#why I am I writing in english in my own notes is beyond me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ruskaroma · 1 year

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ordinary, corrupt human love. | chapter 1: written in blood.

Warnings: this series will include highly disturbing/dark topics such as stalking, unhealthy obsession, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, manipulation, gaslighting, large age gap, emotional/psychological abuse, dom/sub undertones, bad BDSM etiquette, etc.

this is a dark fic, written in john's pov and a glimpse of how his mind works. if you still continue to read and get triggered, that is not my responsibility.

Summary: John finds himself a new obsession.

Author's note: this is my first ever fanfic for this fandom and i am beyond excited to share this with you guys! though i must say before you begin, english is not my first language and there might be a few errors in my writing here and there, so i apologize in advance.

but either way, i still hope you enjoy this piece, and i can assure you that once i finish writing this series there will be more to come! i really enjoy writing john wick be a merciless bastard who kills everything that breathes, and i hope you enjoy it too as much as i did.

please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think in the comment and reblogs and likes would be so appreciated. it motivates me to write even more :)

(also this is not edited so all mistakes are on me and i apologize)

Word count: 8.1k

also read on ao3.

It’s one of those days again.

The sound of his watch ticking is the only thing keeping his car from being too quiet. His eyes watch every single movement of his target, never leaving his sight. It won’t be too long for John to finally strike, he just doesn’t want too many civilians seeing the horror that’s about to happen right before their very eyes.

His mind is thinking of many things he could do with this target in particular. A lowlife thug that got himself involved with a very dangerous Italian mob, but then again that’s not the reason why John’s murderous intent is at its peak at the moment.

He’s angry at something, he just doesn’t know what. And this target of his isn’t helping his situation at all. Reading his criminal record made John think this could be a chance to cure his boredom. This man is not only a sex trafficker, but also a pedophile who has a history of targeting teenagers to rape and sell to the black market that’s as fucked up as him.

He doesn’t normally take his time thinking of ways to kill his targets. He points, shoots, leaves. This one in particular though, got him facing a side of him that John himself doesn’t want to face.

He would start by breaking every single one of the man’s fingers. And if that doesn’t do any justice, he’ll cut them off.

One by one, let the man savor the feeling, let John relish the nightmare.

He could slit the man’s throat, watch as life drains away from his body, watch as the man clings to his legs for mercy. John could even pull out the man’s dick, step on it, fucking cut it off and shove it so far down his own throat that he couldn’t scream for help if he tried.

It’s John’s version of Colombian Necktie. A classic, only ever tried it out four times, hopefully this would be the fifth.

John is never the one to take pleasure in killing people, but these past few months have proved him otherwise.

Maybe it’s because of Helen’s death, and the way he was basically forced to sculpt the demons he buried back into himself. His only remaining bit of humanity was taken from him, and he’s coping in the most unhealthy way possible. Perhaps Winston was right about dipping his pinky a little too much into the pond, but it was inevitable.

John has gone back to his old ways. Taking contracts here and there to distract himself from the void in his heart. He remembers how burying a knife into someone’s throat for the first time in many years has ignited something in him he didn’t even know he had.

That’s why he’s here, exiting his car in a swift move, following his target as quietly as possible into a narrow alleyway that stinks of garbage in piss. This would be a nice place to kill a guy like him – right where he belongs.

John’s movements are so discreet the man couldn’t even sense him until John wrapped his right arm around his neck and his other hand went to cover the man’s mouth. He walks them both to the back of a building as the man struggles, where John’s sure no more people are present, and he kicks him on the jaw to stop the man from making any more noises.

John can make this quick. Pull out his gun and blow his brains out. But there’s that sinister glint in his mind that’s telling him to do something unimaginable – grotesque even – a death a man like him deserves.

The man tries to swing his arm at John but misses pathetically. The poor guy’s already shaking and John hasn’t even begun.

John doesn’t respond to the pitiful attempts of questioning who he is and who sent him here, he simply pulls his knife from his pocket and wastes no time slashing it against the man’s throat, the blood spraying all over his face. The man tries to stop it by shakily covering the deep cut with his hand, but it’s useless.

He’s gargling, choking on his own blood, and John’s watching it all unravel with a familiar glint in his eyes.

John is contemplating if he should follow the plan he made in his head or just leave it like this. Somehow, the sight looks rather incomplete to him. He knows what he’s done is not enough, but that could be just the rage talking. The man’s already dead, and surely cutting off his dick and shoving it so far down his throat it comes out of the wound would leave an ugly reputation on his name.

Would that be a good thing? John is already feared enough, would it be a good thing to make people fear him even more? But then again, this won’t be the first time he’s done it. Doing it again one more time wouldn’t make any difference.

He glances down at the dead body on his feet before he kneels down to do the unforgivable.

Slicing off a man’s cock is easy. Too easy. John’s knife is perfectly sharpened and stoned, he merely uses any strength to cut it off. The sight is so fucking ugly, too much blood, but nothing he can’t handle.

Once that’s done, John uses his other hand to force the dead man’s jaw open, immediately greeted by the foul stench of blood as he shoves the unpleasant dick into the man’s open mouth. The genitalia is definitely not long enough to reach the throat, but that won’t be any problem for John.

He grits his teeth as he forces his hand in there, not bothering to care even if the jaw breaks and the hole becomes even wider, his goal is the only thing in his mind.

The blood continues to drip and he has never been so grateful for wearing an all black uniform for this occasion. Soon enough, after a few minutes of such a brutal wrongdoing, John sees the tip of the cock reaching the deep wound on the man’s throat as it continues to peak its way out.

A sick, small smile spreads across John’s face. The smile is barely there, but he’s fucking enjoying this more than he’d like to admit. He can only imagine how the news would spread across the assassin underworld like a wildfire.

The Boogeyman’s back in business and he’s scarier than ever.

Perhaps this might be the way to lay his point across. This is a way to show them that it was not a good idea pissing him off, killing what’s his, and bringing him back in business. They’d regret it, but it would be already too late for that.

John uses his other hand to pull the cock right out of the man’s throat but not completely. Half of it is hanging out and John thinks he could even consider this as a masterpiece. There’d be flies and maggots that would make the scenery better, but the cleaning service is there for a reason. He can’t just not use it.

John stands up from his position, pocketing his knife back into his pocket before retrieving his phone with the other. He dials a number, waits for them to pick up, all while admiring his work on the ground.

His previous contracts these past few months all ended in such an unimaginable, ugly way. He figured that by showing them that he’s capable of such brutality, it would increase the numbers of people calling him in for more jobs, because this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted Baba Yaga, the ruthless killer of the underworld who stops at nothing to finish his job, and he’s simply giving it to them.

Someone picks up the call and he straightens his posture, checking the time on his watch before speaking.

“This is Wick. John Wick, yes. I would like to make a dinner reservation for one.”

The news spread faster than anticipated.

The notorious man John Wick, the hot topic of the criminal underworld at the moment, even gained the attention of The High Table, and it all happened in the span of one day. That’s how quick the news spread amongst his fellow assassins, though that’s exactly what he was going for.

John expected it so he isn’t surprised when he receives a call from Charon saying Winston wants to meet him.

He inserts a coin in the door and the small window opened briefly. The guy on the other side immediately recognized him, not wasting a single moment to open the door and let the man of the hour in. All eyes are on him the moment he steps into the club, but no one dared to murmur anything to anybody – not when the man himself is here.

They know better.

John spots Winston at his usual spot drinking his usual order, signaling John to sit beside him where a glass of bourbon is already present.

“Jonathan,” Winston greets, raising his glass. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“I figured,” John replies, though not interested. He slides himself to the booth and takes a sip of his own drink. “I don’t understand why though.”

“Are we really playing this game, Jonathan?” The manager raises a brow.

“I was just doing my job.”

“In a way you don’t normally do,” Winston then adds. “Or should I say, in a way you don’t even do.”

John gives him a look, but he could tell Winston doesn’t know how to interpret it. His face remains emotionless, not letting the mask slip and grant Winston the privilege to take a peak. John will continue to play this game until he’s satisfied, until he feels something again. Surely he’ll find what he’s looking for while doing the only thing he’s ever good at – slaughtering.

“Let’s just say I was trying out a new technique,” John says, voice deep and almost sinister. Winston’s scared, though he doesn’t show it, John knows.

“I have known you ever since you started, Jonathan. Not once did it cross my mind you would do something so.. horrifying as this. You discarded the body like he was some sort of pig, so believe me when I say I couldn’t believe it at first.”

John has no idea why Winston’s whining about him being horrifying, when that’s all they’ve been saying about him ever since he joined. He didn’t gain this reputation for no reason, now he’s just simply showing them what more he’s capable of.

“You should’ve seen his record.” His tone is menacing, swirling the drink in his hand as he stares deeply at Winston’s eyes. “He’s worse than a pig.”

The drop of the curse word takes Winston by surprise. “So is that what it is, then? You killed him that way because you think he deserved it?”

“Not really,” John simply sighs, leaning back on the leather seat as he takes another sip of his bourbon. He really isn’t planning on staying longer, but Winston seems to be taking his sweet time asking him a bunch of stupid questions. “I couldn’t care less of what he’s done. I was simply… bored. Saying that I did that because I think he deserved it gives people a reason to think that what I did was justifiable.”

The look on Winston’s face says enough. He’s afraid of John, afraid of what he has become. Hearing John say he did such an unforgiving thing just because he was bored is beyond frightening. No man has ever inflicted so much fear on him before – at least not until John.

“I think we’re done for tonight,” Winston finally says, not wanting to hear any more disturbing thoughts of John, but he remains polite and calm for the sake of their friendship. “You have a good night, Jonathan.”

John gives him a nod, standing up from his seat and downing his drink in one go. “Goodnight, Winston.”

He exits the club with an eerie aura following behind him, not caring about the way people are looking at him like he’s got Death himself walking beside him.

It makes him wonder that maybe death doesn’t follow him after all.

Maybe it is him.

Someone offered him five million to fuck up a man who allegedly stole a fuck ton of kilograms of cocaine from their warehouse, and really, who is John to decline the offer?

Hunting the man is easy. It didn’t even take a day to locate where the man lives, and John’s already breaking into his apartment to shoot the guy and leave. There’s no point in rummaging the place for the cocaine, all of it is already up the man’s system by the looks of it, and killing him is John’s job.

John wants to finish this one fast, he’s got other business to attend to. As he backs up the frightened, pathetic excuse for a man against the wall, he takes his gun out of his holster and aims directly at the head, right between the eyes, and he watches in great pleasure as the residue of his brains splatter against the walls and the floor.

This man didn’t even put up a fight. John thinks this is a waste of time.

He exits the apartment with disappointment heavy on his shoulders, slamming the door shut. Although the gun he used has a silencer, the rooms are too close to each other. He’s sure there might be other people who heard the shot of his firearm.

The apartment building is located at the filthy side of New York, where most known drug dealers and junkies do their nasty deals. It’s no surprise that as soon as John steps a foot out of the worn out building, all eyes are on him, but mainly on the clothes he’s wearing. They’re planning on mugging him out, and John would like to see them try.

Just as he’s about to walk to his car, his phone rings abruptly in his chest pocket. He retrieves it in one swift motion, not noticing that a gold coin fell out as he does so, and he continues walking to not waste any more time.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir, you dropped something!” John hears from behind. He doesn’t bother looking.

The call isn’t nearly as important as the business he needs to attend to, so he hangs up the call and pushes his phone back into his pocket. As soon as he does that, he feels a small hand touching his shoulder.

John’s hand immediately flies to wrap his large hand around the person’s wrist, turning around to see a young woman with a bewildered expression on her pretty face, little fingers holding his golden coin that looks far too big on her hand.

She looks scared, terrified, and oh how fucking awful that makes John feel. Like he’s been punched right in the fucking gut. He’s enthralled.

“I wasn’t–you dropped it and I’m just giving it to you, I promise!”

She’s looking at John with big, doe eyes. She also looks freshly showered, wrapped in a black puffy jacket that makes her even smaller than she already is. John lets his eyes linger on her lips, so plump and glossy. Her voice sounds sweet, soft, something John isn’t used to hearing.

John can’t help but to stare.

“Are you–are you gonna let me go, mister?”

The way she stutters triggers a hot feeling in John’s guts, and can’t help but to rub his thumb on the girl’s dainty wrist before slowly letting her go.

So delicate, he could snap them in half.

“Sorry,” John apologizes, taking the coin from her hold, and his fingers itch at the way her skin feels so soft against his rough hands. “Force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles a little, and there goes that hot curl in John’s stomach once again. “That thing looks expensive so be careful next time.”

Just like that, John doesn’t get the chance to reply back. She makes her leave and patters away from him, and he watches. He watches until she’s out of the view, taking a turn to a corner, leaving John with something he can’t quite figure out yet, but he soon will be.

For the first time in a while, he feels something new.

Suddenly, everything is too good to be true.

John will find himself staring at his hands for too long, still feeling the ghost of her soft skin on his fingers, fantasizing about her pretty face and soft, plump lips.

It’s scary for him to feel something again because that only means destruction. John likes to believe he has a gift of ruining everything he touches, especially the pure ones – like her. It’s a proven statement. Just look at Helen and Daisy.

This little one won’t be any different, he’s sure of it. John’s whole body is heating up everytime he thinks about her. The look on her face when she saw John’s chilling expression, her wide eyes, so glossy and innocent.

John wants to see her again.

His fingers itch, yearning to touch her again.

Why he’s suddenly interested in a young woman he just met a few days ago, he has no idea. John’s a bit confusing – fucked up, even. He long accepted the fact that his mind is nowhere near healthy years ago. He tried to push those thoughts away when he met Helen, but now he’s out of his shell and back in business, there’s no need to.

He’s always been one of the wolves, and now that he’s laid his eyes on his next meal, he will make sure there’s not a single thing that will get in his way to hunt her down.

He had a crisis for two days before doing the unexpected. It didn’t take long for John to find her.

Now, John has been following her around for a week, and he noticed a certain pattern his little one likes to follow as she goes on her day.

The very place where they met is where she lives, surrounded by a bunch of goons who have no idea what to do with their lives. John begins to wonder why she’s living in a place like that. He could take her, put her somewhere safe, under his care and protection. Make sure no one will dare to lay a finger on her.

John knows where she works. At a veterinary clinic not too far from her apartment, which is why she walks to work every three in the afternoon, but not without stopping by in her favorite deli and getting a large order of her favorite sandwich. She’s a part-timer. She’d be at school from seven to twelve, and at work from three to eight.

John finds the little things she does amusing. He’d be seated in a cafe right across from her work, watching how she moves around her office through a big window, petting and cooing at the animals who come and go.

She’s so perfect, so pure, so naive. She has no idea that a monster is lurking ten feet away from her, watching her every move like a hawk, thinking about the ways he could destroy her, make her his.

John is not delusional. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and he’s aware of what people might call him.

Stalker.

Creep.

They don’t know him though. They don’t know why he acts this way. They’d do the same if they were him, that’s for sure. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s simply just protecting her little one, even from afar. John went as far as destroying a whole Russian Bratva for a mere puppy and a car, he’d do even worse if she’s somehow taken away from him.

John sees her exiting the building and his first thought is to follow her. He stands up from his seat, the cup of coffee long forgotten as he makes his way out of the café and keeps a safe distance between the two of them. It’s risky, especially in the broad daylight, but John knows she’s too oblivious to notice.

She’s with her friends this time, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by John how she clings at the shirt of her co-worker as they cross the street, small hands fisting at the fabric. He thinks about how he won’t ever let go of her hand once she’s his. He’s not big on physical affection, having to grow up with no parents and a rather strict orphanage, but maybe he could be gentle. Engulf her hand in his, stroke it with his thumb, tuck her hair behind her ears, show everyone that she’s already owned.

They wouldn’t dare to lay their hands on her again.

John walks in the middle of the sidewalk, not bothering to move away despite seeing people approaching. He doesn’t need to, the look in his face is enough for people to give him the way. It’s interrupted however, when someone does try to get in his way, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back a little.

John clenches his jaw, pissed. He takes his eyes from his little one and on the person who so rudely interrupted what he’s doing – it’s Marcus.

“John? I was just looking for you at the Continental.” Marcus has a small smile on his face, clearly not aware of John’s expression.

His eyes dart behind Marcus, where his little one is supposed to be, but she’s gone. John feels something curl in his stomach, his fingers itching again, eyes rapidly searching for her in the sea of people.

He looks at Marcus again, deciding he’ll just find her later, but he worries that something might happen to her now that John’s attention isn’t on her.

“Why?” he almost snaps, voice deep and laced with no emotion.

“Why? Because it’s been quite some time, John. I haven’t heard from you since the Iosef situation, but I did hear you’re back in business,” Marcus replies, but when he sees how distracted John looks, his voice falters. “You working?”

“Yeah.” The lie comes off smoothly. “I’ll see you around.”

John taps Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sound as polite as possible even though he badly wants to break a couple of his teeth for taking his attention away from her. He knows Marcus is probably noticing something, but John’s never the one to care.

Marcus drops the subject. “Alright, John. I’ll see you around.”

With that, John disappears in the crowd with no looking back.

It’s been awhile since John last took a job.

He can’t seem to take his eyes away from his little one. He can’t stop fucking stalking her from morning to night time.

John’s afraid that once he takes his attention from her even for a second, something bad might happen to her. It’s engraved in his mind that she can’t protect herself and he’s solely there to be the protector.

No one would understand. He’s doing this for her own good.

John’s absence at the Continental doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston and Charon. They’re his favorite, after all. Watch his every move carefully ever since that ugly murder John did. Perhaps he could make his next kill even uglier. To them, it’s vile and grotesque. For John, it’s special and unique.

This time, it took a good self-beating before John decided to take a contract. Three million to hunt down a rival crime lord, nothing he can’t handle, but somehow it brings an unusual feeling on his shoulder he isn’t fond of. Perhaps because John’s leaving his little one for a while and he isn’t quite sure what to feel. Worried and pissed – but mostly worried.

That is why he hired someone to trail his little one on his behalf. Everyone in business would do anything for a coin despite how fucked up disturbing it is. John offered a generous amount of coins to keep the assassin’s mouth shut, but he also held him at gunpoint and gave him a good talk before he sent the dog out in the field.

His only job is to keep an eye on her, report everything he’ll see to John, and maybe even take pictures for safety purposes.

John has been overseas in the last three days, and everything that’s been sent to him has been his only form of entertainment. There’s videos of her giggling with her friends, videos and photos of her in the library, outside her school, her work, and even in her apartment. There’s also information sent to him about the background of her friends – every single one of them, because John didn’t pay so much for nothing.

There’s one particular friend that ticks off John in all the worst way possible. He’s young, around her age, and the way he hugs and touches her just fucking sets him off. John wants to break his fingers in half. He reminds himself that once he’s home, he’ll make sure to take care of that boy himself.

“What else have you got?” John questions through the phone, and it doesn’t take long for his precious dog to respond.

“Oh, he is one creepy motherfucker. I’m starting to understand why you’re so riled up with this guy, boss. The urge to strangle him every time he gets in the picture gets stronger and stronger everyday.” He hears a laugh at the other end. The guy that’s working for him – Alex, if he remembers correctly – is young, new in business, knows not to fuck with John so he keeps his job adequate. If Alex ever notice how fucked up John is for making him follow a young woman to keep his life in order, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Just tell me when I can shoot this guy and I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“Leave him. Keep an eye on him, but don’t kill him,” John advises, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll handle him myself when I get back. For the meantime, focus on Y/N and keep any troubles out of her way. Fail that task and I’d serve your head hot on a platter.”

“You got it, boss.”

John is playing nicely.

He’s not going to force his way into her life. He’s gonna be welcomed, with open arms, desired.

There are times he’d thought about giving in to his desperation and act with his dick instead of his head. There are times he’d thought about following her to a dark street, where no one’s around, he’s on the prowl and ready to pounce. He’d put a fabric against her mouth and nose, laced with enough chemicals to make her pass out and for him to carry her in his car with no problems whatsoever. John thinks about how he’d make it look like he’s just picking up his very drunk and passed out girlfriend and no one would know a goddamn thing.

John would keep her in his house where she won’t need anything but him.

But of course, he’s not that cruel.

They’re only thoughts. Thoughts that he tries hard to keep away, but at the end of the day he reminds himself that he’s better than that.

John is not going to force his way into her life.

He’ll make sure to get her addicted enough to come crawling at his feet herself. She’ll be dependent on him, won’t be able to live without him. John will make sure his plan will go out smoothly or otherwise he’ll be the one bringing Hell with him on this land and seek as much havoc as he possibly can.

The death emissary himself will strike tonight.

A Friday night out with her friends has John on high alert. That’ll only mean she’s constantly surrounded with people, god knows what could happen if John even takes his eyes off her for a second. He lurks on the side, blending himself with the crowd as much as he can all while keeping his gaze on her.

He doesn’t need any drugs to keep his mind insane, because the sight of a specific man getting very close to what’s his is enough to make him visualize all the ugly and twisted ways to kill a man.

She’s wearing a thin silky dress that’s low on her cleavage and shows her perky breasts. She’s currently the flame in a room full of moths, John included. Everyone’s eyes are on her, observing the way she sways her hips and sings along to the loud music – John’s fingers itch.

The itch to kill is back again, driving into his veins, his hands twitch on the table. John wants to pull out his gun and shoot everyone in this fucking room. He wants to stab them in the eyes one by one and make them feed it to themselves. He wants to grab this guy on the neck and slam his head against the wall repeatedly until his brain scatter all over the fucking place and there’s nothing left for him to ruin.

This guy is getting on his fucking nerves.

John watches as the man smoothly brings his arm on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear that doesn’t make her look so impressed. In fact, she looks disturbed, uncomfortable, tense. Despite the guy being her friend, John could tell she doesn’t feel comfortable with the way he’s showing her affection.

It’s hard to see her like this, but he knows he can’t just jump in between the two of them and beat the shit out of the guy until he chokes on his own blood. He’ll have to wait, maybe after this party, he’ll strike and discard the body in a way that’ll make even Winston spook in his sleep. It’s not a major offense to kill a man that’s not in the game anyway – or at least that’s what John tells himself.

This guy wouldn’t be able to be three feet near his little one once John’s done with him. He’ll be six feet under.

John sees her swiftly moving away from his touch, trying to make her rejection look as polite as possible, which receives a not-so-amused reaction from her little friend.

This guy doesn’t deserve her at all. No one does. Except maybe John, but that’s because he knows he’s capable of actually taking care of her and keeping her safe. Nobody would understand what he feels, what he yearns, what he wants.

Good girl, John thinks. Walk away.

His gaze follow her as she makes her way to the backdoor and out to the cold air of the city. John follows in a hurry, keeping a safe distance between the two of them, then opens the door as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t let his presence known.

There are a few people on the street, either having a smoke break or making out against the piss stained wall, but she stays just beside the busy road as she wraps her arms around herself.

His gaze burn daggers on her exposed back, the urge to cover her up with his jacket and take her home. A drunk man comes stumbling out of the club, accidentally tripping over his steps and he pushes her hard enough to make her yelp as her heels lose balance and almost making herself get run over by a passing truck.

Almost.

Everything happens so fast. One moment John is standing five feet from her, the next is he’s grasping her wrists in his hand and pulling her back to her feet and dragging her back to the curb. He was already on the act once he saw the man exiting the club, he knew exactly this would happen.

The scene looks strangely familiar, one John could never forget. The same position, same hand placement, same rough fingers around her wrist and dark eyes boring into hers – their very first meeting.

“You!” she gasps, not caring about the fact that she almost just got hit by a fucking truck. “I know you! You’re the guy outside my apartment that day! What are you doing here?”

John stares. Predictable. Of course she’s talking to him like they’ve known each other for years. She’s too friendly.

“Hello to you too,” John replies, though his tone is blank as well as his face. “You remember me.”

“‘Course I do,” she giggles, a little tipsy, pupils dilated and licking her lips nervously. “You’re pretty hard to forget. I remember asking my neighbors around the area if you’re new there, turns out you were just visiting.”

John furrows his brows, hand still not letting go of her wrist. What does she mean by she’s asked around the area about him?

His face must’ve looked confused, he sees her grinning childishly. “It’s a coincidence that I see you again!”

Not a coincidence, but fate.

John doesn’t believe in a lot of things, but he believes in fate. Fate brought him Helen, and now fate is bringing him another angel. If she really went as far as asking the neighborhood about his existence, then it must be fate.

“I’m Y/N. I figured if we keep bumping into each other then you should at least know my name,” she says, completely oblivious that John already knows everything that has to be known about her. From her little mannerisms to the last name of her fucking grandmother. “May I know yours or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“It’s John,” he gulps, not wanting to look like a loser in front of her, not after everything he went through for her. “It’s really nice to see you again.”

He sucks at this. He fucking sucks at this.

“You haven’t answered my question, by the way. What brings you here?”

It hangs in the air, John lets go of her wrist. Luckily, he thinks fast enough and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Work.”

“Ah, work,” she nods. “You work here? In the club? What are you, a bouncer or something?”

“I don’t. Someone I work with is in the club.” A lie, but it’s not like she would know. “We had a talk.”

“Not really a man of words, eh?” she raises an eyebrow teasingly.

“This is the most words I’ve said in the past few days,” John says. “I’d say you’re special.”

The look on her face is enough to make his entire night even better. Blushing, lips opening and closing, not knowing what to say. John wants to graze his thumb on her lips, thinking about how good it would feel stretching over his cock.

He blinks. Where did that come from?

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you sure make it sound smooth when you do. Are you always this slick, John?” she giggles again, music to his ear. “That’s actually better than what I heard from my friend earlier, so thank you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Before she could say anything back, the door of the club opens once again and her friends appear, waving a hand at her and beckoning her to get inside. She looks at John, gives him a sympathetic look, as if apologizing that their talk gets cut off too soon.

“I’m really sorry but my friends want me back in there. Hopefully we can continue this again, yeah?” she smiles cheekily, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you want, you could give me your number so we can talk someplace else? You know… with no one bothering us and all that.”

There it is. John didn’t think it would be this easy to sink the hook in. All he needs to do is pull and take what’s meant to be his.

“Sure.” He enters his number swiftly, feeling that familiar burn in his guts once again when he sees the wallpaper being her pretty face. “Feel free to message me whenever you want. I’ll make time for you.”

She looks at her phone and smiles before starting to walk away from him, waving a hand goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. John knows it isn’t. She’s already his the moment she started talking to him again.

“Of course! Get home safe, John! I’ll see you soon!”

“You too.”

She doesn’t know John won’t be heading home any time soon until he knows she’s safe and sound in her apartment.

Jay Lopez.

The name burns on his tongue. Bitter and resentful. He stares at the photos his precious dog sent to him and he has to stop the impulse to burn every single one of them.

Jay Lopez is the guy that’s been leeching on his girl since the dawn of time, and thankfully John is here to put an end to it.

He’s hideous. It’s interesting how John stooped this low that he’d be willing to kill a college student for being too near his little bambi, but alas, he’s never the one to care for such things. Morals and righteousness have never been in his book, not now, nor ever.

It’s only a matter of time until he gets rid of this pest. He’s fucking creepy, follows around not only Y/N but a bunch of other women.

John doesn’t want his death to be quick and simple. He wants to do it in an ugly way, make sure his body will never be found, make sure he’ll never get to lay his hands and eyes on what’s his. The way Jay stares at her in these pictures ignites something evil within John’s veins. It’s been awhile since he felt something like this.

“Alex.” he looks at his pet standing by the door, waiting for the next command. “Bring him to me alive.”

“Can I at least rough him up a bit?”

John doesn’t answer at first, looks back at the photos on his table. “Do what you want, just make sure he’s still breathing when you bring him here.”

“On it, boss.”

Truth be told, John doesn’t need a pet to order around for this job. He has himself – a labeled attack dog of the Tarasovs for years, their hellhound, chained and muzzled unless they need him to kill. He’s a one man army as some would say, he doesn’t need Alex running around doing tasks for him, but it sure does make the job a lot faster.

It’s not a way to downgrade his reputation nor skills to hunt, he really just needs this Jay guy gone as fast as possible.

On the same day, Alex manages to haul a very brutally violated Jay to the floor of his basement. He stinks, pants wet from piss and a face John is having a hard time recognizing.

“You said rough him up a bit, not make him look unrecognizable.”

“Same thing.”

Jay is sobbing his eyes out, his cries of pleas falls to deaf ears and John just wants to fucking bash his skull with his own foot. “W-who are you guys?! What the f-fuck did I do?! Get me out of here or I’ll tell the fucking police–”

John kicks him on the chin hard to stop the goon from rambling. “You’re not telling anybody any shit, tough guy.”

“So, what are you planning to do to him? Can I watch?”

“Can you handle it?”

Alex shrugs. He’s in the presence of the most dangerous assassin in the underworld, wouldn’t hurt to learn anything from his skills and techniques, doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.

John nods towards the chainsaw sitting at the corner of the room, and Alex turns to face him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, man. You serious? Last time I heard you’re a hitman, not a serial killer.”

“Same qualifications. Same thing.” John grabs the man by the arm then drags him to a chair. He takes a rope from the table and swiftly ties him up securely. “We start with the head, then arms and legs. It would be hard to put his entire body in a drum full of acid, so we need to cut him off one by one.”

Alex looks like he’s about to run off somewhere safe from what he’s witnessing. “You’re talking like you’ve done this before, holy fuck.”

John gives him a look, and Alex immediately shuts his mouth. Right. He’d done this before. This is completely normal.

“I’ve been following you for a while, Jay. You’re a creep who befriends pretty girls, then you’ll drug them and make them have sex with you,” John taunts, the sound of his heels hitting the concrete floor is enough to send shivers down his spine. “Is that what you’re also planning to do with Y/N? Be her friend and fuck her once she’s drugged up and vulnerable?”

It’s a bold statement coming from John himself since he’s no better man than Jay, but at least his intentions come from a different place.

“You-you’re fucking sick!” Jay spits.

“I’m sick? I’m not the one going around making girls uncomfortable now, am I?” he picks up the chainsaw, then watches in enjoyment as Jay widens his eyes in fear. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jay. You won’t be able to use your pathetic little dick of yours to any woman ever again, and most importantly –”

John fires up the chainsaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he sees the horrified look in the man’s face as he tries to get up and scream for help.

“I can finally sleep well at night knowing you’re not in Y/N’s life anymore.”

As John steps into the light, a roaring chainsaw in his hands, Alex could only watch in horror as the basement gets painted with blood in mere seconds.

There’s a vacant apartment just across her room, giving John the perfect view of what she’s doing while she’s alone.

Most of the time, John will pull up a seat beside the window and take pictures. The other half of the time is just him staring, observing. It seems that she’s too comfortable knowing there’s no one across the building so she doesn’t close the curtains, leaving John no choice but to keep his eyes on her.

He found this place just three days after following her. He couldn’t help it. Following her to school and work suddenly wasn’t enough for John that he had to find a way to somehow watch her even in her sleep.

He should be ashamed of himself. He should feel guilty for what he’s doing – he should stop, but he just can’t. John’s already done too much. This is like being pulled back into the underworld all over again but this time, there’s something good that’s waiting for him on the other side.

Maybe it’s the delusion that comes with it that’s not stopping John from whatever he’s doing. Lately, he’s been thinking about how life would turn out to be if his plan goes out smoothly. They’d live happily ever after, she would end up loving him just the way he planned it out to be, and John will make sure no one will ever dare to take those peace away from him again.

He’d make sure no one will ever come close to her again once she’s his. She’d be isolated but protected. Just how John likes it.

It’s been two days since John gave his number, but he knows she’s just giddy and nervous to text him. He’d seen her staring at her phone, biting her bottom lip anxiously, thinking if it would be a good idea or not. He knows she’ll give in one way or another because he sees it in her face. She’s too easy, too gullible, too naive.

She’s lonely, just like him.

John could tell she’s waiting for someone – she’s desperate, no wonder she asked for his number the second time they met. She wants someone to take care of her, to hold her, tell her that she deserves the world. That someone is John whether she likes it or not.

This isn’t just any unhealthy obsession. John finds himself too deep to get out. He knows her little mannerisms, studied her every action, has a red room full of her pictures and no one can’t say he’s not ready to give up anything for her. John has already given up his sanity ever since he mutilated a man for being too close to her.

She’s his life now, his everything.

John watches intensely as she shreds her clothes in her room, baring him the full view of herself naked, and John grips the side of his chair too hard his knuckles turn white. This is the first time he’d seen her naked, it’s so sudden and so… perfect.

His cock fattens in his pants as he observes every curve of her body. Her waist is fucking perfect and her body is thick yet delicate. John thinks about bruising her sensitive skin, leaving a mark that will show everyone that she’s owned. He would love to see her in a collar, hear it jingle when she crawls.

She’s completely fucking naked that John wonder just how naive she is to think there would be no one seeing her like this. What if John isn’t the only one watching her? What if somebody else sees her like this? His fingers itch, jaw clenching.

He’d kill them. He’d kill them in front of her, and the thought somehow made his cock hard even more. He grimaces, disturbed at the reaction of his body.

John doesn’t really understand the sexual aspects of killing, but now he’s thinking about how she would react if she sees him working. He’d kill someone in front of her and he’d see the look of disgust and betrayal in her face. He can already imagine how her eyes would well up with tears and fuck, his dick shouldn’t be this hard.

She’d fear him, and John would be turned on. How fucked up would that be? Just how fucked up can his mind get?

He resists the urge to wrap his hand around his cock because fuck no. He would not stoop this low, he is not a teenage boy. No matter how strong the thoughts get, the thoughts of wrapping his own hand around her neck, squeezing it hard and cutting off her airflow as John forces his cock in her cunt, hearing her mewl and scream and beg to just –

John sucks in air, eyes back on her in her room, wrapping a robe around herself and heading to the bathroom. This is fucked up. His cock is incredibly hard and leaking, and his mind won’t stop thinking about how good her pussy would feel around him.

He’d talk her through it. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she releases around her cock, praising her for being such a good girl. Then he’d fuck her again, in a different position, debauching her in different ways not even the devil himself could think of.

John would ruin her, and she will have no choice but to accept it.

He brings his hand to his face as he sighs deeply. He wonders what Helen would feel of what he’s doing. Disgusted, no doubt. This is not the same man she fell in love with years ago. He would never do something like this, but fate has its plans, and John believes everything happens for a reason.

She was brought into his life for a reason and it’s up to him whether he takes.

John doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at nothing for too long until she comes back in his view once again. Her hair is still wet, still wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, and John’s fingers itch to grab, squeeze, possess.

He sees her picking up her phone, staring for a moment before her fingers start typing. John has been anticipating this moment for so long, the time has finally come.

In his chest pocket, his phone buzz silently, the vibration sending excitement in his whole body.

There it is.

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : hello! this is Y/N from the club the other night

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : also that Y/N who returned your super expensive looking coin hehe ;) i hope you didn’t forget about me!

There it fucking is.

John’s lips curl into a small smile. His efforts are finally paying off.

All he needs to do is to get what’s his.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fanfiction #john wick imagine #john wick fanfic #john wick chapter 4 #john wick x you #john wick 4 #keanu reeves #john wick smut #ochl #my works

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thecousinsdangereux · 1 year

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if i'm falling wrong [1/1]

notes: over on Twitter, moonyriot has been working on a multi-part journal from Ava's POV covering her time in Switzerland and beyond. She asked me if I wanted to join in on the fun and write a short one-shot to cover some of the events in part 6. (If you haven't seen any of her posts, here's the first one. They are incredible so definitely check them out.)

—

“The integrity of the upright guides them,” Ava reads, taking care to enunciate each word, “but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them. That’s Proverbs 11:3, Beatrice.”

Beatrice definitely knows, which is — Ava thinks — what makes it so funny. Or. Funny to her, at least. Maybe not so much for Beatrice, whose lips have flattened into a thin line that hides almost all of their pretty pink hue (a color Ava has taken a liking to in a way that definitely relates to how often she finds herself staring at Beatrice’s mouth).

“It is better to promise nothing than to promise something and not be able to do it,” Ava continues, because she’s never been any good at knowing when to stop. “That’s Ecclesiastes. And — ooh, this is a good one — A person who promises a gift but doesn’t give it is like clouds and wind that bring no rain. That’s — ”

“Proverbs again, yes, thank you, Bible.com.”

“It’s actually Biblereasons.com.” She shows off the screen of her phone, the one that she’s definitely supposed to be using sparingly (and never does). “But sure, I can go to your bible website of choice. Whatever you want. Pretty sure I’m still going to find the same answer, though. Honestly, I would’ve thought a nun would know that lying is bad. Not to brag, or anything, but I learned that one when I was like five, or something.”

For reasons unknown, this pries Beatrice’s lips wide, dragging them out into a full smile, pink mouth and small indent at the corner appearing just as quickly as Ava’s pulse picks up, heart slamming up against the poor, battered walls of her chest.

“How odd,” Beatrice begins, in a low drawl that means Ava’s in trouble (in so many ways). “Because I seem to recall you telling Hans, just yesterday morning, that you were allergic to apples. As a result, he traded pastries with you, leaving you with the chocolate eclair you’d been all but salivating over since you first noticed it in the break room. Given that I know that you were perfectly able to consume a slice of apple pie that the neighbors brought up last week, I am forced to conclude that — ”

“Okay, okay! Jesus. Pump the brakes, Miss Marple. I’m allowed to lie; I’m a dirty sinner or whatever. But you hold yourself to a higher standard, right?” (Unfortunately, Ava adds, but only mentally, because yeah.) “So when you said ‘Ava, if you’re able to best me in a mighty trial of combat, I will bequeath to you a single portrait wherein my lips are upturned in joyous felicitations’ or whatever, I took that as an oath, Bea. A serious, serious oath.”

“One, I don’t sound like that. Two, no English person alive sounds like that. Why do you default to the Regency era when you’re trying to mock my accent?”

By now, Beatrice’s smile has really started to crack open, showing off the slightest sliver of white behind those lips. It’d be unfair to say that this (the moment where Beatrice’s eyes crinkle with a laughter she most likely won’t release) is always Ava’s goal in any conversation she has with Beatrice, but maybe it is always an intended stop along the way, whatever the actual destination might be.

(Other pitstops of note include: the cute scrunch of her nose whenever she’s focused on Ava alone, the half-tilt of her head whenever she’s considering something Ava’s said, the almost absentminded brush of her fingers along Ava’s forearm whenever she wants her to pay especially close attention. There’s a common theme here, but Ava’s well-aware of her own preoccupation, so it’s fine. Probably.)

“Uh, because I’m paying you a huge compliment? Ungrateful much? Mr. Darcy is like… the hottest the British have ever been. Not that that’s hard because otherwise they kind of really suck, but I’m trying here, Bea, and you’re giving me nothing but attitude. And lies.”

Beatrice sighs. It’s cute enough that Ava nearly sighs too, longing bubbling up behind her lips.

“I told you I would smile for one of your pictures if you pinned me during training. It was implied you would do so without cheating.”

With a tsk that doesn’t sound anything like the one Beatrice sometimes uses (a low sound from the back of her throat that always did very little to help Ava concentrate), Ava takes a half-step closer so that she might properly waggle a finger in Beatrice’s face.

“I’m only doing what you taught me, Bea I thought I was supposed to use all the resources at my disposal?”

Beatrice promptly bats the finger away. But that’s sort of the point. (Sometimes, it’s a little pathetic, the lengths Ava will go to make sure Beatrice is touching her at literally every possible opportunity, but Ava’s never really minded being a little pathetic for a good cause. And Beatrice is honestly never hard to bait, at least in this particular way.)

“Ava, you bit me.”

“Which was using all the resources at my disposal! Come on! If I’d been in a real fight, you would’ve called that innovative!”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t used your — ” Delightfully, Beatrice takes a small, steadying breath before her next word, which, to Ava (who’s spent months studying Beatrice with the rigor of a staunch academic) is as much of a giveaway as one of her cute little blushes. “ — tongue.”

“I think the element of surprise would still work just fine,” she insists, but then Beatrice gives her a look, one that she knows won’t allow for any debate over the merits of licking her enemies, and she gives in nearly instantly. (Ava’s really only interested in using any part of her mouth on one person alone, anyway.) “But fine. Okay. Good note, teach.”

Winter has begun to fade from the air and, as they walk back towards their apartment in the meandering pace that has become their custom, Ava is pleased by this for two reasons. One: their neighbors — who bake enough that Ava’s convinced they’re working up to competing on one of those bafflingly polite baking shows — now leave their windows open, filling the air with the most delicious smells, noticeable even a block away from their home. And Two: Beatrice has taken to wearing short-sleeves again, which means that when she nudges Ava now (with a charmed little roll of her eyes), it’s bare skin against bare skin.

In training, this is both a pleasure and a problem, because then it’s Beatrice’s shorts and Ava’s shirt being pushed up as Ava gets pinned to the ground and it’s the skin of Beatrice’s inner thigh against the skin of Ava’s hip and that’s a lot more than the casual brushes she’s gotten used to. Ava had long ago realized that any and all logical thought flies out the fucking window when faced with a muscular thigh, so really, it hadn’t been all that much of a surprise when it’d resulted in Ava doing something completely insane.

Like taking Beatrice’s thumb into her mouth. And biting it. And maybe sucking a little. Honestly, it’s all a bit of a haze, because Beatrice had then made a noise that would most certainly be featured in Ava’s dreams for the next week or month or year, in the most mortifying (and sexy) way possible.

And to be fair, it had worked in getting Ava out of the chokehold she otherwise would’ve probably happily died in.

So there’s that.

“Something with chocolate today,” Beatrice comments, and Ava short-circuits for a second, thinking about chocolate and fingers and skin and the really incredible potential combination of the three, before she remembers the neighbors and the smell and the baking and feels her cheeks burn.

“Uh — yeah. Maybe they’ll have extra to share.” The windows on the first floor apartment are (of course) open as they approach, and Ava raises her voice just enough for it to carry through. She catches the intertwined laughter of the neighbors that results, and shoots Beatrice a wink that dispels some of the heat building within her, an emergency vent that she’s learned to rely on.

“You’re shameless,” Beatrice says, in the exact way she always does whenever she doesn’t mean it (lips quirking at the corners).

“And you’re welcome, when we end up getting brownies, or whatever they’re making.”

The door to their building never unlocks easily, but it’s gotten worse as the temperatures have started to rise; Beatrice shoulders it open, muscles bunching in her back, and Ava does absolutely nothing to help, watching the flex of her shoulder blades under the tight, gray fabric.

“You know me,” Beatrice says lightly, knocking the side of her sneakers against the bottom of the stairs before heading up (and Ava does know her, enough to wait patiently for her to complete this small ritual). “I’m always craving sweets.”

“You are sometimes! Whenever you come home from a night shift, you break into my stash! And since you have a lot of those coming up, on account of you losing our bet…”

Beatrice laughs, a soft huff that turns into an adorable little squeak when Ava shoves past her on the staircase and snatches the keys from her fingers, bursting through their apartment door with far less effort than Beatrice had needed below.

“You’re not letting this one go, are you?”

It’s probably response enough when she snatches her camera off of the kitchen table and points it at Beatrice as soon as she steps across the threshold, but even this (pretty impressive!) sneak attack fails. Beatrice is quick enough to throw a hand up before the snap, lowering it only when Ava does the same with the camera. She continues to eye her warily as she bends down to untie her shoes, only abating to cast a significant look in Ava’s direction, which persists until Ava kicks hers off far less elegantly.

“It’s one photo, Bea!” she grumbles, watching as Beatrice arranges their sneakers in a perfect little line. “Just… one smile. Let’s just get it out of the way, you know? Look up and … ”

Beatrice does look up.

Ava has to give her that.

It’s the only warning she gets before Beatrice is standing and her fingers are wrapping around Ava’s wrist and she’s pressed flush against Ava’s front and well. Sure. That’s one way to get Ava to shut up. Probably the only way. Ava knows this about herself, but really can’t find any regret when it’s led her right here.

“You cheated,” Beatrice murmurs lowly. “Why would I reward that?”

Ava has a lot of thoughts around the concept of Beatrice rewarding her, and absolutely none of them are good. (Or, rather, they’re all extremely good. Very good. Far too good for her to be able to say out loud, those curling, irreverent thoughts that stick her tongue to the roof of her mouth and keep her up at night.) So it’s really out of mercy that she phases then — slipping out of Beatrice’s grip the only way she knows how that doesn’t involve cheap tricks — stepping back and lifting her camera again.

What follows transpires a bit too quickly for Ava to track.

She’s seen Beatrice fight in all sorts of situations — at full speed in back alley brawls and at half-tempo when leading her through a new form — but Ava’s pretty sure she’ll never see enough to lose the surprise that comes from being on the end of one of Beatrice’s first strikes. She’s in front of Ava and then she’s not; it’s really as simple (and terrifying) (and hot) as that. One moment, Ava has her camera ready, and then she’s facing a different direction entirely, her hand twisted behind her back, her camera falling from her grasp. Beatrice is fast here too, swooping down to catch it before it hits the floor, but this allows Ava to throw an elbow backwards, a hit that surely would have broken something in Beatrice’s face had it landed (but which Ava knows by now never will).

“Double or nothing?” Ava pants, stumbling forward and twisting back around to face Beatrice, who’s gently placed the camera on the floor, carefully out of the way.

“Two photos if you win and you take my night shifts for two weeks when you lose?”

“Wait, I don’t like the if/when placement in that senten — ”

She barely ducks out of Beatrice’s grapple, cutting herself off mid-word to manage it, a little breathless already. It occurs to her that she’s definitely made a mistake here, looking up and finding Beatrice serious and focused, strands of her hair slipping out of the low bun that’s already started to loosen. Even in the warm light filtering through their apartment windows, Beatrice’s eyes look dark, and Ava spends a second too long suppressing a shiver at the sight. Which means, of course, she’s unable to avoid the next hit: a full tackle to the floor. Either Beatrice really doesn’t want Ava to take this photo or she really wants to get out of her night shifts, because she’s not going about this in the calm, measured way Ava is used to. (There’s a third option and it’s one Ava likes best; maybe Beatrice just really wants to pin Ava to the floor, to feel Ava underneath her, to feel Ava squirm against her front, fighting to get out of the hold. This is the option Ava relates to best and maybe it’s the one driving her now, putting her at a disadvantage just as significant as all the other ones.)

Ava hits the ground hard, enough to knock air out of her lungs, but she’s saved, partially, by starting on a twist mid-air, mindful of how dangerous it’ll be if Beatrice gets her flat on her back. Not that Ava is opposed to this idea. Not on a normal day. Not even today, if only Beatrice would —

“Good,” Beatrice says, breaking through Ava’s thoughts, though not in a way that is helpful at all. Beatrice most certainly notices the jerk of Ava’s hips the single word causes, but almost equally as certainly dismisses it as part of Ava’s attempts to break free. “But you over-rotated. Just slightly. See how I can use that to put you on your stomach?”

Always the instructor, Beatrice explains precisely how she’s going to best Ava before she actually does it; if Ava were better at this (if Beatrice were worse) this might actually be of some help in countering Beatrice’s efforts. Sadly, she’s not, so it isn’t.

“Fuck,” Ava grunts, face pressed directly into the carpet of their bedroom. It’s honestly painful, the way Beatrice’s knee presses into the center of her back, but it’s a sort of pain that Ava’s come to find — over their months together — that she doesn’t especially mind or maybe even likes and maybe gets a fair amount of pleasure from and maybe thinks about it from time to time whenever she gets a moment alone and — yeah. Fuck is really the only word for it.

“What now, Ava?” Finally, there’s a hint of the breathlessness in Beatrice’s voice: when she locks one of Ava’s arms behind her back, and Ava attempts to land some kind of backwards headbutt, pushing herself up off the floor with her free hand. “What’s your best option?”

Beg you to have your way with me, doesn’t really seem like the response Beatrice is looking for, but Christ a girl can only take so much. And right about then, Ava knows she’s going to cheat (because it’s either cheat or blurt out something that will inevitably be extremely horny) but is it really cheating if there hadn’t been any rules put forth in the first place?

She’s gotten better about controlling the Halo, so it barely gives off any light before she lifts onto one knee and throws herself backwards, phasing neatly through Beatrice’s front. The effort Beatrice had been using to hold her down works against her now, effectively swapping their positions as she falls forward, and Ava’s quick to use that momentum, reaching around to grab the front of Beatrice’s shirt so she’s flipped with the motion. Another (gentle) Halo blast lands Beatrice on her back, Ava straddling her hips and pinning both of her hands on either side of her head.

“You didn’t say no Halo,” Ava says in a rush, as though the victory will be taken away instantly, as though she cares at all about some stupid bet instead of being on top of Beatrice whose eyes are wide and lovely, whose lips are parted and pink, whose chest is — not something Ava is looking at, thank you very much. Because she’s respectful, she can be respectful, she has to try to be respectful.

“I didn’t,” Beatrice says finally and then fucking licks her lips, like God Himself has decided that Ava needs to be punched directly in the face with attractiveness or whatever and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“Then I — that means — uh — ” She releases one of Beatrice’s wrists like it’s burning, very much aware of the intensity of the gaze resting on her, and blindly roots around on the floor behind her until she finds the camera, resting just where Beatrice had left it. “I get to do this.”

Her fumbling with the camera is hardly graceful, but honestly, the fact that she’s able to produce words at all is nothing short of a miracle, so she’ll take it. Her right hand is still wrapped around Beatrice’s left, fingers circling her wrist as she pins it to the floor, and she takes a picture of this first, holding her breath all the while.

“For — uh — proof?” she offers, a little weakly, and Beatrice’s stare finally breaks, intensity replaced by something much softer, something that seeps into the corner of her eyes and mouth in equal measure. Ava’s struck by the sight as much as she is by anything else, and her grip relaxes enough that Beatrice can slip out of the hold, both hands drifting down until they come to rest just alongside either one of Ava’s knees.

“Proof for who?”

“What do you — proof for literally everyone, Bea; Hans, Camila, Lilith, Mother Superion, Jillian, the regulars at the bar, our neighbors, the lady who runs the bakery down the street, any random person I walk past for the next month. Hell, I might take out an ad in The Guardian, or something, are you kidding?”

Beatrice laughs and it’s like a crack in the universe, or something equally and unequivocally earth-shattering. Lungs empty, air knocked fully out, Ava lifts her camera almost instinctively, only to find her view devastatingly obstructed, Beatrice’s arms flung over her face (the grin, still wide with laughter, barely peeking out from underneath).

“Beatrice,” she groans (or maybe pouts).

“I’m sorry!” And she sounds it too, even through the smile, the half-giggles now petering out. “Truly. I’m not used to being photographed. I can’t think of a time it happened before you took up this hobby, not outside of unpleasant family photoshoots and the like.”

Ava’s heart flips painfully in her chest, but Beatrice is quick to soothe, fingers falling back down to brush against the outside of Ava’s leg, as though Ava’s the one in need of comfort.

“I’m not protesting, Ava. Just tell me what to do.”

Photographs are meant to reproduce moments, memories, emotions, but Ava’s not sure the best photographer in the world, with hundreds of thousands of euros in equipment, would ever be able to fully capture Beatrice as she is now, fondness bleeding from the tips of her fingers, affection lighting the brown of her eyes, and love — or something an awful lot like it — bending her mouth, a bow pulled taut with an arrow that might be Ava herself, as inconceivable as the notion is.

“Pretend the camera isn’t here,” Ava rasps, her breath hot (heated by all the things boiling inside of her now). “Just look at me.”

Beatrice looks at her.

Ava stops breathing.

She takes the picture. The camera lowers. And Ava forgets about it entirely, object permanence completely obliterated by a force far stronger than something as trivial as human development.

Underneath her, seemingly content to be straddled, Beatrice looks calm, which isn’t unusual, because she almost always looks calm, so maybe it’s that she feels calm too. Like all the things Ava can always sense running through her at speeds only known to light have slowed down or disappeared entirely. The mission, her duties, her vows, her expectations, these things have washed away (temporarily but completely) until it’s only Beatrice left, staring at her lips. And Ava had thought she’d experienced wanting Beatrice in every way, but this one is new.

(She wants Beatrice like this: exactly herself, without anything else getting in the way.)

“Beatrice,” she says, a hitch in her voice breaking the name into three, distinct syllables. “I’m — ”

Cursed. Saved. Ruined. Blessed. Fucked.

Ava’s not sure which word applies when the smoke alarm goes off downstairs.

It is not especially loud, or piercing, but it goes off and all of the easy calm flees from Beatrice’s eyes as she jerks upwards, back lifting off the floor until she’s close, closer than before, so close and it’s too much, maybe, or maybe Ava’s instincts are working against her (or for her?) because she falls back as soon as Beatrice completes the motion, balance disastrously (helpfully?) disrupted.

Oh well, Ava thinks, as she lets herself fall back. Maybe a bit of brain damage would do her some good.

Except that, of course, Beatrice catches her, a simple slip of her hand around Ava’s back, palm pressing to the middle of the Halo, shocks spreading out from the point of impact.

“You’re what?” Beatrice asks, terribly quiet, as though she feels the air rearranging around them, molecules shifting back and forth between possibilities and outcomes.

And if Beatrice were still calm, if everything else were still pushed away, if Beatrice was just Beatrice in that moment — just as she’d been so briefly before — it would not be a choice, what Ava did next. And maybe it isn’t one now either, but it’s in the opposite direction: pulling away rather than pushing forward (creating space rather than closing it).

“I’m — just — I’m done. With the photos.” Decision made, breath returning, she shrugs, a little bashful now, the steady beep of the alarm and the laughter of their neighbors drifting up from below. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Beatrice’s head tilts, a small crease forming in between her eyebrows. Some people want money or power or peace or the answers to the universe, but Ava thinks she would be content, if only she could know what Beatrice is thinking right now.

“No,” she murmurs. “Not so bad at all.”

#avatrice #warrior nun #ava silva lives on #Ava's Journals #moonyriot #happy new year!#writing

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dekuhotnugget · 1 year

Text

Zelink Relationship in Breath of the Wild

In early 2022, I started playing Breath of the Wild and to this day, this game manages to win me over in a way I never imagined in a game of the franchise. One of the things that fascinates me about the game, beyond the whole world and exploration, is the relationship between Zelda and Link.

Notes:

This analysis is based on Zelda and Link's Diary cited in Breath of The Wild. Link's diary is quite subtle because, of the game's English translation but, I'll explain how it works.

In the game, there is a quest called "Captured Memories" where you have to go to various locations in Hyrule to recover your memories with Zelda from 100 years ago, which I will also use in the analysis.

The memories and the diaries in BOTW are crucial in deciphering the sentiment between Link and Zelda.

Part 1: Zelda's Feelings and Thoughts about Link

First Impressions of Link

First, let's talk about Zelda's feelings based on what we have in BotW. In BotW, precisely in Hyrule Castle, in Princess Zelda's room, it is possible to find Zelda's diary, where she expresses about how it was to meet the champions and about went to researched the ancient technology and below that she wrote "P.S. Tomorrow , my father is assigning HIM as my appointed knight..." and this "HIM", she refers to Link.

In the first memory of the game, we can see that Zelda wasn't happy with the idea of being followed and watched by Link.

Zelda also brings up the fact that Link spends most of his time in silence, writing this in his diary:

"And still, not a word passes his lips. I never know what he's thinking! It makes my imagination run wild, guessing at what he is thinking but will not say. What does the boy chosen by the sword that seals the darkness think of me? Will I ever truly know? Then, I suppose it's simple. A daughter of Hyrule's Royal family yet unable to use sealing power...He must despise me."

In one of the memories, Zelda is angry to discover that Link has followed her, going so far as to yell at him and with that, she adds in her diary "He seemed confused by my anger."

From that point on, this is where I believe her first impressions of Link were wrong because, after that memory comes another one where we see Zelda being chased by the Yiga Clan, then Link appears to save her.

After that incident, she writes in her diary:

"I am unsure how to put today's events into words. Words so often evade me lately, and now more than ever. He saved me. Without a thougth for his own life, he protected me from the ruthless blades of the Yiga Clan . Though I've been cold to him all this time...taking my selfish and childish anger out on him at every turn... Still, he was there for me. I won't ever forget that. Tomorrow, I shall apologize for all that has transpired between us. And then...I will try talking to him. To Link. It's a worth a shot."

The beginning of a big friendship and love

This diary entry starts to make more sense with the next memory we see Zelda worrying about Link's safety while still berating him, after defeating several strong enemies.

From that point on, Zelda begins to treat Link in a more friendly manner and shows concern for him as well and we can see this in the memory where they are both riding a horse, while Zelda thanks Link for his advice.

After that, returning to her diary, Zelda writes the following:

"Bit by bit, I've gotten Link to open up to me."

"When I finally got around to asking why he's so quite all the time, I could tell it was difficult for him to say. But he did. With so much at stake, and so many eyes upon him, he feels it necessary to stay strong and to silently bear any burden. A feeling I know all too well... For him, it has caused him to stop outwardly expressing his thoughts and feelings. I always believed him to be simply a gifted person who had never faced a day of hardship. How wrong I was..."

and then, in the last sentences:

"I wish to talk with him more and to see what lies beneath those calm waters, to hear him speak freely and openly...And perhaps I, too, will be able to bare my soul to him and share the demons that have plagued me all the years."

And with that quote in her diary, we found out that yes, Link can talk in the game and that's quite interesting to add. Another very interesting thing to add is how Zelda talks about how one day she will give her soul to him. I looked it up and it means to tell someone tell your secret thoughts and feelings.

For all these years, Zelda has been pretending to be a person that her father (the King of Hyrule in BotW) wants him to be and even, she tried to open up to her father and this happens in one of the memories too, when he found out that she was taking a break from her training to try to awaken the sealed power but, instead of acting like a father, he acts rudely, saying that she should focus on her training instead of wasting time on silly things.

If we go to her father's diary entries, he says:

"The reason her sacred powers still won't awaken is because, she's speding all her efforts playing at being a scholar!"

With that, we realize that Zelda during those years was pressured by her father and was never able to open up to anyone. During two memories, we discover that she was unable to contact two of the goddesses, the goddesses of power and courage. With that, she also mentions that she will go to Mount Lanayru, in hopes of being able to speak with the Goddess of Wisdom but, once again, she is unsuccessful and we see this in the memory, where she returns with Link from Mount Lanayru.

This is where things start to get interesting. Still in the same memory, Mipha speaks "If I may...I thought you...Well, I'm not sure how to put this into words...I'm actually quite embarrased to say it. But I was thinking about what I do when I'm healing. You know, what usually goes through my mind...It helps when I think-when I think about-"

Unfortunately, she isn't able to finish the sentence due to the Calamity Ganon waking up at the exact moment but, I strongly believe she meant "It helps when I think about..." (the person I deeply care about/love).

Skiping now to the last memory of the game, we see Link surrounded by several guardians while protecting Zelda. She begged him to run away and leave her to save himself but, Link wouldn't. About to die for the guardian, Zelda gets in front of Link to protect him and finally, after years without success, she finally manages to awaken her power.

Zelda ends up saving Link, sending him to the Shrine of Resurrection. 100 years later, when Link was fully healed, she aided him throughout Hyrule and helped him to defeat Ganon.

After having sent Link to the Shrine of Resurrection, in other memorie, Zelda goes to Korok Forest with the Master Sword to the Great Deku Tree. During this they have a conversation and in this, Zelda says:

"Great Deku Tree, I ask you, when he return, can you please give this message...Tell him I-"

"Now, then...Words intended for him would sound much better in the tones of your voice, don't you think?"

"Yes."

We never learn what her next words were but, with that scene and for me, it's the last detail that proves that Zelda didn't have a reason to find the power inside her but, when she did find a reason, protecting the person who she cared/loved about, she was finally able to accept who she was and with that, she finally awakens her power and in the end, saves Hyrule from the Ganon Calamity. Until now, Zelda's feelings for Link were just a theory but, I discovered more solid evidence which clearly shows that Zelda is in love with Link. After you complete the game, in the village of Rito, you will meet Kass and he will tell you about his master, who was part of the Sheikah Tribe and who was in love with the princess, better known as Zelda, however, Kass himself mentions that "But the princess herself only had eyes for her escort, her own knight attendant."

More evidence, in the lyrics of the game's ending song it says "An ancient hero, a Calamity appears, Now resurrected after 10,000 years. Her appointed knight gives his life, Shields her figure, and pays the price. The princess's love for her fallen knight awakens her power. And within the castle, the Calamity is forced to cower" and with that, i say checkmate.

Part 2: Link's Feelings and Thoughts about Zelda

Intro

BotW world is an absolutely huge and expansive one that contains many secrets. Some of them may be obvious and can even be found in the game itself but, there are others that only you will be able to find if you do research outside the game.

Unlike the other diaries of the characters in the game, Link's diary is not found in any location in Hyrule but, in the side quests themselves but, this diary is only exclusive to the Japanese version. In other words, the version translated from Japanese to English, they decided to change and put the translation of the side quests in 3rd person but, in the original version, the Japanese one, the game presents the sides quests in the 1st person, that is, in the Japanese version of the game, the side quests are told from Link's own perspective and not the player's, thus creating a sort of Link's diary. blowing minds

But first, before talking about what Link thinks about Zelda, I think it's important to talk a little more about the character itself. In Hyrules Warriors: Age of Calamity, 100 years before the events of BotW, Link is introduced to us as a Silent Knight and Skilled Swordman who is renowned for his figthing skills courage and his devotion to the Royal family of Hyrule. Slowly but surely, Link is becoming much more expressive with his emotions as time progresses. In BotW, there is a cutscene where we see Zelda and Link riding their horses together. At this moment, Zelda thanks Link for his advice on how create a bond with her horse. This means that some point, Link must have shared his expertise on horses with Zelda, in order to help her to do that he needs to speak or at least, write it down for her, although we don't see this in game. It's very possible that Link directly spoke with Zelda here so, it's not like Link is incapable of speaking or of any communication at all, is just that he chooses not do but why? Well, the answer is in Zelda's own diary. In her diary, Zelda says the following:

"With so much at stake, and so many eyes upon him, he feels it necessary to stay strong and to silently bear any burden. A feeling I know all too well... For him, it has caused him to stop outwardly expressing his thoughts and feelings"

Link tells Zelda that the reason he doesn't speak is because, he feels it's necessary to stay strong and to silently bear any burder so actually, our beloved protagonist has fell strong emotions all along, he had just decided to keep them all bottled to himself in order to appear reliable and strong to Zelda. What else can we find out about Link? What does he really think of Zelda? Well, Link actually has an extensive character description in BotW. We can find the answers to these questions and more as Zelda and the King of Hyrule aren't the only ones with diaries. Link has written a diary of his own.

Link's Diary

So, Link's diary where is it? Well, as I mentioned before, Link's diary is hidden in the side quests of the Japanese version of the game. In japanese version however the answer becomes clear all of the entries in the adventure log are entries that Link has written himself to keep track of his own adventure. The English version of the game, the journal entries are written in 3rd person and refer to the reader as you but, upon loading up the japanese version, instead of being written in 3rd person, the journal entries are written in 1st person from Link's prespective. All of the entries in the journal were written by Link but, the surprises aren't just limited to this in his diary. Link doesn't just record his current objetive, he also has written down some of his own thoughts and feelings. With a lot of views and yours in comparasion the same quest "Captured Memories", in the Japanese version can be translated to something like this:

"I've acquired the legendary Master Sword, the legendary blade of evil's bane. Somehow, I get the feeling that the sword itself is delighted that I've come to retritive it.

Zelda is still battling to supress the evil Ganon at this very moment...She believes that I will defintely come for her!

I wonder if...As I am now...Am I really strong enough to save her?"

While in the English version of the game, the quest is described like this:

"You've visited all 13 of the locations shown in the old pictures and recovered the associated memories of your days with Princess Zelda.

In your memories, Princess Zelda always seemed burdened by her task...

Go and save her as quickly as you can to finally ease that burden."

The quest text in the Japanese version essentially reintroduces Link to us as someone who has normal human emotions rather that the silent knight or silent hero decipted through the games knowing that the adventure log belongs to Link as his diary. Suddenly, the seemingly trivial text reveals more hidden sides to our hero, especially the last part "see her smile again with my own eyes". They completely omitted this from the English version it's words like these that add so much more to Link's character. After Link has conquered the lost woods by not getting lost, he reaches the inner sanctum of the forest where he meets the Deku Tree who has been guarding the Master Sword, legendary sword of evil spain. When Link has regained enough of his former strength, he pours the Master Sword from his pedestal. Once more, after he obtains the Master Sword, the adventure quest text for heroes in English versions, reads:

"You've acquired the legendary Master Sword, that which seals the darkness. You feel that the sword itself delights to be in your possession...

Even at this moment, Princess Zelda is within Hyrule Castle, figthing to suppress the Calamity. She endures, believing you will come for her...

Will you be able to save her as you are now?"

When comparing it to the Japanese version is quite similar apart from one word which points towards more evidence of Link being the author. A Japanese word can mean "myself" or "yourself" and it changes the text a first person's narrative. This means that the text would read something like:

"I've acquired the legendary Master Sword, the legendary blade of evil's bane. Somehow, I get the feeling that the sword itself is delighted that I've come to retritive it.

Zelda is still battling to supress the evil Ganon at this very moment...She believes that I will defintely come for her!

I wonder if...As I am now...Am I really strong enough to save her?"

With that, we can really get a feel for how strongly Link wants the power to be able to save Zelda. In the quest "Destroy Ganon", the last section in English is written:

"The ghost of King Rhoam told you that Hyrule is on the brink of annihilation.

Princess Zelda is currently fighting to contain Calamity Ganon inside Hyrule Castle, but her power cannot keep him at bay forever. Eventually, Ganon will regain his full strength and destroy the world.

Your ultimate task is to aid Princess Zelda in defeating Ganon before that can happen."

But, in the Japanese version is written:

"The spirit of the King of Hyrule has told me that the land is on the verge of being obliterated.

It won't be long until Princess Zelda reaches her limit in containing the destructive power of Ganon at Hyrule Castle. When she does, Ganon will completely regain his power and everything will come to an end.

I really hope I'll be able to save Princess Zelda before that happens..."

Link really wants to believe that he can stop Ganon, stop his power in time and puts an end to everthing. After falling once already, it's no surprise that he may have some doubt in his ability.

Happiness

I was given a bunch of gems from Hudson as a sign of his gratitude for everything that I've done for them so far.

After Link has helped Hudson's establish Tarrey Town and after Hudson's and Rhondson are married in the quest "From the Ground Up", Link shows us his warm-hearted side, he is glad for other people's happiness as a conclusion to from the ground up and in Japanese version, he writes:

"Hudson's and Rhondson's wedding ceremony has concluded and Tarrey Town is really prospering.

I wish those two can live in happiness together forever."

The English version like the others is again written in third person and is directed at telling you the player that you wish the couple eternal happiness rather than Link.

In the quest "Test of Will", Link is challenged by three Gorons to train his tolerance to extreme heat in an endurance contest. After besting the Gorons at their challenge, he records the events in his diary, adding a little of his own humor into the mix in his recorded entry, Link mimics the way Gorons speak by attaching Goro to the end of his sentences:

"Ah! Is that all I'm getting out of you, Kabeta brother Goro? That's too bad, Goro..."

While in the English version, it says:

"Oh, that's all from Kabetta? That's too bad, brother..."

Else, does Link think about Zelda? Well, he thinks her voice is really pretty. In the quest "Follow the Sheikah Slate", which Link recieves at the benning of the game, he seems to quite like Zelda's voice. The last part of the quest text, in English simply reads:

"From Hyrule Castle, off in the distance, you hear the woman's voice speaking to you again..."

In comparasion to the Japanese version, goes a little like this:

"From the top of that giant tower, I could once again hear a girls beautiful voice coming from the castle that looks so far away."

"Follow the Sheikah Slate" is another one of those quests that has had parts submitted in. It's English version counterpart the original is much more descriptive and it allows us to finally connect with Link and his feelings.

Thoughts of a Failed Hero

In BotW, Zelda and Link's relationship is quite the dynamic one. In the very first memory, we see Link who has been appointed as Zelda's knight by King Rhoam. In this cutscene/memory, Link is already welding the Master Sword with the weighty responsibility of being Zelda's personal knight as well being chosen as the hero by the Master Sword itself. There is no doubt that Link is under immense pressure and expectation here. Zelda and the others conduct the ceremony of legend to celebrate Link in fulfilling his destiny despite being a huge step towards spending off the Calamity. Zelda, as mentioned before, doesn't seems too enthusiactic and the whole thing feels tainted with despair. Zelda's resentment towards Link continues to worsen as her insecurities and fear of being unable to awaken her powers.

Urbosa points out that Zelda's, Link is a living reminder of her own failures. Like Link, Zelda is also under immense pressure and responsibility to protect Hyrule. Link dedicated himself to his nightly duties and was able to fulfill his destiny and wield the Master Sword. Whereas Zelda was always told that because she was born into the Royal family, she had to dedicate herself in awakening her powers. Urbosa tells Link that every time Zelda sees him, reminds her how she still hasn't achieved her own destiny.

Zelda and Link's relationship hits a turning point when Link saves Zelda from the Yiga Clan. Zelda and Link begin to develop a genuine bond, Zelda realizes that she is not the only one with doubts, she had originally thougth that Link's silent and stiff behavior was a result of him not liking her but actually, as mentioned earlier, it's because he feels it's necessary to stay strong and silently bear any burden. Zelda's thought that Link's sucess was purely out of natural talent. In her diary, Zelda's says:

Zelda feels guilty for how she had been treating Link so, she tries to talk to him which results in a significant improvement in their relationship. In part 1, we've seen all about what Zelda thinks about Link, but what about Link himself? What does he think of all this?

Still determined to get stronger, Link once again visits the Deku Tree in the Lost Woods. Link returns the Master Sword to his pedestal and is thrown into "The Trial of the Sword" quest where he must survive an onslaught of enemies, starting with none of his own equipament. After finally conquering all 51 merciless levels and making it through to the very end, Link is rewarded with a full powered Master Sword. After he has awakened the Master Sword's full potential, the quest text for try of the Master Sword, in English version reads like this:

"You conquered the merciless Trial of the Sword!

You now have the physical and mental strenght necessary to use the Master Sword to its full potential.

Princess Zelda is no doubt quite happy with your achievement."

But, in Japanese version is a little different:

"I've conquered the relentless Trial of the Sword.

I've obtained the physical and mental strenght necessary to control the full power of the Master Sword.

I'm sure that Princess Zelda would also paise me for how much I've grown."

After enjoying countless hardships and striving to get stronger for so long, it is not until this quest that Link is finally pround of himself and has enough confidence in his ability to face Zelda.

In one of the memories, we see both Zelda and Link running, through the rain, fleeing Hyrule Castle. Meanwhile, Zelda ends up slipping her hand from Link's and ends up tripping. This scene is further proof that Link has feelings for her and that he clearly cares about her. After Zelda says that death of the Champions, her father, the Divine Beasts was her fault, it cuts to this scene where, you clearly get the sad expression on Link's face. If he didn't like her, I don't think he'd stop running to hear her.

With all this vent, Zelda simply surrenders in Link's arms, who accepts her without hesitation or thinking twice.

Then, after defeating Ganon and at the end of the game, Zelda finally granted Link's greatest wish, giving a beautiful smile to Link.

Thanks for reading this far. 😊 Really, it was one of the longest and most laborious analyses I've ever done so far but, it was worth it because, it made me love this ship more and see Zelink in other perspective.

#the legend of zelda #breath of the wild #zelink #link x zelda #long post

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kendrixtermina · 1 year

Text

English Translation of Christoph Schneider’s Post

Note: I am just making it english because @thecrowss requested it; Everyone form their own conclusions:

Dear people,

I wish to share my personal thoughts and emotions with you. The accusations of the last weeks have deeply shaken us as a Band and me as a person. Certainly this was also true for you as fans. I’m still feeling schocked by all the things that were shared and printed about our singer in social media and the press. It’s been a rollercoaster for the crew and the band members.

No, I do not think that anything punishable by law (such as the use of roofies) took place. No, I don’t think anything illegal happened, neither I nor anyone among our hundreds of crew members ever witnessed anything like that. Everything I ever saw of Till’s parties were grown adults having fun together. And still it seems that some things took place that, while not illegal, I would personally consider not okay.

Some structures had grown that went beyond the limits or values of the other band members. Because of this it is important to us to note that our official after show party’s shouldn’t be confused with Till’s private ones. Over the last few years Till had distanced himself from us and formed his own bubble. With his own people, his own parties, his own projects. This has certainly made me sad.

I believe Till when he says that he always wanted and still wants his private guests to have a good time. Yet it seems that what those guests were expecting differed from his own expectations in some cases. The wishes and expectation of the women that came forward must not have been fulfilled. Instead, according to their statements, they have felt uncomfortable and close to the edge of a situation where they felt out of control. For this, I feel sorry for them, and I have sympathy/compassion for them.

Still, it is important to me to emphasize something that was objectively true: Every guest in the backstage area is always free to leave (aside from briefly having to wait for security to see them out). All bottles are sealed and opened before the eyes of the guests. Water, snacks as well as security personnel and medical aid are always ready for them.

We want all our guests to feel good and safe with us! That is our standard, and this is why I’m deeply sorrow that some of you didn’t feel that way.

We have the best fans in the world and all of them deserve respectful treatment. I feel sorry for everyone who felt ill-treated or unsafe backstage. Including Shelby, who would have deserved a great concert and a wonderful evening.

But I don’t want this dispute about our band to feed the extremes:

Neither the beast of social media which our society has barely tamed, nor the paternalistic tendencies that would deny women in their mid 20s their sexual self-determination, and certainly not victim blaming, so that people continue to feel safe to speak out about what happened.

I wish for a quiet and sober reflecting and reexamining of what took place, including within our band. And this means the six of us together. We stand with each other.

Your Christoph Schneider.

At least this sounds like the people I thought I knew and pretty close to the assessment in the analysis post I was halfway through writing after sifting through the evidence.

#rammstein #till lindemann #christoph schneider #row zero #rammstein skandal

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ineffable-rohese · 8 months

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Writing on writing

I write a lot for my job. Like so much. I write all day, sometimes, between emails and reports and policy and plans and website content. A lot of it is standard non-creative writing, but a chunk of my job is creating useable activities that will engage a huge range of audiences. (I'm being cagey here just because a lot of what I'm posting on this here Tumblr , and especially what's on AO3, could potentially cause me professional issues because people are awful and expect Certain People not to do Certain Things.)

So, I write a lot. And I'm good at it. Some parts of writing, the kind I do every day, I'm excellent at. I'm the one my colleagues ask to wordsmith their ideas, or to edit their reports, or to take a collection of random facts and turn it into a compelling argument.

And I'm writing for fun now. Fiction isn't something I've delved into much, and I'm not nearly as comfortable with it as I am with other writing. I feel like I have a good sense of setting and character (though I'm still learning how to communicate both of those things in the way I want to). I can paint you a picture (heck I can give a full sensory experience, sensualist that I am), build a mood, find a spark of humour. Plot is a challenge for me, always has been. My child- and youthhood daydreams were always rambling things, more concerned with what it felt like (physically and emotionally) to be in those imagined worlds than any sort of action, and certainly not something with a satisfying beginning, middle, and end. But I'm learning as I go, and I'm surprisingly OK with that.

When I was in high school, I was made to believe I was a bad writer. My school had extraordinarily high standards for its students, and strict guidelines for what constituted "correct" writing. I was so smart, and so creative, and so undiagnosed ADHD... I hated writing the way they insisted. The neat boxes they expected writing to fit into didn't make any sense to me. I struggled. I cried a lot. I back-created drafts and outlines to fit the final papers that I wrote through in one go because they expected a draft to be the whole thing but bad, and why would I not work and rework each paragraph as I went, like my brain wanted to? Why would I leave errors and bad sentence structure there, where I could see them, where they would drive me insane because I was supposed to just "get it all out on paper" and "fix it later."

And how was I supposed to make a thesis just from my notes? It was, and is, through the process of writing that my ideas come together, and how broken was I made to feel when the thesis I said I was writing (chose at random, based on their restrictive formula of "if A and B, then C" or some nonsense) turned out to be wrong by the time I was done. The number of times I found my thesis in my conclusion was extremely high, and eventually I stopped being surprised when I drastically revised my thesis halfway through writing a paper, but that was years later.

I had one saving grace of a teacher. He wasn't supposed to be our 11th grade English teacher at all - he was the drama teacher, but the normal teacher was out on leave that year and I got lucky. (The other teacher had a Reputation. I don't know if I would have even passed, or come out with any self-esteem intact.) Instead of a five-paragraph essay, I was able to offer creative writing responses. I was encouraged to follow my wild ideas and craft beautiful, dream-like descriptions. I could turn in a poem in lieu of an essay, or reach beyond the text I was studying to look at the wider context, which made my connections-skilled brain sing. It wasn't always great. In fact, a lot of it was shaky at best, but I wasn't punished for trying something new or unexpected, my process was allowed to be my own, and I didn't hate it. Much of it was still a struggle, but it was a struggle I wanted to succeed at, as opposed to merely survive.

With all that, I still managed to graduate thinking I was a shitty writer. Technically proficient - I could proofread and edit with the best of them - but I definitely could not claim "writer" as something I was or could hope to be.

I believed it for the entirety of undergrad, where my first year I spent an entire required writing course waiting for my prof to give me anything other than effusive praise and I ended the term in tears in her office because I didn't believe her when she encouraged me to write more, and where I got straight As in my academic course the last two years, nearly all of which were analysis or history-based and all graded based on term papers. I even believed it through most of grad school where, again, I was writing so much about so many things and getting near-perfect grades.

My final year of schooling, I finally started to believe what all my university professors had tried to tell me. It took so very long and hurt so much along the way.

And now, here we are, and I'm posting my fiction for all the world to see, giving total strangers (and one or two non-strangers) a glimpse into parts of my brain that I'm only now accepting are OK to have and enjoy. And the writing is nowhere near what I wish it was. It's OK. Good even. But I read other's works and I'm blown away by what they can do, and I only wish I could make my words dance that way. Sure, my words dance, but it's not what you'd call good dancing. So every story feels like holding my dripping, beating heart in my hands as an offering and just hoping I'm not embarassing myself.

But you know what? I'm going to keep doing it, for as long as it brings me joy. And it'll get better, and I'll get better, and maybe the 15 year old inside of me will heal just a little more every time. Maybe I'll feel like I can call myself a writer

#on writing #fanfic authors #ao3 writer #late diagnosed adhd #academic trauma #processing

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causesciencethatswhy · 8 months

Note

Hi! I have just see Jk tracklist and I wanted to share my op -

First: I don't understand why, only because I like Jk as an artist and person, I have to accept blindly every single thing he does. I have my ideas and morals and I apply them consistently. I like seven, I don't like 3D. I am not a prude, simply I find that 3D it's explicit in a dirty way. For example.

So:

• I don't have problems with not writing your lyrics but I'm a little disappointed that in his first album there isn't even 1 or 2 Jk credits. Yes he surely approved and choose carefully but it's not the same thing to really write them, we can't read the lyrics and be like "that's what he think" because we can't be sure that he specifically approved that phrase that we are "analyzing". Meybe that was the only phrase that he doesn't like lol.

• I know he is working hard and I respect him for that, I'm just sorry he is working at something that is not what in my op a lot of fan were expecting (not that I wanted something specific, just listen to the songs and think "oh this is something he think for real)

• I think that all those songs will be more the 'no deep meaning' songs, again, nothing wrong with it. But when you are the frontman of a band famous for the deep meaning of their songs people have expectations. So for me the problem is that I and other fans wish to have from bts members the meanings, the ideas, the relatable lyrics, the personal style not songs given by random people. So I personally understand who is disappointed and find it valid.

Still I respect his work.

• note: tae doesn't wrote his lyrics too, but in his case Idk if he received the songs or if the songs were made for him, that is a little big difference.

Let me know if you know and what you think! Ty

Hi anon,

Like I said earlier, you're allowed to want different music from him, of course you are. You're totally free in deciding what music of jungkook's you want to listen to and if you prefer seven over 3d, I'm not going to judge you or think you're a prude. It's about preference at the end of the day and I'm not at all advocating people to blindly support the artist you stans music even if you don't like it. Because it's all about preference at the end of the day, and if the disappointment posts I saw were simply just commenting on "Oh this type of music isnt my preference " then I wouldn't mind it.

The problem gets when people are making so many assumptions on the type of artist jungkook is, and judging his decisions in bad faith that are bothering me. It's the constant, "he's korean so I don't know why he feels like he needs to sing in English " that's bothering me.

For your first point, I get it. There's not a lot of theorizing you can do on the lyrics when he's not written them himself. It's actually what stumped me a little with layover because when I had read the four leaf clover lyric in Rainy Days , I got excited thinking it was a reference to Vmin and their four leaf clover story before realising that tae didn't have any writing credits. But then as I thought about it more, there's no way to know whether tae discussed what he wanted to convey what wanted each song to be about and he might have even relayed the four leaf clover story to the writer. Or maybe it's a complete coincidence ! So yes, on that front I get that it takes away from a fun part of fan culture because you don't exactly know what they're singing from real experience and what is just a fantasy. It's always nice to learn new nuggets about your favorite artists and the way they think, buts it not that definitive to me personally, but it may be to you so I get that.

Second point, I mean sure you can be disappointed your expectations of his album don't match up with his own vision, but there really is not much we can do beyond that is it? At the end of the day, he will release the music which he feels is right for him and as long as it's not something terribly offensive or something, we can't really hold it against them for having a different creative vision to what fans had for them. Of course you're allowed to feel disappointed, but people acting like he's done some personal offense against him through his creative decisions is what bothers me.

I honestly think it's not fair to already dismiss all the tracks to have no meaning before they're even out . We literally have zero clue as to what the songs are going to sound like. As to the deep lyrics thing, honestly I think people hold bts to too high a pedestal with how deep their music is. They've talked about silly crushes, wanting to get a girls attention, sex and a lot of other topics which army's now claim they're 'above'. It didn’t sound like that because they were singing in korean and had credits from a member. If it's solely about deep lyrics, then while bts have some incredibly deep and moving lyrics but They've also had incredibly silly ones. If it's about the cool wordplay they do in korean which you're not getting in english releases, then I would say let's wait and see what golden has. English has a lot of avenues for equally fun wordplay/metaphors and we simply don't know enough about golden to have an opinion on this.

So in conclusion, you're allowed to have expectations from their music but I simply don't think it's fair to suddenly turn on jungkook, his artistry and his performances because his work doesn't match what you had in mind.

#i hope this doesn't come across as harsh i respect your feelings #jungkook

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all-for-the-simps · 1 year

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Who is Frost?

CoD x Original Character Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II

Context: This is like an AU type deal. I have never played CoD, I’ve only watched the MW2 cutscenes but I am obsessed and I simp for these characters. So, I made an OC for it :). This is that OC (most of his details are mentioned throughout future fics etc etc, so he’s a bit of a mystery on purpose).

A/N: I know this is an x male reader blog, but I just wanna show you my OC (‘cause I love him)

🚫female-aligned people DNI🚫

—--

Who is Frost?

Callsign: Frost

(Real) Name: [He does not tell people his real name unless he can trust them because he wants to protect his family]

Age: 30

Pronouns: He/him

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

Parents: English father, Japanese mother.

Personality: Sarcastic, extroverted, confident, sassy, a bit of a rule-breaker, chaotic in a sort of immature, childish way, fierce, fiery, headstrong, determined, strategic, intelligent, insecure at times, impulsive, value others' lives above his own, has anger issues, gets agitated easily, and sometimes irritable, talks back to superiors and doesn’t care about consequences.

More: He earned the name ‘Frost’ in the cage because he has a reputation for being cold and ruthless. It’s ironic since he is actually a very warm person by nature. He’s tall and buff and looks intimidating, but it is actually not that scary when you get to know him. He’s not a giant teddy bear or a gentle giant, by any means, he’s too rough for that. He wears a somewhat Japanese-styled shirt that’s cut like a tank top, just so he can show off his tattoos. People think he’s just a himbo, but that’s wrong, he may be fun-loving but he’s not short of intelligent. People are quick to judge him, which he finds annoying, but he proves that he’s more than what they think every time. He learned how to use a sword and other martial art techniques as a child from his grandfather and through the years, he developed those skills and joined the army, cage fighting on the side.

-----

How did Frost join 141?

Frost earned money by fighting at a semi-illegal cage fight ring.

(I say ‘semi’, because while the facility and the fighters aren’t committing a criminal offence, the people betting are.)

At the time, Price had heard about Frost from Laswell, his past training and his skills.

However, Price wanted to see the man for himself.

So, Price went out to find this ‘Frost’ guy.

Price approached him at a bar (this bar’s basement was where the cage fighting was held) after the fights were over for the night.

Frost was confused about who he was and what Price wanted with him.

Price realised the bar was still full and it’s kind of awkward to ask someone “Hey! You’re soldier material, wanna join my fuckin’ special task force?”

Like no one does that.

So, what Price did was write the address of the base on a piece of paper and give it to Frost and straight up left with little to no introduction or explanation.

It went like this: - Price: “Nice fighting.”

- Frost: “Thanks.”

- Price: “My name is Captain Price of Task Force 141.”

- Frost: “... Oooookaaay???”

- Price: “Meet me here tomorrow morning.” *Hands note over*

- Frost: “... Alright, but why-”

- Price: *Walking out of the bar*

- Frost: *?????*

Frost was beyond confused at this point. Like alright, fuckin’ weirdo.

But after looking at the note, he realised it was a base of some kind.

Being the curious bugger he is, he decided that he’d go check it out.

So the next morning, he got up, drove to the address and was stopped at the gate by a couple of soldiers.

Unsure of what to do from here, he just showed them the note he had been handed.

- Frost: “I’m here to see a Captain Price?”

- Guard: “He gave this to you?” - Frost: “Look, man. I know you’re sceptical and shit, but honestly, I have no idea why I’m here either so like…”

When finally inside, Frost got out of the car and just kinda stood there, waiting for someone to show him to Price.

He met up with Price and was shown around the base

He then met the rest of the 141 team and they all exchanged introductions

Frost was asked about his past career and was asked to demonstrate his technique and stuff like that.

Frost did so, not really questioning it.

When asked which kind of gun he preferred using, Frost just went: - “Uh… Katanas??”

Confusion ensues as people realise this man was mainly trained in the martial arts rather than shooty shooty pew pews.

Price asked if he could show them his sweet sweet Katana skills, so mans ran back to his car and got out his little Katana carrier box. Why he keeps it in his car, no one will ever know, he’s weird like that.

Demonstrate skill and blah blah blah, they all think he’s cool now.

Price takes Frost to his lil office thing and sits him down, explaining why he was there and who everyone was and what they were doing there.

Offers Frost a place on the team, praising his skill and saying what a good addition he would be.

Frost considers this offer for a good solid… 5 seconds before being like: - “Hell yea, dude, I’ll do it. Get paid better too.”

Price does not appreciate the name ‘dude’.

Frost apologises but sorta just laughs it off quietly.

Tells him to go pack his stuff so he can move onto the base.

Frost does that.

The rest is history.

-----

So, yeah, that's who Frost is. If you have questions, please send them in, I love answering :)

#fanfiction #x oc #oc #cod #mw2 #cod x oc #mw2 x oc #141 #ghost #soap #captain price #gaz #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #los vaqueros

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abbyfmc · 2 years

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Yandere Cannibal Family x Female Reader:

Author's note: This is an English adaptation of one of my one shots from my yandere boys book on my wattpad which is in Spanish. The idea for this one shot was asked by a Wattpad user and I loved it, so I'm sharing it with you.

Warning: Cannibalism, kidnapping, murder, torture, questionable sexual consent, manipulation, etc. I don't support this stuff in real life and read AT YOUR OWN RISK.

None of the images shown here are made by me, apart from the fact that the characters that appear here are my oc's except for the (y/n) since it is the representation of the reader that many of us use when writing fanfics.

Postscript: English is not my first language. I am using a translator.

Now, we can start.

*Narrator PO.V*

It was midnight, exactly like that 12:00 AM when a young woman was running out of her house.

The woman was desperately screaming for help as she was being chased by her angry husband who had a knife in his hands. He had beaten her up a few hours ago and that's why she ran away. Now she was running as far away as possible while her husband shouted a thousand obscenities at her behind her.

They ran until they entered a forest. __ felt that her feet would collapse with every stone and branch she stepped on as it caused her injuries. With her throat worn from screaming, her feet hurt, her legs tired, lost in the deep forest and on the verge of fainting from exhaustion, she dropped to her knees on the rocky ground in a state of weakness, realizing that she was facing a small wooden sign on a large tree that read as follows:

[𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗] That mansion is surrounded by rumors about its habitants, which are the father, his two children and a group of Machiavellian servants. The father and sons were said to be cannibals who ate young women; that they ate the wife; that they tortured the girls they kidnapped and a lot of rumors that didn't go beyond the terrifying.

--Please, somebody... help...me-- She heard footsteps of two people approaching. Some were of her husband who was running towards her to kill her and the others were calmer, but she couldn't see anyone in time because everything went black.

Some hours have passed.

The woman has woken up. He throws a look full of confusion at the place, because he has woken up in a room that was not his. It had fancy decorations everywhere, so the owners must have been millionaires or billionaires. (y/n) looked at her legs and watched them for a moment.

They were bandaged down to their feet, which made him wonder if the Forbeus were really bad people or if they were just rumours. Either way, it didn't take away from the fact that she was safe from her husband for now.

And suddenly something snaps her out of her thoughts. It was the sound of a knob, the door was opening from the outside. Who has entered was a young man with reddish hair, tall, white and a pair of hazel eyes with a relaxed countenance.

--Wow, you finally woke up miss-- His voice was easy to hear, neither too deep nor too soft. The boy introduced himself as Raymond Forbeus and told her that he was the one who found her in the woods injured.

--I know you're confused, but don't worry, your husband won't chase you anymore. Soon my brother Darius and dad William will come-- Suddenly she remembered the rumors about the Forbeus and the discomfort invaded her again.

--By the way beautiful lady, what is your name?-- The boy politely asked and she replied.

--(Y/n) (Y/y). Thank you very much for rescuing me Mr. Raymond. sorry for being a bother-- The lady apologized to which Raymond said that it didn't matter and that he couldn't let a beautiful lady like her be killed, which made (y/n) blush.

Later, the rest of the family members have arrived. The first who saw her was a boy with albinism with white hair and reddish eyes named Darius Forbeus and then he was a tall and corpulent man, with somewhat long black hair, pale skin, a pair of emerald eyes accompanied by a hard look and under from this an elegant and short black beard with the occasional gray hair. This gentleman's name was William. At that moment (y/n) remembered the rumors when their eyes met for the first time.

--How did you discover this house? You are from here?-- Asked the man whom the boys called Father William or simply Dad. She was nervous, as she was afraid that the rumors were true, but she didn't want to be rude to them and ask them just like that, so she thought of giving them a little talk first.

--Well there are two ways-- She answered, remembering the beating session her husband gave her after he came from who knows where and her refusing to have sex with him.

--Perfect, say them-- William asked, settling in the chair in front of the bed where __ was with his children on each side.

--I was running away from my husband. He had hit me before and when I was able to get away, he started chasing me with a knife and in the panic of the moment I didn't notice where I was going to get away from him-- She tried to apologize to Mr. William, then Raymond confirmed that it was true, since in his daily work of guarding and monitoring the outskirts he heard her desperately asking for help and her husband yelling curses at her and he went to the place to see what was happening and he ran into her on the brink of fainting.

--I see. What did you do with the other man?-- Father William asked.

--I already took care of getting him out of the mansion-- Raymond gave his father a discreet wink and William nodded slightly and turned his attention to (y/n).

--All right, then miss, what was the second way?-- William asked.

--Village rumors-- As soon as those three words left (y/n)'s mouth, Darius and Raymond looked interested but William had already heard about the rumors from the villagers about the disappearances in the Forbeus mansion.

--Ah okay. Those villagers invent tremendous things-- William released accompanying with a tired sigh and slowly denying to end up clicking his tongue in disgust.

--Well, I'll let you stay here for a while. At least until you recover, in the meantime, rest. In a while they will upload your dinner-- Then he stayed talking with (y/n) about other topics, like some social issue from the rumors of the town that Mr.William ended up denying him at that very moment, and even made fun of what the neighbors said behind his back.

Or maybe… he didn't deny them all.

Time passed and _ saw that the members of that family were not as the rumors of the town dictated, or not at all. Both the children and servants as well as Mr. William treated her with all respect as well as she treated them at all times. They checked her wounds, treated them and above all, they fed her very well, suspiciously VERY well. _ did not complain since it had been a long time since she had been treated so well, mainly by her husband and other relatives.

But it wasn't all hunky-dory, as Darius, Raymond, and Father William talked about what they planned to do with it, especially William.

--So father, when do you think she'll be ready?-- Darius asked in a whisper. They were inside the great hall while their tenant was still upstairs in her room taking a nap.

--I'm not sure, but soon, don't worry-- William smiled at his children, thinking about what he would do with this young woman once she was ready, which he did not do after his last love affair with his deceased wife.

--I already want to try it, father-- Darius reproached.

--I also. Ever since I captured and killed your husband, I haven't been able to eat human flesh again-- Raymond begged, agreeing with what his brother said, remembering how they tortured and killed the last girl and then cooked her meat and ate it little by little. They have done this with many young girls and even with their mother, whom they called Mother Clarissa, who adopted them along with William when the children's parents died suspiciously. William and his wife were never able to have children on their own, so when William found the parents of these boys (they were 9 years old at the time), he killed them and after adopting the little ones, he grew fond of them.

He made them like him, some cannibals, but it all happened little by little. He implemented the rules that they shouldn't eat everyone all the time and they shouldn't catch everyone they come across, only intruders of the mansion and young women who entered without permission or that their father ordered them to.

--I understand you guys, but you have to… wait-- The father felt strange about the girl, like he felt about his wife in the past when he met her.

--Ok, whatever you say dad-- A resigned Darius blurted out.

--Ok, ok-- Raymond growled.

--Don't despair. Ray, you can go with Darius to hunt down whoever shows up in the doorway-- The boys nodded and left, hoping to find prey outside the Forbeus mansion.

Papa William was left alone in the great room, thinking about (y/n). Why hadn't he tortured her yet? Aside from the fact that they were fattening her up, she felt like she didn't want to kill her just yet. Perhaps he fell in love with her as he got to know her? Seems that if.

(Y/n) meanwhile wondered when he would leave there. Whenever she asked one of the Forbeus when she could leave, they lied to her saying that she wasn't ready to be let go yet, that she hasn't fully healed yet and that she isn't ready to go home yet, which makes her suspicious. to the woman.

Meanwhile, Father William has come to the conclusion that he has fallen in love with her just as Mama Clarissa did. The attitudes and expressions of his beloved reminded him of his dear Clari in some way, and apart from his desire to make her fall in love as he did in the past, that she knows him, that she be his, that he desires him but on the other hand he wanted to hear her scream, he wanted eat it, he wanted to cut it little by little, let the servants cook its meat and later… devour it.

He was trying to make her fall in love with the good in order to trap her forever, while __ was beginning to suspect because she already felt very good about her bruises and her legs. On the other hand, he was suspicious of Mr. William's sudden romantic attitudes. Especially when I told him 'Why would you want to leave? You have everything here, there is no reason to want to leave; If you marry me you will have a lot of things in your favor, and believe me, my sons like you' And other things that seemed increasingly uncomfortable and terrifying.

This prompted __ to make the decision to investigate and devise a plan.

Bigger things were close at hand, and __ knew it the more he investigated, getting a lot of terrifying information.

--So the rumors are… real?-- He reviewed the documents on Darius and Raymond's parents, realizing that William killed both boys' parents and ate them thanks to William leaving a clue that read '𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍' and on the other hand, she discreetly asked the brothers about their lives and they told her that William adopted them after a moment of vulnerability after the death of their parents.

--Father William saved us from a life of misery on the streets-- Raymond remembered those nine years of his childhood in which his parents were found dead and how, along with Darius, they were about to be admitted to the orphanage of very bad reputation.

--He always loved us both very much. He always considered us his precious children-- Darius told him remembering how William had taken him in lovingly after that tragedy of losing his parents and how he almost became homeless.

--What happened to his wife?-- (Y/n) asked unexpectedly and the brothers suddenly put on a neutral face as they escorted the lady to the dining room for dinner.

--She died but Dad don't like to talk about it-- Raymond replied.

--I understand-- answered (Y/n).

They arrived at the dining room where William was already waiting for them sitting in one of the chairs. He motioned for _ to sit next to him and she obeyed, especially because of her hard and serious look that bothered him so much. His children sat down on other chairs and since dinner was already served, they began to eat. It was a tasty pasta and some good meat fillets that _ for obvious reasons did not want to eat because he already suspected that it was, so he only ate the pasta after saying 'Enjoy your dinner!' to others.

--Aren't you going to eat that steak? I thought you would like it-- Mr.William asked selflessly as he sampled his steak.

--Oh, um… no. Just the pasta and I'll have my glass of wine-- William nodded at his beloved's response. (Y/n) ate the pasta and then drank the red wine which later made her feel tired like she had been drugged.

--I'm starting to get very sleepy-- Expressed (Y/n), doing her best not to pass out, to which Mr.William ordered Raymond to take her to a new room.

--As you order, father-- Raymond complied with the order, took an almost unconscious (Y/n) and carried her gently while she, trying to stop him, said 'No, no, no' until she fell completely unconscious.

--Can we finally eat her, father?-- An anxious Darius asked his father, who confirmed the answer.

A few hours have passed. (Y/n) had just woken up, but her terror was great when she saw that she was chained to a table, in a dark room and with torture instruments hanging on the walls. (Y/n) began to shake due to the fear and panic she felt, realizing not only the gag in her mouth, but that… it would be the food of that family of cannibals.

--HMMMPPÑÑ!-- She was trying to scream for help while crying uncontrollably in fear.

And she did it once.

And another.

And again, until she heard footsteps.

--SHUT UP-- William was heard shouting followed by Machiavellian laughter from his children.

And then the door is open.

--You finally woke up-- William and his sons entered the room and while William stood at (Y/n)'s feet, Darius and Raymond stood at the sides.

--I will be direct with you. We are what the rumors say, my dear. some cannibals-- William checked, with an evil smile, stroking the fearful woman's hair.

--However, I must tell you that… during the time you were here you managed to make me feel the same way as my deceased wife. So you're here to feed us from time to time and to be mine. At first my only goal was to fatten you up and eat you with my children, but I fell in love and now it will be mine until your last breath-- The 19-year-olds just watched as the older man in his 40s approached the 30-year-old and kissed her without her consent. The woman was terrified by what was happening and what would happen later in the future.

--I always knew you were doing research on us and planning on running away, dummy, so I had your drink drugged, because I knew you wouldn't eat human flesh-- Then everything connected in the woman's mind, but that wouldn't prevent her from getting out of there alive.

--We'll finally taste mom's meat again, right father?-- Darius hesitated with an enthusiastic smile.

--You will try it when I say-- William demanded and the brothers nodded as (Y/n) was a bundle of panic.

--Yes, father-- They both answered.

And the months passed. (Y/n) was tortured a thousand times worse than with her husband when he severely mistreated her. She was cut and fucked by William in horrible ways, however, one night he decided to play the hunter with her with his sons.

--We'll let you run through the mansion forest, but you can't let me or my boys catch you or else we'll eat your legs, so start running now-- William told her and (Y/n) heeded immediately and started running outside until she reached the forest which was being dominated by the sunset with her heart pounding.

The three men soon came out with their weapons. One with a scoped shotgun, one with a dart gun, and the other with a bat. Meanwhile,(Y/n) didn't know where exactly she was going since it had gotten dark very quickly and her feet were hurting again. When she felt something close she would stay still in the dark while the others, especially William, psychologically played with her, since they were a twisted family of cannibals in which they even killed the old wife and mother and then ate her.

But something happened.

As (Y/n) was running toward what he could see as the Forbeus mansion's forest entrance sign thanks to the scant starlight penetrating through the leaves of the trees, he felt something deeply puncture and break his right ankle, causing He let out a scream and when he looked he realized it was a bear trap.

She desperately tried to get her foot out, but that only increased the pain that so many screams caused her, she heard hurried steps and Machiavellian laughter from behind her at the same time that she felt something dig into her left leg and then fall asleep little by little thanks to the dart with sleeping pill.

--I have found her, father! Raymond's bear trap worked!-- Darius announced cheerfully to his father as Raymond walked over to his new mother's heavily pierced ankle and carefully pulled it out of the bear trap to bandage the foot as best he could before returning to the mansion's basement.

--Time to start the real delight-- William assured.

(Y/n) was a mess more and more.

--You've lost the game my dear, so it was only fair that we cut off your fearless legs-- Poor (Y/n) was now super sore with her legs cut and bandaged in that area while her "sons" and her "husband" ate them already cooked in a placid way in front of her.

--Your meat does taste very good. I guess we've fed you right-- William added, taking a bite of the piece of meat he had grabbed with his fork like his two sons who helped him cut up their mother while trying to keep her alive. They also liked mom's meat.

--You can't complain (Y/n), I also keep feeding you, bathing you and putting beautiful clothes on you, not to mention that I love making you feel pleasure… in my own way-- Yes, Mr. William has also tortured __ by forcing her to have sex with the excuse that she is now his, that he has not been able to satisfy his needs for a long time with anyone who has reminded him of his wife in order to satiate his twisted feelings. desires, something that their children could not and were not interested in doing for now as far as sex is concerned.

They go out to find other girls when they want.

Things reached a point where (Y/n) didn't even know what day or time it was, he only knew that he was barely breathing with all the horrible torture they were giving him. To make matters worse, William sometimes took to hanging her on a butcher hook, forcing her to be caressed and kissed, and even to waltz with him carrying her weak body while (Y/n) only wished that his misery would end.

He just wanted to die once and for all.

But sooner than later, the day of his collapse came.

(Y/n) endured so much torture that she just couldn't take it and before William cut out her heart after forcibly making her his and again, she collapsed on the basement table and died.

--Oh, I'm sorry my dear, but that's the way it is in the Forbeus family--.

-The End.

#yandere love #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere family #oc #cannibalism tw #cannibal family

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lgcjisoo · 2 years

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CHARA UPDATE

what were the last 5 songs that you’ve listened to?

“let’s see... fifth is ‘candy’ by shin-sunbaenim. speaking of which, are those dating rumours true...? i don’t know hanbyul well enough to ask,” jisoo hums with curiosity in passing. “ the fourth song is ’if you’re not the one for me who is’, by keshi. i really enjoy keshi’s music. third last song, ‘bad dreams’ by bevy maco and summer soul, this is one of my favourites that i keep going back to. the last two songs i listened to were english ones, mmm... ‘summer is for falling in love’ by sarah kang and eyelovebrandon, and ‘cursive’ by billie marten. i found those two songs off a playlist. i really do like spotify for that, because you never know when you’ll find another song you like enough to add into your own personal playlists.

what are the top 5 most used apps on your phone?

messenger & facetime, kakao T, yogiyo food delivery, spotify, youtube

"my screen time is miserably low.” it’s quite funny that none of the camera or social media apps actually make it onto his top 5, but it’s no surprise. “sometimes when i don’t feel like taking transit, it’s practical to use transport services. and food delivery. always a bonus. and yes, i do pay for youtube premium... it’s expensive but someone’s got to do it.” jisoo grimaces slightly, but after he’s tested out the trial, it’s hard to go back. “but number one is definitely messenger and facetime. after splitting up from the guys in the trainee group, i miss them a lot, honestly and with our schedules not aligning anymore, this is the best way to stay in touch with those that i’m closest to.”

what is the most random note in the notes app?

“sometimes i keep track of my dreams once i wake up and put them in the notes app. i don’t want to bother anyone else with it, and i’m rather private regarding the majority of things. i’m pretty sure there was a note in here.. let’s see. ‘ran away, axe murderer or something, kept running until i jumped off, woke up, sweaty’, with lots of typos. yea. i don’t remember anything about this night, or when this was,” the note was dated from 2018 too, which was even before his time at the company. “but apparently it was a rough night. if i don’t write it down, i genuinely don’t remember any of my dreams or nightmares. food for thought.”

what was the last message or call you’ve received and who was it from?

“there’s like three people who i speak to on the phone regularly,” as jisoo swipes through the phone log, it’s really a cycle of the same people. “my dad, my mom, and teddy,” he laughs, as it’s the same names with the exception of some work calls in between. “other than the work calls, of course. i’m not going to ignore the agency and i’m always down for a work call. mmm..... i speak to my mom more than my dad, but it’s nice of both of them to check in. also, text message is probably keeho.” a ding goes off, and jisoo laughs as it’s an update from keeho. “right on cue.”

what were the 5 most recent online searches?

“they’re all things i was looking at fashion wise, it’s so boring. look. i was looking up some silver jewelry, and ‘how expensive is a birkin’. ‘how to buy a birkin’. ‘why are birkins so expensive’. i’ll count that as one, to be nice, i suppose but that was three different searches, technically.” no, jisoo doesn’t actually want to own one. he just wonders why people fawn over them in the stylists clothing selections like crazy. “oh yes, ’popular niche fragrances for winter.’ i am in the middle of trying to expand my fragrance collection, beyond oh... elysium and some others,” jisoo chuckles at the name drop. “it seems that there’s so many popular fragrance brands lately that it’s hard to choose. but i’ve been told i don’t really need it, though it should still be a good accessory for red carpet events. oh... and the most recent search was for what movies were playing at the theater near me so... yea.”

#lgc:update004 #me putting stuff under a cut for the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE #wow amazing #sry no bonus q bc he literally names everyone by their names

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recoveryreturnum · 1 year

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Do I Lack Motivation?

I don’t think lack of motivation is as much of a major factor for me now, compared to before I moved out, away from my abusive family (just over sic (6) months ago), or when I got my first job (a year and a half ago), and when I moved back to England to live with my abusive mother, because there was no other way for me to return to England (almost two (2) years ago).

There was no hope for me back then. I was living with my abusive/family (my step-mother and sister are lovely, and I don’t mind my stepsiblings) and there was nothing I could do to improve my life. Before I was eighteen, legally my choices weren’t my own, and when I was living in the Philippines on a student visa, I legally couldn’t get a job. There was no point. There was no hope beyond waiting to get my life. And I waited for more than a decade. All I could think about everyday was getting away.

Do I lack Self-discipline?

Yeah, in many ways I do still lack self-discipline. Not having any hope or motivation back then didn’t exactly breed productivity, and I can’t just flip a switch on those behaviours. I’m definitely improving, though. That’s the point of this whole Virtue Plan thing. And the medication I’m on (Sertraline) helps massively. My physiology is less of an impediment.

Vagueness and Difficulty of My Goals

I have dreams of being a content creator, of being a freelance writer, writing self-employed so I van have jobs of skills I want to learn; such as a woodworking apprenticeship, I want to learn how to make my own clothes. I want to be an ASMR-tist, a YouTube gamer for videos and streaming. I want to go to college for Linguistics, English Literature, Creative Writing, and Philosphy. I want my name in lights and I want to be the best version of myself I can be. I have huge goals, and I’ve very vaguely broken down how to achieve them. But I will achieve them.

Anxiety

Anxiety has been a major issue for me in the past several months, with so much tension in my body, overthinking, and a breathing issue which doesn’t help. But in the last month since I’ve started taking medication, my body is so much less tense. I feel so, so much better, so the anxiety is lessening.

Desire For Perfection

Since I have such big dreams, I get subconsciously scared off by where I see myself lacking right now compared to the future. I want to be skilled, competent, confident, knowledgeable, well-travelled, and strong. I feel like I’m still the same little girl who was trapped and couldn’t stop herself from being abused. The me I idealise has left that life behind.

Negative Feedback

No one’s more hard on me than I am on myself. My colleagues have told me, “[I] overthink too much,” “[I’m] a very sensitive person,” and asked me, “why do you think you’re a terrible person who deserves to be run over?”

And them just noticing these things burn, because I used to have a much tougher persona when I was being abused. I used to intimidate others so they couldn’t bully me,

But now that I’m in the corporate world, I have to be different. I have to protect myself in other ways, I have to be professional. I accepted that I am new at working t olive, and living on my own, and am not that tough with the new me, and that came as a vulnerability which I had to be humble enough to accept.

Notes:

I’m taking a break now to go make myself a healthy vegetable dinner. Since I didn’t use Virtue Map yesterday, I will also do Lesson #3 after I eat. I’ve been listening to my subliminals on loop while journaling this. Another procrastination bird killed with a stone.

This Lesson’s Tasks

COMPLETE -- Reflect on all procrastination triggers INCOMPLETE -- Join a support group (optional)

- I’m an introvert to the extreme and am literally on meds for anxiety. No thank you. This journaling and blogging is enough for me.

#Virtue Map #redrum's virtue map #virtue map lesson 2

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rainyamidala · 2 years

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authors note: hi! please, know that this is one of my first ever fanfics I’ve ever written. there might be some grammar issues as i am not American or speak english in my day-to-day life- however, i have read over and i think i'm all good. either way, i hope you enjoy! there aren't any warnings to put here - at least yet. if you'd like a part two, let me know! I really enjoyed writing this one but didn't want it to get boring due to its length - therefor, i decided to end it on a high note! but, like i said, a part two can most definitely be arranged. I would also like to add that this story uses she/her pronouns. I did imagine Padme's face and voice here, i confess.

rumour was that Anakin was leaving. He was leaving and never coming back, but no one knew why or where he was going.

y/n rushed to his apartment as soon she heard the whisper on the street. walking in, she saw him right away.

"Anakin."

she started, out of breath. she had, like i said, rushed to his apartment immediately. how could he just leave without saying goodbye? was it true that he would never return to Coruscant?

"y/n." he said, turning around slowly while he spoke. He knew who it was immediately - he knew she was coming. Not because he can see things before they happen, but because she is the way she is. y/n would want an explanation - which is why he was planning on leaving without letting her know.

"what are you doing here?" he stood completely still now. he didn't hold out his arms to hug y/n - didn't explain himself. Didn't even attempt to get the correct words out to say something. It was silent until y/n broke it.

"is it true?" y/n started, looking straight at him. the spacing between them was almost awkward. they stood far enough away from each other to be strangers. was that what they were now? 24 hours ago, y/n told anakin she loved him, but he did not return it. instead, Obi-Wan called out for him a few meters away. and now ... he's leaving.

"is it true you're leaving?" it wasn't that he was leaving that was the issue. he left all the time to go on missions with Obi-Wan ... but he always came back. every single time he'd come back, he and y/n would do something together - like skipping stones on a lake to make sure they never faded away from each other. Never became distant - to make sure that they would always remain y/n and Anakin. It might sound stupid to someone from the outside, but with everything the both of them go through daily - with the universe they live in ... It's not hard to become distant from one another.

"i have to."

"says who?"

"i do."

"are you coming back?"

silence.

long, loud silence.

"you're not coming back?" y/n said, interrupting the silence in the room. She took a sharp breath as she attempted to contain her emotions.

"y/n-" Anakin tried, but was quickly interrupted by his very own body. he tried to speak, but seeing her like this create a lump in his throat

y/n wept a silent, single tear as she continued.

"you're leaving?" with sadness sometimes comes anger. and what y/n was feeling soon became anger and disbelief. Her voice cracked open like a piece of glass being thrown to the floor. it was like hard caramel was stuck in her teeth and forced her mouth to close.

she walked quickly over to him and hit him in the chest as she repeated the same words time and time again. "you're just choosing to leave - without any form of explanation or goodbye? do you realise how selfish that is? what kind of Jedi does that? what kind of Jedi are you?"

Anakin knew she was doing this because she was hurt. she was not mad - she was sad beyond belief. her mind was paralyzed with apprehension. she did not want him to see her upset like this, especially not over someone as selfish and stupid as himself. he tried to hold her, like he did by the lake in Naboo. he pulled her body closer to his, hugging her. but she soon pushed him off, creating enough power to push them both a few inches back. however, she took a few extra steps back. not many, though.

"i cannot stay here." He would've cried, if he had the nerve. If he had any sense left in himself, he'd cry and hug her at the same time: explaining why he cannot stay. That's everything he should've done. Cried. Stayed.

"But why, ani? the council? Palpatine?" Anakin did not respond - he just looked down, shaking his head slightly.

"Answer me, dammit! I can help you!" y/n furrowed her brows, face scrunching up as she attempted to battle the tears filling her eyes. y/n should've let the tears go freely instead of suffocating herself like this. "Why are you leaving like this? in the middle of the night? does Obi-Wan know you're le-" but she was interrupted.

"I can't stay here because of you. don't you understand? you are the reason i cannot ever come back." misery was written all over his face.

"I find myself in the depths of misery every single time I see your face. every time i hear your voice or anytime I hear your name." this time, it was Anakin's turn to shed a tear. the tears welled up in his eyes - and suddenly one dropped. the tear was hot, like boiling water.

"What?" y/n said, choking up on her own pain. what was he saying?

"I’m going to Naboo, and I am never returning here. If I do, you will not see me. I don't want you to see me."

"Am I really that bad?" y/n asked, once again interrupting the silence in the room.

"What?" Anakin said, taking a step closer.

"Am I?" her voice was low, weak, and small – like a whisper.

"y/n-"

"you're leaving, because of me?"

Anakin shook his head, looking down once again.

"You can't even do me the decency of answering me?"

"I love you, dammit!" Anakin quickly replied, looking up from the floor and at her.

"that's why I’m leaving. I cannot stand looking at you every single day, knowing I cannot ever have you. knowing you will meet and marry someone else. carry someone else’s children... you don't understand how painful it is, knowing my future does not include you. it is most well-known of the Jedi rules. Love leads to attachment and attachment leads to strong emotions. Which then again-" He paused himself, taking a needed breath. Strong emotions - especially for another individual, is one of many paths to the dark side. He'd heard about men turning their backs to everything and everyone to join the dark side - and it never ends well. He didn't want that life for himself, Obi-Wan - or you. "you are forbidden. I can't just be your friend any longer."

"I am not some object you can just throw around and put away, then pick up again whenever you'd wish. you are not my master, I do not have to listen to you." y/n attempted to battle the tears filling her eyes once again, but this time she was defeated. Once another one dropped, her voice broke, and she took a deep, shivering breath in.

"I know."

"Then kiss me." y/n took the last few steps to him, now standing closer to him than she ever did before. she looked up at him, keeping the eye contact - even though he tried to break it.

"I can't."

"Why Anakin, why?"

"If I kiss you now, I won't be able to stop myself. I cannot do that to myself - or you."

i keep adding more things every time i read through - i really love this one.

I would love to write a part two on this - even multiple parts where i explain how they met / their situation, etc. but, i might just be getting carried away. Either way, thank you for reading!

#star wars #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #han solo #star wars fanfiction #obi wan x reader #hayden christensen #anakin skywalker imagine #star wars imagine #anakin skywalker smut #ahsoka x reader #Anakin skywalker x y/n

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remuswriting · 2 years

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take your time (i’ll be here); i. hajime

Summary: It’s dead-week, and Y/N wishes Hajime would change his major.

Pairing: Iwaizumi Hajime/Male! Reader

Warnings: University! Iwaizumi, Probably OOC Iwaizumi, bisexual reader

Word Count: 1,892 words

Notes: So, it’s finals time and I wrote this because I know @that-bi-bitch-writes likes Iwaizumi and I like writing characters in college. The title literally has no real meaning beyond I really like it. Also, Iwaizumi went to college in California, which is why Y/N’s major is what it is.

It was 2 AM when Hajime returned to the apartment he shared with Y/N. He had just gotten back from the library after a study group ran way too long. It was dead-week, so no one had complained. People either left when they needed to or when the study group had finished.

He had told Y/N he’d be home late. The call had been fairly short, but Y/N told him there’d be leftovers in the fridge when he got back. It was fried rice, but it wasn’t fancy by any means. Y/N was just trying to get rid of everything in the fridge before it went bad.

The lights were still on in the kitchen, but the living room lights were off. The bedroom door was cracked enough that he could see the lights were still on in there as well. He wasn’t surprised seeing that it was dead-week and Y/N’s classes this semester had been harder than previous semesters.

He put his keys on its designated hook on the wall before taking his shoes off and neatly placing them in the shoe holder next to the door. He took a couple of steps and was at the small dining room table they bought and built together when he first moved in with Y/N. Before Hajime, the apartment was fairly bare since Y/N didn’t spend too much time there. Now, it was more likely to find him there than anywhere else, especially when both of them were free.

Hajime put his backpack on the chair closest to the door and turned back to flip the lights on. He walked into the kitchen, which was narrow and the boundaries of it were determined by one side being pressed against the wall and the other side having a peninsula for where the sink was. He grabbed the container from the fridge that had a post-it note saying ‘your share’ and heated it up before going to the bedroom.

He pushed the door open with his side as he ate. Y/N was sitting at his desk, headphones in and eyes trained on the screen as he typed ridiculously fast. Their bedroom was a little small for two people, but they managed. Hajime grabbed the other rolling chair they crammed in there and pushed it to be next to Y/N, who jumped at the movement.

Y/N placed a hand over his heart as Hajime sat down. “Fuck. Were you trying to scare me?”

Hajime reached out and gently removed Y/N’s earphone. “I wasn’t exactly quiet when coming in.”

“You could’ve knocked,” Y/N said as he turned off whatever he had been listening to and pulled out his other earphone.

“Why would I knock in my own home?”

“For me, obviously,” Y/N said, and he huffed slightly. He was irritable, and Hajime knew it wasn’t directed at him. “I wish we had the same major.”

“You want to do science with me?” Hajime asked, and he was regretting not bringing his water bottle in here with him.

Y/N slid his water bottle across the desk to Hajime, obviously able to read his mind somehow. “No, I want you to be an English Education major.”

“I hate reading,” Hajime said, and it wasn’t true. He liked reading what he wanted to, just not whatever bullshit Y/N was forced to read and dissect.

“Yeah, but then you could read my papers and give proper feedback,” Y/N said, and he pressed the side of his face on his laptop keyboard. “You don’t know what aestheticism is or who used it within their literary works or how it was seen as revolutionary for some fucking reason.”

“Well, maybe your essay could teach me?” Hajime asked, and Y/N turned his face so his nose pressed into the keyboard. Hajime watched a letter start filling the already 10-page Word document.

“I wanna drop out,” Y/N whined.

"We're almost done,” Hajime said, and he was nearly finished with his food. “Also, dinner was good. Thank you.”

Y/N picked up his head and looked at Hajime. He had tired eyes, and Hajime wished he could just put Y/N to sleep. “You have to make dinner tomorrow. I have this awful paper to finish and then another one to write for my technical writing class.”

“How many essays do you have?” Hajime asked, and Y/N leaned back in his chair. Hajime looked him over finally. Although there was a frown etched on Y/N’s face, he looked soft, wearing Hajime’s old practice shirt from Seijoh.

“Four. Two are due next week while this one and the one for my technical writing class are due this week,” Y/N said, and he threw his head back slightly. The back of the chair dug into his neck. “These are the worst ones since they have to be at least 12 pages. The other two are 10 to 15 pages, so much easier.”

Hajime put the empty container on the desk and took a drink from Y/N’s water bottle. It was nearly empty, which meant Y/N had been in here for hours. “Yeah, I’m definitely not changing my major to help you.”

“So, you don’t love me?” Y/N asked, and it wasn't serious. Y/N knew Hajime loved him; it was hard not to whenever Hajime made sure to show it all the time. Kisses in the morning before they went to class, bringing Y/N lunch when he didn’t have time to grab anything, cleaning the apartment when Y/N’s schedule got overbooked with work and study groups, and so many other things. Tooru had made the comment Hajime needed to calm down or Y/N would be turned off by the constant attention, but that hadn’t been the case. Y/N thrived under the attention.

“Shut up,” Hajime said, and Y/N smiled a little. All Hajime wanted to do was kiss that smile and see if he could make it grow against his own lips.

“I love you, too,” Y/N said, and he grabbed his water bottle to take a drink. Hajime smiled, and Y/N’s smile grew as he took a drink. “Okay, so I’m going to set up at the dining table and you can sleep.”

“You’re not going to sleep?” Hajime asked, and Y/N shook his head as he deleted the four pages of the letter g he had accidentally typed with his nose.

“I have to finish this paper. It’s due on Thursday.”

“You have tomorrow to finish it,” Hajime said, and Y/N looked over at him with annoyance in his eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re not the one having to cite Oscar Wilde and explains shit about him,” Y/N said, and Hajime rolled his eyes.

“You’re right, I’m not, but you still need sleep or else it's going to suck.”

Y/N smirked at him, and it made Hajime’s pulse quicken. “Are you just trying to get me in your bed, Hajime?”

Hajime’s face burned, and his cheeks were red. It didn’t matter that they had been together for nearly a year and had done what Y/N was suggesting before. Y/N’s directness always took him by surprise. He remembered telling Tooru about how direct Y/N was, and Tooru told him they were perfect for each other since they were both direct. Hajime just felt like it was different coming from Y/N.

“I’ll think about sleeping with you if you refill my water bottle,” Y/N said, and he didn’t need to attach the bribery part to it. Hajime had been planning to refill it, anyway.

“You’ll only think about it?” Hajime asked, and Y/N’s smirk turned into a smile.

“Wow, you sound so desperate.” Y/N scooted his chair closer to Hajime’s before ruffling Hajime’s hair. “Very cute.”

“You’re being annoying,” Hajime said, and Y/N shrugged.

“Maybe, but you find me cute too,” Y/N said, and Hajime couldn’t deny that. “Now, fill up my water bottle, or the only man I’ll ever talk about ever again is Oscar Wilde.”

Hajime rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you could do that, even if you tried. You hate the guy.”

“I mean, I don’t hate him. I’d rather not study him, but I don’t hate him,” Y/N said, and he sighed. “I hate the fact that he’s known as gay when I’m pretty sure he was bisexual. Imagine dying before learning about labels that would actually fit you and being in a world that would accept you. He was arrested for being gay while the guy he was being gay with didn’t face any consequences.”

Hajime had always known he was gay, but Y/N had told him he hadn’t had the same experience. In Y/N’s senior year of high school, he got his first crush on a guy and spiraled a little until he learned about being bisexual. Maybe that was why he seemed passionate about this more than anything else pertaining to Oscar Wilde.

“You’ve told me about that,” Hajime said, and they were going to the kitchen to put the dirty container in the sink and to fill up Y/N’s water bottle.

“He wrote the guy a 50,000-word letter while in prison. ”Y/N leaned into Hajime’s side while Hajime filled the Brita up. “It’s all just sad. That man was so sad.”

Sleepiness was starting to creep into Y/N’s voice, and Hajime knew that getting Y/N to ramble on about something in one of his classes late at night would make him tired. He didn’t understand why, but he didn’t question it.

“Would you ever write me a letter that long?” Hajime asked, and Y/N pressed his face against Hajime’s shoulder.

“No, too much work,” Y/N said, and his voice was muffled slightly.

“I’d write you a letter that long,” Hajime said, and he would. It may take him a while to do it, but if Y/N wanted it, he would do it.

“That’s gay,” Y/N said, and he kissed Hajime’s clothed shoulder. “Super-duper gay.”

“I’m gay,” Hajime said, and Y/N chuckled against his shoulder.

“You got me there.”

It was quiet for a couple of minutes, and Hajime wondered if Y/N had fallen asleep against him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had fallen asleep standing up. Neither of them had been sleeping like they usually did because of finals being next week, which led to Y/N randomly falling asleep the moment he felt any kind of comfort.

“Hajime,” Y/N said, and his voice was soft.

“Yeah, baby?” Hajime asked, and Y/N lifted his head off of Hajime’s shoulder, which made Hajime look over at him.

Y/N’s eyes were still tired, but they were filled with curiosity. Hajime found him to be so pretty. “Are you sure you won’t change your major to English Education?”

Hajime let out a laugh, which made Y/N frown. “Why don’t you change your major to Sports Medicine?”

“Because bodies suck,” Y/N said, and he put his chin on Hajime’s shoulder. Their faces were so close, and Hajime’s pulse quickened once again. “Not yours, though. I like your body.”

“You need to go to sleep,” Hajime said, and he turned to the Brita filter and poured the water into Y/N’s water bottle. “You’re being a menace.”

“Your menace,” Y/N said, and he grabbed Hajime’s face and kissed him. “You hadn’t given me a hello kiss yet.”

Hajime kissed Y/N and mumbled against his lips. “You were busy.”

“I’m never too busy for your kisses.”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime x male reader #iwaizumi x male reader #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu fic

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bao3bei4 · 3 years

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fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all.

--------------------

fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

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victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

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it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

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japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

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i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you.

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances.

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves”

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women.

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other.

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how:

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers.

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese?

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finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power.

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry.

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition.

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people?

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game)

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects.

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too?

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it?

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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood!

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :)

#x #-__- another fandom essay sorry

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writingwithcolor · 3 years

Text

What Does Our "Motivations” PSA Mean?

@luminalalumini said:

I've been on your blog a lot and it has a lot of really insightful information, but I notice a theme with some of your answers where you ask the writer reaching out what their 'motivation for making a character a certain [race/religion/ethnicity/nationality] is' and it's discouraging to see, because it seems like you're automatically assigning the writer some sort of ulterior motive that must be sniffed out and identified before the writer can get any tips or guidance for their question. Can't the 'motive' simply be having/wanting to have diversity in one's work? Must there be an 'ulterior motive'? I can understand that there's a lot of stigma and stereotypes and bad influence that might lead to someone trynna add marginalized groups into their stories for wrong reasons, but people that have those bad intentions certainly won't be asking for advice on how to write good representation in the first place. Idk its just been something that seemed really discouraging to me to reach out myself, knowing i'll automatically be assigned ulterior motives that i don't have and will probably have to justify why i want to add diversity to my story as if i'm comitting some sort of crime. I don't expect you guys to change your blog or respond to this or even care all that much, I'm probably just ranting into a void. I'm just curious if theres any reason to this that I haven't realized exists I suppose. I don't want y'all to take this the wrong way because I do actually love and enjoy your blog's advice in spite of my dumb griping. Cheers :))

We assume this is in reference to the following PSA:

PSA to all of our users - Motivation Matters: This lack of clarity w/r to intent has been a general issue with many recent questions. Please remember that if you don’t explain your motivations and what you intend to communicate to your audience with your plot choices, character attributes, world-building etc., we cannot effectively advise you beyond the information you provide. We Are Not Mind Readers. If, when drafting these questions, you realize you can’t explain your motivations, that is likely a hint that you need to think more on the rationales for your narrative decisions. My recommendation is to read our archives and articles on similar topics for inspiration while you think. I will be attaching this PSA to all asks with similar issues until the volume of such questions declines.

We have answered this in three parts.

1. Of Paved Roads and Good Intentions

Allow me to give you a personal story, in solidarity towards your feelings:

When I began writing in South Asia as an outsider, specifically in the Kashmir and Lahore areas, I was doing it out of respect for the cultures I had grown up around. I did kathak dance, I grew up on immigrant-cooked North Indian food, my babysitters were Indian. I loved Mughal society, and every detail of learning about it just made me want more. The minute you told me fantasy could be outside of Europe, I hopped into the Mughal world with two feet. I was 13. I am now 28.

And had you asked me, as a teenager, what my motives were in giving my characters’ love interests blue or green eyes, one of them blond hair, my MC having red-tinted brown hair that was very emphasized, and a whole bunch of paler skinned people, I would have told you my motives were “to represent the diversity of the region.”

I’m sure readers of the blog will spot the really, really toxic and colourist tropes present in my choices. If you’re new here, then the summary is: giving brown people “unique” coloured eyes and hair that lines up with Eurocentric beauty standards is an orientalist trope that needs to be interrogated in your writing. And favouring pale skinned people is colourist, full stop.

Did that make me a bad person with super sneaky ulterior motives who wanted to write bad representation? No.

It made me an ignorant kid from the mostly-white suburbs who grew up with media that said brown people had to “look unique” (read: look as European as possible) to be considered valuable.

And this is where it is important to remember that motives can be pure as you want, but you were still taught all of the terrible stuff that is present in society. Which means you’re going to perpetuate it unless you stop and actually question what is under your conscious motive, and work to unlearn it. Work that will never be complete.

I know it sounds scary and judgemental (and it’s one of the reasons we allow people to ask to be anonymous, for people who are afraid). Honestly, I would’ve reacted much the same as a younger writer, had you told me I was perpetuating bad things. I was trying to do good and my motives were pure, after all! But after a few years, I realized that I had fallen short, and I had a lot more to learn in order for my motives to match my impact. Part of our job at WWC is to attempt to close that gap.

We aren’t giving judgement, when we ask questions about why you want to do certain things. We are asking you to look at the structural underpinnings of your mind and question why those traits felt natural together, and, more specifically, why those traits felt natural to give to a protagonist or other major character.

I still have blond, blue-eyed characters with sandy coloured skin. I still have green-eyed characters. Because teenage me was right, that is part of the region. But by interrogating my motive, I was able to devalue those traits within the narrative, and I stopped making those traits shorthand for “this is the person you should root for.”

It opened up room for me to be messier with my characters of colour, even the ones who my teenage self would have deemed “extra special.” Because the European-associated traits (pale hair, not-brown-eyes) stopped being special. After years of questioning, they started lining up with my motive of just being part of the diversity of the region.

Motive is important, both in the conscious and the subconscious. It’s not a judgement and it’s not assumed to be evil. It’s simply assumed to be unquestioned, so we ask that you question it and really examine your own biases.

~Mod Lesya

2. Motivations Aren't Always "Ulterior"

You can have a positive motivation or a neutral one or a negative one. Just wanting to have diversity only means your characters aren't all white and straight and cis and able-bodied -- it doesn't explain why you decided to make this specific character specifically bi and specifically Jewish (it me). Yes, sometimes it might be completely random! But it also might be "well, my crush is Costa Rican, so I gave the love interest the same background", or "I set it in X City where the predominant marginalized ethnicity is Y, so they are Y". Neither of these count as ulterior motives. But let's say for a second that you did accidentally catch yourself doing an "ulterior." Isn't that the point of the blog, to help you find those spots and clean them up?

Try thinking of it as “finding things that need adjusting” rather than “things that are bad” and it might get less scary to realize that we all do them, subconsciously. Representation that could use some work is often the product of subconscious bias, not deliberate misrepresentation, so there's every possibility that someone who wants to improve and do better didn't do it perfectly the first time.

--Shira

3. Dress-Making as a Metaphor

I want to echo Lesya’s sentiments here but also provide a more logistical perspective. If you check the rubber stamp guide here and the “Motivation matters” PSA above, you’ll notice that concerns with respect to asker motivation are for the purposes of providing the most relevant answer possible.

It is a lot like if someone walks into a dressmaker’s shop and asks for a blue dress/ suit (Back when getting custom-made clothes was more of a thing) . The seamstress/ tailor is likely to ask a wide variety of questions:

What material do you want the outfit to be made of?

Where do you plan to wear it?

What do you want to highlight?

How do you want to feel when you wear it?

Let’s say our theoretical customer is in England during the 1920s. A tartan walking dress/ flannel suit for the winter is not the same as a periwinkle, beaded, organza ensemble/ navy pinstripe for formal dress in the summer. When we ask for motivations, we are often asking for exactly that: the specific reasons for your inquiry so we may pinpoint the most pertinent information.

The consistent problem for many of the askers who receive the PSA is they haven’t even done the level of research necessary to know what they want to ask of us. It would be like if our English customer in the 1920s responded, “IDK, some kind of blue thing.” Even worse, WWC doesn’t have the luxury of the back-and-forth between a dressmaker and their clientele. If our asker doesn’t communicate all the information they need in mind at the time of submission, we can only say, “Well, I’m not sure if this is right, but here’s something. I hope it works, but if you had told us more, we could have done a more thorough job.”

Answering questions without context is hard, and asking for motivations, by which I mean the narratives, themes, character arcs and other literary devices that you are looking to incorporate, is the best way for us to help you, while also helping you to determine if your understanding of the problem will benefit from outside input. Because these asks are published with the goal of helping individuals with similar questions, the PSA also serves to prompt other users.

I note that asking questions is a skill, and we all start by asking the most basic questions (Not stupid questions, because to quote a dear professor, “There are no stupid questions.”). Unfortunately, WWC is not suited for the most basic questions. To this effect, we have a very helpful FAQ and archive as a starting point. Once you have used our website to answer the more basic questions, you are more ready to approach writing with diversity and decide when we can actually be of service. This is why we are so adamant that people read the FAQ. Yes, it helps us, but it also is there to save you time and spare you the ambiguity of not even knowing where to start.

The anxiety in your ask conveys to me a fear of being judged for asking questions. That fear is not something we can help you with, other than to wholeheartedly reassure you that we do not spend our unpaid, free time answering these questions in order to assume motives we can’t confirm or sit in judgment of our users who, as you say, are just trying to do better.

Yes, I am often frustrated when an asker’s question makes it clear they haven’t read the FAQ or archives. I’ve also been upset when uncivil commenters have indicated that my efforts and contributions are not worth their consideration. However, even the most tactless question has never made me think, “Ooh this person is such a naughty racist. Let me laugh at them for being a naughty racist. Let me shame them for being a naughty racist. Mwahaha.”

What kind of sad person has time for that?*

Racism is structural. It takes time to unlearn, especially if you’re in an environment that doesn’t facilitate that process to begin with. Our first priority is to help while also preserving our own boundaries and well-being. Though I am well aware of the levels of toxic gas-lighting and virtue signaling that can be found in various corners of online writing communities in the name of “progressivism*”, WWC is not that kind of space. This space is for discussions held in good faith: for us to understand each other better, rather than for one of us to “win” and another to “lose.”

Just as we have good faith that you are doing your best, we ask that you have faith that we are trying to do our best by you and the BIPOC communities we represent.

- Marika.

*If you are in any writing or social media circles that feed these anxieties or demonstrate these behaviors, I advise you to curtail your time with them and focus on your own growth. You will find, over time, that it is easier to think clearly when you are worrying less about trying to appease people who set the bar of approval so high just for the enjoyment of watching you jump. “Internet hygiene”, as I like to call it, begins with you and the boundaries you set with those you interact with online.

#PSAs #asker concerns #diversity #motivations in writing #writing with diversity #blog housekeeping #internet hygeine #asks #WWC

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