#so hoping and praying that this can survive past that so they get the proper attention they deserve from me

[muchmossymess]

So I started watching full metal alchemist brotherhood bc I've heard great things about it, and I'm really REALLY liking it, but oh my god I did not realise how long it was

I thought it'd be like, 20 episodes, 25 max, not fucking SIXTY

Dont get me wrong this is great news there's so much and I'm in love but goodness me, much different to the eight episode formula we've come to expect. They really don't make them like they used to ig

[heartbrkr]

heyyyy can i request a jungwoo one?

where they both in a relationship, the reader is in college and struggling af with her academics, and jungwoo (with his idol schedule as we know it) as an older and bigger person always supports and is reliable AND OF COURSE always be the one to ease reader's mind/feeling LIKE he really is the one that reader needed no one else because everything feels enough when it comes to him.

sorry if this sounds too desperate im just so deep in the black hole of my academics like it's sucking the soul of mine i know i need to get a life. anywaaaay big big thanks for opening the request bar im praying for your happiness and bright days ahead <3

REQUEST All you need is a shoulder to cry on when college gets tough. Jungwoo's more than willing to be the one you need to feel at ease.

PAIRING kim jungwoo x gender neutral!reader

GENRE established relationship, angst, comfort

WORD COUNT 1.3k

WARNINGS bad eating and working habits, not proofread!

AUTHOR’S NOTE this was requested when i took a break from writing :( i'm so sorry it took me so long to get to it, lovely. i really hope you're doing better now & i'm rooting for you <3

MASTERLIST

The consistent hum from the air conditioning is the only noise you can barely tolerate during your study session; anything above fifty decibels will irritate you. You don’t realize you’ve been scrutinizing the same word— not even a sentence— over and over again until you’ve read it for the seventh time in 10 minutes. Only then do you notice how empty you feel, nothing but acid and anxiety from this morning’s caffeine bubbling in your stomach. It’s irritating how your eyes start drying themselves too. 

You could use a break, but you don't think you deserve it; you didn’t hit your goal for the hour. (In your current capacity, you can’t register that it’s hopeless to juice anything out when there’s nothing to wring in the first place.)

On the right end of your desk are your messily stacked test papers from professors who refuse to hold their quizzes online, something about not being tech-savvy enough to do so. You initially ignored the scores when you tossed them aside. But the mind wishes to blow your final grain of self-esteem away by zeroing on the fact that you had failed your most recent exam by two points. Not shoving them in a random folder to hide them out of sight was your past self’s mistake.

Apparently, you haven’t learned your lesson with curious eyes because you glance over your left shoulder, desperate to distract yourself from your pitiful attempt to survive college. You vaguely see the ever growing pile of laundry that you haven’t had the time to tend to. Has it… always been that tall? Why does it only bother you now when it’s been that way for the whole week?

No tears are coming out, even if you actually want them to. At this moment, there’s nothing more annoying than that.

“Fuck,” you rub your eyes as you shut your laptop closed, “unrealistic goals be damned.” You mumble dryly to yourself before diving into your unmade bed; you can’t recall the last time it was made. It’s second to feeling like heaven when your head hits the softness of your pillow. First is when you’re with your boyfriend. To you, anywhere with Jungwoo is heaven on earth. 

Speaking of which, you could really use his company right now.

Your hand blindly fishes your phone out of the comforter’s creases to check the time. When you finally feel a rectangular block, you lazily turn your head left to face the glowing screen. Looking right back at you is a photo of you and Jungwoo, the latter grinning at you fondly after you surprised him with a bouquet of flowers to commemorate his final emcee gig. 11:39PM. He won’t be home until one in the morning or so.

The hours that pass feel closer to seven than two, your growling stomach and prodding headache not allowing you to get any proper rest. In the distance, you finally hear beeping and buzzing from the front door’s electronic lock followed by socked footfalls towards your room. Your head is telling you to welcome him properly, but your heart is grounding you into the mattress. The hinges on the door squeak.

When Jungwoo’s eyes drop to your sprawled figure, he thinks you’re asleep. He carefully caresses your arm with his thumb to wake you up quietly, knowing how you feel after a rough, monotonous day of studying and intaking more information than one can humanely process. Your partner fully understands what it’s like to give his all until there’s nothing left for himself; you’re aware he’s doing his best to prevent that from happening to you too. Still face-down on the cushion, you pull your arm away from his touch to hold it properly. He gladly accepts, more than pleased to caress that instead.

“The kitchen looks abandoned. Have you eaten anything?” When he speaks, it’s not abrupt, rather like a cloud drifting into the intimate space you two share.

Your muffled 'no' reaches no one’s ears, not even your own. It’s awkward, and a bit painful on your unstretched joints, to pull you up by the arm so he asks you if you can shift to a sitting position. You don’t want to burden him either with the work of flipping your whole body; he physically exerted himself the whole day, you don’t need to add to that. You push yourself up from your lying position and flop on the edge of the bed.

“Haven’t eaten since…” You pause. You hate that you have to think about it. “Last night. I only had time to grab a bottle of coffee from the fridge earlier.”

Jungwoo hides his exasperated expression as soon as it appears, intertwining both his hands with yours again. “I know it’s not the right time to lecture you because it’s the last thing we want right now. But you really can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

You start feeling guilty even though that’s opposite his intention. The idea of accidentally reopening Jungwoo’s old wounds is enough motivation to want to break out of your harmful work ethics. He sighs at your lack of response and attention, but it’s not one of irritation.

Pulling you up to stand, he gives you a proper warm hug. That was the key to release your frustrated teardrops from earlier. They keep going and going, and your blubbering intensifies because you know it’ll be hard to stop. “Why isn’t my best enough?”

He says nothing about how your tears seep into his shirt, just holding you closer. “You’re trying. That is enough.”

Jungwoo lets you cry and cry and cling onto him like your life depends on it; he’s unaware that he’s almost right on the money. You stopped attempting to speak completely because it’ll reset any progress you’ve made trying to manage your crying. His arms feel right cradling you; if you could, you’d stay in them forever. Your lover rubs your back to get those final sobs out of your system.

“How’re we feeling now? Better?” He gently asks, drying the remaining tears on your cheeks with his knuckles. You nod, still wary of using your voice, worried that there are still stray tears somewhere inside of you.

He rests you down back on the bed and joins you this time. Your head drops on his shoulder out of exhaustion. “I’ll order us some food. You want anything in particular?”

“I’m okay with whatever.” You mumble wetly, your vision focused on your interlaced fingers. Jungwoo’s other hand is busy, fiddling on his phone. You nudge him softly with your shoulder, he hums in question.

You rest your chin on the curve of his shoulder to admire his barefaced side profile. “You promised you’d let me pay the next time we order.”

Your boyfriend raises his eyebrow in faux confusion and turns his neck dramatically to face you. The proximity makes his teasing front falter slightly with a peeking grin. “Did I? I don’t remember. Oh well, next time then!” He promises that every time. And every time, he says he means it. (He never does).

Jungwoo attempts to set the table up to the best of his abilities. You tried helping him out but he shooed you away, forcing you on the dining chair. Before the meal, he calls for your attention. “We don’t have to talk about it now. I just wanted to say that breaks aren’t earned, okay? You’re doing great, even if you think otherwise.” 

It’ll take some time to get that through your head, he knows that, but you give him a small smile. “I’ll believe you.”

Over your too-late-to-be-dinner and too-early-to-be-breakfast meal— fully paid for by him, again— Jungwoo tells you how his day went, including his members’ usual shenanigans during rehearsals. He’ll never rush you to talk about what’s been going on because he respects the pace you prefer to go on; he’s confident you’ll tell him when you’re ready, you always do.

Right now, you just need him and he’ll always be there to ease you back on track, every step of the way.

[wh3nturtlesfly]

Heyo! Can I request 14 N with Hero stumbling into Villain's arms?

Welp- I may have misread this on accident, so the roles are flipped on ‘who’ is falling into ‘who’s’ arms, though I hope it’s still alright! Thank you so much for the request :)

14,N: Stumble into their arms, “Thought you could run from me, didn’t you?”

CW: Character Death, Injury & Gunshot mention

They could hear the calls in the background. Jeers piercing like knives as Villain stumbled away. They clutched their side tightly. Blood gushed between their fingers, the sharpness of the dagger still a lingering memory in their mind. Their forehead was hot, hair plastered to their forehead with sweat. They shouldn’t have fought back, why did they fight back?

Streetlights whizzed past their vision with each broken step. It had been a mere accident, wrong place, wrong time. The worst of it came when Villain had grinned, the thrill of the fight clouding their mind. They hadn’t seen the dagger, hadn’t seen the point thrusting through the shadows.

It hurt. God, it was unlike anything Villain had ever experienced. Their head spun, reeling as they corrected their course yet again. They just had to get away. They knew where to go, if only they could reach it.

Distantly, a call followed them. It was cold, scraping against the walls of their mind and grating their thoughts. Fear spread through their veins and the Villain struggled to move faster.

The city was a big place, though Villain knew their way around easily enough. They had been attacked on the fifth block from the capitol building, they only had to reach the seventh. Two blocks. It was simple, almost nothing compared the wide expanse of the city, except each step Villain took left them biting their cheek to keep from crying out.

Hands sticky with their own blood, Villain sacrificed a precious second to brace themselves against an old shop. The brick was cool on their back and for a moment it soothed their stinging insides and pounding heart. A sharp pain coursing through their system sent them doubling over and gasping for air as their lungs burned.

They had to keep moving. Villain could hear the footsteps in the background. Slow, they took their sweet time, but still crept forward with an eerie presence. The Villain couldn’t stop if they wished to survive.

Unfortunate how they managed to be out at such a late hour. Streets empty, they limped across the road without a second glance. A single block left. With no one else around, not a soul could help them. All except the one behind the tall oak door. So close- they were so close…

Villain could see it in the distance. A slim building, pinched between two office structures. The concrete steps were open to the Villain, and they could have sworn them to be the gates of heaven at that moment.

Summoning the last of their strength, Villain stumbled up to the door and grasped the railing tightly. They pressed their hand to their wound, feverish beneath their palm. The bleeding still hadn’t stopped and it wouldn’t unless they received proper care. With a shaky breath, Villain rapped on the door, once, twice, over and over again.

Villain prayed that the owner would answer the door. It was such a late hour, Villain was unsure if they would even wake, though just before they gave up hope they heard the click of a latch.

A sliver of light crept out from under the doorway and from it a tired face emerged. Villain wanted to sob, seeing the face they had missed so dearly, had prayed they would never lose sight of.

“Hero,” it came out in a bare whisper. Villain’s voice had been worn raw from their screams, though now they reached out a hand, longing to reach for their lover. They were saved…

Bang.

Villain hadn’t even heard the footsteps close in behind them. They failed to notice the shadow that grew nearer over time. They hadn’t even heard the shot. Villain only saw Hero’s eyes, wide with horror as their blood splattered across the crime fighter's face.

The air was forced from Villain’s lungs, ears ringing as they thought they heard someone cry out. They tried to step forward though something wasn’t right, and as they felt their knees give out Villain finally caught on.

A single bullet covered in blood clattered to the ground.

Villain stumbled, a choked sound escaping their lips before they fell forward…right into Superhero’s arms. The corrupted savior grinned.

“Thought you could run from me, didn’t you?”

Distantly Villain heard Hero scream. Vision blurry, they blinked away the tears that clouded their own eyes. Superhero’s grip was cold- cold fingers on clammy skin. It was hard to breathe. Villain couldn’t breathe.

Their eyes fell lazily onto Hero. Their poor lover was sobbing, arms outstretched towards them. Superhero kept them away, using their powers to hold the Hero back even as they begged and threatened. Everything was fading. Cold- and soon empty.

The corners of Villain’s eyes danced with black spots before it dimmed entirely. Villain tried to speak to Hero, a final goodbye, though all that came out was a choked gurgle.

As the last of their consciousness faded, Villain heard Superhero laugh. A cruel thing, it echoed off the walls of Villain’s fleeting mind along with Hero’s pleas. Their fingers clutched weakly at the wound in their chest, a final twitch…

Then darkness.

Villain didn’t wake, even as the sound of Hero’s cries stirred every block in the city. They never would again.

[observeroflaplace]

To the Flame

A Veena’s gloved hand passes over a stack of letters, fanning them outwards. His solemn gaze, lit by a warm, amber light in the deceptively cold night, lands on a few, spared the overlapping of pages from the loose scattering. Many fall to the dusty floor.

————

3rd Sun, 2nd Umbral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

I’ve arrived, for what it’s worth! I lost most of my baggage in the process, though.  If you’re wondering why I write on the 3rd sun rather than the second, that’s why.

The airship was forced to turn back, on top of me messing the first scheduled flight as you know.  Since the flights had to be mixed with the next one, our baggage had to be sent on a smaller, separate vessel… and I got separated from my papers, and some of my glassware didn’t survive the trip.

I’ve been granted some compensation, so that should tide me over for a little bit, but it’s embarrassing to have to dip into the stipend so soon for equipment I should have had with me.  I hope it gets sorted soon.

From Ada.

————

10th Sun, 2nd Umbral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

My funds from the compensation are running low, but I’m still hanging in there and fighting to get my luggage with my papers back!  Hopefully it gets sorted soon…. Pray for me…

Best wishes, Ada x.

————

11th Sun, 2nd Umbral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

Great news!  My papers are all here and I’m no longer scrounging Gil at the inn room.  Bad news is, they can’t put me up long term, no matter how much money I have, or so they tell me.  I need to start looking for alternative lodgings… and a practice to study under and do my research.  I’m sure I’ll find some volunteers soon.  It’s important work, after all!

All the best, Ada.

————

1st Sun, 3rd Astral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

I hope you’re keeping well!  I know you’ve got a pretty picky diet.  As for me, I’ve sorted out the clinic problem, and lodgings to boot!  It’s… at an adventurer’s guild.  Please don’t laugh.  You’re probably laughing right now.  I just hope they don’t expect me to wave a Conjurer’s stick.  I do longer term medicine!  Though I suppose potions and salves are an option�� even if they’re a bit of an insult to the art.  Still, even student-level brews are bound to be better than the snake oil they sell here.

All the best!!  Ada x.

————

12th Sun, 3rd Astral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

You’ll never guess what!  I have a patient!

Well, I know that doesn’t sound like a good thing, but it’s nothing recent.  If anything, the existing scar tissue will be a challenge, but also an opportunity.  He’s an odd fellow, but for now he’s consenting to the procedure.  Now I just need to acquire materials and begin model and in vitro testing before I begin with him proper - and anyone else who might volunteer.

I hope things are going well on your end!  You must be busy with work and studying, so hang in there!  I’m rooting for you!

All the best!  Ada x.

————

24th Sun, 3rd Astral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

Are you okay?  I’ve not heard from you in a while.  How are things back home?  And your research?  I know you can’t really talk about it, but I just want to hear that it’s going okay.

On my end, I’ve found mention of a type of… sky snail?  Shellfish?  Which could help my research.  Supposedly it can help mend nerve damage; which is a good first step in restoring lost appendages.  I’ll let you know if I find out anything else of interest!

Stay safe!

————

Love, Ada x.

15th Sun, 4th Astral Moon

Dear Ilmari,

Please.  Write back to me.  You promised to keep in touch.  I’m sorry for pestering you these past few months but I just need to know you’re alright.  I just need to know that we’re still friends.

Please.

I beg of you.  I miss home.  I miss spending time with you.  Everything is so much.  I miss you.

Ada.

————

The Veena crouches down to pick up the scattered pages. And with one swift motion, tosses them aside. His eyes flicker, unblinking, at the faint light in the darkness.

[juniper-c]

Dwarf Fortress Blind Play Diary: Day 2

One year, Twenty Peacocks, and the long winding misery of the Alligator Brawl

Armed with a tutorials worth of knowledge and a fair warning about actually saving the game more often than once a season I decided to embark on my second journey with a more customized party. This next expedition was going to last well past a single month, so clearly they needed a proper name.

After playing around in the delightful name generator I eventually settled on calling my settlement Bornbeguiled as a sort of nod to the deliberately blind way I've chosen to play. With a confused bookcase acting as our symbol, referred to as the Glory of Fools. These names proved only too apt when it came to picking skills, equipment, and livestock.

For skills I simply aimed for a broad spread. Making sure I had people who could do a bit of everything. For supplies I made sure to have nine of each kind of seed, so I could have three by three farm that matched a nice room layout. For livestock, a few cats, a horse, a mule, and, well....

20 peacocks.

These peacocks do nothing. They sit around in a pasture doing nothing all day. I had assumed they would give me feathers or something. Or appeal to my dwarves aesthetic sensibilities. Or, perhaps, do anything at all. No. All they do is sit among the cherry blossoms of this bizarre woodland complaining when it rains.

I have tried to butcher them, I cannot. I am cursed to care for them forever, it seems.

Somehow, despite the peacocks, the dwarves managed to survive a full year. From what I've heard in passing in the game this is an achievement? Maybe? Despite never seeing anything grown from my farms and being repeatedly reminded that there are no fish in the river my dwarves seem to have done pretty well for themselves. All bar one...

Al is not happy with me. Al is not happy generally. Al was, and still insists, that they are a fisher dwarf despite having never caught a fish. Early on in the year, while attempting to find any trace of life in an nearby swamp, Al was attacked by an alligator. The altercation spanned half the map, with Al chasing the beast south from its upper boundaries all the way to the peacock paddock before the alligator escaped across a river.

This has clearly left Al despondent. Ever since the fight Al has been demanding a temple to pray at, a place to spend time with his family, and art objects. I have tried making all of these things and none of them please him. He is the dedicated musician for the only temple in the hall and yet he does not pray. Faith clearly shattered by the trauma that still haunts him. He sees a dead horse and feels nothing. It is not his prey. It is not the foul alligator that gave him nerve damage. His god will not answer him until the foul reptilian beast - who by the way has a "great feel for social relations and music" - is dead and burried.

Other than that the lads are getting on fine! Storage is over flowing, nobody seems to want to eat food in the nice eating hall, and I cant work out a work order to save my life. None of that's important though. I hope. If it is I'm fucked. But if we can make it through one year we can make it through another!

Dead Dwarf Count: 0

[waymond-wang]

Don't you worry about rambling my man, that's what this here tumblr is for! Those are some really good points! I think as well, for Shuri to go to war in her mother's name, not only would be an insult to her mother's love, but Ramonda didn't raise her to be like that. She was raised to be quote unquote "womanly" as at the end of the day *thinks of at the end of the day from les mis* she is a princess and how are princesses supposed to behave? Demure, compliant, "womanly" ie, the complete opposite of Shuri. We see this mainly in the first film, with Shuri giving the middle finger, Ramonda warns her, Shuri wanting to get out of her traditional dress before the waterfall fight. Given that she's mainly into STEM, it makes sense that those take priority over being the "traditional princess" so when she has to be the "traditional princess" with the dresses, the calm, etc, that's not comfortable for her. However, she is still aware of her mother's influence and given Ramonda's personality, I wouldn't put it past her to be complaining about how Shuri isn't behaving like a "proper princess" in the ancestral realm.

Also I think I have a good summary of what you said - it's all about the greater good!

these are very interesting points about shuri's upbringing under ramonda. I would say that wakanda has different viewpoints on what is "womanly" in comparison to the rest of the world, with the most obvious example being the dora milaje. being a dora is a great honour, reserved for wakanda's greatest warriors and is one of the most important jobs (protecting the royal family) -- in any other country, comparable positions would be occupied by men. does that speak to a larger cultural opinion of women in wakanda? im not sure, but i'd like to think so!

perhaps what ramonda is doing during these instances is not reminding her of being "womanly" per se, but more of traditional etiquette. in the context of our (or western?) society, "traditional etiquette" and "womanly (i.e. demure, reserved, compliant)" may be one and the same in women, but in wakanda, they could mean different things. like, t'challa compared to shuri is much more stoic and reserved -- this could be his nature, but it could also be because he's the firstborn and was always going to inherit the throne, so these qualities were taught to him because that is what is expected in kings, as per tradition. and tradition, respect of elders and the ancestors is deeply embedded into wakandan culture, so it would make sense that the top most position of the country (one that is deigned to be representative of the country and its peoples) is reflective of that. maybe ramonda wasn't telling shuri that she wasn't behaving correctly as a woman, but as royalty. im sure she would have tsk'd t'challa if he flipped someone off as well -- but I can't picture him doing that at all hahaha

and yes -- ultimately my last answer was a really long-winded way of saying it's for the greater good! but i'd like to think that shuri showed namor mercy not just for the sake of wakanda's future and her responsibility as its princess and black panther, but also because she loved her mother so much. violence begets violence -- letting namor's hatred fuel her own would only lead to more down the road, and i think ramonda's love for shuri is part of what broke that cycle, even if that same love is what started her down that path to begin with. namor loved his mother just as bad, and when he lost her, his heart broke into something sharp and hateful -- he wielded that hate, bludgeoning the surface and laying waste to his enemies. he let that grief shape him into something furious. but ramonda teaches shuri that while grief is difficult, yes, it can be survived. it is just love, reincarnated. imo, ramonda was watching her from the ancestral realm, praying that her death didn't break her daughter into something unrecognizable, and hoping instead that shuri would take her sorrow and seed it, nurture it into wisdom and love to share with the future.

[the-sinking-feeling-starts]

imagine being stuck in a time warp where you are stuck in 5 years ago but then an hour later its 2 years ago and then thirty minutes later its a year ago with no hope for the future. what if this is all i will be known for? my past? who i have come across? who i have loved and lost?

ive been having non stop nightmares and premenitions. i used to not dream. sleep was my escape from this cruel reality. now i wake up and get reminded of the dreams everywhere i go. the ghosts are throwing a underground concert and the cliffsides are tumblind down. the eggshells are planted around the house. we cant stop. im living in a fucked up purgatory haze where nothing is as it seems

if i speak up against this; i get tortured emotionally and physically. i do not have a voice anymore. i can not express myself thru art or music anymore. writing this alone makes me horrified that of the repercussions

i have no body to talk to, to help carry this baggage that weighs heavy upon my soul. i cant break these chains that hold me hostage

the voices inside scream that i am not enough that i am worthless that i fuck everything up. theres been an error, a malfucntion

i am constantly reminded of my past thru the movies and the top 40 hits and books and advertisments. while i struggle to survive

ive relapsed into self harm, i feel so numb, i beg for help but everybody stays silent. they look at me like a sad dog thats been kicked. "they cant look me in the eyes; its like their scared of me"

what was i made for? a doll to be put on the shelf and taken down when needed or bored or to be used for a creative muse

its a victim of circumstance. i want to run away. like my mother used to joke how we would run away to disney world so they couldnt find us. i dont understand how they know that. i used to be young. they design the women and slay the dragons

c'mon barbie, lets go party. the show must go on. the spiral must continue.

its bleak but its how i feel, i dont think anybody cares or reads this, but its my blog and my words and i have to have freedom of speech somehow.

im afraid and scared and lonely and heartbroken and pray that things can change and a new "era" can arrise, insted of constantly living in my past.

we need to be saved. we need action to be put in place. before its too late. we need proper communication and saftey. we need to be able to use online technology without algorithims terrifing us.. we need to be able to watch the tv without being mind read. we need to be able to use telecommunications without having our ears shot sending us to the bathroom floor screaming in pain. we need to be able to express ourselves without having it taken from us and used as creative muses. we need privacy and support and love and for people to be more kind and caring. they kick us while we are down and then say we are manipuative and crybabies

Note to self

[sesmantelar]

the scale is finally moving past my current set point weight. I am hoping to find myself in the 130s by next week. once again I find myself at the point of no return or mediocrity. I can either hunker down, solidify the final yet most crucial stages of my blowup, or I could continue to choose to just float through life at 50% mode. I'm at work and essentially working every single night this week, but I've found myself in this new state in which I can work back to back. as long as I can see my finances changing, and this surgery solidifying in the next seven weeks. I am okay. as long as I have more than enough sleep I will be able to survive. throw back in schoolwork, studying for the GRE, and continuing to journal/read/to do list tasks at work, and I will have a beautiful balance. passing a class every 1.5 weeks. excellent GRE score. hair growing and maintaining. skin glowing. able to do my monthly maintenance without it killing me financially - mani pedi, waxes, any other professional treatment I end up opting for. after my surgery, I won't be working anywhere near as much, and therefore will have more time. more time for tennis. more time for off ice training, and actual in person clinics. time to prep for my first competitive figure skating season. dates twice a week with new people. smashing harp solos every week and drastically expanding my concert solo repertoire. and it will be nice knowing that when I do return, my finances won't be behind, and my overtime is truly for savings or doing things I want for myself - not just to survive. I will be able to afford a good therapist who specializes in immigrant children or has experience with CPTSD. I am so ready to start living my life and being in the real world again. and I' m willing to dedicate more time to making and keeping friends (but only after this surgery is out of the way. in the same way my name stuff had to happen before I could move across the country) I'm also thinking of going back to goddess lots. these braids are lovely but they have been unraveling like crazy. it could also be because of the trip and not fully undoing to redo my hair. however, I say goddess locs because I liked how my hair and ends were truly covered/kept tucked away and how my hair grows like wildflowers with them. I think it may be the style ive been seeking that has everything. beauty, lightweight, long-lasting, full proper protection for my hair, keeps my hair moisturized, very easy to take down, no pain. I don't yet know when I will be doing this because I have a very booked work schedule the next few weeks. however, it may even end up being right before or even after surgery. it depends. I may do this style one more time before my surgery. we shall see. either way, I feel happier the more I face myself - financially, by reading these self help books, by stepping on the scale daily, by not hiding behind my mask. I must continue to do so until I cannot only face myself, but be able to face the outside world with self respect and confidence. im about to get up and start my morning med pass. praying to leave early, get home asap, be able to skate for two hours and get some solid sleep in before work tonight. I really need to do some pilates and off ice because im looking and feeling sloppy and unfit this week. im going to have to start requiring even just ten minutes per day along with the lower body workout I do - just to ensure a basic maintenance throughout my crazy work schedule and until things just make sense again,

[w-ht-w]

When to die?

President Jimmy Carter enters hospice care.

"After a series of short hospital stays, former U.S. President Jimmy Carter today decided to spend his remaining time at home with his family and receive hospice care instead of additional medical intervention,"

He told a church congregation in 2019 that he was "at ease with death" following his cancer diagnosis,

“I, obviously, prayed about it. I didn’t ask God to let me live, but I just asked God to give me a proper attitude toward death. And I found that I was absolutely and completely at ease with death. It didn’t really matter to me whether I died or lived," ... “I have, since that time, been absolutely confident that my Christian faith includes complete confidence in life after death. So, I’m going to live again after I die — Don’t know what form I’ll take, or anything.”

He served one term, losing in 1980 to Ronald Reagan.

Carter was recognized after his presidency for his tireless work in promoting peaceful resolutions to conflict and advancing democracy, human rights and social justice, primarily through the Carter Center, which he and his wife established at Emory University in 1982. 

He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002 (2)

Makes me wonder: when should we call it quits on life? That’s the whole point of the health + medical professions, right? But when is life no longer worth living? What’s the point of prolonging life? We are always going to want just a little bit longer.

Reminds me of that article “Why I Hope to Die at 75″

the specific limit, of 75 years, is somewhat arbitrary – but his point is that it makes you start to consider where your life is heading; the ultimate memento mori. “I’m challenging people to think about their personal philosophy,” he says; he’s certainly not suggesting that others follow him. “I think one of the problems, if you don’t set a date, is that you don’t confront the big question, and you don’t perceive your decline,” he says. “I want to shift to focus to saying ‘you’ve got 75 years, what are you going to make of it?’” (4)

Emanuel isn’t trying to persuade many people to drop the quest for a longer life: evidence, he knows, is no match for the human ego. “One of the things I don’t understand is why the Silicon Valley types want to live forever,” Emanuel says. “Obviously they believe the world can’t possibly survive without their existence, and so they think their immortality is so critical to the survival of the world.” There is, however, an ethical way to chase life extension in a way that benefits everyone. “The proportion of the population that dies before 75, that’s the number we ought to be looking at and tracking,” Emanuel says. “We want to get everyone to 75.” (2)

Why Do People Want to Live So Long, Anyway?

“The quest to live forever, or to live for great expanses of time, has always been part of the human spirit,” ... People now seem to have particular reason to be optimistic: in the past century, science and medicine have extended life expectancy, and longevity researchers (not to mention Silicon Valley types) are pushing for a life that lasts at least a couple decades more.

“We don’t understand it, we don’t get it, and as meaning-laden beings, we can’t fathom what it means to not exist.” In other words, thinking about the infinite desert of death can trigger the worst kind of FOMO. (2)

1. https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/jimmy-carter-receive-hospice-care-home-rcna71342

2. https://time.com/4672969/why-do-people-want-to-live-so-long/

3. https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/10/why-i-hope-to-die-at-75/379329/

4. https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20141021-why-i-want-to-die-at-75

[lambden]

Lambert makes a series of bad decisions, or fine Netflix I guess I’ll fucking write it myself.

4.7K words, T, Lambert/Aiden and pre-Lambert/Coën, CWs: canonical past child abuse and season 2 spoilers

He sees the expressions the other Wolves wear upon their homecomings. Eskel enters the Keep lit up with radiance that will be gone come spring. He sets down his parcels by the door and his swords on top of them, and everyone ignores the snarls of disapproval from the stodgy old ghosts that haunt this drafty place. 

The old ethos of clinging to tradition has peeled away like paint from an ancient wall. None of them keep their twin swords at their backs or glance over their shoulders as much as they should here. The camaraderie hangs in the air with the dust motes, welcoming in the weary ones who survived. 

Lambert watches the relief that overcomes their faces as they enter Kaer Morhen. His amber eyes flash emerald with hot, mean envy. He wants to feel at home here the way that Geralt and Eskel do, wants to lay down his swords and money and embrace his brothers and laugh without a care. He can’t release it the way they do. All that he can do is cling to his own bitterness until his shoulders ache from the weariness that he can’t express. And he can drink, too— that, at least, everyone here has in common.

For Lambert, home was never a place. He doesn’t revel in the dilapidated halls and rats and mold as Geralt and Vesemir do, only doing his share of the chores to appease the others. The libraries and laboratories might be peaceful, sure, but when he spends too long alone there he begins to feel the urge to flee this barren place. He remembers being strapped to beds and watching boys his age die. Praying that death might take him too, if only to ease the scratching pain in his wounds and the whining of his stomach. Kaer Morhen is a refuge solely because of who populates its dusty walls. Not a home.

On cruel nights his mind leads him to lovely dreams of his real home, with wavy black hair and a smile as sharp as his— but far less ugly. The warmth draws Lambert in until he snaps to it magnetically, body falling into step with Aiden’s the way it always has done. They whisper sweet nothings to each other, except the nothings mean everything and Lambert wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

In the morning, he can’t remember a single word and it makes him angry enough to revisit the familiar dent in his wall, searching inside each bruise on his knuckles for the meaning of the dream. It’s been nearly two years since he heard the news of Aiden’s passing, but the wounds are fresh not only in his mind. Lambert only wraps his hands so that Coën won’t bitch about blood in the food and safety measures. As if they aren’t immune to illness anyway.

Then, one year, Geralt enters and Lambert watches that same warmth of home permeate his permanent frown. He stands, preparing to greet his brother and thinking delightedly of all the stories that he has to exchange, wondering excitedly of what news Geralt will have brought home for the winter. The white-haired witcher has a penchant for getting involved in politics and personal drama, even though he always claims he wants no part of it. And this past year did not want for political unrest, so Lambert can’t begin to imagine what hand Geralt had in it all.

But as he embraces his brother he sees a small creature behind him, with a head too big for her shoulders and hair too proper for anyone travelling with a witcher. Her wide eyes blink curiously at Lambert, who regrets meeting her gaze immediately. He scowls back, hoping to scare her off into running back down the mountain. Geralt, what the fuck have you brought into our home.

The creature, as it turns out, is at the centre of several stories that Lambert has zero interest in hearing. Did he say he wanted to laugh at Geralt’s political drama? No, certainly not. He wanted to keep to himself this winter, maybe try to see if he could get Eskel to sled with him again even though it had been such a shitshow last time. He wanted to finish writing that journal on succubi, and drink his own weight three times over, and maybe see if he could work up the nerve to tell his brothers about Aiden. None of those plans involve a child, especially not a smarmy, snot-nosed princess who also happens to be the prophesied centre of so much horseshit it’s unreasonable.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, she calls herself, with all the airs of a monarch whose royal court had not been razed to the ground. Coën takes an immediate liking to her, because of course he fucking does. Lambert knew he couldn’t trust a Griffin with anything— when he tells Coën this, the brazen traitor just stares at him knowingly, fingers loosely holding his stein of ale. “You’ll like her too,” Coën has the gall to inform Lambert. “She’s been through a lot, Lambchop.”

“I always tell you not to fucking call me that,” Lambert spits back even though he never once has. Coën doesn’t call him on it, and thank the Gods, Geralt’s precocious new plaything doesn’t hear the nickname. That’s the last damn thing he needs to make this winter any worse than it already is.

Then, as if thinking a dark thought like that could speak trouble into existence, Gwain stumbles through the front doors of the Keep. The lady under his arm wouldn’t be dressed warmly enough for Novigrad, let alone the top of a mountain, and behind her come several more. 

Geralt quickly pulls his child aside, directing a glare at Gwain that makes him look very much like Vesemir, but Lambert just tightens his grip on his ale and stumbles to his feet. “Now this is more like it,” he crows, welcoming his brother with open arms. “Gwain, you certainly understand who to bring to a reunion! Who are these lovely visitors?”

In his peripheral vision Lambert sees the child draw closer to Geralt, who is practically seething. But he ignores it in favour of greeting one of the girls, who gladly sidles up to him. God, she must be freezing. What was Gwain thinking? Lambert glances at the other witcher and sees that his eyes are alight not with the joy of coming home but something else entirely. He looks terrible, face marred by something that must have tried to take a bite out of his beard. He must not have his arm around the woman just for show, then— Lambert looks closer and sees her hand pressed to his side as if to apply pressure. 

His pulse races and his face falls, but before he can demand answers Gwain spits out, “I just thought it might relieve some tension. I know I need it after my last fight.” 

Gwain reaches around his back and the girl releases him only so that he can slap a sack down on the floor. A skeletal, wooden arm falls out, and the witchers all converge on the broken limb with concern. Vesemir is the first to ask, in near-wonder, “Is that a leshy?”

“Moved like one. Looked like one.” Gwain rips his shirt open, and even the prostitutes around him are too shocked by the ugly wound there to make any ribald comments. “Stung me like one.”

If Lambert had known now what he would eventually learn, he would throw Gwain and his band of women right back out those doors, and pace over to Geralt and give him a stern talking-to about bringing his battles inside the Keep, and then perhaps hug Everard and Merek so closely that he would need to be pried off.

But he hadn’t known, so he just embraced the nearest brunette and left Geralt to his own devices, not sparing his brother or the princess another thought for the rest of the night.

With the morning comes grief that none of them were ready to face. Geralt handles it the best out of all of them, because of course he does. When he learns that the White Wolf was the one to land the killing blow, Lambert can’t restrain himself from throwing barbs in Geralt’s direction and hoping one will stick. He isn’t sure when he picked up the habit, he only knows that he feels sick triumph when Geralt finally turns around to parry his cruelty. And even that isn’t as satisfying as it once was, not when Geralt’s preoccupied with his Child Surprise.

A hand on his arm pulls him away from his meagre breakfast. Coën brings him away from the others, and Lambert would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about being admonished. He prepares himself for a good scolding, setting his jaw against the inevitable backlash from his cruelty towards Geralt. He can practically already hear the Griffin’s voice reverberating around his skull: He’s suffering too, we all are. You don’t need to act like a dick for us to know you’re hurting, Lamb. We see you. I see you. I notice you.

Instead, Coën pulls him into a side corridor off the main hall, releasing his grip on Lambert’s arm only to gently hold him by the jaw. Coën’s head might be ravaged by pox scars but his fingertips are smooth and free of calluses. Astonishingly incongruous hands for a witcher to have. Lambert couldn’t look away if he wanted to, swept off his feet by the tenderness in Coën’s eyes where he’d expected— wanted— rage. Without removing his hands from either side of Lambert’s face, Coën tells him gently, “If you need to talk about your feelings, you know I’m here.”

The whole sentence and delivery is so remarkably Aiden that Lambert feels bile rise up his throat. He bats Coën’s hands away from his head, not caring much if he slaps the other man in the process. But Coën drops his hold without protest or reaction, which is obviously more irritating. “I’m fine,” Lambert hisses. “Not the first time we’ve lost a witcher. Not even the first time it’s happened here.”

“It can still have an impact,” Coën points out quietly. He, of course, knows this better than most other witchers; while Lambert has dealt with the personal grief of losing Aiden and Vesemir saw his kin murdered when he was still young, Coën’s entire school was eradicated. The only other Griffin Lambert knows is the poor fellow depicted in the tapestry upstairs— the one they all vandalize as a rite of passage. Coën should be angrier than any of them, but somehow his grief has cauterized him into the good man he is today.

Lambert suddenly can’t stand to look at him. He brushes past Coën without another word, dismissing his generic offer of help without a second thought.

Soon after they lose Gwain, Geralt’s brat takes up Lambert’s favourite spot in the courtyard every morning and afternoon. It’s such a basic petty grievance that Lambert is embarrassed by how much it irks him, but he can’t help the ire he feels every time he sees the princess hacking away at the same straw training dummy, using the same terrible tactics over and over. For hours. Doesn’t she ever get tired? 

Unlike his training sessions as a child, no one is there to beat her if she complains, or to pull her off the post before she collapses of exhaustion. Geralt must be slacking; he’s probably off deciding which of the other witchers he wants to kill next.

As soon as he’s had that thought Lambert regrets it, but he can’t take it back— even if he didn’t voice it to anyone. He drags his fingers through his curls and thinks of his lost friend. What would Aiden do, watching this poor girl struggle in the courtyard? Lambert is ashamed to admit that he has no fucking idea.

He rounds up Coën, figuring that two shitty trainers will still work better than none, and sets into action giving the child the lightest imaginable version of Vesemir’s morning routine. He hopes it will scare her away from the profession, so he muscles through the anxiety and ignores every side-eye Coën shoots his way. It will all be worth it when the child runs, crying and bleeding, back to the safety of the fortress.

When she falls a sixth time, small body hitting the snow with a thump that makes Coën cringe, Lambert steps forward to heckle her. “This is what being a witcher is, princess! It’s nothing like your nobility classes, how to balance books on your head. It is pain, over and over again, until the nerves that feel that pain are dulled enough that it doesn’t matter.” He sees Coën stiffen, but the Griffin remains silent. And so Lambert eggs the kid on, “Had enough yet?”

On shaking, tiny arms, the girl rises. Her pretty blonde hair is matted with sweat and at some point she must have scraped her hands; they bleed, unbandaged. Lambert remembers every ugly splinter he had to pry out of himself after this training course. He twitches but doesn’t relent, staring right back at her green eyes. “That’s enough for the day, Ciri,” Coën finally speaks up. “You’re going to overwork yourself and make a mistake.”

“I can do it,” the girl replies, trembling. “I can!”

The wooden hammers swinging out of sync catch her mid-step, knocking her down onto the ground. This time the cry she lets out is so piteous that even Lambert has to relent. “Enough,” he snarls, stepping forward. “You can’t do it, so give it a rest.”

But the girl is quicker than he expects, and she dodges his hands, scaling the ladder in record time. Lambert is left on the ground, staring stupidly at the bloodstained white snow and remembering his own childhood so intensely that he nearly misses Ciri’s first success on the training course.

The days slip into weeks as they approach and then pass the winter solstice, making it clear that the young Cintran princess is here to stay. Geralt stays too, although his attention is far from focused on one area. He spends his days training his Child Surprise and his nights labouring over the leshy arm with Vesemir, only spending his meals with the other Wolves. 

It feels like Geralt is busy solving some mystery that Lambert can’t even begin to comprehend, which is maybe why he’s so thoroughly unsurprised when Triss arrives at the Keep, prettier and wiser than he remembers. Lambert and Coën make the mistake of teasing Ciri in front of her which leads to a lecture harsh enough to make him feel like a child again. Lambert doesn’t hang his head, though; he watches Merigold lead Ciri away, fighting off the odd feeling in his chest. As they leave, Coën makes some mild remark about how he’d liked the flowers in her hair, and the feeling rises to a boiling point.

“If you like the princess so much, go hang out with her instead,” he snaps, and oh, shitting fuck, what a stupid thing to say. Coën turns his gaze on Lambert but where Lambert expects derision— really, Lambchop? Jealous of a child— he only sees the same soft sympathy that Coën meets him with so often these days.

“I do spend time with her, quite often,” says Coën. Somehow this is even worse than a lecture. “I play Gwent with her, and Eskel reads her stories. You’re the only one who still doesn’t like her.”

“I never said I didn’t like her,” says Lambert quickly.

“Yes, you have,” Coën snorts. “Multiple times. But she really isn’t that bad… maybe if you spent time with her too, you’d see—”

“I don’t need to do that,” snaps Lambert. “Whatever you’re fucking seeing in her, I don’t see it, alright? So just… leave me be, Co.”

And, to his incredible dismay, Coën gives him one long look before he does exactly that. Lambert is left alone in the dining hall, ale souring in his cup and thoughts turning rancid. He wants to shout and stir up a fuss and kick the place apart, but he knows it wouldn’t even make an impact. Nobody’s here to listen to his self-absorbed bullshit anyway. He should just grow up. Lambert picks up the pitcher of ale and drains it in two long gulps, and after that the night is a pleasant, sickening blur.

Things finally come to a head when Geralt is away on mysterious monstrous business that he refuses to let his brothers in on, and as a result Ciri has been left in the care of Triss and Vesemir. Lambert wakes up in his own bed to the sound of blissful silence from the courtyard; no blades swinging, training or otherwise. He revels in the peace for a long moment, stretching out under his blankets and entertaining the idea of heading back to bed.

When he and Aiden had travelled on the Path together, they would allow themselves the beautiful privilege of sleeping in way more often than they should have. But Lambert wouldn’t trade the memories of those mornings for any coin in the world. He thinks of it now, hand curling around the bottom of his pillow, remembering the kiss of Aiden’s rough stubble against his jaw and throat. Day’s a-wasting, Lamb. As if Aiden weren’t solidly sandwiched in atop him, preventing him from making any movement at all. Lambert would drag his knee up to make a show of trying to escape, and Aiden would just kiss him again, arms burrowing under him to hold him in place. Come on, get up. What’s stopping you?

For once, the memories soothe instead of ache. Lambert lies with them in silence, enjoying the phantom warmth until it fades, leaving him bereft and alone as ever. Then the silence from the courtyard really starts to bother him, and he grows annoyed with Ciri. How dare she get them all accustomed to a certain noise level this early in the morning and then fail to provide it out of the blue? He ought to have a word with her.

He dresses, expecting the usual witchers mingling about the main rooms, but the Keep is surprisingly empty. Eskel nods to him from where he’s cleaning up everyone’s breakfasts— thanks to the lack of Ciri’s training this morning, Lambert must have slept in. Lambert nods back gratefully but declines the bowl that Eskel left for him. “Seen Merigold anywhere?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder. He’s always so polite to Triss for reasons that Lambert will never understand. Maybe the two of them have a thing— but no, that can’t be possible with the way she drifts around after Geralt. “Checked her room yet?”

Lambert hasn’t, so he does. He gets an uneasy feeling when he sees her possessions half-packed, half-strewn about the room. For all her annoying habits, Triss is neat to a fault. He can’t imagine her leaving her quarters in this state unless she was packing to go somewhere and got pulled away. A nerve twangs at his heart, making him anxious for no reason— Lambert dismisses it, but he continues his search just a little faster. Where is Ciri?

After the mess hall and the private rooms he heads to the laboratory in the basement— he’s been avoiding this place ever since Gwain met his unfortunate end down here. Lambert’s ears prick up when he hears voices, and he clings to the wall, unusually suspicious. Nothing bad ever happens at Kaer Morhen— except, of course, for all the very terrible things that do, and have, and will happen here.

Vesemir’s voice rings out against the silence. “Hold still— yes, like that.” There’s an uncertain quaver in the old man’s tone that makes Lambert quicken his pace, and when he turns the corner he’s glad he did. He skids to a halt, watching the terrible scene laid out before him. It’s just like something plucked from one of his nightmares. The child, strapped to the bed, a cloth tied tightly around her arm to expose the veins. Vesemir hovering over her, vial in his shaking hand, his face dark in shadow. Attached to the vial is an apparatus to inject the potion— the mutagen, Lambert realizes. This is no nightmare; this is real.

He can hardly control himself as he marches up to the bed, shoving the old man away. “Stop,” Vesemir and Ciri both decree in the same haughty voice, both trembling with indecision. Well, lucky for them he showed up. Without hesitation or response, Lambert slaps the contraption out of Vesemir’s hand. Vesemir repeats, eyes wild, “Stop, Lambert! This is more important than you know!”

“Stop,” echoes Ciri, straining against the binds keeping her in place. “I asked him to! I made my choice!”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Lambert growls, reaching to free Ciri. But instead of letting her do something as monumentally stupid as lie back down he scoops her into his arms, ignoring her cries of protest. She claws against his back and scratches through his shirt, kicking and screaming, but Lambert doesn’t even really hear her. He hears himself, as well as Geralt, and Remus. And he hears all the other children who had been strapped down and force fed compounds that they didn’t even know how to spell. It killed more than half of them, and mutated the ones that lived, and like fucking hell is he letting it into Ciri. “Vesemir, how could you? What kind of choice is this to offer a child?”

“It’s the same one we all took,” Vesemir tells him, sagging with exhaustion. But his eyes dart over to the fallen vial— he hasn’t given up yet.

“Yeah, well, I don’t remember making a fucking choice!” Before either of them can say another word Lambert marches away from the bed, carrying Ciri with him. She kicks him the entire way up to her room, complaining loudly— he tunes out the whining along with bursts of pain, noting with private amusement that her training really must be working if he’s hardly able to carry her without stumbling.

Only when the door to her bedroom is safely shut behind him does Lambert finally relax, kneeling a little before dropping Ciri like a sack of flour. She lands on her feet, staring up at him with barely-contained fury in her wide, teary eyes. Lambert doesn’t much care about her qualms with what he did, seeing as he’s sure Geralt would have done the very same thing. But he figures he’s been a tool for long enough, so he meets her gaze head-on and growls, “Listen. Whatever he told you it would be, he left out a lot of important shit. It’s not just a quick path to power, princess. You have to trade away your fucking soul in the process, and it might just kill you anyway!”

“I know that,” Ciri retorts, sounding just as angry as him. “I don’t have another choice, alright? I need to protect myself, I can’t always rely on Geralt to be there. I don’t want to feel like this anymore!”

With those last words she lashes out against him, hitting his stomach with both of her fists. Lambert takes the blow well— a human would be rolling up and crying, but he just winces for a second. Ciri recoils as soon as the punches land, stepping away from him and backing up onto the bed. Lambert exhales away the brief pain, shaking his head sadly. “It won’t fix that either. I mean, you don’t really believe all that shit about witchers not feeling anything, right?”

Her silence gives away that she might have believed it, at least a little. Lambert thinks he’s finally beginning to understand Ciri. He sinks to sit on the floor, back still pressed against the door just in case Vesemir decides to make two stupid choices in one day. The girl rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and spits out, “I’m just tired of feeling so afraid all the time. And when I’m not afraid, I’m fucking angry. All the time. How do I… how is anyone supposed to cope with that?”

“A punching bag, perhaps,” Lambert jokes. Ciri glances his way and he realizes she’s taking him seriously, so he tries to adjust his tone. He can’t imagine what Coën or Aiden or Eskel or Geralt or Triss might say. Instead, he makes a shitty attempt at speaking from the heart. “Uh… helps to find someone who’ll listen. Who gets it. A friend— but don’t get too attached, because, you know. People die.”

“I do,” Ciri says, so earnestly it hurts. He forces himself to remember, for the first time, what this child has been through. It’s an indisputable fact that she has it worse than he ever did, even adding his douchefuck of a father to the equation. Haltingly, as if she isn’t sure whether her questions will be welcomed, she asks, “Do you talk to Geralt about it?”

“Sometimes,” Lambert says. “Eskel, too. Coën mostly. And there was… hell, princess, you don’t wanna hear this.”

But Ciri repeats, this time ardent and determined, “I do,” and she moves over on the bed. She pats the spot beside her with a tiny hand, face bright and free of any agenda except to listen.

Lambert sighs. He presses his ear up against the door once more but doesn’t hear any sign of Vesemir approaching to steal the child away. So he tries to slow his still racing heart, shoves a chair under the door to keep it shut, and walks over to sit beside Ciri. “There was another witcher,” he admits, when it becomes clear that she’s waiting for him to start. “You won’t have heard his name from Coën or any of the others, because, uh, they didn’t know him. Different schools. You know the different schools, right?”

Ciri nods. “What was his name?”

Inhaling sharply, Lambert begins the story he’s never shared with anyone else here.

-

After cutting his trip with Istredd short when he heard the distant, psychic cry of a very distressed Ciri, Geralt is a touch confused when he returns to the fortress and finds it absolutely peaceful. Vesemir and Triss are nowhere to be found so Geralt heads right for Ciri’s room, suspicions confirmed when he finds it locked. 

He wants to fire an Aard off immediately, but he doesn’t think anyone would appreciate being woken up like that. So he hesitantly reaches out and knocks with a gloved fist, muttering quietly, “Ciri? You alright?”

“Just a second,” comes the quick reply. She doesn’t seem as upset as she had earlier, so Geralt tries to wait patiently. From inside the room he hears the quiet scuff of furniture being dragged across the floor, and then the door opens. Ciri looks up at him, heart beating a little faster than usual. “You came back.”

“Of course,” Geralt says, nearly pushing past her to sweep the room. Then he sees the figure out cold on the bed. In a shock, he realizes it’s Lambert— and even more shockingly, that his brother’s hair is all done up in fine Cintran braids. Dryly, he says, “I see he was rude enough that you finally snapped and killed him. We all warned him this might happen.”

“No,” Ciri laughs, and the sound warms Geralt’s heart. Although he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he loves when he catches her smiling at his jokes. “No, he just fell asleep. He was telling me a nice story about his life.”

“There are no nice stories about Lambert’s life,” Geralt snorts. “At least, none that I’m aware of.” He paces over to the bed, watching how peaceful Lambert’s face looks while he’s sleeping. Ciri’s heart is still beating quickly enough that he knows she has something to tell him; probably something bad, if it made her scream that loudly. But for now she’s still half-smiling, and he can’t bring himself to ruin the moment. “Whatever you have to tell me, tell me after we finish this last braid. Eskel has to see this.”

[bimswritings]

Savage Opress x Reader

Request: Open

Warnings:Yandere Themes, canon-typical violence

Summary: On their conquest of the universe, Savage finds himself drawn to one of the newest captives in their spread of power.

A/n: The next chapter of ‘This is our way’ is up on my Ao3. It will be posted here after I finish and upload my current Armorer x reader fic.

__________________________________________________

Your planet wasn’t anything special. Located out in the outer rim, it was little more than a moon compared to its neighbors. Its land was barren and cold, an almost ever present frost covering the ground.

Yet you and your people had made it your home, learning how to grow a small amount of crops and mine the rare metals underneath. A job you had yourself, providing enough money for you and your younger brother to live on until he was old enough to work as well. What was produced was enough to give your people an economy, yet remain under the radar and out of the war that ravaged the rest of the planet. The Republic and Separatist had limited interactions this far out at best, and you were able to enjoy a peaceful life, if not a bit exhausting.

Unfortunately, it was this isolation that had been your saving grace for so long that also proved your downfall.

Their ships arrived in numbers you had never seen before, landing on the grey dirt and unloading copious amounts of armored men and women. Your village didn’t even have time to put up a fight, overpower and subdued before you could even think of a weapon to protect yourself.

Soon you were corralled into the town center, separated into groups seemingly at random. Families were torn apart, mother from child and husband from wife. The entire time your brother clung to your leg, hiding as the armed guards shoved you along through the crowds. You tried to stay out of sight the best you could in an attempt to draw the least amount of attention to yourself, hoping, praying, that you could go unnoticed enough to keep him with you.

Above it all, standing out against the dull sky with their vibrant colors, were two Zabraks. Creatures you had only ever heard about in stories from the occasional trader that passed through, and had been just that, stories, until now. Their horns alone were enough to send shivers down your spine, each one protruding from the crown of theirs heads like a twisted version of a crown. Unlike a crown, you knew they weren’t for decoration. The damage they could undoubtedly do if provoked only solidified their threatening presence.

Now they stood above you all, tattoos illuminated in the light of the setting sun. The shorter red one stood in front, chin raised and chest puffed with pride as he looked over your people with another armored man, this one clearly human. He seemed to not even notice the cold, bare chest on full display for anyone to see the unique markings that marred his skin. Just beyond him stood the second Zabrak. His yellow markings stood out even more than his companions, only emphasized by his large size. None of the others even came close to his height, let alone the bulk you could tell he possessed under his armor. Even from here you could tell he could wrap a single hand around your neck and snap it easily with his strong fingers.

His gaze was just as impassionate, if not more so, seeming more bored than anything as he watched the proceedings.

“Come on! Move it!” One of the guards yelled, catching your shoulder as he pushed you forward, reminding you bitterly of Telik being led to slaughter. You kept Jay close, keeping your head down as you passed more guards, pace increasing. Just a few more yards and you would be with the others. Whatever the future had in store for you, at least you would still have each other.

“Hey, you!” A voice called, clearly directed your way, though you pretended not to hear. A cold sweat broke out across your skin as footsteps closed in, hand reaching out and stopping you in your tracks.

“Children don’t go in this area.” He growled, prying Jay from where he hid, ignoring his cries and your screams as he was pulled away. A guard stepped forward to hold you back, another coming to his aide as you fought to get to your brother, who was making it just as difficult for his own captor to drag him away. Even with the muscle gained from the mines you struggled against them, putting up your own desperate fight.

“Stop moving you little- fuck!” He yelped, pulling his arm away and out of Jay’s mouth, which had latched on to the only unarmored part of the hand holding him.

Immediately he turned and was running back towards you, tears streaming down his face and blue eyes wide with fear. In his panic to get back, his childish coordination caught up to him and his feet caught on one another, throwing him to the ground as he was left to scramble. All the while the guard he had bitten approached. 

“You little brat!” He snarled. His hand moved to his hip, producing a whip from its depths. The long weapon crackled to life, sparking with energy as it extended to full length.

Your own stomach dropped in fear as you watched. 

Jay, the one light in your life, the only person you had left, was in danger. You were his older sister. You were supposed to protect him, guide him into adulthood in place of your parents. Be there to kiss away every injury, wipe away the tears after every nightmare.

A new burst of energy flooded your system, giving you the strength needed to push past the guards, leaving them stumbling as you flew towards Jay.

The man brought his arm down, whip swinging in a wide arc aimed at the defenseless boy on the ground. 

It didn’t even have the chance to hit him. You slid the last few feet on the rough terrain, body covering his at the last second and jolting as the electric weapon met your clothed back, ripping through the material like a stone through water. A pained scream tore itself from your lips. Not even when you had gotten a burn from a small explosion in the mines had it hurt this much. In fact, you would take a dozen burns before this. This was just pure agony, the pain not even limited to a single area as the electricity coursed through every part of your body, invading every nerve.

The man was far from done though, and he repeated the action again and again, turning your skin into a bloody mess as Jay continued to cry underneath you, struggling in your protective grip. Still you held tightly, biting your lip to muffle your cries with every lash.

No one lifts a finger to help, not even looking in your direction in fear of the same treatment as they continue to shuffle along. You don’t even have it in your heart to blame them, knowing your reaction would be much the same if the situation was reversed.

Unbeknownst to you, your little altercation has caught the eye of the golden Zabrak, a small twinge in his heart at the deja-vu feeling he gets from the scene. From your age, he can only assume that the boy is your brother. You look too young for him to be your son.

He has flashbacks to his own brother, giving himself to the cursed Nightsisters in exchange for his life, only to be forced to kill him in a cruel show of power.

Before he realizes it, his hand has fallen to his lightsaber, already taking a step to where you are. He only gets a step before Maul calls to him, pulling him away to the ships and leaving him to look back over his shoulder at you crumpled form.

“Come. We must set up camp. The prisoners will be dealt with later.” Maul chuckles. “Those that survive anyways.”

And so he follows, leaving your fate to the Mandalorian who has yet to relent in his cruelty. But out of sight doesn’t mean out of mind, and the memory of your form curled on the ground, taking every lash with little more than a jolt and muffled cry, sticks in the front of his mind and prevents him from having a single moment of rest.

It's hours before he’s able to slip away. Between his brother and Death Watch, it’s nearly impossible for him to make his way to where the captives are being held. They’re all gathered in one of the far corners of the camp, held in place by the ropes around the wrist and looking miserable as they huddle for warmth against the lightly falling snow. He feels no guilt for what their eventual fate will be. They’re nothing to him, mere insects in his brothers plans. Animals to the slaughter. All for the greater good.

The fear he can feel radiating off them feeds a twisted sense of pride within him. The Sith side of him. They know who he is. They know he could easily kill them with no consequence should he choose. 

He’s not here for them though.

A dozen yards away, your body is still laying in the same spot as before, more lifeless than when he last saw you. This time there’s no Mandalorian enforcer above you. Instead, he’s replaced with the small boy from earlier. What remains of your shirt is peeled back from the skin and even Savage, who’s used to many grisly sights, grimaces at your wound. The skin that isn’t lacerated is red and swollen, and he now notices that the young boy has shed his own shirt, using ripped strips to clean the blood away and form a crude version of bandages. He’s busy fumbling over himself, fingers clumsy and stiff from the cold as he does his best to care for the wound with no medical supplies.

So focused on your wounds, he doesn’t even hear the large Zabrak approaching, not until it’s far too late. To his credit, and Savage’s amusement, the boy refuses to leave you, placing his body in front of yours. His bare chest is rapidly moving up and down with fear, thin body on full display. Not an ounce of muscle on him, Savage muses, moving closer to your body. If he doesn’t get you proper medical attention soon the wounds will undoubtedly become infected and kill you, if the blood loss hasn’t already damned your fate.

When he goes to pick up your limp body however, he’s stopped by your brother. Well, stopped is being rather generous. It’s more like he’s latched himself onto Savage’s waist, small fist beating at him with the strength one would expect of a child. He might not have even known he was hitting him if he wasn’t watching it happen.

It’s times like this that he’s most grateful for his cursed strength, easily detaching the boy from him and holding him by the back of his neck, tucking him under one arm as the other reaches for you. It's almost concerning how cold your body is against his own skin, and he’s more careful as he lifts you over his shoulder. His brother would surely find it laughable if he saw how gentle he was being with you.

Without hesitance, he turns back to the main camp, ignoring the looks the others cast his way as he carries your unconscious and broken body over his shoulder, your brother still fighting under his other.

Let them gossip. There’s none that will stand against him.

____________________________________

The first thing you’re aware of is warmth. Surrounding and enveloping your form, begging you to stay as it threatens to drag you back into the land of dreams. That in itself is enough to alarm you. The heating was always turned off at night to save energy, replaced in favor of thick blankets made from the local TekTek wool.

That’s your second red flag. TekTek wool is warm, yet coarse and scratchy. The fabric currently piled on top of and under you is significantly softer, having a slight musk to it.

Finally managing to drag your eyes open, the sight that greets you is not one you were expecting. 

Dark fabric makes up the majority of the tent you find yourself in. It’s clearly worn, yet does a surprising job of keeping the wind outside from entering, slight ripples waving across the fabric yet never entering. A fire sits in the very center, smoke curling up and through a hole in the ceiling. It’s glow provides the only source of light in the space, illuminating the few objects scattered around, including the cot you currently find yourself residing on. Buried under layers of blankets, your hands travel to the bandages wrapped around your chest, the only thing covering your upper body and providing little warmth in comparison to the blankets you were previously under.

How did you get here? Where was Jay? The last thing you remember was the invaders arriving, then nothing. So the question was, how had you gotten from there to here? Alone in an unfamiliar tent.

Your questions are soon answered, a shuffling from the front of the tent drawing your attention. From between the flaps emerges a large figure, his horns nearly catching the fabric as he enters.

You both freeze, eyes locking on one another, equally surprised. There’s a moment of pause, each of you trying to determine your next move. It’s only broken when he takes a step forward, cautiously, but still sending you into a panic. Ignoring the nearly debilitating pain coming from your back, you scramble to the edge of the cot, pressing your back against the fabric and you can feel it straining against your weight. Trying your best to look intimidating, you send a glare his way.

“Where’s my brother?”

He says nothing for a moment, and you almost repeat yourself, cut off as he begins approaching. He’s there before you know it, long legs easily eating the space as his arms reach for you, forcably turning you around despite your resistance. He lets out a grumble as he inspects your back, scoffing about how you’ve ‘reopened them’.

The next thing you know, his hands are worming their way under the wrappings, loosening them as he goes to remove them.

The panic you had felt before was nothing compared to now, knowing where this scenario was going all to well. The stories of what you had heard from other village girls filling your mind, darkening your thoughts as you could only imagine what this monster was about to do to you.

“No! Stop!” You sobbed, knowing full well that there was nothing you could actually do against his strength. The bandages become looser, only held up by your hand as you wildly swing out with the other. All the while you try to distance yourself from him. 

“Please!”

To your surprise, he pauses. His first sign of even showing he heard you since entering. His gaze never leaves you, and you can see the debate going on within his eyes. About what, your guess was as good as any. All that you cared was that he had stopped for the moment, allowing you to cover yourself with one of the many blankets in an attempt to preserve any decency you had left.

Growling, her turns and storms out the way he came, a wisp of freezing wind invading the tent as you're given a glance at the dark night sky outside before you’re once again left on your own. Not for long though, and you think he’s returned once again when the flaps open, only to reveal a young woman in similar armor that you had seen earlier. Not the person you trusted the most right now, but you still preferred her over the large Zabrak from earlier.

She approaches slowly, setting a medkit down on the bed as she smiles your way. “I’m here to change your bandages.” She extends a hand your way, which you only look at, neglecting to come out of your little corner. 

“Please. You’ve opened your wounds again. If you don’t come out now, I’ll just wait for you to pass out and change them then.” she sounds a bit exhausted, and it takes a few more minutes of coaxing before you allow her access to your back, keeping your back towards her as she slowly unwraps the bindings. She deposits them into the fire, leaving you to watch them burn to ash as she retrieves a small container from the medkit. 

Inside is a blue gel, surprisingly warm as it touches your skin and leaves a pleasant numbness. You can almost feel her gaze burning into your skin as she applies the gel, eyes skittering across old scars, fingers even tracing them when visible underneath the new wounds. Seeming to sense your unease, she rushes through the rest, quickly wrapping new bindings around your torso, apologizing with every small grunt of pain you let out. 

Far too quick for your liking she’s done, packing up her things as she prepares to head out. If she’s leaving, then that means there’s more of a chance that he’ll come back. In fact, you have no doubt that she’ll go and tell him once she’s out of here.

Snapping the case closed, she turns back to you and hesitates for a moment.

“I don’t know what you did to gain Savage’s attention, but believe me,” her green eyes lock onto yours, holding a sense of severity that chills you to the bone. 

“, he’s your best chance of surviving.”

With that you’re alone once again, left to your own thoughts and the crackling of the fire, which has gone down a significant amount since you first woke.

What did she mean by that? Gained his attention? And he was one of the ones who lead the attack on your home. Why would he be your saving grace? If anything, he would be the most likely to kill you.

Once again the flap opens, and you almost want to groan about the number of people going in and out, letting the heat out of the tent.

It’s the Zabarak. Savage, you remember the woman from before calling him. This time he has some additions. A cloak draped over one arm and a plate in hand. He moves slower than before, almost cautiously approaching you as he sets the items on the far end of the bed.

“Eat.” His voice is a deep baritone, rich yet monotone as he speaks, nodding towards the plate before moving towards the fire. Your eyes never leave his form as he tosses more wood onto the flame, moving them about without a fear of burning himself. Despite the fear still gripping your nerves, the food is tempting and only now do you realize how empty your stomach is, almost turning in on itself as it lets out a low rumble.

You grab the plate cautiously, picking at its contents as the man continues to poke at the fire. When you do finish, you find yourself wishing you had taken more time with it, no longer having the small distraction from your current situation. Despite the desire to throw on the warm looking cloak, you don’t. While he had directed you to eat, he had said nothing about the cloak. The last thing you wanted to do was make him angry, especially after he had shown how easily he could manhandle you earlier.

“You’re going to travel with me from now on.” He spoke, his back still towards you, yet it still carried loudly through the air, leaving no room for you to mistake his words. “If you have any objections, your fate will be the same as the rest of your village.”

You have no idea why he’s saying this, not when he could just direct you without any information. There’s only one thing on your mind though, present from the very beginning and still burning on your tongue.

“Where’s my brother.” You ask once again, praying to the maker you’ll get an answer this time. “What about him?”

His shoulders tense for a moment. The first emotion he’s shown besides anger.

“He will be allowed to come along given that he trains as a Mandalorian warrior. This is the best option for him.”

You let out a sigh of relief. While being forced to train with the ones who captured him wasn’t an ideal situation, you could only be thankful that he wasn’t fated for something more unfortunate. The only thing that worried you was his size. He was never much of a fighter, too kind to want to cause others pain. You would need to be there for him.

“I...I can still see him.”

“Yes.”

You bit your lip, trying to decide if you should ask another question. He already seemed to be wearing thin with his patience, but you had to know. You would never get a moment's rest until you knew.

“Why am I here.”

He doesn’t answer right away, throwing a few more logs onto the fire before turning to face you. His face was nothing but shadows, eyes standing out in startling contrast. His footsteps were slow and heavy as he made his way over to your form, unable to back away any further as you already find yourself in a corner. He grabs the cloak as he passes, the article almost ridiculously small in his hands.

As soon as he’s close enough, he lifts his arms and you flinch, expecting him to strike you out of annoyance and anger. It never comes though. The only feeling was that of heavy fabric settling on your shoulders, only there a moment before it’s clasped and you feel yourself being pulled forward. 

Savage’s hands are wound tightly into the fabric, forcing your face to nearly touch his. This close you can see every detail of the markings splashed across his skin, the black only making his amber eyes burn even brighter, nearly suffocating with the intensity with which they stare. Almost like molten gold themselves.

His breath fans across your skin, lips nearly brushing yours as his forehead grazes your own, making you whimper as his horns roughly scrap the skin.

“You’re mine now. You will never leave my side, there at my every beck and call no matter what I may need. If you even think about trying to leave or betray me,” he pushed further, forcing you to lean back onto the bed. His weight pushed down enough to keep you in place without being crushing, one hand releasing the fabric of the collar to travel up your face. It brushes the hair away, catching the tear you hadn’t even realized had escaped.

“I’ll force you to watch as I kill your brother in the most painful way imaginable.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans forward, baritone voice speaking lowly in your ear as his lips tickle the skin.

“You’ll wish, beg, that I had killed you as well instead of what will happen to you after.”

[kiyokoxd]

« I am sorry »

fandom ; bungo stray dogs

content ; fluff → angst

includes ; oneshot, kyouka x gn!reader, platonic

warnings ; i don't know i am stupid

note ; prompt credits go to missrown, don't know when kyouka's parents died but it's when she was 9 here. Also you're an orphan here– 4 years older than her!

You found Kyouka when she was 10, a little girl wandering in the street, determined to survive. It was quite admirable but pitiful.

"Where are your parents? Are you lost?" You asked, hoping to help her since you had nothing better to do.

"They're dead" She answered your question, quite bluntly actually, almost as if she wasn't human anymore.

Your eyes widened for a second, not wanting to creep her out yet not being sure what to do with her.

"Oh, uh... I am sorry to know that, I hope you are okay..?" You replied awkwardly.

"I killed them."

You squinted your eyes, why would such a young girl do that? Were they abusive or anything? How did she even do it?

You were hesitant of what you were about to say but you said it anyways.

"Are you hungry? We can buy something if you like!"

"..."

"Errr...?"

You heard a growl from her stomach which caused you giggled silently. You decided to help her until you get to know more about her, you were an orphan too and you didn't mind getting support or a friend.

As she chewed her fish, one that you somehow managed to buy with your money. Mainly all you did was steal, so, you were quite proud of yourself today.

You looked at her and noticed how her eyes sparkled when she took a bite out of it which caused you to smile. She was adorable. There was no way you could let this girl wander off and get hurt, after all, Yokohama was a dangerous city, especially at night.

After finishing her fish, she looked at you, due to her stoic expression, you never expected to hear what you heard next.

"Thank you. It was the best food I had in 1 year, I must be going now–"

"Hold up! You just ate with my money, a small payment should be there y'know–" You exclaimed out of nowhere, slightly offended but hoping you could stop her.

"...And what would that be?" She asked, still not trusting you fully.

"We could uh.. Work together??" You sweated, still not sure what you wanted to say.

"..Okay," She said shyly and a little shocked, "I am Izumi Kyouka"

You smiled at her goofily, "I am L/N Y/N!"

Those 4 years were the best.

You both had actually gotten very close, both of you started trusting each other enough to open up with your pasts. Helping each other to steal for profit or pulling up a small street show for money. Hanging out, living together. It was almost like you found a little sister, you only wanted the best for her, no matter what happened to you.

But it all went downhill as one night you were returning from shopping for cookies you thought both you and Kyouka might like.

You got pinned harshly against the wall, you closed your eyes scared, bracing for any impact but nothing happened, instead, you heard someone cough.

"Boss has a deal for you"

"Boss who– I-I am afraid you have the wrong person sir" You responded, scared by the man in black with the strange ability. You weren't surprised as Kyouka told you about hers.

"Boss said that if you want the girl's safety then you must leave her to us or you both die," He said while ignoring your perplexed face, serious enough for it to be no joke.

Girl? Does he mean Kyouka?

Your eyes went blank as you realised where he was from, Port Mafia. The people you prayed to never meet Kyouka were here, offering a deal with her safety included.

You knew if you disagreed, he would kill you right here and go after Kyouka.

You knew that they had more resources to help her than you ever did.

You knew you were useless when it came to Kyouka's future. There wasn't a bright future assured for Kyouka with them but it wasn't with you either. You both were orphans who had no proper home, even though you found one in each other, how long could it last?

As tears welled up in your eyes, you had no choice, but to accept. If her safety was there, maybe it was okay?

You expected her reaction, you knew you had to act slightly blunt in order for this to happen.

You knew she wouldn't leave no matter what if you didn't make her hate you, she was 14 and she was smart enough to know things you may or may not be planning, people just couldn't drag her away from you.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry–”

You looked away in guilt, Kyouka kept saying it but it meant nothing.

No matter how much she apologised, you were never coming back. She wanted to hear the words, ‘It’s just a joke!’ from your mouth, but they wouldn't come out. You were serious.

Why? Why did you make her open up, make her feel at home if you were just going to leave? Why was reality always so harsh on her? What did she ever do wrong to deserve this?

You had to toughen up in order to make her safe. You had to do it. You had to make the only one you ever loved, the one who made you feel loved, hate you.

You looked at her, dead in the eyes and said, “I am sorry, but we can’t do this anymore”

She held your hand as she fell down on her knees, crying. You had never seen her cry. The guilt was all too much, but it had to be done.

You knew the Port Mafia would play along, somehow manage to grasp her and take her in, you wanted to say so many things, you wanted to explain her and apologise, she wanted to ask why, she wanted you to be by her side. But no words came out. Just you leaving her grasp and leaving her, forever.

– ; my english is shit and so is this if you just close your eyes, you can pretend it's good 😊

~ ; @missrown , @jadegreenimmortality || @xmellows , @greenshirtimagines , @alittlesimp , @dazaisusedbandages , @bsdparadise , @xo-cuteplosion-xo , @shadyteacup , @misschuuyasimp , @shiny84244 || @pompompurin1028 , @the-wholesome-ranpo , @ranposlover

anyways! reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated! i hope you all stay safe and take care <3 // writing belongs to me! please do not plagiarize! the reblog button is always there for you to share :)

[pbjamas]

Please, thinking about how much neglect Hawks went through makes me so sad :( like not only does mans probably not know how to read or write but he was probably so far behind with EVERYTHING.

I am sure 100% his parents didn't teach him anything and the only resource he had of the world outside of his little shack was the TV (which his mum was practically glued to and it clearly didn't work well) so he wasn't going to learn much from that.

Like he probably couldn't even count past like 12, didn't know what most things were, didn't understand phrases (like in mean girls the "omg shut up" "I didn't say anything?" type of deal) and I know this child didn't know how to use chopsticks, like imagine when he gets taken in by the commission and he has to sit there for like an hour every meal cos he can't pick up his food without dropping it :( like I really think being so behind as a child is why he's so fast as an adult, he had to go really fast and cram to get to the normal level of a 7 year old and when he got there he just continued that speed, you know ?

Also, when we see him saving the people in the car crash he's got a little shopping bag, I like to imagine him paying for that if he couldn't read or count like the shopkeeper says its 300 yen and he thinks 1 note = 1 yen and he doesn't know how much 300 yen is but its clearly a Big Number and he definitely only has 4 yen so he starts freaking out like how is he going to get his mother money if things cost this much? But it turns out he actually DOES have enough money and now he's so confused because he now has 0 clue how money works so everytime after that he just prays that he has enough money for what he's picked up.

I also have a head canon that the reason why his boots are Like That is cos the first time he ever wore shoes was when he was on the streets with his mum and after 7 years of bare feet, walking in proper shoes was terrible so he preferred boots with hardly any sole that were so big they could barley fit his feet cos that felt most similar to walking bare foot and although he could walk fine in any shoe as an adult the boots were just never changed.

I also have this sad thought that like what if no one actually knows Hawks' real birthday ? Like I genuinely don't think Tomie was in a state of mind that allowed her to know or remember exact dates, not even the date that her son was born so when the commission asks when he was born she's just like "around Christmas? Maybe after?" So they just give him a birthday that matches that vague description :'(

THIS WAS SO LONG IM SO SORRY I just have many Thoughts about child Hawks :(

This one gets a readmore bc I rambled <3

aaaaaa ;_; that is so sad ;_;

yeah i remember talking with a friend and we about like.....what if baby keigo wrote in a diary! and since this was abt the ghost fic i was writing the ua kids were going to find his old diary and read it and probably cry. But then we realized......he wasn’t allowed to leave the house. Definitely did not go to school. Very much doubt that either tomie or his father taught him to read or write. If he knew any words at all, he would have learned them when his parents left him alone in the house and he could switch the TV to kids shows where they try to be educational.

Agreed that he probably couldn’t count that high either :/ slfkjsdkj what if....he made up words for the higher numbers so he could count higher ;_; AGAIN me thinking of the ghost fic (i poured my heart and soul into it okay!?) I had lil keigo just find a bunch of coins on the ground and hand it to the lady at the store and just hope it was enough bc he couldn’t count high :/

DO NOT give the boots a tragic backstory, I’ll start feeling bad about hating them!!!!

Aaaa that would be really sad if they didn’t even know his birthday ;_; my personal headcanon is that when he was younger his mom was more....there. It’s hard to take care of a baby, you have to be extremely careful because they can get hurt so easily. I like to think that until he could walk well, tomie actually did a pretty good job! she held him and fed him and maybe even sang to him. They were pals, he was her only friend. And then as soon as he could survive without her constant attention.....she just kind of.......withered, without that urgency. so tldr i think she would have remembered his birthday, and maybe even remembers newborn keigo with some fondness. and then let herself slip back into helplessness as soon as she could ;_;

The hpsc planned to immediately start hero training, but instead, they have to teach him how to count, how to read basic characters, how to hold a pencil, how to tie his shoes (UGH you have me considering the tragic boots backstory how dare you.....) .maybe bc he couldn’t tie his shoes he just preferred zipper to save himself the embarrassment (I STILL HATE THE BOOTS, TO BE CLEAR).

[sunlightwoo]

wc: >1000

You sit in the passenger side of Juyeon’s car anxiously as your eyes darted between the two cars that were yet to arrive at the arena. The nerves of the uprising tension was practically eating you alive, but you were sure that someone were to get hurt if they were to continue the race tonight, which was why you needed to stop it considering Jacob didn’t want to stop it at least for what Juyeon had quoted, ‘their man pride’.

Some men they were, you thought while hugging yourself.

The sounds of engines suddenly nearing to where you were makes you turn your head as you notice both Jacob and Sunwoo finally driving into the arena, and you could tell that by the looks of what you were able to see on their faces, shit was about to go down. Sunwoo gets out of his car first, eyes looking around until his eyes land to where you were sitting and you feel your heart sink into your stomach, noticing the leather jacket that he was sporting over his own shoulders.

He walks over to where you started getting out of Juyeon’s car, and for any possible reason that you couldn’t figure out on your own, tears started to pool at the corner of your eyes. It felt like you were saying goodbye for the last time, your heart had spoken, as you stared into his eyes that seemed to glisten under the moonlight, and he gave you a weak smile before taking off his jacket that was on him. 

“Can you wear this for me? For good luck?” 

His words might’ve seemed as though there was no further meaning to it, but you knew that it was everything that he wanted to say. Both him and Jacob played dirty, from what you remember, and it was impossible to know who was going to win by the end of the night. However, with his jacket in his outreached hand, you take the cool leather into his hands and wrap the jacket around your shoulders like you had done a million times back then before you notice how he had taken one step closer to you. 

He takes in your beauty under the moonlight for the sake that he saves himself from sanity, the thought of never seeing you again weighing on him as he was definite that Jacob was relentless when it came to you. So with a soft kiss against your forehead, he holds you close as there were one too many words that he wanted to spill out as a chance to apologize, until you pulled him closer to place a proper kiss on his lips. 

Just moments prior to Juyeon picking you up for tonight, you had a surprise visit from Giwook, whom had showed up at your front steps with a solemn look on his face and the messages that were sent between him and the latter. You realize then that Sunwoo was telling the truth about wanting to get out of the game this time around, and that maybe there was still some hope for you both to finally have the happy ending that you both deserved. 

“If you win, we can talk about us…” You whisper quietly against his lips by the time that you pulled away from him, and he nods just slightly as he heads back to his car. 

Looking over to where Jacob was, he gives you a small shake of a head as you knew that he wasn’t going to change his mind and you took that as your final answer. You watch as both him and Sunwoo get ready at the checkered start line where Juyeon had been waiting for them, a nervous look as you tried to not bear the sight of one of them getting hurt. 

It wasn’t until he holds down the horn that was in his hand to start the race, your eyes watching the flying cars speed around the tracks while nervousness settled down the back of your throat. There was no way that one of them were not going to get heard, considering the fact that the sound of tires screeching and metals scrapping against each other slightly were able to be heard. 

Your eyes are carefully watching Sunwoo’s car speed past Jacob’s car, hoping that neither of them were going to let their pride get in the way just as they suddenly became neck and neck at the last lap that the two of them were driving through. You looked down at the timer that was in your hands, a record speed for both of them for already passing the minute mark and you could only count down how many seconds left were on the clock. 

With eyes squeezed shut at the last few feet and tires being dragged along the concrete of the arena, you didn’t look to see who had won until there was total silence engulfing the atmosphere. As if it were an instinct, you clung onto the jacket that was still on your shoulders and mentally prayed that both of them were okay since there weren’t any crashes that you could hear from the entire race. 

Which could only mean that they didn’t play dirty. 

Opening your eyes, you looked to see Jacob and Sunwoo already out of their cars and shaking hands with one another; both individuals were shaking off the built up adrenaline in their blood as Sunwoo wondered how the hell he had even lived to see the next day considering how fast he was going and how hard he had to drift against the curves of the track, but he had made it out alive. 

His eyes glance over to where you were since you had gone back to sit on top of Juyeon’s car, your eyes still shut until he notices that you had opened them to look at both him and your brother. Turning to look at Jacob, who had been watching him closely the whole time, he motions for the younger individual to go to where you were sitting, and mentally hopes that maybe you would be able to hear him out this time without any lies in between.

With a heavy heart on his sleeve and his breath caught in the middle of his throat, he walks slowly over to where you were sitting on the hood of Juyeon’s car and gives you a weak smile on his face. Neither of you had said a word as the two of you continued to exchange looks, but you could tell that something was going to change from then on.

“I won the game to save us, Sunflower, and I meant everything that I have said about loving you. Loving you then, to loving you now, I’ve never lied about my feelings to you,” He starts off, walking closer towards to you as he gently takes your hands into his and you could feel your heart speeding up faster than it should have been; and you liked it.

“Can we start us over again?”

You look to see that tears were surfaced at the corner of his eyes and maybe this was the sign that you needed to know that he wasn’t lying to you this time around. He was the one person that you knew could be the life and end of your existence, and you knew that it was going to be okay.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, bubs.”

UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT: RIDE ALONG

chapter twenty: speeder’s game

summary: you think that the situation you’ve gotten yourself into was hysterical since being at a race track was not your ideal plan on a friday night. in fact, it was even more hysterical that you happen to meet the playboy of your campus that’s known to be one of the most talented racers that night also, the same person that you remember from a one summer ago.

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[penguincandyposts]

I had cvs since i was 10 yers old

And this is my journey

At age 10 to 14 my episode goes for like 1 week and i was taken in the hospital every episode they only put me on iv with no proper medication since all lab results is good, they only gave me tablet for , 1 week at home resting and 1 week in school and 1 week in hospital again. I didn't experience a lot of things or make friends and that resulted to me being shy and introverted. Then the year i became 15, 6 months i didn't have any episode and i was static i thought i was cured, i imagine all the foods i can eat the things i can finally do without restrictions but it came crushing down, i got another episode.

I became depressed i ask myself everyday why is it happening to me and ive never see another person have this illness so i though i was all alone so i started to hate myself the depression got worse and the worsed part is i have to keep a facade that i was fine and happy. The only time i was content was when im alone in the safety of my bedroom. At the age of 17 i studied in the next city away from everyone i know, cut contact with them hoping and praying i can forget my illness and maybe just maybe trick myself that my past was just my imagination and all of that was just a maladaptive dreaming like i usually do. Im not sure if its because i found friends or because i became happy again but i didnt have an episode for 1 year.

But then it begin again when i turn 19 but each episode last for a 1 week and 2 to 3 months in between and the begining of 2022 i started to have episode every months, now its july 30 and the last time i had an episode was at the end of march if i survived untill the beginning of August then that mark 5 months without getting sick. This time i think the reason why i didn't have any episode was because i found a job and it keep me distracted and made my mind blank.

[ibijau]

I saw a post about, not sure where god!lxc fic goes next? I assume nhs insists on going back to the cave to make a proper offering. Lxc accompanies b/c nhs is still a little sick and nmj is busy. Nhs continues panicking about this uber-powerful god. Lxc enjoys the offering, it's nice, but not the panicking, and hey he committed to being honest? so he tells nhs he's the god. This does not have the calming effect he was hoping for --the anon who got super excited about god!lxc can't read sideplot

ok so, didn’t quite use all of that, but big thanks anon for giving me a way to at least write a little more on that AU which is very dear to me

Price of Wishes on AO3 (can’t remember my tumblr tag for it... orz)

Lan Xichen stares at the altar.

It is a small one, hurriedly installed among others inside the Unclean Realm. Its only decoration is a bolt of pale embroidered fabric from which Nie Huaisang apparently once wanted to have a robe made, and a portrait of Lan Xichen that Nie Huaisang personally painted, as promised in the temple. It doesn’t look like Lan Xichen does in this mortal form, and it probably doesn’t look the way he once did as a god, but the main attributes of his last remaining statue are there.

How long has it been since he was granted a new altar? Not since before this Nie sect even came to be, he thinks.

And now not only was he given this altar, but there are offerings on it. Nie Huaisang put incense to burn and offered flowers and rice, yes, but surprisingly others did the same, and thanked Lan Xichen for keeping their young master safe when he ran away. Even the stern Nie Mingjue, who clearly didn’t share his brother’s certainty about a godly intervention, still lit up some incense and bowed before the altar, simply because he realised how much it mattered to Nie Huaisang.

It had been a flight of fancy to help that boy and get him into the temple, just a sudden impulse to feel like a real god again, but Lan Xichen finds himself more than rewarded for this kindness. If he can keep this up, if they continue honouring him, he might well survive a century more.

Lan Xichen had forgotten what hope feels like.

But hope or not, Lan Xichen knows to whom he owes this. As days pass, he sticks close to Nie Huaisang, who is currently his strongest believer. Even the old lady, dear to Lan Xichen as she is, never had such unwavering faith in his power. She prays to him mostly out of habit, while Nie Huaisang does so out of conviction. Being near him feels like stepping into the sun after an eternity in darkness, and Lan Xichen cannot get enough of the sensation.

Besides, if they are to be married, he needs to know more about the young man whose life he will share.

Nie Huaisang is an interesting person, Lan Xichen thinks. He acts a little spoiled, but of course he is young, and Lan Xichen vaguely understands that the Nie family has gone through rough times in the recent past, and Nie Huaisang’s childishness might be how he dealt with it. At his core, Nie Huaisang is more serious than he lets on. For example, he is determined to fully repay the debt he contracted toward Lan Xichen. The altar he set up is but a first step. In spite of his brother’s warnings, Nie Huaisang has inquired what it would cost to have a safe road to the mountain temple, just as he promised to do. In fact, he goes beyond his promise, determined to find every possible detail about Lan Xichen so that he may be worshipped properly. To that end, he spends day after day in Qinghe Nie’s immensely rich library, reading through books with a speed which astonishes Lan Xichen, writing letters to make inquiries as if it is the easiest thing in the world.

Lan Xichen thinks Nie Huaisang might just be the cleverest person he has ever met, and the most stubborn as well. Both are qualities he appreciates in a follower, and in a person.

It’s quite funny to Lan Xichen to realise that Nie Huaisang is considered lazy. Perhaps he only puts efforts into things that interest him. Lan Xichen, of course, is glad to be one of those things.

In general, he’s just glad to be around Nie Huaisang. The steady warmth of belief is quite nice, of course, but that’s not the only reason. Nie Huaisang, although he apparently realises to some degree that Lan Xichen shouldn’t exist as a mortal, still tries hard to be kind to him. He gives him delicious foods, and tries to find subtle ways to look for gaps in Lan Xichen’s knowledge of the mortal world so he can fill him in and help him fit in better. He is a pleasant person to talk to, a pleasant person to silently spend time with, a pleasant person to look at even, his youthful face showing every sign that he will develop into a handsome man someday.

In just this little time, Lan Xichen finds himself quite fond of this little mortal. It won’t be unpleasant to marry him as agreed.

First, though, Nie Huaisang must mature. And part of that means heading out toward the Cloud Recesses, where Lan Xichen himself is supposed to come from, according to the narrative Nie Huaisang demanded in his prayer. It is a stressful perspective, since Lan Xichen isn’t sure he is quite strong enough to shift reality around people who have much stronger reasons to refuse his intrusion into their life, but he will try his best. It is the deal he made with Nie Huaisang, and he will see it through.

To Lan Xichen’s relief, just before they are set to head south toward Gusu, Nie Huaisang begs his brother for a full ceremony at the mountain temple, with incense and prayers and everything that can be done to honour Lan Xichen. Nie Mingjue grumbles and complains and even gets angry, but he eventually gives in, as seems to be common for him when his brother makes a request. Nie Mingjue is a wise man, and he apparently understands that little can be done when Nie Huaisang is in a mood to be stubborn about something.

So the three of them head out into the mountain, followed by a few Nie disciples who carry food offerings and some tools to clean the temple.

The temple’s floors are swiped clean. Rubbles are removed. The nearly faceless statue has its layers of dust carefully cleaned away by Nie Huaisang who climbed on its pedestal so he can reach every part, revealing details that Lan Xichen himself had forgotten. There are even some traces of colour here and there.

“I’ll have to make another portrait,” Nie Huaisang notes. “Mine isn’t accurate at all after all.”

“I’m sure this god is already more than happy with what you have given him,” Lan Xichen says, lifting his gaze from the altar he’s wiping clean. It is a struggle to keep himself from crying from joy, and his voice comes out a little strangled, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t appear to notice.

“I need to do better,” Nie Huaisang says with a shiver. “I cannot risk offending him.”

He sounds almost afraid, and his hands tremble slightly as he carefully dusts the statue. Lan Xichen stares at him a moment more, and sighs.

However pleasant everything else has been, this is one thing that doesn’t sit right with him. For whatever reason, Nie Huaisang seems to be afraid of his god self, and it taints his every prayer. This doesn’t change the value of those prayers, it doesn’t make his belief any less strong and valuable, but Lan Xichen can feel that fear almost constantly and he doesn’t enjoy it. He is too used to the old lady’s belief, simple and companionable. She treats him like an old friend to whom she can make requests, and he wishes Nie Huaisang would do the same. They are set to be married, it is the deal, and Lan Xichen doesn’t like the idea of a union set in fear. 

“I am sure that god would not be offended,” Lan Xichen quietly insists. “You haven’t found anything about him in all your books and your letters, have you? So he must not be a very important god, and your efforts are sure to have been noticed and appreciated.”

“But it’s not enough,” Nie Huaisang retorts, gritting his teeth. “It can’t be enough. Nothing I do is ever enough, there’s got to be more I could do!”

Lan Xichen frowns, and looks around until his eyes land on Nie Mingjue. He heard this, and is staring at his brother with some concern.

From what Lan Xichen understands, the reason Nie Huaisang took refuge in his temple a few weeks ago was because of a great argument with Nie Mingjue regarding his capacity to do… nearly anything, really. Nie Mingjue, taking Lan Xichen as the confident Nie Huaisang asked that he be, admitted to him one day that he is terribly worried for his brother’s future. There might be a war, he said, and Nie Mingjue could die in it and leave Nie Huaisang alone to lead their sect before his time. Nie Mingjue confessed he is terrified that the elders of their clan won’t respect Nie Huaisang because his mother was of lesser birth, that some of their cousins will attempt to rob him of his birthright, that even if he becomes sect leader he will not be respected and some people will try to take advantage of his inexperience. So Nie Mingjue pushes his brother as hard as he can, demanding more efforts, more results, but it is all in vain because Nie Huaisang has stubbornly decided he isn’t good at anything that matters, and refuses to try anymore.

It was a terrible argument they had that day, Nie Mingjue said. And then, proving all his fears right, Nie Huaisang nearly died after running away and catching a fever, showing to all his future enemies how vulnerable a target he would be without Nie Mingjue to protect him. At the same time, that Nie Huaisang was ready to run away showed that he took it to heart every time he was scolded for not doing more, and now Nie Mingjue doesn’t know how to handle him anymore.

After Nie Mingjue confided in him this way, Lan Xichen promised he would look after Nie Huaisang, no matter what. It is part of the deal, as far as he’s concerned, because spouses must support one another, but also…

Lan Xichen is quickly becoming quite fond of this pair of brothers. Having been lonely for so long, he finds joy in the closeness they share, no matter how strained it might be at times. It is clear to him that Nie Mingjue loves his brother, though he struggles to show it when he has so much on his mind, and Nie Huaisang feels the same, to the point it was inconceivable for him to marry someone who wouldn’t be friendly with Nie Mingjue.

“Nie gongzi, you’ve done all you could for that statue,” Lan Xichen says, grabbing Nie Huaisang by the waist and pulling him down from the pedestal.

Nie Huaisang squeaks in surprise, fighting for a second before going rigid with fear as Lan Xichen puts him down. His face is a bright crimson when he looks up at Lan Xichen, who wonders whether that’s anger at being manhandled this way, but the other Nie just start laughing at his expression.

“Don’t seduce my brother like that, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue scolds, more of a joke than a real warning. “Look at him, he’s two heartbeat from asking for your hand now.”

Amazingly, Nie Huaisang manages to blush an even brighter colour, and leaps away from Lan Xichen. Nie Mingjue laughs again, apparently content with his brother’s perceived crush. Perceived, or real. Lan Xichen isn’t really sure what goes on in Nie Huaisang’s mind. He can feel is never ending flood of belief, the undercurrent of fear, but no particular affection so far. Then again, with fear that strong, it would be hard for any other emotion to flourish. Lan Xichen hasn’t wanted to talk directly about their situation yet, assuming that Nie Huaisang might want the illusion that this is all perfectly normal, but he’s rethinking that strategy. It is clear that Nie Huaisang, for whatever reason, is immune to the narrative that Lan Xichen created for his sake, so why not talk about it openly? If it can make Nie Huaisang any less afraid…

That is a problem for later. Right now, the temple is as clean as can be achieved with what little time they have available, so Nie Mingjue conducts the ceremonies necessary to consecrate the temple again, and invites Lan Xichen to inhabit again this place dedicated to him. Incense is put to burn for him, offerings are left on the altar, thanks and prayers are presented to him. Even Nie Mingjue, so openly reluctant to believe that there was any divine intervention to help his brother survive in the mountain, does provide a small stream of belief, hinting at a mind just as strong as his brother’s. Lan Xichen hopes that they can truly become friends over time, though he is unsure that’s possible with the lies he’s had to weave so he could fulfill Nie Huaisang’s request.

Still, there’s no harm in trying. If Lan Xichen is to spend one lifetime as a mortal, he wants to make the best of it, not only as a god in need of believers, but also as a person left alone far too long.