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nereidprinc3ss · 4 months

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slumber party

in which there's only one bed. fem bau!reader x spencer reid

fluff! warnings/tags: dark humor, (the word molest is used jokingly once but in my defense your honor its completely on brand for early seasons cm humor, if u cancel me u have to cancel the whole cast those are the rules, its just a joke cause reader always flirts w him aggressively, pls don't come for me i have a wife and children and three boyfriends to take care of,) mutual pining, bullying and death threats as flirting, they love each other so much and bicker like children, glasses spencer, (moans), emily and rossi are mentioned bc canon means fuck all to me, i think thats it but this is my most out of pocket duo so if i'm wrong lmk a/n: just a silly little thing that i cooked up, not a masterpiece but i think its cute!! I hope u enjoy!! lmk what you think!! looooveee youuuu

“Oh, there is no way.”

Your duffel bag hits the dingy carpet as Spencer is still closing the door behind you.

“What? Is it—”

You give him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows raised as if to say, what are you going to do about this?

But he only manages to meet your eyes for a split second before they’re back to the singular queen bed, darting over the white sheets and pillows like he might find another mattress if he looks hard enough.

Sharing a room with Spencer, you can handle. You've done it before. Whenever the team has to pair up at a hotel, you two are an obvious choice. And while you occasionally butt heads, mostly you adore each other and it's great.

But sharing a bed is a whole other situation.

One you were not prepared for. And evidently, neither is he.

Watching his big anxious eyes flit around the room nervously, you feel sort of bad for your reaction. You know you can be a bit… abrasive, sometimes.

“It’s fine, I’ll just—I’ll see if I can share a bed with Emily or JJ in their room—”

Just then there’s a knock at the door. Spencer looks relieved to have something else to focus on, turning back around and quickly undoing the latch again before opening the door to reveal your favorite raven-haired SSA. Emily leans past the doorjamb, eyes immediately honing in on the awkward sleeping arrangement.

“Oh my god! You guys too?”

“What?” You and Spencer ask at the same time. Emily raises her eyebrows at this and glances between you, but otherwise doesn’t comment.

“Me and JJ only have the one bed. I thought it might just have been us.”

You frown. There goes your plan of sharing a room with them.

“What about Morgan and Garcia?”

Spencer snorts.

“Something tells me Penelope wouldn’t be too torn up about it if that's the case.”

“Hotch and Rossi?”

The room goes quiet and a little chilly as the thought disturbs everyone equally. Emily frowns deeply.

“I don’t even… I can’t picture that.”

“Can we please not try to picture it?”

“Great. Okay, well. I just wanted to make sure everyone is suffering equally. Good luck, champs.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters dryly. Emily smiles, eyes darting between the two of you for just a moment too long, before pushing off the door frame and disappearing from sight. Once the door is closed again, a heavy silence ensues. “I’ll… I can take the floor—”

“It’s fine, Spencer. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. We’re both grown-ups. Besides, we like each other, right? It’ll be like a slumber party.”

“I’ve never had one,” he admits. His glasses slip further down his nose as he frowns. Your fingers itch to push them back up.

“Then I’m happy to be your first,” you tease, facing him fully with your hand on your hip and barely resisting the urge to add, I’ll be gentle. “Do you want the shower first or can I?”

Spencer has a habit of looking you up and down like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Some might find it odd, but his utter lack of social graces is, lucky for him, incredibly endearing to you.

“You can have it first,” he says, meeting your eyes again. “Just don’t do that thing where you get the entire bathroom soaking wet.”

“Aw. But I love doing that. It’s my favorite part,” you tease, scooping up your bag once more.

Twenty minutes later you’re emerging from the bathroom with damp hair, clad in loose shorts and a college hoodie.

“Nice outfit,” Spencer says from the spinny-chair at the desk, examining your outfit choice with a scrutiny you wish you’d been prepared for. Really, you wish you’d known ahead of time you’d have a roommate and brought some alternate sleeping clothes. “I had no idea you felt so passionately about… Scooby Doo?”

“Shut up right now,” you grit, tossing your bag into the corner of the room and tugging your hoodie down over your cartoon-patterned shorts as far as you can.

“What?” He’s laughing as he brushes past you on his way into the bathroom, bearing his own bag. “It’s a good look for you.”

Your face is burning as you choose the side of the bed furthest from the door. Springs creak underneath your weight as you sink down, sitting with your legs hanging off the side for a moment before swinging them up onto the mattress, leaning against the headboard and side-eyeing the empty space next to you. There’s really not very much of it. The bed feels even smaller than it looks.

From the bathroom you hear the sound of the shower squeaking and starting up again—a cacophony of droplets against tile on the other side of the wall. You try not to be nervous as you imagine Spencer filling the space beside you in just a few minutes, hair wet and in pajamas. And yet you spend each second wondering if he’s almost done, wondering if the shower will finally sputter to a halt, and once it does, wondering how long it’ll be before he’s out again. It’s ridiculous how impatient you're getting—and by the time you finally watch the door knob twist you feel crazy.

“I think that was your longest shower yet, Dr. Reid.”

The teasing affords you a moment to ogle him head to toe, taking in his choice of pajamas—tonight, familiar plaid pants and an MIT crewneck—as well as his hair which has already begun to dry. Briefly you wonder if he does that thing guys do, where they lean down and haphazardly dry their hair with a towel because they have no concern for its texture whatsoever. But you kind of doubt it, because his hair always looks so soft.

“You were sitting here waiting for me?” He chuckles, and honestly you’d been expecting a shyer response. But you adapt quickly.

“Maybe I was. Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Ha-ha.” He opens a drawer in the dresser and begins unpacking his clothes into it. It's a funny habit of his. You never unpack your duffel. “You took the better side of the bed.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m the woman. I get to do that.”

“Well you should know that if an intruder breaks in, I’m not fighting him off. You’d probably have a better chance than me.”

“And my chances will be even better if he’s distracted with you first.”

“So I’m just bait?” He scoffs, looking back at you. Strands of wet hair hang so prettily around his face, like the perfect frame around a work of art. You smile sweetly from your spot on the bed before playfully biting at the air in his direction. The message goes unspoken but reads loud and clear. Of course you are. You make such good bait.

That gets a blush out of him and he has nothing else to say as he turns back to his drawer. Happily you lean back against the headboard, stretching your legs out and bouncing slightly in place. Beneath you the mattress springs groan and squeak in protest.

“I hope you're not going to be this irritating all night.”

It's clearly lighthearted, but you promptly stop and frown at his back.

“Call me irritating again and see where you end up sleeping tonight.”

“I just don’t see how you’re even more hyperactive than usual right now. Has anybody ever told you that you’re crepuscular?” Spencer asks, finally sliding the drawer shut and going to shut the overhead light off. Your eyes narrow.

“Obviously nobody has told me that.”

“It means y—”

“I’m most energetic within the few hours around dusk and dawn. Contrary to your belief, Dr. Reid, other people are also capable of looking up words in a dictionary and remembering what they mean. Are you going to stand in the corner all night or are you gonna come to bed?”

“I am,” he scoffs, clearly embarrassed and shy and embarrassed of being shy. “I’m just… you look like you kick in your sleep. And hog the blankets.”

You shrug, folding your knees to your chest and hugging them quaintly.

“I’ve never had any complaints. In fact, you should be so lucky to share a bed with me. All five star reviews, baby.”

You toss a suggestive wink in at the end, which seems garish enough to break the tension so that Spencer can stop lingering in the corner like a sleep-paralysis demon and move to carefully take his place next to you. He almost mirrors your position, but his legs are too long to quite manage your level of compactness and so they simply fold underneath him. A few silent moments go by, in which you have the dumbest smile on your face and you keep glancing over to the side, waiting for him to be looking back at you.

“This is already the least relaxed I have ever been in a bed.”

“Good thing we’re not going to sleep yet.”

Finally he looks at you, a casual mix of hesitance, concern, and moderate curiosity coloring his features.

“We’re not?”

“Oh, my god, Spencer,” you snort. “I’m not gonna molest you. We have to do slumber party stuff, remember?”

He flushes again, glancing at the digital clock in his bedside table.

“But it’s late. We should go to sleep.”

“At slumber parties you have to stay up until you literally can’t keep your eyes open anymore. Those are the rules. I don’t make them.”

Still, your insistence that you follow the international code of sleepover law goes unabided by Spencer. He simply leans over to flick off his lamp, bathing the room in darkness.

“I appreciate the effort,” he says, and your eyes haven’t adjusted but you can hear the rustle of sheets and blankets as he gets under them, “but unfortunately we have to be awake and alert in five hours.”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, but climb under your own side of the cover and scoot down until you’re flat on your back, covered in blanket and hands folded on your sternum.

Spencer doesn’t respond.

It’s silent for maybe five minutes, during which your brain doesn’t slow down at all. Maybe you are crepuscular. Or slightly nocturnal. You have nothing but energy.

In an attempt to get comfortable, you try adjusting your position.

The mattress squeaks.

You do it again.

Another squeak.

A second goes by, and now you’re intentionally jostling about, squeaking the mattress as much as you can.

“Would you stop that?” Spencer says, voice already gravelly with sleep. You manage, but you’re already devolving into a fit of giggles. “I’m going to smother you with this pillow,” he threatens, but you hear the disgruntled smile curling his words.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood to rest.”

Another moment passes. He sighs deeply. You smile into the dark.

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks flatly, and you’ve won.

“Tell me a secret,” you immediately demand in a hushed tone, flipping on your side to face his back. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh! You have to whisper it. Those are the slumber party rules.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” he whispers, clearly flustered, and to your delight, rolling to face the ceiling. “None that you’d want to hear.”

“Oh, now that’s just not true. You’re an enigma, Spencer Reid. You fascinate me.”

You’re only sort of kidding.

“I… fascinate you?”

“Completely. You know, ever since you moved your desk across from mine I get distracted just staring at you and wondering what you’re thinking about. But you’re very… hard to read, sometimes. I think it’s because you’re a Scorpio.”

“The position of the stars at the time I was born has no bearing on my personality.”

“Fine,” you concede, still in a glorified stage whisper. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t display the archetypal Scorpio traits. You’re all brooding, mysterious. Kinda, I don't know... intense and sexy and unknowable…”

“Sexy?” He laughs, breaking the whisper rule. You grin and let it slide. You’d hoped he would catch that one.

“Hey,” you snap, losing the smile immediately and lightly shoving against what you hope is his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be telling me a secret, damnit. I won’t let your wiles and charm distract me from getting what I want.”

“When have you ever let anything stop you from getting what you want?”

Truly, your cheeks are going to start aching with this constant back and forth between poker-faced and huge Cheshire smile.

“Stop flirting and answer my question, Reid.”

With the amount of times you’ve made him sigh tonight he must be dizzy. You chew your lip apprehensively in the silence, picking a loose thread on your pillow. It’s so pitch black in the room, you can’t see him where he lies only a few meager inches from you. But you can feel his presence. You can feel the unexpected bass to his voice when he’s tired and speaking this lowly, which you’ve never heard before.

“All the secrets I’ve never told anyone are just… depressing.”

Your heart sinks a little at the way he swallows between words, like that in and of itself was hard to admit. Unthinkingly your hand slides into the small gap of white cotton between the two of you.

“Not very good slumber party material, I think,” he laughs self-consciously.

“You’d be surprised.”

The sentiment comes quieter and more serious than you’ve been all night. If only you had the words to tell him that he can tell you anything. That you want to hold his secrets for him under lock and key. That you would never, ever do anything less than offer him kindness and support—even if it doesn’t always seem that way when you’re teasing him.

“Do you have any secrets you’ve never told anyone else?” He murmurs eventually, so soft it could kill you.

And you do. There are plenty of dark ones, probably not all dissimilar from those he’d elected not to share only a moment ago.

But you don’t bring those up.

Instead, you decide to admit to something silly. Still, it makes you nervous as you feel it coming loose in your chest. You’ve really never told anyone this, and it’s perhaps more vulnerable than you’d realized before the words were already leaving your mouth.

“I, have…” You pause to laugh at yourself, and continue on. “I have a stuffed dragon that I take with me on every single case.”

“You do?” Spencer laughs, so loud and unexpected it almost hurts your ears, angling his head toward you. Blood rushes to your face.

“Yes. He usually sleeps in bed with me. He’s an excellent listener and has been the origin of several of my most genius breakthroughs. You remember Gibson Cooper?”

“Family annihilator from Houston?”

“Correct. He’s in prison because Oscar helped me make the Cook Creek Campground connection between the O’Hara and Diangelo families.”

“You have a stuffed profiler dragon named Oscar? Is he here?”

“He’s—I mean, I wasn’t expecting to share a room with someone.”

“So he’s in your bag.”

“Yes,” you seethe, “and I will not be introducing you to him. He doesn’t do well with men.”

“You are genuinely psychotic.”

You huff.

“Fine. I’m sorry I told you anything.”

You’re about to roll over onto your other side—but Spencer surprises you by catching the hand that had been outstretched in his direction. He carefully intertwines your fingers and squeezes gently.

“You’re right. That was mean. Thank you for telling me about Oscar.” His tone is surprisingly teasing, and you’re so uncharacteristically flustered by this rare show of physicality and affection that you can’t muster an adequate comeback. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind filling your silence, though, sounding a little more solemn now. “I’m sorry I don’t have any secrets for you.”

The way his voice gets all thin and scratchy sometimes—it’s like the earnest sincerity just pours out of him. He can’t control it. He can’t be anyone other than who he is. Maybe that’s a part of why you love him so much. You wonder if he knows how much you love him. It’s not exactly a secret—anyone on the team would be able to tell as much. You’ve been relentlessly teased for the way you are with him. For your batting lashes and your lingering touches and your unabashed flirting. But beneath it all is true affection, and nobody doubts that.

“It’s okay,” you decide with a squeeze of your own, after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll think of something. ’Cause, y’know—you’re stuck with me for at least a few more days.”

“Oh, god,” he laughs, and releases your hand, rolling over to face away from you. But you don’t mind. You’ll get lots more time to invade his personal space over the coming week or so. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” you sing-song, turning away to face the wall with what is perhaps your biggest, stupidest smile yet.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine

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charliemwrites · 8 months

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I had a BRAIN BLAST on the way home today. So!

In the category of Readers Who Get To Do What They Want:

(CW for dark Simon, johnny, and “reader” with unhealthy relationship dynamics, gaslighting - not from who you suspect - and threats of violence)

A pair of identical twins who are basically opposites from birth. Twin 1 is obviously favored by their parents for being the “easy” twin that tries to appease them and keep the peace. Twin 2 a little hellion from birth, they think this kid is basically broken. Try to test for psychopathy but nope, their own kid has just picked up on the accidental favoritism from birth and just seems to dislike their own parents. But they still love their twin.

The twins grow up as complete opposites. Different social circles, hobbies, interests, clothes, attitudes. They’re incredibly close, but twin 2 will (and has) gotten violent on twin 1’s behalf because their parents are raising them to be “well behaved”.

By teen years, twin 2 is being sent to the countryside most summers to be handled by the grandparents. (Jokes on them, farmlife is nice and the grandparents aren’t exactly strict - mostly because twin 2 actually likes them and doesn’t see much need to rebel).

Meanwhile twin 1 is doing summer programs and learning arts, developing this intense aversion to conflict and has trouble standing up for themself. Especially without twin 2 there to lean on.

Come university, their parents insist on twin 1 staying close by for uni, essentially make the choice for them. Twin 2 decides to ship out of the country and plans on breaking off all contact. (Maybe due to some sort of unforgivable drama at the grandparents’ funeral?)

Before leaving, twin 2 gives twin 1 a burner phone with one number programmed in. Promises that if twin 1 ever needs to disappear, to be free of it all, they can call and twin 2 will be there in a heartbeat with bolt cutters for those chains. And then they just sort of… disappear.

Twin 1 doesn’t see them for *years*. Never uses that phone but keeps it.

So twin 1 lives their quaint pre-determined life with their acceptable job and it’s all mostly okay. Not bad at all. Quiet, if lackluster.

And then Simon comes along. Simon, who takes one look at this little angel and decides they have to be his. Theyre too good, too soft, unable to take care of themselves properly in this big scary world. And after all he’s suffered, doesn’t he deserve something sweet to protect? And hell, Johnny could use a kind touch every now and then too.

So he “seduces” twin 1 (aka, the dark!Simon move of just deciding someone is his and acting like it whether they like it or not). Manipulates them into stepping right into their own collar and leash, with him at the other end.

It’s too late by the time Twin 1 realizes what they’ve become - this man’s pretty pet. An agreeable little doll for him and his teammate to play house with. It’s not always bad, but it’s suffocating and scary. They feel trapped; they are.

It takes months until they get enough privacy to dig the old phone out of the place they nearly forgot about it.

Twin 2 picks up on the third ring.

In the intervening years, twin 2 has gotten into all sorts of trouble and mayhem. Become the demon their parents always accused them of being. Has, somehow along the way, joined up with KorTac and gotten all their files scrubbed. “Twin 2” no longer exists to the world at large. Nothing that anyone, even Kate Laswell, could dig up.

They get the call from their twin and break their contract on the spot. Get on a flight within hours. Sneak their twin out of the homey prison they’ve been locked up in.

Take twin 1 to a sunny, public cafe and get the story through their sibling’s nervous stuttering. Gets angrier and angrier with the more they hear, eyes fixated on the thin leather collar around their twin’s throat.

“Please just… I know it’s selfish and I’m sorry, but-”

Twin 2 already has a plan. They have a quiet, cozy cabin with comfortable funds in a rural part of Canada. Twin 1 will go there, rest and recover and be free. Twin 2 will take their place with Simon and Johnny to throw off suspicion and searches.

The scars from living the life they have? No worries. twin 2 will stage a car accident, reopen some of them to make it seem legit. Lie about head trauma to account for any lapses in their twin 1 act.

It’s decided within three hours. Twin 2 sends their sibling off to the airport and sets everything into motion. They’ve been dying to do something like this for years, after all the times their sibling stuck by their side and tried to stick up to them, to no avail.

Twin 2 instantly hates that fucking collar. Lets Simon put it on but not without the most dark look at the wall, thinking of all the ways to break his hands. Fingers twitching by their side.

The boys sit them down to watch scary movies because they always think it’s fun to spook twin 1 and fuck them while they’re all tense and shivery and but twin 2 is just watching, almost bored. Makes a few attempts to fake jump but keeps forgetting because all their focus is on not slamming a hand into someone’s dick for grinding on them.

Pretends to be asleep in the big bed they’ve been herded into when they kick Johnny or Simon off in the middle of the night. Purposefully aims for soft spots and bruises.

They try to act like twin 1 for a bit but the persona is so difficult to keep up when every little condescending comment from Simon or Johnny makes them want to start stabbing. The inside of their mouth is all torn up from biting onto their cheek and running their tongue over their teeth to resists snarling and snapping.

One day they’re going to snap… and it’s going to be so good to see these bastards bleed.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #twin!reader #twin 2 reader #gaslight gatekeep girlboss #themboss really

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literaryvein-reblogs · 1 month

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Writing Notes: Morally Grey Characters

Morally grey characters - operate beyond the dichotomy of good versus evil.

These characters will usually make the choice to pursue their own ambitions over those of the greater good or evil.

Because their goals are removed from these qualities, they could be inherently good or bad, so long as they serve the character's ultimate purposes.

However, that’s not to say that morally grey characters don’t aim to make the world better (or worse) in some way.

They may have a larger goal that they’re striving to achieve.

Example: Immortality for all or taking down a corrupt government.

But this doesn’t necessarily mean morally grey characters won’t see others suffer, regardless of intent.

They are often described as being reserved and unfeeling—a dramatic outward expression for characters whose inner selves are anything but, yet appropriate to exemplify the secrets they keep locked away.

The beauty of morally grey characters is that they don't fit into a mold like many other character tropes, which makes them instantly feel more real.

Tips to Writing Morally Grey Characters

Your morally grey characters should still feel like a living, breathing person and not just a caricature of one. In order to realistically portray them, there are 4 important things to consider:

1. What is your morally grey character's life's mission?

This needs to become their guiding belief, their driving force.

These characters are very goal-oriented.

More than anything else, this is why they make the choices that they do, for better or worse.

2. How far are they willing to go to achieve their goals?

They are unique in that they are capable of making hard decisions that most of us might otherwise struggle with, and they often seem to do so with ease.

What matters is achieving their goals—not necessarily how they go about doing so.

3. They need to still have a system of core values to abide by.

Even morally grey characters have an internally consistent scale of, well, morality (albeit on their own terms).

Give your character a code to live by that even they wouldn’t break.

4. What is their role in your story?

Don’t create morally grey characters just for the sake of it.

Whether their storyline is part of the main plot, or whether they have subplots that influence the overall story, there needs to be a point to it all regardless.

Morally Grey Character or Villain?

What may differentiate a morally grey character from a true villain are the following 3 things.

Recognition: Your morally grey character should recognize that their choices can cause harm, intentionally or otherwise.

Remorse: Following that recognition, and often as a result of it, they must understand and experience remorse.

Redemption: Finally, when even they feel things have gone too far, your morally grey character must seek redemption however that manifests itself in your story.

Source

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aussie-roadkill · 1 year

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Hi guys I am going to ramble about the end scene of Generation Loss now

I fucking LOVE how Hetch taunts Ranboo in this,

“I still have a roll here to play” A nice hint of superiority, saying I’m important, you’re not, I still have a purpose, which of course is furthered with the “You’ll stay until you’ve outlived your use, that might be tomorrow, or a thousand years from now” Ranboo might be the hero, the main character, but he’s still just playing a role, he’s still a toy that will get tossed aside when Showfall gets bored of him

“Your choices, your decisions to let other people die for you” Calling Ranboo selfish, telling them they killed those people. That its their fault. Live or die this is the last time Ranboo would have free thought, and Hetch wants to make that as painful as possible, make him feel guilt, make him hate himself.

“They can’t get enough of you, and looking at the poll they want to play with you forever” the vote was 51/49 at this point, and Hetch implies the audience all want Ranboo to stay, to suffer in this twisted show. He wants to make ranboo panic he wants them to be afraid, to feel terror, to feel like they’re trapped, and it works, they start screaming, begging the audience too kill them, saying they can’t live with the things they’ve done. Hetch just lies to scare him, he just lies because he enjoys the pure raw emotion it gets out of his ‘actor’

“He’d rather quit than (...) keep entertaining you” Taunting both Ranboo and the audience, calling him a coward, a quitter, trying to make Ran seem like the bad guy, telling the audience they don’t care about them- how selfish, he’d rather die than make you happy, does he really deserve this mercy? Don’t you want him to stay and suffer, keep giving you content, keep being your puppet

Ran saying “I saw everything” and Hetch responds “And you’ll see so much more” at 55/45, the vote just ended, He won’t be seeing more, that’s a lie. He just wanted Ranboo to panic, he wanted them to think they were going to be trapped in here forever, he delighted in the sheer panic, the begging for anything else, even death

anyway, all hail Autism Jesus, he died for our stims

#genloss #genloss spoilers #generation loss #genloss finale #ranboo #ranboolive #AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH #generation loss spoilers #generation loss finale

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verosikastrikerstellaexcuser · 4 months

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Vivizepop hates women so much to where she have a woman who suffered a position that many women did in history as a total bitch just because she needs drama to have her precious yaoi ship to happen

Literally… and seeing the misogyny has St*las stan clowns crying that you must just be homophobic. As if so many of us who are critical of how Stella was portrayed don’t also like characters like Angel Dust and don’t love ships like Bl*tzfizz and Bl*tziker, non canon m/m ships. There is nothing wrong with media that portrays and yes even focuses heavily on m/m. The problem arises when the writing is misogynistic and actively hostile to female characters for no good reason. You can’t just make female characters one dimensional devices that only exist for the male characters’ pain, drama etc and expect people not to see that for what it is. Just don’t write a load of misogynistic tropes straight out of a yaoi fanfic in which women are mindlessly villainized for things male characters wouldn’t be everywhere in your work. It’s that simple. Female characters in HB either act as support or angst devices (Octavia is a big one in that latter category) if they’re on our protagonist male character’s side, or they’re one note as fuck if they at all oppose the male characters. They exist for the male characters stories not their own. It sucks.

There is plenty of other media I’ve liked personally where there are male abuse victims and female abusers and I had no issues with them portraying it because men absolutely can be abuse victims of women. The Alador/Odalia relationship in TOH is a great example. Odalia actually had a choice in marrying for starters. And she wouldn’t be fucked over by an unfair divorce that leaves her with no home. She has clear motivations related to her business but they don’t change that she’s a POS.

The problem with Stella is that she didn’t choose to marry St*las. She’s in a horrific situation with so many reasons to justifiably be upset - but they ignore all of those and try to sneakily hide them and say “don’t think about it too hard” and “no she was just born a POS anyway so those horrors don’t matter”. Wasn’t the point of these shows supposed to be that people who are messy and fucked up can be so for understandable reasons and their flaws don’t mean they’re entirely worthless, even if the flaws are still bad? Why are you giving grace to all these male characters including fucking immortal overlords with vast wealth that they directly own, but a woman in an arranged marriage forced by her own family to get pregnant as soon as she hit 18, she isn’t given that same grace? She doesn’t get to be messy? Like what the actual fuck. I love Ozzie but the fact he’s allowed to be a straight up lovable good guy while Stella isn’t allowed to even just be grey says it all really.

Only certain characters are allowed to be complex and messy despite having the exact same circumstances as other ones like St*las Vs. Stella and to me that’s bad writing. Stella so obviously exists not to be a character but only to be drama for St*las’ story and turning a victim of an arranged marriage into just that, into a Val tier character, yeah sorry lie and call me homophobic then because that kind of writing leaves a horrible taste in my mouth.

#helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critique #vivziepop critical #hb critical #anti stolas #stolas critical #stolas hate #anti stolitz #stolitz critical #Stolitz hate #critical stuff

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queenvhagar · 1 month

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“Sansa and Alicent both standing strong and alone against a King to defend their family in a room full of people, all of whom watch them hurt and do nothing to help them.”

Why does Team Green compare Sansa (a 13 year old hostage viewed as a traitor’s daughter) being beaten and SA’d in front of the entire court to Alicent (a grown woman who is the Queen) demanding a six year old be maimed and then charging at said six year old with a knife when she doesn’t get her way?

The situations are completely different! Alicent would be one of those people in the room watching Sansa get beaten up and SA’d whilst doing nothing, and Sansa would hate Alicent!

Sansa lived under the very system Alicent sought to uphold, even at her own detriment. Sansa was repeatedly victimised by the system Alicent ensured stayed in place, unquestioned, unchallenged.

One cannot compare a child living in a hostile environment where they’re trying to survive to a woman who purposefully created a hostile environment, because she was petty and bitter

Sansa IS a CHILD alicent WAS A child, but in that situation alicent was a grown ASS WOMAN her FATHER was behind her, her children was there too she wasn't completely alone, never compare them.

And how is Alicent even defending her child by demanding another child (younger than her own) have his eye torn out? and how is that the same as teenage Sansa being beat and SA'd Infront of the court?

🚨 Alicent misunderstander 🚨

🫵

Alicent didn't create a hostile environment. She was placed into an environment that became hostile due to the choices of others around her (ahem Viserys and Rhaenyra). Through no fault of her own did this obvious succession crisis come up where it became clear her sons would have to die for Rhaenyra to rule without dissent.

And y'all forget that Alicent WAS that child then. Alicent WAS that isolated kid forced to do her duty and appease the ruling family. Until she realized that this ruling family would willingly throw her family under the bus to help themselves, and so she was the one who had to find allies for her family and try to prepare for a future where her children might be able to survive. Then when she stopped bending over backwards for people who could not care less about her, suddenly her not kissing Rhaenyra's feet after being lied to and rejected and hurt by her is "bitter and petty" behavior 🤔 as IF her sole motivator for anything and everything she does is somehow focused on making Rhaenyra's life worse out of some kind of jealousy and not her just trying to protect her children from an obvious threat 🤦🏻‍♀️

At Driftmark SURE she had her father and children right there and she was physically not alone obviously, but consider the context man. After knowing her sons are endangered by Rhaenyra and that they will have to die for her to rule, Aemond is jumped by four kids, two of Rhaenyra's sons and two of Daemon's daughters, one armed with a knife, and Aemond's eye is cut out, Rhaenyra immediately jumps to wanting him tortured for information to save her own ass and cover her deception, and the king threatens Alicent and her family with mutilation if they talk about what just happened or speak the truth of the situation. And nobody even tries to talk with Rhaenyra's sons about how they shouldn't have jumped a kid with a knife and cut out their eye - in fact the takeaway for them was that this was all totally justified because Aemond called them a bad name. Meanwhile Alicent and her family realize how isolated they are and how they aren't really viewed as a part of the royal family and how they're powerless to do anything when it comes to the king and his named heir. Alicent is the only one who even expresses concern for Aemond's suffering. His own father rages at him and threatens him despite his eye just having been sliced out. She begs that he's also Viserys' blood, but he ignores her and their children as he always does. Alicent wants ANY justice. ANY consequences. But there are never any.

I didn't even write that original post, but the idea of it all is that both Sansa and Alicent were placed into dangerous and hostile environments where they were forced to accept mistreatment from the families they were married into and try to navigate their way to survival. I don't necessarily think the details of those two specific scenes of them quite match up, but the general link between these two characters is there. Both used their soft power to try to survive in the impossible situation they were in. Both defended their family to the king while having few allies themselves. The characters are more similar than they are different, I would say.

#asks #pro alicent hightower

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ugh-yoongi · 1 year

Note

Hi. Can I request a drabble with Jungkook where they’re in a secret relationship and they think their friends are not aware of it but they’re actually really bad at hiding it. Thank you!

decided to combine these two. thank you both for the requests!

this one ran away from me but was really fun, so we're going to ignore the wordcount. hope you both enjoy! <3

obviously

pairing: jungkook x f. reader genre: secret relationship au, roommate au; crack, fluff warnings: two idiots engaging in idiot behavior, swearing, yoongi is tortured by reader's use of emojis, drinking/alcohol, one reference to jungkook wearing women's underwear but it isn't a thing, unedited. rating: e for everyone wordcount: 3.7k

In retrospect, getting married at nineteen wasn’t your brightest idea.

Not your worst, either, because at least you’d chosen well.

There are undoubtedly far worse men to have as your ex-husband than Kim Namjoon, who had also gotten caught up in all those romantic cliches about young love; had also been inflicted with whatever illness made you believe getting married so young was smart and cool; had also woken up one day and thought what the fuck are we doing and asked if you wanted to call it quits.

You did.

And even though you loved Namjoon, over time it turned into that platonic life partner kind of love and not that all-encompassing, love of your life, eternal kind of love. So, Namjoon offered to pay for the divorce with his grad school stipend and took his name off the lease so you could find a new roommate and insisted on meeting up every other week for takeout and cheap alcohol because he had a whole thing about not wanting it to be weird.

Now, here you sit, years removed from the most affectionate and anticlimactic divorce of all time, and you wonder what could be more weird than your ex-husband making you a Tinder profile.

“I know what you like,” he insists, cheeks ruddy from the wine. Namjoon talks endlessly on a good day, but he’s nearly impenetrable when he’s got some merlot in him. “No one’s more qualified to do this than me.” You quirk an eyebrow at him. “Except you, of course,” he hurriedly adds.

“Have you ever stopped to think—”

Namjoon heaves an exaggerated groan, hand to his forehead as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “You have no idea.”

You roll your eyes. “Have you ever stopped to think,” you repeat, “that there might be a reason I don’t have a Tinder? Or any dating profile, for that matter?”

“Yeah, you’re obviously still in love with me,” he jokes, laughing wildly at the absurdity of it; elbows you in the side as he wiggles his eyebrows. What could be weirder than your ex-husband treating you like one of his bros? “But alas, I’ve moved on, and so the time has come for you to also—”

“Either shut up or drink more,” you interject, filling his glass nearly to the brim. “You’re insufferable when you’re like this.”

Namjoon, seemingly out of arguments, simply hums in acknowledgment. Downs half the wine you’d just poured him, because out of the two options you’d presented him with, it’s the more realistic choice. Asks, “What’s your preferred age range?” before snorting another laugh and setting it from 18 to 50 for his own amusement.

“You know, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?” he retorts, and there’s no judgment there, just genuine curiosity. You know he’s just having a laugh, would delete it and never mention it again if you asked him to, but the thing is—

The front door opens, and there stands your roommate, arms full of bags from Daiso. “Hey, ba—”

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks when he sees your ex-husband. Coughs to cover the pet name that nearly tumbled out of his mouth and lifts his hand in a wave. Namjoon watches the way the weight of the bags causes the muscles in Jungkook’s forearm to flex and shoots you a look. Maybe he does know what you like, after all.

“Hi, Namjoon-hyung,” Jungkook says, polite but still awkward, even after all these years. Can’t seem to shake it, no matter how hard he tries. “What are you two up to?”

Namjoon is none the wiser, used to the hushed awe Jungkook always adopts when he addresses him. Polite and endlessly kind because his mother raised him to never be anything less, but only ever jittery around Namjoon. Doesn’t act like this around any of your other friends; takes Seokjin’s teasing in stride and dishes it right back, but never Namjoon. Would probably rather die.

So Namjoon just waves back, says, “Hi, Jungkook-ah,” before he returns his attention to his phone. Doesn’t look up when you abandon him on the couch to help unpack the bags. Says, “I’m signing her up for Tinder so she can finally get laid,” and also doesn’t look up when Jungkook chokes on an inhale and one of the bags splits in half.

Before he moved in with you, Jungkook lived with Hoseok.

It’d gone great, all things considered. Jungkook couldn’t have asked for a better first roommate, fresh out of high school and his family home and hundreds of kilometers from the salty air of Busan. He’d nearly been sick with anxiety, all green around the edges, and Hoseok had pulled him into a hug and calmed his fraying nerves. Helped him with his homework and taught him how to cook and pecked at his heels like a mother hen when his room got too messy.

Just like he’s doing now.

“Hyung,” Jungkook says, not at all able to hide the surprise in his voice when he pulls open the door and finds Hoseok on the other side. “What are you doing here?”

Hoseok tuts. “I told you I was coming by this weekend to clean. I haven’t been here in weeks—”

“I know how to clean,” Jungkook argues, face growing warm from misplaced embarrassment, that Hoseok still thinks he’s a dumb kid who doesn’t know any better. “I said you didn’t have to come.”

His hyung’s face softens. “I know you know how to clean, Jungkookie, I’m just… I still feel responsible for you. You’re the first child I raised and released into the world.”

Jungkook sighs. Knows this is a losing argument. Opens the door wide enough to accommodate Hoseok and his bags of cleaning supplies, and doesn’t say a word as he follows Hoseok around the apartment even though he wants to say, I told you so. The entire place is spotless. There’s nothing to clean. No dust on the floor. Sparkling kitchen countertops. Laundry freshly-washed and hung on the drying rack by the window, warm in the midday sun. No toothpaste in the bathroom sink; no hard water stains on the shower glass.

All that’s left is Jungkook’s bedroom. That, too, is spotless, and Hoseok has never had a poker face and certainly can’t muster one now. “Why is it so clean in here?” he asks, taking in the bare floor, void of dirty clothes and whatever hobby equipment Jungkook had taken up that week; the pristinely-made bed with its hospital corners and fluffed pillows; the end tables that are suspiciously void of dust.

“Because I know how to clean,” Jungkook tartly replies, rolling his eyes. “I told you, there’s—”

“Are you even living in here?” Hoseok continues, either oblivious to or pointedly ignoring the way Jungkook starts to panic. “Because it doesn’t smell weird, either, and we all know that wasn’t the case before.”

“I have an air freshener.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hoseok continues his search. Actually praises Jungkook on the way he’d organized his clothes, the fact that everything in his drawers is folded and not shoved in haphazardly, that the few nice pieces he owns are hung in the closet. Kneels on the floor to check under the bed: empty, except for the XBox controller Taehyung had left behind the last time he came over to binge Valorant.

And Jungkook should’ve known—should’ve anticipated this—because it’s his Hobi-hyung and if there’s anything his Hobi-hyung is neurotic about it’s cleanliness and he’s got eyes like a hawk, makes him deadly efficient at spotting dust, so it’s really no surprise when he lets out a shrill a-ha! and pops out from under the bed with a pair of lacy underwear pinched between his fingers, but Jungkook should’ve anticipated it, anyway.

“And what do we have here?”

What Hoseok has here is Jungkook’s favorite pair of your underwear, but he can’t say that, so he just feels the way his face flushes with embarrassment again and wonders if he’d get out of the impending interrogation if he starts crying. “Um. Nothing?”

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing,” Hoseok continues, voice animated and lilting, the teasing smile evident even though Jungkook can’t bring himself to look. “Can’t believe my little Jungkookie is all grown up.”

Jungkook doesn’t feel grown up, he feels mortified. Feels like he wants to sink right through the floor, like he wants to disappear for three to five business years. Feels like an idiot for being so insistent on all this secrecy, because now he can’t tell Hoseok that the lacy underwear he’s inspecting belongs to you and that the two of you have been together for a while, that it’s great, Jungkook thinks this might be It, and all he can do is blurt out the first thing he can think of, which is—

“It’s mine.” Hoseok’s head turns so fast his neck creaks. “I’m, uh. Experimenting.”

Hoseok shrieks. Jungkook shrieks. “What the fuck,” Hoseok shrieks again as he drops the underwear to the floor and kicks it under the bed. “Why wouldn’t you just say that—”

“That’s what you get for going through my stuff!”

Hoseok doesn’t come over to clean again.

On the weeks you don’t see Namjoon, you spend your Fridays having game night at Jimin’s.

It’s always a raucous affair—wouldn’t be possible any other way with the friend group you’ve got, now seamlessly blended with Jungkook’s—and it’s always your responsibility to supply the snacks. You pop into the store after work, leave with your arms full of junk like you looted the place, and the man in front of you in line takes so long you miss the bus and have to wait for the next.

Which leaves you very little time to get ready, so you rush through a shower to rinse off the work grime and grab the first pair of leggings and sweatshirt you see, slip your feet into slides that may or may not be yours, and run down the hall to Jimin’s.

Laughter can be heard from just outside the door—Hobi’s and Jin’s louder than everyone—and it makes you smile. Warmth blooms in your chest, all affection, and it has you feeling terribly fond of this group you’ve cobbled together. Has you smiling wider as you punch in Jimin’s door code and let yourself inside. Has you dropping off the snacks in the kitchen and wanting to hug the first person you find, except one Park Jimin has other plans.

“Why are you wearing Jungkookie’s hoodie?” he says in lieu of a greeting.

You look down. Certainly is Jungkook’s hoodie, mixed in with the clean laundry you hadn’t gotten around to putting away yet, and you’re sure there’s no hiding the way your jaw drops a little. The man in question is across the room, stuck in a conversation about fuck knows what with Taehyung, and he sends you a panicked look that can only be an instruction to lie your ass off. So you huff, say, “What d’you mean? This is mine,” and paint on the most annoyed expression you can conjure.

“It absolutely is not yours,” Jimin retorts.

This time you look annoyed for real. “Ugh, who cares? Since when did you become an expert on our personal belongings?”

When you first met Jimin, you’d been tricked into thinking he was a sweet, innocent angel; the kind of person who would do anything for his loved ones, including not interrogating them over whose clothes they wear. Quickly, you learned this was not the case. Jimin is lovely and kind, but he’s also perceptive as hell and shameless, so he smirks knowingly and answers with, “Since I bought them.”

Which… makes sense, you can admit. You vaguely recall Jungkook’s last birthday and the way he’d gasped and insisted on Jimin returning the hoodie he’d gifted him because it was too expensive and the way Jimin had laughed and waved him off, because Jungkook has always been his favorite and he’s never attempted to hide it. The hoodie you’re wearing now could, theoretically, be that exact gift. It’s definitely soft enough to be made from something expensive.

“Oh,” you reply, changing gears entirely. “Well, you know how it is. Sometimes laundry gets mixed up. I’m sure you and Taehyung have worn each other’s clothes by accident, too.”

Jimin doesn’t buy it, you can tell, but he thankfully drops the issue. Watches you and Jungkook like a hawk for the rest of the night, just waiting to capitalize on any other slip-ups, but you purposely fall into a conversation with Yoongi that’s too boring for any normal human to follow along with, and Jungkook calls dibs on Mario Kart until someone can beat him, so there are no slip-ups to catch.

However, if the one constant of your friend group is that Jungkook is Jimin’s favorite regardless of Taehyung’s pouting, the second is that Jung Hoseok cannot hold his liquor.

He’s four mixed drinks deep, skin flushed and eyes half-lidded with sleep, when he stands on top of Taehyung and Jimin’s coffee table and shouts, for everyone to hear, “Hey, did you guys know Jungkookie started wearing women’s underwear?”

For once, this comes as a complete shock to you, too.

The thing about being in love, Jungkook finds, is that it’s nearly impossible to shut up about it.

He’s trying to be cool. He’s trying to be normal. He feigns delight and care when his coworkers talk about their partners, pretends he’s paying attention and not just waiting for his turn to talk about you. He prints pictures of the two of you off his phone and frames them and displays them at his desk, and all someone has to say is, “That’s a cute picture, Jungkook-ssi—” before all his affection for you erupts out of him like a volcano.

So far he’s been careful. His coworkers are sick of hearing about you, but they’re an outlet for everyone he can’t talk about you with. Like his friends, because he’d decided early on it was better to keep everything a secret for a little bit because he didn’t want things to be weird (and because he’s low-key terrified of Namjoon, because he’s gentle and clumsy but he’s still big) and now he’s regretting it but it feels like it’s gone on too long and he’s in too deep.

Really, it’s no surprise he slips up. Has probably been overdue for one like this for a while.

They’re at the arcade. Taehyung has sunk the last of his disposable income for the week into a claw machine stocked with LINE characters. Wants to win a Sally plushie for Jimin because he says they look alike. It’s cute, the bond they have, platonic soulmates the way you and Namjoon are, and Jungkook is starry-eyed and love-drunk when he heaves a wistful sigh and thinks out loud, “I should win something for her, too.”

The words catch Taehyung so off-guard his hand slips and presses the button to lower the claw. “Press it again,” Jungkook says. “If you double-press the button, it makes the claw stronger. You’ll get it.”

Taehyung is wary, still dazed from Jungkook’s slip-up, but he presses the button again anyway. The claw tightens around Sally’s head and drags her up and out of the pile, drops her into the chute and to Taehyung’s waiting hand. “Oh shit! Jungkookie, you’re a genius. Jimin’s gonna love this.”

“Yeah, sure. Didn’t know you didn’t know that trick or I would’ve told you sooner.”

His hyung nods absentmindedly, distracted with the selfie he’s sending to Jimin with Sally obscuring half his face. “Are you gonna try now?”

Jungkook swallows. “Huh?”

“You said you were gonna win something for someone.”

“No I didn’t,” he lies.

Taehyung’s face drops. Gets all serious when he shoves his phone in his back pocket. “Yes you did. Right before I won this,” he says, large hands wrapped around Sally’s poor neck, clearly strangling her. “You said I should win something for her, too. Who’s ‘her’? Are you seeing someone?”

“I said him, hyung,” he lies again. Is thankful for the garish arcade lights and the way they hide the blush creeping up his neck. “I meant Jimin-hyung.”

“You did not,” Taehyung insists. “You said her, and now you’re trying to gaslight me—”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. Feigns exasperation. Swipes his game card and stares his hyung right in the eye as he drops the claw and double-taps, somehow picking up two plushies. Tosses Brown to Taehyung and says, “Tell Jimin his favorite dongsaeng won him that one.”

Tucks Cony safely in his pocket to give to you later, thankful the universe came through for him for once.

You (10:42pm): babe

You (10:42pm): what time do you think you’ll be home?

You (10:43pm): 🍆🍆🍆

Yoongi (11:06pm): What the fuck

You (11:08pm): oh fuck

You (11:08pm): that was NOT meant for you

Yoongi (11:14pm): Fucking obviously

Yoongi (11:14pm): Please do not ever accidentally sext me again

You (11:15pm): gross yoongi

You (11:15pm): that wasn’t a sext

You (11:15pm): i need it for the bokkeum i’m making

Yoongi (11:17pm): At midnight? Fuck off

Yoongi (11:17pm): Trade proposal

Yoongi (11:17pm): You never accidentally sext me again and I won’t tell the rest of our friends you’re secretly dating your roommate

You (11:29pm): it’s not even midnight 🙄

You (11:29pm): but that sounds good to me, thanks!

Hoseok had taught Jungkook how to cook, but not how to bake.

They’d attempted it, once, not long after Jungkook moved to Seoul and was homesick and missing his mom’s yaksik something terrible. Just wanted something that tasted like home, something comforting, and Hoseok had felt so bad for him that he said fuck it, let’s try, what’s the worst that could happen, and the two of them learned very quickly that nearly burning down their kitchen and the rest of their building was, in fact, the worst thing that could happen.

They never tried baking a damn thing after that, individually or together.

Still, there’s a special occasion coming up, so Jungkook asks the only person he trusts to help him.

“You need a cake,” Seokjin intones, swallowing his smile when Jungkook nods and his mop of curls bobbles along. Takes out a notepad to jot down ideas. “What’s the occasion?”

“Um. Just an… occasion.”

Seokjin blinks owlishly. “You just need a cake for an occasion? Do you wanna try again and actually be helpful this time?”

“What does it matter if I’m paying you, hyung?” Jungkook whines. “Aren’t cakes all the same?”

“Not if you want me to decorate it—”

“I don’t.”

“—because what am I supposed to write on it? Happy occasion, person whose name Jungkookie won’t tell me! Do you see how that might not work out for either of us?”

“Again, what does it matter—”

Seokjin looks up from his notepad, brows furrowed. “Are you ordering this for the president? What’s with all the secrecy?”

Jungkook huffs, puts on his Very Serious Face. “I can just take my business elsewhere if you’re going to interrogate me, hyung,” he says, to which Seokjin rolls his eyes, used to Jungkook’s dramatics.

“Be my guest,” he calls his bluff, gesturing to the front door of the bakery. “No one else is going to give you as good a discount as me, though.”

“I bet Junghwan-ssi would,” Jungkook grumbles, low but loud enough for Seokjin to hear, because there isn’t much else Jungkook can say that’d get under his hyung’s skin as much as the mention of his arch nemesis. “I bet I could walk into his bakery right now and explain the whole situation to him and he’d practically give it to me for free, just so it meant you didn’t get my business.”

And it works. Seokjin’s eyes narrow, chest starts heaving. “You wouldn’t,” he accuses, and Jungkook just shrugs, nonplussed, daring Seokjin to find out.

What follows can only be described as a tense standoff: Seokjin behind the counter of his bakery, looking hilariously underdressed for this stalemate in his pink apron, armed only with a pen; Jungkook, looking smug and pleased on the other side, not even knowing what Junghwan’s bakery is called, let alone where it is. The bell above the door chimes and neither breaks eye contact to look, and it’d probably go on like this forever, knowing the two of them, except the person behind Jungkook clears their throat, asks, “Excuse me, are you in line…?” and Seokjin is forced to concede if he wants to stay in business.

The person orders a cake for their daughter’s birthday. Answers each of Seokjin’s questions with certainty and preparedness, and Jungkook doesn’t miss the looks Seokjin shoots at him. See how easy it is to answer simple questions? they say. Why can’t you be like this?

Jungkook can’t be like that because the cake is for your birthday. Which Seokjin knows, because he has all of his friends’ birthdays saved to his phone calendar, but he’s never gone out of his way to get you a cake before so Seokjin will absolutely know something’s up. And as he waits for the person to be done ordering, his heart aches a little, because he wants to tell Seokjin to make you the nicest cake he can. Wants him to pull out all the stops, because it’s your birthday and you deserve it, and he could say all those things if he hadn’t insisted on this stupid secrecy.

Guilt consumes him so entirely he doesn’t notice the person leaving. Doesn’t hear the chime of the bell above the door. Is halfway to spilling the entire story to Seokjin, gets as far as hyung, there’s something I— before Seokjin holds up a hand to stop him.

“What kind of cake would you like, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook deflates. Takes all those transgressions he was about to confess to and shoves them back inside his chest, locks them away. “Whatever you think is best, hyung. Just no nuts.”

And Seokjin smirks knowingly, because there’s only one person he knows with a nut allergy.

#work: 1kfm #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook fluff #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts x y/n #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jewel answers #jewel writes

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garaksapprentice · 6 months

Text

Sewing Zero Waste Culottes from The Craft of Clothes

Zero Waste Culottes From The Craft of Clothes

Behold! Fancy pants!

The pattern for these pants was one of my Christmas gifts. It comes from Liz at The Craft of Clothes, a zero-waste designer. I've really gravitated towards self-drafting and zero-waste sewing in the last couple of years, and this pattern has been on my list for a good six months, so I was excited to get into it.

Drafting

The first step (after reading the pattern through twice) is drafting the pattern pieces.

My biggest starting hurdle was deciphering "the culottes are designed to sit on your waist" when choosing the correct pattern size. Most designers consider "the waist" to be the teapot - that is, the true waist. (It's easiest to find if you bend to the side and stick your hand in the crease - like you're singing "I'm a little teapot".) But some consider belly button height to be "the waist". I generally wear my pants at the latter height, and there's a good 2" circumference difference between those two for me.

I eventually decided to call my belly button my waist, on the grounds that that's where I prefer to wear my pants. It's also easier to take seams in than out, if I guessed wrong.

Decisions over, it was smooth sailing from there. Pattern drafting is not a technically difficult process, as long as you have good instructions, and Liz's patterns definitely fit that bill. But there's a lot of attention to detail required to make sure the end result is good. That sort of thing always makes me nervous. Fortunately there was only two pattern pieces to draft, and they're 98% straight lines and based off rectangles.

Interestingly, this is the first zero-waste pattern I've tried that has you draft pattern pieces to use. The others I've seen (most by the creator of this pattern - our library had a copy of her book, Zero Waste Sewing) have had you draw directly on your piece of fabric to create the layout. (In fairness, I didn't have to draft my own pieces. The pattern came with the option of self-drafting, printing on A4, or printing on A0.)

I much prefer the direct-draw method to faffing about with pattern pieces. But given that this pattern is designed to have the pieces tesselate, having a set of physical pattern pieces does make more sense. It's also got me wondering if I could successfully make a pair out of old jeans legs, using one leg per pattern piece. But then, I'm always looking for ways to use up my denim pile...

Sewing

I prefer structure rather than flow in my butt coverings, so I was somewhat limited in my fabric choices for this first pair. (I know the fabric I really want to use, but I am being a sensible apprentice and trying things out on a nice-but-less-hideously-expensive fabric first.) Most of my stash acquisition has focused on stuff for shirts, since I wear those out faster than pants. I eventually settled on this nice brick red, 100% cotton, table cloth.

The picture is suffering from sun exposure. It's nowhere near this bright in person.

I laid out the pieces and huzzah! The fabric was just big enough! ... But only if I unpicked the hems (they're monsters, a full 3 cm/1.2" each side) and ironed them flat first. Thus, it was time for a marathon unpicking and ironing session.

After that was done, I checked the pattern fit again. Huzzah! I had enough space for all the pattern pieces, and not very much scrap left over once I'd cut them all out. (Of course, it was late and I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, so I didn't add an extra inch when I was forced to cut the waistband in two pieces. There was enough extra fabric that this was only an annoyance and not a complete disaster.)

The fabric at the top is scrap. All but a few inches of the stuff on the right became waist bands and plackets.

Sewing was a fairly straightforward exercise, though it required enough brainpower that I completely forgot to take any progress shots as I went. Almost every step of the pattern comes with a diagram to show you what to do, which helped me immensely. So did having the seam allowances specified at each point, as there's three different ones used in different places.

That's not to say I didn't screw up, of course. While sewing the crotch seam, I somehow managed to close up the front of the pants entirely and leave a gap for the placket open at the back. (That will teach me not to double check the direction the pockets are facing before I pin and sew that seam. Maybe.)

I also made a highly decorative and completely awful to sew with choice for topstitching thread, which I quickly became too stubborn to stop using. So the topstitching is, uh, not great. But it is purple and sparkly, and if I'd had any sense at all I would have left it til last (or even done some sort of hand embroidery with it).

I was tricked by the first line of stitching being so easy. LIES. It was all lies.

Why should I have left it til last? Because it turns out that the culottes are, in fact, designed to sit on one's true waist. Which meant I had a two inch difference between what I needed to fit me, and what the waist measurement was. If I hadn't top stitched the panels, I could have simply ran another line of stitching down the seams that didn't have pockets in the way, and taken the waist in without much fuss or bother. Unfortunately, I didn't do that, so I was left with two choices.

Take out the topstitching and take in all the panels, bitching and moaning about the effort I went to and the number of times the topstitch thread broke while I was sewing the stupid sparkly goodness onto things.

Work out how to take the waist in by the necessary two inches, using only the crotch seam and maybe some darts or pleats or something.

Choice #1 would have been the logical, rational decision, so of course I went with option #2.

An hour and change of basting, pinning and unpinning the waistband, and completely forgetting how seam allowances work later, I managed to get a fit I was happy enough with. I ended up grading in a dart-like object at the centre back. (If I decide later that I'm not happy with the fit after all, I'll try out the modification for adding elastic to the back waistband that the pattern also includes. Probably while questioning my life choices and lamenting the amount of time I spend with a seam ripper in hand.)

The original stitching line is in blue, the new one is in black.

After all that fitting woe, I wasn't in the mood to try buttonholes (my good machine, the one with the automatic buttonholer, is currently out of action). Instead I dove into my snap stash to close the placket.

I love using bright, vivid colours for inner details. It's the sewing equivalent of wearing leopard print underwear.

A nice bonus of using the snaps is that I could put them through just the placket, leaving the fly front clean. This did make the placket pull slightly when I'm wearing the pants, exposing a trace of bright red. I fixed that by invisibly whip-stitching through the placket and outer fabric to hold everything in place. Next time I'll also double check the understitching, and topstitch the edge if needed, before installing the snaps.

Field Test and Adjustments

Trying stuff on as you go is all well and good, but nothing tells you what you really need to fix like being out in the field. I quickly discovered several things:

The waistband needs serious help to stay where it's supposed to be. Which, y'know, I did make a size larger than I should have. This was not surprising.

The crotch needs to either drop a wee bit or (preferably) rise a couple of inches. The latter will likely spoil the skirt-effect somewhat, but it will be far more comfortable for my legs.

I need a loop on the waistband to hold my keys.

For the waist woes, I had a few choices - 1) belt loops, 2) suspenders, or 3) add elastic to the back waistband. Belt loops are fiddly to make and sew on, but would solve the key-hanging issue. Suspenders technically wouldn't need any sewing changes, but the clip-on style are notorious for pulling off when you're doing things. And while the pattern includes instructions for adding elastic to the waistband, I wasn't confident it would do the job I wanted (I stick a fair amount of junk in my pockets and elastic can't always cope with the weight).

After some dithering, I went with the suspender option for this pair. I like the look of them, and the "floating" effect they give when they pull the waistband a bit above where gravity wants it to sit is extremely comfortable. But I didn't want to deal with clips always popping off. So I indulged in a quick side-quest of improving my suspenders, then sewed buttons into the waistband of the culottes.

This used to hold the clips, but the wire was easy to bend flat with needle-nose pliers.

Gee, I wonder which buttonhole I did first?

Fashion Show

Overall, I'm quite happy with how it all came together. I'll definitely be making at least two more pairs - the "men's" version (less flare in the hems), likely out of recycled denim, and a pair in heavyweight stash linen.

The back panel adjustment is basically unnoticeable.

They have great range of movement - maybe I need to make a workout pair?

And I even have somewhere to hang my keys.

This post was originally published on my blog, Garak's Apprentice . I currently syndicate my content at Micro.blog, Tumblr, and Ko-Fi.

or Tip me via PayPal

#sewing #projects

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geritsel · 7 months

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Robert De Niro Talks trump

Robert de Niro turns 81 this year. He still is everything Donald Trump is not; talented, intelligent, compassionate and – as far as I know – a man of a man of impeccable integrity.

Here’s Robert De Niro’s full statement about how Donald Trump should NEVER be president again:

“I’ve spent a lot of time studying bad men. I’ve examined their characteristics, their mannerisms, the utter banality of their cruelty.

Yet there’s something different about Donald Trump. When I look at him, I don’t see a bad man. Truly.

I see an evil one.

Over the years, I’ve met gangsters here and there. This guy tries to be one, but he can’t quite pull it off. There’s such a thing as “honor among thieves.” Yes, even criminals usually have a sense of right and wrong.

Whether they do the right thing or not is a different story — but — they have a moral code, however warped.

Donald Trump does not. He’s a wannabe tough guy with no morals or ethics. No sense of right or wrong. No regard for anyone but himself — not the people he was supposed to lead and protect, not the people he does business with, not the people who follow him, blindly and loyally, not even the people who consider themselves his “friends.” He has contempt for all of them.

We New Yorkers got to know him over the years that he poisoned the atmosphere and littered our city with monuments to his ego. We knew first hand that this was someone who should never be considered for leadership. We tried to warn the world in 2016.

The repercussions of his turbulent presidency divided America and rattled New York City beyond imagination. Remember how we were jolted by crisis in early 2020, as a virus swept the world.

We lived with Donald Trump’s bombastic behavior every day on the national stage, and we suffered as we saw our neighbors piling up in body bags.

The man who was supposed to protect this country put it in peril, because of his recklessness and impulsiveness. It was like an abusive father ruling the family by fear and violent behavior. That was the consequence of New York’s warning getting ignored. Next time, we know it will be worse.

Make no mistake: the twice-impeached, 4-time indicted Donald Trump is still a fool. But we can’t let our fellow Americans write him off like one. Evil thrives in the shadow of dismissive mockery, which is why we must take the danger of Donald Trump very seriously.

So today we issue another warning. From this place where Abraham Lincoln spoke — right here in the beating heart of New York — to the rest of America: This is our last chance.

Democracy won’t survive the return of a wannabe dictator. And it won’t overcome evil if we are divided.

So what do we do about it? I know I’m preaching to the choir here. What we’re doing today is valuable, but we have to take today into tomorrow – take it outside these walls. We have to reach out to the half of our country who have ignored the hazards of Trump and, for whatever reason, support elevating him back into the White House.

They’re not stupid, and we must not condemn them for making a stupid choice. Our future doesn’t just depend on us. It depends on them.

Let’s reach out to Trump’s followers with respect. Let’s not talk about “democracy.” “Democracy” may be our holy grail, but to others it is just a word, a concept, and in their embrace of Trump, they’ve already turned their backs on it.

Let’s talk about right and wrong. Let’s talk about humanity.

Let’s talk about kindness. Security for our world.

Safety for our families.

Decency.

Let’s welcome them back.

We won’t get them all, but we can get enough to end the nightmare of Trump, and fulfill the mission of this “Stop Trump Summit.”

For many Robert de Niro may be far too rich and far too Hollywood, but i consider this as straight from the heart. I love this man.

BTW... I have high regards for followers on Tumblr, some I consider as friends without ever having met them, but I completely understand those who get fed up with my political in betweens. I wish you all the best!

Regards,

Geritsel (Let Donald Trump never ever become president again.)

#donald trump #maga #clear and present danger #never again #drumpf

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emo-batboy · 2 years

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After the flood, The Batman uses his grappling hook and other gadgets to expertly maneuver his way to sections of the city that are inaccessible.

He can’t rescue victims on his own because the hook can only carry so much weight so he lights flares on the roofs of buildings where people are trapped and two flares if someone needs immediate medical attention.

He relays more information through Gordon about how many people there are, whether or not they’re accessible by boat or helicopter. A paramedic team provides him with a walkie talkie and rudimentary first aid training, only to learn that The Batman is already an expert in EMT protocol and how to provide CPR for over twenty minutes if necessary.

The only people he can safely evacuate himself are small children. (The “safety” is still shaky, but the Bat refuses to leave children behind. The paramedics hesitantly provide him with child and infant evacuation harnesses in hopes they’ll help.) Some kids don’t want to leave their parents so The Batman waits for up to an hour to make sure they’re rescued. Other children’s parents refuse to trust the masked vigilante with their child’s safety. He accepts that but makes sure to let the paramedics know this one is also priority.

But some desperate parents, especially those with newborns, have no choice but to trust him if it means their children get medical attention sooner. He has blank hospital bands and a few pens with him so the parents can write down their name, birth date, allergies, an emergency contact outside of the city, etc. As long as they’re lighter than 90 lbs, he has no doubt he’ll be able to bring their child to safety.

The orphanage takes two days to evacuate, and many of the staff and kids are apprehensive of him at first, but by the afternoon, The Batman has helped twenty kids to safety and found a safe landing spot on the building for a helicopter to fly. The hospital was, of course, also a priority, and The Batman evacuated many patients there, but it was thankfully up to date on evacuation protocol and took just under a day.

He rescues cats and small dogs and a pet lizard at one point too, all with their own hospital band with the owner’s info or wherever they were found scrawled on it. The Batman performs CPR on drowning victims, most of whom he was too late to save, but he does it anyway, over and over and over and over again.

He learns that kids are more likely to trust him if he carries stickers and lollipops to help calm them down. It feels manipulative the first few times he does it. He also wonders if he should bring something healthier, but he doesn’t have enough pockets, and the kids and parents weirdly trust him more when he asks what their favorite flavor is. (It also helps when he finds a few diabetics suffering from low blood sugar.)

By the end of his fifth day, The Batman has several stickers on his suit that he can’t bear to take off because the kids smile more when they see them. Somehow, he finds room in one pocket to fit a stuffed dog for the kids that are afraid of heights but need to be evacuated as soon as possible.

His cape makes for a good emergency shock blanket. He coaches many survivors through panic attacks and grief-stricken anxiety attacks. He tells them how to breathe and asks them to count down from 12 with him.

At one point, a kid asks for his name. The Bat’s never had to answer that question to someone that isn’t a criminal. He’s not vengeance anymore. That’s behind him. He’s just a guy in a gothic, bat-themed suit of armor. That name GCPD gave him, The Batman, comes to mind. He never really gave himself that. “The Batman” is too formal and ominous for a child anyway. He thinks for a moment then says he’s “Batman.”

#the batman 2022 #batman #battinson #batdad #the batman #bruce wayne

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 1 year

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An interesting thing about Kaz is the way he views a hierarchy within everyone he meets, an attitude probably defined in him by the Kerch culture of trade and the environment of Ketterdam. Kerch is a country that in many ways is designed to reflect the American Dream as it is portrayed in classic literature such as The Great Gatsby: as an ultimately unattainable and useless lie, designed to control and quell the masses in the danger of extreme capitalism. The social hierarchy in Ketterdam is well-established and discussed throughout the novels, though mostly in Crooked Kingdom since the plot stays almost entirely within city limits, and the attitude of viewing a miniature hierarchy amongst those around you as part of the overall societal structure is evidenced in Kaz, and possibly reflected in Wylan; a link both to their different upbringings within the Ketterdam social structure, and their position as literary foils. (I wrote a whole long thing about how Kaz and Wylan had/have the potential to become each other, so feel free to check that out for more detail if you want it). The city’s hierarchy and the unattainability of joining the rich upper echelon of society is cleverly hinted at from the very beginning of Six of Crows, when Kaz is jumped and then wakes up in what he expects to be the deb of a rival gang. He instead finds himself in Councilman Hoede’s Manor House, which I believe is on the Geldstradt, and the way he makes the distinction is by realising that the decor in the room he’s in “takes real money”. We know that people like Pekka Rollins or Tante Heleen have become truly rich from what they do in the Barrel, and so it’s strange to suggest that you’d need “real money” for this since we would generally use that phrase to refer to a large amount of money. What Kaz actually means here is “old money” or “family money”; you need the kind of money that the Merchant Council have been hoarding for generations, making supposedly risky trades when they have millions of savings to cushion the blow if things go wrong, not the kind of money that comes from the popular gambling dens and brothels of the Barrel. He means the kind of money that Daisy and Tom have in Great Gatsby, people who’ve never worked a day in their lives and yet like to think of themselves as very successful at life when all they’re truly succeeding in is spending their parents money, not the kind of money that Gatsby scraped and saved and began to chase through undisclosed illicit means. Even when men like Gatsby and Rollins make their money, and their name, they are never equal in the social hierarchy to people with old money. (To be clear, not that this is a defence of either character, I have criticisms of both, especially Rollins).

But the hierarchy Kaz places upon himself and upon the others is slightly more subtle, and arguably subversive. He looks down on Matthias because he “stinks of decency” and because he supposedly hasn’t struggled, arguably gaining slightly more respect for him when he learns of him losing his parents and baby sister but still maintaining the idea of ‘everyone has a sob story and you were clearly more lucky in your options to deal with it than I was, it’s not my fault if you made the wrong choice’. We as readers obviously know that Matthias had no options but to go with Jarl Brum and spent the next 6 years of his life (I think that’s the right amount of time, please correct me if I’m wrong) being emotionally manipulated and abused by him, but Kaz simply refuses to accept has suffered because it would be psychologically damaging to him to admit that Matthias was able to go through that and still come out a good person, when Kaz sees himself as having become truly demonic. Matthias looks down on Kaz for the exact same reason, unable to understand - especially since he knows far less detail about Kaz’s trauma - how someone who ever had a core of decency couldn’t maintain it through their pain, he assumes Kaz was never a good person, or never had the potential to be one. Kaz also looks down on Wylan, arguably far less for his attempt to maintain a core decency but because he views Wylan as having had the option to do so. Kaz seems to have more respect for Wylan in Crooked Kingdom than in Six of Crows, when he knows more about (but never, it should be noted, the full extent of) Jan Van Eck’s abuse to his son, once again showcasing that he struggles to accept the idea of someone feeling bad when they have supposedly suffered less than him. His trauma has clearly warped him in many ways, and one of them is losing the ability to see relative pain and how different things can affect different people in different ways; he effectively views everything in the manner of ‘I had it worse, and I’m fine so you need to get over yourself’. He labels Nina “a snob” for staying away from the Crow Club and the Slat despite being a Dregs member, and her response is “she didn’t much care what Kaz Brekker thought”. I think that Nina is possible the person Kaz holds the most respect for in his platonic relationships, and that is mostly because she simply couldn’t care less whether he respects her or not.

His relationship with Jesper is more complex; he judges Jesper for his addiction and yet continually eggs him on, giving him a line of credit to play cards at the start of Six of Crows and having the first step of his planning in Crooked Kingdom to make Jesper play all night, although it’s unclear whether Jesper has ever shared anything about his mother if anyone knows then the most likely parties are Kaz or Inej and yet Kaz forces Jesper to give up his revolvers in Crooked Kingdom, his most treasured possession and his constant connection to his late mother, he consistently infantilises Jesper, but mostly in his head and this is possibly an interesting link to the final nail in the coffin of their relationship; Kaz sees Jesper as a substitute to Jordie. I think it’s possible that he likes to see him as younger because that’s how he remembers Jordie - it’s also important to remember that Kaz is now several years older than his elder brother ever was so seeing him in someone his own age is possibly even more painful because that’s a point Jordie never reached (he was only 13 when he died). Jesper is someone that Kaz feels the need to keep at arms length, not because he doesn’t respect him but because he fears having a close relationship with someone who could so easily slip away from him like Jordie did. I think we can also arguably see aspects of Jordie within Jesper, the naïveté of thinking you can make it Ketterdam followed by the city swallowing you whole, killing Jordie and driving Jesper to his slow self-destruction - “I’m dying anyway, Da. I’m just doing it slow”. (If y’all have read many of my analytical posts you may have begun to notice that’s one of my favourite quotes)

Then we have Inej. Kaz places Inej on a pedestal whatever she does. I’ve spoken before about how she claims to be bad at picking locks whilst he claims to have done “a shoddy job at teaching her to pick locks” because he’s incapable of accepting that she is incapable of something; if there are flaws, they must be his because she cannot have any. In a lot of situations this can be harmful, going back to the romance of Daisy and Gatsby where Daisy is placed on a pedestal and idealised so much that she become more of an image than a person, so when she does not live up to his every high expectation Gatsby is destroyed by it. But with kanej this seems only to elevate their position, possibly because Kaz isn’t claiming that Inej is flawless, but rather that she is capable of working on her flaws in a way that he isn’t; it is almost a form of envy. For example, Inej also has a fear of touch and human contact, but she purposely forced herself to cope with small amounts of it, such as allowing Nina and Jesper to hug her even though it makes her flinch, because she fears it becoming a debilitating condition, as it has done for Kaz (not that she knows that initially when it’s first implied that she too fears contact). In the bathroom scene when she admits to him that she also struggles with touch, it has such a massive effect on Kaz not because he refuses to accept that she has flaws but because he sees her as so much stronger than himself and wishes that he could be more like her. Although both of them are ultimately unable to go any further than a few light brushes of contact, it’s suggested that what trigger Inej more than the touch itself is the sexual implications of those touches based on everything she went through at the Menagerie. Kaz doesn’t see Inej aligned with with himself or the other gang members, but as above them - and not in the way he labels Nina as a snob, but in a genuine manner he refuses to acknowledge her as low in society because he sees her as deserving of so much more. He notably never refers to her as “a canal rat” and he never even comes close to defining her by her time at the Menagerie, a start contrast between him, the supposed low of the hierarchy, and Van Eck, the supposed upper, he yells at her “you little skiv! You little whore!”. However, there is one way in which Kaz arguably looks down on Inej and it’s in a similar way that he looks down in Matthias: how dare she still try so hard to remain truly good, and decent, and to find her Saints and to politely ask them for forgiveness, when it would be so much easier to let the world beat that out of her? Arguably, it’s not that he judges either of them for their faith, but it’s that he fears them judging him for losing his, be that in religion or in the world at all. (I don’t think we know if Kaz was raised in a religious household or not, but based on societal structure in Ketterdam and the way most of the population in most of the countries are religious I think it’s safe to assume he at least grew up with an understanding of Ghezen). Kaz fears that they’ll judge him for failing to maintain his core of decency, which is exactly what Matthias does, and so he aims to offend or challenge them before they can him.

Ok I’m not gonna lie to you guys it’s like quarter past one in the morning as I’m writing this, and oh my god it just got so long out of nowhere… I might have lost my point somewhere in there, I don’t even know, this came from one quote I was thinking about and I’m not sure I even wrote that quote in there so, yeah, I guess. If you bothered to read this far the tysm I hope it made sense

#grishaverse #leigh bardugo #six of crows #crooked kingdom #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #kanej #kanej my beloved #kanej bathroom scene #kanej supremacy #matthias helvar #freddy carter #amita suman #ketterdam #kerch

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hamletthedane · 4 months

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Falling deeper into obsession over the parallels between Hamlet and Juliet’s characters, and how both plays are ultimately about children playing out their parents’ revenge fantasies. Protagonists placed in the position of puppets who only exist to further the ends of others.

The revenge of their stories is not their own. They did not cause the problems that they now suffer for. And somehow they ended up as the protagonists to a story already in motion.

But that’s where it gets interesting: they actively CHOOSE to struggle against the legacies and ancient grudges of their parents. The plot is not their own, but they MAKE IT SO.

The story of Hamlet is not that of Othello or Macbeth or Henry V: he is not self-motivated in his revenge, and can only be the passive participant of the inevitable plot (as R&G Are Dead points out to great effect). The things he does don’t ultimately matter: this is his father’s story, and his father’s revenge will occur in one way or another. “The readiness is all…” But he can do something: he can choose to end the story, to accept his fate and refuse to forestall his doom any longer.

The story of Juliet is not that of Rosalind or Merchant’s Portia: her defiance and cleverness, struggling against the edicts of those who raised her to create a renaissance generation, does not result in happy marriages ever-after. She dies trying to change the course of her fate and trying to defy the inevitability of a revenge plot coming to a head. She dies at her own hand, aware that only her and Romeo’s deaths can resolve the story they’re in.

Incredibly, in the inevitably of a narrative set in motion - doomed from the start - there is still an element of choice.

We have two very different characters driven by very different goals but still bound by the contract of their narrative to play out the tragedy. They’re children doomed by their parents and characters doomed by their narrative and stories doomed by the audience’s consumption of them. But what makes Hamlet and Juliet exceptional is their struggle against it. Somehow, in all the chaos and violence of the stage, they gain a small amount of power and control - for just a brief moment, they make decisions that change their story.

(And maybe those changes only work to immediately end their story, but they work nevertheless. In the horrible time-loop of a tragedy narrative, their escape is arguably the ultimate resolution of their character arcs. They “take arms against a sea of troubles/and by opposing, end them” at last)

#Romeo and Juliet #shakespeare #hamlet #cw: suicide #even more insane when you start bringing the ophelia and juliet parallels into this - ophelia also takes agency #and by her death forces change in the narrative #and Mercutio and Horatio standing in similar positions of witness and critic #it’s so good #can you tell these plays were basically written back to back lol #i may just be going insane though

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turbulentscrawl · 9 months

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Since you asked for some angsty stuff...Hunters of your choice (can Fool's Gold and/or Ithaqua please be included if you have inspo for them🙏) accidentally fatally injuring their SOs during a match? Maybe they're sad/guilty and they expect their SOs to be fine after the match but then it turns out this death was permadeath/their SO is gone for good?

You…you wanna make those two guys MORE unstable? I like you ewe

Warnings: angst, very intense emotions, extreme violence, character death

Fool’s Gold

The relationship between Norton and Him was as odd as it was volatile, but they shared some deeper-than-understanding connection to one another. Which was why he’d been chosen to break the news to his alternate self, against all his protests. It wasn’t fair. Norton and Fool’s Gold were, at their cores, the same person with all the same desires. The same loves. Norton was hardly given a second to process your death himself and now he had to put himself in front of the broken mirror who’d done it.

‘Fool’s Gold’ stood in that crooked, stiff way of his while staring down Norton with a goading smile. It was just them in the garden—in the spot everyone knew the two of you would meet on full moons.

“Get lost,” Fool’s Gold croaks out. “You know this isn’t your place.”

“Yeah, well, it will have to be for right now,” Norton spits back, crossing his arms tight. It’s a poor comfort, a poor self-restraint. “I’ve got something to say to you.”

“Important enough to interrupt my date night,” He cackles. He rolls his neck, body rumbling and cracking as the coals of his torso shift. “Get on with it, then. Then get out of my wa—”

“They’re dead,” Norton says quickly. There’s no sense in delaying things. No amount of sugar coating will help calm the wrath Norton knows the amalgamation of all his worst parts is capable of conjuring. Fool’s Gold tilts his head a fraction. His grin wavers. “For good. We don’t know how or why. But that last match with you this week, when you…. You killed them for good.” Norton doesn’t try to hide the venom in his voice, but at least spares his counterpart a recounting of the gory details. Of how you suffered, burnt and broken.

“The fuck they are,” Fool’s Gold growls. “You think I’ve got rocks in my head, too? There’s no such thing as death here. Where are they? They’re mad about that hit, huh? I told them not to body block for that--”

“They’re dead!” Norton shouts. “You fucking killed them! They’re gone—for real, forever! The sooner you accept that, the sooner I can fuck off and go back to ignoring your worthless existence!”

Norton was suddenly dangling in the air by a crushing grip on his throat, having been drawn into Fool’s Gold’s rocky hand by the very polarity that had saved his life so many times before. But they shared that, too, and now he was stuck with that dead, enraged eye staring into his.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Fool’s Gold roars, coughing and spitting all the way. Norton is wheezing too, both of them to quiver and suffocate with hurt carefully concealed under the blame and hatred for one another. “If anything…if anything, you’re hiding them. Think you’re so much better than me that you can steal the one good thing I got? I’ll crush you. I’ll CRUSH you. I’ll bring down that whole worthless fucking manor right to the ground and dig them out myself if I have to—WHERE ARE THEY!”

“It’s…your fault,” Norton chokes out with his last breaths, looking into his own murky eyes. “If you’d…n-never…existed—"

Fool’s Gold slams Norton’s body into the cobblestone like a ragdoll, rumbling the gardens and covering the grass with moonlit blood.

Ithaqua

He was not a man known for his patience—especially when it came to you. Ithaqua had been unbearable to all the other Hunters since your match with him, first enraged, then worried sick, it was completely pitiful. Somewhere between a kicked puppy and a snarling badger. Now, it was the survivor manor’s turn to be subjected to him.

Ithaqua paced in front of the Survivor manor, twitchy and impatient. Anyone who stepped foot outside was whipped into his clutches by a gust of wind and interrogated. He didn’t understand why they all had to make this so difficult. All he wanted was his lover. His other half. Why were these pitiful dolls denying him that?

“Bring them out here,” he’d growled at the squeaky little dancer. She got off the easiest, and that could have been the end of things, if she’d listened.

“Where are they?” he’d asked the psychologist, crushing her throat in a clawed hand while her pet beat at his stomach desperately. He’d let them go, too, because they reminded him of you and him in some pathetic way.

The third wasn’t so lucky. The batter had the nerve to claim you were dead. He was no fool, he knew that didn’t happen. He knew you were inside that stupid building, probably locked away by the rest of these survivor maggots out of some twisted sense of ‘protectiveness.’ Who did they think they were, to keep you two apart?

“You killed them,” the batter spat up at Ithaqua, who loomed over his crumpled body. “You beat them to death…like you’re doing to me now!” Ithaqua laughed maniacally. He’d hit you, sure, but only because you threw yourself in the way of the little blind girl. He’d told you before not to do that. That he didn’t want to hit you, that he couldn’t stop a swing in motion! But you did it anyway and took a detention-ed crack over the head. “They’re dead for good! They didn’t heal, they didn’t regenerate! We had to bury a corpse for the first time ever!!”

That gave Ithaqua some pause. Irrationally, impossibly…he didn’t hear lies in the bleeding man’s words. Something inside Ithaqua snapped with the realization, the thought that you might well and truly be gone. Without word or smile, he raised his axe and brought it down on this survivor’s head. He splattered open like a pinched grape.

It made no sense for true death to happen now of all times. To you of all people. If it were real, though, then there was a reason. Something was waiting beyond this cage. You were waiting, alone.

And Ithaqua would send everyone to meet you there, himself included.

Antonio

Antonio had brought flowers for you, but it was Alva and Michiko waiting for him at your tea party spot in the gardens. They were his friends, but their expressions did not bode well for this visit.

“What’s happened?” he asks, without preamble. “Have they refused to see me?” In your previous match, one in which he was the Hunter, he had killed you. Quite brutally, in fact, though everyone knew by now that whatever happened in matches was not by his choice. It was the reason he’d gathered a bouquet for your meeting today. He wanted to beg forgiveness.

“I’m afraid it’s something else, friend,” Alva says. “Would you sit with us?” he gestures to a seat at the garden table. It’s your chair, the one with a little bow tied to the armrest.

“If it’s all the same, I think I’d rather stand. But if this is not in regards to my love, what is it?” He couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his stomach, despite the small reassurance that you weren’t ignoring him.

“I received some concerning news in my last match,” Michiko spoke. She finally met Antonio’s gaze, and he realized, finally, how exhausted she looked. Like she hadn’t slept in days. “It seems there’s been a change to the rules of the manor. Or perhaps…an exception.”

“Lady Michiko has been punished for nonparticipation,” Alva took over, having noticed Antonio’s focus. “She’s been plagued by night terrors for throwing her most recent match.”

“Why would you do such a thing? What change of rules could have compelled you to take such torture?” Antonio wonders aloud. He creeps closer to his friends, setting your flowers at your seat.

“The survivors were terrified they’d be dead for good if I killed them. They had…proof. I would not be the one to test the theory,” Michiko said. Antonio opened his mouth to question again, but Michiko’s stare cut him off. She gazed deep into his soul, or where it would be if he had one, and he understood. His throat suddenly felt as if there was a stone lodged in it. He fought against his stitched smile with all his might.

“They…?”

“They are gone, Antonio,” Alva said. “I am truly sorry.”

Antonio felt his thins legs quivering beneath him, and suddenly he was in your chair, having fallen into the seat Michiko slid underneath him. He touched the armrests, wishing your hands were there to hold instead. Alva placed a hand on his shoulder and offered a handkerchief with the other.

“You should get away from me,” Antonio told them. He felt his body slipping with his sanity. A dark hole was underfoot, opening to swallow his entire, grief-broken being. He didn’t think he could ever recover from this. His everything was gone, his life, his love, and now the light itself was being swallowed by a devil’s shadow. He knew Michiko was over his shoulder, ready with her knife.

“Let us worry about that, friend,” Alva said. “We’ll be here for you, one way or another.”

Maybe, Antonio thought, he’d get lucky in the coming struggle and be killed for good himself.

#idv x reader #identity v #fools gold x reader #antonio paganini x reader #ithaqua x reader #idv night watch #idv fool's gold #idv violinist #norton campbell x reader #if you squint

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clangenrising · 3 months

Text

Month 16 - Greenleaf

When Aldertail had volunteered to go herb gathering with him, Oddstripe had been delighted but he had definitely expected her to get tired and lose interest by this point. The day was hot but there was a nice breeze and, as they meandered the territory looking for patches that hadn’t already been harvested, Oddstripe couldn’t help but smile.

“Y’know, I’d really love to find some thyme or juniper,” he said, hopping over a stone in his path.

“What do those do?” Aldertail asked, carefully picking her way after him. Her legs were the best he’d ever seen them. There was almost no redness and the fur had nearly grown back in. Oddstripe was so proud.

“Thyme is very calming and juniper berries are just all around useful. On top of being calming, they soothe belly aches, help with coughs, and they can even treat aching joints when mixed with the proper herbs. I’d love to get some for Sagetooth.”

Aldertail’s ears pressed back briefly. “Mm, would that help?”

“Oh, yes,” Oddstripe nodded. “When she isn’t suffering from her aches, she’s really, actually very kind. It can just be hard for her to stay that way when she’s in a lot of pain.”

“I guess,” Aldertail shrugged. “I feel like you don’t just start being mean to people though, if that makes sense.”

“I get what you mean,” said Oddstripe, “but something you have to remember is that your body and your mind aren’t two separate entities. They’re both you and they influence each other.” Aldertail winced in an attempt to seem less skeptical. Oddstripe laughed a little and tried to think of a better way to explain. “Oh, for example, when your mind starts to run wild, you feel sick to your stomach right?”

“Yeah,” Aldertail nodded.

“So that’s your mind influencing your body!” Oddstripe grinned. “But the inverse is also possible. Like, if you’re very scared, we do those deep breaths and the act of calming your body calms your mind.” Aldertail hummed thoughtfully. “So when Sagetooth’s body aches it makes it harder for her to control the way she speaks to people. You’re right that it doesn’t make her something she isn’t but it’s also not entirely her choice. Even I can get snappy when I’m stressed or ill.”

“Really?” Aldertail didn’t seem convinced. “I can’t picture you snappy.”

Oddstripe blushed and laughed as he replied, “Oh, that’s very sweet of you.”

“It’s true,” she said. “You’ve only ever been kind and gentle.”

“Well, I’ve been lucky that I’ve never felt ill enough to snap at you,” he said, full of pride.

“Mm,” Aldertail chewed her lip. “So where would we find juniper berries?”

“Hmm,” Oddstripe scrunched up his face in thought. “I know a place they’ll definitely be but its a bit of a distance. Would you still want to come along?”

“Of course!” she nodded vigorously. “I like learning about medicine.”

“Really?” asked Oddstripe.

“Mhm,” nodded Aldertail. “It’s so… powerful. I can’t imagine being able to do what you do.”

“Oh, it’s really not that hard to learn,” Oddstripe said, changing course. “I’ll show you.”

As they made their way towards the juniper bushes, Oddstripe went over all of the basics he could think of. Healing was something he was intensely passionate about and Aldertail indulged him in his ramblings for the entirety of their walk. Oddstripe couldn’t remember the last time someone had let him ramble like this. It felt amazing.

They crossed the eastern border and Oddstripe assured Aldertail that everything would be alright. Eventually, the grass petered out and the earth beneath their paws turned to dry, sunbaked mud patterned with cracks and ridges. Oddstripe smiled at the feeling of it under his paws. It had been too long since he’d stepped foot in the desert and he had missed it. They passed little burrows and scurrying lizards and dry looking shrubs and then finally came across the big juniper bush.

“Tada!” Oddstripe declared, unfurling his tail towards the cloudless sky.

“This is a juniper bush?” Aldertail asked, glancing around its leaves as if something would jump out.

“Mhm!” he purred. “The berries near the bottom are usually gone because creatures eat them but we can jump up and snag a few branches to take home. Maybe we could even plant one closer to the territories.”

“That would be a good idea,” Aldertail squirmed. “I don’t like this place.”

“Really?” asked Oddstripe, tilting his head.

“Yeah, it’s too open,” she shuddered. “Let’s hurry up and go home.”

“Alright,” he frowned worriedly. He’d never considered that someone might not enjoy being able to see the world stretch out endlessly around them. He bunched his legs underneath him and sprang into the bush, but failed to grab onto any of the branches. “Mousedung. Let me try again.”

He jumped again, this time snagging a branch in his teeth, and his weight pulled it down to a place where Aldertail could help him snap it off. He handed the branch over to her and tried again. The leaves rattled as he fell through them, this time taking another two tries before he caught another branch in his claws. It nearly slipped and he had to scramble to clamp his jaws down around it, smearing berry juice all over his muzzle.

“Are you okay?” asked Aldertail.

“Uh huh,” he said awkwardly. “‘Ah you ‘reah ih?”

“Oh, right! Sorry!” Aldertail hurried forward to start chewing through the branch.

“S’alrigh’,” he chuckled, feeling silly. She met his eyes and flushed pink, quickly averting her gaze to focus on her work. He laughed again. She was such a sweetheart.

A voice startled them both. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

Aldertail squeaked and flattened herself against the ground. Oddstripe tried to turn around but struggled to do so without letting go of the branch which didn’t occur to him at all. The cat who had spoken, thankfully, stepped to the side into his view. She was a plain looking grey tabby with bright, golden eyes, and she was watching them with an expression that read to Oddstripe as professional.

“Oh, sahhy,” he tried to say around the branch in his teeth.

A small smile poked at the edges of the stranger’s lips and she glanced carefully at Aldertail before asking, “Would you like a paw?”

“Mm!” Oddstripe grinned and nodded clumsily. “Mhm!”

The stranger chuckled softly, dropping her gaze to her paws for a moment, before she stepped up and swatted the branch where Aldertail had been chewing it. The force of the blow was enough to snap it and Oddstripe stumbled away as the rest of the branch sprang noisily back into place. Aldertail squeaked again, and scrunched herself closer to his side.

He laid his tail over her back, dropped the branch, and then licked his muzzle before speaking. “Thank you! I really appreciate the help. My name’s Oddstripe, what’s yours.”

“Oscar,” the she-cat smiled with a polite dip of her head. “I’m glad to be of assistance but I really must urge you to leave this place.”

“Oh?” asked Oddstripe, ears perking. “What for?”

“This is coyote territory,” she said, scanning the area with a sharp gaze. “You aren’t safe here.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize the coyotes had come so far west,” Oddstripe said.

“You live here?” asked Oscar, brow furrowing.

“No, no, but I used to live near here,” he said. “Now I’m out in the grasslands.”

“I see,” Oscar nodded. “Well, I must insist you return home, for your own safety.”

“We will, thank you,” smiled Oddstripe.

Oscar glanced around again and said, “Should you require an escort, I would be happy to oblige.”

“I don’t think it would hurt,” Oddstripe said. “Aldertail, honey, is that alright with you?” Aldertail simply shrugged, eyes wide enough to show the whites.

Oddstripe’s ears drooped in pity. “Oh, you poor thing. Here, let’s head back to camp.” He licked her cheek and helped her stand, then handed her one of the juniper sprigs to carry. Having something in her mouth would keep her occupied, he thought. Picking up his own branch, he glanced at Oscar and said, “It’s just this way.”

“I follow your lead,” she deferred with a bow of the head. Oddstripe blushed, a silly little flutter dancing in his stomach. Something about her seemed right out of a story. He’d never felt that way before.

Shrugging it off, he led the way, tail wrapped around Aldertail’s leg reassuringly. She stayed close to his side, ears flat against her skull, and Oscar stayed on the opposite side of him, at least two tail lengths away. Oddstripe wanted to walk closer but the distance was probably best for Aldertail. How considerate of their new companion, he thought.

“So, Oscar,” he asked, able to speak around the sprig this time, “why are you out here in coyote country?”

“I’m patrolling,” she said. “I look for creatures like you and give them the warning.”

“Creatures?” Oddstripe chuckled but Oscar nodded seriously.

“Yes. Anything I can speak to. Cats, deer, snakes, most birds.”

“Wow!” Oddstripe marveled. “That’s amazing! I didn’t realize you could talk to those kinds of things.”

“It’s simple if you have a teacher,” said Oscar humbly.

“It seems most things are,” laughed Oddstripe.

It wasn’t long before they reached the edge of the grass again. Oscar stopped under a scrubby little tree and said. “I should return to my patrol. Will you be able to get home from here?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Oddstripe. “Thank you so much, Oscar, it was lovely to meet you.”

She shook her head. “I’m simply doing my duty.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” said Oddstripe. She smiled, dipped her head in a polite bow, and then turned and bounded back into the desert. Oddstripe watched her go like he was trying to catch every last moment of her before she disappeared forever. Eventually, her shape disappeared into the shimmering edge of the horizon.

“Oddstripe?” asked Aldertail quietly.

“Oh,” he blinked and looked down at her. “Yes, dear?”

“I’d like to go home, is that okay?”

“Oh, of course it is,” he said, “let’s go home.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, that’s alright. Sorry I got distracted.”

“What was her deal?” Aldertail asked, craning her head to see if she could spot Oscar in the distance.

“I don’t know,” Oddstripe breathed softly, doing the same.

#clangenrising #clangen #clan gen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #Oddstripe #Aldertail #Oscar #Greenleaf

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