#Once Upon a Crime criticism

[penguinofspades]

I just realized that the Once Upon a Crime Cinderella is the Anti-Stolas. (Warning for Spoilers just in case)

Stolas is a rich and powerful prince who is glorified and romanticized even when he neglects his daughter (Seeing Stars) and sexually coerces his "love interest" (Murder Family). Anyone who has a problem with him has to either apologize and switch to his way of thinking (I.E. Octavia, Blitzo) or be vilified (I.E. Striker, Stella).

Cinderella is a poor young woman forced to slave away who's vilified the second she kills a creep in self defense. Yeah she did also try to frame Margot but 1. Margot abused her for years and killed her pet pigeon and 2. I feel like if Cinderella got arrested her family should've gotten arrested too for making her slave away yet that never happens.

[maliro-t]

The highlight of Veilguard for me is the relationship between Solas and Rook- and I don't know how to write about this on the internet without being acutely aware of other peoples' criticisms (such as there not being enough of it)- so I'll just say up top that I'm not actually intending this as a refutation of any of those. I just want to talk about my experience with the game and why I like it so much, which will probably make obvious where I disagree with some reoccurring critiques I've seen. *

The thing about Solas in this game is that he plays the role of the trickster perfectly. As much as Fen'Harel is a myth or a persona, and the stories we know of him invented or twisted, his role in Veilguard feels like it could slot in so, so easily with the myths, and in many ways directly parallels them. He is sinister and noble, monstrous and sympathetic, ruthless and compassionate, all at once. He spends the game trapped and humbled but can be almost gleefully condescending at times. He conflates outsmarting an enemy with being right, even as he plays the long-suffering martyr, tortured by countless mistakes. He falls easily into the role of advisor but is quick to note your foolishness. To sneer and declare the problem yours and yet still impose upon you an appraisal of your conduct.

But more than any of that, for most of the game, he's...passive. Dormant. He seems to make no moves, other than as a glorified consultant, despite starting as the main threat.

In Blood of Arlathan, when he finally rears his head again as major a player on the board, it's with a gallant offer of help. As an ally. He is exactly what you need, right when you need it, and you don't even have to ask him to be. And- because you don't have constant access to him, you maybe haven't even considered him an option!

He feels extremely intentionally sparing to me before this in service of a) making you think you're the one with power over him and b) causing you to forget he might contribute at all, so that when he finally does, it seems wholly benevolent. It comes in a moment where your goals are exactly aligned, and indisputably noble.

It's a waiting game. A classic of his, harkening back to stories we've heard time and again about Fen'harel and traps.

As Felassan tells it in the Masked Empire:

Fen'Harel was captured by the hunting goddess, Andruil. He had angered her by hunting the halla without her blessing, and she tied him to a tree and declared that he would have to serve in her bed for a year and a day to pay her back. But as she made camp that night, the dark god Anaris found them, and Anaris swore that he would kill Fen'Harel for crimes against the Forgotten Ones. Andruil and Anaris decided that they would duel for the right to claim Fen'Harel. He called out to Anaris during the fight and told him of a flaw in Andruil's armor just above the hip, and Anaris stabbed Andruil in the side, and she fell. Then Fen'Harel told Anaris that he owed the Dread Wolf for the victory and ought to get his freedom. Anaris was so affronted by Fen'Harel's audacity that he turned and shouted insults at the prisoner, and so he did not see Andruil, injured but alive, rise behind him and attack with her great bow. Anaris fell with a golden arrow in his back, badly injured, and while both gods slumbered to heal their wounds, Fen'Harel chewed through his ropes and escaped.

He goads his enemies into fighting each other for his benefit. Anaris, who had hunted him, succeeds with Fen'Harel's advice, exploiting a weakness he could only see with his aid. In turn, Anaris himself is left exposed. The victory goes to Fen'Harel, who has now dispatched two enemies at once and cleverly won his freedom.

He who was both Creator and Forgotten One. Who could walk amongst both as kin, and who in the end turned his back on them all.

Another tale:

The god Fen'Harel was asked by a village to kill a great beast. He came to the beast at dawn, and saw its strength, and knew it would slay him if he fought it. So instead, he shot an arrow up into the sky. The villagers asked Fen'Harel how he would save them, and he said to them, 'When did I say that I would save you?' And he left, and the great beast came into the village that night and killed the warriors, and the women, and the elders. It came to the children and opened its great maw, but then the arrow that Fen'Harel had loosed fell from the sky into the great beast's mouth, and killed it. The children of the village wept for their parents and elders, but still they made an offering to Fen'Harel of thanks, for he had done what the villagers had asked. He had killed the beast, with his cunning, and a slow arrow that the beast never noticed.

Felassan is everywhere in the Crossroads, in memories, in regrets, in notes that speak to a time you can barely fathom and traces of a friendship that is never once brought up by Solas directly (to my knowledge at least). I think Felassan serves a lot of purposes; he's a window into history, into Solas' mind and ideals, someone who challenges moments of ruthlessness but is loyal, an advisor who keeps Solas grounded even as he pushes him to become something larger than he is, a lingering notion of a loss that you can never really see the full scale of, and so on. And I think, too, that he's written carefully to be a meaningful presence from the rebellion without explicitly spoiling what eventually happens to him, which I wouldn't be surprised if was a legit consideration made for people who might go back and read the Masked Empire after dav lol- in the same way that Trespasser only really spoils the book if you already know what happens.

But for me, every note signed with his name is almost a tongue-in-cheek warning about what's to come. Felassan. A slow arrow, fired apparently mockingly into the sky, only to strike true when it's least expected. A solution executed with neither kindness nor explanation, serving first and foremost the interests of the one who fired it. Felassan's presence in the game ever so slightly encodes a reminder of who you're actually dealing with and what his core tenants are, whether as an ally or an adversary. You only know if you know, but it doesn't seem an accident to me that this reoccurring name of a general who shaped himself in honor of the Dread Wolf's unorthodox cleverness is so key to these traces of Fen'Harel's past, despite, again, never directly being discussed.

Anyways, to Rook. First, I gotta give a shoutout to Bryony Corrigan, whose voice I used for mine- she honestly made the game for me, especially in moments where I felt unsure of it. I love Rook, I love how they're written, and I love how they're performed. While a complete blank slate protagonist can be really fun, I find putting myself as a player in conversation with limitations given by the game really fun and interesting, and often surprising! And I do feel there's still plenty of flexibility.

My perspective on the relationship between Rook and Solas in Veilguard is specific to how I played of course, and I haven't seen other versions of their dynamic at this point to compare so I can't speak to them. But my experience was as such:

I didn't come into the game wanting to intentionally antagonize him. If he rose at me, I rose at him- and those moments of tension were really, really fun. But I tried to accept what he gave me with a fairly open mind. Skepticism, sure, but also the knowledge that ultimately, we both wanted Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain gone, and he knew them better than I did.

It was really gratifying, then, to see our rocky partnership evolve over time into what seemed like a genuine respect. But it didn't really feel straightforward to me either. For example, the conversation before Weisshaupt held a lot of weight for me: listening to him tell that chilling tale about undermining an enemy with persistent laughter and finding that 'Do whatever it takes to remove those who oppose you' was something we came out aligned on was.... There was an element of foreboding to that. Like, I had found myself actively trying to impress him here! And feeling good when it seemed like I had, but uneasy about how I had done it, even when I agreed with what I'd said.

And of course, after that comes Arlathan. Solas' big hero moment. This is the point in the game where our alliance finally felt comfortable to me. The conversation in the fade after was the first time that it really seemed like we were on even ground. And the game- not just Solas- told me here outright that I had earned his respect! After that, I didn't consider betrayal a possibility for a moment. Honestly, I barely even considered him an antagonist at all, because he had become a partner instead! I was expecting something clever down the line, but I wasn't worried about it hurting me. Our disagreements had been set aside, and the goal of his that I had initially opposed had been so thoroughly usurped I had forgotten that he was even pursuing it. And yes, that's perhaps naivety on my part, but I was so distracted by that not at all being the main plot that I forgot that it actually still was. Which is the whole point, right? He waits until your head is turned the other way to strike.

All this to say, my reaction when you kill Ghilan'nain and Solas uses the instability of the Veil to force you into his prison went beyond shock and confusion. It wasn't until well into his villain monologue that I was able to accept that he had betrayed me at all- having been thus far trying desperately to convince myself that the sequence I was seeing was Elgar'nan playing mind games in retaliation, and not actually Solas.

That prison moment is his Slow Arrow. You are Anaris to Elgar'nan's Andruil, the dagger the chink in her armor, and Ghilan'nain's death the golden arrow striking you in the back.

The wolf chews its leg off to escape the trap.

And I should say, I was coming at this all from the meta perspective of someone who loves Solas and empathizes with him and has never seen him as irredeemable or evil- and I, the player, who believed that all game and is ultimately satisfied with the resolution I got- felt hoodwinked as fuck in this moment lmao!!

There's a line in the prison that Varric has about it being easier for Solas to play the villain when he knows he's causing harm- so I do think he plays up his sinisterness here on purpose. But it's such a slap in the face coming straight off of "You have earned the respect of the Dread Wolf." A true and profound betrayal, at least for me.

And it doesn't stop there! His trickster maneuvers and half-truths aren't done until the credits roll. I love that when you meet again, he is nothing but apologies. He makes every concession- that Varric was a good man, that every victory in this fight has been yours, that he needs you and not the other way around, that he was wrong and made mistakes and betrayed people who never deserved it. And of course, we know from experience at this point that this won't stop him from doing it again anyways. But he never holds back from placing the blame on himself. Agreeing with you. Telling you you're right, and that Elgar'nan must be stopped. He only ever says things that are true. Things that are aligned with your point of view.

"[The veil] will never come down by my hand." Well, yes. Because it will fall on its own when Elgar'nan is dead. You won't hardly have to do anything at that point, Solas, will you?

It doesn't matter if Rook isn't falling for it, because if they don't accept his partnership, they lose! That's it! It's the same as it was at the start, but with the added sting of knowing it probably won't work out in your favor this time.

I remember before launch John Epler saying that Solas sees himself in Rook, which really echoes throughout the whole game for me. There are some ways you could say Solas seems opposite to Rook- and of course this can wax and wane depending on roleplaying choices, but the central conceit of Rook as Varric's recruit is that they are a specialist in being willing to act. And on the surface at least, that's kind of counter to Solas' Slow Arrow, right? Blunt force versus delayed gratification. But not entirely! Because every backstory we have for Rook revolves around a kind of heroism that is unorthodox enough to have left you ultimately punished for it. Like yeah, yeah, you saved some lives.... The optics were kinda bad though, so maybe you could go on a sabbatical for a while?

Rook is, from the start, an unconventional and unsung hero, admonished by some for ruffling feathers that they shouldn't have in pursuit of a noble goal. Not unlike Fen'Harel.

I find, too, that there's kind of a nesting doll of parallels around Rook and Solas as foils that the whole story hinges on:

We see Solas, his regrets plastered on every wall, each of them tied to Mythal. At every turn he seems to warn her that this is not the right path, but he follows her down it anyways, until he is left with nothing but an overwhelming need to fix what they have broken.

We see Felassan, who still wears Mythal's vallaslin on his face, challenging Solas' judgement and methods, but still standing by him through the rebellion, after the Veil, for however many thousands of years they slept. Ultimately, in the Masked Empire, the thing that makes him falter is his admiration for someone else's pursuit of freedom. His admiration for Briala.

"I suspect you'll hate this, but she reminds me of-"

Solas is Rook. Solas is Briala. Upstarts, flawed defenders, people who are made into leaders because of their willingness to fight for something. Who see injustice and cannot rest.

Solas is Felassan, the devoted general. One who pushes against his orders but cannot deny them. Someone who loves the cause, but more than that is dedicated to the person who champions it. A voice of reason who, in the end, turns away.

Solas is Mythal, a pragmatic leader, responsible for uncountable deaths. Someone who has relied on partners and power structures that have led her down a dark path, partners whose mistakes in their pursuit of power have become her own. Partners who in the end betray her.

Solas is trapped in his regrets because they are not all his. He struggles with having been failed and with how he has failed others, and in his mind the two become conflated. He carries these contradictory roles on his back- perpetrator and victim, betrayer and betrayed- and cannot see how to overcome them. He is ultimately freed by Mythal's absolution because the foremost factor in his crusade is not belief but guilt.

The ends have to justify the means, because there is no other way he can live with himself. And at every step, he is trying to redeem Mythal as much as he is trying to redeem himself.

He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He wanted to give wisdom, not orders. I will always follow where you go.

He left a scar when he burned her off his face.

It was all for her. It was always for her.

Solas' duplicity is unending, but so is his devotion. And there is such an earnestness to a Rook, always betrayed, that sees and empathizes with that and uses it to free him.

* I will say that during the game I was definitely wishing you could show your hand to him a little more and press him about his memories prior to the endgame (and separate from this I have quibbles with the impact of some of those memory reveals- like wrt the delivery just not feeling as weighty as I would like. The payoff is absolutely still there in the end, it just felt to me like they were too nonchalantly getting a ton of info out that had to be established moving forward, despite these being like earthshattering reveals that people have Correctly (!!!!) theorized about for up to 15 years). That being said, in retrospect it would have lessened the impact of the finale to have pressed Solas about, for example, his relationship to Mythal prior to absolutely pulling the rug out from under him with it at the 11th hour. And additionally, it's a structural nightmare because you can uncover the memories at almost any point in the story, and you don't have constant access to Solas to chat with him about them. Which you shouldn't imo, in service to the story being told!! But it's also true that early on I found scenes with Solas super gripping, and scenes with my team often...not. And that was initially disheartening, but developed positively over time on all fronts once the game didn't have to worry about setting things up. So, I did wish for more here at first, but I've revised my opinion now that I can see the whole arc.

[onlyseokmins]

ash and cinders • l.s.m.

Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 which just means a minor power play between them at first okay 😬 i promise it's not that bad lmao i'm just paranoid, lots of making out, oral (fem. receiving), lil bit of temp play tbh, little bit of choking, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? it's just basically me attempting to write prettily uwu WC: 4.24k A/N: soooo, this has been rotting in my drafts FOREVER!!! but yeah seokmin is my most darling, favorite boy i've ever stanned anyways ofc i couldn't help but use his elle magazine photos (yes that's how long this has been ROTTING) ahhhhh - ahem anyways this goes hand-in-hand with Mischief Maker so definitely recommend checking that one out too! heheh <3

He only stayed during the night.    

When the blanket of darkness covered even the moon with a hazy layer of clouds, leaving tiny twinkling stars for a traveler’s guide. The fire once dancing in the hearth dwindled down to scarlet embers barely emitting enough heat to fill the large quarters.

Not that it mattered.

Even as you lay naked amidst the silken sheets strewn upon the grand bed, the thought of your lover’s return alone was enough to engulf your body in a flame of burning anticipation that settles and simmers between your legs.

He had been gone far too long. A lengthy patrol around the surrounding territories had taken him away from your embrace. Although every morning the sun’s rays tickled your face as a sweet greeting and bathed you in a radiant light through the day, nights without him were by far the worst.    

Cold.    

Lonely.    

Dark.

On usual accounts, it was a grievous crime to keep the queen waiting. But you would forgive him for anything, wouldn’t you? It’s exemplified in the way he bursts through the doors without so much as a courteous knock that even your most trusted servants must abide by, water droplets dripping from his auburn bangs.

Despite the eagerness to see you as soon as possible, he refused to step foot into your chambers when reeking of blood after fierce combat and soiled with dirt from travel. You always protested. The gilded throne you reigned from, the heavy crown upon your head, and even the bed you shared — all were built upon those very foundations. But your lover insisted on only showcasing the glorious side of things to you.

The gold.    

The diamonds.

The luxuries.

All which adorned you by day. Glowing, glistening, and shining. Gems and jewels, fabrics woven from the highest quality quickly reduced to layers that only became a hindrance once it came time for his descent upon you. For you were absolutely beautiful clothed — this he very well knew — but when your whole body was bared naked for him and him alone? You were truly the definition of divine.

Those who dared to speak ill of you tried to foster ridiculous claims. Critical of the wealth in your possession. Mocked what they presumed was a lack of ambition. Wailed that you were a witch. A young monarch on an undeniable downfall to tyranny, one that would lead them all to hellfire and ruin.

Anything to validate that you were not worthy of the royal seal emblazoned across the lands in honor of a valiant leader with a royal bloodline still running through your veins.

Hypocrisy at its finest when you were the reason that they were bestowed or able to retain property linked to their names, money in their pockets, and a legacy to live by under your prosperous reign. Arrogant to cast down the very thing that elevated them to their current standing. But their greed would eventually come back to bite them. One day.

Even the religious sect whispered lowly, hidden in the shadows of the grand temples. Doubts that the king actually held a shred of affection for his partner — if the seldom visits seen visiting your chambers only when night falls were of any substantial evidence to go by. That he only lay with you out of duty, shackled and bound to an imposter who was never a faithful servant to the gods like they were.

Because not one of them truly believed that a god could ever favor, let alone love, a human.

You knew you were a savior to as many as you were also an enemy. A hindrance and a threat. A bold refusal to control or be controlled. There was nothing more to do other than lead your people as fairly as you judged. 

All the preposterous assumptions infuriated him — your devoted knight, unorthodox husband, and scandalous lover. But he manages to temper his fiery rage out of respect for you. Behind your ruthless, steely intent is a righteous and kind heart that always calls out for him, now fully vocalized and embellished by the sweet voice he's missed hearing dearly.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, grasping his warm hand once he's within reach.

An entity of many epithets with an existence worth a millennium beyond comprehension and full of worship. Yet his favorite phonetic combination he'd ever heard was the one that fell breathlessly from your lips. The closest the human tongue could get to a god’s true name. And his second favorite would be yours, the syllables rumbling in his chest like a song and you smiled in contentment.

He was back, he was home, and he was yours.

Even in the darkness, Seokmin glowed. The ethereal radiance surrounding the broad expanse of sinewy muscles easily proved his lofty status as the great god of the sun. But it was also his eyes, flickering with the unmistakable presence as one of many deities. The kind of power that has managed to refrain from turning you into ash and cinders.

Whether it's attributed to your resilience, a ruler born to stand out and lead, or an entirely different reason — or a mixture of all — Seokmin isn't really sure. He's not the first to appear in a human vessel nor the last, with at least twelve of his known brothers wandering the mortal world for various reasons.

He wonders if he's the first to bow his head willingly, though, holding back his more devious and destructive tendencies. To pay back tenfold the worship he's received since the beginning of time all to you — a mere human — yet nonetheless, his queen.

The event of swearing his undying fealty feels like it was yesterday. For a being that persists forever, it may as well have been that short ago. Every memory he etches and sears into his mind for eternity consists of you, and only you.

How could he forget? How was he supposed to bury away the confident smirk that graced your lovely lips? Would he ever not recall the first time he bent the knee in such desperation? Not for a trick or as a dark seduction that tumbles into a dreadful demise, a conquest for carnage, and an abuse of his powers. But instead for the good of humanity — however short of an era it may be.

And maybe… for more. One that his heart fears to admit, for it does not beat within his chest, but in a plane beyond the reach of mortals.

"Would you kill for me?"

"For you, anything," the god affirms. "I have laid waste to kingdoms, countries, empires, and even continents themselves. There is nothing I'm incapable of."

"And if I asked you to behead the entire entourage that has traveled with you?"

"… If it is what you will, then it is simply my command to follow. For you, I am a lone knight at your disposal."

Silken skirts flare out as does your anger when you turn away from the large windows in the tower's tiny excuse of a throne room — hardly fit for the heir — showcasing a brief flash of the lethal dagger strapped to your thigh. "Do you wish for my downfall before I've even risen to the throne? You expect me to be a tyrant, despised by the people I am meant to save? To lead?"

"Do you think I, a god, care what thoughts others conjure up in their silly little minds? I am to act on your behalf, get my hands dirty in lieu of you. No matter how morbid your desires may be."

Stepping closer, you lift his chin with the tip of a dull sword intended to be ornamental. But it may be even deadlier than the one hung at his side, metaphorically sharpened and honed by a rebel princess's innate rage. 

His little show of bowing means little with the way he stares straight at you without a shred of respect in those galaxy-filled irises. However, it is the mighty sun god who is taken aback by the hellfire burning in your gaze, hungry and powerful enough to rival his own as you scoff.

"I will show you what kind of queen this land needs, the methods we will follow, and the morals I wish to uphold. You will learn in order to understand them and enforce my will. Not only to help guide the vision I desire but to keep me accountable lest I stray. A critical misstep such as that is when I'll ask you to cut me down. Will you swear to do that for me?"

"… You dare question a god of what he can do? Your tiny, impudent human mind couldn't fathom a sliver of my capability."

"I dare to question what you can't or won't do."

"I told you, there is not a thing beyond my realm of —"

"Leave."

"… Your Highness?"

Painted lips curl in a snarl at the first address of your proper title since his arrival. "Begone, I said! Return when you feel like acting like the god you are, not simply a tool to be harnessed and used at will. Until then, I have no need for you."

Seokmin's jaw drops as you seat yourself back on the throne with a sneer and flick of your wrist for the guard to usher him out.

A challenge. 

He's been abandoned many times. Discarded and tossed to the side once his usefulness has been expended. He's left before betrayal can even be thought of — for no one points a blade at a god's back — but never has he been rejected.

It was only the beginning of how you would become many of his 'firsts' and all of his 'lasts'.

Seokmin is lost deep in the memory even with the feeling of your lips curling in a gentle smile against his — a stark contrast to your initial meeting. A nail grazes his chin, digging lightly into the skin to fully bring the god back to the present. 

You'd be offended by the habitual spacing out if he hadn't admitted to only getting lost in thoughts of you. Something he'd picked up during the routine patrols away. Though you strive to bring the god out of dwelling in the past when you're sitting right in front of him — the present — and deepen the kiss.

Yet he pulls away to tilt his head. "Do you remember what you offered to me?"

"Have I not offered you my all, my king?"

Charcoal lying dormant in the hearth flares back to life, emitting playful sparks when he chuckles. "After I returned to pledge my loyalty to you."

"Ah, even though I had you wait outside the gates for five days."

"Unfathomable for a god to hang around at the whim of a meager human, isn't it?"

"Meager?"

"To me? Yes." 

His warm exhale of amusement feels just like the breeze that fondly brushes your cheeks every morning despite the eternal humidity. It may very well be him because no matter how far away physically from you he is, Seokmin's essence radiates in every sunray that stretches across the grand skies and below.

He is everywhere and everything all the time. But he is here with you tonight once again, kissing the palm you'd placed on his cheek. With mischief flickering like a teasing flame in his eyes, the god brings your hand to his throat, encouraging you to splay your fingers across his Adam's apple.

You free yourself from his light grasp to run them ticklishly up and down the bumps of his vocal cords. The movements of swallowing ripples beneath the light scratch of your nails until he halts you by replacing a veined hand over yours and murmurs, "Squeeze."

"Ah — but I…"

He repeats it again louder when you fail to do as asked, not even daring to move a muscle. Simply staring in almost awe-filled hesitation until he guides you to tentatively do exactly as he states, "You would have done anything to strangle me back then, what has changed?"

"… You know what."

"Tell me," he says it like it's a command, eyes brightening and swirling with an authoritative amber hue though it's all in jest. "Tell me what it is, my queen."

Never one to be deterred, only Seokmin could render you motionless for so long. You do as you're instructed, the gentle pressure applied by your hand around his throat causes auburn eyelashes to flutter. The slight restriction to an airflow that isn't all that necessary for a god's survival has his eyes rolling back before they re-focus on you, half-hidden by hooded eyelids.

"Love," you murmur. For it is the answer to everything, is it not?

"Love," is echoed with a resounding voice that doesn't fully come from the tongue of the man beneath you, but bellows out from an otherworldly essence that surrounds the entire world and beyond. And at the same time, he speaks it so fondly because ultimately, he's addressing it as a title for you.

The god of the sun, as immortal as he might be, has died before. Mortal vessels manage to persevere for a fixed number of years and a feeble human body can only endure so much wear and tear. Yet Seokmin's soul still shines steadily onwards despite the memory of death over and over again lingering… and he unsurprisingly realizes that he wouldn't mind dying like this — by your hand. 

Was that love? 

But the amount of power, energy, and time, along with the unpredictable wiles of the creator would never guarantee him returning to you. Preservation of this human shell was of the utmost importance, the first time he's ever handled a vessel with care before.

Perhaps that was love.

Rather than be swept up in unpleasantries, he entertains the amusing thought of how much fragility you exercise with him. Having already released your grip far too quickly and instead, fiddle with the untied laces on his loose shirt.

"Love," he repeats, this time as a call in a raspy drawl of his own voice. 

"Hm. Or maybe it was… pity."

An eyebrow raises and the corners of Seokmin's mouth twitch upward. "Only my queen would dare to pity a god."

"It was for what you were. And who you weren't. I despise those uppity, repetitive displays of unwavering loyalty that either party can easily discard."

"Like the former king's imperial court."

"Yes." 

Your angered hiss is exactly the same as the first time you informed him of your plans to take down your father and his cult. The disgust and rage have barely ebbed even after all the progress made for a better future and as many years that have passed. 

Seokmin scans your expressions. He's always admired your spitfire that could rival his own flames. But in times when it burns long enough to possibly exhaust or hurt you, he worries. You're strong — he knows that — so many times he simply becomes the safe space where you can seethe aloud without interruption. 

"Would you rather grow dull and be poisoned because someone is not even worth keeping an eye on or the thrill of unpredictability? A constant sword dance that keeps each other on their toes, never deviating gazes from one another."

He smirks. "That sounds familiar."

You think back to earlier days with him. A stubborn royal and an even more stubborn deity. When did the challenging, pointed glares at one another change to simmering looks of desire?

Instead of your swords tangling together in an angry clash over a small matter, it was your tongues after a heated sparring session. How condescension switched to respect to something more passionate… more primal… more intimate.

"Perhaps so. But look at you now — look at how you shine."

His skin indeed glows a bit brighter as he melts further into the soft touch of your palm returning to his cheek. Thumb tracing constellations between the pair of moles on his cheek while your other finger follows the nearly invisible scar below his eye.

"Little blemishes," he had once told you, "even the body of a god bears its flaws after fighting on a battlefield."

You thought they only made him all the more perfect.

"And look at how I've fallen."

As if to demonstrate his murmured words, Seokmin moves at the speed of light — his normal pace — to lie on his back, umber strands of hair spread out like flames of fire against the grandiose bed's silken sheets.

Somehow, he'd positioned you on top of him. Much accustomed to the tiny displays of omnipotence here and there, you remain unbothered. Affectionately, you brush back his bangs. Fiery wisps of hair that seemingly move on their own accord with the amount of power that ripples through their thin fibers.

He might just be the most powerful among his fellow deities and you could wield all of that as your own because he sits obediently in the palm of your hand. Lays dociley among your silken sheets. What he's trying to prove to you — the hold you have over him — immediately enthralled under your spell as you play with his locks and softly whisper, "You're Seokmin. My Seokmin."

Despite your bare chest quite literally in his face, the god waits. Fully clothed in soft linens where he can feel every tempting pulse thundering in your precious mortal body on top of his. 

And still, he waits. 

His hands don't even reach out as you unlace his shirt. Though he has wrecked and ruined your body in a thrillingly sensual, blistering, and passionate heat of love-making before, tonight he gives himself over to you. Vulnerable and all yours for the taking, watching with faint amusement as you impatiently urge him to shed the rest of his garments.

"My queen."

"My king."

"There is no rush. We have all of eternity."

"Do we?" you breathe out and look him in the eyes as your fingers dance along his inner thigh. "Or is it only you, divine ruler of the everlasting dawn and never-ending night?"

"My graceful moon," Seokmin sighs and distracts you from grasping his weeping shaft, urging you to straddle his legs. You follow his will despite the object of your desires lying neglected between your bodies, coating your stomach in the molten saltiness that drips from it.

"My stars, my sky, my galaxy, my universe." Each title of affection is seared into your skin with a burning kiss to brand your body. Your cheek, your ear, your neck, your shoulder, and your hand. "Without you in it, the world ceases to exist."

"My sun, my warrior, my knight, my shield, and my sword." You repeat a version of your own display of worship and what he means to you — mimicking the same actions across his lithe body. "My love, it would do you good to live in the present with me. Must you think of a dire future so soon?"

"Each inhale of life thus returns an exhale of death. I dread every moment that brings me closer to your end."

"Such morbid thoughts you carry, my darling. Where is the fearless god that took a poisoned arrow to the heart and pulled it out without so much as a flinch?" 

"You think me weak when I'd take the blow of any weapon as long as it does not harm you."

The irony when you'd both been struck by invisible, non-lethal darts fired from the god of love's feathered bow. But the terrifying memory of Seokmin taking the assassination attempt in your place causes a rare, but true, fear twisting in your gut. The flash of life before your eyes changed the trajectory of your tactics and your relationship with the god. And as always he reassures you with what he knows to be the truth — for the most part.

"Nothing can hurt me as long as you're alright." 

"Then make me your goddess in return so that I will be invincible enough to protect you from harm's wrath too." 

"But that… you know I can't," he whimpers, "no matter how much I long to." 

A tear trickles down his cheek, crystallizing when it falls. Like many before and well after, all bodily fluids of the god will be found transformed as various tiny diamonds and gems. Tangled within the bedsheets the following morning as they always are and stored away in the queen's treasury.

Seokmin cries, not just at his frustrations, but at how you gingerly hold his hot and hardened length. Heavy in your palm that rubs and strokes it lovingly before sinking down with practiced ease, having already stretched yourself out earlier while waiting. Undulating your hips in slow, controlled circles that make him dizzy with desire. Your words pierce his chest, paining him like no sword that sliced him open could ever compare.

"If fate will not let it happen, then bury me in the ground so I can thrive beneath your warm rays that whisper sweet nothings. Let me smile up at you after winter passes while I bloom brilliantly through spring and long into the heated days of summer. Weave my soul among the stars so I may greet you in the morning and kiss you goodnight every evening. Scatter my ashes into the windy gusts of the north and down the silver rivers flowing south so I may laugh and dance in the skies alongside your sunbeams."

He sobs at the poignant emotional tug of your words, every poetry waxed by your breathy voice punctuated by a tantalizing undulation of your hips. You reassuringly clench around him, foreheads and bodies pressed together, hands clasped tightly in each other's grasp.

The god's chest heaves and the mountains on the eastern border shift to the left. Sometimes the air cools when this occurs but tonight, it shimmers and glistens as if straining against his commands. A hot wave that threatens to distort the very seam of reality itself. 

"I will always be yours," you kiss the corner of his trembling lips, "and you mine, my darling god."

"My sweet goddess, my everything… my love."

Seokmin's hips buck up anxiously and you let him lead the pace. Wild thrusts take over as he chases that high, wanting and needing to take you over that peak with him. Your body lays prone against him, along for the jostling ride as the god seeks his own pleasure through and with you. Praises and worship fall from his lips, never failing to be in awe of how your cunt molds and works his cock like a blacksmith shapes an iron rod yet he can bully it as he wants to fit him. Only him. 

You were made for the god of the sun.

Golden ichor thrums through his veins, lighting his skin in flashes like the sparks of embers. He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Your lips capture each glowing pulse of godliness that erupts beneath his flesh with a tender peck. He's all yours.

And he was made for you.

When Seokmin plunges into your welcoming warmth that is his alone to claim before he finally succumbs, it's blinding. On the other side of the earth, the sun shines a little brighter. A harsh glint that already emits a sweltering heat from its fiery nature flares even hotter in the blue sky. A blessed priestess looks up in contemplation, waving away the worried maidens who tend to her every need.

You feel his large hands — one presses in a bruising hold between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. Keeping you flush against him, holding your body to his while you welcome inside the scorching spurts of his seed within your womb that feel like lava. Your walls flutter around him and he basks in the feeling of them pulsating as you jerk your hips 

"Come," he begs out. It's loud and resounding. More of an instinctual command if anything and your body almost obeys unwittingly, unaware of his intent before he lifts you up with inhuman strength and clarifies, "Up here," and sits you on your rightful throne — his face, "where you deserve, the queen of queens. My queen. My love. My goddess."

He laps at you like a dehydrated dog. Both cleaning you up and creating an even bigger mess. Your thighs squeeze tightly around the sides of Seokmin's head, one hand tugging harshly at his hair and the other mercilessly wrinkling the silk bed sheets. His moans are sweet songs of praise but muffled as he sucks his release out of your cunt only to push it back inside with his tongue. The addition of globs of spit accompanying the still-hot, smeared mess causes your own sounds to grow much louder, writhing on top of him from the sloppy sensations.

Back and forth he repeats this a couple of times, the firm point of his nose stimulating your sore clit in his efforts. And finally, you come undone — spasming on top of Seokmin's chin and suffocating him just like he likes. Breathing and drowning in your essence, the very elixir of life.

"I shall make you mine," he whispers later, dutifully laying your deliciously aching but clean body onto freshened sheets. Your lover is ever so attentive, rarely nearly needing the same amount of aftercare he showers upon you.

For he is a god from the heavens to bestow blessings upon his desired mortal.

"I am already yours."

"But for all of eternity, it shall be so."

Satiated and content, you reach for him. He lovingly takes your hand and presses a kiss to the tip of each of your fingers. "How?"

"The Mother. She's the closest thing we have to the Creator and might be older than the universe itself. There's nothing she doesn't know so I'm sure she'll have the answers I seek."

"Must you leave so soon?"

Seokmin smiles as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. "The sun never fails to rise, my dear. I will be back before you know it bringing with me tidings of great news."

"I'll be waiting."

Your shared kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet and full of sentiment. Indeed, you always wait for him and the sun god leaves with a full heart of hope. Little does he know, and little do you suspect, the true one lying in wait was the shadowed figure holding a poisoned dagger beneath their cloak.

And so, with the death of a queen so loved by the god of the sun… the prophecy begins.

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

[artyandink]

amoralism | two

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Blood, firearms, organised crime, talk of drugs, Agent Dean Winchester, sexual tension, wet dream, awkwardness, unsupportive mom, dramatic sister, consensual crime

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: People I Don’t Like - UPSAHL

materialism

Family dinners took the hell out of you.

They were so awkward, and for what? It was a few hours of pushing food around plates, unwanted conversations and criticisms about your home life and job. Of course your mom wasn’t proud that you were FBI. Were they slightly averse because she carries a truckload of deep seated traditionalism? Definitely.

Your mom, Elena, took a pointed bite of salad as she flitted her eyes disapprovingly between you, your slouching and your less than socially satisfactory manner of eating. Practically assaulting your food with a well timed fork stab and shovelling it in your mouth.

You were a federal agent, not a damn princess.

At least your younger sister had gone to deb balls and beauty pageants and gotten married fresh out of college and landed a job as a secretary for a wealthy CEO in Delaware while you apparently ‘slum it’ and put serial killers behind bars.

Putting your life on the line to make your country a better place. Totally something undesirable, a horrible job, only bozos and hobos would do it.

Your dad, Richard (but he had everyone call him Rick, your mom never listened), was proud of you. More proud than he could put into words. He’d once come to visit you after work to congratulate you on a case that you’d solved (confidential, of course), and his heart burst with pride upon seeing his little girl dressed in a formal suit and storing her government approved handgun.

“Darling?” Your mom trilled in her fancy accent and high pitched voice, which caught your attention. You looked up, halfway through a sip of wine, same as your dad. Holding it wrong. Again, not a princess. “When will you be getting married?”

You almost did a spit take, but swallowed so it wouldn’t happen and coughed as it almost went down the wrong way, Rick doing the same at the exact same time. Your sister, Cassie (short for Cassandra), glanced between the two of you with a look of judgement identical to your mom’s.

They were carbon copies of each other. Same with you and your dad.

“M-Marriage?” You spluttered, still recovering from the notes of chamomile that stung at the back of your throat. Chamomile’s meant to be soothing. “I-I’m a federal - ahem - agent, I don’t have t-time to-” You cleared your throat loudly, “- marry.”

Your mom scoffed, waving you off with a manicured hand. “You blab on about this federal agent business, but we have no clue what kind of cases you deal with.”

“Honey, we can’t push her.” Your dad vouched, and you internally cheered him on, swallowing down a sharp retort with a shovelling down of spaghetti that earned you an eye roll from Cassie and an exasperated sigh from Elena. “Her work is classified.”

“Classified from her family?”

“That’s generally what it means.” You added with a clearing of your throat. “A brief overview of my work in Major Crimes is literally the major crimes. Serial killers, mob bosses, organised crime.”

Your mom gave a loud, false laugh. “Hush, hush. Mafias only occur in dramatised television shows and movies.”

“Elena, you should be proud of our daughter.” Rick sighed, pointedly staring at his wife. “She works to keep everyone safe. Debutante balls and beauty pageants aren’t all the glory.”

And now Cassie was throwing a fit, her blonde hair almost torn out by her pink-painted claws. Jesus, if you went into the office with those monsters? You didn’t even wanna know.

While your mom ticked off your dad for saying such an insensitive thing, you nudged his foot with yours as a silent thank you for defending him. And his foot tapped yours back as if to say don’t apologise.

God, you cherished your dad.

“Don’t pay attention to your mother.” He’d told you in a calm, soft voice as you two steadily worked on the dishes, the quiet noise of the sponge spreading soap suds on the plate not the best ambience but alright all the same. “She’s a little dramatic.”

You raised an eyebrow, getting the itch out from just above your eyebrow using the back of your hand. “A little?”

Rick shrugged, then chuckled. “Alright, you got me there. She’s extremely dramatic. But she’s my wife, and I love her, regardless of whether I think she should take up a role in Broadway.”

“Or a soap opera.” You both shared a laugh, but then you subsided into a rather wistful state of mind. “I just want her to understand that even though I can’t talk about it, I still do something worthy of recognising, right? I mean, not everyone can say they’re one of the best agents Major Crimes has to offer.”

“She’ll come around.” Rick planted a kiss on your temple that felt a little scratchy from his stubble. “I’m so proud of you, y’know that? My little girl’s grown up to be an incredible woman.”

Your phone rang, and you shook your hands off, towelling them before taking out your phone and picking up the call.

‘Took you long enough, princess.’ Agent Winchester’s voice came from the other line, and seems like your dad heard a man’s voice, because his eyebrow raised past what was the beginning of his receding hairline. Princess. It took you back to the night you had your first wet daydream of your case partner, Dean goddamn Winchester, three years ago, working the very case you both were heading now.

Except with much higher stakes.

“You’re far from on my priority list, Agent.” You huffed out a breath, mouthing to your dad to behave as you knew he had the strong urge to find out who exactly you were talking to. And if there was a possibility that he’d need to grab his baseball bat and go warn this guy off breaking your heart.

Federal agent or not, he’d do it. He’d do anything to keep his daughter safe.

‘You’re gonna break this young man’s heart.’

“We’re 35.”

‘Exactly. Young.’ His tone sounded like he was holding off laughter, adopting a voice which resembled Mrs Doubtfire. ‘We’re youthful, innocent little whippersnappers-’

“Agent, if you’re just going to waste my time, you better hang up.” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. Your dad gave you a look which said damn, don’t do him like that. In truth, neither of you were exactly innocent. You had unholy, R-rated thoughts of each other every time you did so much as think of each other.

You definitely wanted to do him.

You heard Dean clear his throat, getting back on track. ‘Right. Yeah. So, there’s some of our double agents in crime circles that reported back to me after I dropped ‘em a little message. They’re sayin’ that there’s an auction happening at a charity gala in a week, and they’re pawning off this necklace-’

“Yeah, you’re wasting my time.” You scoffed, wondering why he was into getting jewellery. Unless it was to pacify a girl he two timed. Then again, he could probably do it with his panty-soaking, money-winning grin, smooth winks and some cheap pickup line he stole off the Internet.

‘Hey, let me finish. The necklace has a USB chip inside. It contains videos of our syndicate’s work, so if we get a hand on that, we know what we’re dealing with.’ He chuckled at his own brilliance, making you roll your eyes at his ego. ‘And, uh, you’re about to pick apart and criticise my plan by saying that there’s no way in hell that we have the money to buy that thing, so… I talked to Director Singer, and he had a chat with the board and they gave us a pass for as many consensual crimes as needed.’

“So, where do we factor in all this?” You asked, making a mental note of everything he was telling you.

‘That’s the fun part. We got invites to that event, so we’re gonna go together as a doting, wealthy married couple and steal it.’

“It’s not my first undercover gig, so as long as we don’t run into any complications, it could work.”

‘So, I’ll see you at my place tomorrow to discuss logistics. I’ll make sure Sammy- Detective S. Winchester - is out of the house.’

“Alright. Bye.” You cut the call, and spotted your dad smiling proudly at you. His eyes twinkling, and his steady scrubbing hand paused. “What?”

Dean’s back hit the bed, your lips moving up to claim his exposed throat and freckled, exposed chest, making a steady trail to his shoulder and nipping until there was a forming hickey. His breath laboured, mind spinning and body on autopilot. He could feel your nails over his abs, tracing and mapping out every contour, his eyes locking on you, looking like a vision in black lace, a garter and pretty, matching, sheer, thigh-high nylons.

He was always a sucker for a woman in lingerie.

“God, baby, c’mere.” He groaned, hands finding purchase on the backs of your thighs and yanking you forward, settling you closer as his hand teased at the hem of your panties, one sharp flick of his wrist tearing the flimsy material and leaving it beyond repair, drawing a gasp and barely restrained whine from you. He chucked the remains off the bed, that hand, already glistening from having touched your soaked panties, found your cunt, sliding his fingers back and forth before roughly thrusting two up and into your soaked pussy, crooking them just right in order to have you clamping down and already rocking up and down desperately. “So tight. Gonna ride my fingers already, sweetheart?”

“Mmh- mhmm.” Was all you could get out, barely noticing how his free hand reached behind you to unclip your bra, propping himself up so he could latch his mouth onto your nipple and suck, causing you to mewl and let out an even more sinful moan right as his thumb found your clit right as the pad of his index found your g-spot, his third finger joining the party and pressing on it.

Layering and layering and layering until your mind was blank, thighs shaking, mouth open and eyes rolling back until they saw stars and the brief outline of God.

Looks like he does have a beard.

“Dean, g-god-” You were cut off by a moan, biting your lip, and Dean nodded encouragingly, free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, thumbing at your bottom lip to ease it free.

“Waited so long for this.” He murmured. “Gotta hear you. Look so pretty, baby-”

“Dean, wake up!” Dean shot up and spluttered when a glass of ice cold water hit him like a bullet train, finding you to be the perpetrator. No lingerie, just a simple sweater and jeans, your hair pulled into a loose rope braid over your left shoulder.

Still hot. Still infuriating.

“Woah, hey!” He raised his hands in disbelief before running one down his face to rid him of the water dripping down it, then onto his grey-blue flannel shirt. “The hell was that?! And- how did you get in here?”

You put the glass down in frustration, the sound thudding against Dean’s oak dining table, partially wet from the thrown water. “Sam let me in.”

“Doesn’t answer my first question.”

“You’d been passed out at that table when I got here. Tried to wake you up fifty ways. You sleep like a rhino.” You scoffed, but your eyes couldn’t help but trail down to the way the water traced his jaw, down to the curve of his neck and beneath the neckline of his shirt, which exposed a hint of defined collarbone. You felt like an eleven year old seeing a man shirtless for the first time. Except you were going feral for a fleeting glimpse of your colleague’s collarbone, watching the way his flannel clung to his frame.

You were beginning to get the tantalising thought of seeing Dean, washing that gorgeous ‘67 Chevy Impala of his. Shirt off, water dripping down his bare torso and giving you an illegal hit of his v-line. And his abs, tracing every contour that you knew was there. It had your body warming up and your thighs clenching and rubbing.

You hoped to God that Dean didn’t see you doing that.

So instead, you took a random kitchen towel and threw it so it hit him right in the face, and he flinched, grabbing the towel off his face and rubbing the water off in a disgruntled fashion as you moved to grab a beer from the fridge. He was irritated beyond belief. He knew you two had unresolved sexual tension that went back in the history books about five years but that was uncalled for. He was your partner on this mole case, and was heading an organised crime case with you, he deserved some respect-

Your ass framed by those jeans. The denim clinging to your legs that went on for days. Goddamn days, ending in sensible lace-up boots. That sweater with a scoop neckline. Your ass in those jeans, the curve of your pretty neck, the pout of those plump lips. Did he mention your ass in those jeans?

Suddenly he didn’t feel so vexed. And… respect? Who needs respect? Who needs… goddamn. Who… needs…

No thoughts. Head empty.

Sweet Jesus.

“What did you say?” Your head turned to face him, eyebrow raised in the middle of sipping your beer, and he realised that he’d muttered that out loud (while also realising he was staring at your lips touching that bottle rim. He’d never wanted to be a glass bottle more in his life.). He snapped out of it, blotting his flannel gingerly with the towel. Missing the way your eyes locked on how it pressed flush against his chest (you’d never wanted to be a plaid shirt in your life, but times seem to change).

“Nothin’, Agent.” Dean cleared his throat, shaking his head to rid him of the bad, bad, unprofessional thoughts clouding his head. But god, did he need you bad.

He might get through a whole box of tissues tonight.

“Kyle, what do you mean, you don’t know how to use a washing machine?” You asked with a scoff, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you spoke to your cousin Kyle, who was in college. Of course, it was the first time he’d ever worked a washing machine on his own and of course, you were the first one he called.

‘It’s not something I’m used to, ok?’ He was scared of your mom, his mom (your aunt Olivia) and Cassie, and you taught your dad and his dad - uncle Tom - how to use the washing machine so Elena wouldn’t go on a rant about men’s uselessness when it comes to household chores.

You took out a paper and pen, writing down a list of instructions as quickly as you could in your nearest handwriting possible, and then you put your phone on speaker, snapped a photo and sent it. “There. All set. I’ll write up a small guide on how to work the rest of your appliances, I’m just knees deep in an investigation.”

‘You’re a lifesaver, I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life.’

“This is a washing machine, not selling your soul. You don’t owe me. Now, see you on Thanksgiving. Bye, Kyle.” You cut the call in time for the doorbell to ring, and you rolled your eyes.

You get no breaks nowadays.

But when you opened the door, you were met with pearly way-too-whites, bouncing ginger hair and shiny blue eyes, complete with what looked like five neon-coloured dress carriers. “Why hello there, babes!” She trilled, sashaying in with her faux fur-trim coat. You rolled your eyes again, but playfully and partially in relief. “I got your message and came as quick as I could.”

“Hey, Dré.” You smiled wearily, closing the door behind her. Andréa May-Reynolds was your best friend since the early days of high school and probably the only person you could tolerate who cared that inexplicably much about their looks. You’d texted her for help with the dress picking for your undercover gig (but you told her it was merely one of your mom’s gatherings as she was a socialite). “Thanks for coming, exorcism I texted you ten minutes ago.”

She waved you off, tutting rapidly. “It’s my job. Whenever a friend has a fashion emergency, I need to be there.” Andréa started rifling through the clothes options she brought. “Ok, so, you mentioned a plus one. Who is he, cause we need to decide whether we want the option Lukewarm, Getting Warmer, Pretty Warm or Smoking Hot.”

You knew that she knew the name you were about to say, so you said it. “Dean Winchester.”

You almost pulled out your firearm with the scream she let out.

“God, Andréa!” You hissed, rubbing your ear while Andréa searched through her selection and pulled out one bright red case.

She just squealed again, giggling. “Dean Winchester? Never thought I’d hear that name again. Smoking Hot ain’t gonna cut it for him, you need the Nuclear option.”

“There’s a nuclear option now?”

“Duh.” She ceremoniously yanked out a dress and held it out for you. “Try it on.”

You took the dress from her with a raised eyebrow and disappeared off into your bedroom upstairs to change. When you looked yourself in the mirror with the dress on, you didn’t recognise yourself. In all honesty, you probably looked ridiculous.

But when you made your way downstairs, trying not to trip on the fabric, you almost did fall when you heard Andréa’s shrill shriek of delight.

Jesus, you thought as you grabbed the railing, she’ll be the death of me.

“Sammy.” Dean had hurried over to Sam’s place, knocking rapidly on the door while holding a lot of tux choices. “Sammy, open up, it’s me! Dean.”

Sam opened the door with a bleary eye, rubbing it. “Dean, it’s ten in the night- Jess, hon, it’s just Dean!” He called back to Jess, who appeared in the doorway with a nightgown on. “I’ll come back in a minute.” Once Jess had returned to bed, Sam turned to his older brother. “What?”

“Which one?” Dean held up the options, looking between them. “I don’t see the difference, but I thought you would. You’re fancy, I just pick what I see first in the closet.”

“You’re hopeless.” The younger Winchester groaned, rubbing his cheek before gesturing to the options. “It’s an undercover gala, you don’t need to properly think about what to wear.”

“I don’t give a damn about the gala, I hate those fancy schmancy, pretentious excuses of a party. They don’t even have beer.” Dean smirked, then chuckled deep. “It’s about who’s going. Agent Hot Chick.”

“We’re still using that code name?” Sam frowned, hands now on his hips. “She’s our coworker.”

“She’s our smokin’ hot coworker.” Dean waggled his eyebrows and dumped the options on the sofa. “Pick one. C’mon.”

Sam browsed quickly through the options, then picked one out with a low groan. “I need to get paid. Here. Two piece tux, can’t go wrong.”

Dean took the tux, examined it, then hummed. “I can hide my gun in here, right?”

“Yeah. Just take it and go, I want to go to bed. With my wife.”

“Sammy, you sly dog.” He clapped his younger brother’s shoulder. “Well, don’t keep the missus waiting, and I’ll be out of your glorious hair.” Before Sam could react, Dean was out of the door and had left the substandard suits on the couch.

“Glorious hair?” Sam muttered, running a hand through said hair.

He didn’t know what had gotten into his older brother, but he didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated.

Probably both.

The gala itself was nothing short of fancy as hell. Almost like out of a spy movie. Marbled floor, cream walls that looked gold in the lighting, tables of hors d’oeuvres that Dean’s stomach instantly felt a magnetic attraction to.

Fancy snacks are still snacks. Back to the story.

A red carpet that made Dean feel like he was walking in the Met or some movie premiere, with everyone dressed to the nines. Eating snacks.

He popped one into his mouth, chowing down on it and finding that the cheese-based delicacy wasn’t so bad, and he swiped a glass of champagne from a server’s tray in order to blend in.

One sip and he was spluttering, putting it back on a tray again, and that’s when he saw you.

He’d call you a snack, but you were the whole damn buffet.

Dean was pretty sure he was looking at a weapon of mass devastation. To his self control at least - there was a smoking crater in the middle of that. And there were some thoughts in his head that definitely wouldn’t be praised by polite society. He’d be damned for it.

You were clad in dark red silk that melded to your figure, almost like waves on your body, like water. Water had never seemed sexier. Your lips were a shade of scarlet, your clever eyes highlighted by the makeup surrounding it. Your knee just poking out from the slit at the thigh, hands clasped delicately at your midsection.

You looked expensive.

And delicious.

It had Dean’s jaw dropping before he picked it back up, straightening the lapels of his tux and trying to think of non-sexy thoughts so he wouldn’t sport a very visible attraction to his fake wife in polite society. He’d gone the full way, even getting a gold-plated ring so he’d look married and expensive but it also wasn’t too costly. He wasn’t made of money.

He didn’t belong in this party. You definitely did, looking like that.

You were in the very place that you’d been trying to run from again. Fancy parties, posh vocabulary and exaggerated accents. Your mother or Cassie would be a social butterfly in this situation. Not you, you were quaking in your borderline painful heels. Feeling all too out of place in the sweeping curtains, silk, satin and chiffon couture dresses and the gales of fake, exaggerated laughter.

Then there he came, Dean frickin’ Winchester, in a two piece tux. Sure, his bow tie was a little wonky (understatement) but the rest of him had your thighs rubbing together. As usual, he donned a suit that stretched over his well built muscles and gave you a good outline of the contours on his chest, powerful thighs looking good to ride in those trousers. Lips pouting every time he chewed on the delicacy he plucked from a side table and forcing thoughts of those very lips devouring you the same way.

He looked expensive.

He looked irresistible.

The image of the normally cocksure and obnoxiously confident Dean Winchester in high society had you swallowing on a dry throat and thinking un-sexy thoughts to rid you of the incredibly unprofessional ones in your head (one of which included him ripping the dress off your body), all of them sending a quiver down your spine. A very, very good quiver. Oh, god, this wasn’t helping.

You felt out of place here. You didn’t belong here, but Dean certainly did in that getup. You were so absorbed in checking out the stretch of the fabric over his biceps that you missed the way he sipped some champagne and gagged on it.

Then you quickly clacked over in your heels, linking your arm with his to sell the act. “Husband.” You said stiffly, and he nodded back.

“Wife.” He replied, swallowing at the adrenaline rush at having Aphrodite incarnate on his arm. Hell, you might just be Aphrodite in disguise. He could never tell.

“Alright, by inside intel, the necklace is kept upstairs in a six inch safe carbon and iron steel alloy safe with a biometric lock. We have no welders on us, and the case is fingerprint security.” You muttered while crunching a breath mint between your teeth. You never know, the locals may demand a kiss and you’d be damned if you got teased for bad breath.

“And how do you propose we breach that, honey?” Dean got out through a forced smile.

You smirked, the plan in your head. “I’ve got a blush compact in my holster. And a tape roll. We can get the print through that easily enough.”

“That holster deserves a medal.” He murmured to himself, then steered her towards a group. “We need to mingle. We’re not single, but blending in and finding a way to go upstairs is best, if you know what I mean.”

Mhmm. You very much got it, and it thrilled you slightly.

You had no time to dwell on the thought as an elderly group of women caught your attention and trilled for you two to come over. “What a lovely young couple.” One crowed, gesturing to the both of you. “Married, I’m assuming?”

Dean drew you closer into his chest, and your hand landed there by impact- a solid goddamn wall. Oh, holy mama. He let out a low chuckle, pumping his eyebrows. “Ma’am, you can’t find a woman this gorgeous and not, to quote Miss Knowles, ‘put a ring on it’.”

“Oh, honey, such a flirt!” You laughed in a posh accent, mimicking your mother’s laugh to the best of your ability while you swatted Dean’s chest. He smirked at the look in your eyes, because goddamn was it obvious that you hated this.

“Darlin’, I can’t help myself around you.” He turned to the other charity goers with a proud smirk, gesturing to all of you. “Can’t keep my hands off my gorgeous wife. Might have to have something off the menu for dessert, if you catch my drift.” He winked at some elderly ladies, who giggled and waved him off.

“Such a charming boy.” One cooed, obviously eyeing Dean up with poorly restrained envy. While you looked around for your target, you missed the way Dean’s eyes travelled down your body in that form-fitting red dress, v-neck, v-back, thigh slit where he knew you had a thigh holster strapped in, all the good stuff. And his eyes were on those scarlet heels.

He was imagining ramming into you with those sexy things on. And that dress, well, it’d be off in second if he had the chance. And that lipstick? Well, it’d be smeared and leaving prints on his neck, chest, abs and- that’s going a bit too unprofessional.

“I’d go as far as to say I had gotten myself a catch.” You affirmed, but inside you were rolling your eyes. You didn’t expect to spend the evening complimenting Agent Winchester of all people. “He’s so firm, ladies.”

Dean laughed deeply, one which you knew didn’t have only your thighs rubbing and pressing together on instinct. “I take immense care of my physical appearance. I’d do anything for my darlin’.”

“And you look handsome.” You straightened his bow tie and made a show of biting your lip and looking him over, which got a sly smirk on his face. All forced, and you knew he couldn’t tell that you actually meant the comment. He looked sexy, not just damn handsome. In fact, words failed you when it came to describing Dean in high society.

Scrubbing your hand with an antiseptic wipe wasn’t an option when he took your hand, lifted to his mouth and kissed your knuckle. Those warm, plump weapons of destruction corrupting your newly purified and professional brain.

Expertly sowing thoughts of them travelling down your neck and sucking on the skin in your dirty mind.

Brain malfunctioning.

Brain.exe has shut down.

Hail whichever deity’s the Almighty because you got the pleasure of feeling this man’s lips on your skin.

You’d felt them on your temple and cheek when you’d last worked a case with him, but after being deprived of his contact for five years now made you like a nun breaking her chastity vow, if they have one.

You had no idea how nunhood worked.

You couldn’t be bothered to find out when this man next to you was robbing you of coherent words or thoughts.

“While you look stunning, my love.” Dean murmured, shooting you a quick wink that would’ve had an average Jane swooning over.

Damn Dean Winchester and his ability to flirt.

Damn Dean Winchester for being a lady killer. Damn him to hell.

“Such lovebirds. My husband Terrance and I were like that once, all over each other. The magic of youth, I dare say.” One lady fawned, but her husband - Terrance - tugged on her arm.

“Edna, we’re in polite and present company, let’s not regurgitate details of our marriage.” He muttered, leading Edna away, which dispersed the other partygoers. You smirked at Dean, fixing the neckline of your dress (which he didn’t waste a moment ogling, which would arguably be in character).

“Shame.” You clicked your tongue, outwardly and inwardly amused. “I liked Edna.”

“I feel for Terrence, if I’m being honest.” Dean snickered, then nudged you. “You ready to go upstairs for a lil’ somethin’-somethin’?” That statement earned a swat to the back of his head, and he shrank away from you in shock. “Woah, hey, not actually going up there to get some, alright? We’re on a federal investigation, I’m not about to bang my partner. Jesus, woman.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Just pretend to be all over me, ok?”

You rolled your eyes, but obliged as Dean steered you both to a guard waiting by the stairs. “Mmh, honey,” You purred, your lips faux-chasing his neck, as Dean veered away from them reluctantly.

“Hey, man, do you have a place where my wife and I can get some privacy?” Dean’s strong hand took a hold of your waist and pulled you flush against his side. “Can’t keep my hands off ‘er. Women, am I right?”

“Upstairs, sir.” The guard let you two through, both of you falsely laughing until you reached the top of the stairs. Then you switched the moment you were out of earshot, dropping character.

“Nice job, honey.” Dean drawled, smirking. “Got a firearm under that dress?”

“Of course I do.” You snorted, shaking your head. Dean smirked at you when your head was turned, with a look that said that’s my girl. “What am I, an idiot? C’mon, we’ve got work to do.” You managed to try each door until you found one conveniently locked, so you took a hairpin, bent it and then your leg, kneeling so you could jimmy the thing in the lock, rotating the chassis (at least it might be that, you never paid attention to lock anatomy) and getting the door open.

“Good girl.” Dean muttered under his breath so you wouldn’t hear, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly. There were no secret triggers (you had to mentally steel yourself so you wouldn’t throttle Dean and his constant use of ‘booby traps’), so you just immediately took out your compact powder case and a blush applicator, evenly coating it in powder and dabbing it on the sensor before unhooking the tape roll, using a canine to rip off a piece of tape before placing it on, which successfully opened the lock with an electrical series of beeps. “Nice one. A’ight, now grab that necklace and let’s book it.”

“Not that easy.” You pouted in thought. That sent Dean to unholy places. All while your eyes were focused on the opal-studded jewellery in front of you. “It’s a weight sensor. We need something roughly the same weight.”

“Your heels?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I borrowed these from a friend, no way in hell am I leaving it here.”

“You have friends, sweetheart?” He snickered, but winced slightly when you sharply kicked him in the shin with the heel of your left stiletto. He had to fight the urge to grab the afflicted area and howl because holy hell, physics wasn’t lying about the pressure equation thing.

Pressure equals force over area multiplied by a whole lot of pain.

You looked around, then saw a small crystalline trophy thing. So you grabbed it, then prepared to make the switch. You took a deep breath in and then out, then switched it. And waited. To your disappointment and shock, the weight sensor must’ve been to a T because the pedestal sank and the room flashed red, an alarm going off.

Dean’s hand enveloped yours, tugging you out of the room at breakneck speed (you figured out in this time that you weren’t a dab hand at running in heels and had to awkwardly hop and take them off along the way), pulling you both into a side room when you heard approaching voices. Doors were being opened and rooms checked, so you had to think quick.

Oh, you were sure to regret this later.

Your hands flew to unbutton Dean’s suit jacket, get it on the floor before getting his bow tie undone and shirt along with it, untucking it and letting it hang open. You tried not to get distracted by the kissable canvas of taut, toned muscle that was his chest, while you reached up to your own lips, smearing the lipstick and then transferring some to his without lip-to-lip contact.

He was flabbergasted.

“Sweetheart,” Dean let out a nervous yet rough chuckle, “I love frisky women, don’t get me wrong, but don’t you think this isn’t the right time-”

“Shut up.” You hissed, then grabbed his hand and put it under the silk of your dress, through the slit and onto your thigh. “Now, act like you’re about to kiss my neck.”

Dean short circuited, and so did you. Hands. On legs. Bare legs. Need a bed. Even a table will do- keep it professional.

His eyes locked on the curve of your neck as you let your head tip back, and his hand went on autopilot, cupping the back of your neck. He leaned forward, and your skin was right there, begging to be kissed, but he hovered right there. Dean’s lips were inches away from your heated skin and it was killing the both of you.

His fingers itched to take the zip of your dress, yank it down and see what was underneath.

But even as he was about to give in, shake hands with the loss of his professionalism and ravish you till the sun came up, the door burst open and in came a guard, who instantly muttered an apology at seeing yours and Dean’s more than dishevelled state.

Ay, dios mío.

Wilkins Street Bank was shut down. SWAT teams surrounding it, along with multiple NYPD vans. An officer made his way onto the scene, flashing his badge. He was tall, with black hair and had clever green eyes, wearing a bomber jacket with NYPD blaring on the back in yellow letters.

Flashing his badge like he was in a movie, but made it ten times better. Ten times sexier, really.

“Detective Sergeant Nick Santiago, 67th precinct.” He introduced, looking up at the bank. “We got ourselves a hostage situation, I’m heading the case.”

“No can do, compadre.” One of the 71st huffed out a breath. “We just got off the call with the suits. They’re sending two of their agents over to head the charge. Something about the boys leadin’ the hostage sitch being their jurisdiction.”

“You kiddin’ me?”

“No, sir.”

“Who are we getting?”

“The best Major Crimes has to offer.”

NEXT UP:

“I’m doing my job!” You scoffed, holding the compress over your shoulder. It hurt to move it, honestly, but you’d rather take a banged up shoulder rather than Dean Winchester scolding you.

“And I’m not?” He retorted, hands on his hips. “We’re working this case together.”

“The only reason you’re even in Major Crimes is because daddy dearest pulled some strings.” You seethed, which had Dean bristling.

“That’s not how it went.”

“Then how?”

I’d appreciate a like, or reblog with feedback! Thanks for reading, lovelies!

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[kiyo-cant-write]

vil schoenheit with an otaku s/o

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I felt like we needed something on this blog with my bias, Vil. So I took it upon myself to write something.

This comes from my love of pairing otakus and nerds with ultra-glamorous people. Vil/Idia is also something I enjoy, but as this blog is catered to reader-insert content, have this.

If anyone has any Vil requests I may prioritize them....

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Summary: [Name] is the s/o of Vil Schoenheit and an otaku who challenges the shut-in Ignihyde Housewarden for his title. They have a fixation on games and often find themselves obsessed with them. What does Vil think of this?

TW/CW: None

Notes: established relationship, they/them pronouns for the reader, the reader is implied to be Ramshackle Prefect/Yuu, the reader is younger than Vil (lightly implied), explicitly post B5

Guest Stars: Rook Hunt. Neige LeBlanche (implied/referenced), Idia Shroud (mentioned)

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Vil Schoenheit

Vil wasn't always so open to dating someone who obsesses over fiction and 2D media to this degree.

Idia always irked him a bit, but maybe it was the tablet.

Honestly, he still doesn't really understand.

Vil Schoenheit is the commodity, not the consumer.

He respects his s/o for their dedication, though.

The only criticisms he has are if they do not take care of themselves properly (like neglecting food or sleep for games).

Vil has come to know random things about whatever anime or game his s/o likes and picks up special items when opportunities arise at work, albeit without drawing attention to it publicly.

What Vil wasn't prepared for was [Name]'s friendship with Rook.

It's a blessing and a curse to be in their presence.

He's thrilled they get along... but once they start yapping... it never ends and is typically about Vil himself or worse Neige LeBlanche.

Vil often pretends that he doesn't hear those chats.

He finds the praise from his s/o nice, though.

He's relieved they aren't one of his creeper fans.

Be assured that he did some interrogating early on for safety.

Vil appreciates that they live outside the spotlight.

It means that he can be "normal" with them.

It's nice to just be "Vil" and not some mega-star.

Vil values that even though they love his work, they also love him as a person, the Vil that the rest of the world isn't privy to.

Vil grimaced at the sight of his darling partner who was buried in blankets on the couch trying to "grind" for an "SSR" in some game about idols. He didn't pretend to understand such concepts but he was certainly watching it happen before him: [Name] was ignoring the world for games.

He sighed but he knew he chose this.

[Name] gave that tablet-wielding Idia Shroud a run for his title, surely. They were a shut-in as any otaku was, keeping their darling face away from view and covered by baggy clothing. They took poor care of themselves when "banners" were yielding?

That was what got on Vil's nerves the most. The utter disregard for their health in favor of fictional men and digital items.

"[Name]," Vil said, trying to get his beloved's attention.

They did not answer.

That's alright, they probably did not hear him.

"[Name]," he repeated a bit more urgently.

They remained focused on their screen, unaware of the person standing beside their cozy setup. Vil wasn't sure if he was offended or not. The housewarden sighed before using the only trick he had up his sleeve at the moment.

"[Full Name]."

"HUH?!?"

[Name] whipped around like they had heard gunshots and were faced with the radiant beauty of their boyfriend.

Oh! It was Vil!

"Sorry, Vil," [Name] offered, looking down for a moment to ensure that the story was paused, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

"And that," Vil told them, "is a crime in and of itself, I look lovely today and you should appreciate all beauty that graces your eyes."

Vil smiled, posing in a way that made it seem natural. A hand on his hip asserted that Vil held the power in this room, even when it was not his dorm. Pomefiore's housewarden was too charismatic for words sometimes.

"You know, dear, like Rook always says and does..." Vil continued, pausing for a moment at the thought of his vice housewarden, "Though maybe not so enthusiastically as him."

"I love you so much, V, but I also have so many pulls I need to do to get this SSR," [Name] told Vil, tapping into the next part of the event they were working on, "This. is. why. I. exist. And Idia put the support card I told... begged him to."

[Name] had ventured to Ignihyde the other day, Ortho accompanying them, to beg the Game Master to put his level 105 maxed stat card for support. It was a terrifying journey that incurred the wrath of the heavens (Idia screamed in such a shrill voice that he nearly gave [Name] tinnitus) but it was worth it. The Game Master ceded and the support for the battle was won! Huzzah!

"I can see that this means a lot if you cried to Shroud about it, but you... " Vil trailed off until he noticed a familiar bag by the side of the couch, "I'm sorry, darling, do you have a guest?"

"Eh, do I have a guest?" [Name] asked Vil.

With that, Vil was about to launch into another lecture about how they should watch their house and remember if people were present, but he was cut off by the entry of one (1) Rook Hunt wearing something he would be skinned for if he were at Pomefiore with his hair tangled as if he fell asleep half smothered into something, hair and all. Vil could believe his eyes, but he didn't want to.

"Do I even want to know?" Vil asked him.

Rook raised his hands in a shrug that felt a tad passive-aggressive.

"I'm not going to ask then, neither of you has the answer that keeps my sanity alive," Vil said, sighing as he closed his eyes to avoid questioning his vice housewarden.

"We're doing this for you, Roi du Poison!" Rook told him.

"In what world does this game have anything to do with me?"

Vil was floored by the implication that he was familiar with one of these idol-ish games. He had worked on them once or twice, sure, but that was hardly the same as being a fan, a player.

"I thought this as well, but [Name] explained it to me!"

And... Rook was enthused. Yay. Time for theatrics.

"Rook, I'm not in the mood for theatrics, try to be concise."

"Of course, My Queen!"

"Rook-senpai did you make food?" [Name] asked him, cutting into the conversation.

"It is cooking now!" Rook assured with a (slightly scary) smile.

"I thought you..." Vil trailed off once more, it wasn't worth it.

Rook was here, he wasn't. [Name] knew, they didn't. At least Epel wasn't also here trying to get muscular at a dangerous speed (again). In the end, the hunter had agreed to cease his shenanigans, but there were sure to be more theatrics and tomfoolery ahead. It might seem impossible, but Vil could sense it.

"Do you two wish to tell me what has you so involved in this game? And how in all of this Twisted Wonderland it pertains to me?" the housewarden asked after a moment sitting down on the Ramshackle couch after a moment of deliberation and joining his vice housewarden and the love of his young life.

"It has everything to do with you!" [Name] told him, managing to tap away at the rhythm game while speaking which Vil would never admit impressed him, "I'm doing this because I love you.... and the cards. But mostly for you, V!"

"It's about your honor, Beautiful Vil!" Rook added.

About his honor? How was this about his honor?

Vil sighed as he turned to Rook. His hair was still a nest on his head, one fit for a bird. His golden hair color aided that appearance.

"I really wish you would fix your hair, Rook..."

Rook shook his head, expression saddening if only for a moment.

"Non, non. There is no time for it when your honor is at stake!"

And... Yeah, there's no stopping Rook now. Vil admitted to that defeat as much as it pained him, a couple of years of friendship had taught him not to... Well, to be crude, not to fuck with that.

"Yeah!!" [Name] agreed, "We need to focus on this. And... Win!"

Oh, good. Lovely. His lover was also not backing down.

Vil sighed as he leaned closer to [Name], a show of his own tiredness that he seemed to neglect the wrinkles to his clothing that could form. His face close to theirs, he watched their game, skimming the dialogue of the stylized men on the screen and trying to parse through why the player seemed to have a hoard of 167 men at their disposal while also being a 17-year-old orphan with dead famous parents who left them a company in their will.

Maybe I should have paid more attention when Idia tried to explain his visual novel collection to me...

Vil continued to watch, slowly feeling himself grow just a tad invested in the story. He cursed it, wanting to say he was above falling for the media he seldom worked in... And here he was, wondering what the MC was going to do now that one of the beautiful young men had been kidnapped by some kind of underground association of famous men. He was still a bit unclear about that last part.

"This is why, V," [Name] told him, tapping the arrow on the screen to reveal a character Vil had not seen in the section [Name] was reading.

They were tall blond with deep blue eyes wearing a shimmering gown and extremely high heels.

Vil looked back to [Name].

"Everyone is saying this character is the in-game equivalent of you," they told him, "So I wanted to help them... win against..."

A voice echoed from Rook's phone that sounded eerily similar to a certain raven-haired boy's voice. But it wasn't, Vil was certain of it. There was a certain energy to Neige's voice that this person did not have, a kind of sweetness that made Vil's stomach churn a bit.

"The you-coded guy is going to be my strongest card and he will win in the polls! Rook and I will make sure of it!" [Name] told Vil, "Also if he does lose I still have to do a favor for Idia-senpai so I really don't wanna lose."

The fact that [Name] was willing to go to such lengths for his apparent honor was heartwarming to Vil if not a tad silly. Since the events of the competition, Vil had rethought some of his prior-made statements, but it seemed that [Name] and Rook both wanted to assure him of his worth and that was... sweet, honestly. A little weird considering they chose an anime game to do so, but sweet nonetheless.

He smiled at [Name], pressing a kiss to their cheek.

"Thank you, my love," he told them before looking over at Rook, "And you as well, I suppose, Rook."

"...Might this lessen the pain I caused at the VDC?" Rook asked.

"I'm no longer angry but perhaps," Vil told the hunter.

"And it was all my idea!" [Name] cheered, glowing with pride.

"Oui, your shared love is most radiant~" Rook practically sang, pausing his rhythm game (he has a full combo and SS rank) to stand and gesture boldly to Vil and [Name].

"I know, it's why I love them so much," Vil mused.

Yes, having a significant other with differing interests had perks, sometimes. Vil had to admit that every once in a while, [Names] hobby was cute, on them anyway... Vil wasn't so sure he could handle it if they came to school as a tablet like Idia.

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Imagine the rest for yourself~

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[lvoryingrid]

Whispers in the Sand

Gaara x fem!Reader

Synopsis: In Sunagakure, (Y/n) befriends Gaara, a boy feared for the beast inside him. Despite the village's scorn, their bond deepens. After Gaara is critically injured, (Y/n) stays by his side. Lady Chiyo sacrifices herself to revive him, and Gaara awakens to (Y/n)'s tearful relief and confession of love, promising a future together.

In the bustling village of Sunagakure, where the sun painted the sandstone buildings in hues of gold, whispers danced like shadows in the dusty streets. Among those murmurs, there lingered a tale that had woven its way into the very fabric of the village—a story of a boy with a beast trapped within him, a tale that had haunted the hearts of the villagers for generations.

(Y/n) had known this story since she was a mere child, her young ears catching the fragments of hushed conversations between elders and the nervous glances exchanged between parents. It was a narrative shrouded in mystery, one that sent shivers down her spine even as she sat by the hearth, listening intently.

The tale spoke of a boy, his name whispered in tones of both fear and pity, who carried within him a beast of unimaginable power. Some said it was a curse bestowed upon him by ancient spirits, while others whispered of dark rituals performed by his own kin. But regardless of its origins, the boy's burden was undeniable—a monstrous force that lay dormant within him, waiting to be unleashed.

His hair blazed like fire, a crimson beacon amidst the mundane, while his eyes, icy and enigmatic, seemed to hold secrets untold. To the villagers, he was the embodiment of fear, a specter of darkness with a name stained by rumors and whispered tales of horror. They whispered of his alleged crimes, of a mother slain by her own son's hand, painting him as a monster lurking in their midst.

Yet, to (Y/n), he was something different. She saw beyond the whispers, beyond the shroud of fear that enveloped him. To her, he was simply a boy, no different from herself, burdened by loneliness and yearning for connection. With courage as fragile as a delicate petal, she approached him one day, her heart pounding against her chest like the drumbeat of a distant storm. Her hand, small and trembling, reached out in a gesture of friendship, offering a lifeline amidst the sea of suspicion and dread.

"Hi, I'm (Y/n)," she uttered softly, her voice a beacon of warmth cutting through the chilling silence that surrounded him like a suffocating mist. In that moment, her smile, genuine and unguarded, illuminated the darkness that had cloaked him for so long, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows of his haunted existence.

In a moment etched in time, he finally surrendered to a glimmer of hope, his lips curving into a smile as he reached out and clasped her hand. In that delicate exchange, a profound bond ignited, weaving their souls together in an unbreakable bond. Despite the relentless storm of disapproval raining down upon them, they stood resolute, united against the world's scorn. Their friendship blossomed, a radiant beacon of resilience amidst the darkness, defying all odds with every shared moment, every whispered secret, every heartfelt laugh.

On that fateful night, the tranquility of the village shattered into chaos as the deafening explosion tore through the air. (Y/n) felt her heart lurch with fear as the ominous sound reverberated through her bones.

The next day, when she laid eyes on him, her heart sank. He was there, but he wasn't the same. The warmth that once radiated from his presence had been extinguished, replaced by an icy, distant demeanor. It was as if a shadow had consumed him, leaving behind only a shell of the person she once knew.

Despite her desperate attempts to reach him, he remained unreachable, lost in the grip of his inner turmoil. His once vibrant eyes now held a haunting emptiness, reflecting the torment of the monster that now consumed him. And as he turned away, ignoring her presence, (Y/n) felt a surge of heartache, realizing that the person she cherished had become the very thing they had all feared.

Years had passed since Gaara of the Desert had become the embodiment of fear in the village, living up to the bleak reputation that the villagers had painted for him. His departure for Konoha to partake in the Chūnin Exams left a bitter taste lingering in the air, with his sand nearly grazing her as she timidly approached to wish him luck.

Upon his return to the village from Konoha, Gaara was scarcely recognizable. The once stoic and aloof figure had softened, radiating an unfamiliar warmth, calmness, and genuine happiness. It was a transformation that caught everyone off guard, especially (Y/n), who had known him in his previous, more hardened state.

Then, one day, he approached her, his eyes betraying a profound sense of remorse and regret. It was a stark contrast to the coldness she had grown accustomed to, and it stirred something within her—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that there was more to Gaara than the menacing facade he had worn for so long.

"(Y/n)," he spoke, his voice trembling with emotion, each syllable heavy with regret. His words, though soft, echoed with the weight of his remorse. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the apology hanging in the air, laden with the depths of his sorrow.

Tears welled up in (Y/n)'s eyes as she looked at him, her heart overflowing with emotions. "You were always my friend, no matter what," she whispered, a smile gracing her lips as she reached out to him, her hand finding his.

Tears cascaded down (Y/n)'s cheeks like a relentless waterfall as she stood beside Gaara's motionless form, her heart gripped by a vice of anguish and fear. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the thought of losing him, of never again seeing the warmth in his emerald eyes. Their shared memories rushed back to her, not willing them to die off.

As (Y/n) stood beside Gaara's motionless form, her voice trembled with desperation as she pleaded for him to return. "Gaara, please," she whispered, her words a fragile echo in the silent void that surrounded them. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the sand beneath her feet as she clutched his hand tightly, as if trying to anchor him to the world.

"Come back to us, Gaara," she begged, her voice cracking with emotion. "You're not alone anymore. We're here for you. I'm here for you." Her heart ached with each word, every syllable a testament to the depth of her love and concern for her friend

But Gaara remained still, his form unmoving, as if trapped in a world of his own making. The weight of his inner turmoil seemed insurmountable, a barrier separating him from the world outside.

In the midst of her despair, (Y/n) felt a stirring within her soul as Naruto's voice pierced the heavy silence. His words echoed with a mixture of sadness and anger, mirroring the tumultuous emotions swirling within her own heart.

"Why is it always Gaara?" Naruto's voice rang out, resonating with a raw intensity that demanded attention. He stood beside her, his gaze fixed on Gaara's still form with a depth of emotion that sent shivers down her spine. "How could he die like this?"

As Naruto knelt beside her, his voice quivering with grief and frustration, (Y/n) felt the weight of his words pressing down on her like a heavy burden. She knew the pain he felt, the sense of injustice that threatened to consume them both.

And then, as Lady Chiyo intervened with a voice like the hollow echo of despair "Calm yourself, Uzumaki Naruto." her gaze hollow toward the young boy, (Y/n)'s attention remained fixated on Gaara's pale face, her fingers gently caressing his hair as if to coax him back to consciousness.

But Naruto's anguish erupted into a desperate cry, tearing through the air like a thunderclap. "If you, you damn Sand shinobi didn't put that monster inside Gaara, then..." His accusation hung in the air, a stark reminder of the pain and suffering inflicted upon Gaara by forces beyond his control.

As (Y/n) gently caressed Gaara's fiery red hair, her mind drifted back to a memory not so distant. It was just a while ago when he had shared with her his impending appointment as Kazekage, his eyes alight with determination and hope. "No one deserves it more," she had said, her heart swelling with pride for her friend. But now, as reality settled in, she realized that his newfound responsibilities would inevitably mean less time together.

Her sadness didn't go unnoticed by Gaara, his perceptive gaze catching the subtle shift in her demeanor. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft yet laden with concern as he turned to her.

(Y/n) shook her head, a feeble attempt to mask the turmoil within her heart. "It's nothing," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

But Gaara knew her too well to be deceived by her facade. With a gentle touch, he turned her face towards him, his eyes searching hers for answers. "Please, (Y/n)," he urged, his voice a gentle plea. "You can tell me."

For a moment, (Y/n) hesitated, her cheeks a light tint of pink as the weight of her emotions threatened to spill forth like a torrential downpour. But then, with a resigned sigh, she relented, allowing her walls to crumble in the presence of her trusted friend.

"It's just...," her voice faltered, choked with unspoken fears and regrets. "I'm happy for you, Gaara, truly. But... I can't help but feel a sense of loss knowing that we won't be able to spend as much time together."

Her words hung in the air like a fragile thread, tethering them to the reality of their changing circumstances. And as Gaara listened, a mixture of understanding and sadness flickered in his eyes.

"(Y/n)," he began, his voice gentle yet filled with unwavering resolve. "I may have new responsibilities as Kazekage, but that doesn't mean we have to change. You've always been there for me, through thick and thin, and I intend to do the same for you."

As Gaara's words washed over her with sincerity and conviction, (Y/n) felt a rush of emotions swirling within her heart. His reassurance offered her a lifeline amidst the turbulent sea of uncertainty that stretched out before them. In that fleeting moment, as their eyes locked in silent understanding, she couldn't help but feel a flutter of something more than mere friendship stirring within her soul.

For years, (Y/n) had harbored hidden feelings for Gaara, emotions too complex and profound to put into words. She had watched him from afar, admiring his strength and resilience, yet always keeping her own heart guarded, afraid to acknowledge the depth of her affection.

But now, as their hands met in a tender embrace, the walls she had meticulously built around her heart began to crumble. In the warmth of his touch, she found solace, a sense of belonging that she had long yearned for.

As they stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, (Y/n) dared to let her guard down, to allow herself to embrace the truth of her feelings. With each beat of her heart, she felt the walls around her heart melting away, replaced by an overwhelming tide of love and longing.

And as Gaara's gaze softened, mirroring the depth of emotion reflected in her own eyes, (Y/n) knew that she was not alone in her silent confession. In the quiet intimacy of their shared moment, they spoke volumes without uttering a single word, their unspoken bond weaving them together in a tapestry of love and understanding.

As (Y/n) was shaken from her trance, she felt Lady Chiyo's presence kneeling beside her. With tear-stained cheeks, (Y/n) looked at the elder woman, her eyes silently pleading for her to intervene, to do something, anything, to save Gaara. "Please," (Y/n) murmured, her voice trembling with desperation as she reached out a hand towards Lady Chiyo.

The older woman nodded solemnly, understanding the unspoken plea in (Y/n)'s gaze. Motioning for her to move away, Lady Chiyo's hands began to glow with a gentle, healing light as she focused her chakra on Gaara's still form. Naruto, also, kneeled beside him, helping Chiyo.

Lady Chiyo's life force flowed into Gaara, her hands glowing with a soft, healing light. The old puppet master, having made the ultimate sacrifice, had given Gaara a second chance. As Gaara's eyes fluttered open, (Y/n) felt her heart swell with gratitude. "(Y/n)?" Gaara's voice was weak but filled with wonder as he looked at her.

Tears streamed down her face as she knelt beside him, her hand finding his. "I'm here, Gaara," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You're alive. You're safe."

Overwhelmed with relief, she leaned closer, pulling him gently into her arms. She could feel the faint, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a precious reminder that he was truly back. Gaara, still weak, wrapped his arms around her, finding comfort in her embrace.

The world seemed to blur around them, the intensity of the moment creating a bubble of solace amidst the chaos. Naruto and Sakura watched silently, their own eyes filled with tears of joy and relief.

Gaara's voice, though weak, carried a newfound determination. "I... I thought I'd never see you again," he murmured, his fingers tightening around her hand.

(Y/n) pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, her heart pounding with a mix of emotions. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, Gaara," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gaara's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "I know," he replied quietly, his gaze holding hers with a depth of emotion he had rarely shown. "Thank you, (Y/n). For everything."

She smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with unspoken words. "We're in this together, Gaara. No matter what."

Masterlist

[david-talks-sw]

When a Star Wars writer engages with the material but not the narrative.

I'm writing a long post about the Jedi and the clone troopers and there's a whole section that I had to remove because it was too long:

Karen Traviss' take on the Jedi and the clones.

I already wrote about why Karen Traviss' take on the Jedi and Yoda doesn't track with what George Lucas had established in his narrative of the Prequels. Since then, I've been able to do more research.

It's no secret that one of the reasons Traviss listed for criticizing the Jedi in the Expanded Universe books she wrote is their treatment of the clones (or at least what she understood it to be).

In 2008, she wrote a now-deleted blog post about it (it was really long, so I'm only including the part relevant to my point, if you want the full context you can look it up, this is old stuff).

So if you ask me, in the above quote, Traviss is essentially doing the equivalent of saying:

"Batman is a psycho elitist who beats up the mentally ill and indoctrinates kids, turning them into child soldiers for his unending crazy vigilante war on crime, and if you can't recognize that then you scare the living crap out of me."

Like... you can argue that, and a couple of comics have argued that.

But by and large, the general consensus is that Batman is a superhero, the Robins are his sons and daughter, and the "mentally ill" are in fact the Joker and Two-Face aka mass murderers.

So if you make that argument, that's you applying your real-life values and conclusions to a narrative that deliberately doesn't acknowledge those points, in-universe, in order to tell the story it wants to tell.

It's counting on your suspension of disbelief, defined as "the avoidance—often described as willing—of critical thinking and logic in understanding something that is unreal or impossible in reality, such as something in a work of speculative fiction, in order to believe it for the sake of enjoying its narrative."

The Jedi accepting the clones and the clones being slaves isn't a "delicate point". It's barely a point at all!

It's never addressed in the film (because of course it isn't, the Prequels are about Anakin and the Republic, not the clones).

It's only addressed once by Slick, an unreliable narrator, in The Clone Wars.

That's it. Hell, in 2008, when The Clone Wars writer Henry Gilroy was asked to comment on the relationship between clones and Jedi, he explicitly said he'd "rather not get into" that particular point.

I recently got Mythmaking: Behind the Scenes of 'Attack of the Clones' and nowhere is that detail touched on by Lucas at any point.

Nobody wants to touch on that point with a 10ft pole, because it's not relevant to the story.

So while Traviss acknowledges the Jedi are fictional characters, she doesn't follow that thread through to the end by acknowledging that fictional characters don't have free will, they must abide by the story and the whim of the writer.

She's engaging with the material, but refusing to engage with the narrative. She's having her cake and eating it too.

My reason for saying all this is that in the book Star Wars on Trial, she elaborates on her thought process upon discovering this detail.

Shortly before to this, she acknowledges twice that she knew nothing about Star Wars, beside seeing the original films in her youth.

Another writer who saw the new films and saw Mace Windu argue against there being a war...

... the worry on his face at the prospect of the Jedi being thrown at the Separatists...

... and the sheer melancholy on Yoda's face upon announcing the Clone War had begun...

... might have instead wondered how the Jedi, so opposed to war, could've ended up being generals.

Because while we don't see the Jedi openly protest the use of the clones in the film... they're not exactly giddy about it, either. All they can do is watch powerlessly as it gets voted by the Senate.

"The Jedi are there. But the Jedi aren't really allowed to be involved in the political process. They're there, but they can't suddenly step up and say, "No, no. You can't do that." They have to let the political process go." - George Lucas, Attack of the Clones, Commentary #2, 2002

We also don't see them take on the role of generals, either.

We only see them begrudgingly lead troops on Geonosis, specifically.

But they're not referred to as "generals" yet.

Another writer might have imagined a scene where after Geonosis, Mace Windu talks to Palpatine thinking the Jedi will go back to their roles as diplomats, and that what we saw in Attack of the Clones was a one-time thing to save Obi-Wan, but Palpatine politely goes:

"Ha! No. Didn't you hear? The Senate was so impressed by your performance on Geonosis that they voted to make you all generals in the GAR. Now, get back to the front."

Another writer might've elected to write them having that "big moral debate" she mentions.

Instead, Traviss immediately jumps on the "Jedi are elitists" train.

Because her personal experience with the military makes her sympathize with the clones and her personal belief is that - while the story may frame the Jedi as "the good guys" - nobody is that good a guy, real life people aren't that pure and selfless. There's gotta be something off about them and aHA! That's what it is!

That's her choosing to take that line of thought instead of one more in-line with the story, because she perceives it as unrealistic. But like... Star Wars isn't real life, it's a fairy tale.

That's like saying:

"The hunter in Little Red Riding Hood commits animal cruelty by cutting the Wolf open. He should've let nature take its course, the wolf earned that meal fair and square. If you think the hunter should've saved Red Riding Hood and her Grandma, then clearly you're the kind of monster who thinks one life is worth more than others."

... no?

The story's narrative clearly portrays the wolf as the villain of the tale and frames the Hunter saving Red Riding Hood as a good thing.

Disagreeing with that narrative is absolutely fine, but anybody who acknowledges the wolf is the bad guy in the story isn't automatically an animal hater and/or a bad person. Just because you say "the wolf is the villain" doesn't mean that you think that, in real life, killing wolves for shits and giggles is good.

Conversely, the narrative of the Prequels asks you to suspend your disbelief and not consider the implications that having a clone army entails. Because the use of clones doesn't have a direct impact on either Anakin or the Senate's stories.

Edit: I finished the post this one here originally spun out of!

You can find it here:

[breaking-news-the-aroace-has]

The AroAce will accept no criticism. In fact, they have decided to rant about it. (found below the cut)

Some things that are Hallmarks of the classic cinematic Batman are:

-constant depression,

-emotional dysregulation,

-extreme ego and narcissism, and

-refusal to have meaningful relationships outside of casual flings.

the Lego Batman Movie, (along with every other Batman movie) highlights these character traits, and makes sure that the audience knows that they are a direct result of witnessing the death of his parents.

However, what separates Lego Batman from the rest is that he is the only one who realizes that all of those things are deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms that hurt those around him! This movie doesn't romanticize these traits like many other Batman movies. They are portrayed as what they are, and we get to witness the consequences!

Batman's giant ego, his belief that he is the best, the smartest, is such an ingrained and predictable trait that it's what allows the Joker's plan to work. Throughout the film, he discounts and demeans those who are close to him, to the point of telling Alfred, the man who took him in and raised him as his own, that he "doesn't know what it's like to have a surrogate son." He literally and metaphorically pushes everyone who cares about him away, despite them pleading for him to let them help.

It takes him being sent to (arguably) an afterlife for him to realize how much he's hurt others. And even then, at first, he denies it. However, once Lego Batman does understand this, he tries to make things right. He convinces Phyllis, (the 2x4 Lego piece responsible for the phantom zone) to let him return to his world. Upon his return he has to give up his whole, "Batman works alone" mentality, in favor of wholly relying on his friends and family. and when he tries to sacrifice himself at the end of the movie, he gives Robin the lesson that he has learned throughout the course of the movie:

"Sometimes losing people is a part of life, but that doesn't mean you stop letting them in."

Lego Batman changes for the better, and that is why he is not recalled back into the phantom zone. If this were any other iteration of Batman, he likely would have been. This is because Lego Batman is the only one who has actually taken steps to heal from his trauma and actively relies on others for emotional support. Another difference, the "others" he relies on are not romantic relationships! When most batman movies show him in a relationship, it seems to be focused on the Token Hot Woman. But in this movie, it is platonic, familial love that causes him to want to make a change. These relationships are just as valid, and, quite frankly, probably more stable for him at this point in his life.

By the end of the movie, Lego Batman still retains many of the iconic Batman traits. He still runs around at night fighting crime in a batsuit. He is still cool as hell (the character states this explicitly). and he still struggles with the trauma of losing his parents. the difference is; he no longer does it on his own.

[albatross-lancer]

(OOC: Reposting the summary I made to stand on its own for people who caught bits of it but don't want to have to switch between several different blogs)

A THOR-class NHP named Arthur entered cascade in Harrison Armory's PR offices. He caused significant electrical damage to the offices but as far as I can tell no one was seriously injured, and the PR intern, Jimbo, managed to calm him down. The situation now seems to be resolved amicably.

Rev, an AGNI-class NHP implied that they caused Arthur to cascade. Recent comments by them suggest that they did this to advance the cause of NHP equality (forgive my rumormongering, but I have my doubts. Their omninet page contains a great deal of what seem to be boasts of war crimes and genocide, they don't strike me as much of an egalitarian. That said, my Loyal Wing tells me she's met and fought cultists who earnestly believe in a future where humans and NHPs are free to inflict horrific atrocities upon one another, so who knows. People are complicated. I'm also unconvinced Rev actually did cause Arthur to cascade, the manner they describe seems implausible.)

The Corsair Mercenary Company and the squad commander of the MSMC 796th, Kennedi/Lockbreaker, were angered by this claim. I'm not sure why this incident, which Jimbo resolved well before there was a actual fighting, prompted her to act independently, but there was some indication of the security breach having wounded her pride. (It is also possible that they were, in fact, being contracted by a HA higher-up and only pretending to act independently). She recruited another squad, the MSMC 148th, and they set out for Rev's abode in Karrakin space.

Rev caused the NHP at Corsair Mercenary Company, which named themself [STABBY], to cascade. [STABBY] then took control of several subalterns and systems and attempted to kill the CMC, inflicting a high casualty count before being shut down by MSMC 796th's "Slipshod" using a liturgicode virus. (Based on [STABBY]'s rapid decision to attempting to kill the CMC once given the ability to do so, even if during cascade, it seems likely that they did not have a positive relationship and allegations of abuse seem credible)

The MSMC squads arrived and engaged Rev's Genghis body and a group of Hercynian lancers Rev had recruited via Hercynian Refurbished Armaments. The battle ended with both Rev and Lockbreaker's mechs effectively destroyed, Rev's casket damaged and Lockbreaker in critical condition. There was significant collateral damage dealt to the planet, though fortunately no civilians, bystanders, or other innocents were harmed.

Albatross long patrol "Osprey" received several distress calls from the area and rerouted to investigate. When they arrived, medics were able to stabilize Kennedi and assess the situation. Rev was recovered by "an associate", the MSMC squadrons were able to contact command and get returned to headquarters, and I belive the Hercynians returned to Hercynia. After assisting local damage control and double-checking that no one was hurt, long patrol Osprey will be returning to their nearlight patrol route.

[sgiandubh]

So you are saying Caitriona is lying about having one child? I don't think that she was pregnant prior to 2021. Looking at earlier photos it is rude and insensitve to assume she may have been for the one possible reason, if she was, how do you know she hasn't had a miscarriage? Bring up a woman's material status at any stage based upon your opinion of her body is very hurtful. Would female diplomatic understand the need to be diplomatic in such a situation?

Dear Hurtful Anon,

Once more, you are reading what I wrote with your very special Venomous Set of Glasses. Shipper Mom is not a fictional character, and you know that very well (there are pics posted!): she is a woman with her own mind and, unlike me, she is a mother. She never forced anything on me and I have never forced anything on her: do you seriously believe we count C's babies, in our spare time? What an idiotic thought, pardon my French. I simply shared that tidbit to explain that I am tolerant towards any opinion on this matter, simply because I have no personal experience of motherhood, nor will I ever have. This is also why I chose to be silent towards anyone commenting : this is such an intimate topic, I personally do not encourage it on my page. When I know nothing about something, I simply keep quiet and so should you.

But I already explained why I have never and why will I never discuss this topic in the detail you are used to from other blogs. Is my endometriosis a solid enough argument, Punk? Do you have any idea of how it feels, playing the Funny Aunt to your nieces and your godson and your other friends' children? Have you no fucking shame?

When and where did I ever discuss C's midsection? Nowhere, and I do not plan to start that now, or ever. I have never analyzed any pictures, I have never gauged anything. I have never said she lied and who the fuck do you think I consider myself to even have an opinion on it? I simply said I didn't know and this topic is completely out of my shipping focus. Is it a crime to be happy and wish her well, without feeling the urge to have a belief set in stone about it? I fail to see what is 'undiplomatic' about my very moderate opinion, frankly.

If she indeed had a miscarriage, then you should know she has my deepest sympathy. But I am not discussing this, here. I am discussing and criticizing you twisting my very simple and honest words to fit your perverted, mean and vile agenda. Without having a clue about who the hell you are talking to. Did you read my earlier post I have linked to? I very much doubt it. You just pounced on me, because this is what you are, guys: a bunch of self-righteous, cruel people.

Now tell me, Anon: who, of the two of us, is the rude and insensitive one?

See yourself out. You disgust me.

[hellvzx]

GRACEFULLY NOT YOURS 

 Summary: Adam has been betrayed once again. Turns out third times not the charm. Notes: I wrote this out of boredom so it might be really bad but if anyone wants me to make this an actual mini series pls tell ! ( open to criticism btw )

 “You have been proven guilty!“

“I object!” 

Their head shot up to see Adam furious even if there was a minimal expression due to his mask they could feel his glare upon them. “Say you didn’t do those things! Say it!” He slammed his fist down on the desk while his right hand man stood next to them, Lute. For the circumstances she was extremely cheerful I mean why wouldn’t she be? She was the one to turn you in after all.

“I accept any punish-“ Their words where cut off by Adam who in a flash flew down to her holding her shoulders as she shaken her in desperation. “Just say you didn’t do it!” He searched desperately in their eyes to find if there was something inside them.. something that hinted to what the higher up said about them was all a lie. 

 “You will therefore be banished to hell for the crimes of intertwining with a Lucifer and infiltrating classified information.” 

His hands dropped to his side shattered. Not because you shared classified information. He could care less. But because you had betrayed him with the one person you promised you would never intertwine with.

“What!?I never indulged romantic feelings with Lucifer! What blasphemy is that!“ She shouted to the judge as she held her face high before looking back at Adam who still stood in-front of her. “Adam, you know-“  Again her words where cut off by none other than Lute. They where the one who had made of this a huge mess. “Shut up you filthy scum! I saw it with my own eyes!” Lute declared to all angels who witnessed her in horror. “She shall be banned!” Lute screamed and it only created a chant between all of them.

“Adam..” They whispered out softly tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “Shut it bitch.” Adam scowled as he pushed her down. “YOU FILTHY WHORE!” Adam screamed that caused the chanting to only get louder. “Sir,” Lute smiled handing him a angelic weapon. “Adam! Please! You know I would never do that to you.” They accepted their punishment to be banned but to be pointed at with such terrible lies as being a cheater to their own husband was shattering for them both. Never in million years would have they committed such monstrosity. Yet Adam seemed to completely believe Lute.

A shock of wave pained through their body, her eyes growing heavy realizing what their husband now held on their hands. What made them an angel, the most sacred thing to them. Their wings who now where held by Adam, the man they would call the love of their life had done such horrid thing to them.

“See you in hell.”

In all their life they would never imagined Adam could trust Lute’s words over their own. Their eyes became heavy within seconds passing out on the floor.. gold blood spilled all over.

“Get rid of her.” Adam mumbled out grasping on their winds before flying with them. Leaving them to their fate in hell.

[daeneryseastar]

Rhaenyra's Usurpation and the Dying of the Dragons

There is nothing that Rhaenyra Targaryen could have done to prevent the Dance of Dragons from happening.

Let me repeat; There is nothing that Rhaenyra Targaryen could have done to prevent the Dance of Dragons from happening.

It was set in stone the minute that Jaehaerys heeded the words of his son Vaegon and held the Great Council of 101. It was set in stone when Viserys was named heir over Rhaenys and Laenor. It was set in stone when Viserys decided to name Rhaenyra as his heir, marry Alicent, and have more children, specifically sons. It was set in stone when Viserys allowed the children of his second wife to claim dragons. It was set in stone when Viserys kept Rhaenyra as his heir and failed to prepare her and the realm properly for her rule.  It was set in stone when Viserys allowed the seeds of discourse to run among the children due to his wife and her faction. It was set in stone when Aegon usurped the throne. It was set in stone when Aemond murdered Lucerys despite guest rights and terms of peace.

Rhaenyra could have been the picture-perfect heir, ‘Jaehaerys himself come again’, and still would have been usurped. Rhaenyra could have not had ‘bastards’ as her heirs, and she still would have been usurped. Rhaenyra could have remained at the Red Keep, rather than the heir’s seat on Dragonstone, and she still would have been usurped. Rhaenyra could have been at the Red Keep when Viserys died, and she still would have been usurped.

There are many themes in this book series that GRRM has chosen to bring to light and criticize, but the Dance of Dragons' main theme is that Rhaenyra was usurped because of her gender. Had she been born a man, there would have been no basis for any of Alicent’s children to have a claim to the throne, beyond being spares. They would have garnered no support, and Team Green as a whole would not exist. The excuse that it is because of her ‘bastard’ children, which, legally, they aren’t, is just that: an excuse. In GRRM’s original draft about the Dance of Dragons, Rhaenyra was married to Harwin from the get-go, and all of her children were undeniably legitimate, yet the war still took place.

A gender-based succession crisis was inevitable, so it is no small wonder that it did occur under one of the weakest Kings’ in the Targaryen’s rule. Jaehaerys set the wheels in motion, and Viserys drove full-speed past the stop sign. He almost single-handedly led his daughter, and their dynasty, straight to their deaths. Otto and Alicent wanted power, and the only way they were going to continue to have any was if Aegon was on the throne. Their scheming began when Rhaenyra was 9-10 years old, what could she have possibly done at that age to prove she wasn’t worthy of the Iron Throne?

Rhaenyra’s biggest crime in Westeros was that she dared to be a woman; a woman who wanted her inheritance. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. If the war didn’t happen then, it was going to happen at some point, further generations down. It is no coincidence that after Rhaenyra’s death dragons ceased hatching, save for small, weak creatures that would not last long. The magic died with her. Her story’s resemblance to the Amethyst Empress all but confirms that. The equilibrium of Ice and Fire is put into shambles once again upon her and the dragons' deaths; the Long Night is now inevitable.

Rhaenyra was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. Her story is meant to be a tragedy. A tragedy whose meaning seems to be getting lost along the way in this fandom.

[fire-lizard-ro]

Helloo hehehe im the one that asked for a columbina s/o~ it was really good :D

Can u maybe make some head cannon about them being in a relationship? Hehhe it you dont mind :) thats all ty <33

Hehehe ofc!!! I'd like to make the disclaimer again that I don't really know the character Columbina all that well, but I will try my best!!! So sorry for any mischaracterization. Thank you for sending in your ask~

Reader gender: gender neutral

Like we talked about before, you and Sunday would be partners in crime. The manipulative duo.

I think that the two of you would probably enjoy dates like going to the opera. When the singer is good it wasn't uncommon to find the two of you with eyes closed, you leaning against him, enjoying the sweet melodies of the songs. When it wasn't so great, the two of you would be whispering your criticism in each other's ears with giggles.

Sunday would like hearing you sing more, though. Even if it is just a sweet little humming under your breath as you two are settled down together to read together or perhaps do other things within each other's presence. He is, however, more than aware of the abilities you have. They impress him every time and to know that you could always control him but don't makes his heart swell with affection. A chaste, but no less full of passion than any other kiss, would be pressed to your lips. "Thank you, dove." (I've started to use "dove" as his nickname for the reader recently- It just makes sense to me.) Whether he's thanking you for the song or for not trying to put him under your control with you voice, you'll never know. He just gives you that smile of his.

It was always a treat to hear his voice as well. He's not nearly as inclined to it as you or even his sister. You and her get along quite well, I'd think. Especially since she doesn't really know about the manipulative tendencies you and your lover have. Some things are better not knowing, hm? In any case- If you asked, he would sing something for you. The songs are always gentle and slow. If it was upon your request that he is singing, he's likely to sing a love song of some sort- It's funny. Almost like a pretty bird courting his love with a song despite them already being his.

And like I'd forgotten to write last time:

When the two of you kiss, your wings often bump into each other so cute oml-

The first time it happens, it startled a chuckle out of the normally composed man. He'd lean in again to kiss you once more, this time pursposefully caressing your wings with his while he holds you close.

When he'd managed to figure out that you and he were one in the same, he slowly brought you in on his schemes and work. After asking you outright about it once he was certain of it, he'd have you help him with his... persuations. You would subtly be humming to yourself whilst he spoke with people, influencing them to sway to his side. His ideas and thoughts suddenly sound perfect to them. On a larger scale- When he'd host dinner parties as a leader of Penacony with the elite, you would act as the entertainment for the night. You would sing for them as they mingled, slowly beginning to take control of them. But once the main act was upon you, you singing your final song of the night, it was then that you would use your power the most that night (not fully, but more than before). And just like that. They were again ensnared and ready for his use. He'd plant ideas and thoughts in their minds while under your control.

And as everyone would leave for the night, h'd wrap an arm around your waist and kiss your temple. "You did amazing tonight, my love. Let's celebrate, hm?" He'd say this in a low voice before leading you back into the house for a glass of wine or whatever else tickled your fancy.

Sorry there isn't more... OTL

It's a bit hard to write for me, haha. Hope you liked it! Feel free to send in another request if you'd like~

[eretzyisrael]

by Hamza Howidy

Since the start of the current war between Israel and Hamas, Hamas has committed countless atrocities against its own people in Gaza. This was true even before the war. Yet somehow, despite the fact that Hamas has effectively kidnapped the Gaza strip and all its inhabitants and routinely terrorizes them, these crimes are never reported by Arabic media or western media, nor by global human rights organizations, all of which tend to portray Hamas as a legitimate resistance group who are trying to "liberate" the Palestinians.

This absence of Hamas's crimes against Palestinians in the media is not for want of evidence. Many Gazans have raised concerns about the brutality of this regime, which they have witnessed first hand. And not just witnessed; there have been many videos posted on social media platforms showing Gazans criticizing Hamas and blaming Hamas for the current disastrous situation in Gaza.

Without a doubt, many civilians have been killed by IDF airstrikes. Yet each time that happens, those incidents make headlines across media channels. But somehow, when it comes to Hamas' crimes against innocent Israelis and innocent Gazans, the entire media establishment turns a blind eye, trying to present a misleading black and white narrative about this conflict.

Why?

If their heart bleeds for Gaza, why are they not outraged at all of the violence that Gazans face��including the violence of Hamas?

The sad truth is, when Israelis aren't involved, no one is interested in advocating for the Palestinian rights they claim to care about so deeply.

We Gazans attempted several times to remove Hamas from power. In 2019 and in 2023, the people of Gaza held peaceful marches against Hamas; for this crime, we were brutally assaulted by Hamas militants. Hamas imprisoned over 1,300 protestors at each protest.

I was one of them. I was personally imprisoned by Hamas and tortured twice, because I participated in these protests.

So I know firsthand that when ordinary Gazans like myself protested against Hamas, there was no media attention. No human rights organizations demanded the release of prisoners held for months in Hamas prisons, not to mention those who were tortured by Hamas, and even killed by Hamas—like Issam Al-Saaffein, who was killed under torture in Hamas's jails.

This trend has continued during the present war. Since October 7, hundreds of Gazans have been killed by Hamas' failing rockets. Hamas has confiscated the food, fuel, and medicine sent to Gaza, and they did not stop here.

13-year-old Ahmad Breka was shot in the head by Hamas in Rafah while attempting to collect humanitarian aid. Others were fortunate because they were merely shot in the legs by Hamas while attempting to grab humanitarian goods that Hamas stole and kept in their facilities.

These inhumane acts, along with the agony that Gazans have undergone since October, prompted many to demonstrate anew during this war. They demonstrated in Khan-Younis in front of Yahya Sinwar's house; others protested in the north, asking that Hamas free the captives and cease the war. They received the same response from Hamas that I did: They were fired upon.

And once again, the global media largely overlooked these crimes.

[roobylavender]

hmm this may interest you, do you have thoughts on this subject matter character-wise or in a meta sense?:

https://www.tumblr.com/thecruellestmonth/740875315694501888/batman-turning-points-3-batman-under-the-red

personally i'm not a fan of bruce's disavowal of fatherhood much for the same reasons that i'm not a fan of his installing the good soldier plaque. these to me are both writing choices driven more by writers' desire to explore theoretical concepts than they are driven by a character study of bruce himself. the concept of robin as an occupation inherently equivalent to child abuse is interesting. the concept of wondering what right a father has to children he has adopted towards that end is interesting. that being said, exploring the former concept didn't necessarily demand eliminating robin altogether. exploring the latter concept didn't necessarily demand bruce completely disavowing himself of any accountability. and ultimately both writing choices ignore that a core aspect of bruce's relationships with the robins was wanting to be a good parent, or at the least a good guardian. certainly something more than a mere ally or friend. he took responsibility for these children because he wanted to help guide them towards a certain path in life where they would no longer be ruled by their trauma the way he was and is by his. allowing them to become robin to that end was obv more than questionable, but all too many writers forget and even go so far as to ignore that bruce knew that. he was well aware of his status as an enabler and he eventually hated himself for it deeply. he felt perpetually guilty and reluctant to ask dick for any support once the latter became an adult bc he didn't want to sanction and (in his mind) effectively require dick to do something that would endanger his life on his own orders. he could realistically never stop dick from pursuing vigilantism, but he could at least refuse to ask dick for that commitment any longer so that dick had complete freedom to make his own choices as to the matter. regardless, bruce had to live with the guilt of having enabled the existence of robin to begin with, and he intended to live with that guilt. it was his closest friend and his primary means of survival

if anything, that to me is precisely why his disavowal of fatherhood doesn't make sense. bruce is a poor communicator and he has a tendency to take upon all burdens at the expense of his loved ones feeling like he no longer values them or their support, but that doesn't negate the fact that he's quite hyperaware of his flaws. he's a far more relentless critic of himself than he is of others, and that stems as much from self-righteousness as it does guilt. he's supposed to be better. he's supposed to set an example. he's supposed to do the right thing. he's supposed to save the whole city even if he's only one person. and so on and so forth. bruce is possessive of highly unrealistic expectations for himself bc he's a ridiculously emotional person trying to tell himself to act like a robot. he repeatedly sets himself up for failure and then when he inevitably fails he kicks himself down like a dog. he is essentially a walking man-child simply because he cares too much and that often leads him to make stupid, emotionally driven choices: like taking random children into his home and teaching them how to channel their emotions through fighting crime, because if it worked for him it might work for them too, esp when they've got the added benefit of his supervision and well-intended (albeit awkward) companionship

all of bruce's circumstances and internalizations and traumas point to him taking what i would term excessive ownership of his crimes. he's a self-made pity puddle because he thinks everything is his fault. dick barely having a life outside of vigilantism is his fault. dick nearly falling to his death is his fault. jason failing to properly process his parental trauma is his fault. jason getting blown up by the joker is his fault. i simply cannot imagine a world where bruce isolates himself from caring or from taking the blame because doing the latter has been his modus operandi for so long. it makes more sense for bruce to disavow fatherhood in the specific context of not wanting to take the place that john and mary or willis and catherine will always occupy; it makes less sense for bruce to disavow fatherhood in the specific context of raising and loving dick and jason as if they were his own. it's very much a you don't have to call me dad but when i call you "chum" i mean "son" situation. he's never one to burden others intentionally (although we obv know this rarely plays out the way he wants it to), rather he intentionally burdens himself. that's precisely what knightfall as an arc is stellar at depicting, regardless of the fact that it coincides with the existence of the good soldier plaque. bruce in the aftermath of jason's death has to blame himself excessively because it's the only way he knows how to cope. i've never understood depictions of his grief with an emphasis on jason's share of the blame bc not only is it classist towards jason, it's also inconsistent with bruce's own character and tendency to believe that every bad thing that happens is his fault. it's why i'm not really a fan of gotham knights #43-45. a death in the family makes it clear that bruce blames himself for not allowing jason to have the space and time to process his trauma properly before throwing him into the suit. allowing him to have hope never even comes into the picture

and i'm not sure if anyone has ever considered this, but the disavowal of fatherhood really confuses me when you remember tim exists. why is bruce's disavowal with regards to jason even necessary when the crux of tim's entry into the mythos is precisely the fact that he isn't someone over whom bruce can similarly exercise responsibility and ownership.. it's far more interesting to explore the tightrope bruce walks with that partnership because he's easily in a place to deny responsibility and yet obv he ultimately can't because despite whatever reluctance he expressed initially, he eventually gave in. the tone of the grant/brefoygle run also helps with depicting that dilemma. we're not primarily privy to the bruce of old anymore, who while quiet and awkward nonetheless expressed a capacity for caretaking. there are remnants of that of course (esp after tim's mother dies). but the bruce of the 90s is more imperious and domineering because he's been hardened by trauma. he delivers grand speeches about vigilantism and justice. he sends tim across the pond because he needs proper training. the fact that they're neighbors and get burgers together sometimes doesn't detract from the physical divide present there because tim is ultimately someone else's son and possessive of a life entirely divorced of what he does in the mask. he can walk away without preamble in a way that dick (at least until adulthood) and jason never could. plenty of writers recognized that and personally i believe it's what made the 90s robin run interesting to read, but i also believe writers retroactively projected the necessity of an emotionally distant bruce to that narrative onto the bruce of old. it was progressively rewritten to be a constant rather than a development in the wake of a highly transgressive event. and unfortunately that's tainted every interaction and/or recollection that he has with/of jason afterward

[therainscene]

Will Byers: Be gay do crime, amirite?

Growing up means putting away childish things, choosing between marrying a woman or remaining celibate, becoming a wage slave with no free time, and accepting that this is how life works.

Fuck that!

Will would rather spend his time doing things he actually enjoys with the people he loves, and if he has to break some of society’s rules to do so... well, clearly the rules were bullshit to begin with and deserve to be broken.

But the spark of defiance we see in the van is a smoldering ember compared to the fire of S3.

Will jokes about Vegas and D&D, but that’s all it is -- a joke. Getting to spend the rest of his life with Mike has begun to feel like a silly fantasy, akin to using superpowers to commit fraud as a minor.

It doesn’t occur to him that Mike’s cries for help could be because he wants to escape comphet, not be pushed further into it. He weeps quietly over his self-inflicted heartache, back turned and mouth smothered, like there’s something unreasonable about his feelings.

What happened to the brazenly authentic boy who openly admitted that he expected to spend his life with Mike? Where’s the offended boy who called Mike out on his performative heterosexuality? The furious boy who screamed and sobbed and swore as he felt society’s homophobic standards closing in on him with all the inevitability of growing older?

Will is authentic and headstrong, but even he is getting slowly crushed under the boot of forced conformity.

Some of the GA think this is an acceptable outcome; just an inevitable part of growing up gay in the 80s. It’s realistic and relatable. Great queer rep!

Others decide that Will should become a villain -- after all, hasn’t he earned the right? The narrative has done nothing but torture him, so doesn’t he deserve to go a little apeshit? As a treat?

Henry Creel: Be gay do crime, amirite?

Henry is scathingly critical of society’s rules. He refuses to compromise his true nature by playing along, and no amount of punishment can force him to change.

His backstory is presented in a way that makes it difficult to sympathize with him -- I mean, ok, maybe he didn’t deserve to be jailed and tortured when he was just a child, but surely the Soteria was necessary, right? He’s dangerous.

But the real threat that Henry poses isn’t his willingness to kill -- it’s the power he has to rewrite the rules. And both he and his oppressors know it.

By locking him up (forcing him into the closet), torturing him (subjecting him to homophobia), and implanting him with Soteria (castrating him), they stripped him of agency and reduced his options to a rock and a hard place:

Continue suffering in obedient silence.

Go apeshit and commit whatever atrocities are necessary to escape. Embrace his role as the villain in a story where people like him aren’t allowed to be the heroes anyway.

(Hmm, those are same options that Will is expected to choose from. What an interesting yet surely meaningless coincidence.)

The tragedy of Henry’s story is that he did end up conforming to the rules in the end.

He didn’t choose the option his oppressors would have preferred, but he did choose an acceptable one -- he became the monster they’d already branded him as. Once upon a time his fellow outcasts might have gladly allied with him, but now they’re forced to stop him.

I love the symbolism of this shot. El’s rainbow is larger and pushes Henry back, while his is upside down, foreshadowing how the battle is going to end -- but more than that, it symbolizes their approaches in battle.

The motivation that Henry is using comes from the same place as El’s -- a desire for self-preservation, to defy authority, to fight for the rights of fellow outcasts -- but his has been twisted. He advises her to use a memory of injustice that makes her feel angry and sad...

...and while it’s very effective, it’s not enough. It isn’t until she thinks of a memory that makes her feel loved that she’s able to gain the upper hand.

Interestingly, the lights surge around her as she does this, bathing her in an ethereal white glow:

It fits the symbolism of the rainbow room perfectly -- after all, what is white light if not a focused rainbow?

But more importantly: where have we seen this before?

Will Byers carries the light with him wherever he goes, because he has the benefit of something Henry was cruelly robbed of: the unconditional love and acceptance of his family and friends, which helped hinder society’s efforts to crush the authenticity out of him.

So why should Will suffer the same fate as Henry? What’s stopping him from being the hero and earning the happy ending he wants, instead of the tragic ending homophobes expect him to settle for?

Like Henry, Will has the power to rewrite the rules -- and this time, they’re actually going to be rewritten.