#there's a method to his choices and it's never made in chaotic manners but it all very much depends on where he is in life

[all-cursed]

WHAT IS YOUR MORAL ALIGNMENT?

DOC HOLLIDAY

Lawful Neutral

You’re motivated by tradition and you strongly believe in law and order. You put a lot of faith in process, and you’ll often follow orders without questioning them, as long as it doesn’t cause you to act immorally.

#﹝ lonely shadows following me; lonely ghosts come calling ﹞❇ doc holliday 〉〉 HEADCANONS #hmm i'm not sure #honestly so much of doc's choices are made on a case by case basis depending on like #who he's with and what part of his life he's in and what the stakes are etc #he certainly own't follow orders without question; at least not anymore #maybe once with wyatt but no more #i'd honestly peg doc the way i write him as more... true neutral #there's a method to his choices and it's never made in chaotic manners but it all very much depends on where he is in life

[ddarker-dreams]

Home. Yan!Shigaraki x Reader [COMM]

Japan brings with it a plethora of memories.

Memories ranging from the highest of your life to the lowest. Times that you can recall with a special fondness, reserved in your heart for the rest of your life. But always balanced out with numerous hurts, times that you wish you could erase from your mind. All of it remains a mixed bag within you, serving only to befuddle your true feelings further as you get off the plane. 

Going through customs felt surreal, the bustle of the airport one that struck you with a sense of  nostalgia. The people, the scents, the sights -- it all left you with a weary heart, but you had already expected to feel this way. Returning wasn’t an easy decision, the dividing thought leaving you with numerous restless nights.

But ultimately, your choice has been made. With suitcases in hand, you look down towards your phone. Traveling always sounds nice in theory, but jet lag and exhaustion were taking you hostage. Still, it won’t do to get tired now; you still need to make it to your new apartment after all.

‘If I could survive that long flight in economy class, I can last through one more Uber drive.’

Blurry images of the airport scenery go by, the music in the car all but tuned out by your chaotic thoughts. It all reminds you of how you left in such a hurry in the first place, in the dead of night. How conflicted you were then -- constantly doubting your decision and wondering if you should just turn back.

But turning back to Shigaraki at the time didn’t feel like a viable option. 

You don’t think of it as running away from your problems. Even if that’s what it may sound like, you tried all you reasonably could do. From countless heart to heart discussions, to tearful phone calls. All of it fell on deaf ears, or worse, served to irritate him. Neither of you would back down from your given positions, despite the care you shared for one another. The care that led you to overlook your own morals for a time being. 

Shigaraki was always someone who was firmly planted in his ways, and didn’t care for having his morals challenged. Though he was considerably more tolerable towards your verbal opposition than anyone else would even have the opportunity to attempt, it didn’t mean he’d change his mind in the end. 

So you left. It’s bizarre to believe that eight months have already passed since then, eight months of your life being vastly different than before. Even when you weren’t in Japan, you would still hear news reports of the League of Villain's activities. Every time a headline popped up of what was happening, it made your stomach drop. 

His hold over you didn’t feel as less constricting as you had originally hoped it would. Even if he was no longer physically with you during those times, you could still almost imagine his presence by your side. His mannerisms, what he would say to you if he was there. The nightmare never ended, it only got worse as the days went on. Shigaraki would never stop haunting you.

Which leads to where you are now. Having left the car with a quiet thank you, staring up at your new apartment building. Getting your keys from the main office, you desire nothing more than for this to be a positive beginning in your life. If leaving Japan didn’t help you feel any better, it only made sense for you to come back. There’s no place like home, after all. 

But you’ll still be living your life on the down low. It’s unnerving, since the League never stayed in one area for long. If you knew where they were hiding now, you would gladly put as much distance between yourself and them as possible. But given the nature of Shigaraki’s vision, they were always on the move. 

Turning your keys until you hear a click, your last burst of energy goes into opening the door. Inside showcased an apartment devoid of furniture, but still your new home nonetheless. With a deep sigh, you tug your heavy luggage through the door frame. 

‘I’ll at least need to unpack some things before I can sleep…’

Briskly walking to the sink, you splash cold water onto your face in a desperate attempt to stay awake. Your new mattress won’t be delivered until tomorrow, so sleeping on the floor is all you can do for the time being. Shaking your head at the thought, you sluggishly get to work.

Grabbing your favorite blanket and pillow, you lazily throw it where your bed will soon take its place. Everything else can wait for tomorrow, it’s not like you’ll have any company to entertain. With the sun already having set thirty minutes ago, you close your blinds and gratefully lay down. 

Even if it’s on the floor, it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders to finally relax.

It doesn’t take long for sleep to find you, all of your pent up emotions and nonstop thinking having sapped all your energy. All you can hope for, as your heavy eyelids flutter shut, is that tomorrow will be the fresh start that you have longed for.

---

“Mnh…” 

Rubbing your eyes, you almost panic for a moment at your new surroundings. Before recalling all that had occurred, and that this place is your home now. 

‘What time is it…?’

Blindly groping around your pillow for your phone, your eyes squint in pain at the bright screen. Displaying that it’s only 11:25 PM, and that you only had been asleep for a few hours. The effects of sleeping on the floor make themselves known, your back aching at the lack of proper support. 

Grimacing at the throbbing discomfort, you put your phone down before sitting up with a yawn. With intention to get up and soothe your dry throat with a drink, you never get the chance before a voice pierces through the dark.

“All that running sure must’ve been exhausting.”

Jumping at the sound of a lower voice in your pitch black room, your eyes rapidly dart around for the possible source. Breathing growing unsteady, you feel your lips tremble at the thought of a stranger in your apartment. Would your quirk be useful enough in fending them off? 

Hugging your knees against your chest in a reflexive response, your mind scrambles to come up with a plan. 

Reaching to grab your phone out of desperation, you finally let out a weak response. “W-who’s there? I’ll call the police!”

“Like that’d do any good.” The voice responds in a mocking lilt. Like a sudden wave crashing over you, you’re finally able to discern through your fatigued state who this is. You feel as if you’re being dragged beneath the waves, the air all but smacked from your lungs.

‘That’s--!’

Footsteps approach you slowly, methodically. You feel frozen, incapable of even forming a coherent thought. As the person gets closer, you realize you need to run. But before you can even get the opportunity, you feel a foreboding weight around your shoulders.

And four fingers tapping against your bare skin.

“Did you forget about me, [First]?” 

You know that voice all too well. The fact that even sleep managed to dull your guess of who it was is astonishing, but no longer do you feel uncertain of who it is. Goosebumps line your exposed skin, the sound of your own shaky breathing filling the otherwise silent room.

“Sh-Shigaraki…?” 

“So you didn’t,” he responds with a low, humorless snicker. Tightening his grip around you, you can feel his hair tickling your face. “I’m glad I don’t have to remind you of that, at least.” 

Swallowing thickly, you feel tears prickling the edge of your eyes. There are too many overwhelming things on your mind, too many questions without answers and silent pleads. It all feels too suffocating, air becoming a luxury that you miss. In the moment, all you can will yourself to do is choke out your next words. 

“How,” you exhale shakily, mind screaming your tongue drier than sandpaper. “How did you find me?” 

For a brief moment, you feel his coarse fingers cease their previous drumming movements. In a motion that could only be described as flinching, Shigaraki quickly recovers himself while answering your question with a malicious bite. 

“After all this time, that’s what you want to say to me?” Shigaraki growls out towards you, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut. You desperately wish that none of this is real, that the cruel events unfolding before your very eyes are all but a dream. 

From all the time that you had spent with Shigaraki, you had grown accustomed to his mannerisms. Being able to pick up on every little nuance of his words, to what every twitch of his muscles meant. But now, you feel incapable of doing just that. Is it bitterness hidden in his words? Disappointment, frustration? Something tells you that it’s all of that, and more. 

“Whatever. I’ll humor you with the answer. Imagine my surprise, I get a phone call from Toga. I was barely able to understand her at first, her voice was so frantic and excited,” Shigaraki pauses for a moment, recalling the prior events. “Eventually, she manages to explain that ‘big sis [First]’ is back. And well… here we are.” 

At first you didn’t pick up on it, but there’s a slight tremble in Shigaraki’s voice. You realize now how difficult he’s trying to hold himself together, feeling his body shaking against your own. Each of his words come out more forced than the last, almost as if a lump was forming in his throat. 

Unable to conjure up a response fast enough, you hear Shigaraki’s labored breathing growing more unsteady.

“Well? Say something! Don’t just sit there.” 

All false impressions of control start to slip through his fingers, true emotions no longer being able to hide. Cracks beneath the surface reveal to you just how much pain he is in, the mere thought enough to tug on your own battered heartstrings even more. You open your mouth, wondering if there’s anything you can say to diffuse the situation. 

He clings to you tighter.

“Shigaraki… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you sniffle, small sobs unable to be suppressed any longer. His muscles tense at the sound of you crying, a battle within ensuing. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t take the violence, t-the constant living in fear! I don’t know, I don’t know…” 

Much to your surprise, a rough hand wipes away the tears leaving your dampened eyes. Jaw agape, you feel deft fingers working hard to dry your skin. You remember long ago how he told you once that he hated seeing you cry, that it made him unsure of what to do.

Hiccuping, you feel your lip tremble at your next question. “Are you going to kill me too now?” 

“I don’t know, probably not. Just… just stop crying already.”

Shaking your head, you know the waterworks won’t be stopping anytime soon. Now it was your turn to take Shigaraki by surprise, stuffing your head against his chest to muffle your own cries. He subconsciously moves his fingers to make sure they don’t all touch you at once, and you feel how tense he becomes at your unexpected touch.

Eventually, he places a tentative few digits against your back, awkwardly attempting to soothe you. It all brings you to the pinnacle of your emotions, unable to hold back your full fledged sobs any longer. Gripping onto the fabric of his hoodie, you take in his familiar scent. Shigaraki begins gnawing on his lip, having not expected his confrontation to go like this. 

He eventually returns your serpent tight hug, placing his head into the crook of your neck.

“Don’t think you’re getting off easy,” Shigaraki finally grumbles against your skin, his own emotions too unsteady to even understand. “I’m not ever letting you out of my sight again.”

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki tomura imagine #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki imagine #my hero academia #my hero academia imagine #yandere my hero academia #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #bnha #bnha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha x reader #yandere bnha #my stuff #commissions

[wanderingchocolateeclair]

How about how the top five kinda acts like a family? I’ve kinda seen them as such and noticed one of your previous drawing was like that. What little things do they appreciate about each other? Or tiny things they do for each other.

Ahhh! Thank you for providing me with something to ramble about!

Honestly I just think that they would just get up to some really troublesome stuff together, whilst still doing an amazing job at being heroes. I’ll write some random headcanons about them in a moment but I think I’ll just give like some little points about the others from each of their own perspectives first? (None of this is in a particular order by the way)

Endeavour -

Well he’s.....himself?? Believes that the other four are just annoying “kids” that pester him for no reason, doesn’t enjoy their pranks and mischievous antics however always manages to get roped into them (most of the time by Hawks and Miruko)

To him, Miruko and Hawks are the annoying kids who always manage to challenge him into doing stupid things, Jeanist is the bothersome pest who has a really annoying way of turning whatever he says into a cheeky insult whilst still managing to have more common sense than the other two, and Edgeshot is just that really mysterious guy that he’s slightly wary of yet can tolerate more than the others because he can be kinda scary sometimes.

Despite this he does recognise that all of them are incredibly strong individuals who all really do take their jobs as heroes rather seriously.

Hawks -

Oh boy he loves pestering Endeavour. Miruko is the only one who will straight up join him in doing so, closely followed by the useless “supervision” of Edgeshot and Jeanist.

Obviously he really looks up to Endeavour and that’s kinda obvious, Miruko is the “fun one” in his own words as they make the most chaotic duo out of the whole of them, and actually he sees the other two as two kinda fatherly figures in a way, being two people that he’s probably known from a young age and he knows they’ll give him serious advice when he needs it - although most of the time he’ll just say that “they suck the fun out of everything”.

On the other side of things though, he does know that if he ever has an issue that he’s unsure of how to handle, or he’s feeling bad about something, he can go to any of them to ask for advice, talk or even just a hug. Because they understand.

Miruko -

Ah yes. She will never pass up an opportunity to pester one of the older heroes with Hawks. It’s way too much fun.

In her eyes, Endeavour is just a competitive fiery flamethrower who will sometimes actually say something that makes sense, Hawks is the one she can do anything stupid with who occasionally supplies her with new challenges, she finds Jeanist a little annoying in the way he words things but knows that he’s always willing to join her in sassing the hell out of Endeavor, and she will not hesitate to tease Edgeshot about whatever she can - probably the only one out of the lot of them that isn’t at all fazed by his death glare.

She sees them all as a group of chaotic adults that will happily provide her with whatever support she needs in return for her keeping an eye out for them whenever she can.

Jeanist -

He really enjoys making whatever cheeky remarks he can to annoy Endeavour. But does know when not to tag along with the other two in some of their more stupid ideas. And will no doubt comment about one of their choices in clothing about two times a day at least.

He sees Endeavour as a cranky old man who needs to lighten his temper and his manners quite a bit but does hold respect in the fact that he is older and still a very powerful hero, Hawks is basically “his child” and he knows that despite how childish he may be at times he still does know how to make his own fairly reasonable desicions, he acknowledges how strong Miruko is and is kinda terrified about getting on her bad side - but still knows she comes up with some stupid ideas with Hawks and joins in with them for the fun of it, and well Edgeshot is the only one who he’ll listen to when it comes to doing anything stupid because that man can be really scary when he wants to be.

But really he knows that each and every one of them will be there for him to lean on as a support on those days where he needs it, and he’ll always provide help for any of them when they need it.

Edgeshot -

He has to babysit 4 grown adults...but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t actually enjoy the chaos. Occasionally he’ll help out with the stupid ideas, but only when he knows it isn’t a dangerous idea. Most of the time he’ll just stand by watching it happen.

From his point of view, Endeavor is a strong hero that acts like stroppy child with bad manners most of the time but he never really tries to do anything to annoy the older man - that’s the others’ job, Hawks and Miruko are the troublesome kids who always manage to come up with ideas that are so stupid yet something that he actually really wants to know the outcome of, and Jeanist is a man of many talents but incredibly unable to keep any of his secretly stupid ideas hidden from him (and he is the only person out of the lot of them that somehow actually find Jeanist’s stupid puns funny - he won’t admit it though).

Aside from all this, he is very aware that these people will stand with him to protect whatever they must, he trusts these people with his life as he hopes they would do the same in return.

Some random headcanons:

They will have regular meet-ups outside of work at one of their agencies where they just chill out and chat. These are usually at rather random times of day.

These meet-ups usually consist of hours of Hawks and Miruko doing something very stupid and Edge preventing Jeanist from winding endeavour up to the point that the building burns down.

Sometimes, it’ll end up just being a whole day where they catch up on all the sleep they’ve missed and end up basically having a massive slumber party in the middle of their office. Until one of them notices the time and they have to dart off to their individual patrols.

Jeanist has somehow managed to persuade endeavour to let him do his hair...twice, and Edgeshot has it all on camera.

This led to a series of makeover sessions where Hawks and Jeanist made Endeavour wear neon yellow eyeliner, Miruko suddenly had pink hair and Edgeshot spent the whole day in pigtails (much to his dismay)

They treat Hawks as the baby - literally will do anything for him - but tease him with stuff like “oh it’s way past your bedtime Hawks” or “sorry Hawks you’re too young to do that well tell you when you’re older” and he HATES it.

They all gather gossip from their interns and sidekicks over the week and end up having competitions to see who has the most shocking news.

So far Edgeshot and Jeanist are tied with first place.

They are also completely fine with showing the other 3 their faces so they are fully aware of how they look like.

Most of the time these meet-ups will be fairly chaotic and cheerful, but on the occasion it may not be.

Being a hero comes with the knowledge that you cannot save everybody. And they all know this. And so when these moments happen and they feel as if they need a break, these are the best times for them to come to terms with what happened on maybe a patrol that evening, or a mission that didn’t end well.

Because they understand each other completely, and know what that feeling is like.

These meet-ups normally just consist of a lot of silent discussions, hugs and often tears.

Where they all get together to comfort the one who needs it the most. Putting their plans on hold for them and listening to their troubles.

Because even Endeavour would feel bad refusing to console a Jeanist who was distraught over being “too weak” to save a single person who was in a completely different location than himself.

Or a timid Edgeshot who’s past was hovering over his mind more than usual, preventing him from focusing properly on his evening patrol.

Or a gloomy Hawks who feels as if his decisions are always wrong and feels like he can’t do anything right.

Or even a stressed out Miruko who feels as though she did a bad job at saving someone just because they were disrespectful towards her “careless” methods.

And of course they all are aware of the heavy expectations of being number 1, and know that truly this unusually silent Endeavour is human just like themselves and will feel just as anyone else would.

Even top heroes need to have these moments where they can break down in front of the people they trust, in order to keep their own sanity from crumbling apart.

And really that’s what they all collectively like the most about their little “family”.

Between all the fun and chaos.

It’s the ability for them all to lean on each other at times when they need it the most, and they definitely feel that’s a good thing.

Wooh!! There you go! A nice long list of headcanons of my favourite lil group of chaotic characters.

Sorry for getting a little sad at the end there, but if you know me by now I’m pretty sure it’s obvious that a ramble written by me wouldn’t be complete without it lol

Thanks again for the ask @ohpleaseiwillendyou it really gave me some happy things to think about and really cheered me up, which is exactly what I needed right now aha.

Please feel free to send me asks or suggestions to write about! I’m currently quite motivation-less and I really need things to ramble about to make me feel better :)

~Eclair

#bnha #edgeshot #best jeanist #bnha miruko #bnha hawks #eclair rambles a bit :) #ask eclair! #hakamada tsunagu #kamihara shinya #usagiyama rumi #takami keigo #bnha pro heroes #just noticed that I have an Edgejeanist backstory in my drafts that ain’t finished! #gotta finish that so thatll be posted at some point keep yer eyes peeled #but seriously this really cheered me up I needed this #college has stressed me out to the point where I feel like I can’t make art #which is really iffy #so I just uerghgthgggh #the only thing I have right now that I feel that I can do semi decently is my writing n ramblin posts #so yeah.. #:)

[ineffably-good]

Prompt: Unexpected

It is day 3 of GOC2020 themes! Happy Good omens Anniversary month!

Summary: Aziraphale is the worst gardener in the history of the world. Somehow, Crowley is surprised by this. 

_________________________

“We have to find a way to get ourselves into the Dowling household,” Aziraphale said. “There must be some way to be integral in their day to day life, so we can affect events. Bend his development to our purposes.”

Crowley thought for a minute. “Well, they’ll probably need childcare,” he said. “We could be governesses.”

“We can’t both be governesses,” Aziraphale reproved. “Perhaps I could be the governess and you could be the groundskeeper or something.”

Something about this struck Crowley as dangerous. It wasn’t that Aziraphale wasn’t good with children; it was rather that he was a bit too good. Having him present every night as the child was going to bed and waking up and comforting him when he fell and nursing him when he was sick was likely to be just a bit too – angelic. The goal wasn’t to influence him completely to one side or the other, after all, but just to push and pull him enough in each direction so that he ended up walking a middle path. Not hellish, not heavenly – just human.

“No,” Crowley said. “I should be the governess. Or a nanny, rather. Governesses come later, when they’re older, and we aren’t talking about that kind of timeframe. We’ll create a gardener position for you.”

“But – I’m a terrible gardener!” Aziraphale complained.

“That’s why it’s so perfect!” Crowley said. “It’s completely unexpected. Heaven and Hell will never figure out what we’re up to.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, unconvinced, but then shrugged. “I … I suppose I could read a few books on horticulture,” he said uncertainly.

That was as good as assent, in Crowley’s book. He got to work on making their plans a reality.

 --

The books on horticulture did not help. Aziraphale, for all of the fact that he’d been created to serve in the garden of gardens, continued to be one of the worst plant stewards in the world. He couldn’t bring himself to make the difficult, almost ruthless decisions required to keep a garden flourishing – he couldn’t cull the weaker plants, pull out the prettiest of the weeds, or ruthlessly cut things back the way he needed to. He wouldn’t willingly use chemicals that were sorely needed because he didn’t want to injure the bugs and wildlife. Under his care, the Dowling’s gardens became an overgrown, chaotic mess.

Nanny Ashtoreth was sitting in the kitchen with her two year old charge one morning, trying to encourage him to put food into his mouth instead of in his hair, when Mrs. Dowling stopped at the French doors in the kitchen and looked out.

“Do the azaleas look a bit overgrown to you?” she asked Nanny Ashtoreth. “And are the perennial beds supposed to be so brown? Honestly, I know he’s a friend of yours but I’m not sure this new gardener is working out. Perhaps I should call Janine and see who she uses…”

Nanny Ashtoreth grabbed a banana that was rapidly being squeezed into mush away from Warlock and handed him a small piece of toast in exchange. Warlock retaliated by smearing the residual banana mush directly into his hair while nanny was distracted.

“Oh,” she said, “I believe he’s trying a series of new techniques from Japan. It’s the latest thing, you let things grow a bit beyond their usual shape and size before you prune them and the roots are much stronger for it. And the brown bits are just the daffodils forming good roots for next year. He’ll be tying the old leaves up into neat bundles soon so they’re less obvious.”

Mrs. Dowling made a noncommittal noise and continued to peer worriedly out the door, so Crowley had no choice but to use a small miracle to smoothe away her worries and make the yard look perfect to her. But he made a mental note to go see Aziraphale as soon as he could and put the fear of – well, in this case, the fear of God into him about the job he was doing with the plants. It wouldn’t do at all for Aziraphale to get himself let go.

 --

After morning enrichment time, during which Nanny ostensibly played Mozart for the toddler but really read him a long and fascinating story about demonic possession, Nanny Ashtoreth frog marched the two of them out to the garden and tracked down the gardener.

Crowley plunked Warlock down in the grass, where he began tasting a pile of rocks, one by one. This was an activity that Crowley approved of, so he made no move to stop him.

“Aziraphale,” he hissed. “You’re going to get yourself sacked.” He looked around and gestured wildly. “Just look at this place!”

Aziraphale glanced around him, confused. “It’s not so bad!” he protested. “All the plants are very happy and there’s just a plethora of new leaf growth in all of them, and there’s a lovely set of new caterpillars who have just arrived, and the rabbits are populating nicely –”

“Those caterpillars are going to eat the roses to the ground, Aziraphale. They’re noxious pests!”

The angel bristled. “They’re God’s creatures, as much as anything else, and they are worthy of our –”

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” Crowley hissed, snapping his fingers and sending all of the caterpillars three estates over. “Mrs. Dowling was thinking about replacing you this morning. I smoothed things over, but I can’t manage that forever if you utterly refuse to do your job.”

“Well perhaps we should switch, then,” Aziraphale said with a touch of bitchiness. “You know this isn’t my area. I can’t be mean to innocent plants.”

No, Crowley thought. He couldn’t. He’d known it coming in, if he was honest with himself. He’d just hoped that perhaps the angel could bring himself to be a bit of a bastard to plant life. For the sake of the future of humanity, as it were. But apparently the angel couldn’t bring himself to yell at an iris or threaten an invertebrate even if the fragile peace between Heaven and Hell lay in the balance.

It shouldn’t be unexpected, he thought, but yet it was. He’d thought the angel could have set aside his scruples for the larger picture. After all it wasn’t like he had to actually yell at the plants. He had access to miracles and could make the garden a showy success in whatever manner he liked. But then again, he thought, doing so on a daily basis and using his angelic powers to keep it that way might attract the wrong sort of attention, so perhaps the angel was being prudent in keeping Heaven’s attention away from his efforts here.

Crowley heaved a deep sigh. “All right,” he said. “You take Warlock down into the hedge maze for a while and I’ll see what I can do to shore things up here, okay? I’m going to need at least a couple of hours to get the perennial beds cleared up. And don’t go ruining all of my work afterwards by telling all the plants how wonderful they look. It will just go to their heads.”

Aziraphale beamed at him in delight. “Oh thank you,” he said. “I do so greatly appreciate it, my dear.”

He scooped up Warlock, removed a number of rocks from his mouth, and headed off deeper into the property with him.

Crowley had the sinking sensation that this had all been some elaborate ruse to get the demon to do all of Aziraphale’s work for him. This, he thought, would not be unexpected at all.

He shrugged. The number of prunes he’d fed Warlock at breakfast should quickly provide him with quite an effective method of revenge on the angel. He planned to make himself quite difficult to find when that nappy had to be changed.

The angel would never see that one coming.

#goc2020 #good omens fanfic #good omens anniversary #aziraphale x crowley #nanny ashtoreth #brother francis #warlock

[spinblue]

@violetueur​

It was...odd, to have to rely on someone else for something like travel. Sonic couldn’t recall the last time he had been unable to get by with just his own two feet — perhaps a luxury he was far too used too. Not that it was a secret that the hedgehog’s best asset were his legs, but even so, in hindsight it probably would have been smart to have something to fallback on should his ever trusty legs fail him. 

Like now. 

Even without bearing any pressure, his right ankle throbbed in agony, a sharp reminder every second that he was not going anywhere on his own for a while. For someone prided to be the fastest being alive — it was good as imprisonment. Being stripped of his way of living, his method of escape, what made up the essential core to who he was. It was all the more frustrating that he was in the middle of a mission, to collect at least one chaos emerald. A feat never easy on a good day — and today was definitely Not. A Good Day. 

He shifted in the passenger seat of the car, not able to hold back his grimace — of both pain as his ankle protested, and at the entire situation at hand because never did he enjoy feeling so helpless. 

He desperately wanted to tap his foot, a rather infuriating habit according to many, but settled for drumming his fingers against his crossed arms instead. He needed to be moving in some way or he was going insane. ( perhaps he already was well on his way to madness, because surely this vehicle couldn’t possible be going so s l o w ) 

Knowing better than to comment on the speed ( even he wasn’t so dense as to so blatantly complain to someone who was lending him a hand ) Sonic instead sought out some other way to keep himself occupied. Surely this drive would be over soon if he just distracted himself. 

“Hey, Nicolette—” and Sonic paused, because huh. He actually wasn’t in a chatting mood. It was rare enough to confuse even the hedgehog himself, because he could always muster up chatter in all situations. ( though in most situations he was always in some semi-balance of control, able to stand on his own two feet for one, both literally and figuratively ) His actions now where a stark contrast to his usual self, and normally he’d do more to gather his wits about him and at least pretend to return to normal — but well, who was around to see him now? His only companion never even heard of his name, nor the chaos emerald they were in search of. 

So with a big sigh, the world-wide proclaimed hero slumps against the seat, resting his chin on a hand and looking out the window. The world outside was passing in a blur, though not nearly as much of one when he was on the run. To hell with it all. He will just have to hope Nicolette wasn’t the kind to get annoyed easily. “Do you guys seriously travel everywhere with this thing? I knew it was slow, but I could walk faster than this.�� Though even in all his impatience, he did his best to keep up his manners, after all Nicolette was helping him. He spared the women beside him a glance, offering a slight twitch of a smile in apology. “Not to be ungrateful, though. Honestly. I was pretty much stuck on my own so I’m glad you are taking me at all — I’m just not used to this.” It was perhaps not his best apology, or his most grateful thanks, but it was all he could provide currently. 

Maybe it was simply the past couple of events catching up to him. He’s heard of the phrase no rest for the wicked, but there was hardly any time for heroes to unwind as well. Going from six months imprisonment, to dealing with a virus that spread and almost took the entire population and forcing so many to suffer ( that he well knew were due to his own mistakes, no matter that else was said ), and now going on a wild goose chase for a chaos emerald in order to restore the disturbed energy of the world. And well, having all this happen one after another, made him realize more than ever that maybe even Sonic wasn’t meant to be running forever. 

The slightly bright side of this was that Knuckles reassured that they had time, at least. The Master Emerald was still stable at any rate. It would take days before the chaotic energy would tip to dangerous levels. ( but it didn’t mean that Sonic wasn’t itching to just go already. to be able to move faster, get this whole ordeal over with sooner — )

“Arghh” Sonic groaned, his ears twitching, frustration peaking, and his emotions swirling faster than what even he was used to, “I’m not usually this much of a downer, I swear.” He waved at his sprained ankle, wincing again as all his movements jostled it just a tad too much. “I’m just going to blame it on this thing. It’s really cruel to take away the legs from the fastest thing alive.” Perhaps now a self-proclaimed title since he was not the only one capable of breaking the sound barrier anymore, but it was unlikely the other knew of Shadow if she didn’t know about Sonic so he simply skipped over that detail. “If you ever have the choice, don’t sprain your joints. So not cool.” Because of course people choose to become debilitated all the time.

#//aaa thankk k k you for indulging in my word vomits as alwaysss aowienawe #//I'VE miSSED this wow #violetueur #violetueur || 01 #//so I may have changed some details here and there lmk if it got confusing anywhere #➟ ʟɪᴠᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜʟʟᴇꜱᴛ [ IC ] #*

[lafiametta]

Whispering sweetness, which once coursed through us

A (belated) birthday gift for @arcticelves, who sent me this Jopson/Little prompt: “If you’re still taking Lopson prompts, may I ask for Jopson shaving Little?” Of course you may – and I hope you enjoy the result! 

Just to explain, this is a continuation of my Little-sees-Jopson-in-his-dress-uniform-at-the-Admiralty-reception story (or at least is part of that ‘verse). And the title, as always, is borrowed from Rainer Maria Rilke. 

They were two days out from port, with a fine wind in their sails, and Edward could not help but feel a spirit of lightness about himself as well, a buoyancy that he ascribed to being once more surrounded by open waters.

The Thetis was a fair vessel, a fifth-rate frigate built only two years earlier, and much of her crew consisted of fresh recruits who still appeared a touch untested at their posts. His reputation as a surviving officer of the Arctic expedition had naturally preceded him, and if there were a handful of ship’s boys who continued to quietly whisper among themselves each time he strode by, there was little he could do besides wait until their fascination wore off. In time, he knew, whatever tragic glamour the expedition still held in the public imagination would fade, and he would at last return to the comfort of relative anonymity, merely another officer in Her Majesty’s navy.

He had woken that morning before the sunrise, washed and dressed, and then set about putting his bunk in order. At half-past six, just as Edward had deposited his scuttle and brush onto the desk, Mr. Peters knocked with jug of hot water, leaving it in exchange for an armful of Edward’s unclean linens. But before the steward could depart, Edward stopped him, hoping to task him with a small errand.

“Once he’s dressed, ask Lieutenant Jopson to come by, will you? I have a matter I wish to discuss with him before breakfast.”

“Of course, sir,” the steward replied with polite efficiency.

Peters was clearly a man not given to delay, for within a few minutes came a soft knuckled rap against the door, a negligible sound that nevertheless brought Edward’s heart up into the vicinity of his throat.

The sensation only seemed to intensify once the door slid open to reveal the form of Thomas Jopson – Lieutenant Jopson, Edward once again reminded himself – who with his deeply parted hair and fresh-washed face looked far more fetching than any man had a right to be so early in the morning. He took a tentative step into the cabin, a wary cast about his gaze, even as his cheeks began to color with the tenderest of pinks.

“You wished to see me?” Jopson asked, as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Edward nodded, pressing his lips together before they could curl into an unprompted smile. “I did… I do,” he began, and then cleared his throat in an attempt to bring some order to the chaotic muddle of his thoughts. “I meant only to inquire as to how you were settling in, with all your new duties and responsibilities. Although from what I’ve observed,” he added, “you appear to be taking to the role quite naturally.”

Jopson blushed a shade brighter at the compliment, even though it was well-deserved. Edward had watched him with the men, seen how easily they acquiesced to his orders, how he drew them towards him with his encouragement and generous nature. It had been different on Terror; as a steward, he had always been a degree removed from the others, among their company but never truly of their number. But here, even as an officer, he seemed to have found an unexpected camaraderie, and a pride in being a leader of men that now looked to him for guidance and direction.

It still seemed strange at times, hearing Jopson’s voice raised sharply in command, seeing him seated across the table at the officers’ mess rather than serving at it. And Edward knew there were some among the officers who privately grumbled at having a man of such undistinguished origins sitting in their midst, but they seemed to have sense enough not to say such things in front of him. In time, he was certain, they would come to see – as he had – the new lieutenant’s fundamental worth, and their prejudice would soon evaporate.

“Thank you, sir,” Jopson replied, his shoulders easing slightly loose from their rigidly-held frame. “It has been an adjustment, in many ways. As you know, I’ve had no formal training and many of my abilities – particularly in computations and navigation – are in need of much improvement. I hope the men do not find me wanting in that regard.”

“You should have no fear of that, I think.” Edward let the corner of his mouth round into a playful curl. “I wager they love you all the more for it.”

Jopson smiled bashfully, his sea-colored eyes warm with pleasure, a sight that set Edward’s heart alight for all that he had despaired of ever seeing it again.

“I have been fortunate in having good examples to follow,” Jopson added. “Yourself, of course, and Lieutenant Irving…”

His voice trailed off, and it was not hard to guess the direction of his thoughts. Memories were all they had now of Irving, and Gore and Fairholme, and all the others who remained there in that unforgiving land, buried under a weight of ice and stones. Yet there was some comfort to be had in remembering Irving not in the terrible manner of his death, but in his life, in the calm and measured order he had brought to all he surveyed, in the unswerving loyalty he had kept, in the faith that had guided his steps each day. Of Terror’s second lieutenant, however, Edward was glad to hear no mention; for all he knew, Hodgson still lived, keeping company with murderers and mutineers, or else dead these many months, his bones bleaching on the shale. But it would not do to think of him, not when there were others far more deserving of their considerations.

“Irving would have been proud to see you here, dressed in that uniform,” Edward offered. “I’m sure of it.” He glanced downwards, feeling his own cheeks beginning to grow warm. “As for myself, I would not have you hold me up as a paragon of anything at all, not in light of all my obvious deficiencies.”

“What deficiencies? I saw none, and I was in as good a place as any to bear witness to them.”

“Thomas…” Edward narrowed his gaze in wry disbelief. “You and I both know I was not always entirely attentive to my duties.”

He did not need to say more, for just the thought of all those days and nights on Terror conjured up a host of indelible images, each more powerful than the last. The morning he had nearly fallen asleep during a command meeting, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, owing to the mere hour’s rest he had gotten just before dawn, after Jopson had finally slipped out of his cabin. The daily inspections he had not given his full attention to, barely going through the motions, his mind instead occupied by thoughts of a soft and willing mouth, a pair of pale eyes whose pupils had turned dark with need. The hours he had sat at his logbook, wishing only to fill its pages with the raptures of his heart rather than some tedious description of the weather or the state of the ice. And yet were he to be given the choice once more – between thinking only of his duties as an officer or finding comfort and release in the sweetness of Thomas’s arms – he knew he would not hesitate to follow the exact same path.  

“Regardless,” Edward said, taking an unsteady breath as he brought himself back to the present, “I hope you feel that you have made the right decision in taking on the lieutenant’s position, that you have not in any way come to regret it.”

Jopson shook his head softly. “No, not in the slightest.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Edward answered, his mouth ticking up into tiny smile.

They both were silent for a moment, the air in Edward’s small cabin somehow growing warmer and heavier the longer they stood. They were no longer in the Arctic, shivering in their greatcoats, their breath crystalizing the moment it escaped their lips; here, the Channel shimmered under a summer sun, calm but for a mellow breeze, and Edward himself was dressed only to his waistcoat, a fact that he was becoming increasingly more aware of.

He felt his heart beating a touch faster, even as he urged it to caution.

It was Jopson, though, who broke the spell, dropping his gaze down to the ground and then flicking it back to the door, as if in realization that there was still a world beyond the two of them, simply waiting for them to join in the day.

“I should leave you to the rest of your morning preparations,” he said, nodding in the direction of the porcelain jug on Edward’s desk, “at least before your water turns cold.” A curious glint shone in his eyes. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Edward asked in partial confusion.

“Unless you would care for some assistance in them.”

Edward stilled, with the exception of his eyebrows, which he felt furrow closer together. “You are offering to help me shave?”

Jopson offered him an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, but a mischievous smile was forming on his lips, one Edward knew far too well. “I have a practiced hand,” he said, “if I do not flatter myself overmuch. And I did as well for Captain Crozier so many times that by the end I daresay I might have attempted it blindfolded.”

Edward nearly laughed for the joy of it, for here was the Jopson he knew, the one he had lost, and who had somehow, through the gift of some beneficent deity, been returned to him. And if at that moment he dared to imagine that the sentiments that remained unaltered in his own breast had through some miracle been rekindled within Jopson’s own, it did not seem quite as far-fetched as he might once have believed.

“Well, then... I would be foolish to refuse such an offer.” He gestured to the accoutrements scattered on the desk. “By all means, please proceed.”

“Here,” Jopson said, as he pulled the cabin’s single chair out onto the floor. “Sit.”

Edward followed his instructions, and then watched as Jopson methodically prepared the scuttle, pouring hot water into the bottom bowl and letting the brush soak, before locating the razor and laying out a clean square of cloth just beside it. He added a sliver of soap into the top of the scuttle and then began to use the brush to work up a rich lather, stopping to eye it periodically until he deemed it satisfactory.  

His attention then turned to Edward as he pulled the collar back from the sides of his neck and wet his face with some of the remaining hot water. Taking the scuttle in hand, he passed the brush over Edward’s cheeks and chin, and tilted his head back in order to reach his neck and the underside of his jaw. The lather was warm as it touched his skin, the gentle motion of the brush soothing, and he could not help but take some pleasure in each glancing touch of Jopson’s fingertips as they positioned him this way and then that.

“Do you wish to keep these whiskers?” Jopson asked as he set the scuttle down and reached for the razor, pulling the blade back from its wooden handle.

“Do you not like them?” Edward replied, as best as he could with his mouth nearly covered by soapy lather.

“They suit you well, I think.” Jopson eyed him narrowly, as if trying to determine where he might begin. “Although I would not be opposed to seeing you with a full beard again. It made you look rather distinguished.”

Edward could recall the last time he had worn a beard: it had been those few final weeks before their rescue, when there had been no thought for anything beyond their own survival, much less for shaving. By that point, he and Jopson had grown so far apart that it seemed impossible to imagine that the other man had found anything worth admiring in Edward. In the end, he had shaved the thing off the first chance he had gotten, wanting to rid himself entirely of that godforsaken place and the man he had become there.

“In the winter, possibly, I might grow it longer,” he offered, “if you think it would flatter. But let the whiskers remain for now.”

Jopson said nothing, making only a small sound of satisfaction, and then circled around Edward, laying the clean cloth over his shoulder and tipping his chin up to expose the line of his throat. Edward swallowed tightly as his eyes caught sight of the blade moving towards him, steel glinting in the light, and then he gave himself over to Jopson’s expert hands.  

The blade moved efficiently over his neck and jaw, a series of broad strokes that brought just the barest tug of pressure against his skin. There was no hesitation in Jopson’s movements, only the action of a steady and confident hand, and he paused just long enough to wipe the accumulated lather along the cloth at Edward’s shoulder before returning once more to his task. As he worked, he leaned further and further over Edward’s upturned face, close enough that Edward could breathe in the scent of him, something warm and clean and achingly familiar. It was all he could do not to close his eyes and inhale deeply, and for a moment imagine himself back in his narrow bunk aboard Terror, his face pressed tight in desperation along the curve of Jopson’s neck.

As Jopson reached the underside of his jaw, Edward could feel the gentle pressure of a thumb and several fingers pulling his skin taut; were they to move any higher, he realized, there would be no mistaking the wild rhythm beginning to take flight within his pulse. He prayed it might go unnoticed, or, if he were not so fortunate, that Jopson would have the good grace to say nothing that might call further attention to it.

Edward breathed a small sigh of relief when the razor made its final stroke upon his jaw and the fingertips lifted from his skin.

And yet what followed somehow managed to bring even greater torment, for Jopson’s attentions were now focused entirely on his face – his cheeks, his chin, the span of his upper lip – and it was impossible not to recede into a reverie of memory, recalling all the times the former steward had caressed each part, but with hands and mouth rather than the edge of a blade. He could feel his head begin to spin with desire – both past and present – and the rest of his body following suit in a way that he could not control. And to be the object of such focused scrutiny, to have those pale and startling eyes trained entirely on him, as if there was nothing else worth looking at? He had no idea how Crozier had been able to bear it all those years, at least without falling into paroxysms of unbridled lust.

Jopson edged closer, coming to stand nearly between Edward’s knees, his hand pulling the blade in a long diagonal against his cheek. A thumb nestled in his whiskers, a warm palm along his neck, steadying him in place. Jopson moved painstakingly over each square inch, taking special care around the curve of Edward’s mouth, the tiny cleft of his chin, the delicate skin just above his lip. And with every stroke, Edward could feel his breath turn tighter, catching in his throat and in the space between his ribs, his desire growing increasingly more evident against his thigh.

He needed it to stop. He needed it to go on forever.

Jopson had just turned the blade over the edge of his chin when Edward felt a sharp sting and instantly jerked back in response. Jopson’s eyes grew wide, and from his lips he drew a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as he continued to stare at a spot somewhere along Edward’s chin. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean…” He glanced around distractedly, without finding what he was looking for, before finally searching within the front pocket of his coat and extracting a pristinely-folded handkerchief. He kneeled down and pressed the fabric firmly against Edward’s chin, his other hand flat against the front of Edward’s waistcoat.

“I was trying so hard to be careful,” he said, his dark brows narrowing with worry. “I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it has been too long since—”

“Thomas,” Edward murmured, as he reached up to clasp his hand tightly around the other man’s wrist. That, at least, seemed to get his attention, and his eyes flashed up to meet Edward’s gaze. “I’m alright,” he added. “It’s just a nick.”

Jopson nodded, but then pulled the handkerchief away from Edward’s face, as if requiring some proof of his assertion. There was a little blood, bright crimson flowering against that expanse of white, but not enough to be any true cause for concern. Edward had cut himself far worse than that more times than he could count; he would wear it as a badge for a few days and then it would be gone, as if it had never happened.

What might have been cause for concern, however, was the realization of how close they now were, with Jopson kneeling just between Edward’s thighs, palm still resting against his chest, and Edward’s hand circling around Jopson’s other wrist, keeping him from pulling away. Their faces were nearly level, separated by a mere foot or so, which, considering all the distance that had once lay between them, seemed to Edward altogether negligible.

“Thomas,” he said again, this time even more quietly, as if only to remind the man across from him who he had once been and the place he had occupied in Edward’s heart.

Jopson did not answer, but reached his hand up to gently clasp the side of Edward’s face, letting his thumb graze against the edge of his cheekbone. Traces of lather still remained at the edge of his whiskers, immediately smearing across Jopson’s open palm, and all at once he laughed, a bright, beatific smile forming along his lovely mouth.

Edward did not dare to breathe – because he did not dare to hope – and yet there was something in Jopson’s brilliant gaze that made both seem possible.

And in that space, time somehow lost all meaning; it could only be measured in breaths and heartbeats, in the few moments it took to erase the distance between them, in the span of a kiss or a sigh or a few words whispered in forgiveness and joy.

#the terror amc #the terror #fanfiction #thomas jopson #edward little #jopson x little #thetis au #arcticelves #joplittle #moodboard

[disasterhumans]

Fjord and the Nature of “Evil”

Now that we’re getting into more of Fjord’s patron lore, I figure the “Fjord is evil!” theories will begin popping back up, so I wanted to write this to sort out why the “X character is evil” theories/assessments tend to irritate me so much. 

Disclaimer: I’m not at all an expert on how alignment is “meant to work” in Dungeons & Dragons, and am mainly relying on the 5e PHB for this. Mostly this is me thought dumping my observations about Fjord and how they line up with my understanding of “evil.”

So, what is “evil?” Obviously that’s a question with no easy answer and has led to centuries of philosophical argument. But let’s go with a basic definition.

As far as denotative definitions go (outside the scope of D&D) we have: “profoundly immoral and malevolent.” Note the specific use of the word “profound” in that definition.

From his observable behavior, Fjord is not obviously “profoundly immoral” or “malevolent.” He may join in the general chaos that is the Mighty Nein, but generally speaking their actions mostly fall into either “mostly trying to be good” or the not-profound flavor of “immoral.” (Matt said that the Nein “wasn’t a moral group,” not that they were “a profoundly immoral group,” or “an evil group.”) The closest we’ve seen him get to “malevolent” is him threatening Algar. He’s also had a few dispassionate moments (e.g. not feeling moved to save Kiri).

As far as Dungeons and Dragons goes, the Fifth Edition PHB isn’t ultra specific about how it breaks down the “good v. evil” axis and the “law v. chaos” axis, instead providing brief definitions of each individual alignment.

Lawful Evil creatures methodically take what they want within the limits of a code of tradition, loyalty, or order

Neutral Evil is the alignment of those who do whatever they can get away with, without compassion or qualms

Chaotic Evil creatures act with arbitrary violence, spurred by their greed, hatred, or bloodlust

Going through the descriptions of D&D alignments (in reverse order):

Fjord categorically does not act with arbitrary violence, and does not at all seem spurred by greed, hatred, or bloodlust. Again, the only exception to this I can think of is him chopping off Algar’s hand--which was arguably driven by hatred and/or bloodlust, but was also a very impulsive decision. By definition, Chaotic Evil characters would have a difficult time hiding their true alignment.

Fjord is occasionally dispassionate, but wouldn’t describe him as being utterly without compassion. That’s entirely disproven by nearly every interaction he has with Beau and Jester. And he doesn’t seem to have any desire to do “whatever he can get away with.” In fact--impulsivity aside--he is often one of the only members concerned with ramifications (e.g. him threatening Caleb for putting the team at risk by taking the scrolls in “Midnight Espionage.”) While a Neutral Evil character could ostensibly mask their alignment, in Fjord’s case it would also imply that he was fundamentally putting on an entirely different personality.

Of the three Evil alignments, Lawful Evil seems like the most “viable” alignment for Fjord to secretly be, as it would allow for ongoing machinations, whereas the other two evil alignments seem designed to account for descriptions of day-to-day behaviors. But, again, we don’t really have any in-game proof that Fjord has some sort of complicated long-con going on beyond “I want to learn more about where my powers come from.” And that may well lead him down an evil path, but power is not an inherently evil motivation, and it doesn’t mean that’s Fjord’s starting from an evil place. At this point the relative evil v. goodness of said power appears to have more to do with his patron’s alignment than Fjord’s.

At worst, with the information we have to go on--which is Fjord’s in-game actions--he’s Neutral, but easily influenced by the moral standards of those around him. Some parts of this fandom seem to have a tendency to take any sufficiently “not good” action and label it “evil.” Which in my mind robs these incredibly layered characters of their moral complexity while also weakening the strength of what we mean when we say “evil.” Ostensibly, “evil,” is reserved for the most morally repugnant.

And actually, I fully believe Travis that Fjord, before meeting the Mighty Nein would have at least believed himself to be Lawful Good (“counted on to do the right thing as expected by society). Fjord grew up outside of the empire and spent much of his adult life within the micro-society of working on sailing ships. Fjord was accustomed to being a hard-working member of a crew. And a crew has to work together and follow orders for the good of the ship. Furthermore, Fjord (and Jester) made a point of warning the Nein about the seriousness of committing crime on the Menagerie Coast, which in combination with Travis describing Fjord as Lawful Good, I will take to mean that while living in Port Damali he did actually act in a lawful manner. In my view, this is why he takes particular issue with Sabien.

I think my main problem with “Fjord is evil,” theories is that, first and foremost, it requires believing that nearly everything either Travis or Fjord has said about Fjord has been a lie or, at best, disingenuous. And I don’t just mean factual information--it would also likely require believing that Fjord’s entire demeanor, personality and emotional expression was a facade. And while that’s not technically impossible given his deception score, and the fact that Fjord has not been insight-checked very often by most of the party, it still feels like a stretch. And honestly it would be narratively unsatisfying to believe that literally everything we know about his past and motivations are a lie. At present what we know about Fjord is:

He was raised an orphan with no orcs around him (this appears to be true not only based on what Fjord has literally said, but about his demeanor when talking about orcs, and the fact that it made him feel strongly enough to want to help other orphans). Being raised as the only member of his race, with little idea of his lineage (and experiencing a lot of bullying), seems to have made Fjord feeling particularly vulnerable and unsure of himself in a lot of different ways. As others have argued before, Fjord is likely easily won over by people who are openly supportive and friendly toward him, and potentially more susceptible to manipulation (borne out by his low wisdom score). Fjord likely also places a high value on loyalty, in keeping with his original alignment.

Fjord’s captain--Vandren--died after another crew member--Sabien--blew up the ship. There have been some theories that Fjord was actually the person who blew up the ship, but even if that did happen, it seems to me that Fjord genuinely believes it was Sabien. Almost every time Fjord brings up Sabien he is visibly angry, and while they’re in Nicodranus he asks almost everyone he meets if they know Sabien. Maybe Fjord is looking to get rid of the only witness to what was actually his crime, but seeing as most people probably believe there were no survivors of that explosion, putting himself back on Sabien’s radar seems ill advised. (Also, if Fjord blew up the ship, how did Sabien manage to escape? The implication for each of their survival is that Sabien set the explosion into motion but abandoned ship before it triggered, and that Fjord’s patron saved Fjord. Meaning that assuming Fjord is telling the truth, that Sabien would assume Fjord dead as well.) Once again, Fjord valuing loyalty above other moral concerns would seem to be driving his anger toward Sabien, which very much reflects his frustration when Caleb appears to place the team at risk.

After making his pact with his patron (something that Fjord seems to not be entirely aware of) and receiving his warlock abilities, Fjord wanted to learn more about his magic by seeking out Soltryce Academy. As far as I can tell, most Evil!Fjord theories rely on him having an ultimate “evil” goal. But while Fjord may not necessarily be entirely open and honest about his past, and is certainly being guarded about the specificity of his patron, he has actually always been quite vocal about his personal goals. And, yeah, he could be lying or bluffing about just wanting to “learn more.” But if that’s the case, it wouldn’t have meant anything or have made any sense for him to suddenly change the nature of his goals post-Lorenzo. Fjord has never covered up the fact that he’s overwhelmed by his sudden acquisition of powers, or the expectation from the rest of the Nein for him to assume responsibility. And his talk with Beau the other night about how since receiving his powers he’s moved from trying to solve problems through communication to solving them with combat and power seem to imply that he feels uncomfortable with this shift in himself. Again, the specificity of that conversation seems not to jive with an “evil” person trying to assimilate (Fjord could very well just have mirrored Beau’s words without contributing anything of substance).

Above all, I think that Fjord is a vulnerable and easily overwhelmed (and potentially easily manipulated) person who values loyalty and trust in those around him above most other moral concerns, and is thus willing to run with the moral alignments of his companions if it means maintaining cohesion (e.g. when he tells Nott that he won’t try to change her). The only times he truly objects to the decisions the others make is when those decisions appear to put the group in danger. That being said, his recent conversations with Beau suggest that he views himself as being a largely good person, and is currently experiencing some regret over personal moral choices he has made recently. [EDIT: Also, while Fjord definitely seemed excited to meet someone going through the same experience as him, he also seemed uncomfortable with the way Avantika expressed her...devotion to Uk’otoa. (At one point, I believe Travis said ooc “I feel so uncomfortable,” but that may have been in response to all the innuendo.) And despite him finally revealing the falchion to her, he was still distrusting of her by the end. Where we stand right now, it still seems like Fjord is more firmly in “learn what the fuck is going on mode.” And not, “alright I’m gonna be a cultist now,” mode.]

There is certainly a lot of moral contradiction and conflict that Fjord is experiencing right now, but in my mind that internal conflict and confusion--and the strong likelihood that Fjord’s patron is evil--is far more compelling than some eleventh hour plot twist that Fjord has been secretly evil all along.

#critical role #(in that this was prompted by the most recent ep) #fjord #i didn't realize i had so many fjord feelings #but apparently i do #join me next month when i inevitably write another caleb or beau version of this post

[blandmemoirs]

Anger

Rage, Fury, Fire, Pain, Momentum, Energy, unyielding emotion. When I am angry my mind is clear of all the torment of anxiety or doubt. I become objective driven, I become focused, I become energized. I am filled with a burning passion to move, and to never stop moving.

In days of old, my anger would manifest through methods of lashing out. Of attacking, of punching back, of inflicting pain on that which upset me. This is unproductive. To hurt another as a result of your frustration is unjustified. It doesnt make a situation better. It makes it worse. It builds further resentment between yourself and the person you are angry at. It prevents solutions. It causes more hurt. I learned this a long time ago and understand it today. I cannot swear to pacifism, but I will not resort to violence unless my safety or the safety of those I love is directly threatened.

I made a choice a few years ago to use my anger productively. If I am to become angry, I cannot lash out. I cannot hurt other people. I have to use it to be productive. Anger, like any emotion, is a flare of passion in the body and mind. It is energy, and it can be redirected in ways that dont further a cycle of violence. That is what I live to prove.

I am an angry person. I get angry, often. Its not a new development in my life. It has followed me since my childhood. Its sources are numerous. I cant attribute it to any one cause or happening. I have always been angry.

I know this because in kindergarten, I would pick fights with other children, often. Just random, chaotic violence. I enjoyed it. I liked hurting other people. Then I would go home to more violence. This time from my parents into me as discipline for my actions. My parents would belt me for more than just violence, it could come from me simply acting out. Sometimes I was spared the physical harm by recieving emotional harm from furious yelling. My parents taught me anger and violence, and their resorting to violence taught me to resort to violence. Might made right. I shouldnt put all of my problems on my parents, but they wear a substantial amount of blame for the way I learned to cope and act.

My father is an angry man. He grew up in harsh conditions with a harsh family that put him through worse than I've ever lived through. He made sure to tell me that anytime I voiced the tyranny in his actions. He resents his older brother, doesnt like his father, and has spent much of his life failing. Deep in debt from his own mistakes, bearing the blame for a fractured household and broken marriage, he is full of anger. He takes out his anger on those weaker than him. From the dogs he can kick when they bark too loud, to the children he can endlessly insult and shout at for minor transgressions. All made worse by alcoholism to cope. My father is not a bad man, but an incredibly flawed and broken one. He does make efforts to redeem and be better, but he has not yet atoned for his actions, and the marks he has left on his children will linger whether he accepts it or not.

My mother is an angry woman. Raised in a split household between parents who live irresponsibly and resent each other. She was a rebellious youth who took her own childhood away when I was conceived. A child raising a child. A lack of freedom as her life is indebted to my survival and later, two more. Dead end job to dead end job. A broken marriage and a dysfunctional family she is forced to raise with no individual progress to be attained. She resents her circumstances. She desires higher living and a fate she can control. She takes out her anger on those weaker than her. From the dogs she can hit to the children she can scream at for "negativity". All made worse by alcohol and weed. My mother is not a bad woman, she is just an incredibly flawed and broken one. A girl who became a mother too quickly. An independent soul tethered to a path of dependence. She makes efforts to be better, but often furthers a rift she created. Her anger will be remembered in the hearts of her children.

I do not know the true extent of my parents lives, I only know what I have seen, been revealed, and assumed. I know one thing for certain, they are examples of how not to grow up. The anger they live with is an anger I live with. To tame their beasts they drink and lash out, I must be better.

Which is why I cling so desperately to the example set for myself by the Incredible Hulk, my favorite character. A genius with deep emotional trauma turned into a monster fueled by rage. Dr Robert Bruce Banner must learn to live with the monster that dwells inside him. The Hulk, limitless rage personified, is a monster that does not want to hurt people, but just wants to be left alone among his friends. He is violent, but only because he recieves violence. The monster is capable of reason, of morality, of seeing through the surge of rage to know what is right and what is wrong. As such, the Hulk chooses to be a hero, to save and protect the innocent and to smash those who do evil. Bruce Banner must live with his anger, to know when it is right to let the beast out and to understand when smashing is the wrong option.

Banner has spent most of his life trying to rid himself of the Hulk, but the Hulk is not something Banner can live without. The Hulk is a part of Bruce, is a piece of his damaged psyche which will always exist. The gamma radiation only externalized these features.

Hulk also resents Banner, and wishes he could exist without him. Hulk doesn't like Banner's weak manner and conniving mind. Hulk doesn't like being locked up in a cage in the back of Banners mind. Hulk wants to be free and Hulk wants to be left alone.

These two characters are inseparable, and two sides of the same coin. Hulk is a manifestation of Banners trauma and repressed anger. Hulk is a destructive force of passion that can be directed to do good. These entities must coexist, for they need each other.

What does this have to do with me? In a less hyperbolic manner, my rage is a part of me. It does not go away. It never ends. It is a piece of my heart and mind. It is a force that makes me want to destroy all that causes harm to those I love. Anger does not cease within the chaotic storm that is my heart, it persists and waits for its time to possess me. When I am angry my body tenses, my eyes focus, my heart beats at rapid pace, my stomach churns, my body shakes. At its worst I lose sight and see nothing but flashes of red as I convulse into shivers of rage. When control of my body is returned the next moment, my mind is clear and I am energized in a way almost as potently as when I am in love. I can do almost anything. It is raw adrenaline. I move faster, harder, and with more force and precision than when I am in a normal state. I make objectives and carry them through. I become a machine fueled by limitless rage. It can almost be addicting. Sometimes I have so much force locked inside I feel an urge to scream. I often repress it for the sake of keeping attention away from myself. Anger makes me more effective in my work. Be it my actual job, my writing, or editing. I am so focused, creative forces flow, all through the red lense of rage. Sometimes I run, sometimes I drive, sometimes I channel this energy into speaking. An endless monologue or a consoling speech to a friend in need. For that is the true root to my rage. A friend in pain. When a friend is hurt, I flare up. The closer and more important my friend, the angrier I get. The angrier I get the more energy I have and the more I cant stop moving. My foot tapping, my leg bouncing, I pace. Anger does not debilitate me, it gives me more ability than I know what to do with.

It is not just that a friend is in pain, it is that I cant do anything to stop it. I can't do anything to change their cirumstance. I cannot save them from their suffering because the forces that hurt them are out of my control, out of my influence. I can only console, and console I do, even as rage paves the way of my actions.

When my anger releases its possession of me, I am left to deep introspection and concern. Did I do enough? Did I help? Did I do anything? Why was I angry? I feel rejuvenated, almost born anew. The passion has retreated to my internal self, and I am left feeling cool and calmer. Sometimes, in truly helpess circumstances, I feel empty. I was not enough. I didn't do enough. Worst, when my anger was used unproductively, I feel guilty. Knowing I was wrong and unjust. It is a betrayal to myself to use anger to harm others.

Today I was made angry at the hurt of one of the most important people in my life whom I care deeply for. Their circumstances are far beyond my powers to control, and they themself live far from me. The only thing I can do is send my love and support in the form of text or voice. It never feels like enough. My anger possesses me, and the temptation to strike out at the world that causes such endless pain for my loved ones exists. A random act of violence to atone for the wrongs done to another. That is not right. There is no justice in that. There is no good to come from it. So instead I made my objective to work harder, to make more money in my shift and to ensure my immediate environment was taken care of. I wished every coworker safe travels and good nights, I greeted and enthusiastically interacted with customers and pedestrians who gave me the time. Spreading good energy and doing good for others while powered up with this anger made for a more productive day. When the anger finally relinquished, I began typing. To explain, and to document for myself. I can do good with the frustration I feel. I can be a good man.

I understand this all very intimately now. A younger, less introspective Robbie did not. I got angry, had so much energy and power in my palms I only thought to make a fist. I would then use those fists for causes of pain and revenge, sometimes on undeserving parties. It built a guilt deep inside me that I will never forgive myself for. I can only be a better person now. Instead of making a fist I pick up a pen, or more truthfully I grab a keyboard. Words, endless words, inspired by anger and made real through my choices to funnel that rage.

I am inseparable from my anger. My anger is a part of me. I have to own it, and I have to admit to it. I cant live in fear of myself for what can happen when I lose control, as rare as such an occurence is. I have to instead use it to be productive, and clean up what messes I make with it. And I will make messes. I will hurt people. It is inevitable for an emotion as potent as anger. Sometimes the lense of rage prevents us from seeing reality as fairly as we might. Sometimes a fist is formed.

It is my responsibility and my burden to bear. I cannot blame others for my own nature. I can not allow myself to resent others for who I am. When I am made angry, instead I must find a way to resolve my conflicts and make good.

The Hulk has been saving the world for decades through his anger, and I can do the same. Its not easy. Living with yourself and accepting yourself is hard for some people who look deep into themselves enough. I used to cage this monster, to repress it. It would always free itself and come to the surface. Pent up aggression and bitterness blinds anger and creates pain. Instead, I will live with this intensity I call my anger, and I will continue to live to make it productive, for the benefit of myself and my friends.

I should not hate myself because I am angry. My anger is rooted in the love I have. There is nothing wrong with being angry unless I choose to hurt others with it. That is a choice I will not make unless the other is someone of truly abominable character.

Robbie Bland is an angry person, but he is not a bad person because of it. Make your anger productive. 'Nuff said. Thanks for reading.

[rottenheartedchild]

Bayo OC Rewrite - Ivan

The top drawing is his ancient Master Assassin uniform while the bottom is his Game 1 look. Ivan is seriously one of the hardest oc to rewrite considering he has a fuckton of flaws in his earlier design. Anywho, big thanks to @umbran-mechs , @tradramblings , @namichma and everyone for helping me out with his bio)

  Name: Ivan Petrovich

Nicknames: Yanko, Vanya, Asshole, Ameli(by Salwa), Reynard, Memester, Uncle Anya.

Age: physically 46, implied immortal

Gender: cisgender

Sexuality: pansexual demiromantic    

Pronouns: he

 Back-story: All his life Ivan had lived in Vigrid with only his mother, Thalia, the Master of the Umbran Assassins and Fernanda, the family’s matriarch. As a child he would often ask about his absent father, only for his mother to react badly to his questions. Soon he learned to never question his mother when it came to his father, for she would respond in a cold, violent manner and shout at him that he was a traitor, a murderer, a cannibal. The frightened child ended up believing her farce naively and ceased his questions concerning about his father. Fernanda was genuinely appalled by how Thalia had raised her son and threatened to strip away her title should she ever overstep her place again.

Through the public’s eyes, his mother was the epitome of maternal love, protective and gentle but Ivan knew better who she truly was. Behind closed doors, she was a cold-hearted monster with acid for blood and iron for bones. Thalia was a maestro of lies and she managed to fool everyone, even the Clan Elders, with the farce of a loving and gentle mother. In private, she secretly trained her only son with the harshest training imaginable and spared him no mercy as Thalia criticized every mistakes made during his training.It worsen as she forced Ivan to pretend as the proud perfect child in the public eye to maintain the facade of a flawless family. There are times where Ivan envied other children whose family were tender and supportive with each other and he would fantasized of the life he always dream of: a loving father who would take him to the fields to play and a mother that would comfort him with hugs and kisses. Alas, it was nothing more than a dream and he had to face the harsh reality he lived in.

Years have passed, Ivan became the perfect killing machine, devoid of emotions as he dutifully carried out tasks with hairsplitting precision and steadfast concentration. He also began to grow weary of his mother’s nonsensical falsity, finding it laughable how he had foolishly believed her words. Soon he began to rebel against his mother, disobeying her orders and such out of sheer spite as he spat on her teaching by covertly training under the witches who taught him various fighting styles, to increase his chance on overthrowing his tyrant of a mother. When Ivan felt prepared, he decided to face Thalia for the title of Master Assassin and placed a wager; if he won he’ll demote her and took the mantle but should he lose, he will resumed his role as her pawn and let go of his freedom. Thalia reluctantly accepted her son’s challenge and under the watchful eyes of the Umbran elders, they began their battle.

The battle went on for days as both parties refused to back down from it. Though Thalia may seem to outclass her son, Ivan turned the tide by countering all of her moves with her own teaching. Adding insult to her wounded pride, Ivan managed to beat her using what he learned from his masters. The match was over and Ivan was declared a winner by the Elders, much to Thalia’s dismay. His first task as the Master of Umbran Assassin was to dismantle his mother’s tyrannical doctrine and replaced them with a much more constructive method, improving the proficiency of the Umbran Assassins in and out of the battlefield. With the help of his childhood friend, Samson, a blacksmith witch from Vigrid, the morale in his pack progressed quite considerably and he was well-respected by his students for it.

Throughout his life, Ivan formed many relationships, ranging from the playful Lumen Sage Ariel, to the snarky Umbra witch Samson, to the lovable Helen, who was also Ivan’s niece. But Ivan’s most memorable relationship was that of his wife, Salwa, another Witch hailing from Maghreb. Despite Salwa’s somber childhood, she remained kind-hearted and lively, which drew Ivan closer to her. The two eventually wed, settling on a simple ceremony with only their loved ones close by. Shortly after, their son Tuncay was born, and the parents planned to give him a better life than they had, unaware how the events of the future would really unfold.

It happened so suddenly, the first of many tragedies, when his first son died in Inferno due to a failed pact. It struck them like a knife in the shadows and with nothing to bury the fallen witch with, Ivan mourned for days until there were no tears left in his bloodshot eyes. Once in a while, Ivan would remembered that headstrong child who died in vain over a failed contract and broke down behind doors. It wasn’t until the arrival of the newest student, Gretchen, whose pestering demeanor reminded him of Tuncay bought back a bit of spark in his life. The tension between Clans were nail-biting and Ivan was terribly affected by the events as he pushed his disciples to their limits in order to increase their chance of survival, with his most problematic student forced the hardest. All of his worst fears became a reality as the Clan Wars erupted, forcing the assassin to fight back against their former allies. Despite the heat of the battle, he could clearly listened the wails and cries of fallen souls and one of them made his heart dropped right there; his second daughter. Though the witches have won the war, to him it meant nothing as he had lost another piece of his heart. It didn’t helped that Gretchen had deserted the Clan immediately once she saw the monstrous Fortitudo and angels have blocked up the paths leading to his student. Enraged, he ruthlessly mauled the angels only to find her already long gone after that.

The victory was merely temporary as none could predicted that a mass witch hunt had begun shortly after the war, the witches including Ivan were far too drained from the previous battle but he forced himself to protect his home from their enemies. One by one they perished under his rampant fury as he exterminated the ones who killed his daughter and disciples. Just when he thought it was over, he was greeted by a sight that scarred him for eternity; an Umbran witch murdered his sons in cold blood before leaving to fend off the incoming enemies. His mind went blank as he dejectedly walked over to the corpses of his sons before cradling them in his arms, tears silently flow from his eyes as he remained that way. Even a stab to the back from his own mother didn’t snapped him out of his stupor as he began to fell to the ground, his sons’ corpses still held tightly close to him. The last moment before he lose consciousness was that damned witch fought against his mother and won, causing him to smile bitterly and shut his eyes to rest. The cries coming from his surviving children and niece pierced the skies as they tried to reach Ivan only to be pushed away by the mysterious witch who buried him, sealing the tomb with powerful charms as if to protect him from harm. Left with no choice but to flee, the children vowed to free him from his curse and guard his tomb from the enemies.

A century later, after being awoken from his 100 years slumber Ivan was thrusted into another adventure of a lifetime; from tearful reunion between old friends and family, to the calamitous battle with the cryptic witch who revealed to be his long-lost father before ripping his arms out during the climax of their match, to travelling to foreign countries and aiding Ariel’s noble yet chaotic crusade. During those travels, he have picked up countless of skills and learned languages after languages, finding it quite rewarding from years of killing and subterfuge. But there were few things that remained constant in his thoughts, those being his former student deserting the clan out of pure cowardice and his family who succumbed to their grisly fates.

For a long period of time, Ivan now becomes one of Hollywood’s most influential director with awards and honors to back up his expertise. When he’s not busy directing a movie, discussing plots with his screenwriters, doing undercover work or supervising his billion dollar fashion industry with his niece/goddaughter, Helen, he can mostly be found in parks reminiscing pastimes or spend his time at Samson’s quaint bar, sipping a tall glass of Black Death vodka as he dishes out the filthiest gossips he could find. Lately, Ivan begin to feel apprehensive as the young woman in front of him bears a stark resemblance of his former student, Gretchen. Grinning, she introduced herself as Ingrid before auditioning for the comic relief role, and his life is about to change for the better or worse.

  Beast within: Tiger within( Caspian Tiger )

                     Seal within( Leopard Seal)

                      Bird Within( Hooded Crow)

                     Bat Within( Greater Mouse-eared Bat)

Pact Demon: Madama Laverna, Goddess of thieves and cheats

Extras:

Huge fan of the arts, doesn’t matter if it’s a musical, a play or even an animation. He finds it very fascinating and endearing as he rather laze around and watch old Looney Tunes cartoons.

Extremely gifted cook and often can be seen with a bag of snacks. Famous for his exquisite tea collection and Albanian cuisine. Often invites close friends over for hearty weekend brunches.

Due to his upbringing, Ivan’s able to distinguish people with their true  nature and refused to associate himself with the toxic ones. It helps that he can use it to his leverage when dealing with difficult targets.

.Completely unapologetic and a selectively sadistic schadenfraude. Once joked that should his enemy died, he’ll throw the biggest party to celebrate their demise and burn the corpse for an extra measure.

Despises puns and dad jokes but begrudgingly tolerates them if it came from either his kids or closest friends.

Very supportive of his fans and often gets excited whenever they gifted him with drawings, sculptures, etc. But he despised the ones that ruined the fun for everyone.

Has two pet ravens that act as his messengers, Huginn and Muninn and a female psychiatric service pit bull, Delilah who enjoys dressing up in colorful pajamas and pretty costumes.

Always thought that his wife, Salwa was the most beautiful woman in all realms with the skin as dark as opulent midnight and her spots could put snow to shame. Amaal and Salvador thinks their dad is a lovestruck sap.

Both Laverna and Ivan lived for the drama, especially if it’s messy and gritty. Give them some dirt and they’ll chatter for hours with sinister grins on their face.

Famous for his eccentric behavior, stern yet fair ethics, strong sense of professionalism and ample amount of knowledge. Also a polyglot due to centuries of travelling to foreign lands.

Often dyes his grey hair with a mixture of henna and human’s blood to give him that signature red highlights.

Donated or sold most of the mansions he had in Europe to be either used as orphanages, hospitals or anything in between. He even helped renovated them to keep them up to date.

Ivan often commented that Gretchen maybe his most difficult student to date but her gung-ho nature made his life a bit brighter. He never told her outright about it.

One of his bullet couture is literally a neon hyena fursuit in chunky heels. Both Ingrid and his family eternally cringed at the technicolor monstrosity.

Can’t function without a strong cup of coffee. Ivan without caffeine is equivalent of a cranky murder machine who’s on a warpath.

His favorite characters are Bugs Bunny, Qrow, the Red Guy from Cow & Chicken and Donald Duck.

Has secret rooms which can only be unlocked by playing songs from his favorite music game app....in Hell mode.

 Ivan personally deals with the scum of humanity, and those unfortunate enough to become his target find themselves returning to the earth as part of some compost.

#Ivan #Vanya #bayonetta oc #bayo oc redesign #oc redesign #the chaotic good #chaotic c h a o s #he'll laugh at your bully while giving you some support #will kill any nazi for free #also an altruist #ask him money and he'll give you 4 times the amount #he's THAT generous #destroying lives while flirting with hot mamas and papas

[thisdaynews]

Jolyon Palmer column: Fortune favours the cautious in Germany classic

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/jolyon-palmer-column-fortune-favours-the-cautious-in-germany-classic/

Jolyon Palmer column: Fortune favours the cautious in Germany classic

Former F1 driver Jolyon Palmer, who left Renault during the 2017 season, is part of the BBC team and offers insight and analysis from the point of view of the competitors

The German Grand Prix was a race for the ages, one of the most exciting Formula 1 events there has been, and it was all because of the treacherous and constantly changing conditions.

A wet-dry race is usually that bit more exciting and can often throw up surprising results. At Hockenheim on Sunday, this proved to be the case in the extreme.

Races like this are so challenging because they make enormous demands on every member of the team.

Chief among them are the drivers. They have the most difficult task of keeping the car on track in constantly changing conditions, while pushing to the limit for corner after corner, despite never being absolutely sure where that limit is going to be.

The strategists, meanwhile, have to try to call the pit stops and choose the correct tyres at the right time. This is an incredibly tough task, particularly with varying levels of rain falling throughout the race.

Finally, the mechanics have their work cut out because they are up and down like a yo-yo making pit stops: Max Verstappen stopped five times on his way to victory in the Red Bull; his team-mate Pierre Gasly made four as well.

You have to go back to the famous European Grand Prix at Donington Park in 1993, when Williams driver Alain Prost made a record seven pit stops on his way to second place behind McLaren’s Ayrton Senna – who made four – to find similar numbers to these.

Hamilton’s worst performance for years edges him closer to the title

Verstappen wins thrilling wet-dry German GP

Listen: ‘Hamilton crashes & Leclerc has thrown it all away!’

Who could have predicted this podium combination before lights out?

Limiting mistakes was paramount

Because making a mistake is so easy in conditions where so much can go wrong, it is as crucial to limit the errors as it is to push to the limits in every area. Ultimately, that’s how this race was won.

Verstappen’s race wasn’t mind blowing, and neither was Sebastian Vettel’s to second place. Yet they ended with the biggest smiles at the end of the grand prix, along with Daniil Kvyat, who made a shock return to the podium.

Verstappen had a poor start and suffered a spin when Red Bull made a strategy error in pitting him for medium tyres instead of softs, which would have warmed up sooner in the slippery conditions.

Other than that, though, taking into account all the aspects of the team, Verstappen and Red Bull outperformed the competition.

The Dutchman’s pace early on was enough to keep an eye on the leading Mercedes of Lewis Hamilton and Valtteri Bottas, who were running one-two.

But as the major contenders for the win started dropping like flies, Verstappen just stayed there, putting in laps good enough to never be challenged, and not making any further mistakes.

The team judged everything right after the medium-tyre call halfway through, and Verstappen ultimately had an easy enough drive to the win.

Hard Drive: What happened to the woman who beat Hamilton in go-karts?

Why fancy dress, soap suds and a baby made F1 brilliant again

Appearances can be deceptive

Vettel’s drive to second was nothing spectacular either.

If you just looked at the statistics, it would appear to be one of the best drives in history, coming from 20th – and last – on the grid to second place by the chequered flag.

In truth, though, Vettel lacked pace for much of the grand prix and was languishing in around eighth place from lap six to lap 56, with a high of sixth place at the latter point as Bottas hit the wall ahead.

Kimi Raikkonen in the Alfa Romeo seemed quicker than him in the wetter part of the race. But what Vettel did was produce a mature drive, keeping his mistakes to a minimum.

While many others, including Raikkonen at one point, slithered off the road, particularly at the perilous Turn 16, Vettel just kept plodding away until he reached a point where he was happy and comfortable in the car. Then, in the last part of the race, on soft, dry-weather ‘slick’ tyres, Vettel came alive.

From there, he exploited the Ferrari’s pace advantage over slower midfield rivals – his only competition left bar Verstappen out front – and breezed through for an unlikely second place.

It was the equivalent of a cricket team starting an innings slowly, just hanging in there against the more dangerous bowlers and waiting for the part-time bowlers to come on, and then smacking them around the ground.

Vettel’s maturity shone in this race rather than any supreme driving talent and it earned him a standout and much-deserved result, after a lot of bad luck recently.

Leclerc pays the price for aggression

So what happened to the usual major players?

Charles Leclerc, Vettel’s team-mate, was the first serious player to find the barriers, just after switching to slicks on lap 27.

His was a race in complete contrast to Vettel’s. Like the German, he also had a problem in qualifying, and had to start from 10th on the grid. But he roared up to fourth place in the opening handful of laps, and then had the pace to be challenging for a win, even before other drivers hit trouble.

By the time he switched to slicks, Leclerc was in a genuine second place, behind early leader Hamilton, but his aggressive mentality was ultimately not what this race was about.

Leclerc had already nearly come unstuck a couple of times at Turn 16, which was slippery and critically had the equivalent of an ice rink as its run-off area, because of the oils and rubber deposited on the drag strip that is there.

Finally, through all the bravado of his race, Leclerc pushed one step too far and found the barriers. He accepted the blame for the incident, and called the run-off area unacceptable as well.

In reality, though, this was a moment that highlighted his inexperience once more.

Leclerc is undoubtedly super-talented and will surely win a race before long. But sometimes in his youthful exuberance he can be found guilty of overdriving.

His crash in Baku qualifying was an example, taking too many risks in overtaking when trying to make up ground after Ferrari had messed up his qualifying in Monaco was another. This race is the latest one.

But the 21-year-old is nonetheless on a superb trajectory, and his pain will be softened in the fact that, unlike Vettel when he crashed out of the lead in Germany last year, he was by no means the only driver to find the wall, particularly at that part of the circuit.

“I don’t really care where everyone else finished,” Hamilton said. “I was in the lead and I finished pretty much last.”

An unusually chaotic day at Mercedes

Mercedes looked set for a win, particularly in the hands of Hamilton, but he too proved just how slippery Turn 16 was – and how easy it was to make a mistake like Leclerc’s – as he slithered off on the same tyres a lap later, under safety-car conditions.

This was the beginning of the end for Hamilton. He hit the wall at a time when he shouldn’t have been pushing at all, then was forced into pitting in a manner against the rules, which earned him a five-second penalty.

To compound matters, this time it was the Mercedes pit wall and mechanics who were all at sea in a race.

No doubt they were surprised at Hamilton’s swift decision to pit, and they didn’t know the extent of the damage either, but it was chaos in the Mercedes garage, a team who are usually serenely calm and methodical.

A pit stop nearly a minute long followed and Hamilton tumbled down the order. But his difficult race was compounded by further Mercedes strategy errors.

Hamilton could have somehow still been in contention to win, but Mercedes failed to pit him and Bottas under a late safety car. They then waited too long to pit Hamilton when slicks were the obvious choice shortly after that, and he then fell out of the points positions.

As a driver in this situation, with the laps ticking down, it is easy to overdrive, and Hamilton became the latest man to do so, in a race in which survival was key.

He lost it at Turn One and ruled himself out of any further contention, but at least got back to the pits, unlike Bottas.

Bottas was desperate to pass Lance Stroll’s Racing Point and earn a podium, which would have helped him reduce his championship deficit to Hamilton.

But as the Finn was getting frustrated stuck behind the slower midfield car, he dropped a wheel onto the wet part of the track at Turn One and hit the wall, putting him out on the spot.

The balance of risk and reward

It was the sort of race F1 has not put on for a long time, with so many incidents, safety cars and changing weather conditions.

Anyone who completed this race without issue scored points in the end but it’s never easy to judge this from the outset.

It’s easy to say in hindsight, but it’s just so hard for the drivers to judge how hard to push and how much risk to take when they are lining up at the start of the race.

For the midfielders, though, the strategy gamble is always a bigger lure, because the risk-reward equation is weighed in their favour. And with so many front-runners dropping out, it was Kvyat and Stroll who made the most of it, to finish third and fourth.

Ironically, these two who looked sublime at the end actually ended up in this position because they were further back and had nothing to lose with 20 laps to go.

Stroll was right at the back, ahead of only Robert Kubica’s Williams when he pitted for slicks, and behind George Russell in the other Williams. Kvyat was ninth, five places behind Toro Rosso team-mate Alexander Albon, who also had a tremendous drive.

Inevitably, the drivers further up the order didn’t risk fitting slicks as early as those further back, and Stroll’s mediocre first two-thirds of the race ultimately gave him the lead for a moment.

Credit to both drivers, though. They got themselves into strong positions and didn’t make any substantial mistakes thereafter.

All in all this is the sort of race people love. There was uncertainty right up to the last lap, and it even ended with the feel-good factor of three delighted drivers on an unlikely podium. It was a classic.

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#cautious #Germany