#context will be provided…eventually

[cannibalindsm]

Proud of her transition <3

[windor-truffle]

From the creator of angsty WIPs such as "what if Richard remained a monster in post game" and "what if Lambda tricked Asbel into killing Sophie" comes Dolphin's finest Graces fanfic scenario yet: What if Asbel had met Lambda on Lhant Hill as a kid instead of Sophie?

Dolphin awkwardly yet enthusiastically presents the frequently and mysteriously alluded to Tales of Graces long fic, working title "Two Hearts Could Be One"! An alternate universe in which Asbel and Lambda travel together, struggling to reconcile their flaws and learning to understand one another. One a martyr who'd sacrifice themselves to protect anything, the other a monster who'd sacrifice anything to protect themselves, both bonded in loneliness and bound in the same mind. Constant drama and angst guaranteed!* But stay tuned for that sweet happy?(???) ending after 25(?) chapters of the most emotionally gut-wrenching character drama a blorbo can endure!

Critics are calling it "Tales of Graces but better/worse," saying that the tone "ranges from bleak to hollow" and that "[Dolphin] should not have custody of Asbel" because "[Dolphin is] evil." Don't miss this chance to feel really depressed and distressed through the lens of what USED to be a chipper JRPG!!

Coming *eventually* to an Archive of Our Own near you!

*Contains graphic depictions of violence, possession, manipulation, body horror, and frequent suicidal ideation. Consult your local back arrow if you have concerns about problematic elements such as redemption arcs for abusive villains.

[arolesbianism]

I've been thinking abt my critter dupes some more and it was all fun and games until I remembered that I made Mi-ma a beeta and hm. Whoops. Uh oh. (<- Considered the implications for more than 2 seconds)

[akkivee]

something i like about stage canon is that with the sasasama duet from track 5, it lends itself to the assumption that after their break up the next time samatoki saw sasara was thru radio as he climbed up to stardom and it validates my hc that media was how samatoki found out sasara was just fine without him lol

[meimeikyu]

i have. so much thoughts. i want to make so much festivalverse stuff but. currently my brain is consumed by the magnus archives.

[watchyourdigits]

Falloutober Day Five

This Thing Called Defeat

Time for some oc lore!! This is the story of Frankie's ousting from the Army.

For context, an Undesirable Discharge, or "blue discharge", is one that is "neither honorable nor dishonorable". It was issued to gay soldiers (and disproportionately to Black soldiers). Recipients were highly discriminated against in civilian life and often did not receive any VA benefits after their service. The use of blue discharges was only discontinued in 1974, a year after homosexuality was removed from the APAs list of mental illnesses.

Who doesn't like a little bit of depressing history with their ficlets, eh?

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, homophobia, alcoholism

Captain Donahue was poised in wait, attentively seeking the precise moment that Frankie's hand crossed the final signature line. In actuality, he'd started speaking before Frankie had even dotted the 'i' in his first name.

"Franklin Lee Barr, you are hereby dismissed from your service in the United States Army. You will be returned to base as soon as you've finished up here and monitored under close supervision. Tomorrow, a bus will be provided to shuttle you to the nearest train station at oh seven hundred hours for your final departure. Do you have any questions for me?"

Frankie shook his head stiffly.

"No, sir."

He had been sent back to base less than a week prior. When he'd been subsequently shipped to Fort Hagen that morning, he wasn't sure what to expect.

Three hours of waiting later and he'd finally been summoned to meet with the Captain of his company in the office of Lieutenant Colonel Jamieson. It had been less than a half hour since he'd first entered that room.

Everything was all done in secrecy, papers signed hastily away from prying eyes. Through his numbness, he realized he hadn't even been told the nature of his discharge. He continued signing the papers anyway, having a gut feeling that he knew damn well what it was all about.

Lieutenant Colonel Jamieson asked Frankie to stay behind for a minute. They waited for Donahue to take his leave with the Army's copies of the discharge paperwork. Once the door had shut behind the Captain, Jamieson turned his attention to Frankie.

"I'm terribly sorry for what happened down in Myrtle Beach. I understand that you and Private Malcolm Di Marino had a close bond… Cousins, was it?"

Frankie felt his chest tighten.

They gotta know I'm a queer then... I ain't gonna see a lick of money from these sonsuvbitches.

"Yes, sir."

Jamieson hummed and finally looked away from him, adjusting some files on the desk. Frankie saw his name on a few of the tabs. He presumed his entire life, both before and during his time in the military, was contained within the various folders and envelopes.

Jamieson was always said to be incredibly thorough, though Frankie hadn't much experience with the man. He'd turned out to be surprisingly soft-spoken when compared to many of the NCOs below him who executed his orders.

"I'm sure you're aware of all the nasty talk that began shortly after his passing."

"I am, sir," Frankie replied dutifully, though through gritted teeth.

"Then I'm sure you understand the reasons people were calling for your discharge," Jamieson stated, glancing back up at Frankie expectantly.

"Of course, sir."

"So you don't deny what's been said about your character?"

Frankie met his gaze. He didn't look angry. If anything, he almost had a hint of curiosity about him, as if he really wanted to understand whether there was a lick of truth to any of it.

"I don't."

The Lieutenant Colonel clicked his tongue and shook his head, becoming visibly disappointed.

"I thought as much. In any case, I read reports of your performance after the unfortunate loss of life that evening…"

"What did the reports say, sir?"

"They said you were instrumental in the rescue efforts of at least two dozen allied soldiers who found themselves pinned down by similar bombardments in and around that area."

Frankie frowned a little, wracking his brain. He'd mostly blocked out whatever happened after Malcolm had been killed. Now it felt as if it were all nothing more than an indiscernible dream at best.

"I'd be lyin' if I said I remember clear enough to confirm those reports you're talkin' 'bout, sir."

"Maybe this will jog your memory."

Jamieson lifted the topmost envelope from his pile and held it out. Frankie took it and opened the clasp, flicking it open to shake the paperwork free.

On the front was a mission brief. It was the very one that had been sent out to advise all other companies to evacuate the areas they tenuously occupied on the easternmost side of South Carolina. More Chinese soldiers were expected to arrive within the coming weeks of the first attacks to completely take those regions.

Through this, it was brought to light just how underprepared they had been to take on the task of holding down such large swathes of the seaboard. It didn't help that most of the military zone retention efforts were being focused around the upper east coast, closer to D.C.

Images entered Frankie's consciousness that he thought for sure he'd drunk out of his system. The last of the rescue missions they undertook was fourteen miles south of their initial position.

There wasn't enough liquor in the world to free him from images of the bloated bodies of both Chinese and American soldiers as they were taken by the tides. The sands were smeared with a red that seeped into the waters, attracting schools of fish to nibble the rotting flesh from their bones.

The smell was another story entirely, one that carried on the breeze and told anyone within a mile radius of the brutal massacre that took place there. They'd been too late to save anyone.

Frankie never slept the same after that.

He shook his head to collect himself, lips pursed as he skimmed the rest of the briefing. His fingers itched for the flask he'd carefully stowed within his jacket's inner pocket. Frankie huffed through his nose in annoyance at the whole situation and at everything that had unfolded in the days after they were attacked.

"I remember now. They wanted us to leave those men behind. I said I wasn't gonna do that."

"You told Staff Sergeant Carson that he 'wasn't fit to lead a children's choir, let alone this fucking squad' and told him to 'shove that Yankee dick of his up his own ass'... He wasn't pleased, and he certainly made sure I was aware of it."

"'Course he wasn't pleased. He's a goddamn coward who didn't take kindly to bein' reminded of that fact."

Lieutenant Colonel Jamieson didn't say a word as he held his hand out for the file. Frankie shoved the papers back in carelessly and passed it off to him.

"We lived in bizarre times," he said slowly, carefully replacing the file to its proper place in the stack. "I never thought I'd see the day when a soldier is punished for taking such courageous action in spite of the great risk to his own life."

"Dunno why you're actin' surprised. This whole world's goin' to shit."

Jamieson gave an ambivalent shrug as if he wanted to agree, but was honor-bound not to speak ill of current operations.

"Keep your chin up, Mister Barr. You can sleep well knowing you did the right thing, whether the institutions that fund the United States Army want to acknowledge that or not."

"Thank you, sir."

The Lieutenant Colonel saluted him, actually fucking saluted him, and Frankie returned it, though mostly out of shock.

It'd be the last time he'd raise an arm in respect of one of these bastards.

His own paperwork tucked under his arm, Frankie pushed through the door and into the brightly lit hallway. Halfway down the hall, Frankie caved to his curiosity.

The way Jamieson spoke so highly of him had gotten his hopes up. He sifted through the papers he held until he found the letter he'd been looking for.

UNDESIRABLE DISCHARGE

from the Armed Forces of the United States of America

This is to certify that

Private Franklin Lee Barr 51794287

was discharged from the United States Army on the 14th day of September 2075 as UNDESIRABLE.

[leynaeithnea]

Damn that looks like Avena, and the area where they created the homunculus 👀

>>>>> Excerpt??? >>>>>

His legs barely carried his weight, still unused to movement. But he kept his balance as he took his first step. And then the second. And the third.

The icy metal of the floor bit into his bare feet with each step, the cold painfully creeping up his legs to his knees. It reminded him what it felt like to have a body, what it felt like to be alive.

This new state he had found himself in felt forgein and unreal. He looked down to see himself breathe to make sure that it was not a dream. Clouds formed in front of his nose, with each rise and fall of his chest. Alive. He was alive.

He reached out when he almost lost his balance but as he saw his hands he stopped in motion. His skin was free of blood and bruises, washed and clean. It didn't make sense. He would have marveled longer, had a mirroring sparkle in the polished floor not caught his attention. A nightsky greeted him through the glass ceiling when he looked up.

With the view, an ache formed in his chest and for a moment he longed to reach for the stars and let the night embrace him. But he knew the sky was too far away for him to reach. So he directed his gaze back to the hall and took another step forward.

- Prologue, Minto Wild, main WIP

川の畔の巨大発電所→詳細 Abandoned giant power plant in river side.

[originalcontent]

My cousin just texted me out of the blue asking for fantasy novel recs, so this is my karmic reward for reading a book that my friends really wanted me to read but which I'm not that into.

[licorishh]

I've never watched the Twilight movies but I have repeatedly watched multiple YouTube channels make fun of them and I'm sorry but there is something so viscerally and gut-bustingly hilarious to me about the fact that Edward keeps asking Bella to marry him in like the second to last one or whatever and she keeps being like 🤣 no. gonna kiss you on the mouth anyway

[elbiotipo]

To me there's a deeper meaning, though I don't know how to express it, on people using pathologizing language in education i.e. "cognitive atrophy" "brain damage" as an explanation for learning issues.

Which to be fair, the authors of that paper asked specifically not to be used, but the twitter thread linked on that post (which has 38k notes as of this post, jesus christ) did use, extensively. Using language such as "brain damage", "cognitive atrophy" and how could I forget, "soulless".

However, the authors of the paper also didn't have a good methodology, other people have gotten into it better than myself, but the paper does not really point to any cognitive decline, and the methodology used does not offer long-term explanations. But what I do think is that when we're talking about things such as AIs in education, or any other new technology, we should investigate them as tools used in a social context. Why do people use AI as a tool? How do educators and instutions handle this? In which way this tool worsen education or might, god forbid, enhance it? Here the focus, as so much Usamerican education research at least in my experience, is on almost purely numerical and anatomical (EEG? really?) results rather than any pedagogical studies on the tools and their users. (and those results are very poor too)

And once you go down the road of finding pathological answers to educational issues, you will start finding pathological solutions instead of social ones. Why try to confront social or familial issues, when these students obviously have something wrong with their brains? Hell, why even provide them with education, their brains can't even handle it. Eventually you might as well give up and just educate the worthy ones. If you don't believe me, see how education and mental healthcare in the US works.

For someone like me who believes that education is fundamentally a social institution and that every student comes from a social and cultural background that needs to be understood before the process of learning begins, these studies (or rather, unhinged twitter threads) that claim that a complex process like learning can be understood in pathological terms are profoundly hostile to me.

[ddarker-dreams]

Impasse.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, captivity, Reader makes a joke about dying, discussions of parenthood, some not SFW implications. Word count: 2k.

Chrollo has been acting strange today. 

You’ve been hesitant to acknowledge this shift. For better or for worse, the two of you have fallen into a routine. It’s a strained routine, yes, but it provides a degree of stability otherwise missing from your upended life. To put it simply, you bother him and he bothers you. There’s some nuance — for instance, your schemes are limited in scope, owing to a power imbalance so unfair you think the universe owes you a solid. Nonetheless, you’re proud to say you’ve hurt his feelings once or twice. Then there’s his part. He specializes in picking your brain, making you uncomfortable by pretending he’s normal, and making you uncomfortable when he quits pretending. 

He's abstained from any of these behaviors since this morning. This pushes you past the ‘uncomfortable’ threshold, now you’re nervous. 

This is made worse when he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Have you ever wanted children?” 

“Children?” You repeat, your voice not dissimilar to a mouse’s squeak. “Like, kids?” 

There’s a brief glimpse of amusement on his countenance, but he’s quick to redirect your focus. “Whichever word you prefer.” 

You study him. Presently, you’re sitting atop a barstool overlooking the area’s living space, while he leans against a nearby support column. He’s changed into his evening attire, a loose white shirt and gray sweatpants. You’re not so fortunate. You’re still paying for an indiscretion committed earlier in the week. Consequently, your wardrobe has been reduced to his preferred aesthetics. You’re wearing a black nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and lace embellishments.

Given your vulnerable position, risqué outfit, and his not-so-subtle interest in wooing you, the potential implications inspire discomfort. You shrink into yourself. What is he getting at? You’ve managed to avoid most of his physical advances, but you’re not delusional; if he willed it, you’d be at his mercy. You always feared he was operating on an invisible timer known only to him, each passing second bringing you closer to— 

“You’re overthinking things,” he notes. “I have no ulterior motives. I’m simply curious.” 

“Curious?” you repeat back, cautious. 

He nods. 

“What brought this ‘curiosity’ about?” 

Chrollo stares at you. You can feel his eyes dissecting everything, from your closed-off body language to your barely concealed hostility. 

“... I see,” he eventually says. “You won’t trust me without context. Very well. It’s nothing so grand. Though, in return for my honesty, I expect yours. Does that sound fair?” 

Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. “I guess.” 

He stands to his full height and walks over, pulling out the barstool to your left. He doesn’t intrude on your personal space, but his proximity has you shuffling to the right. He allows you your meager defiance. 

“Last night, I had a dream,” he starts. Then, a pause. He’s giving his word choice unusual consideration. “In it, we were married… or maybe not. Whatever the case, it was a far more conventional lifestyle. You had to take a phone call — with your mother, I believe — so you asked me to watch over two names I’d never heard before. They bore such a resemblance to you. Aside from their eyes, that is.” 

You wonder if he’s aware that he’s smiling. 

Chrollo clears his throat. “As I said, it’s nothing so grand.” 

It’s your turn to scrutinize him. You might not be a virtuoso in the art like he is, but you have your methods. What strikes you is how much of himself he revealed, unwittingly or by design, although the latter suits him better. He must have decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice for any insight you’ll give. 

“Kids… they always sounded nice to me, in theory. Except for when I was a teenager. I was vehemently against the idea then,” you can’t help chuckling at the memory. “I don’t know. I guess I came around to the thought again, but… it’d only be after I established myself. Solid career, housing, whatever. And, of course, the right partner.” 

You’re sure your side eye doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Not that any of that is in the cards anymore. You’re not delusional enough to think otherwise, right?” 

The skin beneath his eyes crinkles. “And if I was?” 

“I’d fling myself off a balcony.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.” 

You begin picking at a stray thread on the hem of your nightgown. “Yeah, well, I wish for a lot of things that don’t come true.” 

“I suppose we’re alike in that regard.” 

“Gross,” you make a face. Pursing your lips, you hesitantly ask, “Was that really all you had on your mind? You’ve been so…” 

“So…?” He repeats, matching your inflection. It goads you along. 

“Pensive? Gloomy? Something to that effect. It’s like there’s this little rain cloud floating over you.” 

You motion to the space above his head where the proverbial rain cloud would be. 

“A few days ago, you said some choice words,” Chrollo recalls, much to your displeasure. You were hoping he’d leave that in the past. “They left an impression.” 

You swallow thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

Chrollo gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lying isn’t one of your strong suits; I suggest avoiding it.”

While shifting around in your seat, you wish you could turn invisible. 

“During your little outburst, you asked if I was ‘happy’ with how things are. An interesting question, to say the least. I’ve given it some thought.” 

Svelte fingers graze your jawline. You stiffen up, every muscle seizing into place, as if you’d been paralyzed. His touch is gentle, almost featherlight. Your pulse quickens like you’re a lamb awaiting slaughter. Staring straight ahead, you desperately search for some object to fixate on. You settle on the support column. An avant-garde clock sits high on it, the bottom half of its frame drooping, as if it were paint splashed against a wall. 

You count the seconds as they pass. Two, four, ten… 

His fingers tighten around your jaw and he turns you to face him. 

What a sight you must be — cheeks squished together, eyebrows high, lips agape. And then there’s him. He’s frowning, but aside from that, you can’t get a read on him. The intensity of his gaze holds you captive. Without warning, he leans forward, tilting his head slightly as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel his warm breath fan against your face, how he strengthens his grip, likely anticipating resistance. 

“How can I be ‘happy’ when you’re still so adverse to my touch?” Chrollo whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he talks. You fight the urge to cringe.  “What will it take to have you where I want you?” 

After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, but doesn’t move back. 

You reopen your eyes. You’re more familiar with the man sitting before you, if only by a fraction. Even then, an unnerving atmosphere lingers, speckling your skin in goosebumps. You wrap your arms around yourself and exhale. The consequences from that day’s lapse in judgment have been manageable until now. 

Your day-to-day existence is defined by a lack of control. Over where you’ll go, what you’ll do, even what you can wear. Chrollo is the composer of your life and you’re his pièce de résistance, whom he always makes adjustments to. You must match his tempo or scramble to catch up. This paradigm has slowly yet surely eroded you, sanding over your harsh edges until you’re soft to the touch. 

You wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what jagged pieces remain, but now that you may have accomplished just that, you’re burdened by regret. 

Not for what you did. 

No, for what you possibly started. 

“Chrollo.” 

“Hm?” 

“How much of me are you willing to destroy to get what you want?” 

Chrollo lets out a low hum, as if the hypothetical you presented him with was nothing so unthinkable. This alone stokes your anxiety. Sometimes you wonder if this is not already the path you’re being ushered towards. He’s amassed victories, some small, others sizable. You’re far more docile now compared to when he first took you. Back then, you could barely function, panic ruled your every waking thought and seeped into your dreams, denying every respite. 

“You have the wrong idea,” Chrollo asserts. “I don’t want to destroy any element of you. All I’d like is a change in perspective.” 

You gawk at him. “Huh?” 

“Haven’t I proven I’m not as terrible as you feared?” he questions, tilting his head. “I could’ve been every bit the monster you imagined me to be, if not worse.” 

“Should I— do you expect gratitude, or something?” 

Mirth dances in his eyes like flecks of ember. “It wouldn’t hurt, but no. All I’m suggesting is that you cease torturing yourself for the sake of pride.” 

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t you, though?” he challenges, his confidence vexing. “Patience is one of the few virtues I have, but it’s finite. Your love of testing it grows tiresome.” 

You watch as the thread you were tugging at snaps off, fluttering to the marble floor. Your trembling fingers long for another task to occupy themselves with. He sounds as composed as ever, yet beneath the façade, microscopic fissures are forming. You’ve been chiselling at him in your own way. Testing what you can go away with, what remains taboo. Have you finally stumbled into the latter? 

Or was it something else?

Recalling the muted delight on his features when he recounted his dream, you frown.

You’ve always believed the human mind’s capacity to dream is its cruelest gimmick. 

Nightmares are no stranger to scorn — those phantasmagorias that play feature length-films of your fears and insecurities. You’re made to be an unwilling member of the audience, every frame composed with malicious intent. These night terrors deserve their ill-begotten reputation. 

What doesn’t get enough credit for hurting just as much, if not more, are lovely dreams. The idyllic, the picturesque, the unobtainable. They are a heartache you gladly hold the door open for. Once inside, your inner world is redesigned. The spectacle is so dazzling that you come to prefer it over reality. Dreams, both good and bad, are destined to end. For every long nightmare you awake from, there is a paradise you had mere seconds to explore. 

From the corner of your eye you glance at Chrollo. 

For such a greedy man, the dream he fondly recounted is so unremarkable, you almost find it pitiful. 

“That’s quite the conundrum,” you murmur.  “Oh?” 

“You don’t want me to be debilitated by terror, but I’m still supposed to fear you enough to stay in line.” 

“How astute.” 

“Is there really no other way?” You ask, scrunching your eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you just let me go and share in my joy? Surely, that must be better than having me glare at you twenty-four seven.” 

Chrollo chuckles, as if the suggestion you presented is a nonsensical fantasy. 

“I’m not a good enough man to do that, love. You never noticed all the things I did. People are drawn to you. You’re equal parts endearing and naive, it’s an alluring combination. I can’t stand idly by and watch others take from you what I want most.” 

“... How long were you stalking me, exactly?” 

He gives an enigmatic smile. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.” 

Before you can do just that, he gives your thigh an unwelcome squeeze. 

“Let’s call it a night,” he says, his casual tone belying how the statement’s an order. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” 

You don’t bother voicing your newfound apprehensions. Instead, you wordlessly hop down from your seat, scanning your surroundings for a path to the master bedroom. The home is sparsely lit, but you manage to find your way. You pause at the lack of a second set of footsteps. Chrollo had gotten into the habit of walking audibly at your request, as you found his former silence ‘off-putting.��� 

You discover he’s yet to get up himself, seemingly lost in thought. “You aren’t coming?” 

“In a moment,” he responds. "Go on ahead."

It feels like his eyes are on you even after you’ve left the room. 

[sun-marie]

Post-canon, somewhere in a Rivaini inn, Lucanis sees more of "Rook" than he thought possible <3

Background/headcanons under the cut for context:

Background:

- Lydia Laidir, born into slavery in the Imperium, was inadvertently freed when the ship she was serving on was attacked by the Felicisma Armada, and eventually taken in by Isabela and the Lords of Fortune. Isabela gave her the affectionate nickname "Rook(ie)", and in a effort to cope with her upbringing she sought to reinvent herself under this new name. Overtime, the name Lydia became an extremely personal aspect to her, and by the time of Veilguard the only people who know her real name are Isabela and Anders (her magical mentor), and she goes by Rook exclusively to everyone else, even her partner Lucanis.

Headcanons:

- After the events of Veilguard, Spite stops reflecting Lucanis and instead takes the form of a cat (credit for this galaxy brained hc goes to @/ravioliage)

- As a mage growing up in Rivain and mentored by Anders and Justice, Lydia has learned to hear Spite in a similar way to Emmrich 💜 This makes many situations both more and less awkward.

- Shortly after the events of Veilguard, Lydia was able to pair Lucanis with a baby wyvern of his own, who he named Dolce (credit for the name goes to @/iisadiya), and when there isn't a pen outside or there's bad weather, she curls up on whatever furniture the inn provides in their room and absolutely destroys it with her claws and venom <3 Lydia and Lucanis have, on multiple occasions, had to soothe a very distressed innkeeper and pay a small fortune in damages 😔

[bayleaf-2]

Auuuugh debating whether to make the mind-reading blocking helmet Lisp makes Lyra (because that's what Ioun's eye sun does, is read thoughts. The Library is also able to do that, and Lyra's living there) at the start of the epilogue something that covers their entire face or not...

On one hand, if it covered their entire face, it would not fit well with my art style because the helmet would probably be something that opens up (like this:)

Which like. These both look dope as hell, but my heads are circles. Something with a jaw hinge would look out of place since it wouldn't match the structure of how I draw faces. On the other, iirc the canonical description was something that covered their entire face and I could just deal and try to make it work. And bonus points, when (if???) Lyra eventually takes it off, the reveal would be much cooler if more of their face has been hidden all this time.

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ GUILTY AS SIN? | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x wolff!reader

genre. angst; some fluff

synopsis. days after you showed up in the paddock wearing charles' shirt, toto wolff is still not talking to you. it tears at you, him, and your relationship with charles. tired of living life scared you'll disappoint toto, you show up to the paddock holding charles' hand.

warnings. none; guest appearances from carlos and george

word count. 3.1k

note. this is the second part to ‘but daddy i love him’. this makes sense if you haven't read that, but reading the first part provides context for a lot of the things happening in this part. i want to write drabbles set in this universe, so if you have requests/ideas, please send them <3

MASTERLIST ; part one ; requests open

LOVE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE EASY; loving Charles had—since the beginning of your relationship—been as easy as breathing. Until reality eventually caught up. The love you held for Charles had not become more difficult since that fateful moment when you walked onto the paddock draped in Charles’ jacket; everything around it had become more complicated—more difficult—ever since then.

Toto’s voice still rang in your ears; his voice lingered in your mind like an echo you couldn’t get rid of—“Can someone explain why my daughter is wearing Leclerc’s Ferrari jacket?”. You remembered freezing in your tracks, glancing over at Charles—who looked just as much a deer in headlights as you; then Toto’s narrowed eyes. The events which followed passed by in a blur; silence; you opening your mouth to explain; disappointment radiating off Toto; his silent—sharp—”I don’t want to hear it.”. That had been the end of it; Toto had stridden past you and disappeared into the Mercedes garage; Charles had gently placed a hand on your lower back and led you to the Ferrari motorhome, where he left you with a kiss to your forehead and a promise that everything would be okay.

George passed by—he stopped to chat for a few minutes before realising he was late to a strategy meeting and had to sprint across the paddock. Then Carlos walked by, he pulled out a chair opposite you—his navy Williams t-shirt contrasting against the bright red of the Ferrari motorhome—and sat down; he handed you snacks stolen from the Williams motorhome wrapped in a napkin—they were slid over the table as if they were contraband. 

“You know there’s snacks here, right?” You laughed, even though the laugh didn’t reach your eyes; Carlos noticed, he tilted his head, smiling at you.

“Yes, but they’re not as good, no?”

The former Ferrari, now Williams, driver nodded towards the snacks wrapped in a napkin sitting on the table in front of you, encouraging you to unwrap the snacks and eat one—you did. Inside the napkin was an assortment of grapes, chocolate, and cookies; you muttered a thank you to Carlos which he waved off, telling you that it was nothing. He sat there for a while, telling jokes; you tried to laugh at them, but the laughter never reached your eyes; it was all an act and Carlos could clearly tell.

“It’s going to be okay, you know. Toto might be pissed now, but we all know how much he adores you; he’ll accept it eventually.” Carlos’ voice was soft—comforting—as it reached your ears. You pressed your lips together, nodding solemnly.

“What if he doesn’t?” You didn’t want to admit it outloud, but the thought had pierced through every corner of your brain ever since that morning—ever since Toto had stormed off to the Mercedes garage with a “I don’t want to hear it”. Carlos stood up from his chair—he had to go to a meeting which was far less important than you—still, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Then maybe he is not who you thought he was.” 

That had been days ago. You hadn’t spoken to Toto since; it was strange not speaking to him. You had gone back to Vienna after the race; you’d walked by the café you’d gone to with Toto for years ever since you were old enough to ask the barista for a hot chocolate—”Ich hätte gern eine heiße Schokolade, bitte”. A peculiar feeling—longing, perhaps—coursed through your veins, settled deep in the very marrow of your bones, at the sight of the table you and Toto used to occupy being empty. Usually when you walked through this part of Vienna, it was to meet Toto at this café; he would always sit and wait when you walked in—books clutched in your arms—he’d meet you with a smile and a comment about how the books made you forget about life again—that was true sometimes, other times it was because Charles distracted you, made you forget that there was a world outside the bubble which only contained you and him. You never told Toto this; you’d smile at him and tell him that ja, papa, it was the books again. The memory felt faint; the more you tried to reach for it, the fainter it became until it was like a sun faded cassette tape someone had left out in the sun for too long.

You hadn’t seen Charles since the end of the race weekend. You went with Charles to celebrate Oscar’s Grand Prix win with the rest of the grid; your heart hammering in your chest—joy encapsulating you—as Charles wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you to him, kissing you in front of everyone in the middle of the dance floor; he had stuck close to you the entire evening, just as you had stuck close to him––now you were in two different countries, miles separating you. You missed Charles’ presence—his laugh, his small touches. He suggested you come with him to Monaco after the race; you declined, worried that you would inevitably run into Toto there—”Chérie, you can come stay with me in Monaco.” he’d pleaded, almost begged, looking at you; you shook your head, watching as his eyes filled with tears, as his bottom lip wobbled. Walking through the Viennese streets, you regretted every action you had taken, every word spoken, during that exchange. You had spoken to Charles occasionally and briefly ever since; it was as though a chasm had opened between you—one that neither of you knew how to close. The last exchange you had was Charles asking if you were going to the next race—Monza—you’d told him no, claiming that you were buried under schoolwork—that had been a lie; you weren’t buried under schoolwork, you just didn’t want to go to the paddock; didn’t want to face the disappointment Toto’s entire being would exude the moment he laid eyes on you. If you went, you would—for the first time—go as a guest of Ferrari and not Mercedes; there was something bittersweet over it.

Charles waited outside your flat when you arrived back home; he gently pried the bags you were carrying from your hands—warmth bloomed where his fingertips made contact with your skin. He smiled softly at you, muttering a quick “hi”, which you returned; he shuffled into the flat after you, closing and locking the door behind him. His presence in your flat felt familiar—welcome. During the months of your (secret) relationship, Charles spent many days in this flat; playing the pianoforte you never knew why you had—you couldn’t play piano—putting away groceries; laughing; smiling; kissing you whenever he could. Before you could say anything, Charles had slipped out of his shoes; his humming fluttered through the air as he put the groceries away.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” At the sound of your voice, Charles looked up from the grocery bag he was digging through—one hand cradling a bag of flour. He paused, his eyes searching yours. He turned, opening the cabinet you kept your flour in before turning back to you and sighing; his hands flattening against the countertop.

“I wanted to see you. We’ve barely talked since the race and when we have talked, it has been brief. Mon ange, tell me what’s going on; we’re in this together.” Charles’ voice had grown steadily quieter as he spoke; you could only stare at him, blood coursing through your veins, your heart hammering in your chest. Charles took a step towards you, then another, then his arms wrapped around you—his scent surrounding you—one hand placed on your back, the other on the back of your head; pulling you into him. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. The tears flowed slowly at first; Charles didn’t speak, he just held you, waiting for you to speak, even though the feeling of your tears wetting his skin broke his heart—tugged painfully at strings attached to it. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy.

“It’s papa. I love you, I do. I just feel like I’ve disappointed him.” You stumbled through the sentence, unsure of how to express your feelings, how to word them in a coherent—understandable—way. Charles understood; he knew you better than anyone—he would always understand what you were trying to tell him, even though it was veiled, slurred, or incomprehensible.

“You can’t live your entire life scared that you’ll disappoint him. He talks about you all the time when you’re not present; he’s so proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved. This—our relationship—shocked him, but he’ll come around eventually. He’s not unreasonable. I think the way he found out was jarring for him, unexpected. He’ll come around, chérie, I promise.” Echoes of Carlos’ words rang through your mind as you listened to Charles speak. You didn’t want him to be right, but he was—you couldn’t live life scared of disappointing Toto. Charles cupped your cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears—his touch was soft, gentle, as it always was. You wanted desperately to believe him; your mind screamed at you to forget every worry you had bottled up since you started dating Charles. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth—gnawing at it. The more you thought about it, the clearer it became that Charles was right; Toto would accept it eventually. He had no other choice.

“Where are you going?” Your voice was still shaky—raw—from crying. You vaguely gestured to the bags Charles had left in your entry. Charles, for a moment, glanced from you at his bags; his hands still cupped your cheeks, your bodies still pressed impossibly close together.

“The race. I just had to see you first, since you’re not coming.” Charles’ voice was tinged with hope—hope that you may change your mind and attend the race with him; there was no one he wanted there more than you. He often joked—as you laid beside him, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin—that you were his lucky charm; he insisted that he performed better whenever you were in the paddock. You weren’t sure you believed that claim. 

“Is it too late to go with you?” Charles’ eyes lit up, his lips widening into a smile as he shook his head, rambling in French—various combinations of “non, mon ange”, “il n'est pas trop tard”, and “j'adorerais t'avoir là”.

If anyone had asked you later what thoughts coursed through your mind as you agreed to go to the race with Charles, you wouldn’t have been able to give them an answer—the spur of the moment decision was inexplicable even to you; perhaps it had been the hope in Charles’ eyes, in his voice; or maybe it had been something else entirely—you were not sure. Charles pressed his lips against yours, pulling you closer. You led Charles down the same hallway he had walked through time and time again, pulling him into your bedroom. He stood by your bed—which he had been in more times than you could remember—putting items of clothing into your open suitcase as you handed it to him.

Standing outside the paddock gates, Charles entwined your fingers. This time—unlike the last—you wore your own clothes. Your heart hammered in your chest; Charles squeezed your hand, smiling softly at you. Whatever happened beyond the paddock gates, you would face together. The entire paddock stilled as you walked through the gates; Carlos smiled at you as he walked by; Charles pulled you closer to him as you made your way across the paddock.

Toto paused as he saw you and Charles walking hand-in-hand through the paddock, smiles plastered on both your faces; he sighed, his hand coming up to rub his temples. He pulled his lips into a thin line, greeting both you and Charles when he walked by you. You stopped, opening your mouth to say something; when no words formed, you closed it; your lips pulled up into a tight smile—Toto would recognise that smile anywhere, it was the same tight smile he wore when he had to be polite. He watched—from the Mercedes motorhome—as Charles kissed you— your forehead, your cheeks, your lips—before running off to a meeting. The day was littered with small, affectionate touches between you and Charles and conversations which left you beaming—smiling so brightly and so much that your muscles hurt.

“This went well?” You looked up at Charles, who had sat down beside you on the couch; he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“It did.” Doubt still gnawed at you; crawling up your throat, clenching around your heart. Toto’s greeting had been brief, but it had been more than you’d talked to him in a week. He looked tired; bags had appeared under his eyes; he looked older than he did the last time you saw him—this was clearly taking a toll on Toto too. Charles pulled you closer to him, slinging his arm around your shoulder; brushing a lock of hair away from your face—you smiled at him, kissing his cheek. You couldn’t help but look over at the Mercedes motorhome—Toto was nowhere to be seen. Charles noticed the glances you would—periodically—throw in that direction; he nudged you gently, his eyes filled with a softness he only held for you.

“What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

“I think I want to go talk to papa.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, your gaze fixed on the motorhome across the paddock.

“Go.” Charles gently urged you. He could see—he had seen, this past week—how much this argument—which wasn’t really an argument—tore at you, threatening to rip you apart. You and Toto had always been close—Charles had discovered this on numerous occasions, from how you talked about your childhood with Toto to how you told him you couldn’t go on a date with him once because you had your monthly coffee date with Toto.

You left the Ferrari motorhome headed for the Mercedes motorhome. Stepping through the sliding doors, you saw George sitting in the cafeteria alone; he looked up as the doors slid open. A smile spread across his lips at the sight of you.

“Welcome back, you here to see Toto?” You swallowed thickly, nodding. George smiled, pointing in the general direction of Toto’s office, “Last I saw him, he was in his office. Good luck!” You shook your head, scoffing at him, muttering something about how you didn’t need luck to speak to Toto; that was a lie—you needed all the luck you could get.

Toto’s head shot up when the door to his office opened; the last person he expected to see stood on the other side of it—one hand clutched the door handle, only letting go when Toto gestured for you to come inside. He closed his computer, folding his hands on top of it.

“Schatz.”

“Hi, papa.” You sank down in a chair opposite Toto’s desk, his eyes followed your every move. On your way over, you had planned exactly what you wanted to say, but as you sat in Toto’s office—Toto sitting opposite you—your mouth dried, every word you had prepared disappearing into thin air; you had never felt like this with Toto—you had always been able to tell him whatever was on your mind. It was a strange feeling; one you didn’t revel in. Toto patiently waited for you to speak—he had a meeting, but you were far more important than the meeting; the meeting could be rescheduled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Charles; I just didn’t know how to. I should’ve told you. I’ve thought a bit since then, and it wasn’t fair to you to find out the way you did.” Toto listened intently to every word pouring from your lips, “I love Charles, I’m not going to apologise for that. Charles is one of the nicest, kindest, people I’ve met and he treats me so well. You don’t have to like it, I’m not asking you to, you just have to accept it and stop being upset with me for, what, falling in love?” Your heart hammered in your chest, sweat beading on your forehead, your hands grew clammy; you tried to wipe them on your jeans, but it did nothing. Toto sighed softly.

“I’m not mad at you for falling in love; I’m upset you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, schatz. I’m upset I had to find out from you walking into the paddock in Leclerc’s shirt.” He looked at you for a moment, before glancing out the window; the Ferrari motorhome was clearly visible from where he was sitting, “I see how happy he makes you; how happy you are when you are with him. He’s one of the better drivers you could have chosen.” He laughed softly, his mouth quirking up into a smile, his crows feet appearing around his eyes. At the sound of Toto’s laughter, you couldn’t help the giggle that burst from your lips. You stood from your chair at the same moment Toto did; he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m sorry, papa.” You mumbled into the white button-up he always wore to race weekends.

“It’s okay. Tell that Leclerc kid that if he hurts you, he’ll have to deal with me.”

It was with much lighter steps that you walked back to the Ferrari motorhome. You found Charles exactly where you had left him—sitting on the couch—only this time, he was playing some game on his phone. He looked up when he heard steps; a smile etched itself across his face, his eyes filling with joy, at the sight of you; he—immediately—noticed a lightness in your steps, one that he had dearly missed. He stood up to meet you halfway—in full view of the Mercedes motorhome—you wrapped your arms around him; Charles had to take a step back to stop from stumbling from the force with which you hugged him.

“How did it go?” He could feel your smile—the smile which he loved so much; which he would do anything to see—break out across your face.

“It went well. I apologised and he said he was never upset at the idea of us dating; he was just upset because of how he found out.” You had to stop, a giggle forced its way up your throat, “he said that if you ever hurt me, you’d have to deal with him.”

Charles groaned, dropping his face in the crook of your neck. You threw your head back, laughter bursting from you at Charles’ ticklish kisses pressed to your neck.

“Good thing I’m not planning on hurting you, then.”

[sunny-knight]

THIS IS HOME

@forgettable-au Fan-Animatic ⭐️

The stars welcome him with open arms…

Work and Progress + Analysis below!

You can find the work in progress things here! because I wanna show the sketch animatic and you can only upload one video…

The entire idea was inspired off of THIS lovely little qna written a bit ago! havnt forgotten about it since! Despite what the AU might have you believe And recently I decided I could just draw out the fun part instead of go through the pain of storyboarding and cleaning up a nearly 4 minute long song 👍👍👍

Thats the idea though, theres no real plot, so no real context I can give other than the things the comic itself already provides. “This Is Home” just works incredibly well for this poor childs trauma, and it was a great opportunity to practice my composition and storytelling!!

Onto the deep analysis of every frame individually!!! (this is normal. this happens every time.)

The idea that Wingdings just eventually- gave up. Trying to connect with anyone. HURTS ME DEEPLY. I’m not sure if thats specifically because he just couldn’t get the font thing down, but I imagine that was a big contributing factor. But thats what specifically stops him here. He eventually slams his keys down on the board and says “IM DONE” and throws himself into a thing he can purely enjoy on his own- science. Even at a young age, I feel he only had 2 lives. One with Sans, and one with science. Then when those worlds combined when he became the royal scientist uhhh- I imagine it got worse.

Speaking of his young age, In these shots he’s also notably a tad older than the later depictions of his younger self with the scarf. Less full of joy and whimsy

“His mind is in a different place” is taken a tad more negatively than in the context of the song I feel, as he’s more or less isolated himself from everyone (but Sans) now in this “giving up” phase of his childhood. I wonder how Sans noticed/took that and if he tried to convince him otherwise, but in this case he just thinks he needs some time to himself.

Also let it be known that the words being crammed in at the “Give him a little bit of space” bit is on PURPOSE and a SILLY LITTLE JOKE/VISUAL GAG GIVEN THE LINE. I AM SO FUNNY.

The colors are also notably dark blues, that get greyer when Wingdings has given up. The light that Sans lets in ((looks into the camera, tearing up)) is still pretty cold despite it being brighter.

The berating is also in uppercase to show most of this is from Wingdings’ pov- I know he speaks in proper casing at this time, but I NEED SOME SORT OF INDICATOR, WORK WITH ME HERE. His main issue was his own self consciousness and desire to communicate properly, since it was said before on the blog that no one really picked on him for his inability to talk to them.

Then we have Papyrus!! The colors are similarly blue, but a lot brighter and a touch purpler and greener. Its from the same world, but not the same person. Also he’s wearing a yellow vest which is the complimentary color to blue ☝️

Papyrus is more heavily associated with warm colors in contrast to Wingdings, but this takes place very early on when he was very confused where his place was (or at least I assume thats what happened). He’s associating with warm colors (yellow) but is somewhat weary about it and still subconsciously clutching onto the comfort in familiarity.

The scene ofc depicts Papyrus being incredibly uncomfortable about any photos of himself as a child. It still definitely…looooks… like him. it just feels really wrong.

Similar thing to last time with the fonts as well, uppercase, Papyrus’ pov, he just wants to know who/WHAT he is.

I enjoy the colors in the photo and how they reallly stand out from the rest of the shot, just another emphasis that the photo feels otherworldly to Papyrus.

This is the part where I start weeping pitifully. The tiny Wingdings to Gaster comparison- it’s just so upsetting, I want to know what this poor child would think if he saw what he ends up as 😭

Wingdings enjoyed dreaming about the real stars he MIGHT get to see one day with Sans. The scene is dark, as it still hasnt happened yet, but still bright and hopeful as he stares up at the light! Its always a possibility. But then we have Gaster, who finally did it. He reached the stars, he gets to look up and say “wow…. I really did it”. Staring up at the void before him. Without Sans…I feel he wouldn’t ponder on it much, and consciously he doesn’t see anything bad about his circumstances, but the crack going down his eye that elludes to a tear says otherwise in the suppressed emotions.

The world Wingdings lived in when he was small, seemed so endless…Despite the underground being small compared to the real world, his imagination was endless. He could dream, he could imagine, and create things, get and give new ideas! But now as an adult that just so happens to be a lovecraftian entity, everything is much more simple and straightforward. At least from his perspective…Gaster may be able to DO way more than he ever could as a small child, but his mind is pretty one track at this point.

I wonder how Gaster feels…Now that they’ve gotten to the surface. without him

Im not sure how Papyrus in the game or even in the comic feels about stars, but Sans for one doesnt have to daydream anymore. They’ve also “done it” just like Gaster, but the hug insinuates less of that and more a “we WON”. They share in this moment together more emotionally than anything.

Again, compared to Gaster and them, they enjoy the moment in their own ways- Gaster just the action of seeing the stars, and Papyrus in what the moment itself means. I feel those are the 2 wants Wingdings had and thats a lot of what Papyrus and Gaster are. 2 halfs of Wingdings’…whole…thing

Also the stars welcoming him with open arms is both in reference to Sans but also Papyrus welcoming/accepting/loving himself…

IN CONCLUSION:

…yknow ive never asked before, but if anyone has any questions or needs clarification im happy to-

[8-0mph]

Word Girl: Final Definition (Masterlist)

This is a masterpost for every publicly available chapter of WG: Final Definition. This will be updated periodically when new chapters are uploaded.

Individual links for chapters and information under the cut:

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |

Chapter 8.5 (Pt. 1) 8.5 (Pt. 2) | Chapter 9 |

Chapter 9.5 (Pt. 1) 9.5 (Pt. 2)

Bonus content:

What are you in for? (Prequel): Takes place between Chapter 8.5 part One and Two.

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For early access to new pages and chapter releases are on my Patreon. All Patreon chapters will eventually be posted publicly. Chapters typically take 1-2 months depending on the length.

For a more streamlined reading experience.. My TikTok playlist has all chapters in order as well.

Note: Chapter numbers with (.5) are considered prequel chapters taking place before the events of Chapter One. There will be multiple prequel chapters in this series to provide context to character relationships and their pasts.