is working on," Joel murmurs. He turns the car off, unbuckling his seatbelt. You raise a brow.

"Why here?"

"Got lots of privacy," Joel says smiling, his body tilting to face you. "Can be as loud as we want."

You duck your head, suddenly shy. You crack the window slightly, needing something to cool the heat in your cheeks. Joel shifts into the middle of the bench seat, down to business. There's no seduction, no romance.

"Over my lap," Joel murmurs gently, his eyelids already heavy. "C'mon now."

You smile shyly as you unbuckle yourself and crawl over the bench seat. You move delicately over his lap, breath leaving you as your abdomen goes over his muscular thighs. Your face is burning as he brings your skirt up over your ass to your waist, making a humming noise as he looks at the sweet flesh waiting for him.

Joel slaps your ass, watching it jostle under his hand. You yelp in surprise, but not in pain. His wide hand grips one cheek, his groans low and long.

"All for me," he mutters and you bite your lower lip, groaning at how deep his voice is when he says it.

He smacks it again, his cock hardening further under you as he watches your ass jiggle deliciously.

"You’re up for anything aren't you?"

You consider this as he places another slap to your ass, hypnotized at how your flesh moves under his hand.

"Yeah."

"You like older men?"

"Dunno," you say, arching as Joel's hand continues slapping your ass. "You're my first."

"You lyin' to me?"

"No Mister Miller," you say honestly, tilting so you can meet his surprised gaze. "I've only slept with one other person."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah."

He almost snarls at that. He urges you to a kneeling position before he twists you to face away from him on your knees.

Your shirt is tugged off over your head by him, discarded by your purse on the floor of the truck. Joel is behind you, urging you onto all fours on the seat as he pulls down his jeans. He grabs handfuls of your ass, squeezing and groaning.

"Gonna let me fuck this little ass?"

For the first time since you've met him you pause. You've never done that before. It's never appealed to you. It still doesn't if you're honest.

Joel seems to sense your hesitancy. You wait for him to chastise, to show his disappointment. But instead his voice drops an octave.

"On second thought, I wanna fuck that sweet pussy raw instead."

Joel is much more vocal here, less restrained in the privacy of his truck. You smile when you feel him notch himself at your entrance.

"Gimme something to remember," Joel grunts out as he thrusts into you. You let out a hiss of pleasure at the sensation, hands curling around the worn material of the trucks seat.

He sets a brutal pace, sending you flying if not for his hands holding your hips in place. He grunts out as he fucks into you, murmuring under his breath. You rock back and forth, ass bouncing off his hips as he thrusts.

"Good girl ...good girl..."

You feel his wide right palm move to hold you in place by your lower back and you feel your pussy tighten around his cock. You jerk forward, your tits jolting as he slides between you, thrusting you forward and back.

"Use your left hand to pin me," you whimper. He's confused for a moment, hesitating before he does as you ask. He glowers at you when he realizes what you're after.

"You want me looking at my wedding ring while I fuck you."

"Uh huh," you twist to look at him over your shoulder, smirking. He's looking at you with his jaw slack and eyes dark with desire. Joel grunts out, hips smacking obscenely against the meat of your ass.

"Want you to know how bad you’re being."

That you're choosing me an insidious voice whispers inside you.

"Does your wife's pussy feel this good, Mister Miller?" you ask, moans being punched out of you with every thrust. "This wet 'n tight for you?"

Joel gives a strangled groan as his hand tangles itself in your hair. He tugs, pulling you to arch against him. Your ass ripples with every thrust, your hands braced on the edges of the seat.

"You fucking shut up and take this cock," Joel grunts out angrily. He watches your body start with every thrust into you.

"I'll give you anything you want," you promise, voice cracking. "Just don't stop. You feel so fucking good."

"Pussy's never been fucked right," Joel tells you.

"Uh uh," you shake your head as much as you can with Joel's fist still tugging.

"Only fucked a boy," Joel says, his hips jerking forward. "When you needed a man's cock inside you."

"Yes Mister Miller," you groan out, tears flooding your waterline. It feels so fucking good. Not just because it's wrong but because he's so deep inside you and he knows what he's doing.

"Gonna take all this come," Joel grunts and you can feel him starting to unravel.

"Gonna take-"

Joel ceases abruptly, pulling from you so brutally you cry out. He practically shoves you away from him.

"Put on your fucking clothes. Hurry."

There's a fear in his voice that you've never heard before. It prompts you to do as he asked, pulling the shirt back on and tucking it into your skirt. Joel tucks himself back into his jeans as you look out the rearview mirror just in time to see a cop car pulling up behind the truck .

"Shit," Joel swears and you can see the panic in his face. He knows how this looks. Alone with a college girl in his car, the band on his left finger a brutal reminder of how wrong it all is.

The officer gets out of his car before slowly sauntering towards the truck. Joel is thankful for the cracked the window because fogged up windows would incriminate him absolutely.

"Hey there," the officer says leaning over Joel's lowered window.

"Hey officer," Joel says trying to sound calm. "I know I wasn't speeding..."

The two men chuckle lightly as you hold in an eye roll. Dad humor.

"License and registration."

Joel's face is pinched as he leans over you to open the glove box. He pulls out some papers and then pulls his wallet from his back pocket, retrieving his license. You watch him pass off both to the officer.

"What're you doing all the way out here... Joel Miller?" The officer says peering at the license from behind his aviators.

My construction company is working on this site," Joel says, hands indicating out the windshield. "Wanted to check in on it over the holidays. Heard there were some break-ins nearby."

The officer’s eyes drag over to you, sitting quietly watching them. Suspicion fills the officers expression.

"And you’re just tagging along, miss?"

Joel's head swivels to face you, eyes unreadable. But you know him; you can feel the anxiety coming off of him in waves.

You straighten, giving the officer your best and brightest smile. The kind that says you're honest and trustworthy. The kind you use with professors when you need to turn in late assignments.

"Yeah, my Daddy promised me a ride," you say, batting your eyelashes at the officer and smiling broadly. "I don't get to see him as much since I'm away at college."

Joel is looking at you with a mix of confusion and horror.

The officer's suspicion flees from his eyes, his countenance softening. You think that somewhere back home this officer has a daughter who ignores his texts, who rolls her eyes when he suggests a family game night.

"Sweet she still wants to spend time with you at this age," the officer says almost fondly looking between you.

You nod, taking Joel's hand in yours. He's stricken, his hands barely curling around yours.

"I'm really lucky," you say smiling sweetly at the officer. "He treats me so well but then again I'm always a good girl for you, right Daddy?"

You don't miss Joel's neck bobbing as you say this. Don't miss the swelling of his cock starting again under his jeans. He shifts, his shirt falling over the vee of his legs.

"Yep," Joel nods stiffly.

"I bet you are," the officer says with a warm smile. He hands Joel back his license before tapping a finger to the brim of his hat. "Well I won't interfere any more. Take care you two. Happy Holidays."

"Happy Holidays officer!" You chirp as Joel croaks out a weak farewell. You both watch as the officer loads back into his police car and drives off down the one way road.

Minutes pass and the two of you are silent, waiting, watching. Finally you see Joel's shoulders relax and he lets out a breath. You giggle, relief flooding your senses.

"Daddy?" Joel grimaces over at you. "Don't tell me you're one of those."

You shrug, uncertain. You may not be completely into it but Joel sure is, despite his denial. You see it in the blown out pupils of his dark eyes.

"So do I get a ride?" you ask him as you crawl over to him, eyes trailing his body.

"You insane?" Joel says with disbelief in his features. "We almost got caught by a fucking cop."

"He won't be back," you say grinning wickedly. Your finger goes to trace his still hard cock through his jeans. "And we both know you still want to."

"Shouldn't," Joel groans even as he fumbles with the button and fly of his jeans.

You crawl over his lap and situate yourself between Joel and the steering wheel, facing out the windshield. It’s so desolate, yet the thought that you could be caught turns you on. You start smiling as he tugs the t-shirt over your head again and pulls you onto his waiting cock.

He slides seamlessly through your dripping folds, cupping your tits in his hands. You arch into his grip and begin to rock your hips.

"Mhmmm, good girl."

You listen as Joel begins grunting behind you and you lean back, the back of your head tilted against his shoulder as he fucks up into you. Your hands hold loosely to his wrists whimpering when he begins to twist your nipples ever so slightly between his fingers.

“Feels good, Daddy," you whisper, smirking when you hear Joel give a choke of surprise.

You catch his heavy-lidded gaze in the rearview mirror and you grin. He likes that he can watch you fucking. You can see how he holds you against him, fucking up into you. You reach up to tilt the mirror slightly and then bring your legs up, forcing your thighs to part and giving a lewd view of where you’re connected.

You bunch your skirt at your waist so you can both see him thrusting up between your legs in the mirrors reflection. You're both mesmerized at the sight of his glossy cock as it saws in and out of you.

"Daddy, you're so big."

"You're fucking sick," Joel says without conviction, his voice breathless.

"Can feel you throbbing when I call you that, though." You giggle. "Can feel it when your fucking me with your big cock, Daddy."

Joel makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. You feel him tightening every time the word passes through your lips.

"Stop pretending you don't like it, Mister Miller."

You give him a wink in the rearview mirror before just tilting back and enjoying the sight of you two fucking. You both look good together, Joel’s handsome face over your shoulder so he can watch his cock splitting you over and over. You see your tits hanging out, rosy tipped nipples between his fingertips. They ripple as Joel enters you over and over. The slick of Joel's cock shines between your legs.

His right hand slides over the crease of your thigh, nimble fingers gliding over the slick pearl of your clit. You give a gutteral moan as pleasure shoots through you.

"Atta girl," Joel smiles broadly at your reflection, watching you bounce for him, his thumb circling your clit with shocking precision.

You groan, your breathing becoming staccato-ed. You don't know how you're going to go back to regular life. How you're going to attend classes and pretend like this last week and a half never happened.

"Feels good riding Daddy's cock, doesn't it?" Joel rasps against your ear, eyes still on yours in the mirror bringing you back to the present.

There he is.

"Yes Daddy."

"Good girl."

It feels so debauched, so illicit. Joel still can't look away, eyes glued to the mirror and his hips move faster as he watches him fuck you in his truck. The same truck he drives to work and does the weekly shopping trip in.

"So fuckin' good for Daddy... So fuckin' wet."

You can tell he's far gone, words slurring. You give a wide lurid smile, rocking your hips down over him. You watch his face in the mirror and see the glaze to his eyes, the way his jaw is hanging slightly ajar. He whimpers, a needy sound that lets you know you have him exactly where you need him.

Joel groans, fingers dimpling your thighs as he fucks up into you faster. Your eyes are rolling back, making Joel jerk his hips up quicker.

"Please," you moan. "Need it."

"What do you need, good girl?"

"Need you to fill me up," you whine, voice breaking with every thrust of him into you. You rock against him, ass bouncing.

"You need Daddy's come?" Joel grunts out, hand lightly holding you against him by the throat.

You can only whine a reply of "yes!", being tugged so harshly against his cock that your teeth crash together. And then you feel that tension in you snap and pleasure floods you, causing you to let out cracked cries of "daddy please!" as you ride out your orgasm, watching Joel the entire time.

"Take it take it," Joel groans, hands going to your waist, holding you in place as his hips move with jerking desperation. "Daddy's girl, Daddy's good girl..."

You watch as Joel's face contorts, eyes slamming shut as he empties himself into you, crying out as he thrusts one finger time and you feel him erupt inside you. He buries his face in the back of your neck as his hips slowly stutter to a stop.

"Fuuuuck," he murmurs as he pulls his softening cock from between your legs. "That was good."

"It really was," you say, sagging against the steering wheel and giving a breathless laugh. Joel's hand is resting on your thigh, gently tracing his fingertips there.

You take a moment to compose yourself before glancing over your shoulder to look at Joel. His face is so close, your lips almost grazing. You two lock eyes, breathing against each other's mouths. It's you who moves first, lips inching to his. But it's Joel who twists his head, blinking.

"We should get back."

Joel shifts and you pull yourself off of his lap, crawling back to where you were sitting. Joel leans back to grab something from the bag.

"Here, I uh, I bought this earlier," Joel says handing you a packet of wipes and a small towel. You smirk before using them to clean his spend from between your legs.

Eventually the truck starts and you watch the quarry grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. You drive in silence, not even the radio to accompany you on your journey back.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

You glance over at Joel who looks strangely withdrawn. "Sure."

"Why didn't you go home to your parents place? Didn't they miss you this Christmas?"

"They uh.... " you trail off, wincing a bit. "They don't really... My parents don't really care what I do. We all kinda do our own thing."

You can feel it immediately, the pity radiating off of Joel. It makes you cringe, your hands twisting around the edge of the seat.

"Maybe if you tried talkin'-"

"I'd worry about your own family before you start giving me advice about mine," you snap out at him feeling irritable. Joel's dark eyes scan to you before going back to the road.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know Sarah has a secret boyfriend back here? Apparently your friends with his dad," you tell him, cheeks warm. "She's afraid you'll judge her if she tells you because he didn't finish college."

You see Joel's jaw clench and you feel so satisfaction at his discomfort. You realize it's not just about this, but the kiss he shied from earlier.

But guilt overwhelms you when you realize you've out-ed your best friend.

"I'm not telling you this so you'll be shitty to her," you chastise. "I'm telling you this because you love your daughter and you guys have a great relationship. You're lucky."

You break off temporarily, swallowing.

"She really likes him. And if you tell her you hate him she's just gonna see him in secret like she has been this entire trip."

Joel drives silently, eyes narrowed. You know he's fighting an internal battle.

"The way Sarah talks about you? You're her hero," you say quietly. "The thought of disappointing you kills her."

You see it in his eyes first, the softening as your words hit home. You see what it's like to be a father first and a disciplinarian second. You look away, feeling your heart being clutched at by a tight yet invisible grip.

Minutes later Joel's hand finds your knee as he drives, squeezing.

"Thanks for tellin' me."

"You're welcome."

Finally you pull into the driveway, hiding the bag of wipes and hand towels under the passenger’s seat. Joel looks strangely sombre as he turns the ignition off, glancing at you.

"You know, you're a very special-"

"Please Joel," you say wincing. "Don't."

Before he can say anything more you slip from the truck, heading into the house, feeling his eyes following your every step.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller smut #fanfic #smut #fanfiction #dad joel miller #cheating #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller x f!reader

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vickyvicarious · 1 year

Note

I know it seems so random that Jonathan went from utter despair and panic to asking Dracula about his family history, I do, but. it was actually clever.

I think it's extremely clever, actually. And not really random at all. (Though I can absolutely see how it might seem that way.) Jonathan says it himself, as he's coming down from his panic/emerging from despair into planning mode:

So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

He can't go to Dracula for help. On the off chance that he's being paranoid, doing so isn't going to help (frankly, even if Dracula were totally innocent and Jonathan were just being paranoid, I think he's already so suspicious of his host that he wouldn't believe any reassurances that might be given. But it's a moot point because Dracula is the cause, Jonathan's correct). And if, as he strongly believes, he is in danger already, Dracula is the one putting him in danger. Confronting him, when he already holds all the power, isn't helpful. Nor is confirming that Jonathan knows what's up by asking him directly about Jonathan's suspicions. Best case scenario, Dracula continues to brush him off like he already did when Jonathan asked questions he didn't want to answer ("Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand"), worst case scenario Dracula also drops the pretence of being 'friends' and gets openly violent or restricts Jonathan's freedoms even more.

So Jonathan concludes right away that he can't go to Dracula. But then right after this, he confirms that Dracula is the only other person in the castle (or at least, there are no servants). That means, he has no one else to go to but Dracula. Jonathan starts thinking about the driver, about the caleche ride, about the gifts given to him by the other local passengers... he wonders what purpose they serve, then he decides to talk to Dracula some more.

Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.

Jonathan's train of thought is something like this: can't confide in the Count -> no one else to ask -> he posed as the driver -> the passengers gave me gifts which may have some meaning -> I'll have to think more about that -> (unstated: the best way to learn information is by talking with someone) -> (unstated: the only person I have to talk to is Dracula) -> I can try and subtly direct the conversation to learn more about Dracula.

That he does so under the auspices of local history makes it clear to me the gifts are still on his mind. He already asked about local superstitions the day before and Dracula got quiet at times, so he doesn't want to press the point. But in amongst his answers the other day, Dracula got very dismissive of the peasants (= he is proud of his noble status), and he mentioned that "Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things." (= at least some if not all of this stuff is linked to Transylvanian ways specifically, which is supported by the locals seeming to have knowledge Jonathan does not.)

So by asking about local history, Jonathan is gathering together a whole bunch of threads. Local history (perhaps including supernatural/relevant elements), learning more about the character and values of his captor (always useful information), not being open with his suspicions, choosing a topic Dracula is likely to talk willingly on at length, and following up on his own points of interest in as subtle a way as possible.

And while Dracula's following diatribe isn't openly discussing his vampirism, it sure does give a sense of his values as well as context clues that can become quite important later.

#dracula daily #jonathan harker #he said he was using all his brains and he meant it!#anonymous #replies #dracula meta #my meta

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00-hawkboi-00 · 7 months

Text

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part Three

Pairing; König x m!reader

Word Count; ~7.66k

Warnings; kinda sorta graphic depiction of stitching up wounds near the end. So if you don't like needles.. be careful.

A/n; König is a sergeant bc I said so and it fits my narrative. There's also plans in work for why he's a part of 141 & background knowledge on him. Lore. Eventually.

(we need more clips of this man istg-)

You were a frustrating man to work with. You had hardly said much of anything during that sad excuse of an interrogation, at least nothing of much use. All they knew now was that there was someone out there who held your leash. Or, well, used to. You were a wildcard now, without someone to keep you on lock and key, and there was no way in the deepest pits of hell they could set you loose on the world with what they knew–which wasn't much. Not unless you were hanging off their every word or buried six feet under an unmarked grave.

--- "babysitting duty" ---

"You talk about him like he's some sort of lab experiment."

"Mm." Well… "maybe he is. Who knows."

"He isn't some feral dog, König."

He didn't like it. As much as your words had ignited a–often ignored–spark in him, there was something itching at the back of his mind telling him you weren't trustworthy. That you'd stab him and the rest of the task force in the back the moment you were left to your own devices.

"We should keep him."

"He's a person."

"Not a good one."

"Neither are we."

They had to keep you, if at least for society's sake, on that straining lead. As any slack would surely be the catalyst of his very own demise.

I could make the world bleed.

The words were stuck on replay in König's mind, as well as the man who had spoken them. It was a horrible thought to have–but he couldn't help but find it.. intriguing. The idea made his heart skip a beat and the corner of his scarred mouth curl.

"He said he'd make the world bleed, König. That's fuckin' creepy as shite!" Ghost spat, arms crossed over his chest, as the two made the journey back to the rest of the team.

"You have said much stranger things, Ghost."

"You can't really be considerin' this." A few beats of silence from the larger man was all the confirmation Ghost needed. "Price would never agree to it."

"He said he could help."

"Help." Ghost huffed. "Right. Help with what exactly? He has no idea what we've been working on."

"Ja, he doesn't know. But what about that bomber? Could it be relevant?" Besides Mouse, the team had been tracking a much more persistent threat. Something that left behind more than just breadcrumbs in the form of mutilated bodies.

"...are you sayin' he could be involved in this?"

"He has been showing up right after every hit."

"Right." Ghost pauses in his tracks, turning his head slightly to look up at the other man. "So you think he's with them? Or.. maybe one of their targets?"

König comes to a stop too and takes a moment to mull it over. Could you have been a part of the group they'd been hunting these past few months? It was a little.. suspicious that you'd show up and take out another high-profile figure right after every strike made. Were you cleaning up their mess? Or your own?

"That's all the more reason to keep him, no? To find out? We know he has someone he reports to." There was also the fact that the explosion had gone off practically right under your own two feet. That had to mean something.

Just following orders?

"It's a little concerning when I of all people have to remind you that he is a very real, living, breathing, capable-of complex-thought person." König brushes off Ghost's concerns with a noncommittal shrug.

If they took the route of you having been just another victim of the explosion, that left many unexplained variables. Such as why you were a target–wouldn't one terrorist organization blend well with another? Why would they be at odds? It also leaves the question that, if you had really been abandoned by your crew, why had "she"–the woman who you'd mentioned–left you for dead? Was it legitimate? Or a ploy of some kind?

Then there was the more believable scenario that would tell it as; you hadn't really been betrayed by your group, or whoever held your metaphorical leash. And the explosion was some kind of distraction, a way to get their attention. Maybe–if one applies the theory that you were in cahoots with the people they'd been hunting–you had wanted to get caught. Or, maybe not you specifically, but whoever "she" was. Maybe you were sent as bait and they'd fallen right into that mouse trap–heh.

Maybe you didn't even know this was all a farce. That would make it all the more believable, no?

Either way, they need you here. For information. And if they played their cards right, if they burrowed their way under your skin and into your heart–like a damn parasite–you would give them exactly what they wanted. Lead them right to both the core of your organization and the group behind the bombing. And if the people or persons behind the bombing were by some miracle connected to who they had been tracking…

"He can help." His words help a certain air of finality to them, a small grin making an appearance under his hood.

Another sigh, but not a no.

Price wasn't as thrilled by König's proposal as Ghost begrudgingly was.

"You want to what." König wasn't a fearful man–unless he was ordering from a drive-thru, that shit was terrifying–but when the Captain looked at him like that. Let's just say he was forever grateful for the cloth that obscured almost the entirety of his face.

"Keep him." And if his voice comes out a little smaller than normal… no one mentions it.

To his right, König hears Ghost let out another heavy sigh. For a man who used to take a blowtorch to a hostage's skin and quite literally wears a skull stitched onto his face every day- if you'd asked König, he'd tell you the Lieutenant had grown soft. Or, well, soft-ish. He would still slit a man's throat without question.

"Why'd you wanna do that?" Gaz pipes up, giving König a blank, indecipherable expression. Coupled with his tone, König couldn't tell which side of the fence he was leaning towards. He knew Gaz, out of all of them, was the one with a more strict moral compass–something König both admired and thought of as foolish–but he also already didn't like their current hostage. So, discerning whether the other man would be for or against his proposition was a complex feat. König would have to walk that fine line, choose his words carefully, to sway Gaz's opinion in his favor.

"We could use his help." Is what König finally lands on. Not leaning too far into what Ghost had described as treating you like a tool, but not dipping into friendly territory either. An even middle ground.

"From what Ghost and I managed to gather," well, König had gathered. Ghost more or less just stood in the background as a silent spectator. "He claims he's been abandoned by someone he'd only refer to as "she". That this woman brought him here from wherever he came from to follow some lead- but that lead seems to have been a dead end."

"A dead end?" If Gaz's thing was compassion and strict morals, Soap's was intrigue. Puzzles and demolitions, that's all it took to draw in their resident impulse-driven pyromaniac.

"A dead end," König repeats, now switching his attention to the Scotsman. "Turns out there was no target, not really. Or, at least, that is what it appears like at first glance."

Soap's eyes light up when König moves to reach into his pocket, fishing for the blank note. Bingo.

"At first, when we pulled this off him, we had assumed it to be blank," he unfolds the crinkled-up paper, mud, water stains and all. König reaches his hand out to pass the note to Price, keeping the others on the edge of their seats. "But if you take another look.."

Price inspects it with a deep frown, then passes it to Gaz, who looks at it with a skeptical raise of his brow, next is Soap then Ghost, and finally back around to König. Upon closer inspection, past all the grime and stains, there was a faint red scribble.

"It is like there was something here," he mutters, smoothing a gloved thumb over the worn parchment as if that will somehow make the faded words clearer.

"But someone must've purposefully scrubbed it away." Ghost adds, seeming much more interested than he had earlier.

Any other person would probably have brushed the now-pinkish, washed-out markings as blood. And König almost had; after all, you were practically swimming in your own blood right now. Clothes stained with it far past recognition.

Even so, he knew that wasn't it.

The paper had a slew of things it was coated in–some recognizable, some not–, but blood was, surprisingly, not one of them.

"Dae ya think 'e knows?" Two.

"Maybe he was the one who erased it?" Three.

"We won't know unless we ask him. But,"

They all look over to Price, waiting for the man's next words with bated breaths.

"We can't jus' do it outright." Price's steely gaze lands on König and he subconsciously stands a little taller.

"König's got the right idea. We can't jus' kill 'im. Not yet." Four. "Not until we know everything he does."

"Aye, Captain." Soap grins, pushing up from where he'd been resting against a wall. He tilts his head in the direction Ghost and König had come from. "Let's go wear 'im down then, yeah?"

"Preferably before he bleeds out." Ghost reluctantly grumbles. "Bastard already looks to be halfway through death's door."

Price looks to König, cocking his head slightly to the right.

"You said he believes he was abandoned, right?"

"That is correct, sir." The corner of Price's mouth ticks up.

"So no one's coming for 'im then?"

A sick twist of anticipation began to swell in König's chest, and suddenly he was a lot more confident than he was a few seconds ago.

"Precisely."

The last thing you were expecting after those two giants left was for them to return with the whole damn crew. You'd be lying if you said the leader didn't make every inch of your being tense up. There was just something in his eyes; that cool blue, warmer than König's but still so cold, gave off a deceiving "I'm not a threat" while simultaneously saying "flinch and I'll kill you".

The dark-skinned man and the baby-faced one stood a little ways behind you, and closer to the door. The leader took a seat in the chair König had been sitting in–assuming the same position the Austrian had. Skull-face stood in the same place and König took his place on your right-hand side. Standing just far enough behind you to barely graze your peripheral but close enough where you could feel his presence looming near you. Invading your personal little space bubble with his, so close if he leaned any closer he'd be brushing up right against you.

The leader tried his hand at interrogating you again. It went a little something like this;

"Do you know why she left you?'

"Probably had something to do with my bad attitude."

He gives you an unimpressed look. You simply raise your eyebrows in question. You had broken your vow of silence, but that didn't mean you were going to make it easy on them.

"König said you could help us. Mind tellin' me what exactly you could do to help?"

"I have connections. People who owe me a favor or two." Or five. Hey, in your defense, you had been in the game for a while.

"Are these connections… legal?"

"I highly doubt you care about legalities if you are conversing with me still," Then, just to be a little shit, you add a snide, "sir."

You swear you hear a small huff behind you and you brush it off as a figment of your imagination. After all, you had lost a ton of blood.. It was a miracle you hadn't passed out again from blood loss. At this rate, you should probably be dead. Or, at the very least, comatose or something. Not back-talking the man who was very literally your golden ticket to freedom.

You blamed it on the blood loss. Made you say stupid shit.

"What else can you offer us?" In other words; why should we keep you?

"One less Brit in your ranks?"

"..what?"

"You all could really use some diversity."

There's a pregnant pause before,

"Is making jokes all you're good for?" Skull-face speaks up from behind the leader.

"What can I say? It is part of my charm."

The bearded man in front of you lets out a heavy sigh. Something about that sigh told you this type of thing wasn't new to him. A small part of you perked up with curiosity. You then proceed to beat that part of you back down into a bloody pulp.

"Are you goin' to take this seriously or not, Mouse?" The leader captures your attention again and you shrug. You really should take this more seriously… but the lack of vital, life-supporting fluid in your system was making you loopy.

And stupid.

"König?"

Very stupid.

A small grunt from behind you.

"Hast du darüber nachgedacht, was ich gesagt habe?" (Have you thought about what I said?)

The man in front of you frowns, looking from you to König, to you again. But he doesn't stop you. Someone probably should.

There's a terse silence before König replies.

"Deshalb sind sie hier." (That's why they're here.)

Despite your slightly dazed state, you smile a little to yourself.

"Did you tell him?" Now the leader looks even more confused, if not a little more frustrated. Good.

"Tell me what?" His glare is now trained on König, and you know you've gotten the giant into deep shit now. Even better.

"Nein."

And just like that you, very foolishly, let out a small puff of what was obviously an attempt at laughter. Though a poor one.

At this is rate, you'd sooner get yourself killed than cut loose, but your mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. It also seemed to be keen on digging you into deeper shit.

"It is a good deal.." you trail off, narrowing your eyes a little at the leader. It would be great if you knew their names. But no one seemed interested in filling you in on that, so you continue, "you all could really use the help. After all, the only reason you lot even caught me was 'cause I was having a bit of a bad day."

"A bit of a bad day?" Leader asks.

"Aye," you drawl. Your heart thudded a few times in your chest, slowed, then picked back up again. Really, you should be dead, slumped over in your chair, by now. "Got blown up. Stabbed a few times.. broke a few bones.."

You give a sloppy grin beneath your mask. Yeah, definitely shouldn't be awake right now. "Bit of a bad day."

"He's useless like this, Cap'." One of the men from somewhere by the roll-up door pipes up.

"Agreed." Skull-face huffs. "Poor guy's all hopped up on adrenaline. He's not much use to us now."

The leader–Captain?–scrutinizes you for a few more moments before exhaling heavily.

"Alright." He grumbles, standing up from the chair.

"König," the Brit calls on the man beside you but keeps his stare trained on you, as if daring you to utter another smart-assed quip. "You were so damn adamant about keeping 'im, yeah?"

It's obviously a rhetorical question and the atmosphere shifts, the tension in the air palpable.

The leader, or, you guess, Captain–these men and their pretentious titles..–adjusts the beige-colored, boonie hat on top of his head and signals something to the two men by the door. You hear the telltale clanking of the metal being rolled up.

"You're on babysitting duty, Sergeant," he says in that displeased rumble–one you had become very familiar with during the first attempt at interrogation–as he makes his way for the door. "So get his arse back in the van, we're moving to someplace more permanent."

The other three men proceed to file out after their Captain, leaving you alone with the, now fuming, Austrian.

Annnnnnd…

"Maus." He grits out from behind you. You proceed to, very smartly, not respond.

Shit.

Instead, you stay stock still even as König leans over you and unsheathes a knife from someplace on his person. One heavy hand gripping your, thankfully, non-injured shoulder and the other reaching around to rest the blade beneath your chin. He urges your head up with the tip of it until your eyes–oh, yeah, he was definitely pissed–lock with his. In the short time you'd known him you had almost forgotten how downright intimidating only being able to see those pale, glowing blues staring through your very soul was.

"Sie werden es bereuen." (literal; you will regret it. Contextual; you're going to regret this.)

He, while maintaining eye contact, removes the knife and brings it down to hover just above your waist. Your own gaze can't help but flick between his and his weapon-welding hand. Self-preservation, you call it. König, after all, has that sharp metal alarmingly close to your dick.

You choose to ignore the thrill that causes your breath to hitch, an unfamiliar feeling stirring somewhere in the deepest pits of your hindbrain.

You watch as he–in a strange show of caution–places the gloved hand that had been on your shoulder beneath the coarse rope, thumb and fourth finger keeping the binding in place, and swiftly slices through the thickly twined fibers. He then makes quick work of doing the same to the rope wrapped around your thighs and ankles. The barest hints of warmth emitting from him easily seep through the thin, ruined cloth of your pants. But before you can think too much about how long it's been since you last felt the touch of another not-currently-dying human being, König pulls back.

When you look back up to search out his gaze you find he is no longer staring you down, his own focus entirely on freeing you from the bindings. The lack of pressure on your worn body is a relief and the next breath that leaves you is shakier than the last–you choose to believe it's just your body coming down from its adrenaline high.

The last of the rope that had been keeping your lower half bound to the chair falls away to the floor with a soft thump and König retreats completely to move onto your hands. Thank fuck for your own fabric-clad hands, you aren't sure how much more of this non-threatening touch you could take before you fucking imploded or something. All you can feel is the slight graze of his deft fingers against your concealed wrists, and even that is muted. Courtesy of the current lack of decent blood circulation to your bound extremities.

After that final piece of rope is removed, you're being yanked to your feet. Off-balanced and stumbling as blood rushes back to every limb, you nearly come crashing straight back down. König's firm hold on your forearm is the only thing that keeps you from taking an embarrassing nosedive into hard concrete.

Panting heavily behind the fabric of your mask, you groan as the world swims around you. König only spares you a few seconds to steady yourself and then he's making a sudden appearance in front of you and trading out his grip on your forearm to engulf your wrist–and subsequently almost your entire hand–in one large hand. He wastes no time in tugging you forward to follow in his footsteps.

You realize quickly that the time between the rest of the group leaving and König's undoing of your bindings hadn't really been more than a few moments–half a minute at most–, as the other members of König's team were just now turning a corner and leaving your field of vision.

How embarrassing, you think, it felt like a fucking eternity.

König easily uses his tight grasp on your wrist to lift you up just enough so you don't have to make the small hop off of the elevated ledge and out of the storage unit–thank fuck it wasn't your injured arm. You aren't sure whether to be annoyed at his blatant show of strength–seriously, the movement seemed entirely effortless on his part–or grateful you didn't have to make the jump. Your depth perception wasn't exactly the best right now and you probably would've just fallen right over. You doubted you would have even had the energy to catch yourself.

The walk out of this seemingly abandoned facility and back out into the scalding heat–huh, they must not have taken you very far–was surprisingly quick. Your barely lucid brain blocked out the majority of the dizzying twists and turns it took to find the exit. And soon enough you find yourself back in the loading space of that damn van.

This time you are mostly conscious, so you're granted the wonderful opportunity of bearing witness to the burning glares of the three other men seated on the opposite bench. König takes his place beside you and actively decides to not even glance in your direction. Instead silently communicates something to the other passive-aggressive passengers. Well, skull-face was definitely more on the aggressive side of the spectrum, but you were mostly certain he couldn't do anything. Or so you hoped.

The baby-faced one was looking at you with more curiosity than anything, a minor hint of defense hidden somewhere in those–why the hell does everyone here have the same eyes??–vivid blues. That barely concealed interest was more terrifying than skull-face's obvious death stare.

The Captain turned his attention to the Austrian beside you, nonverbally communicating his displeasure with a hard glare and deep frown. Ah, the dark-skinned man must've been the one driving the damn thing.

After a few more painstaking minutes of having a half-assed staring contest with the two men across from you, you give up and let your eyelids fall half-shut. Still nauseous with blood loss and possible infection, you pant lightly within the confines of your mask. Heat continues to build in the suffocating cloth and you let out another soft groan, unable to help yourself when you slump backward against the metal wall of the vehicle.

The ground moving beneath you does nothing to aid your current lightheadedness and you find yourself focusing most of your limited attention span on not vomiting in your mask. That would be a hellscape on its own to clean, and the humiliation would probably kill you off before the budding infection had the chance.

It doesn't take much time before you can no longer fight off the exhaustion weighing down the big ball of throbbing pain that is your entire body and your eyelids finally slip shut. Before you have the chance to force your eyes open again–this is definitely not an ideal place to fall asleep–a sudden heavy thwack against your mutilated shoulder does the job for you.

Your eyes snap back open, fully alert as you search out the culprit. You find König giving you a blank, deadpan stare and the venomous words sprouting on the tip of your tongue quickly fizzle out when you notice the van has stopped moving. In fact, you two are the only ones remaining inside. The other four are piling up just out of earshot, the backdoors wide open and showing off- well, nothing. It's dark and all you can make out are vague shapes in the background.

You huff and go to stand but König beats you to it. Still holding onto your wrist, he gives a sharp tug and you stagger out of your seat. You send him a seething glare but find that his attention is no longer on you.

König pulls you out the same way he had the storage unit; efficiently lifting you by your arm and out of the vehicle. You barely manage to keep your balance when your boots touch solid ground again and just that little bit of exertion has you sucking in ragged gulps of air.

When the Captain glances over to you two, König makes a show of lifting your arm into the air as if to say got it and the Captain gives a small nod in acknowledgment. You don't have the wherewithal to give a shit about being treated more like an object than a person, brushing it off and trading it out to take in your surroundings instead. Besides, it wasn't something you were exactly.. unfamiliar with.

Surrounding you is another compound. More well-kept than the storage facility you had previously been in, but still obviously worn. The stark white walls were practically glowing in contrast to the pitch-black, starless night sky. Besides some crumbling and scuff marks here and there–most likely from environmental weathering over time–the cinder block walls were almost pristine.

Your fuzzy, mush of a brain briefly considers asking König where the hell they had brought you, but your tongue is like lead in your mouth. Not that it really mattered, you highly doubt he would've told you anyway. You were a prisoner, after all. A prisoner who they were only keeping alive on the off-chance you could help.

Help with what exactly? You had not a clue. Hopefully, they'd soon get their shit together and tell you sooner rather than later. Then again.. what would they do with you once your use to them came to an end? Would they just end up killing you anyway?

Floodlights abruptly make an unwelcome appearance, bathing the courtyard in a blindingly white light and knocking that train of thought right out of your head. You cringe away from the sudden brightness, squeezing your eyes shut momentarily before blinking a few times in rapid succession to adjust.

You only have the time to register the sheer size of the compound before you are being tugged forward again and into the said building. As usual, you silently curse König's unfairly long legs and subsequent far longer strides as you try your damnedest to keep up. The nausea, burning full body ache, and pounding against your skull have yet to lessen. If anything it's become more of an issue now that you're not running on pure adrenaline.

You find yourself fumbling over your own miscalculated steps more often than you make a successful one, König having to more or less drag the majority of your dead weight along with him. The behemoth of a man doesn't even have the decency to make it look like doing so is any struggle. Bastard.

The interior lighting of the compound is somehow far much worse than the blaring exterior. You squint against the harsh brightness and it takes a few seconds for your pulpy mess of a brain to make out the shapes and colors in front of you. Or, well, the astonishing lack of colors. Dull shades of grey coupled with a blinding light. Perfect.

Someone's talking. Multiple someone's, really. But your ears are too stuffed full of cotton to make any sense of what's being said. The most you can do is try to read their lips–which proves to be futile–and try to gauge the emotional state of the men in the room.

The plainly, uniform-dressed men standing guard seem to not at all have a problem with the crew that had brought you in. Though obviously holding a subordinate position in comparison to the team, they shared easy smiles and small laughs with the group. The Captain appears to be keeping up a polite kind of façade–was this not his base?–as he converses with the two newbies. Skull-face, mohawk guy, and the Captain's obvious favorite all stand behind the Captain in an organized order. With skull-face standing the closest–was he some kind of right-hand man?–babyface and the third man stood at a respectful distance. Not too close, but just near enough to assist if needed.

König kept you a little more ways away from the others, a firmer grip on your wrist than before. It would probably hurt if the remainder of your body wasn't currently one giant sore spot. You realize why when one of the guards spares a glance at you and, spotting your eyes on him, immediately shrinks back and averts his gaze.

Ah, this definitely wasn't their base. Made sense. They all were clearly European and unfamiliar with the normalities of wherever the fuck you all were right now. Faintly, you remember the dark-skinned man complaining about how weird it was driving on the right-hand side of the road.

You're snapped out of your own musings by a harsh pull on your arm. A small noise of surprise escapes you and, before you know it, the guards are moving out of the way and you are being escorted further into the building.

Going off the darkness you had awakened to, it is obviously late at night, maybe even well into the morning by now, and the only people you all pass are all exhausted-looking security personnel.

König follows behind the other four down corridor after corridor, dragging you along behind him. Eventually, you all make it out into what appears like a sort of gathering place or common room. For a split second you think they're going to stop there, but, no, they keep going. Down more confusing hallways and through nonsense doors.

Then finally, finally, it all comes to a stop at an unremarkable metal door. Nothing on it, not even a little window, with the exception of the room number plastered next to it.

You squint at the numbers, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes. There's a small tugging in the back of your mind and, if you were any more aware, you'd almost say it was familiar. Huh.

The Captain unlocks and pushes open the door, then, before you even have the opportunity to protest, König yanks you close and shoves you forward. You stumble–again, seriously, did they think you were made of fucking steel??–through the doorway and only barely manage to break your fall on the closet wall. You stand there for a moment, panting and bracing against hard concrete, while the others file in.

If it wasn't for the unnecessarily heavy thunk you probably wouldn't have realized that the door had been shut. Your vision blurs then blacks out for a split second while you catch your breath, and the only thing on your mind is; how the hell am I not dead yet?

You're only given a few more moments of rest then you're being pulled by the wrist again. Unable to even really feel your legs anymore, the sudden brushing of something solid against the backs of your knees is all you have to tell you you've even moved. You don't have to be told twice to sit, hell, you probably wouldn't have been able to hear them if they had given the order.

You drop your weight instantly, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You can't feel much through the fabric separating your fingertips from what's below, but from the slight give when you press down, if you had to guess, you'd say you were seated on a cot of some kind. It's not the most comfortable, but it's the best thing you've had in a long, long while.

Lifting your gaze at the sound of someone's voice, you blink rapidly in a vain attempt at refocusing your vision.

"Hm?"

All four men standing in the room give you vaguely concerned grimaces. Well, you assume König and skull-face do, judging by the crinkling of their limited expression.

"I said-" the Captain begins. Not that you hear any of what comes after that. Head full of cotton and feeling simultaneously like you're both floating and being weighed down by a ship's anchor, you're left futilely trying to read his lips. But that only makes the pounding in your head worsen and you screw your eyes shut again.

Cradling your head in your hands you lean down, elbows propped up on your knees. You suck in shallow, shaky breaths, fruitlessly trying to get the proper amount of oxygen to the lump of mass that is your brain.

When your eyes flutter open again the lights have been dimmed just enough to take the edge off, reducing the strain on your eyes, and you immediately slump in relief. You think you mutter your gratitude under your breath, but, really, you're far too out of it to be certain.

A few more muffled words and the soft thumping of footsteps later and the door opens then shuts one last time. You look up expecting to see nothing but an empty room, a little caught off guard when that behemoth of a man is still looming near the door.

"We should really get you checked out," König says, giving a brief once-over at your disheveled appearance. Giving a noncommittal hum, you take a look down at yourself.

You had not bothered to take full stock of your person since the initial confrontation–and even that was a laughable inspection at best.

Every inch of your exposed skin–which, truthfully, wasn't much–was coated in a layer of mud and your own blood. Your thin civilian outfit was in a similar state of disrepair; caked in blood, more mud, and bits of stuck-on foliage as well. Accompanied with the occasional tear and hole here and there, of course.

"I'll get a medi-" Before he even gets the word out you're launching yourself up and off the bed. Charging at him despite how unsafe that currently is and reaching up to slam your grimy, gloved hand over where you assume his mouth is.

König quickly and easily peels your hand away by the wrist, staring down at you with less anger and more of a really, what are you doing? kind of look.

"Nie." (No.) You breathe as your only explanation. You had had enough of fucking medical staff in your time before your years-long solo operation began. Unknown injections, emotionless stares, and needles. Needles, needles, needles. So many fucking needles. You didn't visit those sterile, frigid laboratories often these days–though you were still required to come in every now and again for a routine 'checkup'.

"No?" König finally breaks through your suddenly hazy headspace–this time said fuzziness wasn't the result of excessive blood loss. You'd rather it were.

"Nie." You repeat again, and there must be something in your voice–something unlike yourself, something a bit too human–because König relents without further question and drops your arm.

"I can't really let you die on us, Maus." He points out with a deadpan stare. Then, probably realizing that phrasing sounded a bit too worried, he adds, "What use would you be to us then?"

"Let me do it."

"You can barely stand up straight and you expect me to hand you a needle?"

"I would rather me than you or some pea-brained white-coat." You huff, narrowing your still very unfocused gaze up at him. You hope it lands, you can't really see clearly right now.

König holds your stare for a few seconds longer before letting out a resigned sigh and looking away. "Fine."

He gives your uninjured shoulder a nudge with a gloved finger and rumbles a low, "Sit down."

You're about to bite back with some witty retort but the words get stuck in your throat when you realize just how close you two are. In your rush to cut off the words spewing from his mouth, you had somehow ended up crowding into his space in a very.. unprofessional way. Chest puffed up in a show of defiance and, subsequently, pressed right up against the other man.

That same, unfamiliar twinge in the furthest recesses of your mind from back in that god-awful storage unit begins to stir and you jolt away sharply. Jumping back and scurrying over to the cot at a faster rate than really necessary, as if that simple touch had burnt you. And, to be frank, it had. Indirectly.

König cocks his head, analyzing you for a brief moment, then shakes it off. Thank fuck. Having quickly averted your gaze, all you hear is some faint rustling and then his legs appear in your line of sight. A small first-aid box materializes from his hand and you lift your own trembling one to take it.

"Thanks." You mumble. You were a monster, not impolite.

König makes a light huff and retreats. Grateful for the, mostly likely unintended, room to breathe, you fumble with the kit before finally managing to wrench the damn thing open. Placing the box beside you on the bed you ungracefully free your first victim from its confines; your thigh.

Stab wound number one, thankfully, has stopped bleeding. On the other, far less favorable, hand, the injury is already a burning, angry red. A light poke at the inflamed skin with your finger has you hissing against the sharp sting.

Deciding keeping up appearances was much less important than your health, you make efficient work of removing both gloves. Also soaked with mud and blood, they would do no more than worsen what was already the beginnings of a very, very serious infection.

There's a bottle of saline solution in the kit and you uncap that first. Folding the bled-through, makeshift bandage in half, you use it to catch the liquid rather than letting the filthy solution drip onto the floor. After flushing out the wound as much as you can–without running the bottle dry, you've still got another to clean–the next step is the worst of them all. Stitches.

If you had it your way, you wouldn't use them at all. You had a tendency to forgo using a needle and thread whenever you could–only stooping to that level when it was absolutely vital. Like right now.

Even then, you only knew one form of sewing; intermittent sutures.

Tearing open a sterile needle packet you, surprisingly enough, make easy work of threading the surgical cotton through the eye of it. Pinching the slice shut with your non-dominant hand, you position the end of the curved metal about a centimeter from where the damn thing starts.

The first pierce of the needle into your tender flesh forces a strained whine from your throat, eyes beginning to water. You blink away the budding tears, exhale a shaky breath, and tie the thread off.

One suture down, an ungodly amount remaining.

Your hand only gets more unsteady as time goes on. Making each stitch more lopsided than the last.

Your vision swims for a brief moment and you swallow back the growing lump in your throat. Come on now, you can do this. You've done this so, so many times before. What was so different this time around?

Just a few more to go. That's all. Then you will be done.. well, then onto the puncture in your shoulder. The shoulder that also happened to be connected to your dominant hand. Great.

"Maus."

You can do this- just stab, push through- wait no, not like that. Pull it out again. Now, do it properly this time-

"Maus." Black gloves invade your sight and you grunt, trying to look around them.

The next time the needle pierces your skin it goes in just short of perfectly–success!–but it's good enough. Will keep your blood in, at least. Then comes tying it off and- come on, don't be difficult now.

Just toss over- like tha- wait, no. Just lift and- fuck.

A low rumble is all you hear and then those gloved fingers are wrapping around your wrist once more and effectively halting your progress. You huff, looking up to glare at him only to find his own hardened gaze staring down at you.

"-keep trying, you are only going to hurt yourself." Wait, had he been talking this whole time? "Then what use would you be then, hm? You would be of no help if you died because of your own damn stubbornness."

You feebly try to tug your hand back, but he doesn't budge, simply using his other hand to pluck the needle from your hand. Narrowing your eyes, you do the only thing you can do; throwing hundreds of imaginary knives at that stupid smug look in his eyes and internally cursing him out.

After your two's little staring contest goes on long enough for your captured hand to start going numb, you relent. Letting out a heavy sigh and dropping your gaze.

König makes a small noise of approval and releases your wrist. You don't watch as he finishes up the mess of stitches sewn into your thigh, nausea returning with a vengeance and forcing you to shut your eyes again.

He finishes up relatively quickly, faster than you probably could have in this state, and rinses the wound again before pasting a bandage over it.

"I need you to look up."

"Hm?" Light pressure under your chin causes your eyelids to flutter back open and you frown.

"Wha-?"

"Up." He reasserts, using his guiding touch to urge your head up and out of the way. Forcing you to straighten out your shrimp-like posture and provide König with access to your injured shoulder.

Said shoulder that was more bruises and blood than it was untouched flesh; able to get a decent look at it now that König had removed the sloppy work that was your mess of torn fabric and duct tape.

He repeats the same steps you had to clean the wound and this time you watch. Less so keeping an eye on the weeping wound and more so on the hand sticking the–new, he had discarded the one used on your thigh–thin metal through your skin. He's surprisingly delicate with it, despite his size he is far more precise with his sutures than you had been. Carefully inserting the needle and tying off every knot with practiced ease. Unlike you, he hadn't foregone his gloves, and that's why you notice it when you do. Having been so attuned to his busy hands.

His gloves are still stained with your blood.

Coated in a thick, dried layer of it. Dark against the already black fabric, flakes of crimson chipping off and drawing your eye.

It was the only part of him that showed any hint of wear from the morning's efforts. Every other inch of his uniform was speck-free, not a single item out of place, scuff mark, or splatter of blood.

It didn't make much sense for you to be fixated on such a minor facet after the laborious events of today. There were so many other things to draw your attention. Like the repeated motions of the curved metal puncturing your skin over and over again, for example. Or maybe his close proximity–accompanied by that weird feeling again.

But, no. Every last bit of your remaining attention span was focused solely on your own blood marking his hands. You sounded insane, even to yourself and that was an entire feat of its own.

You release a small breath of relief when he pulls away, slapping on another thick bandage over your second, freshly stitched injury. Then comes a sudden sting right above your eyebrow and you jolt away with a hiss.

Refocusing back into reality, König is still standing above you. Only this time he's welding an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball, also tarnished with your blood.

"Cut is deep." Is the vague explanation you get, coupled with a small gesture to your face. "No stitches will be needed. But,"

He reaches down to rifle through the first aid kit and makes a soft sound of victory when he finds whatever he's looking for. Holding your face still in one hand, he dabs at the cut a few more times before switching sides and drying it off. König throws the dirtied cotton along with wherever he'd discarded the scraps of your clothes and other miscellaneous trash.

Next comes another burning sting as he presses something over the wound. A few 'something's.

"A few pieces of tape should do the trick." He muses as he smoothes the sterile strips against your skin, the faint metallic scent of your own blood flooding your senses. Gross.

You really needed some sleep, or maybe it was finally time to check yourself into some kind of mental reform. Seriously, this was getting out of hand.

"Now," König pulls away for the final time, doing a brief scan of your exhausted form and nodding to himself. "Sleep."

You half expected König to leave it at that, to exit the room like the other four had. And probably lock the door behind him. Your hopes are crushed when he takes a seat a few feet away from your cot, settling into an uncomfortable-looking chair you hadn't noticed beforehand.

Oh, right. The Captain had assigned him as your personal babysitter. How fucking lovely.

Scooting back to slump against the wall furthest away from the other man, you send him a weak glare. Wanting nothing more than to argue that you can't sleep like this–not with him watching over you like some damn stalker–you find that when you try, you can't.

For what feels like the millionth time today, your eyelids droop until you cannot resist any longer. Falling completely shut and likely not going to open for a while, you give in. Unable to find it in yourself to give a damn right now.

Besides, you could.. moderately trust König wouldn't murder you in your slumber. He hasn't yet. And that seems to be enough for your sleep-deprived brain, as sweet unconsciousness soon drags you under.

___

One | Two | Masterlist | Next

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(finally figured out how to tag y'all properly! Sorry bout that. Thought I was doing it right this whole time 😞)

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm @mello-life69 @unkn0wnd3ad @tayaisback @starre-eyes @ravage-reposts @suhmie

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments!

#call of duty #cod x male reader #male reader #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x reader #könig cod #könig x male reader #reader insert #gay #mlm

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qweerhet · 2 months

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now, i absolutely believe that it is both reasonable and not a dismissal of your concerns for anarchists to tell you they cannot individually provide you a plan for insulin production and distribution, because it depends entirely on your locale--who is in your community, what needs do they have and what skills do they have, what is the actual layout of your locale, what are the optimized transportation options for your available local resources and climate and geography, what local resources are available to create materials i.e. insulin, etc etc etc. plans for resource production & distribution are, fundamentally, not one-size-fits-all in an anarchist framework, and you cannot create those plans without some level of expertise in the relevant topics, which includes expertise in local geography, culture, and demographic makeup.

that said: i do think that, if you are a disabled anarchoprimitivist writing anprim theory through a disabled lens, it is your responsibility to write that theory in a way that encompasses the existence of people who need machines and medications in order to breathe, keep their hearts beating, digest food, and other regulatory body functions, as well as ADLs.

it is not your responsibility to lay out care plans for these people--again, this fundamentally cannot have a one-size-fits-all solution, because you do not have expertise in the needs and resources of every locale on the planet, and you should not be expected to. but your theory needs to be written in a way that explicitly acknowledges the existence of people who need colostomies, use feeding tubes, rely on CPAP machines, need solid organ transplants, people who have spina bifida or holoprosencephaly, et cetera and so on and so forth. this is because theory that does not explicitly deal with the existence of these people is not actually operating in a disability lens.

disability is an extremely broad umbrella. it is, of course, impossible to individually account for every disabled experience; again, that is not the responsibility of anyone writing theory, regardless of the theory in question. but theory written through a disabled lens needs to reckon with the multitude of disabled experiences, foundationally. it isn't a disabled lens if it isn't reckoning with the existence of those unable to breathe without external assistance, and examining what the theory itself looks like if they're centered in its implementation. a disabled lens centers disability, broadly; if an entire massive cohort of disability isn't ever once centered in your theory, even as a thought-experiment aside for a single paragraph, it's not actually engaging with disability as a broad political coalition, it's engaging with your disability or the disabilities of people you care about.

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bestworstcase · 4 months

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i think about "the faunus militia split our forces" a lot. and salem, lips curling: "stop."

salem doesn't care that adam fumbled the demolition. "the white fang was promised the destruction of haven, and they'll have it once we have what we need." and of course when adam got into hot water, how did hazel respond? "this is your business, not mine."

the only point of blowing up haven academy, as far as salem cared, was to fulfill promises made to adam in return for his aid in vale.

what matters to salem—the only part she cares about—is the failure to get the lamp. the faunus militia isn't relevant to her question; salem's forces were not even supposed to be there that night. she knows cinder altered the plan and that qrow showed up with "huntsmen" and "several students," ruby among them (<- lionheart told her this), and watts would have told her the specifics of the deal cinder cut with raven.

the faunus militia didn't split her forces.

raven did.

hazel's answer irks her because it's irrelevant and disingenuous; whether the white fang succeeded or failed shouldn't have mattered at all because cinder and her team were supposed to be in and out of the school days before. i think she is trying to get a clearer sense of how cinder handled things—did she go down to the vault alone? did she have contingencies? watts thinks she changed the plan because she wanted revenge on ruby, is that accurate?—and when hazel dodges she concludes that the answers are probably not the ones she would like.

"let me rephrase the question. who is responsible for your defeat?" <- the way she words this is telling. she's not asking a new question; she's rephrasing it in an effort to clarify what she is asking.

the implication is perhaps i was unclear. she's giving him the benefit of the doubt that he just misunderstood her and isn't being opaque about cinder's handling of the altered plan on purpose—and then he hesitates before answering "i take full responsibility" and salem flips the table. stop lying.

but it's so fucking funny because as far as hazel knows, cinder is dead and it is Extremely Obvious that he thinks salem is just looking for someone to punish. which she isn't, she's hoping to hear that cinder played it smart and careful and lost through no fault of her own so that salem can justify rescuing her. and when she doesn't get that she immediately goes to "well you need to understand that i'm not going to rescue her, EMERALD,"

everyone in this room thinks salem is about to, like, kill somebody because this is probably the first time any of them have seen how she reacts to catastrophic failure. (without cinder, her plan is dead in the water, and salem's the only one who knows cinder is alive.)

the disconnect is just so vast.

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jewishconvertthings · 7 months

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This isn’t a conversion question but I hope it’s okay to ask here. Is there anything I can do to support people living in Israel during this terrifying time?

Hi anon,

I wrestled with how/if to respond to this, because I try very hard to keep I/P politics off of this blog and have since I started this blog in 2017 or so. It is not relevant to this blog what my opinions are on this, and it's hard to talk about the topic at all (even in a neutral way) without people accusing you of being Zionist or Anti-Zionist if what you say does not perfectly line up with their viewpoint.

But in the end, I think that this transcends politics. It has to. Condemning the slaughter, torture, and sexual abuse of human beings, whoever they are, is the correct opinion. I don't care who is doing it, and I don't care why. This isn't a political debate; this is basic human decency.

As for what you can do right now? If you have Israeli or Palestinian friends (whether they are in your community or in Israel/Palestine, reach out to them. They may b'ezrat Hashem be safe, but they are not ok, so instead of asking, just let them know you are thinking of them, that you are praying for their continued safety and for peace to come swiftly and justly. They may not feel like talking, but if they do, hold space for them.

There are a lot of excellent organizations collecting funds to help with the great need that has been created by these atrocities. Find ones whose mission and goals align with your own, double check their validity, and then donate what you can.

Many Jewish communities (most, I assume) are currently organizing or have already set up community events to address the issues and to pray as a community. Look at your email - my inbox had no less than twelve different events (online and in person) within the next few days - and check the websites for Jewish organizations that you affiliate with for opportunities to gather and debrief.

And, perhaps, the most important thing from a social media standpoint: make sure that you vet *all* information before deciding to accept it as true and cross-check it with other sources, especially if you plan on sharing that information. Both Hamas and the Israeli government are masters of propaganda, and the Western media really likes to lean into this for a better story. Since Western media thrives on conflict and hyped up emotions to keep people interested and scrolling, there is a strong incentive to publish as much as quickly as possible, the more sensational the better. Use reputable sources, but don't rely on them to get it right 100% of the time. I would suggest looking at reputable sources that have a clear, known bias in each direction and comparing them both to media that at least attempts to be neutral. So far, it doesn't seem like too too many facts have been in dispute (most of the information about the atrocities committed by Hamas has been posted by Hamas as propaganda) but it's early. If you have the emotional bandwidth and have done the research, please correct the misinformation you see from friends, family, and followers. Do **not** jump in with assumptions or non-researched opinions, because that will only fuel the chaos and not help anyone.

Above all, be smart, be wary of disinformation, be compassionate, and (to the extent you are able) be generous. Remember that civilians are civilians, that neither group of civilians chose this, that plenty of them dream of a peaceful and just coexistence, and that intentionally hurting non-combatants is always wrong no matter the justification.

As for me, I will turn to Tehillim and to the words of the Prayer for Peace:

May we see the day when war and bloodshed cease, When a great peace will embrace the whole world. Then nation will not threaten nation, and the human family will not again know war. For all who live on earth shall realize we have not come into being to hate or to destroy. We have come into being to praise, to labor, and to love. Compassionate God, bless the leaders of all nations with the power of compassion. Fulfill the promise conveyed in Scripture: I will bring peace to the land and you shall lie down and no one shall terrify you. I will rid the land of vicious beasts and it shall not be ravaged by war. Let justice and righteousness flow like a mighty stream. Let God’s peace fill the earth as the waters fill the sea. And let us say: Amen

#jumblr #really hope I don't regret posting this #<<sigh>>

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qqueenofhades · 7 months

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I can't tell if part of the reason people don't recognize Biden's accomplishments is because society is so shallow and easily swayed by loudness over depth, or because Biden is just too quiet and prone to focusing on the idea that his actions speak louder than his words.

Like yeah, the latter thing is important, but we live in a REALLY shallow society; maybe a bit more bragging about your substantial achievements would be helpful here.

I get what you're saying here, but this kind of thing always seems to hinge on "the Democrats need to be doing more/Biden needs to be saying more/the Democrats are not doing it right/etc," and I just don't think that's the actual problem. Yes, in the past the Democrats have relied on the tactic of just doing good things and hoping that people will notice enough to vote for them, but that TORPEDOED them in 2010 (they didn't aggressively defend/market the Affordable Care Act, the Tea Party crazies got to set the narrative about GOVERNMENT OVERREACH, and they got shellacked so badly that they didn't control the House again for the rest of Obama's time in office). Fortunately, they have awoken to the fact that we live in a corporate noise machine owned and operated by cartoonishly villainous billionaire oligarchs who don't care if the country is pushed into fascism as long as they get their tax breaks, and where the average voter is well conditioned by said media to accept the BOTH SIDES BAD narrative without question.

Whether it's true or not is beside the point; if you flood the zone with enough BS, people act as if it is. See all those polls about how people think the Democrats are "too liberal" more than they think the GOP is "too conservative," even though only one of those parties is actively trying to end democracy. See the people who think Trump and Biden are equally ethically compromised. Etc. etc. Biden has already been considerably vocal about his accomplishments, has given several major speeches about the danger to democracy (which he did just the other day), but it is already so filtered and twisted in a radioactively toxic media atmosphere that just talking more or trying to trumpet more isn't going to help.

The DC media is full of a bunch of narcissists who like to make false equivalences and also openly hanker for Trump to be back in office because it makes them more relevant; they get to break juicy exposes and shocking headlines and whatever else, that gets more clicks, they get more exposure, etc. Biden is (as noted) boring, as in he's not on Twitter every day saying something ludicrous (and if he said even ONE ludicrous thing, far less the nonstop stream of BS that Trump constantly spews and which somehow still makes the media yell about how BIDEN should be the one to step aside, he'd be toast), and just does the job. That's not very Sexy and Marketable. When he talks about how he's doing the job and what he plans to do next, the media is too busy commissioning a dozen bullshit Horserace!!! polls and talking about how, in case we haven't noticed, he is 80 and that is somehow, implicitly, a more disqualifying fact than Trump's 91 goddamn serious treason-level felonies, including for literally trying to overthrow the government. Our politics and civic society have been so irreparably poisoned that actual competence is completely beside the point and makes a normal president less appealing than one who's just insane all the time. Everything's just a game show! Everyone's opinions are equal! Live in all the alternate universes you want! Who cares if we accidentally end democracy? Just another headline!

This is likewise not helped by the fact that in this relentlessly commodified social-media universe, Republicans are constantly on message and united behind their candidates, no matter how openly fucking awful they are, while leftists/liberals/Democrats (and people who claim to be) are constantly tearing into and criticizing their candidates in a way that makes Joe and Jane Low Information Voter even more susceptible to believing the "Both Sides" narrative -- after all, if the Democrats are attacking the Democrats, they really must be bad! Yes, we are not in a cult and therefore are able to have an actual discussion about things, but this falls into the "We're Just Holding Them Accountable!!" line that is just an excuse for ripping the Democrats even more than any of those people ever criticize or actively oppose the Republicans.

Hence all these braindead takes about how Biden should step aside, Biden should drop Harris, Biden should do X Y and Z and this is all his fault, instead of anyone remotely trying to come to grips with the extreme polarization and fascism of the other side. I keep yelling about it, and a lot of other people I respect keep yelling about it, because yet again, we've learned fucking nothing from 2016 and we're teetering on a repeat of it. See how all these Online Leftists want to scream and yell about Biden ending the train strike, and then somehow never seem to have heard that he kept working with the unions for months afterward and got their sick days. Even the people who, in a remotely more functional political landscape and/or if they possessed one (1) working brain cell, would vote for the Democrats get their endless jollies and moral holier-than-thous by absolutely incinerating them. Who needs the Republicans, when these guys will do it for you?

Anyway. Because America is a land of morons manipulated by billionaire corporate interests, just doing the right thing and hoping people notice enough to vote for you is not enough. That's why, indeed, the Democrats have learned that you have to talk about it and push back and argue for what you've done. But when it still exists in this environment that will twist and taint and misrepresent and grind it into tiny pieces, because said billionaire corporate interests are genuinely afraid that the Democrats' current policy plans could dismantle their hegemony if allowed to continue, that's only a very small part of the problem, and we have to recognize that.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

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hush-house-yard-sale · 7 months

Text

The Hush House Card Catalogue

@baja-blasted @terephin (please ignore the crabs)

//So the software I'm using to keep track of my books, lore bits, etc. is called Seatable! It wasn't my first choice for this project, I'm more familiar with Airtable (I've used it professionally), but Airtable's free plan doesn't let you color-code :c

//Seatable is a website that looks a lot like google sheets, but instead of building a spreadsheet, you're building a database. I knew I wanted a database rather than a spreadsheet for my card catalogue because it became pretty apparent early on that a spreadsheet would mean a lot of duplicate entries and be a lot more work to maintain, as well as monumentally more work if I wanted to use it for reference.

//My database isn't finished, and so I'm not really comfortable making it public, but I'm happy to walk through some of the things that I like most about it, that made me choose to make a database rather than a spreadsheet.

//The main things that were really important to me was being able to have (and filter by) multiple items in the same column, having lots of cross-linking between the different sheets in the base, and having different views depending on what I was looking to reference.

//These are my different tables right now, and the way they work is that each table has the most detailed information on each item, e.g. Books has the most detail on books, and Skills has the most detail on skills. But I have columns in each table that allow me to crosslink between them.

//So for each book, I have listed the skill and memory they give, but instead of writing each out individually it links to the corresponding entry in skills/memories

//And then over in the memories tab it has all the detail on the aspects, which wisdoms it can be committed to...

//...and every book this skill can be found in and every item it can be used to craft. And those boxes can be expanded so they're easier to read as well!

//I can also group and sort things in different views. My default view for books, for example, splits them into two categories—whether I've read the book or not—and then sorts the books in each category alphabetically. But I also have one that groups them all by mystery and then sorts them from low to high, and I have another that groups them by topic. Each of these views also omits columns that aren't relevant to that particular view, for example, if I'm searching for books by mystery to give to a visitor, it's important to know the author because it's fun to give people books they themselves have written, but I don't really care about what memories that book gives, or when I'm trying to connect lore dots, it doesn't matter whether or not the book is cursed and I don't need to include books I haven't read yet (and thus don't have topic tags for). The rows on the topic one are also bigger so I can better read the blurbs.

//Well, the topic one actually groups by location, because when I group it by topic, it splits it into every combination of my topic tags, rather that giving me "here are all your books about the mansus" "here are all your books about Longs and Names" so I've stored them all in different places in the house depending on what books I think are relevant to one another.

//It's still in progress, I don't have everything written down yet, and I want more data for workbenches, and I want to try and see if there's a way for it to, say, auto-match skills/souls to workbenches for committing to the tree or crafting certain recipes. Also my color-coding is in shambles bc I'm waiting for a friend to recover from covid so that they can make me a greasemonkey script to make it a little less... corporate...

//But yeah! I like it a lot, and it works really well for my purposes. I highly recommend trying it out, and I'm happy to answer questions!

#Weather Factory #Book of Hours #Book of Hours Game #Cultist Simulator #Databases #ooc

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speakingofpsychosis · 11 months

Text

What to expect when you call a helpline c:

Knowing what to expect during a helpline call may help you feel a little more at ease. Your call experience will vary based on which line you call, why you're calling, and the severity of the situation. But in general, here's what to expect...

The waiting period:

In many cases, the first voice you will hear on the helpline may be an automated one. If the service is busy, the automated message will tell you to stay on the line until a worker is available. In other cases, the message may offer you additional options, such as the option to switch languages.

The call introduction:

When you are connected to a helpline worker they will probably let you know their name and they may ask a few questions to gain a greater understanding of your current situation. If you feel comfortable, you can let them your name, pronouns and age so they can offer a more personalised and friendly call tailored around you.

Assessing your safety:

If you're vulnerable, helplines have a duty of care to keep you safe and so they will want assess your current safety. If they believe you are in immediate danger they will first try to calm you down and work with you to come up with a plan. However, when this isn't possible the helpline may call or pass on your details to emergency service - this will always be used as a last resort though.

The main chat:

If you are not in immediate danger, you'll be able to chat to the worker about anything you want. They will help you talk through your feelings and experiences anonymously without judging you or telling you what to do. Many mental health helplines are open 24/7 or don't have a call time limit, so you can talk for as long as you need.

Finishing the call:

Once you've talked about everything you want to and have received the advice you need, the helpline worker will most likely recap on what you've talked about and help you come up with a plan forwards. Helplines are not therapy services, but, they will help guide you in the sign post you in the right direction for more regular support.

Will my call be confidential?

The simple answer is yes, unless you're in immediate danger and you're unable to come up with a safety plan. They will always try to calm you down first before they deciding a cause of action. Each helpline has a slightly different policy, but, they will all only ever break confidentiality as the very last resort.

Visit findahelpline.com to find a relevant helpline in your area. I promise you deserve support <;33

(reformatted for tumblr. original source: @claudisrecovering on instagram)

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mdhwrites · 3 months

Note

So if Dana said she didn't have any original season 3 ideas, why did she also say on Twitter that she wanted 10-20 half hours for season 3?

Now apparently from the transcript and the like, what was said that there were like one sentence pitches for episodes but nothing concrete or the like. That I believe. After all, it's like taking sticky notes and using them to jot down passing thoughts. But... Ideas don't mean anything. You need to have an actual coherent thought as to how you are going to use those ideas as a creator.

So when she says she wanted those episodes, I believe her. But... Instead of it being so she could have coherently finished her story, something you can feel isn't exactly happening during S3, it would have been to explore her ideas and let it be her mouthpiece. Even as far back as S1, you can clearly see this conflict in the show. The First Day lets her take potshots at modern education and saying kids should have more freedom... At the expense of everyone forgetting that multi-tracking is literally illegal. But the idea was more important than the overall story so in it went.

Besides, when asked about your work that you cherish so much, are you going to tell people you wanted LESS time to do whatever you wanted? Or are you going to say you wanted as much time as possible? Especially since without a solid plan, you can't be like Matt Braley who straight up went "Nope. Amphibia wasn't shortened. It was always planned to be three seasons."

I still stand by the idea that Dana actually wanted to just keep going WELL past S3. Even now, she wants to do a spin off and one of her greatest regrets for what was missed was not being allowed to do more teenage Raeda stuff in the show. A second episode in the past. Expanding on what? Who knows but it's more time spent with the ship that Dana clearly loved.

I am not saying Dana was lying or a bad person but the question that is worth asking is if that time would have been spent actually wrapping up plot threads or exploring characters as they are now. Otherwise, it would end up being like the S2B and S3 we got where we are still getting elements added, refusing to wrap up story elements, and having to drag back plot points from almost entire seasons ago (Willow and Amity's friendship), if not MULTIPLE seasons ago (Willow's lack of power control) just to do something with these characters despite it being way too late to treat those elements as relevant. There is a reason why if I hear that Dana is the lead for another cartoon, I'll probably be staying away. Not when I don't want promising statements to never have a plan behind. Not again.

Expected this to be shorter. I'm rambly though. Also just wanted to clear this out. Admittedly, it's stuff like this that makes it so that if anyone ever told me they didn't trust me as a writer, I'd understand. Not because of me wasting time but because my mental health gets in the way and can cause ideas to die as my brain just refuses to write them. How we as writers use our time with the audience is important. It leaves an impression and for me, Dana's impression is incredibly negative because I care about story, even if characters come first to me.

Sigh.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#the owl house criticism #toh critical #toh #the owl house

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underworld-park-offical · 6 months

Text

STAN: Dude what the fuck

STAN: Why didn't you tell me the new kid was a DEMON

STAN: I could've done a WHOLE conspiracy video

STAN: I could've shown the WORLD I'm not crazy!

STAN: You YouTube gatekeeping supreme covered ass muncher!

KYLE: Woah dude

KYLE: Calm down

KYLE: Life isn't just about views

STAN: DON'T YOU KNOW KYLE??? STAN: IT'S ALLLLL ABOUT THE VIEWS STAN: ALL THAT CRAZY SHANE DAWSON ESC SHIT???? STAN: IT WAS ALL A LIE STAN: I JUST WANTED ATTENTION STAN: DID YOU THINK I WAS ACTUALLY SERIOUS???? KYLE: YES????????

CRAIG: STFU CRAIG: THIS IS LITERALLY NOT MY FAULT CRAIG: FUCK OFF

STAN: THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOUR FAULT, CRAIG

STAN: YOU’RE SUCH A DICK

CRAIG: EVERYDAY I WAKE UP IN FUCKING OHIO

STAN: WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN????

STAN: WHATEVER

STAN: THE POINT IS BECAUSE OF YOU THERE'S DEMONS RUNNING ABOUT STAN: THIS IS GONNA BE THE NEXT PEWDIEPIE VS T SERIES WAR

CRAIG: FUCK YOU DUDE CRAIG: YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS OF MY SUBSCRIBER COUNT STAN: WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN?! STAN: YOU DID THIS STAN: EVERY APOLOGY YOU’VE EVER DONE HAS BEEN SHIT STAN: THIS IS NO FUCKING DIFFERENT STAN: YOU KNOW WHAT?

STAN: I DON'T CARE IF YOU BREAK YOUR ELBOW CRAIG: (gasp)

CRAIG: BITCH

KENNY: Can all of you SHUT. UP.

KENNY: This is NOT the time to be arguing with each other!

KENNY: This is damn near close to a Zombieland type situation!

KENNY: We can’t be causing more problems than we already have!

KENNY: So NO CHANNEL WARS!

KENNY: Got it?

CRAIG: Fiiiiiiine

STAN: Sure.

CLYDE: Tolkien,

CLYDE: hey

CLYDE: Hey

CLYDE: Hey Tolkien

CLYDE: Tolkien

TOLKIEN: What. I'm not talking to you right now

CLYDE: Yeah yeah yeah

CLYDE: Okay

CLYDE: Do you think I could

CLYDE: Do you think

CLYDE: Do you think I could

CLYDE: Do you think I could ask out Tweek?

TOLKIEN: Are you fucking serious?

TOLKIEN: We just broke up.

CLYDE: I know but like

CLYDE: Do you think I could?

TOLKIEN: No, and I hope he rejects your sorry ass

CLYDE: :(

CLYDE: Hhhhhhh my chest hurts

CLYDE: My hands unwashed

KYLE: Fucking ew

CLYDE: My boyfriend left me

CLYDE: Life is pain

CLYDE: …

CLYDE: Guys?

CLYDE: I think I might become emo

CRAIG: Ew

CRAIG: Just when I thought you couldn’t be more cringe

CRAIG: Don't touch me

CRAIG: Gross ass

CLYDE: Fuck you!!! You guys are so mean!!!

CRAIG: Cry bitch <3

CLYDE: (Damn near sobbing)

CRAIG: Boy kisser

KYLE: Guys?

CLYDE: (Full blown crying, fucking bitch)

KYLE: GUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CRAIG and CLYDE: WHAT?!?!?!

KYLE: INFLUENCER ALERT!!

CRAIG: OH HELL NAH

STAN: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK CARTMAN: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TOLKIEN: FUCKING BOOK IT

GREGORY: GET BACK HERE YOU-!!

CARTMAN: WHERE'S CANCEL CULTURE WHEN YOU NEED IT?!?!??!?

CRAIG: ONLY IN FUCKING OHIO STAN AND TOLKIEN: READ THE ROOM CRAIG!!!

STAN: QUICK STAN: GO TO THAT PRESUMABLY HAUNTED BRIDGE TOLKIEN: WHY???? STAN: I HAVE SALT KYLE: WHY'S THAT RELEVANT????

STAN: DON'T YOU KNOW??? STAN: SPIRITS HATE SALT!!!

KYLE: JUST LIKE CLYDE HATES BATHING??

CLYDE: HEY!!! STAN: EXACTLY

STAN: IF I SPRAY THE BRIDGE IN SALT THEY’LL LEAVE US ALONE

TOLKIEN: WHY DON'T WE JUST PUT SALT ON OURSELVES????

STAN: I DONT HAVE THAT MUCH

KENNY: IGNORE THE STATISTICS LETS GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!

CRAIG: Wait

CRAIG: Hol up

CRAIG: I smell British

PIP: HEY! BITCHES!

STAN: Oh god

STAN: We gotta get rid of the salt

STAN: They know our plan

KYLE: DAMNIT

CRAIG: Not a slay moment

PIP: I know you crusty hoes have salt!

PIP: You think that can repell us demons, imps, etc so easily?

PIP: HAH!

PIP: That's more laughable than Stan's tin foil fuckery!

STAN: FUCK YOU, DUDE!

PIP: I can't hear you! Lalalalalala!

PIP: Now, I think we’re missing the only tolerable person on my team!

PIP: Gregory, could you do the honors?

PIP: OHHH HELL YES PIP: IT'S PARTY TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CRAIG: Lmao literally who?

STAN: Shit

STAN: Kyle help me toss this

KYLE: Okay fine

KYLE: Fuck

TOLKIEN: Ew, what's wrong with his eyes?

TOLKIEN: Why are they uglier?

CLYDE: My my!

CLYDE: How rude!

CLYDE: And don't waste that salt!

CLYDE: It's still a full container!

CLYDE: This boy should really take better care of himself, I mean my word!

CLYDE: There's fecal matter all over his hands!

CLYDE: Not to mention he also hasn’t taken off his binder, nor has he shaved

CLYDE: If you all weren't so hesitant on the idea of us I would have cleaned up this poor lad!

CLYDE: Anyhow, WHY ARE YOU ALL ON THIS BRIDGE????

CLYDE: THERE'S NO SAFETY SIGNS OR ANYTHING!!

CLYDE: You could all fall and hurt yourselves!

CLYDE: Look at how shallow these waters are! Combined with the rocks, I mean REALLY! This is an ER trip waiting to happen

KENNY: What the hell is he saying?

CLYDE: My pronouns are she/her, thank you very much

CLYDE: I believe I've dragged on long enough,

CLYDE: It's so nice to meet all of you!

(Edits made by @pissblanket and @zemoleinyourtrashcan)

#craig tucker #craigfluencer #hellpark #south park #south park edits #southpark #sp #underworld park #mod noah post #mod noah #underworld park thomas #underworld park tolkien #underworld park pip #underworld park clyde #underworld park tweek #underworld park gregory #twyde divorce era

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atopvisenyashill · 2 months

Note

Since I can't seem to figure out how to repost your tags- I am going to say that Arthur Dayne didn't think Ned Stark would hurt baby Jon simply for the reason he was at the Tower of Joy instead of hightailing it to Starfall with baby and the wetnurse Wylla in tow. Once Jon was born, the need to stay at the tower was defunct. Lyanna dying or not, had bluntly served her purpose. The fate of Rhaenys and Aegon made it crystal clear that any one with dragon blood was in danger from the new regime. Doubly so for a child of Rhaegar and Lyanna. If Arthur was really concern about the baby rather than his own personal honor, his purpose would be to get on a fast ship to reunite with the exiled Targaryens or pulling a Jon Con and raising the baby himself in secret. But that isn't as neat a ending as dying in battle serving an oath to a dead man.

Oh yeah, I was kinda writing off the cuff there bc i’m very tired today lmao BUT

I have seen the main argument for a more sympathetic look at Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold is that they feared for Jon’s life, and likely had some sort of affection for Jon and Lyanna. That is something I can absolutely believe - like you said, the brutal murder of Rhaenys and Aegon is more than enough evidence that Jon is not safe in Westeros. I can certainly understand why, even with the best of intentions, the Kingsguard would be wary of Ned. Even if Ned holds no anger at Lyanna, he could hold plenty towards baby Jon or transfer his anger at Rhaegar to baby Jon. It’s a real risk in attempting to confront the man seen as the number two face of this rebellion with the son of his number one enemy.

But I think from the surrounding events, what most likely was happening was that Rhaegar did not take the rebllion nor his father’s madness as seriously as he should have until after the Sack (I know Jaime and Barristan mention Rhaegar planning beforehand to get rid of his father, but like, clearly it wasn’t that much of a priority considering he abandons whatever plans he made at Harrenhal to chase after, kidnap, and impregnate Lyanna while the realm burned around him SO!). IF he married Lyanna, it was likely after he found out Elia and their children had been murdered, and he was probably panicked over the situation in KL, his alliance with Dorne, and what this means for his prophecy (a far cry from the happy little scene we get in the show), and did it to legitimize what he thinks is baby Visenya as a sort of last resort, but did not ever believe he was going to lose the Battle of the Trident. We have no idea what information was getting to Rhaegar prior to Oswell coming to fetch him, and no idea what Oswell told Rhaegar, or if Rhaegar was even in a proper state of mind to comprehend it. When Rhaegar goes to fight Robert, for all we know, he has no earthly idea that he and his father have lost basically all of Westeros except Dorne and ONLY because of Elia. Personally, I think it’s likely that it’s not until he shows up to command the Dornish forces that he realizes just how fucked he is. The Kingsguard probably felt the same, and when they got word Rhaegar died, just fully gave up, condemning themselves, Lyanna, and maybe even the baby to death alongside their fallen Great King Who Should Have Been, Rhaegar.

Because otherwise, like, what are they even still doing at the tower. They wave off Rhaella and Viserys but if what they wanted was to actually protect the last of Rhaegar’s blood, they should have been trying to link up with Rhaella!! Feels pretty relevant that Rhaella know Rhaegar has another potential heir but they just sit around at the Tower instead for WEEKS after the Trident. It only seems nonsensical on the surface; Willem Darry had not yet given up, had two terrified, very small children suddenly in his care, and did his absolute best to try to take care of them. He has more honor in his pinky toe than either of the those three who saw a 16 year old and a newborn in dire need of help and went “rhaegar was wrong and there’s no use in trying anymore” and rolled over and died. Same for JonCon raising a child that is not his; what those two do is put the life of a child before any other intangible oaths or ideals, acting quickly and decisively under really stressful circumstances. Contrast to the Tower of Joy, where Lyanna doesn’t even have a Maester present to help deliver the baby.

So yeah, I do think it’s likely they worried Ned was a danger, and had some sort of fondness for Lyanna and baby Jon. Doesn’t mean they made the right decisions, or that their affection and fear ultimately mattered in the grand scheme of things. It’s tragic sure, but far more tragic is that they never turned to the dying teenager in their care and ask what her opinion was on how her final days should go.

#asks #riana one #true knoghts #oaths and oath keeping #robert's rebellion

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