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noellawrites · 2 years ago

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Appearances - Yandere!Rafael Barba x reader

summary: Rafael loses his cool after finding you at a club and takes you home to punish you

warnings: sexual assault, verbal abuse, physical abuse, choking, non-con

The music throbbed through the speakers in the dark club, echoing loudly through your eardrums. It was a Top 40 song, but that didn’t stop you from trying to pull your bestie onto the dance floor with you.

“Thanks for bringing me here, (y/n). I probably wouldn’t have left my apartment if you hadn’t insisted on a night on the town,” she laughed as you stepped onto the strobe-lit floor together.

“You deserve to have fun, maybe even find someone new to dance on,” you suggested, nudging her.

After a long and painful breakup, you wanted to remind your best friend that she could have fun once in a while. You hadn’t been out in a while either, at least not since moving in with your boyfriend, and you were due for a change of scenery.

A server came around and offered you both shots from a platter. You downed them together and kept dancing, having lost track of your drink count for the night.

All of a sudden, the music switched to a Ke$ha song. You and your bestie shrieked with delight and began busting moves left and right.

While you were belting out the lyrics together, a tall guy in a starched white shirt and black dress pants came up behind you. He snaked his hands around your waist and drove his hips into your ass. You entertained him for a minute, but then he pushed your dress up and tried to pull down your underwear. You pushed the man away and sidled up to your friend.

"Get off me, you creep!" you yelled as he slipped through the crowd, laughing with one of his buddies.

"That was so weird," your friend remarked as you pulled your dress back down over your thighs.

"What a douchebag. I should probably tell the bouncer to keep an eye out for him," you sighed, your friend following you as you wandered towards the entrance.

"So, is Rafael okay with all this?" she asked hesitantly, sympathetic tone evident in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Y'know, going out, drinking, dancing, clubbing. I thought he had an aversion to this side of the city and your involvement with it."

"He is, but I really missed going out with you, like the old days! I can't help it. I'm still in my twenties, I want to have fun when I can and make memories like this with you," you grinned, nudging her shoulder.

"That's the spirit! If it makes you happy, Rafael can deal with it. Period," she grinned.

The two of you explained what had happened to one of the bouncers, who said he would warn management and keep an eye out for the guy.

After that, you both decided to leave and hit another club.

"There's a club right down the street that my co-workers were raving about, it's called Marquee," your friend offered, and you agreed.

Once the two of you were in, you ordered some drinks at the bar. It was swanky and expensive-looking, but the drink prices weren't too bad for Manhattan.

"So, what was your cover story for tonight?" your friend asked cheekily.

"What?"

"Like, what lie did you tell Rafael?"

"Oh! I told him about your breakup, so he thinks we're just getting one drink at a bar. I was supposed to be home an hour ago, but I texted him that you were distraught and needed more emotional support," you laughed.

"And what bar did you tell him? You think he'll come looking for you?"

"I told him we were going to Porchlight, which he hates. I don't think he'll come looking. And my phone just died, so we should probably not stay out for too much longer," you rationalized.

Sure, you hoped Rafael would trust you enough to not come looking for you, but the truth was that he was always paranoid about something happening to you. Most of the victims he dealt with were around your age, pretty and young. He didn't like the idea of you going out without him.

—

Half an hour later, you and your bestie had about four more drinks and were back on the dance floor, dancing with some nice guys around your age that you'd just met. You were just having fun, not even dancing particularly scandalously.

Everything changed when you felt someone yank you away from the group by your arm. You fought against your attacker, pushing and kicking, until he dragged you to the edge of the dance floor. In the low neon lights, you could see it now. It was your boyfriend, Rafael Barba, looking angrier than you'd ever seen him before.

"What the hell, Raf?!" you screamed, yanking your arm away from him.

"I'm disgusted. You're coming home with me right now," he seethed, grabbing your hand once again and dragging you out of the club. You didn't even have a chance to tell your friend goodbye.

"What the fuck were you doing?" he yelled, pushing you out the front door and onto the city street.

"I-I was just dancing."

"It looked like you were whoring yourself out to those guys. And I can smell cologne on you that isn't mine," Rafael said in a strangely low tone.

"I'm sorry, Rafa. I didn't cheat on you, I swear. There was a guy at the other club who tried to hurt me, and--"

"Another club? Was this your plan all along, to lie to me and go dancing like a slut instead of spending time with your loving boyfriend?" he asked, voice steady. You could see him clench his jaw, and his grip on your hand was getting tighter.

"No, I just wanted to help my friend get over a breakup, you know that," you weakly protested as he dragged you in the direction of your shared apartment.

"Do you know what you look like, stumbling around Manhattan like a drunk slut? Did you ever think about how this would look to the squad if they were out on a call and saw you like this? Or what about one of my colleagues at the DA's office, seeing their esteemed co-worker's whore of a wife stumbling around the streets looking like a working girl?" He snapped angrily.

You could tell how mad he was because he refused to look at you. You stayed silent and cast your eyes down at the sidewalk. You wiped your eyes as you could tell you were getting closer to your building.

"Of course, because you didn't think, you never think! You look terrible, (y/n). Your dress is too short, too tight, ripped, stained, your makeup is smeared, your hair is trashed and you smell horrible. And you know what? I'm going to punish you," he stated, turning to you. His green eyes darkened as they raked over your body, thinking of everything he would do to you once he got you home.

You sniffled, trying to brush your hair down with your fingers. Rafael had never been this mean to you before, never made you feel like this.

—

You were exhausted when Rafael pushed you into the apartment. He slammed you against the door and locked it before grabbing you by the neck.

You gasped, struggling to breathe as Rafael tightened his grip. His gaze was wild, like an animal's. He was looking at you like prey.

"C-can't we just do this later? I'm tired," you rasped as Rafael let go of you.

"No, we won't. You need to be punished, I have to make sure you aren't going to pull this shit again. And you aren't, right cariño?"

"No, Rafa, I won't."

"Get in the bedroom and get undressed. And clean up your fucking face," he spat, tilting his jaw up at you.

Rafael took his time pouring his whiskey. He wanted to think about how to punish you most effectively, how to make sure you would never pull this kind of shit again. You were a stuck-up, entitled bitch who took advantage of him and his generosity. But not anymore.

When he entered the room, you were fully naked on top of the king-sized bed.

"Please, Rafa, I don't want to do this right now," you whined, pouting at him.

"Sit up," he instructed. Once you did, he slapped you clear across your face. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes and you could feel a red welt already blooming on your cheek.

He stripped out of his polo and dress pants quickly. It was the outfit he had thrown on quickly to retrieve you, once he saw your signal go dead at the club.

You were crying now, unable to hold back your fear and the wave of emotion that had consumed you. You watched your boyfriend swallow the rest of his whiskey and take a deep breath. His hungry eyes glanced over you once again.

He climbed over to you and clamped his hand over your mouth. Your eyes grew wide as you wondered what he planned on doing to you.

Then, unexpectedly, he removed his hand.

"Actually, I want to hear you cry for help. I like knowing no one is coming to help you."

He climbed on top of you and pressed his naked body to yours. Then, he jammed his tongue into your mouth. You were overwhelmed by the taste of whiskey on his lips so you breathed through your nose.

You reached your hands up and wrapped your arms over his broad shoulders in an attempt to try and ground yourself.

Rafael shoved his tongue deeper down your throat, causing you to gag. You sniffled as cold tears ran down your face and dripped to the sides and down your ears.

All of a sudden, Rafael's hand traced up your side and came to rest on your throat. He squeezed, ignoring your gasps for help and fending off your attempts to move him.

"Just give into the darkness," he hissed. You closed your eyes, silently begging for your suffering to end.

#rafael barba x reader #law and order svu x reader #yandere rafael barba #rafael barba imagine #yandere law and order svu #dark rafael barba #law and order svu #rafael barba

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jisungsmochi · 3 years ago

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favorite crime - na jaemin

this is the second installment for my SOUR series! you can read jeno’s one here!

a little bad boy!jaemin x troubled (?) but still a ‘goodie goodie’ reader // strangers to friends to partner in crime to strangers again :/

word count: 7.2k

summary: “It's bittersweet to think about the damage that we'd do

'Cause I was goin' down, but I was doin' it with you”

who would have ever thought that, jaemin, the quiet boy you met in detention, would become your first love? getting involved with his shenanigans was probably the worst thing you could have done in your life. you were lucky enough to love someone like him, someone who excited you, scared you, and most of all, loved you back. but what happens when his actions suddenly have consequences?

a/n: this summary sucks but i liked writing this alot,, explains why it took me so long to write it oops.

tagging the bestie: @skrtbabe

Know that I loved you so bad

I let you treat me like that

I was your willing accomplice, honey

as you walked into the near-empty classroom, you made a beeline for the closest seat to the window. if you were going to be stuck in detention for two hours, you might as well have a nice view. you let out a short sigh to yourself, one hour and fifty eight minutes to go. the supervising teacher was lazily marking her class’ essays, completely choosing to ignore the entrance of na jaemin. he gave her a subtle scoff before stumbling past the desk, making his way to sit behind you. you heard him roughly place his bag onto the surface of his desk. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to look back and see what he was up to. jaemin was always a mystery to you, and to everyone else in the school. despite keeping himself away from the majority, people had quite a lot to say about the boy. you heard rumours that he got stabbed (which you didn’t believe at all) but your classmate, haechan, insists he had video evidence. if anything, you don’t think you had ever spoken to jaemin in your entire life, but that was all about to change.

thirty minutes into detention and you were beyond bored. everybody was either catching up on school work or trying their best to not be caught on their phones. you opted to staring out the window, eyes following the movements of a particular butterfly. eventually, the butterfly decided it was time to leave your line of sight, causing you to let out a short huff. you heard a soft chuckle, belonging to the previously silent boy behind you. you slowly turned to face him, his eyes immediately latching to meet yours. he had his chin perched on top of his right palm, a cunning grin on his face. you gave him a glare,

“what are you laughing at?” you faintly whisper to him. this caught him off guard, he didn’t expect you to sound so stern.

“an explosion is about to happen” you grew to be more confused, what is he talking about?

“wha-“

“i’ll be right back! s-stay where you are!” your teacher suddenly blurts out, rushing out of her room as fast as she could. the rest of the students all looked over at eachother, some even opting to leave detention entirely.

you turned back to the snickering boy, who clearly had something to do with it.

“what the hell did you do?”

“put laxatives in her coffee” your jaw dropped, how the hell did he manage to do that?

“w-what’s wrong with you?”

“what’s wrong with you? learn to live a little” he suddenly stood up, slinging his bag across his body. his eyes still stayed on you, silently asking for you to follow him. this was one hell of a first impression. you weren’t sure what took over you in that moment, but you found yourself trailing behind na jaemin like a lost puppy as he led you both out of the school gates. he didn’t speak much to you, aimlessly walking to wherever the hell he needed to be.

“so what did you get into detention for?” he suddenly asked you, causing you to stiffen. you weren’t a stranger to getting into trouble, your short temper often being the root of your issues. but you weren’t exactly the most comfortable talking to new people.

“ah you’re a bit shy? i’ll start then, i stole lee haechan’s clothes after gym practice” he smirked to himself, feeling some sense of pride.

“that was you? he was running around school butt naked because of you” you couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of seeing two full ass cheeks after your history class.

“that’s what he gets for claiming that he has proof i got stabbed? which is ridiculous by the way” jaemin shakes his head before coming to a complete stop. you slightly bump into his right shoulder, quickly stabilising yourself before looking at the quiet cafe infront of you.

“hungry?” you nodded in response, following him into the cafe. he seemed to have known some of the workers, earning you a free croissant and hot chocolate.

“so, i told you why i got into detention, now it’s your turn” he chimed, clearly entertained by having you as company.

“i punched kim yuna in the face” you slightly cringed at your own words. you weren’t the one to be physical in your confrontations, but this girl really struck a nerve.

“sheesh, i saw her earlier, you gave her nose a good bruising, i must say” he couldn’t help but find the entire thing entertaining. this was so odd to you, every person that had witnessed it, thought you went crazy. but here jaemin was, laughing at the situation.

“you think this is funny?” you asked curiously, rather than in a judgemental manner.

“well yeah, i don’t know why you did it, but she probably deserved it” he shrugged, taking a bite of his own pastry. you felt your shoulders begin to relax, infact your entire demeanour had changed. jaemin was the only person that didn’t push you to admit your faults and apologise. he didn’t need to know the whole story, he just took your words for what they were.

the next hour consisted of you and jaemin, sharing stories on some of the mischievous things you had gotten up to in the past. from small things like setting off stink bombs during an exam, to running from the mall cops after stealing a pair of pants from a store. jaemin liked your reactions to his stories, at first your face would be full of shock, then turn into some sort of enlightenment. he found it quite endearing to watch. he wasn’t too bad on the eyes either.

“need me to walk you home?”

“i don’t need you to do anything for me” jaemin just smirked at your response,

“but i wouldn’t mind if you did”

“ah i see how it’s going to be”

“what do you mean?”

“our relationship, it’s going to be very push and pull” what on earth was he on about?

“you got that from just spending a few hours with me?” jaemin nodded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“i think we’ll be spending a lot of time together” was all he said back. if you had told yourself earlier that day, that you’d become na jaemin’s partner in crime, you’d punch yourself in the face. but this was only the beginning.

from that day onwards, you would purposely seek out jaemin’s presence. whether it be you walking to the most isolated parts of school, or simply trying to get into detention in the case he was there again. as a result of the laxative prank, jaemin had earned a two week long suspension. you had caught wind of this information from the school’s chatterbox, haechan. you’d think after being humiliated by jaemin, he’d keep his name out of his mouth.

you decided to visit the same cafe you accompanied jaemin to, incase he was hanging out there. you weren’t sure why you wanted to be around him so much. if anything, you were more at risk of getting another detention, or becoming a social outcast. but you were going to take those chances.

as you entered the cafe, your eyes scanned near and far for any sight of the black haired boy. you were about to give up, when you heard a voice,

“stalking me now?” you immediately froze, too nervous to turn back. you felt jaemin’s hand on your shoulder, slowly turning your around to face him.

“i-i no it’s not what it looks like-“

“it’s fine, you must have missed me, no?” he let a cocky grin land on his face. you just rolled your eyes, ready to walk right back out that door.

“let’s get up to some trouble today” he gripped your wrist gently, dragging you out of the cafe. he didn’t let go of you, once again, you were aimlessly following him. why did you let him do this to you?

jaemin wasn’t too much of a talker, he tended to try and speak with his eyes. you found it interesting, the way he expected you to know exactly what was on his mind. he eventually stopped walking after reaching an abandoned building. you were beginning to feel slightly anxious, noticing that the sun was slowly setting and the breeze was getting cooler. jaemin plopped his carry bag on the concrete floor, you heard clinking sounds erupt from the bag. he moved to pull out a few spray cans.

“ever graffitied?” you shook your head,

“not spray painting, but i’ve drawn some not so pleasant pictures in the bathroom stalls” you shrug as he handed you a can of bright yellow spray paint. he slightly chuckled at your anecdote, which made you look down at the ground.

“well you won’t get in trouble for messing up this place”

“what is this place anyway?” you start to shake the can, watching as jaemin started spraying onto the blank wall.

“somewhere i come when i don’t feel like going home” you weren’t sure if you wanted to press him to elaborate, so you just nodded, beginning to spray a random design of your own.

jaemin found hanging around you quite amusing. you were always up for anything he wanted to do. you seemed so cheerful about the simplest things, and never pushed him to explain the questionable things about himself. you were a lot different than the people he would usually surround himself with. but like many things in na jaemin’s life, they often went sour very quickly.

And I watched as you fled the scene

Doe-eyed as you buried me

One heart broke, four hands bloody

jaemin had asked you to accompany him to the abandoned building one night. you were half asleep and freezing to death as you approached his car. it was quite beat up, making you worried,

“is this thing even safe to be driving?” you groan as you wrap yourself in your large puffer jacket. jaemin had previously insisted you bring a sleeping bag and pillow. you chose not to question it, too tired to argue back with him.

“don’t disrespect my sweet ride! be grateful i didn’t make you walk in the cold” he scoffed before starting the engine. the car ride was fairly quiet, you were drifting in and out of sleep, in which jaemin noticed. he thought you looked so peaceful, so he tried his best not to make any sharp turns or run over many speed bumps. in a matter of time, he parked the car, gently wiggling your shoulder. you woke up instantly, feeling his cold hand on your cheek. you furrowed your eyebrows before following him out of the car. he led you to the same wall you both had graffitied on before, but this time, it seemed to have become a complete picture.

“i wanted to show you this! isn’t it cool?” he gleamed, pulling you to his side, slightly rubbing your shoulder to warm you up. you quickly ignored his touch, focusing back on the wall. it was a mirage of different doodles and words that must have meant something to jaemin.

“this is amazing, you did this all by yourself?”

“yeah, i really wanted to see your reaction”

“what does it all mean?”

“it’s kind of a representation of what goes on in my mind? i’m not the best with expressing my feelings with words, so i decided to let it out on this wall” jaemin spoke with such ease, his voice filling your ears with warmth. he pulled you closer to him when he saw you shiver,

“care to share?” you slightly joked. jaemin never got too deep with you, so you assumed he would brush the comment off. but he just stares back at you, his eyes piercing into your own. you held your breath as he leaned in closer to you.

“sure thing” he slowly leads you back to the car, turning on the heater as you both wrapped yourselves in sleeping bags. you were huddled up in the back seat, your head leaning on his shoulder as he played with his fingers.

“i never had an outlet for my imagination. my parents weren’t the most warm or loving people in the world. i barely remember anything from my childhood, except for the unpleasant memories. when i started hanging out with some of the older kids, they showed me the ropes of their crew. they taught me how to graffiti, how to carve things with a pocket knife, you know, basic seventh grade stuff” he let out a soft chuckle, but you didn’t laugh. instead you placed your hand over his, feeling the coldness shoot through your body.

“i-i don’t like showing how i feel. because i think it makes me weak, or pitiful. that’s a bad way of thinking, but i can’t help it. so i let out my frustrations here, by either spray painting or smashing random things. it’s nice to get it all out” he stops speaking, his posture suddenly stiffening. you lifted your head from his shoulder, forcing him to look over at you.

“i’m here to listen to you. you don’t have to result to destroying things in order to reveal your feelings. you can just talk to me next time, okay?” you assured him, tightening your grip on his hand. jaemin just nodded, his eyes faltering from yours. why were you so considerate towards him?

“wanna know why i punched yuna in the face?” you saw jaemin crack a smile, nodding frantically.

“she said some things about my family, how they only took me in because they felt sorry for me. see, i’m actually a foster kid, my real parents weren’t in the ‘right state of mind’ to take care of me. well, in the eyes of the law atleast” jaemin didn’t know how to respond, opting to pulling your head back into his shoulder.

“i know she was just trying to rile me up, my foster parents aren’t terrible. but hearing those words just struck a nerve. how can people be so judgmental?”

“that’s just life, love. everyone will always have their own opinions, but it’s up to you, on how to respond. or you can simply choose to ignore them, it’s always worked for me” jaemin started tracing small patterns on the back of your hand, feeling his eyes become drowsy.

“but i don’t want to always ignore my problems. i want to be able to face them, how else will i grow as a person?” you sighed,

“we grow each and every day, most of the time we don’t notice. you’re doing better than you think. sure, you’ll grow up soon enough, you’ll develop your own identity, but for now, enjoy the moment. don’t care too much about what others think, this is your life to lead” jaemin looked down at you, feeling a warm sensation reach his heart.

“for someone who doesn’t like speaking his mind, you sure give some great advice. promise we’ll be there for eachother?” you pull out your pinky finger from his grip, watching as he blinks for a few seconds. you sensed some hesitation, but blamed it on him being tired. eventually, jaemin linked his pink with yours, sealing it with a gentle press of his lips. you couldn’t hide how flustered you had gotten, burying your head in his chest as he started stroking your hair.

“thankyou for being with me tonight” he mumbled as he felt himself fall asleep,

“anytime”

sometimes jaemin would leave you hanging for days on end. at first you would get concerned, mainly for his own safety. you were never sure what he got up to in his spare time, and to be honest, you didn’t want to know. but after a certain amount of days, he would pop back into your life that nothing happened, as if no time had passed. today was one of those days. he was sitting on your bedroom floor, flicking through your history notes. you couldn’t pry your eyes away from him, he looked so peaceful.

“you’re so much smarter than me” he huffs, scratching his head as he closed your notebook.

“no way, i’m pretty average. you’re more street smart than i am” jaemin perks up at your words,

“i guess i am huh” he smirks to himself, making you slightly smile.

“i can help you study if you want, you need a pass, right?” you scooted over to him, sitting so that your shoulders brushed against eachother.

“well yes, technically. but passing doesn’t secure i’ll get into college. not that i can even go” he shrugs, eyes focused on his rings, beginning to fiddle with them.

“what do you mean?”

“i don’t have the grades, my parents barely have any money saved for my college fund. i don’t have a job, you see the issue here?” you sensed him stiffen up next to you, this topic clearly striking a nerve within him. you placed a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing it,

“you know college isn’t for everyone. i’m sure you will be able to live a good life” jaemin knew you were trying your best to cheer him up. but these were constant thoughts and struggles he had been dealing with for what seemed like a lifetime. he knew you would never fully understand, and he couldn’t be mad at you for that.

“y-yeah, i’ll be fine” he sighs, linking is fingers with yours. you worried about jaemin so much, it slowly began to take over your mind. you caught yourself thinking about him more often, how you wanted to be there for him during his dark times. but jaemin always shoved off the idea of getting too deep with his emotions. sure, he trusted you with most things, but there was always a thought in the back of his mind. you were way too good for him.

“what is this?” you smiled brightly at the boy standing across from you. he was leant up against your locker, gift bag in his hands, shoving it towards you.

“a token of my appreciation for our growing friendship” you chose to ignore the last word, your feelings towards jaemin still being undecided.

you slowly open the bag, your eyes landing on a small box. you furrowed your eyebrows, before opening it.

“t-this is beautiful, jaemin. how did you afford this?” you gasped, pulling out the shiny necklace from the delicate box. it was a silver chain, that sparkled under the light at just the right angle. there was a small pendent latched onto it, a butterfly.

“don’t worry about that, do you like it?” he grinned at you, taking in your ecstatic reaction,

“of course! i cant thank you enough!”

you pull him into a warm hug, arms tightening around his torso. jaemin chuckled softly, bringing his arms to wrap around your frame, slowly swaying you side to side.

“being there for me is enough, i promise”

The things I did

Just so I could call you mine

The things you did

Well, I hope I was your favorite crime

the following few days, jaemin went MIA again. you were beginning to become annoyed by his lack of communication. you wanted to believe he was gone for good reason, but something in your gut sensed something worse was happening. that’s when you decided to go to the abandoned building, remembering he often went there when he wanted to be alone. not having a car of your own caused many issues in your life. like right now, you were huffing and puffing once you hopped off your bicycle. you quickly set it aside, making your way to the building. before you turned to the main corridor that you met jaemin in many times before, you heard hushed voices, one belonging to the boy in question.

“we need this deal done asap. no excuses” a deep voice echoes through the building. you couldn’t get a good look at them without being caught, so you remained hidden behind a huge slab of concrete.

“b-but what if they think i’m scamming them because i’m new?” jaemin squeaked. you had never heard him so worried before.

“well you better think of some way to get them to buy, we can’t risk anymore losses. take this as initiation into the big boys club” what the hell was going on?

soon enough, the small group of men had left the building, walking past the concrete slab you were hiding behind. you let out a sigh of relief before rushing to jaemin. his eyes widened at the sight of you, part of him wanting to yell at you for being so stupid.

“what are you doing here?!” he was mad.

“i could ask you the same thing” you scoffed. jaemin suddenly became quiet, eyes avoiding yours.

“what’s going on? and i want the truth. the whole truth” he just sighed, dragging you back to his car. you folded your arms, in disbelief from what you had heard prior.

“i-i’m helping them with some deals okay? it’s just a side hustle to get some cash, i want to get out of this town. this is the only way”

“what are you dealing? drugs?” you gasped, watching as jaemin snapped his neck to face you.

“yes, it’s not as bad as you think-“

“not as bad? they’re literally part of a gang. do you know what happens to people who don’t seal these deals?” you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“i know the risks. but i’m desperate. i just need enough to buy an apartment in another city and finally start my life” jaemin doesn’t know why he’s bothering trying to explain this to you. he brushed his fingers through his hair roughly, letting out a groan as he did so.

“when i said there are ways for you to live a good life, i didn’t mean deal drugs. i meant get an apprenticeship or something! literally anything but this”

“there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. i already swore i’d do this deal. i need the money. you wouldn’t understand” jaemin struck back, feeling attacked by your words.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean? i-i can’t do this. come back to me when you’ve come to your senses. this is stupid and you know it” you rush out of his car, causing jaemin to trail behind you as you stumbled to find your bike.

“come with me” you stopped in your tracks.

“pardon?”

“come with me to the deal. i-i don’t want to go alone” he says barely above a whisper,

“you’re crazy if you think i’ll follow you like a lost pup-“ jaemin pressed his lips on yours, hands stuck to your waist, gently rubbing your sides as he deepened the kiss. your words became jumbled as he continued to kiss you. as much as you wanted to argue back with him, feeling his lips on yours was only something you had experienced in your dreams.

“please” he whispered, pulling away from you momentarily.

“o-okay” you whispered back, hands now on his shoulders. jaemin smirked with pride before pulling you in once again. he led you back to his car, dragging you into the backseat. he began trailing kisses down your neck, erupting a pleased sigh from you. and just like that, you were wrapped around his silly little finger.

you were now seated in the passenger seat of jaemin’s busted ass car. your nerves were off the charts, and so were his. you had never seen him so anxious before, he was breathing in quick successions and couldn’t stop shaking.

“just get it over and done with...okay? get in and get out” you try your best to ease his nerves but how much could you really say? you were encouraging him to commit to a drug deal, this was not how you expected your friday night to go.

jaemin just nodded, clutching onto something in his jacket pocket. he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, gently stroking your hair as he did so.

“thankyou for coming with me” he mumbled. you just nodded, trying to ignore your intense gut feeling that something was going to go wrong. he led you by your waist into the noisy bar. you kept your head down, allowing jaemin to gain sight of the clients. he didn’t let you approach the group of men, so you tried to distract yourself with a random fruity cocktail from the bar. it wasn’t enough to push aside your worries.

after what seemed like hours, you caught sight of jaemin, who seemed like he was in a rush. he quickly scooped you away from your seat, swiftly leading you out of the bar. before you could even open your mouth, he interjects,

“no time for questions, get in the car now” he harshly shoved you into the passenger seat. now you were more worried than before.

“what the fuck is going on?!” jaemin didn’t answer you, starting the engine of the car. before you could press him any further, the same group of men rushed out of the bar, eyes scanning for the boy next to you. this wasn’t good.

“may or may not have given them the wrong amount...nothing a little hide and seek can’t fix!” jaemin tried to laugh it off, but you knew he was equally as scared. his dingy car wouldn’t start, adding to the panic in the atmosphere. the group of men were already in their own vehicle, approaching jaemin’s car rather quickly.

“fuck fuck fuck” he began shouting, slamming his foot on the accelerator as the car hurled forward. in a matter of time, he was speeding down the street. he probably ran a couple red lights and a few stop signs, but he wasn’t fazed. you on the other hand, were about to throw up. jaemin kept taking sharp turns to throw off the car chasing you, he barely looked back. you were terrified in this moment. anything could go wrong, one wrong turn, and it could all be over. soon enough, he stopped right outside the all too familiar abandoned building. he was out of breath, the adrenaline still present in his system. you were completely frozen, still in shock at what had occurred.

“wasn’t that riveting?” he smirked. he fucking smirked?

“are you kidding me? that was fucking insane. d-don’t do this again. i don’t want any part of this anymore” you began tearing up, feeling your heart pump out of your chest. jaemin’s face dropped as he tried to hold your hand, in which you pulled away immediately.

“t-take me home. please.” he didn’t say anything back to you. he respected your wishes and took you home safely. you didn’t even want to think about the punishment he would receive from the gang for messing up the deal. the only thought of your mind was your own safety. jaemin risked your safety this time around. you would have done anything for him, but in this moment, you were beginning to regret it. na jaemin was trouble. and you needed to stay away from trouble.

staying away from na jaemin was harder than you thought. subtle glances from across the classroom or school courtyard wasn’t doing you any good. so you sought refuge in the library. somehow he managed to find you there too.

“y/n, please, talk to me” you continued to read the novel you weren’t interested in, trying your best to remain angry. he sat across from you, pulling down the book from your face, eyes begging to meet yours.

“there’s nothing left to say” he just sighs, never seeing you be so stubborn.

“i know what i did was wrong, i shouldn’t have put you in that posit-“

“can we please not discuss this here? where anyone can hear us?” you quickly interrupt him, pulling him to the school parking lot. out of habit, jaemin led you to his car, opening the passenger side door for you. you got chills as you sat in the seat once again, the memories flooding back.

“i-i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have brought you into it. i just didn’t want to be alone...you’re the only person who doesn’t make me feel alone.” jaemin could barely look at you, too embarrassed of being vulnerable.

“you know how i’m against what you’re doing. and i know i can’t change your mind. i just can’t keep worrying about your safety. it hurts me knowing that you could get hurt one day” you began sniffling, which made jaemin’s heart ache. he pulled your face to meet his own, staring at your soft features. he slowly guided his fingers to wipe away your tears.

“don’t worry too much about me, love. i’ll be just fine” he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, and just like that, you were dragged right back into his arms.

“be careful” you whispered against his lips,

“always”

You used me as an alibi

I crossed my heart as you crossed the line

And I defended you to all my friends

jaemin wasn’t careful. not in the slightest. he showed up at your window, hands clutching to his lower torso area as he stumbled into your room. you hushed him to be as quiet as he could but you immediately knew something was wrong. he practically fell to his knees, soft whimpers and sighs leaving his mouth. you quickly moved to turn on your lights, taking a better look at the boy in pain. your eyes travelled along his face, covered in scratches and bruises.

“you good with playing medic tonight?” he joked, trying to relieve the tension. but you were not having any of it. you pulled him into your bed, allowing him to lay on his back. he had an array of cuts over his body, including a large gash on his lower lip. you swiftly rushed to the bathroom, grabbing your not so impressive first aid kit, but it would have to do for now. you tried your best to disinfect what you cold, until you reached his torso. you saw there were specks of blood leaking onto his t shirt, which made you more worried than you were initially. jaemin just sighed, lifting up his shirt slowly. your eyes were glued on the painful wound plastered on the right side of his body.

“d-did someone stab you?!” you felt tears prickle the side of your eyes. how could he be so stupid?

“n-no, its just a cut, it’s not even that deep” he tried to play it off, but the moment you pressed the cleansing wipe onto the wound, he winced.

“stop playing the tough guy. i hate when you play tough guy” you groan, trying your best to tend to his wound. jaemin watched as your expression changed from one of concern, to annoyance.

“hey, don’t be mad at me, okay?” he brought his hand to hover over your thigh, gently stroking his fingers on the surface.

“i’m sorry” he whispered, trying his best to sit up, but you immediately pushed him back down. you moved to lay next to him, allowing yourself to finally look him in the eyes.

“i can’t always be here to take care of you like this, jaemin. as much as i want to, there are going to be times where i just can’t. you have to understand that”

“of course, i didn’t expect you to be my personal nurse or anything. i just don’t want you to leave” his words sank deeply into your thoughts.

“i-i won’t leave”

“thankyou. i promise i will take you out and we will have fun. like old times. we can go on a road trip, or even that stupid homecoming dance you keep talking about. i’ll do anything to make it up to you because i ca-“ he immediately stopped himself, clutching his side.

“just get some rest, we can continue this discussion another day. goodnight jaem” you just sighed, turning on your back to face him. jaemin didn’t know why he couldn’t finish his sentence. he does care about you. more than anyone else in the world. but why couldn’t he just say it?

you on the other hand, were too busy imagining your future with jaemin. would he be there as your partner in crime for life? or was he just someone passing by to teach you a lesson? you weren’t too sure you wanted to find out.

“y/n, principal lee wants to see you in his office” your economics teacher informed you during class, eyes of classmates following you as you left the room. you swore you hadn’t done anything remotely mischievous lately, besides snatching a cheat sheet for the upcoming final.

“ah yes y/n, please take a seat” principal lee invited you into his office. you tried your best to stay focused on the stubby man in front of you but you couldn’t ignore the two police officers standing to the side.

“you wanted to see me, sir?”

“yes, these officers are here to ask you some questions. don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble. they just need some information for their investigation” he explains as best he could, shifting the conversation over to the two officers.

“as principal lee mentioned, we just need information. are you comfortable with us asking you a few questions?” you slowly nodded, hands beginning to clam up.

“we have reason to believe your friend, na jaemin, has been involved in an incident that occurred last thursday. he claims he was present with you that night. can you confirm this?” you immediately froze. you swore you didn’t even blink. that was the night he came to your window, all banged up a bruised. but you couldn’t tell them that part. so you went with a variation of the truth,

“yes, he was with me, we often study together and watch movies on thursdays.” you tried your best to maintain eye contact, not wanting to draw any more attention.

“have you noticed anything odd in his behaviour lately?” you knew they were just following protocol, but you weren’t prepared for any of this.

“not really. he is quite reserved naturally, but there hasn’t been anything too alarming, in my opinion” the officers just nodded, scribbling down your words.

“thankyou for your time, if we were to need any more statements from you, would you be okay with that?” you simply nodded, wanting nothing more than to get back to class.

“great, we’ll be heading off now, thankyou principal lee, and y/n” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. what in god’s name happened that night?

“why were the cops coming out of the office? did you do something?” your friend, jimin asked you as she rushed to your side.

“n-no, they were asking about jaemin” you sighed. you didn’t want to tell her much, knowing she wasn’t his biggest fan.

“y/n, you have to stop hanging out with him so much. he’s bad news. i mean, he’s got the cops questioning you? is that someone you really want to be with?” you knew she had your best interest at heart, but she didn’t know jaemin like you did. no one did.

“don’t talk about him like he’s some pest in my life. he makes me happy, okay? i’d do pretty much anything for him” you huff, beginning to walk away.

“but would he do anything for you?” her words made you stop in your tracks. she was right to question that. god, even you questioned it sometimes. would he?

And now every time a siren sounds

I wondеr if you're around

'Cause you know that I'd do it all again

jaemin insisted he take you to the homecoming dance — he even pinky promised you.

“jaemin! i’m so excited for tonight, what time are you coming by?” you excitedly squeal into the phone, making jaemin slightly chuckle.

“uh love, i-i don’t think i can make it tonight” you felt your heart drop.

“what? why?”

“i have some business to take care of. i promise you i’ll take you out soo-“

“i think you should stop making promises you can’t keep. hope you have fun doing whatever you’re doing” you immediately hung up, wiping the stray tears from your face. you quickly pulled yourself together. showing up alone to the homecoming dance after you told your friends you were going with jaemin, was probably one of the most embarrassing things you had ever experienced. they all felt pity for you, dragging you to dance, trying to get you to forget about jaemin. but nothing was working. you were beyond disappointed, partially in yourself, for believing he could actually keep his promise.

the moment you got home, you saw someone sitting on the steps just outside your front door. you let out a loud sigh, hoping he heard everything. you wanted to push right past him and go to bed, but jaemin trapped you in his arms. you felt something was off about him. he was stiff as a board, he didn’t say anything to you. you finally got a glimpse of his face, his right eye was swollen and there was a slight gash on his cheek. you immediately gasped, all your anger towards him had fizzled away.

“w-what happened?” you barely whispered, bringing your hand to the side of his face. jaemin winced as he felt the touch, quickly pulling away.

“finally got what was coming” he tried to laugh it off, but he knew you weren’t going to laugh back. instead, you allowed him to follow you to your room, hoping your parents were fast sleep.

jaemin slowly made his way to sit on your bed. you felt like he had something else he was hiding from you, but your main focus was yet again, tending to his wounds.

“i’m getting some real déjà vu right now” you sighed, cleaning his face. jaemin tried his best to not move, but everything stung. he really got it bad this time.

“i’m sorry for breaking my promise. i know how much the dance meant to you” he softly muttered, eyes avoiding yours.

“i-it’s okay”

“no it’s not! you do so much for me, and i couldn’t even do this one thing for you. i feel so shitty. why do you even keep me around? i’m deadweight and that’s trouble for someone with wings” he scoffs, replaying harsh words he had heard from others in the past. you slowly plucked away the medical kit, turning to face him properly. (a/n: not me using a quote from the show ‘panic’)

“you’re not deadweight...you’re a good person, jaem. you’re good to me, that’s what matters” you gently push away the stray strands of hair that covered his forehead. he smiled at your touch, leaning into your palm as you brought it to cup his cheek.

“i love you”

you almost choked on your own saliva...he loves you?

“w-what?”

“yikes, not the response i was hoping for” he yet again, tried to relieve the tension with a joke. but you weren’t having any of it.

“can you be serious for one minute in your life? you can’t just say something like that and not expect me to freak out! i mean, do i love you too? of course i do! i would be stupid not to, but jaemin, you cant just spit that out of nowhere!” you began pacing around your room, which made jaemin smile even wider.

“well i just did. and i mean it” he stood to meet you, standing in the middle of your room as he held your shoulders in place.

“s-so what happens now?” jaemin hesitated for a moment, did he just ruin everything?

“we can’t be together”

“pardon?”

“i-i can’t do that to you. i can’t let you be with someone like me. i’m constant danger. the cops are going to get me one day, and i don’t want you to see it happen” he started rambling, you were barely understanding anything.

“this makes no sense. you’re telling me that you love me but you can’t be with me? why would you do this to me?” you started sobbing,

“i-i don’t expect you to understand. i just needed to tell you before...” he paused, pulling you closer to him. but you pushed yourself away. you didn’t want to hear anymore but forced yourself to listen. you needed answers.

“before what?” you gritted through your teeth,

“before i leave” your eyes widened, tears stopped flowing for a moment. you couldn’t make out any words, allowing jaemin to explain,

“i cant stay here, not in this town. i need to go somewhere else. somewhere they won’t find me. somewhere i can start over” he sighed, sitting back down on your bed.

“take me with you! we can go tonight, i don’t care where i am, as long as you’re with me i’ll be okay!” you begged, pulling out your duffel bag from under your bed. but jaemin quickly gripped your wrists, pulling you to sit with him on the bed.

“y-you can’t come with me. it’s not fair on you, or me. i want you to have a better life, a life with no regrets. you have so many goals, i can’t hold you back from them. i won’t” he insisted, holding your hands in his as he pleaded you with his eyes. you weren’t thinking straight, everything became so overwhelming.

“why are you doing this to me? i cant do this without you! i cant get through all of this without you. please don’t leave” your hands began to shake. jaemin brought them to his lips, placing soft pecks on each knuckle in an attempt to calm you down.

“you can. i know you can. because you’re you. an incredibly loyal, intelligent and courageous person. you don’t need me. if anything, i need you more” he smirked at the last part. you kept shaking your head, not believing anything he was saying.

“just promise me one thing?” he whispered, leaning in closer to you so that your foreheads touched.

“don’t forget me. don’t forget all the things we got up to. i had so much fun with you, more fun than i’ve had in my entire life. i can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. i love you, okay? i’ll always love you” finally, he kissed you. his hands dragged to your waist, rubbing over the soft skin. you shined into the kiss, partially still upset with his departure.

“can we just have one last night together?” you pulled away, wiping away the rest of your tears. jaemin softly nodded, pulling you down onto the bed, wrapping his arms around you.

“thankyou for being my partner in crime. i’ll miss you” he sighed, gently scribbling random doodles on your arm with his fingers.

“i miss you already. maybe one day, we’ll meet again? i don’t know, am i being silly?” you didn’t want him to answer, afraid he’d break another promise.

“you’re not silly at all. we’ll see what life has planned for us” he responded. that was enough for you. you’ll leave it up to fate. you were just happy you were spending one last night with the boy you loved so dearly.

It's bittersweet to think about the damage that we'd do

'Cause I was goin' down, but I was doin' it with you

Yeah, everything we broke and all the trouble that we made

But I say that I hate you with a smile on my face

Oh, look what we became

you awoke the very next morning in an empty bed. your heart sunk, knowing jaemin was gone had finally hit you. your eyes drifted to where he once was, landing on a piece of paper.

‘go to the building for one last goodbye. i hope you like it.

- jaem <3 ‘

you quickly got changed and rushed there as fast as you could. would he be there to bid you farewell? you weren’t betting on it, but was still curious as to what he had to show you. you made your way into the building, your eyes cascading over all the graffiti. finally, you saw exactly what he left for you. he painted over the mural you both worked on. it had been replaced with a painting of a butterfly. its wings were all different colours, you could tell he spent ages on it. you finally reached the bottom of the artwork, a small inscription was engraved,

‘for the one with the wings, keep on soaring’

“so cheesy, i hate it” you joke to yourself, smiling at his words. this was his final gift for you. as you admired the painting once again, memories of all your little adventures came rushing back. everything you did together seemed like an eternity ago. although you wished you had confessed to him sooner, or kissed him harder, you knew that he was gone for good. jaemin wasn’t the time to keep many promises, so you’ve learnt. you started to put your faith in the universe. if you were meant to be, then you would meet again. but for now, you were content with everything you had gone through together. you were grateful to have known someone as amazing as jaemin, and you would never take that for granted. you only hoped he would do the same, no matter where you both were in life. you hoped you could both grow wings and soar through life without any regrets.

#na jaemin #na jaemin imagine #jaemin imagine #jaemin fic #nct dream imagine #nct dream fic #nct fic #nct jaemin imagine #nct series #nct au #nct jaemin au #jaemin fluff #jaemin angst #nct dream fluff #jisungsmochi masterlist #jisungsmochiimagines

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sergiovinazzi · 3 years ago

Text

Stolen - Lando Norris x Reader (Chapter Two)

2.9k words, rated E for everyone :)

Lando’s voice, amplified by the TV speakers, echoes around the humming Red Bull garage. “I’m fine but I’ve been better. I can say that I’m not in perfect condition, I’m not gonna lie. Some work to do mentally of course. I talk about that a lot, and mental health and mental strength is very important. I’ve not been sleeping that great and so on… not ideal and I’m feeling a bit sore, but I’m not the guy in the worst position after Wembley. I’ll work on it, I’ll make sure I’m in the best shape possible, and I feel like I can still go out and focus on what I need to do, and that’s the main thing.”

Your mind races as you listen to the boy plastered across the many screens revisit his experience at Wembley. He sounds awful; something about his cadence making it even more obvious that he is really, truly shaken up. The wavering pitch, awkward pausing, fumbling for words; everything about the way he presents himself is serving as a brutal reminder that being physically unscathed is no indicator that harm was not dealt. Even as the interview moves past the topic of last week’s Euro Final, you notice the shift in demeanor and your heart aches. You worry that bringing the watch to him is a bad idea, that it could prompt unbidden memories and disquieting feelings. You understand how big of an event Silverstone is from your dad’s tangents alone, especially for an English team with an English driver, so you reevaluate whether your decision to come was selfish, one made solely to alleviate your own sentiments of guilt rather than to verily right your believed wrongdoings.

On the journey to Silverstone, your dad had made multiple attempts at lessening your stress, even opting for variations of the if he steps out of line I will put him right back in his place father speech. Unfortunately fruitless, your father’s attempts mean you remain just as anxious as when you had first discovered that you managed to obtain a stolen wristwatch.

You’re not sure whether it’s the crisp morning air or your nerves that sends chills across your flesh, but your attempt to ground yourself subtly doesn’t go unnoticed by your dad as he passes you in the garage.

“Time is ticking,” he informs you, a smirk playing on his lips. “No pun intended.”

You roll your eyes in an attempt to downplay your apprehension, but your voice gives away any and all signs of the false confidence you hope to portray. “Can you do it for me?” you plead.

“I can’t just stroll on over to the McLaren garage without an invitation or proper reason, especially not a couple hours before free practice starts. It doesn’t look good.”

“It’s not like me walking in there instead would look any better,” you retort, gesturing to the Red Bull logo plastered across the chest of your black polo. “Your branding isn’t what I would call subtle.”

“Look, the McLaren team are a good sort. They’ll help you out if you just explain the issue and show them the watch. I’m sure Lando will understand too, he seems like a pretty nice bloke,” your dad reassures you.

Sighing, your eyes meet the floor, fingers intertwined with each other as you fidget incessantly. Before you can speak up in further defiance, however, an additional set of footsteps grow nearer and you freeze at the voice which speaks up.

“Christian, how much longer until our media slot?”

You lose your breath momentarily, locking your gaze onto your shoes as you wait for the person to pass by.

“About five minutes, Max,” your dad replies. “We were just about to head over.”

When you hear the footsteps grow fainter, you risk looking up, thankfully being met with only the observance of your father. You don’t even realize that you’ve tensed your body until your dad points it out.

“Relax,” he says. “He’s not going to say anything here, especially not on a race weekend.”

Nodding, you feel your shoulders ease up but you remain quiet.

“Anyways, like I said, our media briefing and interviews start soon and we’re after McLaren this weekend so they should already be back in their garage,” he says, realizing that you still appear troubled by the task ahead of you. “I promise you, everything will be fine. Just go over there and I’ll meet you back here when we’re done. The quicker you head over, the quicker you’re done with it and we can all move on." With that, your dad walks away and you reluctantly leave the Red Bull garage, adjusting your shirt as you straighten up.

You take a brief glance at your phone, turning it off after you try one last time to keep the picture of the boy imprinted in your mind. Eyes darting rapidly, you attempt to scan the paddock for anyone looking remotely like him while you make your way towards the bright orange and blue indicators of the McLaren garage.

The frequency of orange-clad individuals grows the further you stray from the safety of Red Bull’s garage, and you feel your heartbeat begin to increase. Worried that someone would stop you before you could approach the one person you had traveled all the way to Silverstone for in the first place, you quicken your pace.

You’re mere meters away when you spot him. Pushing past a few people while trying to keep your eyes trained on him, you watch as he turns around to talk briefly with the woman next to him.

Huffing, you muster up the little confidence you have and tap him on the shoulder.

His confusion is evident and the blonde woman next to him does not look pleased to have been interrupted. The silence is palpable as they stare at you, expecting an explanation for the abrupt ending of their conversation.

“Hi,” is all you can deliver. You’re at a loss for words while the woman next to him seems to lose what little patience she has with you. Everything you had rehearsed beforehand, gone. Your mind is foggy and your mouth feels dry as you try to compose yourself. “Um, can I talk to you for a second? It won’t be long, I promise.” Your voice breaks at the end and you wish you had never agreed to get on that stupid red-eye to Silverstone in the first place.

Lando offers a look of sympathy and then turns to the woman next to him. “Charlotte, could you just give us a second?”

Pursing her lips and turning on her heel, the woman walks away, heading towards the mouth of the McLaren garage. She’s far enough away that you’re out of earshot, but close enough that you feel her gaze linger as Lando turns back to face you.

“Hey, don’t worry,” he tells you with a smile. “We can take a picture if you want or I can sign some stuff for you.”

“What? No.” You shake your head, mentally slapping your palm against your forehead and forcing yourself to get a grip. Idiot. “Fuck, sorry, that sounded so rude! It’s just-” you rush to explain.

“Oh no, it’s okay!” he stammers. “I should’ve guessed from the Red Bull shirt anway.”

You both share an awkward laugh before you compose yourself and reach a shaky hand into your bag.

“This is going to sound so weird, but I was online shopping for a new watch the other day because I lost mine, and I’m pretty sure I bought the one that was stolen from you. I didn’t know anything about it, I swear. I just...well, here,” you say, offering the watch and its temporary box to Lando.

He looks at you, taking the box only to go wide-eyed at the contents inside.

“I have all the information that I was able to get, but the ad was taken off of eBay and I really wanted to do the right thing and give it back to you. Please don’t be mad.”

“What the hell?!” he exclaims, earning a few looks from people passing by and catching Charlotte’s attention once more. “Sorry, sorry. How did you get this?”

Amused, you laugh quietly while he studies the watch intently. “That was my dad’s reaction too. Basically there was a listing for it on eBay and it was sort of an impulse buy,” you explain. “I didn’t see the news coverage of what happened until afterwards and I felt awful. I’m really sorry you had to go through that, I genuinely had no idea.”

Shrugging, he plays it off. “Nothing I can’t handle.” It’s hard to miss his sudden change in attitude from the interview you watched moments ago and you can’t help but wonder whether he has your or the watch’s presence to thank.

There is a brief moment of silence between you both before he continues. “How much did you pay for it?”

“It was so cheap, honestly,” you say. “Nothing compared to the original price, I’m sure.”

Charlotte, alerted by Lando’s attention-grabbing reaction to being reunited by his watch, returns to where the two of you are standing. “Oh wow, did you find a replacement watch for him?” she asks you, clearly impressed by the apparent likeness.

“No, Charlotte”, he corrects her. “It’s my one. Look.” He hands the watch to his PR manager, who receives it so gently you think she’s afraid it might shatter in her hands. Flipping the watch between her fingers, she studies the small engraving on the underside of the face.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

Lando nods. “It’s the exact date it was given to me, there’s no way anyone else could know that and make a copy of it.”

You feel the need to justify yourself to her. “It was listed online and I bought it before I knew anything about the situation. I didn’t even really know who Lando was until I saw what happened on the news, I swear.” You anticipate her anger or disapproval, preparing yourself to withstand the lecture you’re about to receive and mentally promising that, as soon as it’s over, you can run back to your dad and tell him you just want to go home.

But it doesn’t come.

“I can’t believe it!” she exclaims. “We all thought we’d never see it again and you found it on accident.” The smile she gives you sets your mind at ease. “Technically, this is a police matter now, so I’ll have to hand it over to the right people, but this helps us tremendously. Did you get any information about the seller?”

You explain the situation to her, about how the listing was taken offline but you have a printout of the messages and address the seller gave you, which you hand her from your bag. She lets you know that someone may get in touch soon to ask questions but not to worry, that it’s only a formality. Eventually, she asks if you’d like to watch free practice from a spot in the mobile hospitality unit, but you politely decline, explaining that you needed to get back to your dad in the Red Bull garage instead.

Charlotte smiles fondly at Lando and presses the brim of his cap down over his eyes. “Come on, you, we have to go and get ready now anyway.”

He takes off his hat, cheeks flushing as he makes an effort to quickly brush the curls lining his forehead, placing it back on and dismissing Charlotte with a wave of his hand. “Okay, just give me a minute.”

Once the two of you are alone, he pulls out his phone. “Do you have Venmo? I’ll pay you back, it’s not fair that you had to waste your money.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

Lando seems unconvinced. “It’s really not a problem.”

“Seriously, it’s all good.”

“Well,” he continues awkwardly. “I have to go, but are you here for the whole weekend or...?”

You shake your head. “Just today. I’m not into Formula 1, I find it a little bit boring.”

“Seriously?! The fastest cars in the world and you’re calling it boring? Why even come to something like Silverstone if it’s so boring?” he feigns offense, doing air quotes as he imitates your apparent disdain for the sport.

Laughing quietly, you shrug. “I have family at Red Bull, so it was basically just luck and convenience that you were in the U.K. this weekend,” you clarify. “I don’t really understand Formula 1, that’s all.”

“Fair enough, it’s not for everyone I suppose,” Lando replies. “So who in your family works at Red–” The end of his question is drowned out by the sound of his name called by an evidently disgruntled, impatient engineer.

He sighs. “I’m sorry, I’ve really gotta go, but, um,” he exhales with a nervous laugh. “I still feel like I need to repay you in some way. Do you want to go get a drink after the race on Sunday? I’m busy for the next few days but Sunday night I’ll be free. Only if you want to, of course, I don’t want to, like, pressure you or anything.”

You laugh, appreciative that the nervousness was shared. “That– Yeah, that sounds fine. I’ll give you my number.”

He types your details into his phone before apologizing once more, thanking you again, and rushing off into the garage.

——

On Sunday, you let your dad believe he’s the one who convinced you to stay for the entire race weekend, but it’s the promise of Lando’s company later that night and the endearing text messages on your phone that prompts the desire to see this weekend through. You had spent the previous nights on your phone, going through driver and team Instagram accounts, as well as the F1 website, to get an idea of what to expect. Typically, it would pain you to look through motorsport news pages, especially with so many of the reports centering around Max and his vie for the championship as of late, but you manage.

You notice almost immediately while settling into your spot at the back of the garage that the energy does not match your own. You are enthusiastic and eager, while the rest of the team is stressed and rushes around you. Presumably, it’s because race day impacts their livelihoods and paycheks whereas it only dictates your family’s dinner topics, but, nevertheless, your excitement refuses to simmer.

Unfortunately, if it was weird for you to be seen at the McLaren garage before the first free practice, it would be infinitely more suspicious for you to be lingering around on race day, so you were not able to catch Lando at all since your initial meeting on Friday. However, you made sure to message him good luck beforehand, to which he thanked you and expressed excitement for your upcoming night.

“If you need anything, just ask. I’ll be on the pitwall,” your dad says, snapping you out of your whirring mind. He notices your obscure behavior, quick to comment on it. “Is it weird? Being here after so long?”

You nod, shrugging. “Unusual, for sure. So much has changed since the last time I came and watched, but I’m excited, though.”

“Well, it’s always good to have you here.”

Reciprocating your dad’s grin, you silently send him on his way. He exits quickly and leaves you to your own devices. Though, your own devices look to consist of impatiently waiting for the race to start and scrolling absentmindedly through your phone. Ironically, your boredom with pre-race antics appears to create quite the dichotomy against the chaos exuding from the garage you find yourself encompassed in.

Regardless, your attention is regained when frequent cuts are made to the drivers in their cars, and you recognise that the race will be starting soon. You are temporarily startled when the cars begin moving without hearing an official announcement, but quickly realisee that it is merely a formation lap and no one else around you seems to be paying all too much mind to it.

When the cars return to their positions on the grid, you watch eagerly as the lights flash and the announcers begin yelling. You keep your eyes trained on the orange car towards the front of the grid, watching Lando so intently that you almost miss what happens to the cars in front of him.

Your eyes go wide as you watch the events unfold: the Red Bull car out front collides with what you identify as a Mercedes, spinning and slamming into the barrier. Gasps chorus across the garage as the screens replay slowed clips of the crash as an announcement states that the safety car has been deployed. They replay it from every conceivable angle, your astonishment at the severity is present upon your first viewing, but it’s only after the sixth clip that it clicks in your head that the person in the car is Max.

“For the second time this season, Hamilton and Verstappen clash and tangle on the opening lap, but, this time, it is ending in dramatic consequences for the championship leader.”

If you had perceived the pre-race behavior in the garage as chaotic, this was a whole new level of absurdity.

People rush around you while orders are shouted and frustrations are verbalised.

Your dad is angry.

The last time you recall him behaving like this was when your younger sister had broken the wine glasses he had bought for your mother on their honeymoon. You, however, ignore his yelling and remain encapsulated by the TV, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding as the events unfolding finally, finally register in your brain.

Car number 33 is in the wall and out of the race, and your ex-boyfriend is inside, silent and unmoving.

____________

tag list @lovebynorth @its-astrotea-love

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years ago

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Title: Learned Helplessness.

Commissioned by the very lovely, very patient @99shadowcat99.

Pairing: Yandere!Hawks/Reader (BNHA).

Word Count: 1.6k.

TW: Mindbreak, Slight Stockholm Syndrome, Themes of Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Slight Gaslighting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and Implied Kidnapping.

Sometimes, Keigo had to wonder if there was ever a point where you hadn’t been afraid of him.

It’d always been there, even if Keigo liked to remember your anxious smiles and stuttered greetings in a kinder light. It made sense, in the moment, the way you kept your eyes on the floor when you first approached him, struggling to introduce yourself as you fumbled with the disposable cup in your hands, caught between the urge to leave an off-shift hero alone and the temptation get your favorite idol’s autograph before he could slip out of the small, back-alley bar you found him in. You’d been nervous, obviously, hesitant to admit you were just as eager as he was when he asked for your number, when he called you for the first time – hell, it took him months just to get you to spend the night in his apartment. You were shy. He liked that about you. You’d always been so timid.

The fear, the genuine fear, started later on. He remembered it, the weeks you spent holing yourself up in the smallest corner you could find, how many times he tried to lure you out and how many times he was met screaming and thrashing and struggling, but you’d always been scared, slow to adjust, reluctant to sit still and listen when he asked you so nicely to try. You wanted to be loved, but you didn’t know how to let your guard down. You wanted him, but…

But, he was making excuses. You were never shy. You’d never really been scared. Even when things went bad, he doubted you were ever really afraid of him.

You were afraid now, though, and if he’d been a better man, he might’ve been able to admit he was the reason why.

Your hands were shaking. Violently, visibly, despite your attempts to keep them folded behind your back, to keep the evidence of your paranoia out of sight and out of mind. It was enough to give you away, though, and if it hadn’t been, your posture would’ve done it, too stiff and too rigid to be comfortable, or your bowed head, or the smile you couldn’t seem to force onto your grim expression as he let himself into the kitchen, stopping to lean in the doorway. Already, it felt like an invasion, despite the fact that he’d taken you to his villa, on his property, far away from anyone or anything you’d interact with willingly. He was home too soon, and this wasn’t his territory, anymore. He wasn’t your caretaker, anymore. He’d lost the right to think of himself as such a benevolent figure.

But, he tried. You had to give him that. Out of the two of you, he was the only one trying to make this work. “No need to be shy,” He started, keeping his tone as neutral as he could. You didn’t react well when he raised his voice, and when he tried to be more gentle, to soften himself into something delicate and unimposing, you never bought the act. He couldn’t blame you. If he didn’t know how sweet you could be, how playful and how loving, he wouldn’t know to be dissatisfied with the frightened thing you currently were. “I don’t bite, (Y/n), you know that. You can calm down.”

He wanted you to correct him. He wanted you to grit your teeth, to cross your arms, to get angry. You only nodded, narrowing your eyes at the tiling. “You… you’re early.” Your voice was quiet, barely above a mumble, but it was still an improvement. Not long ago, you’d refused to talk to him at all, and when he could choke a few words out of you, he’d have to deal with the breakdown that came afterward, the pleads for mercy forced out between hitched sobs. This was better. He could tell himself that this was better, even if it was less, too. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been there to greet you. I would’ve, if I thought you were going to—”

You were rambling, again. Keigo didn’t have a problem with that, not by itself, not when so many memories he had of your absent-minded tangents were still tinted with that sparkling, rose-colored haze, but he didn’t care for this, panicked muttering only made more painful by the way you shifted your weight, managing to hold your tense smile, this time. Did he ask you to do that? Smile when he was around? Play house and pretend you were happy when your captor chose to pay attention to you? It seemed like something he would do, back when he still thought that wearing you down was the solution. Fuck, it seemed like something he would do now, if he didn’t already know how painful it was to watch you try.

“It’s alright,” He cut you off, taking half a step forward. Instantly, reflexively, you flinched back, that slight shudder suddenly more pronounced. It wasn’t just your hands, now, your shoulders were shaking too, your jaw locking into place as you leaned into the sharp edge of the countertop. “Sweetheart,” He tried, moving forward before realizing his mistake and freezing, cursing under his breath. Predictably, none of it did anything to soothe you. “Baby, I just wanted to see you, that’s all. I got off early, and I figured we could—”

A stifled gasp interrupted him, just the hint of a sob. A month ago, he would’ve taken it as a sign of disobedience, another bad habit you had to be trained out of. Now, it was all he could do to stop himself from wishing you would cry, kick and bite and scratch at him until you’re too exhausted to care that he'd be the one comforting you. At least that way, he’d get to touch you. At least that way, you’d be something, other than afraid.

“Please, I just—I haven’t done anything!” Because you’ve been good. Because so much as being near him was a punishment. Because he wanted you to love him and now, he was paying the price for hoping he could ever do something so shamelessly heroic. “I can’t— please, don’t come any closer, I don’t know if I can—”

He wanted to hold you. That was all he could think about. He just wanted to hold you, the actual you. Not whatever shell he’d gotten used to living with. “Stop talking.”

You clenched your eyes shut, then you opened them again. Like a child, trying to blink away the remnants of a nightmare after just waking up. “I’m so—”

“Stop talking.” In his defense, he didn’t yell, he knew how much you hated it. He did yell, he didn’t throw a tantrum, not like you would’ve, not like you were about to by the time he stepped forward, crossing whatever ridiculous boundary you were so convinced he had to respect. You moved to shrink into yourself, but he grabbed you before you could collapse, catching you by the bicep and latching onto your hip, refusing to let you fall and make him seem like the bad guy. You already had your fun. You’d already gotten away with enough. You had to know he would put his foot down eventually, and you didn’t have the right to seem so shocked, when he finally did. “Just stop talking. Shut up. Don’t say a goddamn word until I tell you to, fucking brat.”

Now, now, you were crying, tears welling in your eyes and rolling down your cheeks, your entire body trembling like he’d ever given you a reason not to trust him, like he’d ever hurt you a reason to think he had anything but your happiness in-mind. He couldn’t bring himself to care, not about the tears, not about the excuses you were stumbling through, and not about the way you were holding yourself, your arms crossed over your stomach and your nails embedded in your sides, a moment away from drawing blood. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

You didn’t say anything, but he still shook his head, sighed, made a show of cupping your cheek and idly brushing away your tears. “It’s my fault,” He admitted, letting the disappointment seep into his voice, allowing his tone to dip into something superior. Compared to your whimpering, at least. “I trusted you to get better on your own, and I shouldn’t have. I thought you could pull yourself together, but clearly, I was wrong. You just can’t do anything on your own, can you?”

You looked like you wanted to say something, to argue. You didn’t, but you looked like you wanted to, and that was enough to make his heart skip a beat on its own.

“I’m tired of this.” Just as quickly as he took you up, he let you go, watching in silence as you struggled to stay on your feet. “Go to your room. Yours, not mine. I don’t want to look at you if you’re going to act like I’ve done anything but help you.”

You looked at him, at that, met his gaze for the first time since you decide doing so was a death-wish. It was only for a breath, a fraction of a second, but he still saw it – that spark, that light, that hint of something other than thoughtless, blank fear. It wasn’t positive, the adoration he would’ve liked or the resigned neutrality he would’ve tolerated, but it was something. It was something, and it had been so, so long since you’d given Keigo anything.

He couldn’t make you love him. He’d tried, he failed, and he’d tried again and made thing worse. It was over. He just couldn’t do it.

But, he was beginning to think you didn’t need to love him. Not as much as he loved you. Not at all, really.

Not if he could get you to hate him enough to make up the difference.

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charcubed · 4 years ago

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hey char, mind to share your fave stevebucky headcanons? 👀

Oh I LOVE that you asked me this :’) Thank you!

I honestly have so many if I really think about it because I love them so much and I think about their dynamic so much that I have so many favorite things... but here is what I think of off the top of my head:

• Steve was color blind before the serum, according to canon. I have a headcanon that Bucky used to try to describe colors to him. I wrote a mini fic about that here.

• Bucky was drafted for the war, but didn’t tell Steve. Steve sort of assumed that Bucky enlisted, and Bucky never wanted to correct him. How could he? Steve wanted to enlist so badly, and Bucky didn’t ever feel like he could admit that he didn’t have the same drive to want to ~fight for the country~ like Steve did. He didn’t want to disappoint him and he was afraid Steve would think he was a coward. So Bucky just... never told him that he was forced into war. It was never his choice to fight for the country. If it was up to him, they would’ve stayed home together and stayed safe and never fought at all.

• They were always physically rough with each other, in the sense that they'd wrestle as boys all the time, and Steve loved that Bucky never treated him as fragile. Buck knew he could take it. Even after the serum, they'd still scuffle a bit like kids, finding a bright spot in a war-torn world. They’d be awake in the trenches on lookout, having soft conversations in the night, and shoving each other after one says something stupid or makes a bad joke.

• Steve is bi, and Bucky is gay. Bucky was consciously aware of his feelings for Steve way, way before Steve was aware of his for Bucky. In the 30s, Bucky has a bit of a reputation for ~dating around,~ but not in a rude ladies’ man kind of way but rather his reputation is “Bucky Barnes is a real charmer. He’ll show you a good time and he’s really sweet, but he never pushes your boundaries.” Some women wishes he’d push their boundaries, but he doesn’t. He’s taken so many women out on dates because he never lets it get super serious, since they’re not who he wants and it’s mostly for appearances’ sake, especially since he and Steve live together. He definitely enjoys hanging out with women, and treating them nice, but most of the time his motivation is to try to set up double dates–half because Steve deserves to find a great girl to date, and half because a double date means Bucky can selfishly do a date activity “with” Steve and not have it mean anything. Meanwhile though, Steve gets jealous as hell and testy about Bucky dating all the time, but he’s oblivious to the fact that it’s because Steve wishes Bucky would be with him instead.

• Their first kiss was when Steve was 16 and Bucky was 17. I’m not necessarily saying that’s when they actually got together, but something significant happened between them at those ages... maybe they kissed because they were drunk, or it was so Steve’s “first kiss” would be someone he knew and it was for “practice.” And then they both never talked about it again, because they’re idiots and were afraid to ~ruin things~ between each other. That’s why Steve says “Rumlow said ‘Bucky’ and all of a sudden I was a 16-year-old kid again, in Brooklyn.” That’s why “seventeen” is one of Bucky’s trigger words as the Winter Soldier. It checks out, because Bucky is a little bit older than Steve.

• Steve doesn’t fully admit the depth of his own feelings for Bucky to himself until he finds out Bucky’s been captured by HYDRA. And then he tears Europe apart to get him back. He’d have done that anyway, obviously, but... the prospect of losing Bucky forever is really what makes him realize how much he can’t handle that concept. Because he’s in love with him.

• After Bucky “dies,” Steve gets more reckless, and that’s part of the reason he put the plane in the ice and didn’t try to survive: he didn’t want to live in a world without Bucky in it. This is supported by canon. And so I headcanon that, after Steve finds out about the Winter Soldier, one day he abruptly realizes that he could’ve died in that plane crash and never known Bucky was alive and brainwashed and suffering. He thought Bucky was dead and he wanted to follow him, and he could’ve left Bucky even more alone in the world without knowing it. When Steve realizes how close he came to leaving Bucky behind like that, he throws up. It horrifies him to think about it.

• They each have a pair of dog tags where one says “Steve Rogers” and one says “Bucky Barnes.” They swapped one tag each, so that they’d have a matching set, because while they couldn’t list each other as “next of kin,” they wanted tangible evidence that would show other people how important they are to each other. So people would know: tell him if something happens to me.

• Their Brooklyn accents come out / get heavier around each other, especially if they’re bitching about things or arguing.

• Bucky is a complete sci-fi and fantasy nerd–which is now confirmed canon, and I love it. In particular, I like to headcanon that he loves to read paperback sci-fi novels, and discount romance novels. He unironically enjoys them, and he leaves them allllll over the place. One of the things they love to do is Bucky will sit around and read while Steve will sit around and draw/paint, and half the time Steve gets distracted sketching Bucky’s facial expression he makes while he’s reading.

• Bucky is also a pop culture gremlin. He will try and often get interested in pretty much anything and everything, without rhyme or reason. In modern day, he and Nat will watch trashy reality TV together–sometimes to make fun of it, sometimes to get invested. Steve thinks they’re insane for that. And sometimes Bucky will like one niche thing but then for very specific reasons he dislikes another similar thing. It makes sense to him, even if Steve doesn’t get it.

• Steve tends to be pickier with the kind of stuff he enjoys. He’s always had Strong Opinions™️ on everything, including and especially art. Put him in a museum and he’ll have a lot of thoughts on all of it. He doesn’t judge things or hate on other people for liking things he doesn’t like at all, but he won’t get hooked on a movie/show quite as easily. The one exception is animation, which he absolutely adores, and he goes on a wild binge of all kinds of animated content for awhile–shows and movies–because the various art styles and uses of the medium to tell crazy stories just fascinates him.

• Easy access to so much music is one of their mutual favorite things about the 21st century. Bucky often gets into individual artists’ entire discographies and becomes a fan, whereas Steve often gets into a handful of specific songs from a wide range of various people. Like... Bucky will often love an entire album, and Steve will often love 2 songs specifically more than others. But even with that, Steve loves collecting vinyl records–both old and new ones.

• Bucky has a fantastic singing voice even though he’s shy about it, and he tends to hum along to music when distracted or working on something else–especially while making something in the kitchen.

• Bucky likes technology more than Steve; Steve likes physical stuff more than Bucky. Bucky loves to take photos and videos of things all the time, hoarding digital memories in a way that’s precious to him, knowing that they’re “safe” and accessible anywhere. They lost so much of the objects that they loved a century ago, and photos were scarce, but now... there are endless ways to have pictures. When Bucky was recovering in Wakanda and Steve was on the run, Bucky would often text Steve photos–sometimes without captions–to wordlessly share bits of his days with him. He’s got a good eye for photography, except for when he takes the photo equivalent of shitposts to make Steve laugh. Regardless, Steve gets his favorites printed–some of Bucky’s photos, some of his, some of their selfies–so they also always have something tangible to hold onto.

• Bucky calls Steve “sweetheart” sometimes, just to be a little shit–and he means it. It makes Steve turn red every time, without fail, but he secretly doesn’t mind it.

Okay I’ll stop hahaha. Those are the main ones that come to mind for me all the time when I think of them!

Thank you again for asking :D This was so fun to write all in one place!

#anonymous #asks #stevebucky #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #headcanons #literally sat here and spent like an hour writing this. like it's 2017 again. NO remorse! a nice way to wind down my evening #char writes things

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miawin6 · 3 years ago

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I recently read the book Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood and here is my unprofessional opinion on it.

There are three main theories about Grace and the story she narrates to us and Dr. Jordan

First theory is that Grace was possessed by the spirit of Mary Whitney who forced her to help and influence McDermott in the murder of Mr. Kinnear and Nancy Montgomery. This is emphasized by the fact that Grace mentions how she did not open the window of the room in which Mary died.

Second theory is that Grace suffered from dissociative personality disorder and her alter took the form of Mary Whitney and the alter was the one who committed the murder.

And the final theory is that Grace was lying to Dr. Jordan about not having any memory and that she and Jeremiah the peddler orchestrated the whole possessed thing to get Grace acquitted.

I find the first theory to be the least plausible. Personally, I believe in the second theory the most because the clues woven into the storyline fits perfectly with the theory.

Grace Marks was raised in an abusive home. Her father forced her to do all the work and take care of her siblings after her mother died. He was physically, verbally and even sexually abusive to her. People with DID are the ones who have undergone with repititive abuse at a young age and so their brain forms alters as a coping mechanism.

Grace mentions that Mary was the only good thing in her life and the time she had spent with her was the happiest of her life. Mary was not only a friend to Grace but also a great influencer. Mary was older than Grace and taught her everything she knew. She even took care of Grace when she got her first period and even gave her her red petticoat which Grace kept with her till the end. Grace admired Mary and looked up to her. So when she died, Grace lost her biggest support system and was left all alone in a cruel world.

Grace saw Mary as a light in the dark, as a saving grace in a harsh world so it is no wonder her alter would take the form of Mary. Alters share the pain the body of a person with DID feels and the form taken by alters are sometimes the ones the person is influenced by in some way.

Grace was also deeply influenced by the superstition that closed windows do not allow spirits to escape. The day Mary died, Grace lost consciousness for some time and her fellow maids mentioned that she had woken up and had pretended to be Mary. It is possible that it was the alter who had fronted during that time. Grace has no recollection of it.

There are many times when Grace suffers from amnesia, especially a few days before the murder and during the day of the murder . Amnesia is a major symptom of DID. The brain creates amnesiac walls that seperates the memories of the alters from each other. This gives the theory of Grace having DID even more substance.

When Jeremiah puts Grace in a trance and Mary reveals herself to the people in the room, her voice is altered and her manner of speaking is also different. People with DID do get different accents and voices when different alters front.

This is the theory that seems most plausible to me as well as to Dr. Jordan who mentions reading the case of a person in Frace who claimed to have multiple personalites.

But the final theory seems to have some merit as well. Firstly, Grace did have a motive to kill Nancy. She was pregnant with her employer's baby just like Mary. However, instead of suffering for it like Mary did, Nancy was contentedly living in the house wearing dresses and jewellery above her status. Nancy also was always jealous of Grace and treated her unfairly whenever Mr. Kinnear interacted with Grace.

Grace had a great reason to lie to Dr. Jordan and tell him a fake story where she was always the victim. She had been stuck in the prison since she was 16 and a report written by Dr. Jordan in her favour would go a long way in acquitting her.

There was a line in the book in which Grace wonders as to how to make her story more interesting to keep Dr. Jordan's attention. She also says that she would tell Dr. Jordan what he wishes to hear. These lines irked me a little. If Grace was truly innocent like she claimed she was, why would she try to make her story interesting. An interesting story does not equate to a true story. It is a possibility that she spun an entire tale just to gain Dr. Jordan's favour.

There is also not much evidence about the existence of Mary Whitney and not much proof of her relation with Grace Marks.

Grace could have orchestrated the possession with Jeremiah who is known to as a scammer and an accomplished impersonator. He was always sympathetic towards Grace and ready to provide her with the help whenever she needed. He even offered to take her along with him as a partner-in-crime in his various travellings.

There is also the fact that the entire story that Grace tells Dr. Jordan is told to us in first person. We do not see the story from an outside perspective or from a third person point of view. While the book is from a third perspective when the present time is going on, the books shifts to first person perspective whenever Grace is telling her story. We only hear Grace's side of the story. That makes her an unreliable narrator. She could have added any lie into her story and we would be none the wiser and with no proof to call her out.

In the end, however, I truly liked Grace's character. I put my money on the second theory because I want to believe Grace was a good person who just got caught in bad situations. This was just my opinion on the story and if you do not agree with it, that is completely fine. Thanks for reading. Have a nice day!

I would also like to add that I don't personally suffer from DID. I just have read a lot about it. I don't mean to assume or generalize people with DID. If I have said something harmful in this post, then I truly apologize. I am not a medical professional and this is not some kind of diagnosis. If a fact mentioned in this post is wrong or stereotypically harmful, please feel free to call me out in the comments. This is just a rant about a book I love and I had absolutely no intentions to hurt anyone.

#alias grace #grace marks #alias grace spoilers #MAJOR SPOILERS #theories #just an opinion #margaret atwood

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years ago

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Michael Riedel vs Bernadette Peters – the Broadway Battle of 2003 and beyond

My previous piece gives a fairly comprehensive look at Bernadette and Gypsy through the ages; though there is at least one aspect of the 2003 revival that warrants further discussion:

Namely, Michael Riedel.

Today’s essay question then: “Riedel – gossip columnist extraordinaire, the “Butcher of Broadway”, spited male vindictive over not getting a lunch date with Bernadette Peters, or puppet-like mouthpiece of theatre’s shadowed elite? Discuss.”

It’s matter retrievable in print, or even kept alive in apocryphal memory throughout the theatre community to this day that Riedel was responsible for a campaign of unrelenting and caustic defamation against Bernadette as Rose in Gypsy around the 2003 season.

While “tabloids may [have been] sniping and the Internet chat rooms chirping”, when looking back at the minutiae, none were more vocal, prolific or influential in colouring early judgment than the “chief vulture [of] Mr. Riedel, who had written a string of vitriolic columns in which he said from the start that Ms. Peters was miscast”.

He continued to find other complaints and regularly attack her in print over an extended period of time.

Why? We’ll get there. There are a few theories to suggest. Firstly, how and what.

Primary to establish is that it perhaps would be foolish to expect anything else of Riedel.

Also an author and radio and TV show host, Riedel is best known as the “vituperative and compulsively readable” theatre columnist at The New York Post.

He’s a man who thrives on controversy, decrying: “Gossip is life!”

The man who says, “I’m a wimp when it comes to physical violence, but give me a keyboard and I’ll kill ya.”

“Inflicting pain, for him, is a jokey thing. ‘Michael has this cruel streak and a lack of empathy,’ says Susan Haskins, his close friend and co-host.”

And inflicting pain is what he did with Bernadette, in a saga that has become one of the most talked about and enduring moments of his career.

From the beginning, then.

Riedel started work at The Post in 1998.

His first words on Bernadette? “Oddly miscast in the Ethel Merman role,” in August of that year on Annie Get Your Gun. It was a sentiment he would carry across to his second mention six months later (“a seemingly odd choice to play the robust Annie Oakley”), and also across to the heart of his vitriolic coverage on her next Merman role in Gypsy.

Negative coverage on Bernadette in Gypsy started in August 2002 when Riedel discussed the search for trying to find a new American producer for the show. It had initially been reported in late 2000 that a Gypsy revival with Bernadette was planned for London, before it was to transfer to Broadway. To begin with, Arthur Laurents was “eager to do Gypsy in London because it hadn't been seen in the West End since 1973”, and he “wanted to repeat [the] dreamlike triumph” he said Angela Lansbury’s production had been. But economic matters prevented this original plan, leaving the team looking for new producers in the US. Riedel suggested that Fran and Barry Wiessler step up as, “after all, they managed to sell the hell out of "Annie Get Your Gun," in which Peters…was also woefully miscast.”

He also quipped: “Industry joke: "Bernadette Peters in 'Gypsy'? Isn't she a little old to be playing Baby June?”, calling her “cutesy Peters” and again a “kewpie doll”.

Bernadette here seen side by side with the actual Baby June of the 2003 production – Kate Reinders.

Other publications to this point had discussed her “unusual” casting. Which was fairly self-evident. In contrast to being a surprising revelation that Bernadette Peters was not, in fact, Ethel Merman, this had been the intention from the start. Librettist Arthur “Laurents – whose idea it was to hire her – [said] going against type is exactly the point,” and Sam Mendes, as director, qualified “the tradition of battle axes in that role has been explored”.

It was Riedel who was the first to shift the focus from the obvious point that she was ‘differently cast’, to instead attach the negative prefix and intone that she was actually ‘MIS’ cast. According to him then, she was unsuitable, and would be unable to “carry the show, dramatically or vocally”. All before she had so much as sung a note or donned a stitch of her costume.

So no, it wasn’t then “the perception, widely held within the theater industry,” as he presented it, “that Peters is woefully miscast as Mama Rose”.

It was Riedel’s perception. And he took it, and ran with it, along with whatever else he could throw into the mix to drag both her and the show down for the next two years.

As to another indication of how one single columnist can influence opinion and warp wider perception, just look to Riedel’s assessment of the show’s first preview. It is typically known as Riedel’s forte to “[break] with Broadway convention, [where] he attends the first night of previews, and reports on the problems…before the critics have their say”. This gives him “clout” by way of mining “terrain that goes relatively uncovered elsewhere”, and it means subsequent journals are frequently looking to him from whom to take their lead – and quotes.

At Gypsy’s opening preview then, he reported visions of “Arthur Laurents [charging] up the aisle…on fire”, loudly and vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with the show as he then “read Fox [a producer] the riot act”. Despite the fact that this was “not true, according to Laurents,” the damage was already done, with the sentiment of trouble and tension being subsequently reprinted and distributed out to the public across many a regional paper.

News travels fast, bad news travels faster.

And news can be created at an ample rate, when in possession of one’s own regular periodical column. This recurring domain allowed plentiful opportunity for attack on Bernadette and Gypsy, and Riedel “began devoting nearly every column to the subject,” which amounted to weekly or even more frequent references.

As the show progressed beyond its first preview, Riedel brought in the next aspects of his smear-campaign – assailing Bernadette for missing performances through illness and accusing Ben Brantley, who reviewed the show positively in The New York Times, of unfair favouritism and “hyperbolic spin”.

The issue is not that Bernadette was not in fact ill or missing performances. She was. She had a diagnosis at first of “a cold and vocal strain”, that then progressed more seriously to a “respiratory infection” the following week, and was “told by her doctors that she needs to rest”. So rest she did.

The issue is the way in which Riedel depicted the situation and her absences via hyperbole and “insinuating she was shirking” responsibility. He went further than continual, repeated mentions and cruel article titles like “wilted Rose”, or “sick Rose losing bloom”, or “beloved but - ahem-cough-cough-ahem - vocally challenged and miscast star”. He went as far as the sensationalist and degrading action of putting “Peters' face on the side of a milk carton, the kind of advertisement typically used to recover lost children,” and asking readers to look out for “bee-stung lips, [a] high-pitched voice, [and a] kewpie doll figure”, who “may be clutching a box of tissues and a love letter from Ben Brantley”.

It was quantified in May of 2003 after the show had officially opened, that “out of the 39 performances "Gypsy" has played so far, [Bernadette] has missed six – an absence rate of 15 percent.”

As an interesting comparison, it was reported in The Times in February 2002 that “‘The Producers' stars Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick have performed together only eight times in last 43 performances due to scheduling problems and health concerns,” – an absence rate of 81%.

Did Riedel have anything nearly as ardent to say about the main male stars of the previous season’s hit missing such a rate of performances? Of course not.

Riedel arguably has a disproportionate rate for criticising female divas.

One need only heed his recommendations that certain women check into his illuminatingly named “Rosie's Rest Home for Broadway Divas.” Divos need not apply.

Not that he was unaware of this.

In 2004, Riedel would jovially lay out that “Liz Smith and I have developed a nice tag-team act: I bash fragile Broadway leading ladies who miss performances, and she rides to their rescue.”

Donna Murphy was the recipient of what he that year dubbed his “BERNADETTE PETERS ATTENDANCE AWARD”, when she began missing performances in “Wonderful Town”, due to “severe back and neck injuries and a series of colds and sinus infections”.

This speaks to his remarkably cavalier and joyful attitude with which he tears down shows and performers. “The more Mr. Riedel's work upsets people, the more he enjoys it.”

He knows he yields influence – it was recognised he had “eclipsed Ben Brantley as the single most discussed element in marketing meetings for Broadway shows” – and he delights in his capacity to lead shows to premature demises through his poison-tipped quill yielding.

When it was reported Gypsy would be closing earlier than had been planned, he made mention of “hop[ping] around on [its] grave” and debonairly applauding himself, “I suppose I can take some credit for bringing it down”.

His premonition from the previous year’s Tony’s ceremony was both ominous and prescient, when he predicted the show’s failure to win any awards “could spell trouble at the box office”. He was right. It did. The 8.5 million dollar revival closed months before anticipated and failed to return a profit.

Multiple factors can be attributed to Gypsy’s poor success at the Tony’s, but it’s clear to say Riedel’s continual bashing leading up to the fated night throughout the voting period certainly didn’t help matters.

His suggestions to do with Bernadette’s performances were not helpful either.

After alleging Laurents as the director of the 1991 revival “practically beat a performance out of” Tyne Daly when she was struggling with the role, he proffers that to improve Bernadette’s success, “it may be time for [Laurents] to take up the switch and thrash one out of Peters”.

Great.

It was irresponsible and unrelenting commentary that did not go unnoticed.

His “ruthless heckling of beloved Broadway star Ms. Peters” was deemed in print “his most egregious stunt so far”.

Vividly, in person, Riedel was accosted at a party one night by Floria Lasky, the venerable showbiz lawyer, who “grab[bed] Riedel’s tie and jerk[ed] it, nooselike, scolding, ‘It was unfair, what you did to Bernadette’”.

Moreover, the wide-reaching influential hold Riedel occupied over the environment surrounding Gypsy was tangible in the fact his words spread beyond just average readers, and even unusually “started seeping into the reviews of New York's top critics”. Riedel himself, as the “chief vulture”, was indeed what Ben Brantley was referring to in his own New York Times review by stating how the production was “shadowed by vultures predicting disaster”.

Even more substantially, the “whole Peters-Riedel-Brantley episode” became its own enduring cultural reference – being converted into its very own “satiric cabaret piece, ‘Bernadette and the Butcher of Broadway’”. All three parties were featured, with Riedel characterised as the butcher, and it played Off-Broadway later in 2003 “to positive notices”.

But penitent for his sins and begging for absolution Riedel was not. “Riedel saw nothing but a great story and a great time,” and for many years after, he would continue to hark back to the matter in self-referential (almost reverential) and flippant ways.

In 2008 as Patti LuPone won her Tony for her turn as Rose in the subsequent revival, Riedel couldn’t help but jibe, “Not to rip open an old wound, but I'd love to know if Bernadette Peters was watching”. (He neglects also to mention that “Mendes’s Gypsy was seen by 100,000 more people than saw Laurents’s and grossed $6 million more”.)

More jibes are to be found in 2012 as he reported on the auction after Arthur Laurents’ funeral, or even as recently in 2019, as he asked, “Remember the outcry that greeted Sam Mendes’ Brechtian “Gypsy,” with Bernadette Peters, in 2003?”

As with in 2004 where he points to the “pack of jackals who have been snarling” about Bernadette’s failures, this brings up the canny knack Riedel has of offloading his views to bigger and detached third party sources – thus absolving himself of personal centrality, and thus culpability.

If there was an outcry, HE was its loudest contributor. If there were snarling jackals, HE was their leader.

Maybe Riedel’s third person detached approach to referencing matters was intended to be a humorous stylistic quirk for those in the know. Or maybe it was his way of expressing some inner turmoil over the event.

In some rare display of morality and emotional authenticity, Riedel would at one point admit “I find it kind of sad and pathetic that the high point of my life supposedly has been about beating up on Bernadette Peters”.

Fortunately for him then, a degree of absolution was eventually achieved in 2018, where Riedel visited Bernadette at her opening night in Hello Dolly in 2018, with the intention of ending their “15-year feud”. He “got down on one knee at Sardi’s and extended his hand,” with Bernadette reportedly yelling “Take a picture!” while he held his deferential and obsequious position on the floor.

So if eventually this “feud” has some kind of circular resolution and Riedel was glad it was over, why on earth did it begin in the first place?

One notion is that it was simply another day on the job. Riedel is a man who sees Broadway as “a game for rich people”. Positioned as an “an industry that brought in $720.9 million in the 2002-2003 season”, it is “not a fragile business”, he remarked. As such, he “[could not] fathom the point of donning kid gloves” in covering it, and reasoned the business as a whole was robust enough to weather a few hard knocks. “Thus, Riedel can coolly view Bernadette Peters as fair game, as opposed to, say, a national treasure”.

More to the point, he was a man in search of words. During the season in question, Riedel was “one of just three New York newspaper columnists covering the stage” – a “throwback to a bygone era when…Broadway gossipmeisters…such as Walter Winchell and Dorothy Kilgallen ruled”. Now at the time, as the “last of a great tabloid tradition”, Riedel presided over not just one but two columns a week at The Post. As a result, he was in need of content. “One of the reasons I've become more opinionated is I just have more space to fill,” he admitted. Robert Simonson hypothesises in his book ‘On Broadway Men, Still Wear Hats’ that Riedel may have consequently picked “the thrashing of Bernadette” as his main target simply because “it was a slow news cycle”. Options for ‘titillating’ and durable content were scarce elsewhere that season.

And after all, if Riedel would later cite Bernadette in an article concerning the Top 10 Powerhouses of Broadway in 2004, saying even despite a few knocks or bad shows, “she’ll bounce back” – surely there was no real damage done.

If her career wouldn’t be toppled by his continual public defamation and haranguing, what was the harm?

Feelings? Who cares about feelings or Bernadette’s extremely complex and personal history with the show stretching back to when she was a teenager.

It was just part of the territory, there was nothing personal in it.

Or was there?

Maybe there was something personal in Riedel’s campaign after all.

He makes a curious comment while discussing ‘A Raisin in the Sun’ in 2004. The then incoming star of the show, rapper P. Diddy, had invited Riedel to dinner, and he makes judgement that this was “a smart p.r. move”. Then he ponders, “you do have to wonder: If Bernadette Peters had broken bread with me this time last year, would her chorus boys have to be out there now working the TKTS line to keep "Gypsy" afloat?”

Might he be going as far to suggest that if Bernadette had indulged him in a meal, her show might not have suffered so, by way of him being more inclined to cover it with greater lenience?

It may seem that way, at least in considering how Riedel reviewed P. Diddy’s performance thus after their dinner: “Riedel pronounced himself impressed. ‘He could have forgotten his lines or had to be carried offstage. He didn’t do anything terrible, he didn’t do anything astonishing.’”

Seemingly all the rapper had to do was remember some words and remain physically onstage, and he sails through scot-free. That’s a rather different outcome, one could say, to being absolutely eviscerated for what became a Tony nominated effort at one of the appreciably hardest and most demanding musical theatre roles in existence.

Though perhaps it’s hard to tell if that was really his insinuation from just one isolated comment pertaining to lunch.

This argument might be fine, if it WAS the only isolated comment pertaining to wanting Bernadette to have lunch with him. But it isn’t. Riedel continues to make a further two references over protracted periods of time to the fact Bernadette hasn’t dined with him.

One begins to get the sense of him feeling desiring of or somewhat entitled to such a private lunch with the lady he’s verbally decimated for years, and a sense of bitter rejection that he hasn’t been granted one.

“If Tonya Pinkins doesn't win the Tony Award this year, I'll buy Bernadette Peters lunch,” he simpered, and later, “I invite Bernadette to be my guest for lunch at a restaurant of her choosing. She can reach me at The Post anytime she's hungry”.

The embittered columnist in this light takes on now the marred tinge of a small boy in the playground who doesn’t get to hold the hand of the girl he wants in front of his friends, so spends the next three years pushing her over in the sandpit in revenge.

Moreover, the last statement makes undeniable comment on Bernadette’s troubled relationship with food, body image and public eating.

So now not only so far has he insulted and mocked her physical appearance and played into all the usual trite shots calling her a “kewpie doll”; suggested Arthur Laurents violently hit her in order to elicit a better performance; continually publicly harassed her regarding a show that strikes close to the nerve with deep personal and psychological resonances due to her mother and childhood; but now he’s going for the low-blows of ridiculing her over her eating habits.

Flawless behaviour.

Maybe it’s far-fetched to suggest a man would have such a fragile ego to run a multi-year public defamation campaign after so little as not getting his hypothesised fantasy of a personal lunch date. But then again, this was the man who “left Johns Hopkins University after his first year because of a broken heart.” (“I was in love with her; she wasn't in love with me,” he said.)

And also the man described as “an insomniac who pops the occasional Ambien,” living in a “small one-bedroom” that is “single-guy sloppy”, who has “been living alone since a four-year romance ended in 1996”.

The man whose own best friend called “cruel” and with a “lack of empathy”.

The man whose own sister answered that “well, yes,” he’s always been mean; and after being picked on as a kid for “being the small guy and the intellectual”, he grew dependent on using “his verbal ability to beat someone” and put himself in positions of defensive impenetrability.

See, writing Riedel-esque, vindictive and provocative conjecture is no especially challenging or cerebral task.

Riedel may well see his approach to ‘journalism’ or reporting as “all fun and games”.

But I for one am not laughing.

One final aspect to address when considering Riedel’s reasoning for the depth of his coverage on Bernadette demands attention of how he gets his information. His own personal opinions and motivations aside, crucially he depends on insider providers for insider details. Perhaps somewhat alarmingly then, “leading Broadway producers themselves are among his sources”.

“Half of Broadway hates him. The other half leaks to him”, John Heilpern titled his 2012 Vanity Fair profile on Riedel.

As such, in frequently taking his lead from “theater folk, usually with an ax to grind”, Riedel acts as the mouthpiece to bring secretive backstage reports out front. High-up, influential characters are thus able to funnel their agendas into public view, while keeping their identities hidden.

Notably, it was raised in the above article that Riedel’s “merciless running story” regarding Bernadette in Gypsy “was fed by none other than its renowned librettist, Arthur Laurents—or, more precisely, by Laurents's lover”.

Contrary to the smiley picture below between members of the show’s creative team and it’s beloved star, it was no secret that Laurents did not like Mendes’ 2003 revival. Laurents told Riedel that “Sam did a terrible disservice to Bernadette and the play, and I wanted a Gypsy seen in New York that was good… You have to have musical theater in your bones, and Sam doesn't”. In fact, Laurents admitted the only reason his 2009 book ‘Mainly on Directing’ came into existence was because of how much he had to criticise about the show – it grew out of the extensive set of notes he gave Mendes.

Additionally, it was no secret that Laurents’ lover, Tom Hatcher, demonstrated both a desire and capacity to influence Arthur’s productions. As well as being the driving force for the 2009 Spanish-speaking reworking of West Side Story, Hatcher had intense investment in Gypsy specifically. Patti LuPone writes in her memoir, “From his deathbed, Tom had told Arthur, ‘You have to do Gypsy, and you have to do it with Patti’. It was one of his dying wishes”. Laurents himself, in corroboration of this, explained Tom’s reasoning – “he didn't want the Sam Mendes production to be New York's last memory of Gypsy”.

The allegation in Heilpern’s profile might be hard to prove from an outsider perspective. But given that neither were happy with Mendes’ production and both actively took steps to ensuring it would be superseded in memory, it is not completely implausible.

Overarchingly, as much as Riedel’s writing may benefit FROM insider sources, it is said he does not write in benefit OF them. For instance, although friends with Scott Rudin in 2004, an animated (nay threatening) warning from Mr Rudin asking Riedel to “back off” from “slamming” his show, Caroline or Change, seemingly “had no impact”.

That’s not to cite total impartiality or exemption from personal connections and higher up influences colouring his reports of shows. Theatre publicist John Barlow would describe that sometimes “if you ask Michael to kill [one of his pieces], he will, if it’s someone with whom he does business”.

But it would be remiss not to mention that his influences and sources stretch beyond just the big wigs. Amongst his other informants too are the more lowly, overlooked folk like “the stagehands, the ushers, chorus kids, house managers, and press agents… the guys who build sets in the Bronx”. Basically, for anyone who’ll talk, Riedel will listen.

“Michael Riedel doesn't work for the producers or the publicists; he works for the reader,” one publicist said. “Sometimes we're glad of that, sometimes we're not-but at the end of the day, that's the reality.”

Sometimes he’s nice, sometimes he’s not – but the world goes round.

Through all that’s been explored, it should be stated how painful and injurious it must be for individual performers or shows to fall upon the unmitigated, maiming force of being on the wrong side of Riedel’s favour. The way he approached coverage on Bernadette is deplorable from an emotional and personal standpoint. Some would argue that it was too far and crossed a line and was most definitely unfair. Others would say it was justified. It’s hard not to sound petulant as the former, or heartless as the latter.

While his actions may indeed be abrasively wounding in isolated (often plentiful) cases, it’s unreasonable to say Riedel’s intentions would be to cripple the Broadway industry as a whole. There are those who purport that Riedel in fact “keeps Broadway alive with his controversies”. His words may not always be ‘nice’ but it’s difficult to argue they're not engaging.

Many are quick to criticize or react impassionedly to him and his columns; but few are quick to stop reading them. And Riedel “knows that the most important thing is being well read”.

Hence it is understandable why Riedel is appraised as “the columnist Broadway loves to hate”. Through his enthralling and stimulating bag of linguistic and dramatic tricks, Riedel knows how to keep the readers coming back. “He’s lively, and he makes the theater seem like an interesting place,” one producer did reason.

“There are times when no one's going to care about Broadway if you don't have a gossip angle that focuses on the backstage drama,” opined George Rush, the Daily News gossip columnist who was once Riedel's boss.

Perhaps it is logically and principally then, if somewhat cynically, a matter of believing “it's just business” and knowing how to “play the game”.

As Riedel himself would rationalise, “It’s all an act. You gotta have a gimmick, as they say in Gypsy.”

It may not be pleasant, but in a world increasingly dependent on sensationalistic and clickbait-driven engagement, it’s probably not going to change any time soon.

Well then, if he can live with the toll of the position of moral tumult his column puts him in, so be it.

That he described his mind as being “constantly on the next deadline”, saying “I always think about the column”, and likening writing it to “standing under a windmill”, where “you dodge one blade, but there's always another one coming right behind it”, may be some indication that he can't. At least not wholly easily.

I’ll leave that to him to figure out. Off the record.

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myketheartista · 4 years ago

Text

“Tommy’s ghost only remembers bad memories.”

Furthermore, Tommy accidentally dies canonically while exiled. Contrary to what we know in canon, Tubbo has not gone to see him at all. Tubbo has basically refused to visit Tommy to accept the fact that he doesn’t need him. This only makes things worse, of course! I haven’t seen anything from Tubbo’s POV after the exile, so if he has said something of the sort, that’s pretty interesting!

---

Tubbo doesn’t know which one of those deaths is real every time he sees Tommyinnit tried to swim in lava or Tommyinnit fell from a high place. It haunts him, not knowing what Tommy is doing, why is he in danger, why is he not taking care of himself? He’s gotten a passing word from Ranboo, Fundy, anyone who has spoken to him, that Tommy is okay, but he needs to see for himself. So he finally goes to pay a visit.

Except he doesn’t see Tommy anywhere near the tent. His gaze follows the path leading past the nether portal, perking up when he spots Logsted hidden within the trees and begins heading over rather slowly. He feels good. For some reason though, there’s a hint of....jealousy? He’s sad? Tommy seems to be doing just fine after the exile...has a decent looking home, a huge body of water, plenty of space to build, access to the nether...he’s doing fine without Tubbo.

Meanwhile for Tommy, and as we’ve seen a little bit in canon, he thinks Tubbo will visit soon! He’ll come eventually, he’s still his friend, he misses him...right? And as days pass, there’s still no sign. Every time someone else comes, he asks if Tubbo has talked about him, if he’s even mentioned his name in conversation, and the more he asks, the more desperate he becomes. In the book him and Ranboo write in, he always asks, trying his best not to sound as desperate as he is, but it’s without fail that it comes up, ‘has Tubbo mentioned me at all? Not that I care about the guy! He exiled me, he’s a bitch hahahaha he can fuck off...but has he said anything?’

But yeah, Tubbo finally works up the courage to visit Tommy, knows he’ll have to see him eventually, and makes his way over to Logsted. He stands in the entrance, surprised to see the familiar yellow sweater of his old leader who has his back turned to Tubbo. He’s busy chatting away as chipper as can be while his voice is light and scratchy as it has been for the past few weeks ever since he died, but its the quiet, “Ghostbur?” that makes him turn around to acknowledge the boy’s presence. Wilbur’s face lights up and he moves forward to greet Tubbo, but it’s difficult to focus on the ghost’s cheerful attitude when all Tubbo can look at is the pale skin, the white, lifeless eyes, and the messy blonde hair that seems to have lost some of its color. He takes a step back, unsettled by the way Tommy’s expressionless face stares back at him. He’s...is he...he can’t be...?

Wilbur slips back into view because he’s clearly been talking this whole time and Tubbo hasn’t been listening! How rude :( but it’s okay because- oh! he’s looking at Tommy!

“Yeah, Tommy’s been like that for a while now, but he doesn’t talk much which is weird, right, Tubbo? Tommy always has something to say, but I guess it’s nice getting some peace and quiet every once in a while.” And Tubbo can only focus on the ‘been like that for a while’ part because what? He’s been what?? Tommy is still staring at him with no recognition in his face, nor does he give a sign that he’s glad to see his best friend after so long. It hurts.

Tubbo feels Wilbur practically hanging off of his shoulder and hears him whisper, “He doesn’t smile as much as he used to. Even when I play the discs, he always looks so sad. Nothing really cheers him up anymore. And Tommy loved the discs, I remember that. I tried asking him why he was so sad because I know I don’t like feeling sad since it doesn’t feel very good, and he just shrugs every time.” Tubbo doesn’t feel good himself.

Wilbur continues to ramble on about how the things that usually make Tommy happy haven’t been working as Tubbo reaches into his pocket, pulling out the compass. Wilbur stops when he sees it and brightens, “Hey, I gave you that! You still have it on you- see Tommy, I told you he carries it wherever he goes!” And surprisingly enough, there’s a flicker of something in Tommy’s eyes that makes Tubbo hold his breath. Something like ‘that’s familiar...tubbo has one?’ Tommy looks around, confusion evident on his face. ‘i have one too, right?’ It’s been a while since he’s touched it. He stored it away out of fear he would lose it after falling into lava so much. And as he begins to move towards the barrels, Wilbur watches him in fascination, kind of like how someone watches their dog look for a hidden treat because Tommy is finally remembering something! This is good! Tommy sifts through the barrels, taking his time to go through each one until he searches through a particularly full barrel and pulls out the compass from the bottom. Hidden beneath unused materials and more of the like. Things that they weren’t going to use anymore...there was no point. Tommy just stays in Logsted all day. But he fishes it out, turns around and walks over to Tubbo and holds it out next to the other compass that Tubbo has hovering in front of him.

Tubbo’s been too...shocked? Too nervous to say anything this whole time, but he stares at the compasses and looks up at Tommy who’s watching the little red needle quite intensely. He speaks up, feeling his throat tighten as he attempts to get the word out, “Tommy?”

Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t do anything to reassure Tubbo that he’s heard him, just brings his other hand up to grab the underside of Tubbo’s hand and brings their compasses closer to where they touch and there’s a little clink. His brows are furrowed as he thinks, “Your....Tubbo.” Ah, he hasn’t forgotten about him! He might be a ghost, but he stills remembers who his best friend is.

Tubbo nods, “Yeah...yeah, I’m Tubbo.” And Tommy shakes his head, a frustrated noise coming out of him. “Your Tubbo,” and pushes his own compass forward. Tubbo blinks and it sort of registers. “Oh, oh yeah,” and he pushes his compass forward as well, mimicking Tommy, “Y-Your Tommy.”

Tommy nods but still looks a bit confused, irritated, not really satisfied with the “answer” he’s been given. Tubbo stares at him, watching his face sit on the same sad, lost expression. He grabs Tommy’s hand as well, the one with the compass, and brings their hands up. “Do you remember? Remember me?”

Tommy finally looks at him, causing Tubbo to wince at the way those lifeless eyes stare right through his body. He holds Tommy’s gaze though, forcing himself to choke back the tears that dare to escape and gives his friend a smile. “You remember Tubbo, yeah? I’m your best friend, Tommy.” Tommy stares at him before plainly stating, “Yeah, you exiled me.” Tubbo’s smile drops, and his grip on Tommy’s hands loosens. “I- I didn’t- Tommy, I didn’t mean to, Dream wanted-“

Tommy’s expression shifts to something angrier, annoyed, and still a bit confused. “Dream wanted? Why are we listening to Dream? Dream hates me, why would you listen to him? Who cares what he wants.”

Tubbo averts his gaze, shaking his head. “No, I’m not listening to- Tommy, I didn’t want to exile you, but he-“ and Tommy cuts him off again, getting louder. “He what?! What about him, Tubbo? Why are you listening to him? He tried to kill us, he started a war, he hurt our friends, Tubbo, he built walls around L’manberg! And you’re still listening to him? Tubbo, he—he came over here and kept taking my things! Forced me to give up everything I had! Everyday, it was the same thing and he blew them up right in front of me! Threatened to kill me if I didn’t listen, Tubbo!”

And as quickly as the anger appeared, it vanished. His expression falls and his voice grows weak. “You exiled me...and he kept coming back to shove it in my face.”

Ah, but there’s still some resentment left. “He kept- he’s a bitch, Tubbo, that’s what he is. I hate him and I wanna kill him and you should stop listening to him because you’re...” and he trails off, eyes softening and mouth closing into a thin line. Tommy physically deflates and sighs. “You said you’re my best friend, Tubbo.” Tubbo nods and hears his voice break, “I am, Tommy.”

“Then why am I so mad at you. I don’t feel happy at all to see you.” Tubbo wants to cry and laugh at the same time because the words hurt, but Tommy looks like he’s just pouting at this point. Even as a ghost, he’s pouting. “...Tommy, are you mad at me or mad that you aren’t happy to see me?” Tommy takes a second and chews on his lip awkwardly because he’s right. He grunts out a “both” and Tubbo exhales, letting the laugh slip out.

“What’s so funny? I’m still mad at you. You can’t laugh when I’m mad at you or I’ll be even madder.” Wilbur comes up behind Tubbo and floats beside him because he’s apparently still here, and Tubbo nearly jumps out of his skin cause oh god he saw all that? that’s sort of embarrassing, but Wilbur joins in, “Yeah, that’s kind of rude of you, Tubbo. Tommy’s been really sad and all you do is laugh at him.” And Tommy’s pale skin somehow reddens despite the lack of blood in his body. “I haven’t been sad, you idiot! Don’t tell him that!” Now that sounds like the Tommy he knows.

Tubbo listens to them go back and forth, feeling the burning sensation behind his eyes become unbearable and tries to swallow, sucks in a breath and realizes he can’t hold it back anymore, so he just leans forward and pulls Tommy into a hug and hides his face in the crook of his neck. That shuts them both up. And Tommy doesn’t know what ‘good’ is anymore. Doesn’t remember what happiness feels like. It’s really the complete opposite of Wilbur’s situation and Tommy hates it. He doesn’t want to feel sad all the time, but he can’t think of anything good that happened to him while he was alive and it frustrates him, confuses him, and that just makes him angrier. Wilbur telling him stuff makes him mad too because he shouldn’t have to be told these things, they should just come to him naturally.

But bottom line, he doesn’t remember what a hug is nor what it felt like. So...hugging is weird. It feels nice? He thinks? He vaguely recalls doing it with Wilbur...and even Techno...a lot with Phil. Years ago for them three but what felt like just yesterday for Tommy. He hugged them all the time back then when they were still a family...he didn’t hug Tubbo enough, did he?

Tommy awkwardly moves his arms to hold Tubbo and stares at Wilbur, helpless and silently pleading ‘help me what do I do’, and Wil just nods like, ‘yeah, you’re doing fine! dont worry.’ And they fall into a comfortable silence. Or rather what Tommy thought was going to be comfortable until he realizes that his shirt is progressively getting wetter by the second and Tubbo has begun to sniff quite a lot. “Uh...y’know, Tubbo, this is pretty cool. You’re hugging a ghost right now. Not many people can say they’ve done that.” He receives a laugh in response and Tubbo’s warm breath tickles his cold skin. “‘m sorry, Tommy.”

Well, he had certainly tried to lighten the mood, but he deflates a bit at the apology and frowns. “It’s fine.” He feels Tubbo’s head shake. “No, I should’ve stopped him. I shouldn’t have made him escort you, and I should’ve kept an eye on him. I should’ve come sooner.” Ugh. All of this apologizing and for what? Tommy rolls his nonexistent eyes and grumbles, his tone growing annoyed. “It’s fine, Tubbo, I don’t care-“ and Tubbo lightly punches his back to shut him up. “You do. You wouldn’t have told me if you didn’t.” Dammit, he’s got a point.

Tommy purses his lips and glares at Wilbur who smiles innocently. God, he definitely shouldn’t be here, just go a w a y. But Wilbur either ignores him or completely misses the social cue and floats over to a barrel, pulling out a disc and moving out of Tommy’s peripheral. Tubbo keeps going, “I was scared. I’m the president, Tommy, but I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to follow you, but that’s...I’m a leader now. I can’t. That’s all I’ve ever done. I followed you and Wilbur, and now you’re both gone and I’m all by myself.”

Tommy’s arms tighten a bit around him as he tries to reason with him. “There’s Fundy. And Big Q. Niki, Ranboo, Eret’s there but he’s still a bitch for what he did to us.” Tubbo digs his face into his neck even more, voice breaking again when he continues. “They called me Schlatt. Fundy, Quackity, even you. They don’t like me. They think I’m some dictator for what I did, and I thought I was doing the right thing. Everything hurts when I think back on it, but I can’t help it.” He pulls back and Tommy wants to look away, but the redness of Tubbo’s cheeks and the tears falling down his face keep him where he’s at. “I was scared you had died. Really died. But they always said you were fine, and I thought you didn’t need me. “

Tommy’s grip tightens around his compass “I didn’t.” Tubbo shakes his head and he wipes at the tears that refuse to stop. “You don’t mean that.” Chirp kicks to life in the background, and Tommy hums at the sound, relieved there’s something there to fill the silence “I don’t.” He doesn’t. He really doesn’t, but he’s at a loss. He’s unsure what the right thing to say is. He probably would’ve said something different if he were still alive, but he can’t even begin to think about what alive Tommy would say. All he thinks about is grey.

He looks behind him and sees Wilbur gone, probably inside the house, and listens to Tubbo speak again. “You clearly needed someone. You’re dead.”

Tommy looks back, and his eyes are a bit wider because someone finally said it to his face. It’s like he knew but...didn’t completely process it? And hearing it from Tubbo only makes it worse. “I guess I am...” he trails off, losing focus as the familiar tune of Chirp invades his ears and begins to sound too loud, too much, he doesn’t like how loud it is-

“Tommy?”

He blinks and stares at Tubbo. His tears have stopped. That’s good. He doesn’t like it when Tubbo cries. “Tubbo, are you just here to lecture me or is there something you want?” He curses mentally. Those words aren’t what he wanted to say at all, but saying anything else didn’t feel right. He’s not saying what he wants, why can’t he speak?? But Tubbo smiles and grabs his hand with the compass again, staring at it fondly and running his thumb across Tommy’s ashy skin.

“I’d like if you came back, Tommy.”

Huh?

Huh???

Tommy frowns. “Oh, so NOW you want me to come back. You waited till I died to say that! You just want L’manberg to be haunted, don’t you, Tubbo? You wanna be able to tell tourists that you have ghosts, huh?” And Tubbo laughs and laughs. Bubbly and so childlike. “That’s not what I meant-“

Tommy interrupts him and yells, but it’s clear he’s joking this time. “Wilbur- no, Ghostbur wasn’t enough for you, huh? That’s fine, I can be a good ghost for you, Tubbo, I’m great at this thing and I’ve only been like this for a week or so, I’ve practically mastered it.” And Tubbo keeps laughing, wipes at his eyes again as Tommy yells for Wilbur to “Pack our bags! we’re moving back to shitty, old L’manberg! We’re gonna be ghosts, Wilbur! It’ll be less shitty once we take over!” But he leans down and grabs Tubbo’s shoulders, white eyes seemingly glowing a little bit brighter as a smile grows on his face. “Tubbo, you have to promise me that I won’t be exiled again if I haunt Dream. I need to have your word, Tubbo, this is the most important thing in my entire life and I need your permission so I can rub it in his face when he starts crying like a little bitch boy and tells me to stop.”

Tubbo nods as more tears slip down his face, more laughter bubbling out of him. Tommy shakes his shoulders and laughs as well, high-pitched and loud as always. “Tubbo! Why’re you still crying! The president of L’manberg doesn’t cry, he gets angry and tells Dream to fuck off!”

And Tubbo looks up at Tommy, slipping the compass back inside his pocket.

“I’m just glad you’re still you.”

#headcanon machine goes brr #dream smp #mcyt #tommyinnit #tubbo #wilbur #wilbur soot #ghostbur #there are some characters mentioned as well regarding the exile #BUT THIS WAS FUN!#i really really enjoyed writing for this idea and just spitting words onto a post #brings back memories :)#but i have more of these sort of revolving around early sleepy bois where theyre a close family and the boys get into some shenanigans #lots of angst with hurt/comfort at the end tbh haha #and i wanna draw to some of em but i dont think i would have the time #but i hope this is a fun read! i like the idea of tommys ghost being the exact opposite of how tommy normally is #its heartbreaking but extremely fun to play around with #long post #fanfic #dream smp fanfic #no beta read i die like tommy in lava #also excuse me just literally smacking words and dialogue onto a post bc I seriously am not intending to write a legit fic #it’s just a transfer from discord so it’s not supposed to be proper or anything #dsmp drabbles

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furiosity-wills-the-cat · 4 years ago

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Chara, the fourth Blook cousin:

A crack theory that accidentally become way more serious than it should have because it somehow, despite my best efforts, ended up making sense

Brought to you by my idiot conspiracy brain (affectionate) and by encouragement from my Tumblr followers

Under the cut for the sake of your dashes and sanity

Ok here we go my very elaborate accidental theory, because in order to answer the complex questions simply you must first make simple things more complex or something

First, you need to know that Chara became a Blook cousin by adoption.

All of the Blooks are adopted.

Ghosts are not born into families, they make their own.

Got it? Great, because we’re about to start running

so first, im gonna make surprisingly uncommon claim in this fandom, and I am going to say that undertale ghosts are all dead

I’m taking the tiny details we know about ghosts and sprinting with them to new places

Ghosts also do not have souls I decided

Undertale souls do not work the same as souls in traditional mythology

So every ghost is soulless Unless and Until they become corporeal

Evidence: Monster souls cant exist without bodies, and ghosts are monsters, therefore ghosts cannot have souls without bodies

Further evidence: Asriel doesnt steal blooky’s soul, blooky is unkillable, we have no concrete evidence that blooky has a soul

What about mettaton? He only has a soul after he has completely committed to being corporeal and to a specific body.

Also maddy and mettaton are both only killable while corporeal

Im also connecting the dots we have about souls in a new creative way so let me live for a second

Additionally, i am going to claim that there are a lot more ghosts than just the blooks, some evidence given below

Theres like actual scientific knowlege of ghosts in the undertale verse which seems unlikely if theres literally only three or four

The underground is so much bigger than you think, theres that giant forest in snowdin, a large town in the ruins, the huge city of new home, who knows how much space in the large open areas of waterfall etc. Its really really big okay

Also based off evidence of blooky, we can conclude that ghosts can turn invisible whenever they want to and/or haunt objects to hide

So I personally think that ghosts are, generally speaking, extremely reclusive

And the blooks are just a special exception, a beautiful family, amazing for them

So anyway im going with typical ghost lore for now, for the sake of ease, so im gonna say ghosts generally come from monsters who are particularly restless or unsatisfied when they die

HOWEVER i dont think they remember being monsters or anything before being a ghost. They just kinda fizzle into existance with a fully formed personality and immortality while being unkillable and feeling vaguely uneasy

ALSO i personally think that chara was a ghost for a long time before they became a blook by adoption

Based on game lore, i think ghosts can possess any inanimate object and just kinda wear it? But it takes a lot of strong emotion to become corporeal

And chara is the super weird exception because they were a human not a monster.

They dont have a soul (i headcanon that their soul got destroyed when asriel died)

And they KNOW this, which is a huge part of why they kinda just... give up

Because they lost their ability to fulfill prophecy

Also, without a soul, they lost their ability to reset, so for the first time since falling underground, theyre subject to the relentless march of time

But theyre still weirdly strong and powerful and more emotional

ALSO they DO still remember being a human but they catch on pretty quickly that other ghosts dont have memories and because chara is stupid they just lie to fit in

Theyre too tired to explain themself, they just want to be alone and feel awful

Now back to ghost lore

Emotions are a lot harder for ghosts??? I decided

And they dont know why,, they tend to blame it on the soul thing

But realistically its actually more of the immortality thing making actions not have consequences and/or or not having a body so they cant have a sense of touch or have physical effects of emotion

They all know that ghosts just tend to be way more floaty and bored and numb

And thats part of why the blooks are so special

Maddy’s rage and Mettaton’s yearning and Napstablook’s misery are like... not great all of the time...

but theyre also way way more emotion than most ghosts have,,, they are just a family supporting each other, being as functional as they can,, just an emo(tional) ghost family

most ghosts barely do anything except like stare at walls but the blooks have their snail farm and that helps them have purpose and it is good

And they hold each other accountable and it is nice

So anyway chara just chills and is in a depression coma for a few decades before the blooks find them and are like “our child/baby cousin”

and they raise them for a cool minute

They are all very protective of the new baby emo blook

And chara doesnt get therapy but at the very least they once again have a family, and they decide they want to try to become corporeal eventually just like mtt and maddy

So anyway chara starts hanging out in the ruins a lot more and they finally tell the blooks theyre leaving to go become corporeal in the ruins

This is actually because they are trying to hang out with toriel

because they miss their mom ;;

but chara’s not gonna admit that to anyone, especially not to themself

And because theyre still repressing their emotions constantly and pretending to be fine, they cant become corporeal

And they hang out in the ruins for a long time because they feel guilty lying to everyone about everything

They still feel like its their fault that all the monsters are stuck underground, because they were SUPPOSED to save everyone and they COULDNT and it HURTS

But again, they are doing too much repression to use this guilt to become corporeal,

so instead they just kinda hide and watch toriel from a distance and cry

Blooky visits them the most, thats why blooky is chilling in the ruins so much at the start of the game

Theyre just there to visit their shy baby cousin ;;

Ofc they wont tell frisk about this because chara wants space and privacy and blooky respects that

but maddy and mtt also visit them a lot

Oh also when mtt and maddy start dissapearing, blookys mental health plummets as their family and support system starts to dissolve

Blooky was actually doing extremely well (for a ghost) for a long time, i headcanon,

but theyre doing the worst theyve been in a long long time during the game, because of family issues

So anyway, chara dissapears when frisk shows up, and maddy assumes this is becaude frisk hurt their fragile feelings

Maddy spends hours desperately searching the ruins for chara and cant find them and assumes that they had their heart crushed and went to hide and disappear in a depression coma for another few decades, and thats part of why maddy is so furious with frisk

Like,, to be clear, maddy is still jumping to conclusions and throwing blame around with no proof, but also, its a logical conclusion to come to

And mettaton has already disappeared too and been gone for a while, too, by this point, so it hurts even worse

But anyway, what actually happened to chara is that;

Because chara is a human ghost, not a monster ghost, normal ghost rules dont apply to them

And they can possess living things too they find out

Maybe they knew it a long time ago, maybe its a new discovery, but for whatever reason they end up possessing frisk and theyre like “what the heck”

And frisk still has most of the control

But now chara is like,,, “this is my chance, im a human again, gotta save the world for real,,,”

and they cant explain this to anyone without revealing their past

so they just chill in frisk’s mind while being super crypic and trying to figure out how it works

Pacifist route, this is pretty much exactly what happens

They manage to help frisk save the day

And in my headcanon, the no mercy route is started by frisk who is scared when faced by monsters attacking them

And then chara, who was aready hiding in a semidepression coma for a while, immediately transitions to a panicked “gotta protect this body, gotta protect my chance to be human, i died and threw away my chance to save everyone the first time, i CANNOT lose this chance again”

And so the combination of both frisk and chara is the genocide run

Because frisk kills in self defense, and whenever frisk hesitates, chara jumps in

Also theres leftover feelings from the whole asriel incident

Because again, ghosts come from monsters who died unsatisfied

And chara’s main source of unsatisfaction is how they were trying to get asriel to kill people before he died and then he didnt

So thats a strong strong feeling ruling them

So anyway by the time they both realize how bad its become they figure its too late and also the amount of LOVE has made them numb

And thats when chara who, despite everything, still has idiot hero complex and thinks they need to save the world

So, while panicking, they step in at the very end, and erase the timeline and delete everything

And also to clarify

They DONT HAVE this power at any other point in the game

Because, guess why

They become corporeal

Just like maddy, the no mercy route is the only thing that gives them strong enough emotion to spontaneously become corporeal

So they become corporeal and as soon as they have a soul again and can reset again, they just erase everything

Ok back to fluff

Post pacifist route, they are still a non corporeal ghost

They can still float around and look just like the other blooks

And it takes them a while to open up about things, but they do end up moving back in with blooky so that blooky isnt completely alone

And also they do way better with a family

Also they can float through the mountain and talk to flowey down below and bring him news

And now that they know about him, they can bond with him and explain that they dont have a soul either but that doesnt mean theyre worthless

Oh ALSO

The other dead humans dont have ghosts

BECAUSE

ghosts only come from restless dead MONSTERS

and chara is the weird special exception

Because they were a monster when they died

They became a ghost and asriel didnt because they were way more restless and stressed than asriel was when both of them died

Like sure, asriel felt awful, but chara was the one who was way more like “this is my fault, i CANT die now, the world NEEDS me”

So anyway

charablook the emo tween ghost and asriel flowey the eldrich goat daisy are siblings once more and they hang out and eventually they are okay and have a family again

Thank you for reading, this has been my thoughts on a crack theory that accidentally went too far

This isnt even everything, maybe i’ll make a part two eventually, but i promised to have this post out like two days ago, so i wanted to post SOMTHING

Anyway leave your thoughts if youd like

Im not looking for people to disprove it, i already know its crazy, i dont think it was intentional by the game writers, but i do think its a fun concept

thats the fun of it, so if anyone wants to run with it im all for it lol

Thanks again! Have a nice day!

#no mercy #as a warning tag #chara undertale #napstablook undertale #fic tag #meta #analysis #crack theroy #undertale #i didnt edit this very much #so if there are any major typos or parts that didnt make sense #or were illegible #feel free to let me know so i can clarify

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years ago

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 09 first part

(Masterpost) (More Canary Funsies)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

This episode features so many eternal minutes of zombie shambling that I thought I could fit everything into a single post. HA HA HA HA nope.

Zombie Temple

The trio do their best to fend off the not-zombies in the temple. Lan Wangji tells Wei Wuxian that he can’t go carving them up because they’re not actually dead, and drops a callback to their very first meeting at the gate of Cloud Recesses, when Wei Wuxian caught his attention with his pillowy lips comment on the not-dead cultivator.

Lan Wangji: You said it in that golden moment that will be seared into my memory for eternity, where I heard your voice and laid eyes on your angelic face and lost my heart forever, remember? Come on, babe, it was our very first zombie! How baked were you?

Wei Wuxian: I jerk off to the sword-fighting memory, not the zombie memory, you weirdo.

Nie Huaisang’s fear of the definitely not undead has apparently gotten him the rest of the way over his fear of Lan Wangji, because he’s now yelling “Lan-Xiong!” right along with “Wei-Xiong!” as he struggles. Note that although he later mentions that his fan is made of some fancy metal, we don’t see any evidence that he wants to fight with a fan any more than he does with a blade. I don’t hate anyone’s fan-fighting NHS headcanon, but my take is that he just isn’t a physical fighter, and that’s ok.

This is a good time to remember that our entire experience of the Nie clan so far in this story is 1. Clever but hopelessly combat-unready tiny artiste Nie Huaisang 2. Quietly helpful, absurdly pretty sidekick Meng Yao.

We don’t know yet that Nie Huasang’s gege and Meng Yao’s sugar daddy is literally the toughest motherfucker in the entire cultivation world. But his friends do! Which makes me love these dynamics even more, because not one of them criticizes Nie Huaisang for being the person he is.

(more after the cut!)

Never Let Me Go

This scene is where Wei Wuxian gives his tacit consent to being used as the eventual agent of Nie Huaisang’s vengeance....ok not really.

But he does make it clear what Nie Huaisang should do when he’s in a pickle. And NHS doesn’t forget things.

Priorities

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji isn’t nearly as patient as Wei Wuxian, and he drops a silence spell on Nie Huaisang basically out of annoyance. It’s not like they’re trying to be sneaky.

Lan Wangji: How about you have an exquisitely crafted ceramic cup of shut the fuck up?

Flute Girl

Wen Qing comes to the rescue by summoning all of the not-zombies, who happen to be her extended family, to come toast some marshmallows.

She’s another person who unwisely demonstrates, where Wei Wuxian can hear her, the power of flutes over zombies.

This move doesn’t seem to do anything important but it looks cool.

Brother Dynamic: Bad. Really Bad.

Jiang Cheng shows up in the temple and trolls everyone, because this is a great time for childish antics. Wei Wuxian is super happy to see him and runs over to hug him, which earns him a shoulder slam.

This is a regular part of their body language with each other. Wei Wuxian covers his hurt reaction very, very quickly, with a smile that doesn’t involve very much of his face.

Wei Wuxian is so good at pretending his feelings aren’t hurt, he probably convinces himself.

Then he gives a too-honest answer when Jiang Cheng accuses him of...daring to enjoy himself, basically.

That’s more truth than Jiang Cheng was looking for, and he raises a hand to Wei Wuxian, who hides behind Nie Huaisang. This move is interesting because on one level it’s just clowning; obviously Nie Huaisang can’t protect WWX from anything, and WWX doesn’t need protection from Jiang Cheng.

WWX can easily beat JC in a fight, as he’s let us know before. On another level, this retreat signals WWX’s harmlessness, his childlike-ness, in a semiotic dance that has been playing out for over a decade between the brothers. NHS is taking on Jiang Yanli’s role in the choreography, this time.

All of this troubling hostility doesn’t make Jiang Cheng a bad person. He’s young and he’s still under his parents’ control and subject to their abuse at home. It takes time to develop mindfulness about this stuff and learn to treat people beneath you differently than the way you are treated.

Jiang Cheng isn’t ready for that yet, any more than he is ready to say out loud that he cares about his brother.

Leave My Boyfriend Out of It

This interaction is noteworthy for Wei Wuxian defending Lan Wangji to his brother, before Jiang Cheng even has a chance to blame Lan Wangji.

Wei Wuxian says that following Lan Wangji was his own idea, and then gives LWJ the sweetest, warmest smile.

Lan Wangji also gets a pair of totally unearned, delighted smiles of thanks from his two besties when he lifts the silence spell on Nie Huaisang.

Being mildly dickish all the time works out fine, I guess, if you only make friends with people whose brothers are legendary grouches.

Grilling Wen Qing

Wei Wuxian finally decides he’s had enough of Wen Qing’s crap, and gets slightly aggressive in questioning her.

He’s not actually roughing her up but he is approaching her as a near-enemy for the first time, rather than as someone who wants to be her friend. Once Wen Qing tells him what’s up and agrees to a sort of temporary alliance, he goes back to being his normal slightly awkward self with her.

I don’t romance-ship WQ and WWX, except maybe as corpse-mountain era FWB, but I do like their chemistry. And their friendship is really refreshing and interesting, based on sharing goals and working together, not on emotional intimacy. It’s nice to see people with a lot of barriers around their hearts, building a strong, trusting bond without having to actually open up very much.

The idea of perfect sharing between people is a nice one, but it’s pretty alien to many of us who are recovering from trauma, or people who just aren’t wired that way, and it’s good to see other models of friendship and love.

Wei Wuxian, at Lan Wangji’s direction, parts the Red Sea drops a cage on the other 3 cultivators before going to hunt the dire birdy.

Jiang Chang is, predictably, pissed off about it, in spite of Wei Wuxian’s “you’re good at this” parting words, and says, according to the subtitles, “you bastard!”

“Bastard” is a pretty specific epithet, in English. In the current century, it’s generally used to mean “asshole,” more or less. But it still does carry the meaning “of illegitimate birth,” and since The Untamed is often concerned with legitimacy it seems pretty strong for JC to use with someone who is rumored to be his own Dad’s by-blow.

Let’s have a look and see what he really is calling him... 你混蛋 = Nǐ húndàn = “you bastard” per Google translate. Wow, Jiang Cheng, you really went there, huh.

Wen Granny

Wen Qing and the others in the golden cage watch as the not-zombies try half-heartedly to get to them. Wen Qing is super sad about it, as opposed to the two guys who are just annoyed (Jiang Cheng) or scared (Nie Huaisang).

The first time I saw this, it was just - oh, Wen Qing sympathizes with this poor random woman, she feels bad about what's happening, this is to show us she has a heart.

Now though -- that's HER granny. Maybe not her bio-grandma but clearly a granny of her clan, who she knows well, who later cares for A-Yuan when he's a child, so may very well have cared for A-Qing and A-Ning when they were small, too. Owie.

Dire Bird Hunting

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian run off to hunt the smoke bird together. They are quickly trapped in cool-looking fog. Kudos to the Director of Photography.

They spend some time being confused and also being peak Wangxian 1.0 as they help each other out.

Lost in the fog and unable to summon talismans, Wei Wuxian is mainly about checking on Lan Wangji, making sure he’s ok, making sure he’s near. He doesn’t spare any worry for himself.

(We get a rare instance of seeing an actually glowing sword here, instead of just having a character say “I saw the beams of swords!” to save money on VFX.)

Lan Wangji, meanwhile, understands the mental attack they are under, explains it to Wei Wuxian with only a little snark about Wei Wuxian’s overly busy mind, and teaches him how to handle it.

Lan Wangji is super disciplined in mind, body, and sword - his fight moves don’t change, really, throughout his life, but he gets better and better at execution. Wei Wuxian isn’t exactly undisciplined, but he’s super creative and busts out a new skill in nearly every encounter. Lan Wangji sees this and is learning to make use of it.

After Lan Wangji helps Wei Wuxian overcome the confusion that is blocking his talisman use, he tells him which talisman to use.

This isn’t a talisman that LWJ uses himself, it’s just that he’s paying very close attention to WWX’s battle moves, and has a great memory, so he knows which ones will work. In a pretty short timespan he’s moved from thinking like a solo swordsman to thinking as part of a team with a broad range of battle skills. Very soon, he’ll be starting to use Wei Wuxian’s talismans himself.

WWX takes a hit from the flying death chain, but uses it to his advantage, as in so many encounters. He’s not just self-sacrificing--he is definitely that--but he’s also a chess player, knowing how to use a sacrifice or an injury to his advantage. Cue Lan Wangji being worried for the entire rest of his life.

Part Two is here!

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #wangxian #chen qing ling #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #lan wangji #wen qing

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cryoqi · 4 years ago

Text

all i wanted — paramore ━━━━━━with childe.

songs that make us want to fall in love.

in 1.3k words.

tags angst to fluff, mentions of physical contact, gn! reader, reader is not traveler.

Several years ago, he met a golden-haired traveler accompanied by a small, pixie-like girl who berated him for how silly his love letter sounded. He didn’t mean for them to read it, but he wanted them to hold on to the letter as he fought off several Treasure Hoarders that came across their pathway onto Liyue Harbor, where he was to send the letter off into your hands. By the time he returned to the two, the letter remained unscathed just as he was, only being short of breath for just a few seconds.

“We read your love letter,” the pixie stated, almost like it was a taunt. The traveler beside her didn’t say much except that it was written nicely, that to whomever it was being written would understand him completely, to feel as he felt. Childe gave his warmest thanks.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, hands on her hips, “I thought it was pretty cheesy. I mean, it started out like…

“To the one I love,

Know that I am constantly looking forward to the day I return home, the one I have always claimed as my home alone—in your arms, where the both of us are safe and sound. Know that I am here in Liyue Harbor, always thinking of you, wondering if you’re thinking of me too.

I wish I could bring you here with me. There’s so many things to see, and to do, and neither of us would ever get bored. If your parents ever let you travel outside of Snezhnaya, I know a great place for us to sit down at night and look up at the stars. I know you’d always dreamed of looking up at a clear sky, where no clouds could hinder your view of the world above us, and trust me—it’s absolutely beautiful.

I heard the famed Lantern Rite Festival of Liyue is dawning upon us. Only the archons know if I’ll be able to attend. After all, duty calls. Though, if I do get to write my wish on a lantern, there’s one thing I’m wishing for, and no, I can’t tell you or else it won’t come true.

I’ve got to leave for now. I’ll be sure to see you again soon.

Say hello to my family for me.

I love you,

Ajax”

He always ended his letters like that.

It’s been several years since you received a letter from him, and you decided to read the last one he’d sent while cleaning your bedroom. All of the letters he sent were kept in a box he found while on one of his journeys, given to you as a souvenir.

You hadn’t realized the grin on your face that was clearly evident to anyone passing by your open room, one of which being Tonia, Ajax’s younger sister. She’d grown so much since the last time you saw her, and while your smile was one written by nostalgia, hers was of excitement. She gently held onto the doorframe, peering into your room.

“Tonia! I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said. Pushing the letters aside, you stood up to welcome her into your room, but she stayed put by the door.

“Your father let us in,” she commented. “Everyone’s in the living room, and there’s someone waiting for you.”

Someone… You didn’t want to admit that you really hoped it was Ajax. After all, you hadn’t heard from him in years, and at that point it was safe to presume he was dead from whatever violent work he involved himself with, the kind he chose to disclose with you the day he left. With every passing day after you saw the door close in front of you, you couldn’t tell if your love for him grew stronger or weaker.

With love, there was no way of telling, but one day, everything went mute, that you knew for sure. All those memories you had of you and Ajax played in your mind like static; nothing was there. Maybe it was like a final thread had snapped, causing everything to fall apart, but to you it was akin to a wearing away of a rock, where little by little, time and time again, everything you felt for him slowly diminished.

However, when you walked into the living room and saw him sitting in the chair that you always sat in, talking with your family like a day hasn’t passed since he left, you almost wanted to drop to your knees. Blood rushed to your cheeks and feelings rushed into your heart, and all that you could manage to say was, “You’re back.”

He turned to you, wearing that same charming smile you first fell in love with.

“I’m home.”

—

The fireplace was warm outside, and the blankets over you and him did much to preserve the heat, but you wished that you could bring him back into your bedroom, holding him in your arms. Though, you knew there was a distance between the two of you and after all those years you couldn’t just simply bring him into close quarters. Thus, the two of you were left outside to catch up on all that time lost.

It was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence.

“Did you receive my letters?”

You nodded. “Yes, I did.”

Ajax chuckled. “Ah, so you must remember about the time I met that traveler, right? Two of ‘em, the traveler and a little… fairy girl. Challenged them both to a fight, but the traveler was awfully strong. Impressed me a lot, and I had to use my Foul Legacy Transformation.”

“I never read anything about that.” You hadn’t received any letters concerning a traveler and a fairy, but you knew the kind of toll that transformation had on his body. You looked up from your lap, where your hands lay fiddling their fingers, and at him. In that instance, the exhaustion written on his face was so evident and you knew just how much he’d been through.

You moved closer to him, though with caution, but when your hand came to rest upon his shoulder in attempts to comfort him, he winced at your touch. Then, you knew just exactly how much he had been hurting— physically, at least. Childe knew you would never come to understand the yearning he had gone through in the time he was away from you. Time and time again, being seduced by his unruly subordinates, he pushed them all away, only keeping you in his heart. You’re all he could ever want.

He was so vulnerable under your fingertips, and it reminded you of all the times he was able to shed a single tear in your arms, to let you run your fingers through his hair, everything. You thought you wanted to cry with how fragile he seems to be. So, you pressed a kiss down on his shoulder. It’s light, and it’s airy, and it resembled the fluttering of your heart.

Again, you looked up at him. He had a dark gaze, but he’s always had that kind of stare, but you could tell that in the depth of those blue eyes he was quietly pleading for you to heal him, even if just by means of those light, peppered kisses. You brought his hand to your lips, pressing them against each of their knuckles. They were no longer kisses. Rather, they were the press of your lips against his skin, the physical touch being all that you could muster in yourself to tell him, “I missed you very much.”

Maybe if rocks can be eroded down into pebbles, those same pebbles can be made into a statue built over time. Even if a tiny one at that, you think that with every day Ajax has returned home, you could rebuild your love for him.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe x reader #genshin childe x reader

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h4ji · 4 years ago

Text

─雨

summary: iwaizumi reminds you of the rain: a sign of life, but when your relationship changes, so does your view of rain.

warnings: infidelity/cheating, gradual relationship change, fluff to angst, & NOT PROOFREAD

wc: 2.5k

req: no

a/n: yes this is a repost, but here’s a fic inspired by the rain from a couple days ago

rain. you could either hate rain or love it, it could bring bad memories or good ones. you loved the rain because it reminded you of iwaizumi: his fresh scent, kisses in the rain, running in the rain, and the wet hair sticking to your forehead. your dates were often accompanied by rain, because of poor planning, but neither of you minded as you simply enjoy being in each other’s presence. the rain is symbolic, you and hajime saw it as renewal, a new spring, a revival of life. you both never saw it as a bad thing.

rainy days were either spent inside, bundled up and watching godzilla or outside, watching the dark grey sky turn into a blue sunny one from the window of a cafe. his calloused and warm hands holding your smaller ones. “haji, look!! the rain is pouring down!” you smile and hajime can’t help but smile at you. he pinches your cheek, “stop being so cute, y/n” he chuckles as you whine for him to stop. what could be better than this, you think. as the rain clear ups, hajime pulls you up and out of the cafe. the scent of fresh air and wet grass evident in your surroundings. rainy days were your favorites, because they reminded you of him.

it was supposed to rain all week, which delighted you to no extent. but hajime is a busy man, with the olympics so close he couldn’t spend as much time at home. you didn't mind one bit, you supported him every step of the way and as long as he was happy and loved his job, you would be happy for him. “i’m home,” hajime says out loud, his tired frame taking off his shoes as he looks at the floor. and then he hears the pitter patter of your sock covered feet, “welcome home, haji” you smile, hands clasped together in delight before you jump and wrap your arms around him. your giggles fill his ears and he’s never been more delighted to hear it. his toned arms wrap around your frame, “i missed you” he breathes out, and almost instantaneously breaths your scent in. home. this is home. you were his home.

the sound of the rain drumming against the glass of the window, you’re favorite type of day. “haji, look! it’s raining outside” you smile whilst pressing your hand against the cool glass, contemplating whether you’d go outside. but those thoughts died down as soon as hajime declined the offer to go out. and you understood. of course you did! he just came back from a grueling day at work, how could you make him do something like that. this should’ve been the least of your worries

the rain is beautiful. you watch the droplets slide down the window, the sound gradually getting louder. and for some reason, the rain didn’t make you happy anymore. it made you sad.

you tried to be understanding you really did, but hajime’s appearances at the house were practically nonexistent. where is he… you think as your fingers thump against the window sill, desperately looking outside, for a sign, a sign of hajime. you needed him. you didn’t realize but these symptoms: restlessness, trembling, harsh breaths and this constant worry, were of you having a panic attack. your body curls in on itself, an attempt to find solace in the cold room and the rain. but your lover was nowhere to be seen.

these situations started to make you resent the rain. the rain was no longer a symbol of life, renewal or spring. the thing that reminded you of hajime, the rain, you started to resent… what would this mean for you both.

hajime could feel it too. the constant distance, an imaginary wall if you will, between you both. where did it go wrong… he frowns. he remembers rainy days being your favorite, so why was the atmosphere so gloomy and depressed, was he missing something?

his failure to notice your feelings, your complete and utter loneliness, was where he started to go wrong. he failed to notice your constant comparing, he failed to notice your heart slowly breaking, failed to notice the utter loneliness and despair you felt within yourself. he wondered what was wrong, but never voiced his opinions, thinking if they wanted to tell me, they would. this relationship would no longer symbolize the old meaning of rain: fresh and beautiful life, now it symbolized despair, loneliness and tears. you used to wear your heart on your sleeve, it was something he loved about you, but he made you subject to these feelings. not him per say but his lack of… emotion or awareness. did he not notice you suffering? did he not notice you sobbing to yourself? did he care? what happened to you both?

you noticed he had changed. how he no longer mimicked your sadness or no longer pleaded towards it. he seemed much...happier. and your mind wanders, the insecurities biting at your body and mind, telling you that he no longer needed you and that he’d find someone better to appease to him.

he doesn’t come home often, stating that the olympics and his work are of first priority. and you think to yourself… is this why he didn’t notice your depressive state? you were practically screaming in silence, was he that oblivious. the home you lived in together, it no longer felt like home. and that day when hajime came home, he knew, things weren’t how they used to be. the pile of dishes in the sink, the cold dinner on the table, and the loud silence that filled the air. he sees your sleeping frame on the couch, doubled over in despair as the television on with some stereotypical rom com playing. oh how he despised those couples, so cliche and so...unnatural; is that how the two of you used to be?

he walks up to you, his mind internally fighting on whether to wake you up and ask if you were okay, ask if your relationship was okay, or just to let you sleep. he opted for the latter. which was the wrong move on his part.

he came home again the next night, something that was unusual. and this time you were awake, but the mess and emptiness from last night was still present. this befuddled him to no end, what the hell were you doing at home? or were you even at home all day? that day was particularly shitty: it was gloomy, he was tired, stressed, and all of this mess. his loud sighs of annoyance alarm you, the first time you see him in weeks and he’s annoyed with you?

“do you do anything at all?” iwaizumi snarks out. “it can’t be that fucking hard, can it? i go and work for like 12 hours of the day and all you fucking do is sit on your ass and cry.” and it hurts him to say that to the one he loves, but his insecurities and anger got the best of him. were you at home all day today? were you seeing someone else? he was beyond confused with the two of you.

so he walks out that night. he leaves you alone, in the cold dark house to wallow in self pity and hatred. and as he goes to the bar he realizes, you’re no longer his home.

as you wallow in a mountain worth of your own tears, you come to terms with the fact that you hate the rain because it reminded you of iwaizumi hajime.

little do you know on that night he meets a lady. a small, curvy, attention giving and seeking, beautiful lady. her long hair sits perfectly on her shoulders and iwaizumi thinks about how he hasn’t seen you dressed up nicely recently. lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize he’s staring at her, but oh she definitely notices. the blush on her cheeks proves just that much, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

when was the last time you reacted to him like this? when did he even see another person that wasn’t you, has it been that long? he internally sighs. but he’s pulled out of his thoughts when he feels a soft and delicate hand on his bicep, “what’s a man like you doin’ here all by yourself” she glistens as she speaks. and iwaizumi swears he hasn’t felt like this in so long. he soaks in all her attention, like a dry sponge soaking all of the water thrown at it. his beautiful smile, the one you adore, shown on full display for the beautiful young lady. That night… he doesn’t think about you, at all.

nothing seems out of the ordinary when you see him again. the same silent house, no smiles are thrown and it’s just an empty void.

he sees her again. hell he makes plans with her, he wouldn’t call it a date, god no he wouldn’t. he has you-

“wait,” he thinks, “are we really still together?” he asks, almost in disbelief. you haven’t said a word to each other since iwaizumi bursted out on you.

he found solace in her: her face, her emotions, her attention, even her body. god, she was everything you weren’t. she was giving him everything you couldn’t emotionally, mentally or physically. he didn’t even realize you working on yourself, all for him. you noticed it too. his persona was back, but who made it come back? certainly not you.

his smile, something he used to be so insecure about, was brighter than ever. but who was he smiling for, you hadn’t spoken in days, no weeks at this point. maybe work was getting better, you tried to convince yourself. “hajime, would never EVER do that to me... would he?” you think as tears well up in your eyes. hajime was your everything, he was your stability in time’s of weakness, he was your other half, but unfortunately for you he’s starting to not think the same.

you see him home for the first time in 3 weeks, he looks happy and you smile at him. he’s surprised to see you greeting him, and he greets you with a hug and kiss to your temple. you’d never even guess that he was seeing someone behind your back. hajime reminded you of the rain, that fact never changed. this new symbol of rain resembles heartbrokenness. the sun in your life is covered by grey disgusting clouds.

for months he continues this affair, the other woman giving him the support and love he no longer comes to you for. he holds her hand as she sleeps, while your hand lays sprawled out against his side of the bed. the rain hits the window, like that fateful day and your eyes well up in realization, “olympics season is over, where is he?”. your palm curls in on itself, the sobs racking up your body and they echo in the room. for the first time in months, the rain brings you comfort as you cry out all the insecurity and self hatred you’ve kept in. this is a ritual that continues for the rest of the week, wearing iwa’s sweater and crying as you long for his comfort or even his presence. his scent starts to fade from the house and rather it smells like the rain, the fresh rain that reminded you of him. that night, you grab your phone and press on iwa’s contact, and you type before your mind could process. “i miss you, can you please come home?” “what the hell did i do?” “please”, and you despised how desperate you sounded, but you needed him. however, your messages fell on deaf ears as he made love to this girl, he was pounding into her with so much love while you cried out for him in despair. he didn’t care about you anymore, he didn’t need you like you needed him. he was no longer your home.

the next night he came home, you noticed the love bites and nail marks, that which were so clearly not yours. he sleeps next to you, for the first time in weeks, but he feels so distant. it doesn’t even feel like he’s there. there’s no love in that bed.

you think you’d be used to it, feeling alone while next to him, but you weren’t. You finally had him to yourself and he didn;t even spare you a glance. you had an idea that he was no longer interested, but you couldn’t fathom this. his phone lights up like crazy, said girl texting him, asking him when he would come back to her, when he would end things with you and saying after that they could finally be together, with no worries or barriers. your hand reaches out for his phone, opening up the password he made sure you knew by heart, which revealed all the messages with her. in these messages he professes his love for her, saying that he wishes they could start a family together and how he could just let go of the burden that he felt from you.

sure he felt bad, you were his first s/o, you’d always have a special place in his heart. but he couldn’t bring himself to care when he felt bound to you, a relationship with no love or affection, no care, nothing at all. if he told himself a couple years ago that this is where you both would be, he wouldn't believe it, at all. you were each other’s first: first kiss, first sexual experience, first significant other, first everything. but the relief he felt when he heard you crying was abnormal, but all he could think of was “i’m free”. he heard your sobs as you looked at all the messages, he felt you shaking beside him. part of him wanted to reach out to you, wanted to console the broken person in front of him, but another part of him said that he was finally free to do as he pleases, he wouldn't be bound by a loveless relationship and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be anymore. like said before, he feels bad, really bad, for lying for cheating, but he felt like he had no other option with you. you always found a way to make him stay and he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. besides, how could he feel bad when the person he loves was hiding in the confinement of his phone and not next to him every night. he couldn’t tell anyone how much he loved this girl because of you, but now he was free, free to do as he pleases.

iwaizumi hajime reminded you of the rain. but rain has different meanings. iwaizumi hajime reminded you of love, happiness and spring. your relationship also reminded you of rain, the gloominess, depression, spiritual death and bad omens. but now the rain reminded you of new life: the new life you’d face without hajime, the rebirth of your soul and heart, the resurrection of happiness in your life, rain isn’t so bad anymore.

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sluttbuttsstuff · 3 years ago

Text

La Squadra Backstory Headcanons Part 1 (GHIACCHIO AND MELONE

Since we’re probably never going to get any straight answers on their backstory, i’m writing my own for them. Obviously, none of this is canon and guesswork

WARNINGS: none really, aside from dark themes

GHIACCHIO:

Came from a very large and very poor family, the youngest of many children.

As a result, he was the last to get anything-last to get fed, last to get clothed, last to get attention.

He didn’t get the proper care he truly needed, so he had to fight and take what he really needed, or he would have to make do without.

He’s always had awful eyesight, but it wasn’t until stealing a classmate’s glasses that happened to be exactly what Ghiacchio needed, he fought the kid for them and gave him a black eye

“There, now you can’t even use them, they’re better off with me!”

Despite getting into a lot of fights, School was actually something of a sanctuary for Ghiaccio.

He got the attention he needed, he was able to get free food through the lunch program, and excelled in several sports activities and physical Ed.

During middle school, under encouragement of a favorite teacher of his, he dedicated himself to his studies, and enrolled in as many extra curricular activities as he could stomach.

With his impressive physical fitness, natural intelligence, and a little anger management, his teacher convinced him he could get into a good college with a full scholarship that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to get into

Ghiacchio wasn’t always as loud, angry and violent as he was in La Squadra, but he did have issues with anger management, an inferiority complex, and a self-sabotaging need to always be right.

But his teacher, now his mentor, never gave up on him. He took Ghiaccio to therapy, gave him a shoulder to lean on, and served as the support he never got from his parents or siblings.

His family had no interest or desire to get involved with his life, or offer any support or encouragement.

School was tough- it was extremely stressful and he was pushing himself to his limits. He had very little sleep, had to maintain a 4.0 grade average, but despite it all, Ghiacchio was very happy.

His mentor was like a father figure to him, without him, Ghiacchio wouldn’t have been able to get as far as he did.

And then the worst happened.

His mentor died naturally, of a heart attack, he was an older gentleman with a history of heart disease in his family.

It still broke Ghiaccio.

He skipped school for the first time in years to attend his funeral, and ended up getting in a fight with one of his teachers at school the next day.

Ghiacchio and his teacher argued over the correct pronunciation of a word, but really Ghiacchio was angry at his teachers and school-hell, the WORLD- that no one else had been at his mentor’s funeral. He felt like no one cared about his mentor, and that included him.

He broke the teacher’s nose, as well as several other bruises and nearly gave him a concussion.

Obviously, he was expelled from school after that, and sent to a juvenile prison. He was able to finish high school in juvie, but no university or sports team wanted to sponsor him or offer him a scholarship.

It is his greatest regret, not being able to get the scholarship he and his mentor worked so hard for

But at the same time, he doesn’t regret attacking his other teacher and leaving school; he couldn’t stand by and let his mentor’s memory be forgotten, besmirched.

He would be picked up by Passione through the juvie system, he kept getting into petty fights with others and managed to impress some soldatos into offering him initiation.

I like to think that his strict grammar pet peeve stems from his mentor, who taught italian grammar and literature studies, and as a result was especially strict with teaching Ghiacchio proper italian.

The ice theme for his stand? Yeah, it’s funny because he’s a hot head, but i think it’s his stand, as an extension of his mentor’s teachings trying to literally “Cool” him down. He has to use a lot of focus to use White Album properly, just like how his studies and athletics would distract him from his own mental health issues.

At least, this is just what I think lol

MELONE:

Hoo-boy, this kiddo has to have had some serious family issues

His father was the head doctor at the most prestigious fertility clinic in Italy

(He was also secretly into eugenics, and lots of other nasty stuff, but let’s get into that later)

He was so successful, he had even cured his own wife’s infertility

At least, that’s what he had everyone believe

Secretly, Melone’s father had had an extramarital affair with his secretary, who became pregnant and had Melone.

Under extreme threats and blackmail, Melone’s father managed to take Melone away from his biological mother, and convince his wife to raise Melone as her own.

Needless to say, Melone’s father was a very bad, manipulative man

Despite this, his wife had always wanted a child, and actually loved him and cared for him deeply, and Melone became her child as much as his biological mother

Melone’s father was very strict and had high expectations of Melone from a young age.

Melone had private tutors, a personal chef and nutrition plan, and even a physical fitness teacher who would regularly exercise him.

Melone had no other siblings, surprisingly, despite his father’s obsession with eugenics and breeding.

His father must have been afraid of the possible scandal that would arise from an affair or divorce (italy is still a heavily catholic country after all) and his wife, Melone’s “adoptive” mother was still barren,

Since Melone was an only child, home schooled and surrounded by paid lackeys of his father, he was very lonely.

His mother was his one and only real friend in his life. She would sneak him dessert snacks, read him fairytale stories if he got tired of his textbooks, and even played games like jump rope and hide and seek with him.

The entire reason his “Adoptive” mother had married his father in the first place was because it had been her lifelong dream to have children, and she was determined to give Melone all the love his father couldn’t and wouldn’t.

And that was life for a long time- it wasn’t the best childhood but Melone couldn’t really complain. His father kind of scared him, but at the same time he earned Melone’s respect.

Melone was interested in Biology, and learning about genetics like his father.

And when the stress of living up to his father, and his own, expectations became too hard, he could always run to his mother.

Then, Melone’s biological mother found him

Melone’s biological mother had never really gotten over losing her only child, and despite the monthly salary and isolated home she had received for her silence, she couldn’t forget about Melone.

It started innocuously enough, clipping out pictures she saw of him and his father from the clinic’s advertisement brochures, watching him from afar play at the beach with his mother on vacation.

But it wasn’t enough- she couldn’t just GIVE UP her child.

She started to stalk him, taking photos of him playing in his backyard, going through the garbage to find old school projects and tests in the trash can. She would try to sneak into the house, bribing guards and getting in fights with the tutors trying to get into Melone’s home.

Melone didn’t know the whole story between his parents and this “Surrogate” (he had been sworn to secrecy by his mother, knowing it was important to tell adopted children early on or risk causing severe trauma later in life) but he knew his parents were becoming more and more stressed out.

One day, it came to a head, and Melone’s biological mother successfully was able to meet Melone.

Melone was a little afraid at first, but his other mommy was so nice to him, and gave him lots of hugs and love like his other mom and played with him at the park.

They actually had a really fun time together, and it had a lasting impact on Melone for the rest of his life.

But all good things have to end, and for the first time in his young life, Melone was confronted with death.

Eventually, Melone’s bodyguards (his father had employed some after finding out about Melone's biological mother stalking him) caught up to them, and Melone and his mother tried to escape.

Melone’s other mother was with the bodyguards,and when Melone saw her, he was unsure of what to do.

He loved both of his mothers, he wanted to stay with both of them, why were they making him choose?

Under His father’s orders The bodyguards, who Melone later found out were associated with passione, shot his biological mother. Terrified Melone would be shot as well, his adoptive mother dove in front of him to protect him from the bullets.

Both of his mothers were shot, his father had ordered them to kill the bio mother no matter what, even if Melone got shot. Apparently, MElone’s father would rather risk his son’s life than let his bio mother escape with them and risk the scandal. Knowing this, his adoptive mother was shot and killed protecting him.

On that day, Melone lost both of his mothers, the most important people in his life, all because of his father.

It took a long time for Melone to process what happened-his father didn’t help things either. He was just as cold and clinical with Melone as ever, and with no one who truly cared about him in his life, Melone withdrew more and more into himself and his studies.

He was civil with his father, and maintained his studies and health, until he officially turned 18.

After years of planning, he poisoned his father in his sleep and killed him.

The Police were never able to press charges or find any evidence on him, but Passione noticed, and saw potential in him.

They gave him an ultimatum, pass initiation and join their ranks, or get turned into the police by passione and get his inheritance stolen by the gang.

Without much of a choice, Melone agrees, and finds he actually likes life in la squadra

It goes without saying, his mothers were a huge influence in both his life and his stand.

Both of his mother’s lives were so sad and lonely because they couldn’t have a child.

He desperately wishes he could have used Baby Face on his mothers, either not realizing or not caring about the implications.

Despite his mother’s best efforts, Melone never really had proper social interaction as a child, and it seriously screwed him over in life, even interacting with la squadra.

He’s read up on how to behave in public, social psychology, but it's not the same as learning as a child

It’s easier to learn those things as a child, which is why he makes sure to spend at least a little time with each Baby Face on how to behave and treat others; at least they can succeed where he couldn’t.

It’s also why he can’t control himself around women- he thinks he’s genuinely helping them by giving them children or getting them pregnant.

He’s giving them what his own mothers couldn’t

And you can BET he takes his role as father VERY seriously- you saw how he taught and trained Baby Face in canon. He’s intense, but he’s also a lot more loving than his own dad was.

I’ll admit, this backstory is a little bit “Soap Opera” but I think it still fits him

#sluttbuttsstuff #la squadra #jjba #vento aureo #ghiacchio #melone #sfw #headcanons #fic #imagines

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canadian-riddler · 4 years ago

Note

idk if tumblr ate my ask but. if it did, 30 (obsession) for the riddler or scriddler?

Tumblr says, ‘your other ask was delicious, nom nom nom’

I says, ‘even if it hadn’t this is taking me a really long time because the music I’m listening to has made me too hype to write with any speed at all’

AO3 :D

‘Obsession’

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma [Scriddler]

The first time Jonathan saw him was on the front page of the newspaper. He could say with absolute certainty that was the day it started.

Before that day Jonathan would have been first in line to declare there was no such thing as a human being that was so attractive that one could not control themselves. It was poppycock, he insisted. Anyone who allowed something as primal as hormones to waylay their every thought was a weakling and a fool. Jonathan had looked upon a lifetime of people and had never so much as done a single double-take.

The newspaper was in a browbeaten metal box next to a bus stop. It was locked and the only access was either by key, vandalism, or coin. Jonathan obviously did not have a key, the location made it difficult to vandalise, and he was loath to pay for absolutely anything. But one of those three he needed choose, and he justified the third by telling himself it was a small price to pay to get the newspaper into his hands and thus have physical evidence that the man pictured there really was not so beautiful as his memory was bound to recall him. He tucked it under his arm and did not look at it until he was safely home, and he discovered he was correct: he was not so beautiful as he recalled. He was even moreso.

Jonathan put the newspaper into his desk drawer and failed not thinking about it. Every single minute of every single day was haunted by the image of the beautiful man printed upon its face. He could not sleep for the thought of it. His lectures at the university, already marred with his general disinterest with being there, were now riddled with pauses and repetition as his thoughts unravelled even while he was speaking them. He was well-known to the staff as a solitary and unpleasant creature, so his constant inquiries as to the man in the newspaper were met mostly with confusion and dismissal. He was disgusted in himself for the asking but he could not stop.

Until the night he no longer had to, for he entered his apartment to find Edward there within it. He stood in the doorway to his bedroom motionless and thoughtless and directionless.

“Well,” Edward said, his voice beautiful and direct from his lips to Jonathan’s ears, “you wanted me. Here I am.”

Jonathan had never put a single neuron into concluding what Edward must have smelled like, but all of the ones available were thinking about it now. He had no name to put to the man’s subtle scent other than ‘perfect’. And he was draped casually across Jonathan’s desk, which would doubtlessly cause it to sink into the wood and remain there long after he left as an olfactory spectre which Jonathan would find himself unable to escape.

His hair was in that god-awful tousled style that Jonathan would now never be able to see on another man without thinking of him. It was that certain colour that was achieved only by maple leaves only on one day of the year and some of it was visible from the top of the shirt of which he had not done up the top few buttons. Jonathan had a nearly visceral need to see the rest of it, and whereupon it ran down his torso, down towards his artfully concealed genitals. Jonathan’s own were filling with a steady heat it was already too late to hide. Not even the rare shame threatening to wash through him was enough to convince his barely used equipment to settle back where it belonged. For all his former conviction, it turned out he shared this carnal similarity with all those he had debased after all.

Edward laughed. It was condescending, and Jonathan hated that he deserved it. Edward swung himself to sitting with his knees spread and Jonathan hated that he had done it. “Surely you haven’t been stalking me all this time just so you could stare at me,” Edward said. “What was your aim, hm? Did you mean to lock me up in your basement, perhaps?”

Jonathan had indeed fantasized many times about that very thing. About restraining him, naked, to the wall with manacles which would chafe and bruise and ruin his beautiful skin. He would leave him down there until he was emaciated and weak and then this would all end for he would have been made ugly as all of humanity was.

Edward shook his head and twitched his wrist up to eye level. “I’m out of time, I’m afraid. Good talk.” And he simply stood and left as Jonathan stared after him, his entire body rigid and unmoving.

The obsession somehow escalated from there.

His room was soon plastered with every newspaper page which contained any mention of Edward. Any and all news stories about him were preserved on video tape. He dreamed and he dreamed and he dreamed of Edward, and he had never before been one for masturbation, but it did not matter how often or in what way he did it for the intense sexual desire Jonathan had for him never ceased. In the dreams Edward was always beautiful, always enticing Jonathan to come to him, but when he did his hands could not feel the shape of him nor could his mind conjure up any image of what he may have looked like beneath his clothes and he knew it was because whatever he managed to think up would be so far inferior to the real thing that it was not worth the effort to visualise. He lost hours sitting at his desk, the scent Edward had left behind erasing all notion of time or purpose.

Then Edward began to turn up in Jonathan’s daily life.

Jonathan did not ever have to look for him. He would simply appear at places where Jonathan was already fated to be. Some of these places were common sense and some of them were not, but Edward appeared in all of them nonetheless. Jonathan could not leave his apartment without scanning every person he passed for Edward. He could not remain inside of his apartment without scanning every person who passed the window for Edward. Night was the only time he could continue his work, and continue his work he did for he had concluded it was his only way out of this. Edward had stolen his body and so Jonathan would steal his mind.

When next Jonathan saw him the toxin was ready. He approached, which he had never done before. Edward’s smile implied he had anticipated such a thing and Jonathan hated the thrill it sparked in his stomach.

“You have something in mind today, I take it?” Edward said. His words were the lyrics to a song no one had the skill to write. Jonathan nodded.

“I have a truck parked out back.”

Edward hummed in satisfaction and followed him. Jonathan did not want to take his eyes away when he lifted himself into the bed and leaned back in it as though it were his own and not Jonathan’s, but he had to. He had to stop this now. He removed the needle from the glovebox and concealed it behind his back.

“What have you got there?” Edward asked. Jonathan did not answer. He instead climbed onto the bed and straddled Edward and pressed his left wrist above his head, at which time he -

They were so close together. And he knew. Jonathan could tell that he knew, but he had come anyway. All of this together stole Jonathan’s breath and his thoughts and replaced it with the violent need to grind his body against Edward’s until the ever-present ache between his legs was relieved at last. He glanced downward to find that Edward’s bulge was no more present than it had been before, but his was firm beneath Edward’s knowing fingers. He turned his head aside, into his right arm, in an attempt to dissipate the ensuing moan into his sleeve, but he knew the moment he did so it had not worked.

“Something tells me,” Edward said with accursed playfulness, “that drug isn’t going to be one of the ones I like.”

Jonathan could not answer because his ability to form words had been lost with a motion of Edward’s free hand.

“You know, if I wasn’t certain that was a lethal dose of your little fear experiment, I would have gone for it. But as it is I’ll have to refuse. No hard feelings.”

Jonathan bent down and pressed the point of the needle against the side of Edward’s neck. Edward did not flinch. Sweat was beading along Jonathan’s hairline and underneath his arms and the place where Edward’s hand was still bewitching him. “If I kill you,” Jonathan murmured into his ear, “then this will end.”

“Why would you want it to?” Edward whispered. His breath seemed to caress Jonathan’s skin. “Tell me, Jonathan. When was the last time you felt this much excitement? This alive? You never have, have you? That’s why you’ve fallen into this so hard and so deep. Your work gives you purpose, but it does not give you life. Not like I do.”

Jonathan prayed that his grip upon Edward’s wrist would not weaken and that his thumb on the plunger would not falter.

“If you kill me,” Edward went on, the sound of his voice making Jonathan helpless, “you will never know the part of yourself that I have awoken. And you can’t have that. Can you.”

Jonathan’s breath stalled. Edward’s eyes glittered knowingly in the dark and Jonathan could not stop looking at them.

“Drop the needle and do what you should have done when I laid myself out so nicely for you on your desk.”

Jonathan’s body obeyed against the panicked protestations of his mind. He was kissing him at long last, hard and desperate. His hand had released the needle and was clenching as much of Edward’s buttock as it could grasp, and Edward was laughing but Jonathan did not realise it until he ran out of breath. He lowered his head to the breast of the man who had broken him and left it there. Edward’s free hand was in Jonathan’s hair, at once reassuring and condescending, and he did not want for him to ever move it.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Edward fairly hummed into his ear, “you have been fun.” And his hand, still holding Jonathan’s crotch, clenched and twisted it with sudden violence. Jonathan saw white and that was all he was able to perceive for a good few moments. His resumed awareness told him he was curled against the side of the truck, and once he had regained enough of his breath he scrabbled his hand up the bed until he could push himself to sitting. He looked over his shoulder to see Edward sitting atop the other side, and as soon as their eyes met Edward smiled and swept his legs over the side and disappeared. Jonathan could not get up fast enough to chase him and he noticed with a start that the syringe was gone.

Days went by. Days, and then weeks, and then months. Edward had gone. He had vanished. Jonathan tore through newspapers for mention of him in between glances at the ever-on television for a hint towards his whereabouts. He scoured the Internet to the best of his limited ability and glowered at the publicly viewable footage and photographs and words describing the man who should have been his and only his. He fantasized about storming into the places who thought they had the right to publish anything about him, inflicting upon them their worst fears and watching as the building burned to the ground before him. He did not purposely sleep, and the occasions he found himself doing so he woke with clothes both sticky and sweat-soaked, driven by dreams of all the things he could have done when Edward had been beneath him but had not.

It was seven months and twenty-five days later when Jonathan received the postcard. The photograph upon the front contained nothing he recognised, but the words upon the back froze his very blood:

You want me. Here I am.

Jonathan learned then there was something worse than lust. The rage that rose up in him was blinding and numbing and deafening, and a scream of fury tore a strip into the back of his throat that would echo for days. His hands, divorced from any thought at all, tore the postcard asunder into a hundred jagged pieces and his eyes did not watch himself do it. When vision returned to them his breath shuddered and his legs weakened. He found himself kneeling on the floor amidst the fragments, and after a moment he began to gather them together in a panic. “No,” he whispered to himself with a horror he would never learn how to inflict upon another. “No!”

He tried for hours to reassemble the card, but to no avail. The pieces were too small and too many. He held the scrap which contained the most of the words Edward had written and clenched it tightly within both hands. And then Jonathan knew something which was nearly as horrible as the rage had been, and that was sorrow. His body was a rigid inward curl and he cried hot and bitter tears into his own knees, his forehead pressed into his clasped hands. Edward’s laugh was echoing in his ears. Even now Jonathan could not find it ugly.

The sleep that came to Jonathan then was of a sort he had not known in years, deep and black and dreamless, and when he awoke and looked upon the evidence of what he had spent months upon months buried inside of he felt nothing. He felt nothing at all. Edward was still beautiful, but whatever part of him had cared was no longer there. His eyes fell to the paper scattered upon the floor.

“No,” he said to it. “No, I think I will wait until it is you who wants me.”

And he rose to his feet and laughed and began to think of what he would do when finally that day came.

#I think you are going to like this #Riddler #Scarecrow #Scriddler #fanfic from Indy

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