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sidsinning · 1 month

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To expand on Lucifer's neglect more

Yes he loves Charlie dearly, yes he showers her with his love and affection and semi-approval ("it's uh...got a lot of character!") when he sees her after all these years for the first time, yes he is desperately trying to switch back her reliance on Alastor to reliance on him- all these feelings are real and strong when she's right in front of him

-but when she isn't he is back in his own little world and rubber ducks. When he doesn't see Charlie in person she becomes white noise to him besides fleeting moments of courage and pining he gets to try and connect with her again. These are the moments where he regains a bit of clarity on just how fucked his family situation is.

He knows he has to maintain his connection with her somehow while also battling his own depression and urge to isolate and block off the rest of the world. They're in limbo of whether or not their relationship will finally be unrepairable, also expressed in how him and Lilith are not fully divorced, but still separated, with him still clearly loving her bc he still wears his wedding ring.

I love him, I think his love for Charlie is stronger than anything in his life, and I know he'd do anything he could for her (besides the one thing she asked which is very unluckily directly connected to his trauma)

But it's true that he doesn't listen to her, doesn't keep up with how her life is going, and has remained estranged from her as a child through her adult life for years for whatever reason (smtg implied through this flashback we don't understand yet, and/or his mental health issues)

For Charlie at this point, she's not a kid anymore, so just getting a call from him once in awhile is not enough if he still isn't addressing any of the issues that have built up between them, which has made her susceptible to being tricked by Alastor's empty words of praise and bonding

During Hell's Greatest Dad he isn't trying to address anything she's told him to, just trying to fix the surface level physical issues with the hotel to satisfy her- she looks uncomfortable the whole time he's trying to give her a sales pitch while smiling at everything Alastor says bc he is getting to her emotional needs, bc the bastard sees right through the father-daughter pair's issues

"I have angel powers! I can give you mountains of expensive things!"

"I'm always here for you! I'm so proud of you and all you've accomplished! We've grown so close bc I've always been by your side (unlike a certain someone 😇🐍🍎)"

He's excited when she asks him to come over, and we're excited for him to finally see his daughter he seems to love so much who doesn't talk to him, but from their conversation it is very much shown that Charlie is the one who has been more desperate to remain connected to him. She always updates him on her life when she can and asks him if he's paying attention to her- which he doesn't. Leading to her disappointment and/or annoyance with only jobs for her or random calls where he talks about smtg irrelevant.

I am a Lucifer stan through and through, but it is undeniable that he has not been a good dad despite being a good person. Now he's stepping up and reconnecting to Charlie again as she's fully accepting of him which is sweet.

It's also nice to see that helping Charlie and reconnecting with her is what brings him true happiness in life- bc of his anxiety and trauma he avoids the thing he knows deep down is the underlying cause of his unhappiness- his distant family and confronting their fractured relationship

So now that he's addressed a major part of the root of his depression, he stopped isolating himself, is being active, and given himself smtg productive to do, so his anxiety is down :)

Helping Charlie addressed how broken hearted he was over his family splitting, and restored the faith in humanity and good he lost after he was banished from Heaven and failed to redeem sinners when he tried

Shshsjdjdkfk I just love the characterization we get in just 2 23 minute episodes, even though the pacing is undeniably insanely fast and I would have preferred more time to marinate in it- but what can you do about capitalism vs. artistic freedom

#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #charlie morningstar #sidrabbles #splurged at 2 am btw plz forgive any grammar mistakes or rambling

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tailoroffates · 7 months

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Writing tips #5 - Conditions

Hey y'all! I'm back again with yet another segment of Writing tips. Today we're going to cover something a bit more vague, conditions. No, not the terms and/or conditions of some contract. What I'm referring to is the current condition of an item, a place, or even a creature.

Clean

Blank, bright, cleansed, clear, dirtless, flawless, fresh, hygienic, immaculate, impeccable, laundered, pristine, pure, sanitary, shining, shiny, sparkling, spick-and-span, spotless, squeaky, stainless, taintless, tidy, unblemished, unpolluted, unsoiled, unsullied, untainted, untarnished, washed, white.

Dirty

Black, contaminated, cruddy, dingy, draggled, dreggy, dungy, dusty, filthy, greasy, grimy, grubby, grungy, icky, impure, mangy, mildewed, moldy, mucky, muddy, murky, nasty, polluted, raunchy, scummy, scuzzy, slimy, smeared, smudged, soiled, soily, snooty, sordid, splotched, spotted, squalid, stained, sullied, sully, tainted, tarnished, unclean, unsanitary, unsightly, unswept.

Damaged

beat-up, bent, blemished, broken, burnt, burst, busted, collapsed, cracked, crippled, crumbed, demolished, destroyed, dinged, discolored, disintegrated, dismembered, flawed, fractured, fragmented, impaired, injured, mangled, marred, mutilated, peeling, pulverized, ripped, ruptured, separated, severed, shattered, shivered, shot, shredded, slivered, smashed, split, tattered, wrecked.

Faultless

Complete, entire, faultless, firm, fixed, flawless, full, intact, mint, perfect, perfect, plenary, preserved, replete, rooted, safe, secure, set, settled, shipshape, solid, sound, stable, steadfast, steady, unblemished, unbroken, uncut, undefiled, undivided, unharmed, unified, unimpaired, uninjured, unmarked, unmarred, unruffled, unscathed, untouched.

Messy

Bedraggled, botchy, careless, cluttered, dirty, disheveled, disordered, disorderly, disorganized, filthy, foul, frowzy, frumpy, grimy, grubby, ill-kempt, lax, littered, muddled, mussy, nasty, raunchy, ruffled, rumpled, shabby, slack, slapdash, slipshod, sloppy, slovenly, uncombed, unkempt, untidy, wrinkled, wrinkly.

Neat

Chipper, clean-cut, combed, detailed, fastidious, groomed, immaculate, kempt, meticulous, orderly, organized, prim, shipshape, snappy, snug, spick-and-span, spruce, tidy, trig, trim, uncluttered, uncluttered, unwrinkled, well-groomed, well-pressed.

New

Advanced, brand-new, contemporary, current, cutting edge, fresh, latest, modern, new-fashioned, newfound, new-sprung, novel, original, recent, stylish, trendy, ultramodern, unfamiliar, unspoiled, untouched, untrodden, unused, up-to-date, youthful.

Old

Abandoned, aged, ancient, antiquated, antique, archaic, broken-down, cast-off, crusty, dated, decayed, decrepit, deteriorated, dilapidated, discarded, dowdy, faded, hackneyed, historical, moth-eaten, neglected, old-fashioned, outdated, out-of-date, outworn, primitive, primordial, raggedy, rickety, run-down, rusty, scruffy, shabby, shoddy, stale, tattered, threadbare, time-worn, traditional, used, worm-eaten, worn, worn-out, wrinkly.

#writing help #writing tips #writing advice #writeblr #amwriting #creative writing #writerslife #synonyms #TOF #writing community #writers of tumblr

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ohthewh0rror · 6 months

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LETS TAKE 5.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚ prompt — Can you fix the fractures in your relationship or is it doomed to shatter?

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

You knew when agreeing to be with Tom that, in some way, you’d always come in second place. During your school years, it was to his academics. Now that the two of you have graduated, it seems he’s found a new venture to spend his time on. It didn’t bother you as much while you two were in school, but now that you’re adults, it’s becoming harder to overlook.

"What do you want? For me to throw away and forget all that I've been working towards?" Tom asked, his voice raising to almost a yell. What he said just left you even more confused. Throw away what he’s been working towards? Does he mean the pay raise at Borgin and Burkes? Because truthfully you were happy about the thought of a pay raise. The two of you weren’t exactly well off, and it was a struggle to keep up with the bills you two had, so it’d be a much welcomed raise. You sighed, exasperated, you truly couldn’t believe this had turned into an argument, “no! All I'm asking for is some of your time."

Time: something he didn’t seem to have for you lately.

You just wanted him to take a step back and spend more time with you when not working. It seems like you aren’t even second place anymore, whatever he’s researching took second place. You’ve tried asking him what he’s looking into, but he’s tight-lipped. Any question and peek over his shoulder at his writings have been brushed off. The only time he gave you some semblance of an answer was just to tell you that it’s for something he’s been working on since his years at Hogwarts.

Tom speaking jolted you from your thoughts, “and what makes you so worthy of my time?”. Your heart plummeted as you forced yourself to stay rooted in your spot, eyes locked on his. It wasn’t the worst thing he has said to you, but the sneer on his face combined with his choice words made you feel small. Insignificant. Like you were just some stranger standing before him, and not his significant other of 3 years.

Your mind raced for an answer, but you kept drawing short. The reality of meaning so little to him left you feeling numb. The only thing you wanted now was to leave and collect yourself, to try and talk yourself out of making the rash decision of ending things permanently.

"That is a new low, even for you Tom,” you took a deep breath, “but it is nice to finally know where I stand with you.” You could feel your face get hot as tears blurred your vision, threatening to spill over. “Yes, it was time you learned your place,” Tom said, his gaze cold and unrelenting. You gave a quick nod, not trusting yourself to speak anymore. Grabbing your coat and purse you decided it was time to leave, you could only hope your closest friend didn’t mind you coming over unannounced.

Tom made no move to stop you, and though you knew it wouldn’t happen, a small part of you wish Tom’s collected demeanor would crack. That he would beg you not to leave, telling you he was just upset and acting like an ass. But that wasn’t Tom, the world would crumble to ash before he acted in such a way.

Instead, he let you leave.

You had been at your friends house for a week before you heard anything from Tom. The morning you finally got an owl from him had been a beautiful morning. You could hear the chirping of morning birds as rays of sunlight filtered in through the crack of the curtains. Taking your time to get out of bed and get ready for the day as you had no plans. And, most importantly, no one to answer to. It was a foreign, but freeing feeling that you were getting more accustomed to by the day.

You had just put the final touches on your hair, getting ready to go out and do some shopping when there was a sharp tapping on the bedroom window. You peaked back into the room and saw an owl perched on the window sill, patiently waiting for the letter to be taken. Walking to the window, you opened it, gingerly taking the note and sending the owl off with a treat as payment.

Opening the note it read:

12:45 — Meet me at Honeyshine’s.

— T.R.

‘Straight to the point, I guess,’ you thought to yourself. But then again, why would you ever think otherwise. Looking at the clock you saw you had an hour until you had to meet him. At least that left you just enough time to browse the other stores in the area and maybe find something nice for yourself.

Unsurprisingly, Tom was already there, waiting for you outside the door when you walked up. Nothing about Tom ever seemed to change, and you didn’t think it ever would. Tom opened the door for you, placing a hand on the small of your back, guiding you in. Neither of you spoke a word until the both of you had been seated, tucked away in a corner away from everyone.

“How have you been?” Tom asked. The question irked you if you were being honest. The way he could act so casual, like your relationship wasn’t consumed by hairline fractures that threatened the very foundation of your bond. But, you’d play along if that’s what kept the peace, even just for a moment longer.

“I've been alright,” you said. Tom gave you a silent nod, his face giving away nothing about how he truly felt. It made you nervous, was this the day that you and Tom went your separate ways? You’d hope the day would never come, but if he wanted to leave you, you weren’t going to stop him. The relationship has begun to feel so one sided, you wondered if Tom truly wanted you around or if he just liked the idea.

The idea of someone waiting for him at the end of the day. Someone to go home to, unwind with. So it’s not just an empty apartment waiting for him, the stillness of the empty rooms reminding him that he is alone in this world. Though, perhaps you were just reading too much into Tom. He never was the sentimental type, you doubt he thought of things that way.

Reaching across the table, Tom’s hand grabbed yours, his thumb running across your fingers. He opened his mouth, before closing it again, seemingly rethinking what he was going to say. After a beat he brought your hands to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, “I…apologize…for what I said to you. A part of my research led to a dead end and I was frustrated, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

So that’s what he was talking about that day. That Merlin-forsaken research; that was an argument for another day though. The fate of your relationship was teetering on the edge of ending, and you’d rather be in a stable place in your relationship before bringing it up again.

You stared at Tom for a while, letting him hold your hand from across the table. Neither of you said anything as you thought over his words.

The idea of walking away was tempting you; whispering sweet words in your ear about how free you’ve felt the past week. How you got to dress how you wanted, to lay in bed for however long you wanted, and talk to who you wanted. It almost seemed your best options was to count your losses and walk away while given the opportunity. But, something kept you from getting out of the chair and calling him out on his terrible apology.

The poisonous words of insecurity and dependency hissing in the opposite ear being the reason you were still seated. It was urging you to accept the apology. Telling you how Tom was your first everything, and you shouldn’t rush to leave him because of a silly argument. What if you never find anyone else? What if Tom is the only one willing to put up with you? Do you really want to leave him behind, especially when neither of you have anyone else?

You looked away, weighing your options, though you already knew what you were going to do. Tom’s hand that was holding yours, let your hand go as it came up to cup your cheek. Immediately your head tilted, leaning further into his touch. It almost scared you how quickly this man could have you back under his thumb with just a little bit of his attention. A small smile graced his face, as he knew you’d forgiven him, and it served to only further pull you in.

Affection was hard to come by with Tom, and he had you eating out the palm of his hand with just the simplest touch, “let’s get home, I will show you just how much I missed you this past week.”

You knew you’d always be last on his list of priorities, but if it meant getting the smallest of affection from Tom then you’d learn to live with your place in his life.

#I feel like I lost the plot halfway through #like I legit kind of hate this #tom riddle #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you

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ikkosu · 2 months

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PROWL HEADCANNONS

a/n: prowl on 'how he'd fall for you' headcannons because I’m bored and I love this war criminal to bits. (human gn.reader btw) warnings : just me rambling about prowl. might make part two of this idk.

I feel like prowl wouldn’t be the type to seek out someone; the only reason he’ll fall in love with you ( or in his case, have an illogical, spur of the moment, chemical reaction) is because you’ve been working him long enough to understand how his mind works

you’re gonna have to be the calm type, smart enough to know he’s off his rockers — since you’re going to have to tolerate him, anyway

or dumb enoug you don’t know wtf’s going on half of the time and just,,,supports what he does — he keeps you around for that

either ways, you're only there because the high council needs someone to keep tabs on prowl. in case he gets bored and decides to scheme another conspiracy to overthrow the government

(an exaggerated bias, as he'd say)

dumb is like his emotional support golden retriever, and calm is also the same, except less rowdy and just stares into his soul when he fucks up. But he stares back though and you're not one to give up either (in the end he does)

(Trope dynamics of loud dumb x smart and internally seething calm x smart is what I’m thinking lol)

calm would be someone in the science field or in the medical field, sassy, knows a lot (because if you’re going to lose your shit, it’s likely you’re never going to win an argument against him so = logical sympathetic + done w/ his shit + I stick around bc I care )

and for dumb loud would be someone in his profession, like buddy buddy cop + someone that just tags along because, hey, you like pissing him off

‘in both cases, if he falls for you it’s either because (for internally seething calm) you’ve managed to sooth him down from another temper tantrum or understand how he feels, in a way.

[i]

it’s not his usual tantrum, he’s a lot more emotional today and you’re incredibly concerned. this is prowl of all people! what’s got him so worked up? he's the least logical when he thinks someone's about to betray him

you notice the whispers as you saunter along the halls, everyone passing their remarks about the earlier supposed argument between the autobot SIC and his commander

brother was going off on the walls of his office when you slip in, punching holes, flipping tables — lotsa tables — and datapads were strewn across the floor, stylus pens cluttering about. it’s a barren hell hole. more barren than clemency combined

all this you’re not so interested in, it’s a normal thing, a three to four stage process : you’ll listen as he rants. you’ll nod and slowly, not so subtly in his peripheral, coax him to sit on the couch as you fix up the place.

"His perception of justice is too idealistic!" He chuffs and you'd reply “Oh? Optimus is not taking your advice again? I thought he’s a lot more understanding…”

something like that

today, however,

The moment you slinked inside the room, swiftly locking the door, you're greeted with his back is turned, helm hunching over his taut shoulders

your gaze swivelled from the upturned tables to the mess around and it's only then you notice energon plinking down to the puddle on the floor then energon seeping from the crevices of his fist.

Your eyes find the similar smear on the wall, then to the glass shards of a fractured cup on the floor, glinting

he’s bleeding

your medical instincts take reign, voice soft with concern.

“prowl—“

“don’t touch me.” He reels away.

His vents are shuddering, a staticky sporadic bursts of chuffs. He’s not breathing well, much too fueled by his own anger, his optics dart around the place, unable to focus, jittery and restless.

he paces around the room, servos unable to still

you know that hopeless feeling. The desire to do something , anything, but rooted at the inability to do so purges all instincts

you inch closer, palms up placatingly, treading on a light rake of glass. “It’s alright. Breathe. think about your three senses—"

“I said don’t touch me.’’ his voice is louder, more defensive, the kind you see a lot given you're his partner and the fact not all his propositions weren't taken so well. you can guess that's what happened today, or an altercation he's taken a lot too personally.

"I won't. I just want to see your wound."

"Its nothing. I said leave." his door wings flare up, a prey cornered with no where to go, lashing out as its last primal instinct to survive

pity spools into your chest

"it's alright, prowl. It's just me." you're halfway close and he backs up against the wall. "Let's talk like we always do, hm? Talk to let out some steam. Talk about what happened this morning or we can talk about something else."

"you don't understand." his voice wavers off a little, still having that tinge of sharpness yet it's loosing it's edge. his optics fail to meet yours. It's lodged to your feet. somewhere there. he's never been this vulnerable

"I won't have to understand." You say, and your hand curls experimentally over his own, testing to see if he'd lash out

When he didn't you intertwine you hands with his, easing down the stress of his knuckles. "You don't have to tell me anything. Just let me see your hands. I'll leave after once I fix everything up."

A moment — a beat; he relents.

Or more accurately, he's reeled silent as you tow him to the couch, clutching an ivory medical kit in the other hand.

With his servos on your knee, you work delicately, picking the fractured shards from the crevices of his digits that were lodged deep into the cords

His expression doesn't betray much pain plaguing his face with the usual pinched, dour look as he gazes outside the window. Though, he tenses up when you'd come across a deeper wound

then something hard on your shoulder startled you. You blink when you feel the crook of his nose nestle your shoulder blades. he's never been this affectionate and while you prefer to assault him with all kinds of question, you chose not to

It's like handling a startled cat; you're afraid of overwhelming him in case he'd draw back again. So you follow along, leaning a bit back so he's neck is comfortable with the bend.

The white bandages were purged a purple mauve when you roll the fabric around his digits, tying the loose ends with a dainty little bow.

You fix up the kit, his head still on your shoulder and you were about to leave when something grasps your sleeves. It's a tight clutch, digits curling around the fabric.

Prowl's now staring at the ground, any emotion on his face is imperceptible. Later punctuated by a remark, soft yet demanding, he uttered :

"stay."

#prowl x reader #transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #transformers idw #idw prowl #prowl #prowl idw x reader #idw prowl x reader #mtmte prowl

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cloudy-li · 3 months

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chapter one - through your masqurade

pairing: Luke Castellan x unclaimed afab!reader warnings: very basic mentions of a panic attack, reader may become a bit descriptive for plot reasons but over all still ambiguous, kinda slowburn Chapter one of my Two Threads of Yarn series masterlist - found here

Violence. Incessant violence fuels the world; it is a never-ending cycle. Become hurt, be hurt, cause hurt. Violence is an unquestionable human quality. A survival instinct. Be weary so you do not get hurt. This was your mantra; until one day, your heart got the better of your head.

The silver of Artemis’s chariot reflected gently off the serene waters. The cold nipped at your skin with welcome fervour as you dug your hands into the frosty, smooth pebbles. Absentmindedly, you clenched your fists. Sometimes, especially during the day, you would not feel your fingertips for your toes. Sometimes, they would become ghostly appendages, turning almost transparent. You picked up a rock. Smooth and flat and the striking colour of soot. It was dotted with fractures, scarring the surface. With a huff, you extended your arm and threw it into the lake. It hit the water, skipped once, then sank. You flexed your fingers again, clinging on to the sensation of touch. Sighing, you got up, brushing away phantom dust off your clothes, making your way back to an impersonal bunk in the Hermes cabin.

Noon rolled about the next day. The days were getting longer and the nights were getting shorter. You grimaced internally at the thought. Adorned in your usual sun-blocking attire underneath your distressed camp half blood shirt, you fixed your hair and put on a pair of battered aviators. Again, you grimaced at the brightness of the sun. Desperately praying for some form of cloud cover.

The sun stayed shining. Haughty. You picked at the food on your plate as the majority of your cabin mates got up to sacrifice a portion of their meals to the fire burning in the brazier. You had gotten used to the practice after a month or so. And after a year, you’ve accepted the hard truth. You were never going to be claimed. It wasn’t like your other cabinmates, they all had some form of parentage even though . Alabaster, was a child of Hecate while Ethan was a child of Nemesis. ‘They were claimed, even though they didn’t have cabins, they were still claimed.” Your thoughts had wandered until they had turned dark and menacing. ‘Is my mother so ashamed of me that she doesn’t even want to claim me?’ Subconsciously, a finger came to where your – otherwise normally dark hair – was marred white. It was one of the many ugly scars on your body. ‘I’m a tree,’ you thought to yourself. ‘I watch people come and go, they are a chapter to me but to them, I’m a novelty. A picture in a book, glimpsed at and tuned over. I can’t move from where my roots are. I let people hurt me and use me…’ memories of innumerable moves and innumerable fake friends flit through your mind like autumn leaves carried by the wind.

‘... I can’t move from where my roots are.”

You had not realised that you were zoned out until your gaze met with two brown eyes. A sudden chill entered your body, seeped into your veins. You had met these very same eyes multitudinous times before. And with a startelling realisation you wondered why you hadn’t seen it before. Behind a veil of serenity; Luke Castellan’s warm brown eyes were stormy. And violent.

And suddenly, there was a part of you that wanted to delve inside his mind and his thoughts and his experiences and know everything about him. Uncharacteristically, almost impulsively, you offered a smile. A stray thought dashed through your mind.

‘Maybe you and I are not so different after all’

LUKE

It was apparent today that there were always new things people were capable of. When he locked eyes – or rather tinted sunglasses – with you, a chill went down his spine. Subconsciously he could feel the weight of your gaze, and an unsettling feeling washed over him. Almost as if you could see behind his masquerade.

It unsettled him.

But at the same time, he couldn’t help but be curious; thoughts ran rampant in his head. ‘Who are you, who’s your godly parent, how did you get here, what are you doing to me…’ Luke offered a smirk in return and reluctantly turned his head back to his friends who had already sat down at the far end of the Hermes table. Away from you.

When he turned back around to glimpse at you, you were holding you left hand to your chest, re-adjusting the tinted glasses, clumsily putting on your cap and briskly walking towards the dorms – following a trail of shade offered by towering oak and birch and conifer.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan #pjo #pjo tv show #pjo series #pjo luke #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #cloudy-li writes #two threads of yarn

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adaine-party-wizard · 2 months

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i wonder how like attached all the rat grinders members are to their party. clearly kipperlily and emo bard (i am bad at names) are pretty Big On It, but Fantasy Mormon is a newbie so he doesn’t seem super sold on anything yet, unphased kobold doesn’t seem attached to anyone or anything, ivy seems like she’s the kind of cutthroat where she does what she needs to in self interest and self preservation rather than loyalty rooted in caring, and i just want oisìn to be good SO bad i refuse to believe he’s that devoted to the group (he can be fixed they can fix him)

idk. i’m just wondering how easy it would be to fracture the group and who would be the weakest link

#i think fantasy mormon is the weakest link but oisìn can be saved #(i actually think oisìn is gonna be the like horrible mastermind behind all of it #so i’m rooting for a he falls for adaine so hard it fixes him moment)#dimension 20 #d20 #fhjy #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high junior year spoilers

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vladdyissues · 2 months

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At the root of it all, Vlad just wants someone to love him.

He couldn't get love when he was young and shy and awkward. He can't get love now that he's rich and powerful and confident. He thinks if he can just win Maddie and Danny's affection—keyword: win, as if love were a prize, a trophy, something to be earned and possessed instead of grown and nurtured, like a seedling—then he'd finally be complete. He'd have everything.

But he's wrong. Eventually, I think, he would realize it. Even if Maddie left Jack and Danny loved Vlad like a father, it wouldn't fix the brokenness deep inside him. It would be a temporary, inadequate fix. A bandage on a compound fracture. Vlad requires more serious care. The broken bone needs to be set so it can heal properly and grow straight again. It's a process that's going to hurt very badly at first, but once everything begins to align and the scar tissue heals over, it will get better.

But as long as Vlad continues to put the key to his happiness in other people's pockets—Maddie, Danny, his wealth and power—he'll never be able to heal.

#danny phantom #vlad masters #meta #just dp thoughts #healing #dependency #he's so empty #he tries to fill the bottomless pit inside him with people and material things #but it's never going to be enough #it can't ever be filled #fic: familiar

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cryptwrites · 6 months

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writing injuries: 101

hi goblins and ghouls let me teach you how to write that silly little stab would you decided to give your silly little guy so that you could rip out the hearts of your reader, even more.

Hopefully you have gathered from the title that this will be discussing WOUNDS! BLOOD! GORE! OTHER NASTYS! If you disagree with my advice, MORE THAN OKAY! I'd love to hear yours and we can exchange tips! Lets get into it.

Types of Injuries

To write a realistic injury you NEED to know three things: A) What type of boo-boo B) What caused said boo-boo C) Where is the boo-boo D) Who will kiss boo-boo better (optional) edit: according to my friend D is not optional, so. find someone to kiss it better

Common types of injuries

I am by NO MEANS a professional so... take with a grain of salt. There are so many resources out there if you need to get specific but here's some simple shit xoxo:

Abrasion: Remember when you fell on the street as a skin and scrapped the shit out of your knee? Yeah. That. Its broken skin caused by friction against rough surfaces: requires IMMEDIATE cleaning.

Animal Chomps (bites): These can and will cause an infection if you don't treat it. Your 5'3 teenage girl CANNOT brush off that wolf bite apocalypse writers. Get her to the closest med tent.

Avulsion: A injury's caused when a body part is ripped away either partially or fully (HELLO SAW MOVIES). Results in some severe trauma (physically and mentally if they live) Typically caused by gunshot wounds, explosion's, car crashes etc.)

Bruise: Muscle fibers, blood vessels, and connective tissues are damaged with these bad boys. They cause that bluish purply look. Bruises do change colour to a yellow-green the older they are so do your research!

Burn: There are three degrees and a whole lot of different types for this mf and I can do a separate post on burns if you all want, but in general it is damage to the skin caused by heat, chemicals, radiation or sunlight (we all are too familiar with that last one). As some of know it can result in Swelling, Blistering, and scaring. Now if you gave your creature a really bad burn then it can cause shock, death and the destruction of the skin! And it leaves your victim of choice vulnerable to infection! Yay!!!

Fracture: a break in the bone, it literally looks fractured. It causes pain swelling, numbness and possibly deformity. You will likely need to send your character to the doctor.

Laceration: A cut, slice, tear in the skin, these are not stab wounds this is like if you accidentally cut yourself on glass or if someone swung at you with a knife and it sliced you, but it didn't go into your body and stay there. You get the idea.

Puncture wounds: THIS. THESE ARE YOUR STABS. Penetration to the skin caused by any sort of (usually sharp) object. These are the wounds your serial killer might use in the final moments of the kill with his knife, or the final blow to your hero's enemy with his sword.

Sprain: Ligaments (the things you see in x-rays that hold the bones together) that have been stretched or torn which happens when the joins move into unnatural positions. Usually, this results in stiffness, discoloration and swelling.

Strain: NOTE, Sprain and Strain ARE different. This is what happens when a muscle or tendon (not a ligament) is pulled, twisted or torn. Typically caused by over-stretching/contracting. Usually results in pain, muscle spams, and weakness.

Please note, that like I mentioned with burns there are degrees of severity for ALL OF THESE so please do your research this is just a starting point.

Care & Aftermath

LOTS of writers forget this part and its so sad. You want cute scenes between to characters who aren't yet dating but your rooting for? ONE OF THEM JUST GOT HURT AND THE OTHER IS TENDING TO IT. BAM INSTANT CUTE SCENE. Do not forget about your aftermath and medical care. Most injuries if left untreated WILL WORSEN if you leave them alone so FIX UP YOUR GUYS.

Do your research!! Look up the kind of injury your character sustained, the severity of it and you'll find recovery time and the kind of treatment they'll need.

In my experience, the more you focus on the aftermath of wounds, the more realistic it seems even if your dashing hero just got his arm ripped off by a dragon.

Writing the injury

You do not, now listen closely. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WRITE A MEDICALLY ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF THE WOUND. You're probably writing fiction and not a med student essay. If you are... email your professor I cannot help you here.

Just focus on getting the basics down. What's the bleeding? How bad is the swelling? What's the pain level at? and just leave the rest to the imagination. Unless your character is a doctor or whatever, your little dudes will also not know exactly what an Avulsion is. You can just say that there's a gaping hole or something. They'll be far to focused on the pain or whatever is causing it to diagnose themselves then and there.

Realism

I pinky promise you that as long as you have the basics, your readers will pick up what your laying down. The characters reaction is the most important part. How are they feeling emotionally? Are they having a physical reaction to the pain (Limping, shaking)? Do they have any physical response to the sight of their own/others blood? Do they experience shock? What's their attitude after it all?

These are the questions you should ask yourself. A war-hardened soilder will react differently to a gunshot wound than someone fresh out of high school.

Thanks :] go make the masses suffer :]]

#writing #horror writing #creative writing #writer #writers on tumblr #they/them #writers #writerscorner #horror #writers tips

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frodo-with-glasses · 6 months

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Frodo with Glasses timeline

(A revised version of this post, now made to be more book-accurate)

For as long as anyone can remember, there’s always been a tendency for poor eyesight in the Baggins line.

By the time he adopts Frodo, Bilbo has been wearing eyeglasses for years, and it doesn't look like he'll stop needing them anytime soon. The family curse—or rather hereditary inconvenience—actually skips a generation with Drogo, and Frodo is lucky enough to inherit his father's improved eyesight.

Unfortunately, he doesn't protect the gift very well. Though he doesn't need glasses at his coming-of-age birthday at 33, a decade or so of studying and reading by candlelight turns him soundly nearsighted. He denies it until he can't deny it anymore, and then ignores it until he can't ignore it anymore, and after much teasing and cajoling from his friends (especially Merry Brandybuck) he finally capitulates and purchases his first pair of eyeglasses at age 45.

It's at age 50 that his world is turned upside down.

The cross-country trek to Crickhollow is haunted by Black Riders—and, one hot and humid morning, by rain. Rainwater turns Frodo’s glasses all wet and fogged and streaky, and he valiantly tries to keep them clean with his handkerchief, but with a stumble over a hidden root and a slip of the hand he drops his handkerchief in the wet leaves and ruins it. It's not even midday. Frodo, being a BabyTM, thinks to himself, “This is terrible. I can’t see. I’m walking blind in the rain and the forest, I’m hot, I'm wet, I’m tired, it can’t possibly get any worse than this.”

It does.

Frodo falls face-down, with his sword underneath him, at Weathertop, and his glasses receive a hairline fracture. Sam becomes their keeper, tucking them safely into his pocket, as Glorfindel hoists Frodo onto a horse and rushes him to Rivendell. When Frodo makes his stand at the Ford, his vision is blurred; not only by the nearsightedness, but by the Wraith-Sight turning the living world to shades of shadow. He collapses on the bank.

An hour or so later finds him in bed, pale and deathly still, tended under the careful watch of Elrond. Sam slips his glasses onto the bedside table.

By the day of the Council, the elves have replaced the broken lens. They have no need of corrective eyewear themselves, but they are master craftsmen at any trade when they put their minds to it; and the construction and maintenance of eyeglasses is actually a necessity now that Bilbo lives in Rivendell.

But on October 24th, when Frodo first wakes up, his glasses haven't yet been repaired. His health came first, of course; and there was little sense in fixing the little trinket when their owner might not survive to use them.

But he is awake, and he is alive. Frodo steps out of bed and looks at himself in the mirror, surprised to see how much weight he's lost and how much thinner and wiser he looks in the elves' green clothes. And then he turns, catching sight of his spectacles on the nightstand…and seeing that small crack, split right through the lens, makes his shoulder feel ice-cold and crackle with pain, and he shudders.

His glasses are broken far more severely in the fight in Moria. Knocked off his face and trampled underfoot, probably, or got under him somehow when the "hammer and anvil" skewered him. Either way, after Gandalf falls, Frodo and the rest of the Fellowship barely escape with their lives.

Just out of bowshot of the Gate, standing in the midst of the Dimril Dale, they stop to recover and to mourn. Frodo stands upon a ledge with the wind in his face, clutching to his chest his broken spectacles: one lens is crushed, and the nose-bridge is snapped in half.

Gimli repairs them for him during their stay in Lothlorien. Dwarves are known for their skill in masonry, of course, but someone as learned as Gimli is also skilled in glass-blowing, and after a little trial and error, he replicates the prescription right down to the smallest margin of error. It’s not quite the same—maybe it never will be—but it works well enough to keep going.

Still, Frodo wonders if he hadn’t lost half of himself, too, like the shards of glass lying somewhere in the dark of Moria.

In the shadow of Amon Hen, the Fellowship breaks. Sam is his only companion now. Somewhere in the maze of the Emyn Muil, one of the hinge screws begins to get loose. They’re stopped for their midday meal—and Sam is busy cobbling together their little lunch of lembas and a few wrinkled berries that he foraged from the banks of the River—when Frodo attempts to twist the screw back in with his fingernails and teeth. He fumbles it, and the screw drops right out and disappears into the gravel and the thin grass. He sighs, lamenting that he forgot to bring his repair kit from home in Bag End.

“Repair kit?” says Sam. “Well, bless me, Mr. Frodo, I’d almost forgotten!” He throws open his pack and buries his entire arm into it, all the way up to his shoulder and almost to his neck, rummaging around until he cries “ah-ha!” and drags himself to the surface.

In his hand, held high over his head, is a little brown case. It was one of the various small belongings of his master's that he'd packed in Rivendell, to bring them out in triumph when they were called for, in a moment just like this.

Frodo—overwhelmed with equal parts delight, relief, and annoyance—cries, “My dear Sam! You might have mentioned that earlier!”

“Slipped my mind, sir, begging your pardon,” Sam answers as Frodo takes it from him. “But we also had the help of elves and dwarves and other such folk who’d repair ‘em better than the both of us.” He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, but still peacocking with pride on his foresight saving the day.

Frodo has opened the case on his knee and pulled out one of the little screwdrivers, but he looks up, and seeing the look on Sam’s face—desperately hoping for praise, but too polite to ask for it—he smiles.

“What would I ever do without you, Sam?”

Sam puffs up like a pleased rooster, and his smile widens until it nearly overtakes his face. Frodo can hardly hold himself back from laughing.

“Help me find that missing screw, won’t you? It fell into the grass somewhere around here.”

That instance ends happily, but their good luck doesn’t last forever. Frodo loses his handkerchief in the putrid bog of the Dead Marshes, and cannot wash the fingerprints of mud and filth off his lenses. Mordor grows—a distant, shapeless, black-grey blob on the edge of his vision, lit by fire.

It’s in Cirith Ungol that he loses his glasses for good. Somehow, they manage to stay on him in Shelob’s lair, though the hobbits scramble through the bones and filth and web-laced crevasses in the rock; but Sam is held up by Gollum, and Shelob poisons Frodo, and when the orcs find and strip him they take the glasses as a prize.

Far away, at the Black Gate, though he doesn’t know it until later, the Mouth of Sauron will present his trophies: a cloak, a staff, a mithril shirt, and a broken pair of glasses.

When Sam arrives to rescue Frodo from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, he doesn’t have his spectacles.

Only the Ring.

Frodo shambles through Mordor, basically blind, tripping over loose rocks and shale. The visions that swim before his eyes, taunting and just out of reach, are perhaps the effect of this cursed land, perhaps the illusion of his own failing vision…perhaps the trick of the Enemy in his mind.

All is a blur of exhaustion and starvation and acrid, furnace-dry, throat-burn air, until the bitter end.

The Ring is destroyed.

Frodo wakes up in Ithilien, his hand heavily bandaged. Within time, from the artisans of Gondor, he receives a new pair of glasses.

Those are the same he carries with him until the end of his life, when he boards the ship in the Grey Havens.

#frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #fig tree au #the semi-almost-canon au where it’s not explicitly stated that frodo has glasses but he COULD #spectacles as a metaphor for frodo’s mental state #written with the help of my best friend who wears glasses

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kay101kim · 10 months

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fractured

warning(s): none

pair: james wilson x gn!reader

one shot or hc: one shot

note: this is a bit angsty, also not sure if i 100% like it nor do i have the desire to continue. i promise that more fun and fluffy prompts will be found so i can write, but im just getting back into it! please enjoy<3

word count: 713

house md masterlist

“What is this? What do I mean to you? Are you ready to even be with me?”

All of these were valid questions from you, far too long of pondering and wondering what was even going on between you. Tired and afraid of what these questions would reveal about the relationship, but you had to know. If he meant what he said, wanting to grow old together, loving, and comforting each other in these times of self-doubt.

Wilson didn’t miss a beat to respond, “Of course I’m ready to be with you!” It revealed almost as a shout, angry, confused and yet truthful all at the same time. He loves you, was that answer not enough?

“Then be with me, James!” you yelled in the same fashion, frustrated, concerned, the tension had been building and it burst in Wilson’s office. You were simply talking about a patient, but everything crumbled so quickly, it felt suffocating. You wanted to sit down, cry, beg him to give you an answer with absolute certainty. Yet you haven’t heard it, not in his voice nor in his actions.

“I… I can’t- I-'' Wilson responds, stuttering, nervous and tripping over his words profusely because he had no idea how to handle the situation. In his other relationships he often moved too quickly and now he was afraid to do the same with you and yet you kept teetering at wanting to move on. To be together. Wilson was afraid of what that might mean, how it could be too hurried.

“What do I mean to you?” You could only repeat yourself, maybe then you would get an answer. Your voice was stern, dripping with desperation, begging that something could be done or said that would simply fix all of these issues you’ve been having.

“You mean everything to me… I’m just-” He went forward to grab your hands, but the surge of confidence left him and he softened his grip on you. Looking at you as if somehow his eyes could tell you the answer, but you’ve already tried that.

“It sure as hell doesn’t look like it,” this time you were angry, your expression grim and dark at the thought of how much he had been avoiding you. Staying at the hospital for days, going to House instead of you to fix the root of the problem. Oh hell it made you angry, you restrained yourself as best as you could, but Wilson noticed it easily. He knew how upset you were, and rightfully so. “You were the one who didn’t come home, didn’t call, I had to beg for answers from House. You’re treating me just like your ex-wives.” The words flew out before you could think, it made you feel guilty but at the same time you could never hide what you were truly thinking. The silence was clear and he looked at you, painfully, and you couldn’t help but stay silent at your own words.

“Take that back… take it back.” Wilson rushes up to you once more, tears welling up in his eyes. He was obviously hurt, tormented by what you thought was so true. And all you did was look at him, his hands at your sides begging.

“I can’t take back what’s true.” You were a cold-hearted bitch, you admitted to yourself in the moment but if he was going to treat you like a divorcee then he might as well know it. You tried not to let the tears fall, successful at first but as soon as his grip softened. He gave up and it felt like the battle of this relationship had been lost so easily, as if no one was trying to reach out again. His head was towards the ground, the tips of your fingers about to touch his head, but when the tears rolled down your face there was nothing else to do.

Wilson had lost, and had not fought hard enough. He did treat you like his ex-wives, he made the same mistakes all over again and yet he couldn’t look up. To look you in the eyes, with all your ache and disappointment just like all his other relationships. You were gone by the time he spoke, soft, broken, his voice cracking…

“I’m sorry.”

#house md #james wilson #james wilson x reader #x reader #james wilson x you #x you #angst prompt #fractured #kay 101 kim #robert sean leonard

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mareenavee · 8 months

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Sentences Someday

(Or Short Snippet Someday. Or Six-Sentence Sunday.) (I have no concept of time or titles.)

Tagged by the amazing @throughtrialbyfire! Tagging @paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense, @thana-topsy, @thequeenofthewinter, @gilgamish, @archangelsunited, @polypolymorph, @kookaburra1701, @dirty-bosmer, @wildhexe, @orfeoarte and @miraakulous-cloud-district!! And you. Yes. Your tag is invisible, but still there. Tag me back so I can read! Here is a tiny snippet from Chapter 29 of The World on Our Shoulders. (Soggy with Emotions!Teldryn again.)

Small cw for reflection on past alcohol/substance abuse.

Teldryn sighed, a headache blooming from grinding his teeth as he allowed the stress to continue building in his neck and jaw. The thing was, [drinking] never really did fix a single thing. Or he wouldn’t keep ending up back at square one, never able to move forward and never able to turn back time no matter how hard he tried. Turning his brain into a mazte-soaked rag would not actually fix the root of the problem. Problems, really. He’d lost count of exactly how many over the last handful of decades. Centuries. Geldis would have the number, though. He stared down at his hands. Gods, he wanted to change. He had been right there at the precipice, that day in the Netch when he’d told the truth about who he was and [Nyenna had] accepted him for it. Sobbed about it, if he remembered right. Because she realized she wasn’t actually alone, and, for once, neither was he. He could have a purpose. But, like a s’wit, he’d fallen in — Nope. He felt the fracture as he shoved the word down again. It would not do to keep dwelling. But the cracks were letting all the water out. It was so exhausting to be this empty, this hollow. That, and it was getting hard to see past it all, to figure out if he could let whatever this was settle into something resembling normal again. It’s never been normal, and you know it.

#MareenaWrites #Sentences Someday #six sentences sunday #The World on Our Shoulders #Teldryn Sero #Teldryn #Nerevarine #Nerevarine Teldryn #nerevarine teldryn sero #Nyenna #Dragonborn and Far-Star Marked #skyrim #skyrim fic #tes #tesblr #elder scrolls #fanficblr #writblr #writeblr

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authurials · 8 months

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𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 … chapter one

𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 . a council of snakes

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 . here

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 . no warnings

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . here is chapter one of still of the night--cross posted here as well as on ao3. this first part is give a little insight on aemond and his small council, next part will be keeley's intro and first glance of baby aerion! please let me know your thoughts and make sure to leave a like to show your support.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 a time, in his youth, where Aemond Targaryen would have given anything to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. He had been an envious child–a second son–constantly longing after what he could not have–whether it be a dragon, a father, a birthright; none had ever been given so easily, and so Aemond Targaryen had learned how to take. It was he who had claimed Vhagar at the mere age of ten, it was he who took his revenge against the bastard Lucerys Velaryon for cutting out his eye, and it was he who had won his brother’s war when he killed their sister’s greatest weapon, Daemon Targaryen. And yet it was Aegon who had been crowned all the same, it was Aegon the Greens had fought for, and Aemond had been nothing more than a weapon to be wielded–a means to an end. For no matter his years of training and studying and dedication, no matter if his elder brother had never been suited for duty, Aemond would never have been anything more than a second son–a spare to an heir, until Aegon had solidified his rule by having children of his own.

And yet none of it had mattered by the time the dust had settled on the battlefield and the poison had taken root in Aegon the Elder’s body, for there Aemond Targaryen now sat at the head of the small council table–king, and hating every second of it.

The monarch sighed in disinterest, poorly feigning paying attention as the men around him once more discussed what they believed to be a most pressing subject–the potential future arrangement of his second marriage. One might mistakenly believe that there were far more important things to set the crown’s attention and resources to; the debilitating poverty in Flea Bottom to begin with, or mayhaps the areas of the realm still in need of repair after the dance had left them decimated and in some cases unlivable, or even the ever persistent fragile state of the realm, that still found itself torn asunder by the fracturing of the house of the dragon. Yet, it was the misguided belief of Aemond’s small council that all could be fixed with the right marriage–one that would see the seven kingdoms once more reunited, and begin an era of prosperity under his rule.

Though, Aemond saw the prospect of his rule being ‘prosperous’ rather unlikely and in fact laughable in the face of all that he had done; so many still saw him as cursed–

A kinslayer.

They would never see him as anything but a monster, and maybe that was what Aemond was; but, at least it was his blood that would sit the throne, the price that had been paid in blood and fire had seen to that–

He had seen to that.

“--it would be the most practical choice, your grace, if you were to marry Lady Rhaena, ” Lord Edric Reyne, Master of Law, pressed once more to regain Aemond’s attention.

“However,” Lord Hendrik Lannister, Master of Coin, added, “there are other choices we may consider that would be just as advantageous.”

“Still trying to see your niece as queen, Lord Hendrick?” Ser Garth Swyft, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, snorted.

“Gentlemen,” Oberon, the Grand Maester, hummed disapprovingly, quieting the playful squabbling; he turned his attention back to the king, whose indifference continued. “My king, I understand that this decision might be a difficult one, however without a queen we fear some might begin to question your–”

“My what, Grand Maester?” Aemond interjected finally, his voice sharp like the Valryian dagger he kept strapped to his side at all times; his singular pale eye was piercing as he stared down the older man. “You fear they might question my rule if I do not take another wife? Yet it is so soon after my beloved Floris’ death.”

He used the term beloved loosely, as there had certainly been no love between Aemond and his wife. They had married not long after the war had ended, his mother the Dowager Queen pressing for the ceremony as a way to raise spirits and appease the Baratheons; the latter of which had still been reeling from the loss of their patriarch on the kingsroad. Floris herself had been apt enough to do her duty, and had taken to the title of queen rather well when her husband had ascended the throne; and though there had been nothing in regards to affection between the pair, Aemond had admired her loyalty and determination. He would not say he truly mourned the loss, but her presence in his life would be missed, as she had never bothered him for love or tenderness, but simply loyalty and respect in return for her own. Theirs had been a mutually beneficial partnership, and he doubted he would find that so easily in his next marriage–hence why he was so hesitant, among other reasons, to remarry so soon.

“I have no need for a queen by my side to be able to rule,” Aemond frowned, continuing, “nor do I feel the need to solidify my claim more when my late wife has already given me our son. Now, I do not know why you all bother me with such trivial matters when I have already made my opinion quite clear–I will marry no one else as of right now, and I will certainly not be marrying Lady Rhaena.”

He fixed his singular eye on the crux of the issue–Lord Alyn Velaryon, his previous Master of Ships and his newly named Hand; though he was greatly beginning to regret bestowing the honor upon the ruler of Driftmark as the man had done nothing but press his own agenda much like the previous Hand before him. Aemond had believed extending this olive branch to the only other remaining Valryian house in Westeros would see the matters of the dance finally put to rest; however, it appeared he had allowed the Velaryons too much leeway, as they were beginning to become a thorn in his side. If it was not Alyn scheming to marry his wife’s twin to the king, then it was his cousin Baela testing the bounds of his mercy as she made no attempt to hide her hatred and was constantly finding ways to impede his ability to rule–primarily in her control of the Velaryon fleet.

“My king,” Alyn shifted in his chair, attempting to make himself look bigger under Aemond’s scrutinous stare, “although we may understand your stance on the prospect of a marriage arrangement so soon after Queen Floris’ passing, we must insist that this is what is best for the realm. A marriage to Lady Rhaena will finally unite our families once more, and if you were to have a child together, any bad blood that remained would be squashed. The people of the Seven Kingdoms can once more rest easy knowing the royal family is at peace, with no fear of further warring tearing the realm asunder once more.”

“I agree,” Lord Edric nodded. “Lady Rhaena would make a suitable choice for the next queen. She is of Targaryen blood, she is a dragon rider, and from what I have heard an intelligent and dutiful girl. A marriage between the two of you could restore House Targaryen to its former glory, and bring rise to a new generation of dragons.”

“If we can somehow manage to get the few eggs that do remain to hatch,” Lord Dagmar Greyjoy, Master of Ships, snorted before downing the rest of his wine; slamming his cup on the table, he gestured for the cupbearer to come forth, “more boy!”

All it took to silence the drunken man was for Aemond to turn his gaze on the Lord Regent of the Iron Islands, who only held his position simply to garner support of the Iron fleet; and even then, when the time came for the young Lord Toron to take his helm finally as his peoples’ leader, Dagmar would find himself out of a title–if he managed to even survive that long.

“Lord Velaryon, Lord Reyne,” Aemond hummed, turning his attention back to the matter at hand, “your words have been heard, and although I may understand some reasoning behind why you would want to see Lady Rhaena and I marry, I must disagree. There is much history between the pair of us, and not much of it good at that, and I fear that that has irreparably damaged our opinions of one another. I have no desire to see us stuck in a marriage where neither of us can rest easy for fear of what the other might do, as I know I would not be able to find it in myself to trust her after everything that has transpired between our families. That in of itself would cause great complications in fulfilling our duties as I am sure a marriage between the both of us would bear nothing of fruit, of that I am certain.”

Silence stretched out across the long table of the council, the king’s advisors sharing looks–as if to ask one another if anyone else had any other ideas.

“Besides,” the king chose for them, breaking the silence as he continued on, “it was my understanding that Lady Rhaena was entertaining suitors even as we speak. Is that not correct, Lord Velaryon?”

“My king?” Alyn feigned confusion.

“Come now,” Aemond rolled his eyes. “What was the name of that Corbray knight I have seen my cousin speaking with as of late…Collin?”

“....Corwyn,” Alyn sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in barely concealed frustration. “But I assure you, your grace, nothing untoward has transpired between the two. I have certainly not given Lady Rhaena leave to marry, nor do I intend to.”

“And why is that? Last I saw of them they seemed rather taken with each other,” Aemond hummed. “She will surely be happier with him than she ever would with me.”

“I have already spoken with my good-sister on the matter,” the Hand admitted, at least having the good sense to look uneasy under his king’s accusatory gaze. “That is to say, she would be amicable to a marriage if we are able to reach an agreement as a small council.”

“How kind of you to include us in this arrangement, Lord Alyn,” the Master of Ships quipped, paying more attention to his wine than the conversation.

“I agree,” Lord Henrick supplied dryly.

“Your grace,” Lord Edric came to the rescue, a voice of reason among the rising tensions between Hand and King, “let us at least hear what Lady Rhaena had to say to her good-brother in regards to the match.”

Snakes, the lot of them, Aemond could not help but think to himself as he assessed the men that surrounded him at the long table; there was not one among them that would do anything that did not benefit himself, that did not elevate his position in some way. He knew ambition when he saw it, had seen it etched across the cold and calculating plains of his grandsire’s face many a time growing up; and had felt it most viscerally himself the night he had claimed Vhagar–the night he had lost his eye. No one knew ambition better than Aemond Targaryen, especially how dangerous it could be when fed improperly.

“Very well,” he conceded with a stiff nod.

“My king,” Alyn began, saying the words as if in an attempt to reassert his loyalty to Aemond’s crown, “I have spoken in great depths to Lady Rhaena in regards to a potential match between you and her, this is true; and during our talks, my good-sister has expressed of course the same hesitation that you do, however she understands that if we as the small council can agree that this marriage is what is best for the realm then she will do her duty. However, she does ask that certain demands be met before doing so….”

“Aye, of course,” Aemond sneered in response, “and might I ask what my cousin would have of her king?”

“She asks that she be allowed to spend her summers on Driftmark, with my lady wife,” Alyn responds, unwavering under his liege’s burning stare, “and that the rest of the time will be spent here in King’s Landing. And even though we had already made plans to rebuild the Dragon Pit, she requests that it be completed post haste so that Morning may live in greater comfort if she is to live in the capital permanently.”

“Is that all?” The one-eyed monarch raised a pale brow.

The Hand of the King fell quiet for moment, for the first time showing unsureness before answering, and quickly the reason for such hesitation became clear as he continued, “Lady Rhaena would also see that her half-brother, Prince Aegon, be returned from his wardship in the North and instead be allowed to foster under the both of you.”

The other members of the small council exchange uneasy looks even as Aemond’s remained locked on Alyn, singular eye unwavering as if he could somehow fell the man with simply his gaze. For all he wanted to do in that moment was be rid of Lord Velaryon, and his cousins, once and for all so they may no longer plague him with any mentions of Aegon the Younger’s existence. The boy was an all but forbidden subject in the Red Keep, most if not everyone knew not to breathe his name in the king’s company for fear of reprimand–or worse.

After the war, the eldest son of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen had only been spared execution after barely surviving the sword the first time under Aegon the Elder due to Aemond having no desire to feed the title of kinslayer any longer; that did not stop him, however, in essentially banishing him from the capital with the threat of dragon fire in the North if Lord Stark attempted to raise the boy for usurpation and revenge for his fallen mother. Along with the boy’s exile, Aemond had also put a stop to the ill-arranged betrothal between Aegon III and his remaining niece, Jahaera; he could not stomach the idea of his sister’s only living child being forced to bear the burden of reunification of their fractured house, as it was not her responsibility to fix what she had not broken. To marry the blood of her twin brother’s killer was not something Aemond would allow his niece to be subjected to, no matter how much his small council pressed him to see reason.

“Well,” he cleared his throat finally, “I suppose it is good that I do not intend to marry Lady Rhaena then, as I would not see my nephew return to King’s Landing so quickly. The envoys I receive from the North tell me the child seems agreeable to the arrangement, and that Lord Stark is a firm but fair warden. What reason would I have to bring him back to the keep?”

“Your grace–” Lord Edric began.

“I grow tired of these discussions,” Aemond interjected with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as he assessed the men of the council. “Have I not made myself clear in regards to my intent–or lack thereof–to remarry? My late wife–your queen–has given me a son; I have my named heir–for now that is enough.”

“My king, I am afraid we cannot guarantee the prince’s continued health,” Oberon stated boldly if not foolishly, “we must ensure the security of your bloodline by procuring a spare as soon as–”

“My son shall live!” Aemond asserted loudly, finding himself standing from his chair, planting his hands loudly atop the table as he glowered at the older man. “He is my blood, the blood of the dragon! He is my heir, and he shall be king when my body no longer draws breath.”

The Grand Maester tried not to quack under the king’s anger, looking to the other council members for help but there was none to be had as they avoided his gaze.

“It is my fault really, as I have allowed you all to bicker and to plot for far too long,” the king laughed without humor, “but no more, I am afraid. I will hear no more of this nonsense–no more about marriage–”

He slammed his fist on the table, startling the men of the council and even the guards who stood at attention.

“No more about my son–”

He fixed a cool stare on the Grand Maester, who bowed his head under the pressure of the Targaryen’s pale gaze.

“And no more about Aegon,” he finished, turning the look onto Lord Velaryon, who sat still as a statue as he returned the king’s glare with one of his own.

Sinking back down in his chair, Aemond never broke Alyn’s stare as he continued, anger leaving his body as quickly as it entered,

“Am I understood?” He only broke away from the Velaryon to ensure he had the men in the council’s agreement to his newest commands; he would leave no room for doubt on how serious he was, even if he had to draw blood to get his point across. He would no longer suffer their ambition or their defiance, as he had for years under his grandfather and mother’s whim; he was king now, and though she had not flown for many years, he was still the rider of Vhagar, the Queen of Dragons–his word, at this current moment, was law–

And it would be obeyed.

“My king,” his title rang across the group of men, who bowed their heads in acquiesce until they got to the Hand, who sat stoically across from Aemond, still looking upon him unwaveringly.

“Lord Velaryon,” he pressed, “do you wish to say something?”

For a moment, Aemond welcomed the idea of the man’s resistance–even if it were a singular quip once more asserting his desire to see Rhaena wed the king. That was all he would need truly to rid the Lord of the Tides of his title as Hand of the King, and see him far from the council room–let that be a lesson when one’s ambitions stretch beyond the realm of propriety.

“No,” the man gritted out, “no I do not, my king.”

Like the others, Alyn Velaryon bowed his head to King Aemond’s demands, and with that the small council’s gathering was brought to an end.

As they left, Aemond remained seated, eyes trailing after them coolly until the last man disappeared through the double doors of the council room and they were once more closed. Left with only the guards and the cupbearer, Aemond picked up his own forgotten chalice of wine and took a sip, humming,

“Boy.”

“M-My king?” The cupbearer stepped forward, holding the pitcher of Arbor red; he had remained quiet as his position requires during the whole council meeting, and he was not often used to being addressed directly by the king himself.

“See to it that Lady Rhysling is made aware that I request her presence in my chambers after dinner,” Aemond instructed, “and inform the servants that I require a hot bath to be brought up afterwards as well.”

“My king,” the boy repeated, this time more sure as he bowed his head and set the pitcher once more on its pedestal, hurrying to leave the room and fulfill Aemond’s requests.

As the door clicked once more closed, the king downed the rest of his wine, taking a moment to himself–now all he had to do was make it through dinner with his niece.

#˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 :#/still of the night #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x original female character #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic

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utilitycaster · 4 months

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CRITICAL ROLE ASK MEME 2023

(with significant inspiration from, and some questions directly taken or lightly updated from this 2020 end of year ask meme by @cranesofibycus; had it not been very Nein specific I'd have simply reblogged it, it's a good meme!)

Retrospective:

44. Bawdy Basement Belligerence: What was your favorite episode this year and why?

45. Ominous Lectures: Did your opinion on specific characters change over the course of the year? If so, how?

46. Night at the Ligament Manor: What did you think of Candela Obscura?

47. The Fey Key: What is your favorite Critical Role (or Candela) fanwork you created?

48. An Exit Most Fraught: What was your favorite One-shot other than Echoes of the Solstice (there's a question for that specifically!)?

49. The Aurora Grows: Has the fandom changed over the last year? If so, how?

50. Red Moon Rising: Which plot development surprised you the most this past year?

51. The Apogee Solstice: What is your favorite meme (yours or someone else's) about Critical Role (or Candela!) this year?

52. Far from the Others: What was your favorite and least favorite part of the Solstice-induced party split?

53. Ripples: What was your favorite ship at the start of the year? Has this changed?

54. Treacherous Toys: Are you more or less (or the same) level of interested in Critical Role now as you were at the start of the year?

55. Hope Within History: Who was your favorite NPC that appeared this year?

56. By Goat or by Boat: What was your favorite line of dialogue from this year?

57. The Sorrow of Molaesmyr: What was your favorite Critical Role (or Candela) fanwork someone else created this year?

58. Escape from the Past: If you could change anything about what happened during the main campaign this year, what would it be?

59. Somewhere Out There: Favorite new piece of lore learned this year?

60. Faith or Famine: Place you most enjoyed seeing for the first time this year?

61. Crisis of Faith: What are your thoughts on the Echoes of the Solstice live show?

62. A Long Walk of Reflection: Have you listened to Midst? [Are you going to listen to Midst? When will you listen to Midst?] If so, favorite episode?

Prospective

63. A Haunted Past: If there is one main PC death this year (whether or not resurrection is fixed by then), who do you think it will be? (Extra credit: if it's not Chetney or if there's multiple deaths of which Chetney is one, who else?)

64. Reunited: What plot thread do you need to see resolved this year?

65. A Path of Vengeance: If you had to come up with a Critical Role related resolution this year, what would it be?

66. Aid of the Tempest: What are you most excited to see on the moon?

67. Bloody Flowers: Give me three Bells Hells hopes/predictions/theories for 2024!

68. For the Tempest: It's December 2024. How did Ludinus Da'leth, Liliana Temult, and/or Otohan Thull die?

69. Nice: What are your hopes for the fandom (or, if you'd prefer, the channel) in 2024?

70. Embattled in Bassuras: Do you think the campaign will be over a year from now?

71. Mist and Whimsy: Which ships do you think will sail next year? Which will sink?

72. Phantasmal Parley: Which mentioned but as-of-yet unseen character are you hoping to meet in the new year?

73. Kindling the Spirits: Who would you most like to see as a guest on Critical Role this year?

74. Roots Between Worlds: Which past campaign PC do you think Bells Hells are most likely to meet?

75. An Ancient Flame: Which deities do you think might reach out to Bells Hells (or Bells Hells reach out to them) (other than the Changebringer since that's pretty established)?

76. A Gathering of Heroes: Which theory from 2023 are you happiest to have seen debunked?

77. The Promise and the Price: What is Fearne's boon from Captain Novos?

78. Fractures: What spells do you hope to see characters take next year? Or, if you prefer, what feasible (per stats) multiclasses?

79. To Hurt is to Heal: What is a new EXU season you'd like to see?

80. A Test of Trust: What do you think Delilah's ultimate fate will be?

81. Eve of the Red Moon: Who do you want to see GM a future Candela season?

#critical role #2023 cr ask meme #idk how much i will answer tonight BUT i have nothing planned tomorrow morning except for eating pancakes and drinking coffee and gatorade.

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spock-in-awe · 8 months

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Hey, so, I made up a term and wrote a whole thing. Hope you enjoy.

Inspired by the concept of liminal spaces, liminal space characters are narratively stuck, their subjectivity seemed rendered inert. They are resistant to transiting to the next phase, on the brink of possible transformation if only they could figure out the how of transforming. However, this arrested character growth is designed by skillful hands to be temporary, and the resulting arc of change is heightened by that seemingly fixed–and problematically so–starting place.

An inherent trope among these characters is a bridging multiple worlds, identities, or contexts. They inhabit an “in-between,” a space of discomfort, uncertainty, waiting, and denial (relating to the personal, the public, or reality itself). Narratively, there might be an impending change on their horizon that they work to avoid, sacrificing pieces of their own ethical system to reach that aim. They might be running from their past actions, straddling multiple spheres of existence, or haunted by what they’ve done but unable to face the consequences. Others might be so committed to completing a task bestowed upon them they barely assess whether they are capable of even doing so. In worse emotional places are those characters who complete the task set before them, only to realize it was a horrible mistake.

At the root is their relationship to subjectivity. Who directed their understanding of self? When did that occur? Was it purposefully manipulative or purely environmental? To move through the liminal space, they must define their own subjectivity, and take control of their own identities after being buffeted by expectation, lineage, or limited opportunities.

One of the most persuasive liminal space characters of the last ten years is Ben Solo, or Kylo Ren, in the Star Wars universe. He is born under incredibly traumatic circumstances, his lineage being a splinter of the light side and the dark. Impossibly high expectations are thrust upon him before he enters the world, so too is a sinister invasion intended to corrupt him in the womb. He is purposefully kept ignorant of his grandfather’s actions, deprived of an opportunity to come to terms with the damage wrought those decades prior. Ben’s parents don’t quite notice how calculating the dark side is, or avoid doing anything about this understanding, until they send him to his uncle’s Jedi Temple. Even under his Master-level uncle’s observation, Ben struggles to integrate everything that is seemingly at odds inside him; the pull to the light, the pressure of the dark. Consequently, he is left in a state of fractured identity, split between what is acceptable and unacceptable, unable to find his place in a galaxy ruled by strict binaries. This tension boils to the surface as rage, violence, hopelessness, and subservience to those he turns after his family members fail him.

Another excellent example is Spock in the Star Trek universe. He is born half human, half Vulcan, a duality that leads to lifelong struggles not only within himself, but in the galaxy, as well. While he must suppress his emotions through training and social expectation, his internal system of rationality is encouraged during his childhood on Vulcan. Despite his father’s choice to partner with a human woman, Sarek seems to resent Spock’s individuality. In Vulcan schools, Spock is bullied by his peers for that part of his identity of which he has no control. In a more recent iteration of Star Trek, it is revealed that Spock also has a form of dyslexia, setting him further apart from those he might otherwise find a connection with. He is a unique individual, someone whose adversities aren’t recognized by those he encounters–let alone seen and validated–and so he is left to find a balance within himself with little support. His world is also one of defined boundaries, clear parameters for acceptable behaviors. This path isn’t easy for him, especially when he seeks to relate to those he finds himself drawn to, or forced to spend time with. Depending on the era of Star Trek, he deflects the advances of those around him, or falls under the influence of an alien biologic, for example, wherein he is allowed to express emotions, and later confesses that being under the pollen’s influence was the only time he felt happy.

Both these examples share a commonality: they are pushed a certain direction in response to family obligation, social expectation, or environmental constraints. This can even go as far as childhood abuse or neglect that carries on through their lives. From the clay of their childhood experiences, the liminal space characters are taught it doesn’t matter what they want for themselves; they must accept and perform an identity according to what people around them dictate as acceptable. For Ben Solo, it is dutiful Padawan to his own detriment, while as Kylo Ren, he is a conflicted tool used by those he bows to. Spock defaults to appearing as a distanced and capable science officer, hiding any internal tumult he may experience. Both have suffered for their struggles and crave relief.

For some, there is a distinct lack of agency often assigned, something that happened at the start of their journey that was entirely out of their control. Ji-Ah, a liminal space creature from Lovecraft Country, is possessed by a spirit that wreaks havoc on those she encounters. She did not consent to the spirit’s arrival–her mother invited it in for reasons all her own–and the human Ji-Ah loses her identity in the process. What is intriguing about this arc is how the spirit is the one to change, not the negated human within. That person was lost, replaced by a spirit who transforms for the better.

San, from Princess Mononoke, was abandoned by her parents in the forest. She was discovered by the Wolf Clan, whose leader Moro takes the human child in as her own to raise entirely as if she were a wolf. As San grows up with deep hatred of humans, she must confront the truth of her existence; that she comes from them, was abandoned by them, and now commits her life to stopping their destruction of the natural world. Her transition through the liminal looks similar to her starting place, living as a wolf, yet her internal conflict finds resolution through connecting with a human man she can trust.

To achieve their goals (which are usually not intrinsically motivated but outwardly so), they may suppress their innate tendencies. These often include compassion, empathy, tenderness, or caretaking. This leads to immense conflict, both externally as they aim to reach certain objectives, or internally as they combat or try to eliminate this intense intrinsic struggle. This conflict may cause violent behaviors, mental instability, or emotional chaos. When these characters are coded as “villains,” they often cause intense harm to others and themselves. They do this usually out of desperation to survive, to fit in, or perhaps to avoid perceived judgement. Depending on the narrative, they are given an opportunity to make amends for this harm. But usually in western media, they are not redeemed, let alone offered the chance to atone for the damage they inflicted while they struggled to actualize as their true selves.

The heroic versions, of which the Star Trek universe has many, benefit from extra layers of character depth, which offers an arc that builds effectively over several seasons. Whether it is an android who observes humans around himself and wishes to emulate their mannerisms, or a previous human-machine hybrid forced to sever herself from the greater machine organism, these characters depend on the external to define their identities. It takes much longer for them to find that truth within themselves.

Other characters fall into a middle ground between villain and hero coding. One such example is Ed Teach, or Blackbeard, in Our Flag Means Death. He inhabits the world as a fulfillment of his own stereotypes and exaggerations. He claims to care about little and presents a bravado to match the fearsome illustrations in history books. But eventually we see his immense dissatisfaction with the role he has been performing. His liminal space, similar to the rest, is that of moving away from this project front toward authenticity.

Joel Miller, a character originated in the Last of us video game and portrayed in a streaming show of the same name, begins as a regular man. He has a daughter, a brother, a job. It is only because of horrifying circumstances that he is forced to transform. He makes himself cold, violent, and ruthless. There can be no remainder of his previous self. Until he encounters someone to protect, and protect, he does, much to his own aggravation. His circumstances are some of the most dramatic across narratives, and how he integrates, or fails to integrate, his warring selves has fascinated audiences for over a decade.

Neither of these previous two examples have conclusions in their streaming narratives at this point. Both are left on the cliffhanger of violence, of rejection of social expectation around them. Both revert to a previous state of being, but in different ways: Ed to his Blackbeard persona, Joel to his protective father role. Whatever results from these decisions (however conscious or reactionary they are), is inconsequential. And therefore, potentially read as villainous once more, buckling under the pain of the past and fear of that suffering’s return.

The character Spike in Buffy the Vampire Slayer willingly suffers for his previous actions. Over time, he begins to recognize what he has done, takes action to make amends, and fights for his redemption. Though by the closure of the show he is deprived of what he most craves–connection–his final actions are entirely the opposite of his original ones. He countered the vampire tendencies within himself, found wholeness, and dedicated himself to a goal that was selfless.

As Spike was for some time, these characters can be confused about where they belong and crave that understanding and connection. There is a deep ache to be understood, though few of them acknowledge this desire. In fact, many go out of their way to deny it, to pretend otherwise.

The character of Nimona, originating in the graphic novel of the same name, traverses the murky landscape of being a shape shifter. She camouflages her deep interest in finding a companion by presenting herself as a “sidekick,” someone for the villain mastermind to rely on and trust. She is uncertain of herself, carrying the wounds of centuries past, convincing herself that violence and domination are paramount. When she bonds with her new friend in unexpected ways, her deeper needs rise to the surface. But these are frightening. It is only when she is shown radical acceptance and safety does she integrate her various parts at the end of the story.

Killian Jones in Once Upon a Time jostles between presenting his desires in a joking manner, and hiding them beneath layers of anger. He is bound by revenge and denies anything in conflict with that goal. His swagger is an exaggeration, a front or projection, which is a common detail across these stories. If he claims to be a heartless villain, no one will discover just how victimized he once was.

These characters may herald chaos or drama within the narrative, amusement or disquiet for the audience. A character like Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter series is written from the outset as a direct–if youthful–antagonist. Yet later in the story, insight into his wounded mental and emotional state arrives, eliciting the reader’s compassion. He was inculcated in an environment of bigotry and toxic superiority, of which he must decide personally to move beyond.

Liminal space characters can appear unique in their behaviors and presentations when compared to those around them. Perhaps this is because of a heightened defensiveness, or anxiety, or refusal to engage with typical romantic situations.

For those who are deliberately off-putting and aggressive, sarcastic and aloof, or extremely isolated by design, the audience must confront their own biases, as well. When the narrative is effective, we as consumers may empathize with these struggling individuals. We may understand why they have taken the steps they have, protected themselves, lashed out at others.

What I love most about liminal space characters is the potential for them to heal the dueling perspectives within themselves. These characters at some point must question themselves, and when done successfully, the audience does the same: How capable are we of forming our sense of self? What does harm look like? How do we live with our mistakes? How do we shape ourselves? Is it possible to make a new choice after a long pattern of harmful behaviors? Where does this character go after discovering they have wronged so many? When is that redemptive effort enough?

Both the characters questioning themselves, and not questioning themselves (ie following external demands), may lead to feelings of loneliness and rejection. Prince Zuko of Avatar the Last Airbender rotates entirely around his father’s acceptance, and whatever he must do in order to receive it, he will. There is no cost too high, and he questions nothing. Until he stumbles into a bond with a supposed adversary, which begins to shift his perspective. This is a common trope within these stories, as well, the mirror opposite coming into sharp relief by comparison.

Frustratingly, there are far more male-presenting liminal space characters than female ones in the duality of Western media, so the “adversary” is often portrayed as female (I’m optimistic this will change as more diverse writers share their stories). In a compulsory heterosexual context, there is potential for romance, as well. This is perceived in the canon text and also by fans through their own stories. An opposing character–such as Kitara in Avatar the Last Airbender, Rey in the last Star Wars trilogy, or Captain Kirk in Star Trek–may help these liminal space characters realize they are not a lost soul, no longer a victim to their circumstances. They can offer an opposing viewpoint: what if you took a different path? You’re not required to stay this way. It’s never too late.

Hope gives the liminal space characters the sense they can make new choices and change. Hope is the kernel, the light slanting through clouds, the assurance nothing is permanent, not even a limbo state of the mind.

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