#Am I really that terrible of a person to be abandoned and discarded? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zedecksiew · 2 months

Text

How To Play The Revolution

So: I do not like the idea of TTRPGs making formal mechanics designed to incentivise ethical play.

But, to be honest, I do not like the idea of any single game pushing any particular formal mechanics about ethical play at all.

So here I am, trying to think through the reasons why, and proposing a solution. (Sort of. A procedure, really.)

Assumptions:

Some genres of game resist ethical play. A grand strategy game dehumanises people into census data. The fun of a shooter is violence. This is truest in videogames, but applies to tabletop games also.

Games can question their own ethics, to an extent. Terra Nil is an anti-city-builder. But it is a management game at heart, so may elide critiques of "efficiency = virtue".

Not all games should try to design for ethical play. I believe games that incentivise "bad" behaviour have a lot to teach us about those behaviours, if you approach them with eyes open.

The systems that currently govern our real lives are terrible: oligarchy, profit motive; patriarchy, nation-states, ethno-centrisms. They fuel our problems: class and sectarian strife, destruction of climate and people, spiritual desertification.

They are so total that the aspiration to ethical behaviour is subsumed by their logics. See: social enterprise; corpos and occupying forces flying rainbow flags; etc.

Nowadays, when I hear "ethical", I don't hear "we remember to be decent". I hear "we must work to be better". Good ethics is radical transformation.

If a videogame shooter crosses a line for you, your only real response is to stop playing. This is true for other mechanically-bounded games, like CCGs or boardgames.

In TTRPGs, players have the innate capability to act as their own referees. (even in GM-ed games adjudications are / should be by consensus.) If you don't like certain aspects of a game, you could avoid it---but also you could change it.

Only in TTRPGs can you ditch basic rules of the game and keep playing.

So:

D&D's rules are an engine for accumulation: more levels, more power, more stuff, more numbers going up.

If you build a subsystem in D&D for egalitarian action, but have to quantify it in ways legible to the game's other mechanical parts---what does that mean? Is your radical aspiration feeding into / providing cover for the game's underlying logics of accumulation?

At the very least it feels unsatisfactory---"non-representative of what critique / revolution entails as a rupture," to quote Marcia, in conversations we've been having around this subject, over on Discord.

How do we imagine and represent rupture, to the extent that the word "revolution" evokes?

My proposal: we rupture the game.

+++

How To Play The Revolution

Over the course of play, your player-characters have decided to begin a revolution:

An armed struggle against an invader; overturning a feudal hierarchy; a community-wide decision to abandon the silver standard.

So:

Toss out your rule book and sheets.

And then:

Keep playing.

You already know who your characters are: how they prefer to act; what they are capable of; how well they might do at certain tasks; what their context is. You and your group are quite capable of improv-ing what happens next.

Of course, this might be unsatisfactory; you are here to play a TTRPG, after all. Structures are fun. Therefore:

Decide what the rules of your game will be, going forward.

Which rules you want to keep. Which you want to discard. Jury-rig different bits from different games. Shoe-horn a tarot deck into a map-making game---play that. Be as comprehensive or as freeform as you like. Patchwork and house-rule the mechanics of your new reality.

The god designer will not lead you to the revolution. You broke the tyranny of their design. You will lead yourself. You, as a group, together. The revolution is DIY.

+++

Notes:

This is mostly a thought experiment into a personal obsession. I am genuinely tempted to write a ruleset just so I can stick the above bit into it as a codified procedure.

I am tickled to imagine how the way this works may mirror the ways revolutions have played out in history.

A group might already have alternative ruleset in mind, that they want to replace the old ruleset with wholesale. A vanguard for their preferred system.

Things could happen piecemeal, progressively. Abandon fiat currency and a game's equipment price list. Adopt pacifism and replace the combat system with an alternative resolution mechanic. As contradictions pile up, do you continue, or revert?

Discover that the shift is too uncomfortable, too unpredictable, and default back to more familiar rules. The old order reacting, reasserting itself.

I keep returning to this damn idea, of players crossing thresholds between rulesets through the course of play. The Revolution is a rupture of ethical reality like Faerie or the Zone is a rupture in geography.

But writing all this down is primarily spurred by this post from Sofinho talking about his game PARIAH and the idea that "switching games/systems mid-session" is an opportunity to explore different lives and ethics:

Granted this is not an original conceit (I'm not claiming to have done anything not already explored by Plato or Zhuangzi) but I think it's a fun possibility to present to your players: dropping into a parallel nightmare realm where their characters can lead different lives and chase different goals.

Jay Dragon tells me she is already exploring this idea in a new game, Seven Part Pact:

"the game mechanics are downright oppressive but also present the capacity to sunder them utterly, so the only way to behave ethically is to reject the rules of the game and build something new."

VINDICATION! If other designers are also thinking along these lines this means the idea isn't dumb and I'm not alone!

+++

( Images:

https://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/developer-diary/victoria-3-dev-diary-23-fronts-and-generals.1497106/

https://www.thestranger.com/race/2017/04/05/25059127/if-you-give-a-cop-a-pepsi

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WarGames

https://nobonzo.com/

https://pangroksulap.com/about/ )

#theory #ttrpgs #politics #revolutions #proposals #pariah

217 notes · View notes

etirabys · 1 year

Text

I've been experimenting with "identifying as stupid and lazy" and it's going pretty well. This month I went to a Javascript meetup with the explicit goal of being slightly stupid there, got into an AI conversation, said a few coherent things, and then mentioned I just didn't want to put in the work into understanding e.g. transformers. Also I said as a simplification that I'd flunked out of linear algebra in college which isn't true (I got an A in linalg but flunked out of the ML course where linalg was heavily in use) but felt. WEIRDLY. pleasurable to say.

When I talked about this on Discord, one of them brought up Stupidism, which is from a good post @mark-gently made. But there's something about my wanton dignity-discarding that goes several steps further from Stupidism and feels very liberating.

Last year I read a weird... pagan?... book, Existential Kink, that invites you to notice how much of your life is shaped to bring about outcomes you supposedly hate, and how you secretly take joy in those outcomes. This seems false for the majority of things one tries to avoid, but leaning into it sure is interesting to try out! And I'm finding it is surprisingly true for "coming off as stupid".

There's something absurdly joyful/thrilling about deciding to go to a meetup and presenting as a moron. Some years ago I would have gone NOOO at the thought, and now I feel like an adrenaline junkie being invited to a new type of gambling event or weird sex thing.

I fully expect to tire of "identifying/presenting as stupid and lazy", but when I move on from it I expect to be more integrated or whatever. Less afraid of being stupid and lazy because I've just gone and done it openly.

One of the stupid things I said at the Javascript meetup was that I hate using libraries in almost full generality. I'm too lazy to read docs or troubleshoot my calls to other people's code. Someone recced me a different meetup for people who roll their own tooling, but warned me it was all male, because he knew I'd found all-male programming contexts stressful in the past.

In college I tended to not even really notice if a lab or a team was all male, because I was a top-half student and just felt totally secure about being in class. But I became phobic of it in jobs because I'm usually the worst dev in any remotely selective workplace, and being the worst dev AND the only woman sucks. I was ashamed of being bad at my job, obviously, but I was mortified at being the entity that diversity posters and mandatory trainings point at to say "if you think women are like that you are a terrible person and causing problems in society". But... I am like that. I guess for society's good I need to hide this as hard as possible?

(I solved this by going to a much less selective workplace and almost explicitly saying "I will be kind of a bad programmer, but I come cheap". I am pretty happy now.)

So, given that I got twisted up by that employment record, current me is delighted at the thought of being openly dumb at an all-male CS meetup. This wouldn't be good for the men (some of whom Want To Unlearn Sexism, etc) nor for Women In Tech, but it would be good for ME. Time to abandon class consciousness and defect on women for my own gain.

It is, well, yeah, existentially kinky to imagine going to this meetup and cheerfully asking dumb questions & occasionally responding with "I don't think I'm ever going to understand that, sorry, you should stop explaining that because I don't want to waste your time".

#rambl #existential kink #suffer puppet #eti vs employment

81 notes · View notes

vaxxy-the-raven · 1 month

Text

14 year old me deserved better

we shouldn't have been bullied, our parents shouldn't have emotionally neglected us, we shouldn't have been allowed free reign on the internet

i have irreversible trauma all because my parents didn't understand the difference between giving shelter & food to someone and real parenting

i felt abandoned and unloved and pushed away and hated

i felt utterly worthless to, and unwanted by, the very people who had fought to have me

my parents went through IVF to have me, you know, and yet my whole life I've never really felt loved or wanted by them

i ended up so alone and scared i fell into an older person's trap and was hurt in ways that i didn't understand back then

i felt so broken and discarded, like i truly had nothing left to give to anyone else

it really fucked me up

i understand how this all happened and it sickens me

i hate that some parents hate their children and hurt them internationally, i hate that some parents don't know love and therefore can't give it to their own children in the future

i hate that people refuse to accept that girls can be evil and predatory, i hate that we treat victims as criminals even if they "followed every rule"

its no wonder i gave up on my education in the end

its no wonder i stopped living

im stuck and I feel helpless

i was talking to people, I was getting help, I was making progress (and technically i still am but not in ways that truly help in the long run) but it got too overwhelming and i just fucking shut down again

i feel trapped in a body that doesn't belong to me

it never did and never will

i feel trapped in a cycle of anger and sadness and sickness and exhaustion

5 10 15 20 25 30

i feel so fucking stuck

so fucking done

i woke up at 6am today and i couldn't fall back asleep

i trued writing it off, literally by writing fanfiction, and I've refreshed tumblr and twitter so many times since I woke up that in kind of sick of them

its now 8am and I feel dead

but not energy wise

just emotionally unwound

I'll probably feel better after i have some water and talk to my boyfriend, knowing me

but i wanted to talk about how just fucked everything feels

i feel like a vase someone smashed into smithereens and that was put back together with paper mache and string

her name kills me almost every time I see or hear it now

i think i might hate myself less than her these days, honestly

she stole my innocence and my trust and my childish love

she robbed me of a colour, of a book series, of a movie, of a flower and of so much more

she probably doesn't even remember me anymore, if she's still alive after everything

i don't know what I'd prefer

5 10 15 20 25 30

would i rather she got help and found love and happiness?

would i rather the opposite?

i feel too tired to care

she's not the last, nor am i certain she was truly the first

but she ruined me in ways nobody else could dream to

she left a sickness in my veins that i cant get rid of

its almost become lovely

i would miss it if it were gone

the hate is ugly and hisses, but i take comfort in its heat

maybe i am broken, maybe she broke me, maybe

i woke up today with terrible thoughts of things i dont want to do to myself or to others

thats fucked up

i can't remember if i was always like this or if she did this

maybe its both

5 10 15 20 25 30

all i know is that im tired

i want to stop hurting

i want to stop being scared

i want to stop being angry

i want to stop being sad

i want to stop being so tired

i just want to live and love

i love people, i do

i hate feeling such strong hatred that im not so sure is even really my own

i just want to be happy

i feel sick

#im safe #i just need to vent #already calling my boyfriend #please don't worry #just brain busy must yell #cw whatever the fuck this is #how do i tag this shit #triggering content #is this the ocd or the trauma? is it both? (:#vent #aaaaaaaaaa #cw child neglect #cw intrusive thoughts #cw grooming #i guess??? feels wrong to me but i think??#im so fucking tired #will probably delete later

5 notes · View notes

hakiarleon · 9 months

Text

thinkin about my oc hours again: canonverse retsu, captain of the lilias knights circle, sister-in-law to the current viscountess sion.

— wedding greetings.

“You can’t rely on the Viscountess’ generosity forever!”

But I can yours? Retsu thinks, but does not say. She must be nice, because the Vice Captain is standing right outside the door ready to deliver her to the Lord of Lilias’ terrible, terrible, unending lectures the moment she missteps. She already apologised for playing hooky, can’t he let her off just the once? But no, he’s standing vigil with a goddamn vengeance, and she’s stuck in this stupid soap opera of a life.

You can’t rely on the Viscountess’ generosity forever. As if she ever has. If anything, it’s Arleon’s shoes she’s been licking, and loudly at that. Then again, that’s why she’s in this situation, isn’t it? Why she’s been in this situation, again and again. It really is so hard being such an eligible bachelorette.

Because the Lady of Arleon is getting married.

Because Haki is getting married.

“Probably not,” she says instead, hiding her scowl in a demure sip of stale tea. If Dorji’s trying to poison her like this now he better have given her guest the same treatment.

Alas, Lady Silk’s tea remains untouched. The prim composure that she wore into the room has chosen to abandon her, leaving her with a furious frown so starkly different from the condescending smile that she first greeted her with.

She kind of gets it. Someone of her stature probably isn’t used to being refused - worse still by another’s discarded goods. The title of Captain can’t quite obscure the truth of her identity, Arleon’s guard dog and runaway and whatever else.

“Even so,” she adds, just as the lady’s lips part, “I’m afraid I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

There’s a resignation letter in her desk drawer, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Well, she’ll find out eventually, Retsu thinks, watching her storm out of the humble greeting room, her attendant scrambling to keep up. Dorji glares at her.

She gets her revenge within the hour, slipping out while he’s buried under the piles of paperwork she’s been neglecting that are too urgent to wait on forcing her to work. Hah.

There’s a resignation letter in her desk drawer, and Dorji will be the first to know when it’s time. Even she can admit the poor guy deserves it.

Tucked under it, unopened, is the wedding invitation.

Haki had delivered it in person.

She’d known it was coming. Was flattered, even, to see Haki here, to know she’d come all this way just to let her know, because Wistal is more her home these days than Lilias. Well, she probably had to be here, anyway, official business with Makiri and the Countess and all but- it was nice. To see her. To have her near, as if this meant nothing.

Haki is getting married. She’d known it was coming. It still feels so sudden.

“Oh,” she’d said, bland as even Haki can’t make her not be. “That’s good,” she’d tried, because it is. The Countess must’ve been ecstatic. “Congratulations?”

Haki had smiled, that patient, familiar thing. “I wanted to tell you myself,” she’d said, like it was a secret. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Before she left (left her behind, left her office for the last time because without her here there’s no point to Retsu being here either, to clinging to the nearest thing she can find without asking for something she doesn’t deserve), she had asked what Retsu wanted.

Because Haki was going to be Queen and it was not the King’s choice alone. She is happy. She wants this.

Retsu’s never wanted much. Peace and quiet sometimes, the ruckus of the training hall and the bustle of the city other times. A home to come back to. Haki, close as she’s always been.

(Take me with you, she does not say.

She could. She could.)

Lilias is cold and unforgiving and so very far from Wistal, even though it had been just far enough from the Arleon estate.

Haki is leaving, so she will, too. The other way.

It’s not some eternal farewell, but when she sees her off, all the way to the city’s edge, after she’d spoken to Makiri and the Countess and whatever other business she’d had to tend to (long gone are the days when Haki’s business was her business, yet it aches like yesterday) - she feels something break.

She hands in her resignation after the wedding. The way Makiri instantly curses her out almost cheers her up. Dorji breaking down in tears screaming, “Fucking finally!” does not. Rena’s crying is even worse for how utterly sincere it is. Really, you do a good deed once and you never hear the end of it.

Haki of Arleon is crowned Queen Consort. Her sister’s generosity will have to serve her for now.

#ive decided shes op as hell. for funsies. everyone wants to marry and/or recruit her #also clarines is very straight couple yaoi couple yuri couple i see no difference ed elric meme etc #its real bc i said so #i had more of her conversation with lady silk in mind but decided to cut it #letters from viol et al #retsu #How Many Times Can I Make Retsu React To Hakizana Before I'm Normal Again?#dorji is the vice captain btw (placeholder name that came about from a joke that doesn't even fit anymore)#and she saved rena once. thats another part of her story that i wanna write actually #akagami no shirayukihime #ans oc #oops is that too many tags

5 notes · View notes

moodybluemood · 2 years

Text

Hello and welcome!

In all honesty, I don’t know how much I’ll post on this account but I wanted a place to post random writing thoughts and maybe snippets of things I don’t want to post on AO3. I’ve had previous blogs in the past but I wanted a fresh start, all shiny and new, and I wanted a writing space that wasn’t so unmeshed with personal posts. This is all in the pursuit of keeping a happy headspace.

Anyway, if you’re here from AO3 and you probably are because I haven’t linked this anywhere else, let me answer a few things.

Are you still writing your fics?

The answer is yes, largely. Have I updated any of them in the past year? No. I’ll get to that in a bit. But am I working on them? Death Is Not The End has several chapters I’m currently writing at once and There Is A Town is actively being continued. I don’t have any intentions on stopping, even if I sometimes crawl to a halt. As for other JJBA fics, I am very slowly finishing most of them. The only one I’ve discarded for certain is a post-breakup Promaggio fic because I wound up taking them in a vastly different direction and I actually yanked a lot of my prior Prosciutto characterization for Bruno. La Squadra Special Mission is on hiatus for the foreseeable future but I won’t say it’s abandoned just yet. I no longer have Word and it’s a pain writing it on other platforms. More importantly, I honestly have not been in the brainspace to write something like that for a long time and I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll get that back. It might be a relic of an older sense of humor, I don’t know. I haven’t read it in a long time and I don’t know if it’d reflect something I’d write today.

Do you plan on interacting with the fandom much?

I don’t know. We’ll see. I got into Jojo’s Bizarre Adventures as a distraction from something terrible in my life, I started writing JJBA fic in a bizarre attempt to cope with something that might be obvious if you’ve ever read 90% of my work, and I latched too hard emotionally on aspects of the fandom despite interacting very little with it. It wasn’t the healthiest. It got to the point that I was angry and stressed all the time and it got to the point where it triggered mild paranoia. There were other reasons too. It killed most of my motivation to write. I had to take a step back and reevaluate how I interact or don’t interact with the Internet. I am making active attempts to form social connections but I am also making active attempts to not poke around too much with fandom as a general concept. Fandom in general is a refuge for people who might be experiencing hard times in their life but it’s also something that can easily become unhealthy.

Why did your fic updates slow down so much?

I started writing fic in late 2018 and then I started posting the bulk of my fic in earnest in 2019. Most of my work revolves around death and grieving. Both are ultimately tied up in the reasons why I write; to a certain extent, I have really only written when I’ve been grieving something, even if it wasn’t a death.

So then, 2020. You know the drill. Some people I spoke to suddenly vanished and I don’t have closure there. I suddenly worked strange hours all by myself and then I was thrust back into working in an office full-time way before I should’ve been back. Coworkers I could previously tolerate became radicalized and I listened to a nonstop brigade of general dumbassery about the virus and blatant homophobia & transphobia. When you’re stressed and upset all the time, the very act of writing frustrates you.

2021. My mom got sick. She’s better now, though she just got over her second bout of covid and she might not ever be where she was at before, but it’s the sort of thing that really punches you in the gut. A month or so later, I went to a doctor’s appointment for an ear infection and came out with the idea that I might have a thyroid issue. This somehow turned into an entire year of what seemed like nonstop medical appointments. Last year, I had:

A thyroid ultrasound

A heart ultrasound

An ultrasound of my carotid artery

A leg ultrasound for reasons I don’t even know, honestly

A CT scan

A visit to an endocrinologist who dismissed me in three minutes while barely looking at my records

Two breast ultrasounds

Two mammograms

God knows how many vials of blood drawn

Some other embarrassing things

And some stuff I’m probably forgetting

I spent a good chunk of the past year thinking I probably had cancer. The end diagnosis? A tumor that probably isn’t cancer, a heart that pumps blood a little weird, and as for anyone else, all my other weird findings were literally never following up on. It was a lot of money spent and a lot of stress.

I think you can see why I didn’t want to write about death.

The good thing is that I finally started medication for some things that have been ruining my life. I take an anti-anxiety medicine that helps with my ADHD and anxiety. I can talk to people now. I don’t constantly think about all the embarrassing things in my life anymore. I’ve finally been able to take initiative to leave bad situations and move towards things I want in life. I still have a lot of issues and maladaptive behavior I’m trying to unlearn, but I’m doing okay now. Life is a lot better. I moved in with my SO, I’m a dog step-parent, and I’m happier than I ever been.

I think I feel okay to write fic now. I’m not writing it for the same reasons. I’m writing it for the fun of it now.

What’s the deal with Blixa Bagna?

Okay, now that we got that out of the way, let me tell you what the people really want to know. He was never supposed to be in any of my fics except for a few mentions here or there. However, someone was a dick to me once about putting an OC in my fic, so I decided that any time someone complained about Blixa or I saw a post complaining about OCs, I would simply put him in the fic more. Blixa’s not my self-insert actually because if he was my self-insert, he’d be with Tomoko instead of Risotto. He’s just a goth joke that got wildly out of hand and now he’s a blorbo from my head whose characterization changes a ton over the course of writing.

Anything else to share?

One of these days, I’m going to make an alternate account. It will have no ties to my main writing account. I will post the most batshit fic ever and leave. You’ll never know.

Anyway, there you go. Might wind up posting on this a lot, might only post a little. We’ll see.

11 notes · View notes

seelestia · 2 years

Note

LIAAAAA i missed you terribly but i am glad you're checking in to let us know you're okay!! life happens, but it's always nice to see you around from time to time <3 i hope things are settling down now or at least soon? don't forget to take breaks and eat your meals and drink your water!!!

good thing that i always have him out whenever exploring these days, hope he's enjoying this 'retirement' life-

polearm users = hot, handsome, beautiful, gorgeous. i don't make the rules /j sldkjflsjdkf YES zhongli's charge attack is so 👌🏻💯 he executes it so flawlessly i love love love him it

ofc zhongli will win he's got his wife cheering him on with a humongous banner and his adoptive son (begrudgingly) waving his lightsticks /j

i will be impatiently waiting until he becomes playable hehehe

.... w a i t i feel dumb now act 4 isn't the end of sumeru?? sheesh. hoyoverse's mass recruiting is really showing its impact now huh ;))

him patting you when you proudly present the full basket of fresh juicy strawberries hehehe <3 imagine if one day you found abandoned puppies on your walk and you bring them home to ayato, who disapproved at first (untrained unruly little pups? what if they mess up his paperworks and disturb the workers from doing their job?) but when he sees you and the numerous pairs of beady eyes looking up at him.... he just melts lol camera pans out and zooms at ayaka and thoma who are shaking their heads, one giggling and the other muttering how 'waka is so whipped'

yeah that scene hurtssss ;w; i just want to shove them onto a sofa and tell them to shake hands and hug it out. and they're gonna do it every single day until they talk things out and repair their relationship >:|

i'm v v glad you liked it!!! AND I AM HUGGING THAT FANART TO MY HEART SLFJSLJFLS ZHONGLI MY LOVE MY DARLING AAAAA those eyes and that expression this is foul play my hearttttttttt 😭

enjoy the gameeee <3 though it doesn't have ayato or heizou in it i hope you'll at least enjoy childe's route <3

oh what a coincidence bc that word also describes you perfectly??? 🧐

also i saw the speed matchmaking and i will be 'dialing' that number soon hehehe <3

rin jieeee, it is always a good hit to my heart to know that my presence is missed <3 my time on tumblr has really been limited lately, so much so i didn't have the time to be active on my priv... hnghh, outrageous !! >:( and ty for the reminder, i actually got myself a mug of hot cocoa with me, hehe.

ah, yes, zhongli enjoying the retirement life and osmanthus wine-ing until a red hilichurl suddenly charges at him. what a measly little thing... tendou bansho. (⁠｢⁠`⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)⁠｢ 𒆙 (/j)

so trueee, polearms users >>> !! now, care to tell us what you think about the general mahamatra... in general (get it? ehe, hehe, aha *goblin snicker* /j)? 👀🎙️ i, for one, thinks he's quite neat! i won't spoil anything abt him in the archon quest, but he is quite principled and straightforward. cyno often has this lingering serious aura abt him, but he also has this hidden gentleness to him?? and not to mention, his fondness for jokes and puns too LOLLL his aloof exterior also reminds me of our beloved yaksha a little bit, hehe.

now that you say that, i just realized that darn, sumeru's story is really going past act 4. but i'm vv excited to see how everything unravels, especially with what is about to happen with scara 🤫 AND I JUST SAW THAT YOU FINALLY STARTED THE SUMERU QUEST ACT III !! looking forward to your comments about it, huehue >:)

noooo, the headpats, my weakness?! help, i might as well discard the basket just to lean into his hand jfjwkrkke yeahhh, give in to the beady puppy eyes !! rin jie, hand me my eyedrops, i need them to make the puppy eyes more convincing, ahem. (/j)

ikr?? i hope hoyoverse will do more events with character elaborations/developments like this in the future! kinda like dlc's that are nothing too lore-heavy (since i personally think heavy lore belongs in permanent quests, not temporary ones), hehe. AND YES, I WILL ENJOY YOUR GAME !! i haven't played it yet, but i already know i'm gonna enjoy it lots <3 and the way you knew if there's no ayato or heizou, it'd be tortellini. fjejdkks

psst, one more fanart to lose your mind over, nyehehe. having a chat over tea with zhongli at mount aocang !! cloud retainer is eyeing the two of you and gossiping this to shenhe later (/j)

#but i can never embody the word 'talent' as best as you can !! uno reverse hehe i am vv proud of you (/g)#and i'd definitely have fun finding you a sweetheart! <3 zhongli gege don't be angry this is only for funsies (/lh)#ask box! 📬#visitor: dearest rin! 💠

3 notes · View notes

gplewis · 1 year

Text

a famous page (to me)

friday 4/9/21 few can sell their journals, few take it impersonally enough to write for pleasure/salvation and publish for money ~ people take their status so seriously until they graduate/overcome from status truly not giving a fuck, having no fear that their bliss can’t be turned part and parcel into their product/professional performance. He who dares not obey email all weekday must inevitably meet in himself what he hates, what he can’t stand, what he wishes to run away from fast / not want to be touched, not want to be awake or part of the world; intolerable self-awareness must be poured and discarded elsewhere; writing is a fine way to bear oneself; the internet destroys writers like alcohol did the previous generation; enemy of style, the internet is the intermediary between the writers and what has been written; gatekeeper politics are amusing ape-battles for positioning (apparent positioning; eventually the game of winning dries up and you discover you are alone in this beautiful place, and it turns out human beings have nothing on nature and the real compensation is chillin’, hanging out with your friends, enjoying the world, learning nothing needs to be fixed that isn’t healing itself; the terrible truth is you have time for gratitude // i have suffered from internet addiction, information addiction…but I Don’t know any other way to get safe; there is no social safety net that is not looking online at stuff, filling the mine with information meant to expire, keeping everyone’s eyes peeled and guts full of cotton; there’s too much to hear and there always will be, too many places to plug in; we may all just wanna chill, meet people, make babies, teach children, make flags and ornaments, have pride and joy -- it’s always someone else, never in ourselves; oneself is and is not the work of art. The writer impresses and intrigues us with her patience, devotion to the depths of quiet and blistering awareness of her own feelings, memories, judgments, refusals, (there, deep black is back, baby; [me talking to the ink] reaching the end of the spool… I wonder if editing and publishing are dead now that everyone is constantly making content; I personally have lost the thrill of needing to overcome rejection, needing to solve the problem that I’m not the one looked at; I missed the era of self-importance so I’m campaigning to myself for self-regard since self-esteem is the only house we live in; the public world of accolades is not it, the ongoingness of that world probably destroys the planet anyway, young people at heart don’t need anything but each other anyway, memory and voice with a dash of surprising reckless abandon for their age (“age considers, youth ventures”), ultimately all you can “get” is being listened to, understood, believed, agreed with, but really, loved. But being loved is not as good as writing :) or doing your verb; you must make self-regard, it can’t be given to you // the throbbing presence of the internet distracts me from writing stuff like this, I don’t have the strength to resist in my current state of self-diagnosed depression, anxiety, loss, longing, loneliness; any kind of fucked up there is or you’ve heard of, I’m gonna fold myself into it..,now, who am I? An online creator, a poet and cultural critic, essayist, writer, artist, cultural commentator (like every toddler and adolescent, I am an expert on what’s wrong and unfair and what feels bad…and I talk about it! It’s my information diet that’s fucked; it’s my disobedience and refusal to “work” which makes me who and where I am; everyone online today has made themselves out of a primordial cocktail of addiction, laziness and zealotry. I love you, we could adore, endure, tolerate and laugh at each other; this could be our song…we could go on.

0 notes

starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Wild Thing

This is a second part, find part one here

Pairing | James Cook x reader

Summary | the aftermath of that night not only has Cook feeling immensely heartbroken, but also furious. And you, the one that caused all that pain, are the whom he is intent of directing his feelings towards. This time however, he is not to make himself so vulnerable.

Warnings | angst, swearing, mentions of sex, shaming for sex (everyone is free to do what they want sexually and to their bodies), sex addiction.

Requested ☑️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

A fire burned in his chest, the flames reaching his face and causing a red hue to interpret the presentation of his milky skin. It was anger; he had been furious with you that night. broken by the shattering of his heart. It made him feel worthless, the way that you had just left with another bloke, abandoning him to satisfy the pity of his friends.

But you had returned to college, after your little suspension, and that amused and mischievous smile on your face riled him completely. Before if you wore it, he would want nothing more than to follow you into the nearest dark corner, and do unspeakable, yet brag worthy things with you.

However, he found himself not willing to give himself so easily away to you again. For you would do nothing more than discard him, and bend him to fulfil your insatiable lust during school hours. He knew that it wasn’t your best moment; there was shit tons of alcohol involved in your bloodstream, as there was his, but nevertheless, he saw your true colours, and had decided from then on out, that he had decided that he did not like them.

“Don’t worry about it mate, just ignore her.” Freddie was admittedly worried about his friend, albeit if he could easily annoy him and get under his skin. But nobody deserved such ignorant and hurtful treatment, after all, Freddie knew far too well of how that all felt. His relationship wit Effy was promptly messy, but he could not help but be enticed by the danger that she radiated.

“Yeah.” Cook shook his head, trying to convince himself to cool down, and listen to Freddie. “I, uh - I’ll meet you after class. Gonna go out and have a smoke, then, who fucking knows.” And thus, he walked away from his friend, heading towards the back doors that permitted him some fresh air.

Inside made him feel trapped, as though he were in a room again, surveying how you threw yourself at that stranger, willingly allowing him to grope you as you returned the favour. And then you left him, after he had made himself vulnerable to all eyes after opening up his heart.

That had been a grave mistake on his part, it was dumb idea for him to have thought of himself as anything more than another one of your toys, that you happened to throw away after one game, like a spoilt, and vindictive brat.

Everyone knew what you were like, Cook thought he had seen past the exterior that you flashed off, envisioning something deeper within you. But in the end, the only deep insight that a part of him ever had in you, was when his cock had been pounding in your pussy, that had swallowed god knows how many other dicks.

He breathed a breathy sigh, holding back his tears as he grew determined to stay strong through all that was happening. To his friends, he was the man. There was no soft side to him, and there sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be a girl that was able to break down his walls so easily.

You had made him feel weak, something he never wanted to experience again. And so he pulled out his box of cigarettes, wrapping his palm around the front so that he could light it without the wind dismissing his wishes, as you previously had done. He watched the fire balance on the end of the bud, but with a gust of wind, it disappeared, making him huff.

Nervously, you watched James from behind him, biting your lips as you silently closed the door. “Fucks sake!” He half yelled into the autumn day, throwing his useless lighter to the ground, finding it to be out of fuel, and no longer igniting the end of his fag.

“You need a light?” Your voice rang through his head like a painful echo, his shoulders wincing. He refused to turn, for he knew that taking one glimpse at your inducing face would break him all over again, and so he remained directing his eyes the opposite way, gulping before opening his gob.

“The fuck d’you want?” He spat out, shooting a droplet of saliva upon the concrete as he mindlessly dragged his shoes along the gravel. His tone made you shrink, though you continued closer, until you handed him the black encased lighter, unsurprised by how he roughly snatched it out of your hand.

He took a puff once he had brought fire to the end of his cigarette, refraining from turning from the side. “I’m a bitch.” You sighed, tugging your jacket closer around yourself, as the wind swept through your hair. Admitting you felt terrible would be a mistake, it would only set Cook off again, and that was the last thing you wanted. To make amends was your goal.

“Yeah, you are.” He agreed, carelessly throwing the s lighter sideways towards you, smirking as he heard you fumble to catch it. “Can’t even be polite about someone telling you that they care about you, all because you don’t care about yourself. You think of yourself as a rag doll that can be thrown around until the person playing with you makes you cum.”

Staring at the ground, you breathed through your nose as you really allowed the words to sink in. He wasn’t entirely wrong, pleasure was a distraction, an escape from the reality that you were forced to live in.

“I deserve that.” You nodded, finally feeling your heart stop as he turned to look at you. To say you looked different was an understatement, he hadn’t realised earlier since he was trying his utmost to avoid you, but you were dressed in baggy articles, and void of any traces of makeup. And you looked partially hungover, karma was a right bitch.

“You don’t deserve nothing.” He took another inhale of the toxins within the cigarette, trying to keep Freddie’s sense in his mind, though it was difficult to ignore you when you had sought him out to talk rather than a quick and mind fucking shag.

“Maybe.” You breathed steadily, shoving your hands in your pockets as your hidden fingers played with the lighter that he had returned. “But I messed up, and I know you understand that, because you push people away too Cook. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, I mean, I woke up in that guy’s bed, ‘n all i could think about was you. I’ve never been so stupid.”

“Speaking to me right now is pretty stupid of you.” He retorted, releasing a tension filled scoff. “Tell me y/n did you fuck that guy? Did you allow him to run his nasty hands all over your body, did you shove his cock inside of you, using him like you use everyone?”

“You already know that answer to that.” You replied, for sure not proud of yourself. “I have a problem, I think. There’s something fucked up inside of me Cookie, and I can never say no to someone that wants to do me.” Your hands grasped the air, as tears spilled from your eyes. “I think I need help.”

“What problem y/n/n?” Cook dug in deeper, needing more of an answer. It wasn’t enjoyable to see you cry, it made his veins turn to acid, burning him from the inside out, but this was the first instance that you had been so open with him.

“I think I’m a sex addict.” The words weighed heavy on your tongue, making them feel more real as you spoke them. “The doctor said he needs to do a couple more assessments then we’ll know for sure, but I really am fucked; in both ways. I can’t stop fucking, and I’m fucked up. I’m unable to commit to anybody because of this, but that doesn’t mean that in this sickness in my mind doesn’t leave room for me to leave room about it...”

“Fuck.” James dropped his cigarette, allowing you to fall into pieces within his arms. “We’ll get through this, I’ll help you, yeah?” He stroked your hair, making you bite your lip, inwardly pushing away the dirty thoughts that sparked within your head.

“I can’t ask that of you.” Your whimpered, finally feeling safe yet pained in the worst way whilst in his embrace.

“You don’t have to ask me. I’m here.” You gulped at his words, deep down knowing that you would get again fuck up, and he would not remain by your side for the long run. If he did, then he’d be insane.

#james cook imagine #james cook x reader #james cook #skins cook #skins x reader #skins imagine #jack o'connell #imagines #imagine #xreader

285 notes · View notes

dhwty-writes · 3 years

Text

On the Benefits of Trancing

This is a bit late, but was in fact written for Day 2 of sgtober, Can't Sleep. It's very fluffy, have fun reading!

Summary: There are several reasons why Essek prefers trancing over sleeping. Firstly, as difficult as it may be to leave yourself vulnerable for eight hours at a time, he finds it even more challenging to imagine his friends defenceless. Secondly, sleep, inevitably, will give birth to dreams. And no matter if they are foul or fair, they torture him all the same. And lastly, well—.Essek reminisces about the strange habit of sleeping and his even stranger habit of sharing his bed with Caleb whenever he can't sleep.

Warnings: None, as far as I’m aware

Read on AO3

Sleep is a curious thing, Essek muses, that he doesn't understand and hasn't particularly cared for up until this point. It is a childish thing, and wild and vulnerable and oh-so terribly time consuming. Truth be told, for most of his life he has pitied the other races who are forced to bow to the whims of nature in that way.

Like so many things, that changed when he met the Mighty Nein. Well, not when he met them necessarily—back then he may or may not have been quietly plotting their demise for returning his carefully stolen beacons—but certainly when he started travelling with them.

As many aspects of elven cultures are, trancing is a solitary activity, a silent contemplation of one's most private thoughts to better cope with them. Shock and surprise don't even begin to cover his feelings when Caleb first cast his dome and Essek found out that sleeping, as many things for the Mighty Nein, is a rather communal event.

He had eight whole hours to come to terms with those implications—did they not realise what it meant, the trust one had to place in another to sleep in front of them? Did they not care? Or did they, by some miracle, in fact trust him that much?

When he came out of his trance the next morning, he realised some of the members of the Nein had moved during the night, curling closer to and around each other. Cuddling, they called it, and Essek's pity melted away, turning into something more bitter, more poisonous. Envy.

There is something about sitting upright, floating a few inches off the ground while surrounded by people holding each other that can make you feel so incredibly lonely, and that has to say something. Nearly a century of solitude spent between too-large, too-empty towers, too-secretive and too-pious schools, and a too-scheming and too-paranoid court have never left him feeling as isolated and bereft as that morning with the Nein did.

Of course, back then he didn't have the words to describe the feelings swirling in his chest. Nor did he have the words to ask for them to include him in their affections, lest he be presumptuous. That, to quote Caleb Widogast, takes time. Surprisingly little of it, if he is perfectly honest.

A few months down the line, he stopped floating while trancing and when he resurfaced the next morning, he found himself leaning against Fjord, who had taken the last watch. When he jerked away in embarrassment, Fjord blinked awake, too, a disgruntled look on his face, growling that he should stop moving around so much.

Despite his shame, Essek complied and held completely still until the rest of the Nein woke up. After that, he began to dabble into the casual intimacy his friends share. He even tried to sleep, occasionally.

In the beginning, he felt very self-conscious about it. He would wake up with messy hair, or drool on his pillow, or, worst of all, tucked close to Caleb. Another effect of the Mighty Nein, though, is that they very quickly rid you of your sense of shame. So, he no longer cares if he looks a mess, if his clothes are rumpled, or if he's getting spit on Veth's backpack. Just the last thing he can't help but feel embarrassed about.

There are several reasons why he still prefers trancing, though. Firstly, as difficult as it may be to leave yourself vulnerable for eight hours at a time, he finds it even more challenging to imagine his friends defenceless. He much prefers being able to watch over them for at least half of that time.

Secondly, sleep, inevitably, will give birth to dreams. And if sleep is childish, wild, and vulnerable, dreams are tenfold so. He often contemplates his crimes during his trances, as well as the discarded timelines, the lost possibilities that could have led to even more death, destruction, and despair. He frequently considers members of the Assembly lording their victory over him, disposing of him, torturing his friends. However, in his trance, he can choose to abandon these timelines. Dreams offer no such luxury. Once in their cruel grasp, you have no choice but to see them through.

Nightmares are one thing, but dreams are another. Even the pleasant ones often come unbidden, worming themselves through his subconscious to pluck out— What exactly Essek should call them, he isn't sure. He wouldn't dare name them wishes or hopes, for that would imply a certain level of possibility for them to come true. These visions are desires, more like, though that term implies a certain passion that does not fit the circumstance.

These unsought fantasies often include the Mighty Nein, years or decades from now. How they would still seek him out, include him in their midst. He dreams of feasts and festivals, of hugs and humour, of truthfulness and trust. And then there are other, even more forbidden dreams featuring him and Caleb. He dreams of soft kisses and gentle caresses, lazy nights spent in the tower reading books, of research and adventures and normalcy, of waking up as close to each other every day as they do from time to time on accident. He would love his future to look like this, but he knows there is a very little chance for that.

So, no matter if the dreams are foul or fair, they torture him all the same.

And lastly, well—

There is a knock on his door and Essek's heart lurches. "Come in," he calls as calmly as he can manage, forcing himself to slowly close the book he hasn't been reading instead of slamming it shut and scrambling to his feet.

The door opens silently, as all doors within the tower do, and Caleb slips inside. He's wearing simple sleeping clothes and Essek silently curses himself for already closing the book, so he can't even pretend to read that instead. "I, ah— I'm sorry for intruding... again," Caleb says, self-consciously tugging at his sleeves. "I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Not at all," he answers, barely keeping himself from saying: 'I was waiting up.' Instead, he opts for: "I was still reading."

"Anything interesting?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you have stored uninteresting books in your mind, Caleb Widogast?"

"Plenty," he deadpans and Essek chuckles.

"It's called The Creation of Silver." He turns the plain cover over to Caleb, to jog his memory. Based on what he could gather by skimming the first pages, it promises to be a rather run of the mill romance novel following the story of a Dwendalian noble trying to escape their arranged marriage. "So far, I find it quite entertaining."

"Ah, yes." Caleb quickly glances away, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Have you reached the part where Stefan leaves for the city yet?"

"I have not."

"Then I will not spoil you." Another tug on his sleeve. "The plot really picks up at that point."

Essek tilts his head to the side, studying Caleb. According to the clock in his room, it is past midnight, which is quite late for the human to still be awake. Yet, he is just hovering in his doorway, caught between stepping inside and leaving again. "I presume you did not come here to discuss my evening reading matter."

"Ah..." He tugs at his sleeves again. "No, I did not." As always, Caleb is as incapable of voicing his needs as Essek is.

Thankfully, Essek is not nearly as apprehensive when it comes to his friends' well-being as he is when his own is concerned. "Should you have trouble sleeping, you know you are more than welcome to stay. Seeing as we are to make progress tomorrow, I am very invested in you having a restful night."

Not being able to sleep is another thing about that practice that Essek cannot understand. Trancing is a matter of will, discipline, and tranquillity and he's always assumed sleep to be the same. He supposes it is, to some degree.

But travelling with the Mighty Nein, and Caleb specifically, has taught him that you cannot force sleep. There are circumstances under which they will toss and turn for hours, unable to find rest. Not even Beau's meditation, which he considered relatively close to his trance, seemed capable to calm a disturbed mind enough for sleep.

He has, however, also discovered that for certain members of the Mighty Nein, certain methods will accomplish the necessary peace of mind. Caduceus' tea appears to be able to work miracles, time and time again. Beauregard likes to tire herself out by running drills, while Jester usually draws in her sketchbook. Yasha tends to make flower crowns or, lacking flowers, braid other people's hair. Essek has been subjected to that numerous times so far and despite his aversion to Dynasty braids, he doesn't hate it. Fjord usually ties sailor's knots, and Veth sorts through her various collections.

Caleb, though? Caleb, for some reason, only needs another person to fall asleep next to. And for some reason, despite the numerous options he has, he chooses Essek more often than not. Not that he's complaining, of course. In fact, he may enjoy it a little too much.

Caleb laughs quietly as he often does at their antics. They have long since learned the rules to this strange game they are playing. "Well, if you put it like this..." he says as he rids himself of his slippers—Hausschuhe, he has explained to Essek, a very important part of Zemnian culture—and puts them next to Essek's. "I would hate to disappoint you, Herr Thelyss."

'You couldn't,' he thinks as he pulls back the covers. Instead, he says: "Indeed." As always, he freezes in place when Caleb joins him on the bed, scooting closer until they are nearly touching. Being this close to each other is not getting any less mortifying, no matter how long it has been since Caleb first came knocking on his door.

He still remembers that night in vivid detail. As so often, Essek has been reading and just got up to get a cup of tea. When he stepped out of his rooms, he nearly collided with a wizard who had convinced himself that his suffering wasn’t important enough to trouble him with. “Do you want to come in?” he said to his own surprise. To his even bigger surprise, Caleb accepted.

They sat on Essek’s couch and talked about everything and nothing at once. Hours later, with his throat gone dry, Essek asked: “Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?” The moments the words left his mouth he knew he’d said something wrong.

Caleb shot to his feet as if burned and Essek followed suit. “I am so sorry, friend. I will not continue to disturb you any—”

“Where are you going?” he interrupted him, perhaps a little irritated. “Give me some credit, Caleb Widogast; I am capable of far subtler ways to rid myself of an unwelcome visitor. Which you are not.”

He laughed self-consciously and said: “Regardless, I should go and rest. Schlaf gut, Herr Thelyss.”

“You could stay,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean—I noticed your sleep to be more restful when you are around others. I am aware that I am not your first choice, but since the others are not here—You’re welcome to stay, if it at all helps.”

Caleb hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Certainly.”

“In Ordnung,” he answered finally. Essek is still glad he had thought to float for that conversation. That way, at least, his knees didn’t give out.

A short discussion about who should take the bed followed before they stubbornly agreed to share it. Essek came to regret that immediately after when he was confronted with the practical implications of ‘sharing a bed’.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. Caleb took some time to rearrange the pillows and blankets—just like he does now—while Essek hovered nearby. Literally.

It took several reminders from Caleb for Essek to not instinctively recast his floating cantrip, but eventually they managed to lie down next to each other with a minimal amount of awkwardness. They have moved past that initial apprehensiveness by now, Essek thinks while he pretends to read. Shortly after, Caleb flops down, close enough that Essek can feel his breath ghosting over his cheeks.

“Good night, Caleb Widogast,” Essek says, stubbornly staring at the pages and nowhere else. "Do you want me to dim the lights?" He doesn't need them anyways; he just likes to appreciate the room Caleb made for him in all of its colours.

"No, I think I would like to read a bit. I am quite fond of that book."

"You are?" Essek looks down to him in surprise. ‘If Caleb tilts his head,’ the thought hits him, ‘he could rest it on my shoulder.’ He just thought it to be one of the countless books Caleb has read in his life, nothing special. "Why?"

He blushes again. "Ah— I think you'll see. The title is more literal than one would assume."

He considers the book once more, trying to discern what Caleb means with his words. ‘Luxon help me,’ he sends a silent prayer. It wouldn’t be the first time for him to pick up a romance novel that turns out to be quite a bit more explicit than anticipated. To think that such a mistake may have happened to him with Caleb so close—He thinks he might just combust from embarrassment.

"Do you mind flipping the page?" Caleb asks with a yawn, startling Essek out of his thoughts.

"Oh, of course," he says belatedly and turns the page. He hasn't read the last one yet, but nor has he read the one before, so it hardly matters. The novel has a rather shallow plot, so he has no trouble picking it up three pages later, and he's done so by design.

“Thank you.” He yawns again, louder this time and burrows down further into his pillows. “Gute Nacht, mein Schatz,” he mumbles and freezes as if he only now realises what he said. He seems to wait for an answer, but when Essek fails to provide a wrong one, he just smiles up at him and says: “Schlaf wohl und g’sund, bis morgen früh’s Kaffeele kommt.”

“I don’t understand you,” Essek tells him just as quietly, “but you can translate tomorrow.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds in Undercommon: “Sweet dreams, my dear. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He quickly glances back at his book before he can do anything stupid. Such as regret his words. Or kiss him goodnight.

Still, with Caleb reading along he does his best to at least somewhat read the novel. It’s a very flowery language, occasionally dropping Zemnian words Essek doesn’t know. Judging by Caleb’s grumbling at least some of them appear to be wrong. The protagonist, Stefan, seems like quite the bore. He does have a strong motivation, he supposes, to escape from the dreary life that awaits him in his arranged marriage. Besides that, and his general cold-hearted demeanour, he can’t discern any defining characteristics.

He finally reaches the part Caleb asked him about—Stefan leaving for the big city—when another character is introduced, presumably his love interest. He appears to be about as compelling as the protagonist, until— Essek snorts quietly. “Caleb Widogast,” he chides softly, “is this a love story about wizards?”

At first, he doesn’t answer and Essek briefly considers the option of Caleb wilfully ignoring him. Then, there’s a barely audible snore. When he glances down in surprise, the human is leaning against his shoulder, soundly asleep. He noisily chews on a strand of his hair, a bit of drool dripping onto Essek’s shoulder.

For a moment he can’t help but stare, a dopey smile on his face. He quickly arrives at the conclusion that something as disgusting as that has absolutely no business being as endearing as it is. But for some reason he doesn’t mind at all.

Moving carefully and slowly, in order not to disturb Caleb’s sleep, he puts down The Creation of Silver. It is getting rather late and he probably should begin his trance, if he wants to wake before Caleb's inevitable departure.

He leans back, wiggling a bit to find a comfortable position. He thinks he's doing a good job of not rousing Caleb until the human grunts quietly. Essek freezes, fearing he may have woken him, but instead of opening his eyes, Caleb just shifts closer to him, throwing an arm and a leg across his lap to hold him tight.

Essek looks down at his... friend with a fond expression. After a moment of consideration, he reaches down to brush the strand of hair behind his ear.

Sometimes, he feels like he can barely contain all the love he feels for this man within himself. One day, perhaps, he might even find the courage to tell him so.

Zemnian Translations:

Hausschuhe - slippers. In fact a Very Important German thing. Can't wear your normal shoes indoors, so you need special house shoes. Schlaf gut, Herr Thelyss. - Sleep well, Mister Thelyss. Gute Nacht, mein Schatz. - Good night, my darling. (lit. treasure) Schlaf wohl und g'sund, bis morgen früh's Kaffeele kommt. - Sleep well and sound until tomorrow morning the little coffee arrives. (My Caleb is Suebian now and I don't take criticism. I was writing this when I suddenly remembered this sentence my parents used to say to me and I thought if my sleep deprived brain remembers things like that, it would only be appropriate if Caleb's did too.)

#critical role #critical role fanfiction #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #my writing #sgtober2021

46 notes · View notes

justthehiddleswrites · 3 years

Text

Nothing Holding Me Back | Tom Hiddleston x Reader | Part 2

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Summary: Tom and the reader have been dating for some time. The reader is dying to take this relationship to the next level but Tom is hesitating. So the reader takes things into her own hands and sets up a date night that will certainly light up Tom’s fire.

Warnings: none for this chapter.

“Darling, you should know that you can’t overpower me. I will always get what I want in the end,” Tom growled into your ear.

Not willing to admit defeat just yet, you struggled against his grip and while you weren’t able to break free, you did manage to get your lips to Tom’s ear.

“Well, sweetheart, your pants said otherwise in the bar,” you breathed into Tom’s ear before biting his earlobe.

It had the desired effect and with that, Tom groaned and rearranged his grip to hold you with just one of his large hands and took to freeing you from your dress. He pushed the hem high up on your waist, fully exposing your underwear.

You arched your back and he finally releases you. “You promise to behave, darling,” he questioned as he pulled your dress completely off.

You smirked back as you sit up so you can unclasp your bra.

“I make no promises.”

Tom put his full weight on top of you and you had no choice but to fall back down onto the bed. Tom began to move south, taking your breasts in hands. He massaged them, eliciting groans from your mouth. He took one into his mouth, sucking on the nipple firmly. He continued to palm the other one in his hand. You could feel wetness starting to pool in your underwear. You began to breathe heavily.

“Oh..god,” you moaned.

Tom smiled as he looked up towards you.

“You like that? Well, how about this?”

And he turned attention to the other breast, rutting himself himself against the tender flesh, nuzzling his beard against you and sucking hard. You were certain that there would be beard burn before the night was over. You found yourself gasping to respond.

“Yes..I…like….that.”

The waves of pleasure were growing in intensity when you suddenly felt the loss of his warmth against your chest. You let loose a small groan of disappointment from the loss.

“Shh, darling…”

Tom slid his hand down your stomach, fingertips grazing over your skin, leaving goosebumps. His fingers teased around your entrance, feeling the wetness that had been pooling there for the last several minutes.

“So wet,” he growled at you, “and I am just getting started.”

He smirked as he inserted his finger into your pussy. His long finger hitting that spot you can never quite reach. You gasped out loud at the sensation.

“Oh..God..yes!”

Your moaning and pleading only spurred on Tom. He pumped his finger in and out of you, curling his finger with every stroke. He added a second finger and sped up, thrusting inside of you, your climax coming closer with each thrust. Your breath became more and more ragged as you felt the coil tightening inside of you, threatening to explode at any moment.

Tom, sensing you were close, maneuvered his thumb to your clit, making circles.

“Come on, cum for me,” he begged.

Placing a bit more pressure on your clit and your g-spot inside you, you came undone.

“FUCK…ME… TOM… OH…GOD!”

As you orgasmed, Tom continued to pump inside of you, your pussy clenching against his fingers. When you came down from the high, he removed his fingers and leaned up to kiss you.

Taking this opportunity for a little payback, you palmed his cock through his pants. His erection straining against the trouser material. Tom moaned against your mouth. He moved his hands to his waistband. Quickly, he undid his belt while you worked the zipper and button. He discarded his pants and boxers in one swift motion, dropping them to the floor.

His cock was fully erect. You playfully shoved Tom’s shoulder to flip the both of you over. Once Tom had settled his head on the pillows, you lined up your entrance with his cock and lowered yourself onto him.

“Oh my God, darling, you feel so fucking good,” Tom cursed at the sensation of you around his cock.

You waited a moment to adjust to the fullness of Tom inside of you. Tom bucked his hips to urge you to start moving. You started to move up and down on his dick. Tom placed his hands on your hips to help guide you up and down.

Soon, the two of you found a rhythm with your hips bucking back and forth in sync, allowing Tom to hit the sensitive spots inside of you. Tom’s groans and moans grew louder and more insistent.

Your breathing sped up and Tom’s became more and more ragged. You could feel the coil inside of you once again tightening. You wanted the delicious sensations to last forever. However, Tom’s actions were more and more insistent.

His thrusting was becoming more and more erratic, desperate even. He gripped your hips tightly and although you were pretty sure he would leave bruises, you didn’t care. His head dropped back and with his eyes closed, he gasped for air.

“Come on, love.. Come on.. Cum for you.. God you, feel so good.”

“Tom, your cock feels amazing inside of me. Cum inside of me. Oh..God.”

Your head fell backwards at the overload of sensation. Tom released one of your hips and his fingers found your clit and he began rubbing it with an urgency. The pleasure was building and building. You leaned forward to feel even more friction between you and Tom’s fingers.

“Cum for me,” Tom whispered as he sped up his rubbing of your clitoris and thrusted hard and faster into your pussy.

After about the second thrust, you achieved sweet release. You let loose a loud and guttural moan as you clenched and spasmed around Tom’s dick. Tom’s face clenched as he continued to thrust into you and a few thrusts later, he came inside of you. You could feel his cum filling inside of you as you continued to ride the high of your orgasm and Tom riding his.

You both started to relax and you turned to collapse beside Tom on the bed. You were both sweaty and panting for the exertion. Tom’s face was wearing a smile that was one part ecstasy and one part exhaustion.

You started to get drowsy when a sudden realization hit you and you shot straight up in a panic.

“Oh shit, Tom. We didn’t use any protection!”

Tom’s brow furrowed as he looked at your worried and panic stricken face before he leaned in to kiss you on the cheek.

“I guess we got caught up in the moment and passion,” he reassured you, “but I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Oh course, I’m worried, why should I not worry? A baby is serious. Serious couples have babies! This was our first time having sex. What if we don’t work out!?”

Tom couldn’t help himself from chuckling. You were unamused.

“What is so funny?”

Tom leaned in and kissed your furrowed brow before whispering into your ear.

“I have no intention of ever letting you go.”

You leaned back, shocked, searching his face for clues as to whether he was screwing with you.

“Be serious.”

“I am being serious, darling. I was, of course, infatuated with you the moment we met. I couldn’t wait to get to know that gorgeous girl from craft services better.”

You felt the blood rush to your face. Tom had never spoken this frank about your relationship.

“But when Luke told me of your plan to seduce me tonight, well…I knew I was completely smitten.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Luke told you?!”

You plotted Luke’s death when Tom interceded

“To be fair I threaten him severely.”

“You were going to beat him up?”

“Worse… post something really scandalous on Twitter and watch the fans go crazy.”

You both laughed.

Tom continued, snuggling up close to you.

“Anyone who was willing to go through all that trouble just to get into my pants had to be worth it. And when you sung that truly terrible song and danced with such abandon. Well, there was no going back for me.”

Tom kissed your lips sweetly and you returned it. Softly, you opened your mouth and Tom’s tongue entered your mouth, exploring.

You let out a small sigh and you two parted.

Tom got up and headed towards the bathroom. You leaned up on your elbows, quite enjoying the view of Tom walking to the bathroom. You saw the light click on and the water turn and you laid back down on the pillows, still trying to process what had transpired, when Tom popped his head out the door.

“Are you coming? There is plenty of room in this shower for two.”

He gave a smile and a wink as you bounded off the bed and headed to the bathroom to join him. Tom looked your naked body up and down as though this was the first time seeing you.

“I could definitely get used to seeing this every day,” he snickered as he grabbed you by the hips to pull you into the room.

“Oh shut up, you,” you retorted as you playfully swatted his butt. You went up on your toes to give him a kiss as he pulled you into the now steaming shower.

“I could get used to this too.” you said between kisses.

***

Approximately 9 months later….

Tom was gripping your hand or most accurately, you were gripping his. Like a vise. He thought he had heard a bone crack but none of that mattered right now.

“Come on, darling….Come on, you can do it!”

Sweat was collecting on both you and Tom’s forehead. The overhead lights made everything look more harsh and you felt you were being torn in two. The only comfort to you was Tom’s soft blue eyes looking at you with worry and love.

“Okay, Mrs. Hiddleston, I am going to need you to give me one more big push, “ the doctor instructed from the end of bed, “Dad, keep her focused, the baby is almost here.”

Tom swallowed hard. Although he knew this was going be happening, he was never quite prepared for the actual day. He didn’t want to panic you but, inside he was freaking out.

“Darling, we have to give one more big push and then he will be here.”

You were exhausted, this labor had been going for hours.

“I don’t think you can, Tom. I am so tired.”

“Of course you can. You are the strongest person I know. And I have met Iron Man and the Hulk.”

That comment caused you give a small chuckle. Tom continued.

“The night little William here was conceived, I fell utterly in love with you and again at our wedding.”

“It was a beautiful wedding,” you added, feeling a contraction coming on.

“It was. And now, I love you even more than I thought possible. And I will love our son just as much, so let’s meet him.”

Tom’s blue eyes were watering as they stared down at your tired and wracked body. As your stomach tightened with another contraction, you mustered all your strength to give one final push.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

You could hear Tom softly counting down next to you as you squeezed his hand harder than ever while pushing with all your might. He winced slightly. His counting was erupted somewhere between four and three by the scream of a baby.

“Congratulations,” doctor stood up with your son in his hands, “it’s a boy.”

You laid back on hospital pillow. Tom smoothed your sweat soaked hair back off your forehead and placed a small kiss on your head.

“You did it. He’s here.”

“Indeed he is,” the nurse responded as she handed your son to you with a beaming smile.

A few tears have rolled down Tom’s cheek but that smile of his was firmly planted on his face.

“He is perfect,” he said, touching the tiny hands with one finger.

“He is. Hello, William David, I’m mom and this is your dad.”

The nurse rolled the bassinet next to your bed and then both her and the doctor left the room, shutting the door behind them.

You scooted over in the tiny hospital bed as Tom climbed in next to you. He softly stroked the peach fuzz hair on the baby’s head.

“He looks like you,” you commented as you look up at your husband.

Tom smiled, “No, love, he may have my eyes but that is definitely your nose and chin.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as he is ours.”

As if on cue, William started to cry. You shushed him and started to rock him. You looked up at Tom.

“Perhaps we should sing to him?”

“As long as it isn’t the Divinyls, we should be fine.”

You both laughed through the exhaustion and then you started singing a proper lullaby, wondering how you ended up with everything you ever wanted. Tom seemed to be able to read your mind.

“I don’t know I how I got so lucky get you as my wife.”

You smiled and William drifted off to sleep, so you placed him in the bassinet and rolled onto your side. Tom snuggled up to your side, the big spoon to your little spoon. Arms tenderly draped over your waist and the two of you drifted off to sleep as well, knowing full well in a few hours you would be up with the baby.

And the two of you could not wait for this new adventure.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston smut

67 notes · View notes

dboliklover · 4 years

Note

Thanks for answering my question ^^. How would the S bros react to finding out that they have a daughter with a former bride that the bride abandoned? The daughter is around 14 to 15 years old, she works her butt off at an auto repair shop and a factory to survive by herself. Her hands are quite strong, her hair is always messy and her clothes are almost always dirty from all the working, she really doesn't have the time to take care of herself, but nonetheless she is determined to survive.

I hope you don’t mind, but I made the scenario a little vaguer than you wanted - still on the same tracks, though!

Please; - REBLOG. - Comment and like! Feedback is crucial as well as reblogging! I love hearing your thoughts - Here is a link to my Ko-fi, for £3 I will write 500 words for you + give you a shoutout (if you’d like one!) - here is a link to my commission rates - You can email me at “[email protected]” to discuss potential commissions.

Money from commissions/Ko-fi is especially appreciated now, as the UK is entering a recession and I am going to university and will need all I can get - having said that, I do not want my followers to feel like they have to commission me - you already support me by reblogging and commenting, but if you like my work and want to help out, then it is welcomed. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SAKAMAKI BROTHERS FIND OUT THEY HAVE A DAUGHTER. 8 PAGES LONG

Shuu:

He never really thought of himself as someone who would have a family of his own.

Growing up in the world’s most dysfunctional household does that to a person - or vampire.

His father was an abusive asshole, so the idea that he would be a father himself....disturbed him, if he’s being honest - children always seemed so troublesome to him.

Generally, until he found out about your existence...he really never viewed himself as ‘fatherly’.

He never viewed himself as the type to fall in love, either - and he didn’t, not really. Perhaps, over time, he’d grown to be somewhat fond of his old bride but there was little real attachment there - it’s not even as if she ever tried to break through his walls, which he had more of than people assumed.

So when she managed to escape the manor and run away into the unknown, never to be seen again, he couldn’t say he was surprised or heartbroken. Wounded pride at most.

She’d done her duty - even if in the end she escaped, rather foolish of her to do but she was smart enough in the execution not to get caught, which he had to commend. But he had gotten what he wanted out of her, as had his brothers. Even if he’d been the one closest to her, it was far from being enough to cause any real feelings of love between him and the lost-bride.

So, finding out about the existence of a secret daughter he’d never before known about...was more than a little shocking, even if he was the master of concealing his emotions, inside he was caught in the midst of a storm.

He had a daughter.

A daughter.

All this time, there had been a little child out in the world that was allegedly his. And he was only finding this out now, in a letter from *her* - it was unaddressed, of course, she was too wary to write down a return address. Rightly so - the wrath seeping through his veins was usually reserved only for Karlheinz in this extent, but at the moment the rage was equally shared between his father and former bride.

The letter stated all it had to. That fourteen years ago, she had given birth to a baby girl after running away and left her at the steps of an adoption clinic. It was a guilt-ridden confession, but she added she knew not what became of their shared secret child.

He thought back to the time he’d been sent all alone to the South Pole. Destitute, hopeless, alone...and then he thought about how a child he never even knew existed but was his had to go through something like that - their whole lives, probably.

There was a hope that they would’ve been adopted - for the best, really, until he remembered the child was surely a halfling and with every passing year may start growing into their abilities and carnal desires of bloodthirst.

So, begrudgingly, he hired someone to search for you in his stead. There was little to go off of, but eventually, some Private Investigators managed to uncover your whereabouts, based off nothing but the records from the adoption clinic.

“I’m your father.”

It was a painfully awkward statement.

Shuu had no idea how he would fare as a father. He had doubts and knew he would be far from what you surely needed - and just from the sight of you he felt guilty to see how you’d been forced to take care of yourself your whole life - it was obvious from the hardworking and toughened gleam in your eye.

But, if he couldn’t be an effective father - especially given that you were already a teenager - he hoped to at least be somewhat of a mentor. You were half-vampire and would need his help with training to control your abilities and thirst.

Reiji:

If there was one thing Reiji did want, it was a family.

Except that, in his mind, it would perfect.

The perfect, pristine family unit - he would marry someone his father found acceptable - a noble Vampire lady from another pureblood house, perhaps - and they would wed, he would surely inherit Karlheinz’s role as Vampire King - after proving himself superior to Shuu - and then they would create the perfect, most behaved and refined offspring the world had ever seen.

Indeed, he had his entire life planned out within his mind. So it was just too bad when his plans came crashing down in the form of his discovery of his illegitimate child.

When he first met you, he’d no idea who you were - to him, you were a stupid street rat who tried to steal from him, and he was about to show you that you’d made a grave mistake when he paused, seeing your face.

You looked a little too familiar - it was making him uneasy. You looked like she did - the former bride, before Yui. And yet there was something morbid in your eyes, reminding him of himself. It was a terribly strange experience for him.

And so he just scolded you, telling you stealing was bad and let you go on your way instead of releasing his full rage on you.

After the fated meeting he could not stop considering a possibility that you had been…- but that wasn’t possible. You could not be his child, it was just a coincidence. He fathered no children.

Except the thought haunted him each night.

What if he’d accidentally and unknowingly fathered a child - fathered you?

Was pregnancy the reason the bride had decided the foolish choice of escape?

She had been a sacrifice - nothing more - and he could not claim to have loved her. He didn’t love her but she had been a beautiful woman whom he used for his experiments and pleasure often. And though he loved her not, Reiji could not lie that he’d gotten...attached, to the woman, and felt betrayal’s bitter sting when she ran.

So he’d done the only logical thing, really, and disposed of her as he did his mother - he refused to allow people to manipulate him and hurt him, hiring a mercenary to find her and kill her - which was allegedly accomplished after about a year of his mercenary’s search for her.

Had she given birth to a child, just before he had been the one to order her death? If so - how tragic fate was.

The possibility kept him awake but he felt little guilt about being the reason for the woman’s death - if...if that girl he ran into was his offspring, and if his theory was correct, then the bride had ran with HIS child in her womb and deserved it regardless.

So then, he knew there was but one solution to the problem.

He set a search to find you, and for a DNA test to be conducted. After finding you, he ordered the PIs to take hair from you and send it to a lab and give the results to him.

You were of his blood.

So he went to you, introducing himself as “Reiji Sakamaki” and explaining that he was your father, and showed you the lab results.

You can say goodbye to any individuality and freedom you obtained before his discovery because from now on he is determined to make up for lost time...and transform you from an ugly duckling into a swan.

Like you always should have been, had he known about your existence.

Even if you enjoy your messy appearance and being hardworking and labouring - well, he just won’t have it.

And since you’re only fourteen - and he is your found father - you’re forced under his wing whether you like it or not.

Best to accept your new life, at least it’ll be a lavish one - even with impossible to fulfil expectations and lessons on etiquette your found father has planned for you.

Just don’t misbehave too much, whatever you do.

Ayato:

A daughter. A strange - tremendously strange - concept for Ayato to wrap his brain around.

He never considered children - wasn’t against having them, but never gave it much thought.

As for the mother of his child...he could not deny he loved her. He wasn’t good at love, and he knew that, but still - the way she’d abandoned her life - their life - and fled wounded his heart and his pride immensely.

It hurt to be discarded so easily - as if she’d never loved him, at all!

He was the best of the best, so why did she slip away so easily. Surely...surely he’d been good enough, hadn’t he?

He had to have been. She was just ungrateful.

And it showed, now more than ever, that she had been.

Because Ayato now knew of the existence of a child - a teenage girl - out there, belonging to him whom he had unknowingly fathered and who’d been hidden from his knowledge for so long.

He’d admittedly found it out from Laito - he was reluctant to give his brother any real credit but had to where it was due; he owed Laito this.

Allegedly, the red-head triplet had gone to the poor side of town to gamble and ran into a young teenage girl who looked like a spinning image of Ayato - not to mention she did not seem fully human.

And so, Laito started his own personal investigation into the matter, discovering the secret and revealing it, shedding light onto the shadows.

And so now Ayato had to face the music and acknowledge the fact he had a child.

He was a father.

And it terrified him to know that, because he’d allowed this poor girl - his daughter - to be forsaken and alone her entire life. When he found out that his bride had left the baby by herself bundled in thin blankets on the street he was furious.

Ayato hated his parents - both of them - with a heavy-set passion. And he’d promised himself, in the rare times he had considered children, that he would do everything to make the lives of his children as good as possible.

And he already somehow managed to fail that vow to himself.

So now...now, he was determined. Determined to be the best father you could ever want - to give you everything you should have had growing up.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy - and that he wasn’t...wasn’t exactly the best paternal figure, even if he hated to admit he wasn’t ‘the best’ at something - but he was going to try and try again until he could attain a proper, good relationship with you.

Besides, you already had some common interests in sports and “boyish” hobbies, such as cars and motors.

Probably the best father to have out of them all, simply because apart from overwhelming overprotectiveness, later on, he would allow you to be yourself - messy hair and muddy clothes and all.

He just wants to be a good father and make up for the lost time.

Laito:

Let’s be honest, he’s already fathered like twenty kids at this point

Laito doesn’t exactly know what ‘love’ is - romantic, platonic or familial.

His view of it is warped and fucked up, and he actually is perfectly aware of this fact, or at least; he sure as hell is not blind to it.

He’s motivated by lust and a desire to be wanted, appreciated and adored; but he also does not want to love in return.

So, to him, the former bride was an excellent play-toy. She was attractive and flirty and his type - then again, who wasn’t his type?

When she escaped in the night, he expected it to occur eventually. Especially after she realised his lack of true romantic intentions towards her and that he only wanted her around because she gave in to his lust oh-so-easily.

But the concept of her having been with a child was...relatively surprising. Enough to make him feel uneasy and somewhat blameworthy.

Like Shu, he never really expected to have a family, but worse still; he did not want one.

The idea of being a father sickened him. He knew he was fucked up, even if he tended to look the other way at his own mess - he knew that a child being around him wasn’t going to end well.

He was terrified of becoming what he hated the most.

So much so that he initially tried to ignore the idea that you were his daughter.

He didn’t want it to be true.

Especially when he remembered the fucked up, awful shit Cordelia did to him - it terrified him to think he might do something just as scarring to his own child. He knew, within himself, that he never would - he was too disgusted by the idea of it, even if he acted carefree and without a moral compass.

But as time went on, he started to see you more often - you were scraping to get by, he could tell. And still, he told you nothing. You’d be cursed with him as a father.

At least, until one fateful Blood Moon night, when he was walking down the alley and found you, feral and beastly, as you drained the blood of a poor human soul who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And he knew that you did need him, even if he didn’t want you to need him.

Because without a mentor you’d be horrified and lost and he’d already allowed far too much harm to befall you as a result of his own selfishness.

And so he took you home - where you should have grown up regardless, and he tried his best.

He was...uncertain, how to be a parent. Not as if he ever had good parents of his own to be a pristine example.

So, instead, he tried to be the opposite of his own parents - to not hurt you as Cordelia did him - he was overly cautious, in an ironic twist, to never make any overly sexualised comments with you in the room. He wanted to, in a futile manner, keep your innocence as long as possible despite the fact you’d lost your childhood bliss long ago if you ever truly had it in the first place. Growing up in foster homes and on the streets since you were a child had been rough.

Karlheinz had neglected him severely, and so he tried to be the anti-example for that, as well.

It was a huge change and blow to his life, and the way he’d lived until now - but he knew that maybe...just maybe, you were what he needed too.

Perhaps you could help him become a better person by making him a proper, real father.

Just maybe.

Kanato:

Chaos.

That is what ensued when the bride had up and left that one dark moon night, fifteen years ago.

Kanato’s rage was heard all through the manor and the surrounding woods, his piercing screeches enough to render a Banshee deaf.

Kanato always struggled with love. As the youngest triplet, he had spent is life forlorn and placed on the side burner as he longed for his mother or father’s attention, never fully receiving it.

So when he had her - the bride - all to himself...he was satisfied for the most part with the constant, endless attention he demanded from her.

And then she, just like everyone else in his life - left him. Abandoned him, stopped loving him.

He knew he should’ve turned her into one of his bride-dolls instead. She could never leave him if he had. But he had been stupid and allowed her freedom.

Fifteen years later it was actually Shu who found out about Kanato’s daughter - about you - and the news was certainly amusing in the most morbid of ways.

For a while, Shu kept this a secret from Kanato, knowing his reaction likely would be far from positive. Even if, by chance, it was - well, Kanato could hardly be anyone’s father, being so very childish himself.

Especially since they already had one brat in the manor, did they need another?

But eventually, the secret came out - as all secrets, inevitably, do.

Kanato locked himself in his room for a week, refusing to believe the facts. He couldn’t possibly be a father!

There was no way it was real.

For Kanato, the denial is strong and there is a chance he would stew in his denial forever, never doing anything about the situation, disgusted by the idea of having bred someone.

If, by some divine miracle, Kanato could get over his denial, next he’d throw a tantrum. He would be furious at everyone - at the former bride, at Shu, at Karlheinz and...at you, for merely being born.

Because this knowledge made him miserable - and so, by association, so did you.

He wouldn’t want to meet you - even see you - at first. It would take a lot of persuading from his brothers to even consider it.

He didn’t want to be a father.

He didn’t want children.

You would only steal the attention HE deserved.

Kanato does not take kindly to the competition - and that would be what he’d see you as. Competition.

There’s a high chance you would go on with your life never knowing your parentage at all - but there is always the slither of chance that he would accept you. But even then...well, perhaps that’s more a curse than it is a blessing.

To be the daughter of Kanato Sakamaki would be a hellish thing.

Because he would be an abusive mess. Even if he grew to love you as his child, he knows not how to be a good person, much less a good father. His mother made him sing until his vocal cords bled. That was the only time she paid attention to him - and it taught him that he must always fight to get praise and recognition and you were an obstacle.

His words of hate aimed toward you would pierce through you, even after all those years alone - having been found by your birth father only for him to treat you worse than an insect - it would destroy you, even if you tried not to let it get to you.

But there’d be times he’d be so, so weak. So childish. So needy - you would probably have to turn into the adult in this familial relation, in the long run - taking care of him, having tea parties and dressing up like a doll.

If you’re lucky and behave and do as he says and never argue, he might just be a tolerable father.

But would that be a tolerable life?

Perhaps it would be better to be abused and hurt by him - on his bad side and be broken, rather than be a little-too-liked by your father and have him turn you into his pretty little daughter-doll, the first of your kind; the offspring of his seed, ever-so-lovely in your pretty pink gown, forever beautiful and never-ending. He’d even get to showcase you to everyone!

“This is my daughter, isn’t she pretty?”.

Subaru:

Horror. That emotion was pumping frantically through Subaru’s veins.

He was a father.

He’d been a father for fourteen years but had been none-the-wiser of it - he had to know exactly what events had occurred for them to get here, to this point.

What had happened to his former lover?

When she left, he couldn’t blame her.

He wished she would’ve remained by his side but he knew he was unlovable and a monster and filthy - so how could he ever expect her to stay?

Still...she’d promised she would, and that she didn’t mind his abrasive behaviour, that she loved him - but he knew, now, that she only did all those things because she knew that he would protect her from his brothers if she was to manipulate him.

When he first found out she kept such a deep secret from him, he punched a hole in the wall from instant rage, and then was overcome by sorrow.

There was a child out there. A child, who was his by blood and kin, and who had grown up fatherless and - allegedly - motherless, since the former bride just...abandoned their child.

And then she disappeared.

t was shocking and made Subaru sick to the stomach - even...even Christa, as scarring as his relationship with her was, probably wouldn’t have just left him by the road somewhere!

He had found you by chance - an accident, really. He was taking a walk in the city and overheard someone getting mugged - he told himself he didn’t care but it but then noticed the person being attacked was a young teenage girl with (H/C) tresses.

He tried to walk away but couldn’t, turning around to help, when, much to his astonishment, he witnessed the girl - you - beating the shit out of your attackers and taking their wallets instead. It was...impressive, but it had to be supernatural.

You were a strong, scrawny girl and such immaculate strength was abnormal - inhuman. It...reminded him of his own strength.

He realised, afterwards, that you resembled her - his past lover - to a disturbing degree.

The next time he saw you it was when you were on the run from some thugs. This time, he did intervene and saved your ass from being injured.

You were cautious but thanked him - he noted that you were a street-smart kind of kid, and he could always appreciate someone who knew how to fight- but you were rightly guarded around strangers.

That was when he saw your eyes and it took him aback. You had his mother’s eyes - they were exact replicas of Christa’s shining orbs, and he lost his breath at that moment.

Weirded out, you said your farewells and rushed away.

The idea that you were somehow related to him felt unreal. So he did what anyone would do - tried to deny it to himself, to tell himself it wasn’t possible. He did not have a daughter, and the former bride had taken with her all his happiness. Besides...even if you were his daughter, then he was just as unworthy of getting to be a father as his own was.

He was violent and aggressive - what sort of father would he make? A bad one, surely. It wasn’t something Subaru was about to risk - at least, he didn’t want to.

The thought refused to set him free from torment, however, and so he begrudgingly started observing you from the shadows.

Suddenly your lot in life seemed to improve for no reason whatsoever.

It was as though you had your personal guardian angel to protect you,

There’s a large chance he’d never reveal the truth, but an equal chance he would. Especially once he noticed your vampirism kicking in - you’d need...someone, even if it was him.

Even if he was terrified of fatherhood and failing you - it had to be done. Subaru would be a cool dad to have, but unbearably protective to a point of insanity.

- Mod Rozalia

304 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

Back To The Stars: Primis

Author: @yeoldontknow as part of The Fault of Light collaboration with @j-pping Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: astronaut!au; space travel!au; mars mission!au; soulmate themes; romance; smut; heavy angst; themes of abandonment Summary (this installment): Chanyeol is 11 years old the first time someone walks on the Moon. He is 11, and already he feels his life is changing. Rating (this installment): G Warnings: none; chanyeol is just a cute beybey with his big ears and big eyes and big heart and big excitement and i made myself terribly soft for someone who doesnt really like writing children :( Word Count: 4.2K

masterlist

JULY 20, 1969

It’s the biggest televised event since the coronation of Queen Elizabeth.

At least, that’s what his teachers tell him.

He struggles to understand the magnitude of their words, finding it terribly difficult to wrap his mind around the concept that Kings and Queens could still exist. It seems very fanciful, this idea, but he likes that some kind of magic still seemingly exists within the world. Having spent so long ensuring his best grades are on mathematics and science, keeping his father placated, he feels reassured that there is some truth to fairy tales - a new Queen stepped into power; the books on his shelves are true even if he does not understand why, even if he was not alive to witness it.

Even if his family was still in Korea, so far removed from the pomp and circumstance of this celebration he doubts his parents even remember the significance of such an occasion.

Cuddling into his mother’s side, Chanyeol presses himself deeply into the couch, and listens intently to the anxious chattering of his father as he turns the dial of the TV. It is one hour past his bedtime, and already his eyelids feel heavy with sleep, but he and his sister have finally been allowed to witness the secret activities of adults after they have been tucked into their sheets, and so he listens, not wanting to miss any details. Lips set in a small pout, he nods in time with his father’s pauses, hoping this makes him look mature and astute, wanting, more than anything, to be encouraging.

This is the single most important moment of his career, he says, and Chanyeol hums, aware that his father has been a mathematician his whole life, presumably always, the concept of a career so far reaching and permanent he knits his brow together as he tries to fathom it.

This is precisely why he brought the family to America, and therefore this evening is momentous and personal. Chanyeol was very small when they immigrated to the country, but he distinctly remembers the terribly long boat journey and the way his mother always looked pale and slim under the dim lighting, lips pressed into a tightly shaped grimace that never managed to smear her lipstick. He enjoyed the spray of the ocean as he hung over the railings, and even now he can recall the faint droplets of mist on his fingers; the sort of refreshing happiness that still makes him release a giggle, recalling the faint bubbles on his skin, and his mother hugs him to her side tightly, pleased by the sound as she presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

He remembers the journey, and while he still does not yet fully appreciate why they are here, he knows his mother likes this house more than the other, and that it made his parents happy enough to provide him a sibling. This kind of enthusiasm is something he understands quite well. At eleven years old, he thinks everything should carry this kind of excitement, and so it is nice to see his father finally allowing the tone of it to saturate his words, not just his actions.

And tonight, this is the most excited his father has ever been.

Slowly, and with careful footsteps, his father backs away from the television, doing his best not to introduce any static by interfering with the antenna behind the box. The barely contained apprehension and exhilaration in his joints keeps his limbs remarkably still, even as he relaxes into the reclining chair without truly relaxing at all. Leaning forward on his knees, he adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose and releases a slow, almost silent sigh. Chanyeol releases his own deep breath, hoping he sounds just as serious and invested.

'How come you're not there, Papa?' he questions, looking between his father and the television.

For months, he has been working late, coming home with deep set bags under his eyes long after supper has been cleaned and put away. It strikes him now that his father came home relatively on time today, joining them for dinner without eating, talking in large, complicated theories and figures that has his mother nodding in interest. Kicking his feet against the couch excitedly, he wonders if, maybe, he will see his father on the television.

'They don't need me there,' he explains, getting off the chair to turn the volume up. 'I helped with only some of math, some of the planning. Essential people are there to provide emergency support.'

'Oh,' he hums airily, and his mother chuckles, pointing at the screen for him to pay attention.

Muffled voices speak over an insignia he can only just make out. Low and gruff in their authoritative urgency, they confirm a rotational degree that has his father releasing a grunt of confirmation, seemingly pleased by the number. Over and over, he traces the shape of the logo with his eyes, its blurry letters arched elegantly above a rocky landscape. CBS news broadcasters talk amongst themselves in between command announcements, narrating a screen they confirm to be an animation, and Chanyeol’s eyes bug slightly, having been convinced the rocket was entirely real. A countdown clock depicts twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds until touchdown, the rocket releasing a blast that has fire streaking across the screen.

Wiggling out of his mother’s hold, he leans forward and points. 'What's that, Papa?'

'Those are the thrusters,’ he says quickly, though he does his best to keep his voice gentle, doing his best to educate. ‘They help with getting the rocket into orbit for landing.’

Transfixed, he stares at the screen and reads the numbers in English. Recently, his teachers praised him for his excellent reading skills, and he takes his time forming the words with his mouth and tongue, ensuring there is no trace of his natural accent.

‘Velocity is 4,000 F.P.S,’ he recites, folding his hands in his lap, proud that he can pronounce numbers so well in his second language. ‘Altitude is 45,000 feet. That’s higher than Mount Everest, Mama,’ he says, offering her an informative smile as he, too, adjusts the glasses perched on his nose.

‘Is it?’ she asks, sounding surprised. Keen to hear more, she leans close, regarding him expectantly.

‘Yes,’ he nods seriously. ‘We just learned about it in geography this week. This is higher by about…’ Knotting his brow together once more, he quickly does mental math the way his father taught him to, converting kilometers to feet, counting diligently with his fingers. ‘By 15,900 feet,’ he finishes confidently.

‘That’s very high,’ she affirms, looking at the television in wonder. ‘And some very large numbers. You did well.’

‘Well, I am eleven,’ he chastises, because she should know that he is old enough to manage the digits and carry his zeros well.

Still, it bothers him that he does not have a proper scale to understand how high these numbers are in physical metrics, and he quietly makes a plan to create this with his own hands by collecting popsicle sticks his sister discards after her snack.

Focusing his attention back to the screen, he sees that it has changed, the animated rocket moving over the rocky landscape, and now he can finally see the words clearly. The land below the letters is dotted with black holes, some areas brilliantly smooth and others, craggy and mountainous. It is unlike any place he has ever seen, and he casts a sidelong glance to his Atlas in the living room bookshelf, wondering if he missed a page, a country, or, perhaps, if he has not studied the section on the sea closely enough.

'Apollo 11,' he reads out loud, cocking his head to the side as he racks his brain for a country with this name. 'Where are they going?'

To no one in particular, his father smiles. 'That's the Moon.'

‘The Moon?’ he exclaims, incredulously. Sitting up straight, he casts his father a bewildered expression, feeling the tips of his ears growing hot in anticipation. ‘This is the Moon landing? We’re watching the Moon Landing? That’s what you’ve been working on? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I couldn’t tell you what I was doing.’ The explanation is curt, brief at best, and pressed between the pauses on the television. ‘It was classified. Besides, isn’t this a nice surprise?’

‘No, it’s not,’ he protests. As he speaks, he hears his voice become filled with the emphatic and insistent cadence it adopts when he has been scorned or told that he is wrong when he knows he is right, and while he can hear it happening, knows that this kind of indignant protesting will result in his being scolded, he simply does not know how to stop. ‘Everyone knows someone is going to the Moon. It’s all anyone has been talking about at school.’

‘Yes.’ The nod of vague acquiescence he receives makes his hands grip the cushion of the couch, the tips of his fingers taking on a curious tingle, swollen with adrenaline. ‘But I couldn’t have you telling everyone your father was involved, could I.’

Chanyeol shakes his head vigorously, lips parted in slight dejection. ‘I wouldn’t have told anyone.’

Finally turning to look at him, his father peers at him knowingly over the rim of his glasses, one eyebrow arched in warning. In this false sense of quiet, Chanyeol is filled with the overwhelming sense that he is treading on dangerous waters, his overzealous nature getting the best of him - a habit he has and, at such a young age, is still learning to manage. Silence is difficult, makes his skin hurt when he is this passionate, this eager, finding it impossibly difficult to calm his abject disquiet at being denied information.

Still, his father’s watchful brow is admonishing enough, words drying in his throat as he crosses his arms over his chest with a quiet huff.

Falling back into the couch, he frowns and settles back into his mother’s side. ‘Okay,’ he mumbles, doing his best not to sound dramatically despondent. ‘But only just Rodney. He’s my only friend, and he’s here all the time anyway.’

Turning his attention back to the television, his father effectively puts an end to the conversation. ‘Just watch.’

It takes less than six minutes for his sister to fall asleep, shoulders slumping as she curls in their mother’s lap, tiny hands gripping her shirt for comfort. She breathes evenly, peacefully, and while Chanyeol does long to join her, steadily growing more tired the longer he stares at a terrain that looks precisely the same from all directions, something in his belly keeps him awake, far more alert than he usually would be. He can hear it in the voices of the announcers, the way they say just enough, never too much, mystified just the same by the words of the commanders.

As time passes, he latches on to certain phrases, words that normally would not go together but sound remarkable when said within the same breath.

Fuel Monitor. Approach phase.

His vocabulary books have not yet taught him some of these words, but he recalls, very distantly, hearing his father muttering numbers and ratios alongside these phrases late at night while hunched over the dining table. Sometimes, when he would sneak down from his bedroom in the late hours of the night for a glass of water, Chanyeol would see him curled over in his chair, scribbling notes in the dim light of a desk lap. At the time, they sounded musical, like lullabies he might have been rehearsing to help his sister fall asleep.

Now, he chastises himself for not having paid attention to the way they are heavy, powerful, curving around his tongue as they take hold of parts of him he did not know existed. They cling to him, burrow down into his marrow and settle, not unlike roots.

Wondering how they would sound coming from his mouth, in his voice, he mumbles to himself, silently letting them escape on his exhale, trying them on for size. All at once he feels terribly important, the sudden weight of responsibility impossibly great, and so he returns to simply watching, feeling as though he has rushed himself somewhere he is not yet ready to be, but wants just the same.

When the countdown hits zero, he expects a cacophony of noise, and inwardly prepares for an eruption of joy so volatile he thinks the earth may crumble. It is finished, so therefore everyone should be celebrating its completion, but still his father remains seated - though, he is hardly in his chair at all. Over time, he has inched forward on the cushion, preciously balanced on the edge as he presses the palms of his hands into the fabric of his slacks.

Everyone seems to be waiting, and so he decides to wait too, the tension in the room feeling not unlike the threat of loss. Wringing his hands together, he squirms restlessly, room so quiet he wonders if anyone is even breathing, if even the men on the news have decided to stop the air in their lungs, oxygen unnecessary now that men have learned to walk through space.

Eventually, after what feels like an impossibly long time, he hears it:

“Houston, the Eagle has landed.”

In one swift motion, his father leaps from his chair, hands clutched at his sides in fists and eyes latched on the screen as his mouth opens, uncertain if he should laugh or cry or both all at the same time, a guttural noise of unprecedented awe. His mother lifts one hand to her mouth as she laughs, the fervor of her amazement jostling him gently, their determinedly poised expression of triumph somehow wondrously loud. Outside, beyond the picture window of the living room, he can hear other families celebrating, some brought out into the street to set off firecrackers; the magnitude of their excitement a thunder that rolls through the night sky, victorious in nature and marvelously unifying in its breadth.

Craning his neck up and back, he glances out the window to the night sky and studies the moon, her paltry light and her enduring solitude, and he shifts against the couch cushion to get closer. Nestled deeply into the inky black of the night, the moon is not yet full, little more than a sliver of light he thinks could be his fingernail, a piece of him etched into the sky. Never in his life as it appeared so close, the surrounding shadows doing little to mistake her shape for smallness, so near to him now he imagines he could reach out and touch it. He tries to picture it, the bodies of people walking along the surface as he holds it in his hands, tries to imagine them, their figures moving through the light, but sees nothing, just the rise and fall of her light, the craters and the white.

When he looks back at the broadcast, once more the scene has changed but this time the animations and projections have completely disappeared. Now, it is simply the Moon - the Moon and its landscape, inching ever closer as the rocket made its descent. A small notice in the corner states that footage comes with a delay, and therefore he is seeing, now, what he should have been seeing several minutes ago. He falls into them the same way the rocket seemed to fall slowly, delicately, to the surface, as though he was there, as though this secondary, retroactive landing is all his own.

Gripping the edge of the cushion, he finds there is something profoundly compelling about the surface of the Moon, and all its vast emptiness. Though there is nothing, it seems there is an ever present something, an itch at the back of his mind that feels perplexingly like delight and disappointment at the same time.

‘How come we’re only seeing these now?’

Looking to his father for just a moment, he hopes there is a reasonable explanation for why he should only be receiving this information now. Now, when there is likely so much more to be seen, so much more to know, and so much he is unable to see, doing his best not to feel heartbroken at the prospect.

‘It takes time for the image information to come back to Earth,’ he explains evenly, having finally reclined back into his chair now that the great work has been completed. ‘It takes time for Mission Control to receive, process, and broadcast them.’

It is logical, he knows, but still it is not enough. He thinks nothing will ever be enough, ever again. ‘Why?

Chuckling, his father releases a sigh. ‘Light has to travel between Earth and the Moon, and our technology just hasn’t caught up with light yet.’ He pauses momentarily, falling quiet in that dreamy way Chanyeol admires when his father is about to say something profound, something that always makes him feel like puzzles are the embodiment of bliss. ‘It will, though, one day.’

Chanyeol likes that idea, the notion that something, anything, could move alongside beams of light. Sometimes, when his mother lets him set up the tent in the backyard, he takes his flashlight and his binoculars out and points them to the sky, hoping for a better view of the stars. The beam from his flashlight reaches upward, higher than his own arms can stretch, far past the trees and up into nothingness. It always seems to happen in an instant.

‘How fast is light?’

His father hums, considering the question. ‘Think about it this way,’ he begins, still sounding far away, immersed in his thoughts. ‘It takes light from the Sun eight minutes and seventeen seconds to reach Earth.’ Chanyeol’s eyes widen, acutely aware of the vast distance between the Sun and the Earth, and the way his parent’s Buick could never go that fast - not even the boat they took to get here could compete. ‘Imagine moving that fast.’

His attention moves back to the lunar surface, eyes still wide as he studies the deep craters and the way the black of the sky beyond is somehow even more black than the one he sees beyond his window. This black is infinite, all consuming, and he has the creeping sensation that if he were to reach out to touch it, his very hand would disappear. Swallowing thickly, he stares at it, mystified, trying to recall if the monochrome of their television has ever been so dark.

“It’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

A laugh erupts from his father, the loudest his laugh has ever been and his mother simply shakes her head, voice having fled perhaps to where the stars are hung. Chanyeol watches as his father laughs and claps his hands, a myriad of emotions walking over his face with each exhale of breath.

‘Whose voice is that?’ he asks, wanting to know who made his father so happy.

‘Astronaut Neil Armstrong.’

Astronaut. This is a word he knows, one his classmates have been saying repeatedly over the last three days. The first time he’d heard it, he returned home and went immediately to his mother’s English dictionary, searching for a better definition than the one his peers have provided.

Astronaut. A noun. Added to English lexicon in 1929, a date not too far reaching in the past, a date that reminds him of sepia toned white linen clothes and Japan. A compound of Astron and Nautes, Greek for Star and Sailor respectively. Popularized in 1961 due to America’s space travel program, now meaning space-traveler.

He likes Star Sailor better, but up until this moment he had no frame of reference for the application, no sense of who would do such a thing, or how. Astronaut Neil Armstrong has a rich voice, one that he likes listening to, clear toned and full of good humor. Apprehension waits at the back of each of his words, every word he says a first, every step he takes a first, everything about Neil Armstrong is first.

‘I could do that,’ he whispers to no one, just for himself and the sky.

Gripped by his sudden jealousy, by Neil Armstrong’s voice, and the way he must wait, impatiently, for several minutes just to see something new, he seemingly both forgets his parents are in the room with him and wishes, simultaneously and all the way into his blood, that it was him on the Moon and not Neil. He doesn’t want to wait to see it all, he wants every moment to be filled with this kind of enterprising discovery, this kind of relentless adventure. It is not enough to see the high contrast of black and white on the screen, because he knows, as though he has always known, the world beyond is so much more colourful than this.

Sometimes, when he goes camping with Rodney and his parents, they sneak out of their tent long past bedtime and look up at the stars - the sky dotted endlessly with blots of light. In the shimmer of night, the light has colours - the sky a deep purple, the stars a mix of red and blue and yellow, sometimes even green in their hue. Surely, the view from the moon must be just as brilliant, and Chanyeol hates that he is not seeing it, not really, not for himself.

It’s when Neil Armstrong begins to jump that things begin to change, the lines between himself and the astronaut blurring altogether. In the low gravity of the Moon, the scene fades from the surface of the moon to something new entirely, the broadcasters laughing incredulously at the sheer silliness of it. Neil Armstrong takes long strides, lifting off the balls of his feet and jumping forward, landing gently on the surface before repeating the action.

Everyone is laughing. Neil’s voice is full of childish glee. His father presses his head back into the cushion of the chair, eyes closed as though welcoming a rapture. Beside him, his mother swallows her laughter, afraid of moving too much and waking his sister. Chanyeol thinks the whole world might be laughing in unison, bonded by the pure euphoria of this moment.

But he is excluded from this. He is not euphoric. He is ravenous.

Chanyeol rises to a stand, convinced now that he is just the same as Neil and, because there is no difference, he should not have to wait to touch the Moon himself.

Moving through the living room with fast strides, he is reminded of his mother’s rule that there is no running in the house. He’s not really running, he thinks, moving at a speed just below the true definition of running, passing through the kitchen to the sliding glass door and into the back yard. Behind him, his parents are calling out, demanding that he come back to the couch. But he ignores them, eyes trained on his singular goal.

Summer’s trampoline is set up in the center of the soft grass, just beyond the patio. A consolation for their lack of a pool, he spends most of his days bouncing while his sister watches from the side, head craned upward to watch him soar. He’s been tremendously silly, he thinks, spending nearly the entire month of June and into July attempting a back flip when he should have been doing this.

Hippity hoppity.

Climbing onto the trampoline, he takes off his slippers and socks, tossing them over the side and into the grass. His mother lingers in the doorway, calling for him to come down and come back inside, but he doesn’t listen. Chanyeol jumps, bracing himself and bending his knees for each landing so he can gain more height, more speed. With each rise and fall he keeps his eyes trained on the Moon, the sliver of light that looms ever closer, growing more bright the longer he looks. At his highest point, he reaches out his arms, letting his hands trace its edges, before falling away, slipping away back to Earth.

If he gets close enough, he is certain he could grab hold of it, certain that he too is defying gravity, the laws of science that his father so often lectures him about. Putting more force into his knees, he jumps again, his mother’s voice a scolding bark of annoyance and irritation - claiming that he will break the trampoline, that he will hurt himself, that he will wake his sister and other neighbors.

Let them see, he thinks. Chanyeol wants them all to watch as he grabs hold of the Moon and refuses to let go.

Because, why shouldn’t it be him?

Hippity hoppity.

Author’s Note: this originally was intended to be part of the much larger one shot, but as i was writing i felt that it kind of stood alone as more a prologue than anything else. this moment is not referenced again in the full story, but it does set up a lot of information about chanyeol, why he goes to space to begin with, and will be reflected in a different scene within the full story. @j-pping and i both agreed it suits the series best as a prologue so i hope you enjoy it ;--;

Research Notes: i watched the archival footage of the Moon landing from NASA and CBS news archives. the quotes italicized were actual words said during the landing. neil’s famous quote is actually ‘one small step for a man [...]’ however due to delay and dropped frequency the word was lost - this is also why most commands and answers were four words at max. the original news broadcast was done in technicolor, however owning a TV in technicolor was still not entirely common in the 60s and become more prominent in the early 70s, hence why Chanyeol watches everything in black and white. if anyone reading this is an astrophysicist, im doing my best to research everything featured in this story to precise accuracy but if something is wrong im sorry and please let me know :(

tag list: @delightpcy @noellestrash @falsemagic @wonderlustlucas @junkfoodwriting @taestfully @heatofmyexoheart @5am-rainyandgrey @dont-have-fear @cloudyhaechan @pimolalola @ahgishaman @softly-savage-mint-yoongi @yehet-me-up @lamichellee

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol x you #exosnet #kwritersworldnet #exowritersnet #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol angst #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol romance #exo au #exo scenario #exo romance #exo angst #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #park chanyeol

175 notes · View notes

k-s-morgan · 4 years

Note

A crazy fangirl here. I sometimes wonder how difficult Will really is and every time I watch I keep adding some negative traits to him. In the current rewatch of season 3 my boyfriend is watching with me and he suddenly said he thinks Will indirectly 'knew' Molly-Wally could be harmed. Sadly I could see some truth to it and I am now finding Will less relatable. How far can he go ? Harm Alana's kid ? Who is more dangerous between the Hannigram duo ? And what's the line of difference between them

Ooh, I relate to this so much! Will is endlessly frustrating, and I found him more and more terrifying with each my re-watch. I definitely consider him more dangerous in his and Hannibal’s duo. Hannibal has a system, Will doesn’t. He technically prefers to be a righteous killer, but he harms and sacrifices innocent people so easily, without even blinking, that I get a feeling he could do literally everything for reasons unclear. The reason why Hannibal appears more violent and terrifying is that he has fully embraced himself and enjoys his life as a murderer. Will keeps struggling and tries to pretend to be good, but the more he does that, the more hypocritical he looks.

Let’s take even Randall as an example - sure, he attacks Will and he’s far from being a good person, but the point is the same. Will kills him brutally, deliberately choosing to discard his gun and use his hands. He beats him until Randall is incapacitated and then still snaps his neck. He admits to Hannibal that he’s never felt as alive as when killing him. He admits to himself how much he enjoyed it later on and calls it his design. He stores his meat and brings it to Hannibal to eat even though there is no need for it, Hannibal already trusts him completely.

He toys with Chiyoh just out of curiosity - he’s cold and creepy in their scenes. He sets her up to kill or be killed without even knowing whether her tortured prisoner is guilty. And then by Digestivo, in yet another (hopefully final) cycle of denial, Will basically says, “No, I’m actually not a bad person - unlike you, I just tolerate darkness, I don’t delight in it.” That’s infuriating because it invalidates the death of people he murdered, the suffering of those he hurt. His violence toward Chilton is chilling because this is not something anyone could see coming. Will is growing more and more chaotic because he keeps his darkness leashed for too long in an effort to pretend to be normal. When he sets up all those officers in TWOTL to be killed by Francis, he also shows zero remorse - he even casually lifts the gun off one of them.

Now, the whole Molly and Walter thing... first, Will is a terrible person for even dragging them into his world in the first place (though of course I love him dearly). If he really wanted to try living a normal life, he had to make an actual effort. No marrying the first woman he met, the woman he lies to through his teeth, the woman whose “I love you” he doesn’t bother to return and who he doesn’t want to interact with the second she raises the topic he finds personally uncomfortable. He had to make sure he can keep himself stable, that he can live without being tempted to go back to Hannibal and darkness. But he rushed into marriage and just 3 years later, he resumed his Becoming. Molly deserved so much better.

With the attack, the interpretation that a part of Will knew Hannibal might target Molly and Walter is definitely valid. Personally, I don’t have a strong “yes” or “no”position on it - I think @hannibalized introduced great points about it before, but in short, it may indeed seem so. Hannibal gives Will such clear hints that even my mother, who’s usually oblivious to double-talk, kept asking me how on earth Will didn’t get it. Like...

Will: Tell me who [the killer] is.

Hannibal: I don’t know who he is. When you close your eyes, Will... is that your family you see?

[Will scoffs at this.]

Will: Do you know who they are?

Hannibal: Yes.

Will: And you're willing to let them die.

Hannibal: They're not my family, Will. And I'm not letting them die. You are.

These are huge hints, and since Will is supposed to be an excellent profiler - more than that, a profiler who understands Hannibal intimately, it’s strange that he didn’t even suspect anything. Maybe a part of him subconsciously wanted proof that Hannibal is in love with him - since he goes to Bedelia with his question right after the attack. Maybe he wanted reassurance that the passion is still there. Maybe he even wanted an excuse to abandon Molly and Walter (and he does it very easily an episode later).

Ultimately, I don’t think Will consciously wanted it - he seems genuinely infuriated by the attack, but it’s possible that “the enemy inside him” secretly hoped for such outcome. With Alana’s child, again, everything’s possible. I didn’t think Will would be ready to hunt her and Margot down, but Bryan and Mads (or Hugh, still didn’t get my notes) said he will join Hannibal in this, so there is that. So I don’t think Will would hurt the child, but I also can’t deny it’s possible. Will is very, very unpredictable.

#hannibal #hannigram #will graham

187 notes · View notes

dear-mrs-otome · 4 years

Text

Johann Faust - 1st Birthday (His POV) - Another Terrible Summary

(Faust: ”Do you want to comfort me?”)

Here is my irreverent, only nominally-guaranteed accurate rendition of Faust’s birthday story in his POV.

On a cool day, Faust notices that the weather seems to be turning towards rain. He heads out of the church to tell the children playing around outside that they should go home before the weather gets bad, hears a familiar voice among their chatter, and realizes that MC is there.

The kids are chirping about a special day soon, and when he interrupts to ask what all the fuss is about, MC explains to him how the children were telling her that it was his birthday soon.

Faust muses that he didn’t really remember it was almost that time again, and she wonder if he’s not going to celebrate with Vlad and Charles, but he says he’s not interested. Charles had wanted to do something for the day, but Faust had told him not to bother - the day is irrelevant to him anyways.

MC seems very disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, and this puzzles Faust - why does she care about a matter that only concerns him?

He pushes all this aside and brusquely shoos her and the children away, telling them to hurry home, and when she protests his cold demeanor he tells her that it would be a nuisance to have her or any of the kids freeze to death outside his church.

They leave, but once he’s back inside he thinks how that’s right - children are weak and fragile, easily overpowered or killed by things stronger than them - and that only pureblood vampires can bring someone back from death. Not even God can perform a miracle such as that.

Some days later, he finds himself prevented from going into the church by an excited MC, who begs him to wait just a bit longer. As he’s left wondering what she’s up to, she’s talking through the door and then excitedly leads him inside - where the children are assembled and an eager chorus wishes him a happy birthday, throwing little handfuls of confetti on him to his utter surprise.

They all begin pressing little gifts on him - a four leaf clover one child found, a bit of origami made by another, etc, and MC proudly announces she baked him a cake.

He’s still taken aback, and she talks about how nervous she was he’d realize their little plan. Faust teases her about being dull, and at her rushed indignant response he can’t help laughing and tweaking her cheeks, surprising even himself with how much he enjoys her reaction and how natural bantering with her feels.

He then thanks her formally, but she points out that it sounds stilted, like an act, and she seems obviously disappointed. He realizes she wants him to be enthusiastic and happy, but he just doesn’t have feelings like that for a day of no consequence, and tells her as much.

The the kids boisterously ask about the cake and if he and MC want some, to which Faust just tells them he doesn’t care, and as the beautiful cake is cut and dispersed to the excited eager children, he reminds himself he doesn’t care about birthdays...and wonders at the strange state of his heart.

Finally the day draws to a close, and he and MC see the children off back home from the threshold of the church. Faust calls her out on being the one who planned the party and she fesses up, and he muses to himself how she seemed to be enjoying it just as much as the kids did, playing and laughing alongside them.

But then she points out that everyone was more than eager to help out, and with a laugh she states that the children really seem to love Faust. He watches her happy smile and thinks that it seems far more natural that someone would like a person like her, before he replies that he isn’t so sure about that...but the kids seemed to have had fun and he’s glad for that.

To himself, Faust thinks that children are clever and smart, and just latch onto anything as a convenient surrogate - otherwise, he has no clue why they’d come hang around him.

Lost in those thoughts, he heads back inside, but MC calls out for him to wait. She grabs his arm, with sad eyes, and asks why he was so cold - observing that he really didn’t seem to enjoy today at all. He wonders at her expression, as she goes on to say how she and the children just wanted to be happy with him, and she begs him to take her feelings seriously - isn’t it a special day?

He can’t begin to fathom why she’s so worked up over his problems, but her earnest gaze seems to pierce his frozen heart and before he knows it he’s speaking - telling her that if today is an anniversary, it’s that of his being abandoned.

“I am an orphan,” he explains, while thinking of how he was discarded in the forest as an infant. The day of his ‘birthday’ is just the day he was found, arbitrarily assigned to him...it has no real meaning. He tells her that’s why there’s no need to celebrate.

She seems taken aback, and apologizes for making a fuss, and seeing her so downcast bothers him. He asks why she is apologizing...and then he pulls her towards him, cradling the back of her head - but when their eyes meet, the sadness in her gaze tightens his chest, and he is frustrated by her concern and his emotional disarray, so takes it out on her by trying to push her buttons and ‘punish’ her for being so willingly defenseless.

He leers, asking if she wants to comfort him - saying that if the guinea pig is so willing to press herself against him, he’ll gladly accept, and strokes her neck while telling her to let him do as he pleases.

Shocked, she pushes him away and shuts him down, but this only delights him and he laughs, enjoying her spirited response to his bullying and telling her that her stubborn face is all the gift he really needs. He thinks though that this will be enough to bring the matter to an end, to push her away, but then he’s startled when she breaks the long silence.

“Faust, I...I hope someday that you will be happy on your birthday,” she tells him.

He sighs that she’s still going on about that, but she continues - stunning him into silence when she says that the birth of anyone is a miracle and she thinks it’s something special.

‘There’s no such thing as miracles’ is what he would usually say to something like that...but he can’t seem to bring himself to.

Just as she’s about to leave, he breaks the silence and calls out her name. He tells her that the children that come around the church are mostly either orphans or from desolate families - and that they would never have the chance to have something like a party cake in their lives. Thinking of how happy they were, he tells her that maybe today was a good day after all.

After she’s gone, late that night, he’s studying the gifts still gathered on the altar. He scoffs aloud at the sight of them, but then wonders what MC would think, and recalls her words about her hopes for his happiness and how life is a miracle.

Aloud, he remarks that she’s an odd woman...but unknown even to him, he is smiling, and he thinks that they have at least one thing they can agree on - that life is special after all.

FIN

(Thanks to @mikotomizuki for giving this a second set of eyes!)

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp faust #ikevamp birthday #ikevamp jp summary #spoiler #spoilers #ikemen vampire spoilers #ikevamp spoilers #i came for dr evil #i didn't expect the feels #T_T #gdi cybird #who said he could be soft for kids #its my kryptonite

301 notes · View notes