#The Man with the Deadly Lens

[e-louise-bates]

Definitely adding more action to the final quarter of Magic Most Deadly than there was in the original version. Len just punched a butler in the nose and then locked him in a telephone cabinet.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Unauthorized Documentary 0.5

Summary: Matthew Gray Gubler is filming his untitled documentary, you hate it (not really).

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: fake arguing, fake fighting, mean reader (it's fake)

Word count: 1.6k

a/n: i am rewatching the documentaries right now and i need this man so bad

main masterlist 1.0

“I am not Matthew’s girlfriend,” you sighed heavily, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “I have no idea why he keeps telling people that.”

The camera panned slightly, focusing on your expression as the cameraman shrugged nonchalantly. His lack of input only seemed to fuel your irritation.

Turning sharply to face the lens, you stared directly into it with a deadly serious expression. With an intense tone, you declared, “Let me make this absolutely clear for anyone dumb enough to be watching anything about Matthew Garbler — I have never, and will never, date that pathetic freak.”

The silence that followed hung in the air, your words ringing with unapologetic finality.

The camera pulled back slightly, catching more of the chaotic surroundings: a cluttered dressing room filled with mismatched furniture, half-empty coffee cups, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Matthew Gray Gubler in a pirate hat.

From behind the camera, a voice asked, dripping with sarcasm, “So you’re saying there’s no chance for a romantic subplot?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Romantic subplot? This isn’t some trashy rom-com. This is real life! And in real life, I wouldn’t date Matthew if he was the last human being on this planet. I’d rather marry the cardboard cutout.” You gestured dramatically at the pirate Matthew, who seemed to smirk mockingly at you.

The cameraman snorted. “Right. But you’re still his assistant?”

“I’m his manager,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “And don’t you dare forget it. I keep that lunatic’s life from imploding every single day. And what do I get in return? A stupid title on this dumb documentary and people thinking I’m his girlfriend? Unbelievable.”

—

Later, the camera turns on Matthew, his brow furrowed and his expression caught somewhere between confusion and mild panic. “She said what?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

From behind the camera, a voice awkwardly clarified, “Uh, she said she’s not your girlfriend.”

Matthew’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing slightly. He made a quick hand motion, his tone turning sharp. “Show me the footage.”

The screen jumps back to Matthew as he watches the clip. He forces an uncomfortable laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s so funny,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s just how Y/N is… she likes to joke around like that.”

The camera slowly pans away, catching you in the background, deep in conversation with one of the producers. Your body language is animated, your irritation still evident as you gestured emphatically.

“Fuck,” Matthew mutters under his breath, the nervousness in his voice escalating. He whirls around, shouting over his shoulder, “Cut that, cut all that!”

Before anyone can respond, he bolts from the set, his hurried footsteps fading as the shot lingers awkwardly on the empty doorway he’s just fled through.

—

While you were giving another uncomfortable interview for the cameraman, the door burst open, and Matthew himself waltzed in, juggling three cups of coffee. “Guess what, everyone! I’ve decided to legally change my name to ‘Gublé,’ like the singer, but with pizzazz. Thoughts? Be honest but supportive.”

You turned to the camera, your mouth slightly agape as if asking the audience for strength. “This is my life.”

“Wait,” Matthew cut in, setting the coffee cups precariously on a stack of scripts. “Did you tell them about us?” His eyes sparkled mischievously.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of your head. “For the hundredth time, there is no ‘us.’ There never was and never will be!”

“Ah, denial,” Matthew said wistfully, draping himself across the nearest chair like a Victorian maiden. “It’s the first stage of acceptance, you know.”

The cameraman’s voice chimed in again, amused. “That’s grief.”

“Well, I’m grieving her lack of enthusiasm for our undeniable chemistry!” Matthew quipped, pointing dramatically at you before turning to the camera. “Did you catch that? That’s good TV, folks. Make sure you zoom in on her frustration—it’s practically Shakespearean.”

You threw up your hands in defeat. “I’m quitting,” you declared, marching toward the door. “I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.”

“Wait!” Matthew leaped up, his tin foil cape trailing behind him. “Before you go, do you want one of these coffees? I got your favorite!”

You stopped, turning slowly. “No.”

—

You stormed into Matthew’s trailer, not bothering to knock. He was sitting on the edge of a couch, exaggeratedly flipping through a script as he was recorded, but the moment he saw your expression, his face fell.

“Stop,” you said sharply, pointing a finger at him. “Stop telling people I’m your girlfriend. It’s weird as fuck, Matthew.”

He blinked, momentarily stunned, before awkwardly laughing and setting the script aside. “Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s just for the bit—it makes the show more, you know, engaging.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “Engaging for who? Because I don’t think the fake audience gives a shit about your fake relationship narrative. And I’m certainly not here for it.”

Matthew shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. “I mean, technically, it’s not really fake—”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, “we’ve spent a lot of time together. People see that and, you know, assume things. I just… lean into it.”

“You lean into it?” you repeated incredulously. “Matthew, no one is assuming anything. You’re making it up and then selling it like a damn tabloid story!”

He held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll—” He paused, his eyes darting to the camera peeking through the crack in the door. “Is this… are we filming right now?”

You turned your head sharply to catch the lens disappearing behind the door frame. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Matthew grimaced. “It’s for the show?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Matthew. Fix it. Now.”

“I will!” he promised, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll tell them it was all a misunderstanding. Like, tomorrow. Maybe.”

“Today,” you snapped, pointing at him one last time before turning on your heel to leave. “Or I’m moving to another continent, got it?”

Matthew sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I promise. No more telling people we’re together.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed. “You’d better,” you said firmly. “Because if I hear one more person ask me what our anniversary is or how you proposed, I’m going to lose it.”

“Got it,” he said quickly, nodding like a chastised child. “No more fake girlfriend stories. Swear on my vintage ghost-hunting equipment.”

“Good,” you said, heading for the door. But just as you reached for the handle, you turned back one last time. “And for the record? If you ever pull this stunt again, I’ll leak the footage of you crying at craft services over them being out of grape soda.”

Matthew gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you deadpanned before slamming the door behind you.

Inside the trailer, Matthew let out a long, defeated sigh before muttering under his breath, “She totally loves me.”

—

After the cameras had been packed up for the day and the set was finally quiet, you made your way to Matthew’s trailer. The door was slightly ajar, and you knocked softly before stepping inside. He was mid-way through changing out of his Spencer Reid clothes, tugging off the familiar cardigan with his back turned to you.

“Hey,” you greeted, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Matthew spun around quickly, his face lighting up with a matching smile the moment he saw you. “Hi, love,” he said warmly, walking over to you without hesitation. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer. His expression softened as he asked, “Are we okay?” There was a hint of hesitation in his voice, like he was bracing for a blow.

You tilted your head, confusion flickering across your face. “Of course, baby,” you replied, your hand instinctively reaching up to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushed against the slight stubble there as you searched his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Matthew let out an awkward laugh, his grip tightening slightly as if to ground himself. “You were just... really convincing today,” he admitted, his words tumbling out with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, that?” you chuckled softly, rolling your eyes. “Matthew, you know I have to sell it, or the bit doesn’t land. That’s the whole point, right? It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, though the nervous edge in his laugh hadn’t quite disappeared. “But for a second there, I thought you actually hated me.”

Your expression softened at his words, and you leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I could never hate you,” you murmured against his mouth. “You’re ridiculous, sure. Annoying sometimes? Definitely. But I love you, even when you make up insane fake-girlfriend narratives.”

A relieved grin spread across his face as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I really don’t want to get in trouble with my real girlfriend.”

You laughed, your fingers threading through his hair. “Well, you’re not off the hook just yet,” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You owe me dinner for all the grief you caused today.”

“Done,” Matthew replied instantly, his smile turning playful. “But only if you promise not to leak that grape soda footage. My reputation depends on it.”

“Depends on how good the dinner is,” you shot back with a smirk.

“Challenge accepted,” he said, his lips capturing yours again in a kiss that promised he’d make it up to you.

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

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[cillianmesoftlyyy]

Don't Ruin It | Agent Lenny Miller x fem!Reader

summary: Sexual tension comes to a head (literally) when a younger female agent (you) makes a move on her superior agent, Lenny Miller, after a successful undercover mission.

warnings: Infidelity, power-imbalance, hazy consent, praise and dubious humiliation, smut.

word count: 3,300k

ONE SHOT! Who would’ve guessed…

Taking What's Not Yours- TV Girl 🎶

That's so True- Gracie Abrams 🎵

You were partners. Partners. And he was married. Married. There were so many fucking ethical reasons why you shouldn’t but damn it all, you did. 

“I need your wire,” Agent Lenny Miller said over his shoulder as he sorted the equipment back into their cases. Your heart was still racing from the conclusion of your mission, your body was thrumming with adrenaline. You turned to face the hotel mirror and unzipped the back of your dress. When he was done with his brief task, Miller turned and after a moment of hesitation, approached you slowly. He clenched his jaw as he brushed the zipper away so that he could reach the mic-pack secured to the band of your bra. His pale fingers lingered an extra moment longer on the bare skin above and below the clasp as he pulled the pack off. He blinked his heavy eyelashes slowly, wetting his lips as he followed the wire up your back to your ear. His finger trailed over your skin, pretending to hold to the wire as his eyes glanced up to meet yours in the mirror. You removed the mic from your ear and turned back slowly to hand it to him. Miller looked down at you, still holding the pack, his heart racing too but his eyes deadly calm, keeping a level head just like a good agent would. Staring for a moment at the mic-pack, Miller finally exhaled slowly and nodded, taking the mic pack and wire. He switched the device off and looked back down at you again, face-to-face. 

You were a young agent, fresh out of training with an expertise in languages. Agent Lenny Miller was a senior agent, a typical dark, brooding type with attitude issues and a soft-spot for intelligent women. He was always arrogant, but it was because he was always right. God, it was so fucking infuriating. When he wasn’t smiling (which was most of the time), you could barely make out the beginnings of crows’ feet at each outside corner of his eyes. He was in his mid-forties, married with a son. He wasn’t technically your boss but that didn’t make it any more ethical. These were just the things you told yourself as he continued to look down at you with his pale blue eyes. 

He was standing with his feet shoulder-length apart and his jaw still painfully clenched. You reached around to the back of your dress and unzipped it all the way, your chest rising and falling quickly. Miller inhaled deeply as he saw what you were doing. Your black dress slowly slipped down your body to pool at your feet. He let himself look down at your body, covered only by your underwear. He stepped closer, just half a step, his lips falling open as he looked down at your lips. You rose onto the balls of your feet, offering your mouth but he inhaled sharply again and ran his hand over his mouth. 

Miller stepped back and turned. He walked to an armchair in the hotel room and sat down on the edge of the seat, his hands steepled. 

“Len-” you started but he held up a hand to stop you. 

“Shhh, don’t ruin it, don’t ruin it” he whispered gently and looked you over again from the chair across the room. You stood silently in your underwear for a moment until you felt brave enough to move your arms to undo your hair. Your hair fell around your shoulders and you ran your fingers through it, picking out the knots quickly. Once that was done, you looked back at the man and asked him point-blank. 

“Is it your wife?”

“Don’t ask me about her, Y/N.” He responded calmly, his hand still resting against his lips as he stared at you. You raise your chin slightly and inch closer until you're right in front of him. He looks up at you in appreciative silence, like he’s at an art gallery or the symphony. He lets you step between his knees and run your hands down the back of his head starting from the crown. His eyes close slowly and he sighs as your hands stroke his dark hair. 

“If only you knew…” you whispered as your other hand slid down his cheek. Agent Miller’s eyes opened and he smiled softly, leaning into your hand. 

“Know what?”

“How much I want you,” you answered breathlessly, your heart fluttering beyond beating. Miller chuckled in discomfort and inner turmoil. He shook his head and leaned back in the chair, out of reach of your hand. 

“You know as well as I do that we can’t do this, Y/L/N.” 

“Don’t talk like that.” You responded cooly, taking a step back as he watched you, his eyes helplessly trailing over your body. Miller leaned his chin against his closed hand, wetting his lips again as you put more distance between you. You could make out the half-hard bulge in his trousers that he tried to ignore. You two stared at each other for a minute on end, neither speaking as your eyes spoke to your individual desires. Finally, Miller sighed and reached out his hand, palm up and beckoning. 

“C’mere.”

His voice was gentle but sure, as if there were absolutely no hesitation behind his request. You waited another moment before finally stepping back between his legs. His arms opened, inviting you to sit on his lap. You sat on his upper thigh, within the cage of his arms. Miller used his other hand to pull your legs across his lap, so that you were sitting completely across his legs like a child. His open hand rubbed up and down your thigh furthest away from his chest, slipping all the way down to your calf. You looked down at him and exhaled shakily. 

“I-” he started but you pressed a finger against his lips, shushing him gently but firmly. 

“Don’t ruin it.” 

He smirked softly behind your finger and looked at your lips as you moved your head close to his. You dropped your finger and held the curve of his jaw instead, brushing your lips against his. The short stubble on his jaw tickled your fingers as you pushed them down his throat. His hand moved to hook around your waist and his lips fell open, responding to your tease. You exhaled shakily again, this time against his lips before finally kissing him. The kiss was so soft that your lips barely touched, barely moved. He looked up into your face, exhaling tightly before pulling you closer once again. You kissed again and just as softly as before. When you pulled away, you stared at each other in tense silence, the world around you was shrill like a static that separated you two from the rest of the world. 

“Do you want to stop?” You whispered, looking between his blue eyes and his button nose. He briefly pressed a finger against your lips, dismissing your question, before kissing you again. His kiss was harder, stronger, as if he’d finally made up his mind without saying so: he was going to fuck you because damn it, he wanted you so badly. His teeth caught your bottom lip and you moaned against him as your fingers found the buttons of his collared shirt. The process was slow but expertly coordinated as if you already knew each other’s bodies as well as your own. You unbuttoned his shirt, slowly revealing his undershirt once each button slipped out of its eyelet hold. He wore the same undershirts that your dad used to wear beneath his dress shirts, the ones he wore to work, the similarity brought a strange sense of comfort as your hands felt the fabric beneath your hands. 

Miller pulled you to straddle his lap so that you were completely facing him on your knees. You rested your butt on his legs, waiting patiently until his shirt and undershirt were completely removed. He held his arms over his head so that you could pull the shirt away from his bare skin. Agent Lenny Miller was by no means a largely muscular man, he’d left his field days behind him, but he was still fit, still lean and handsome. His arms were still muscular and you could feel the tension of his muscles every time he moved them around you. You sat back, ending your kiss for a moment so that you could look down at his bare chest. His pectoral muscles were tight and defined, his stomach shallow and taught. There was a dusting of freckles across his pale chest and a thin line of dark hair beneath his bellybutton. You pressed your hand against his lower stomach and felt the muscle meet your hand as it tensed. He laid his hands on the chair’s armrests and watched you with a calm expression on his face. 

You slipped off his lap and opened his legs so that you could kneel between them. He ran his hand over his lips as he watched you, his eyes glued to you. You placed your hands on his knees and rose for a moment longer so that you could run your tongue across his collarbones. You dragged your tongue up his sternum, up to his throat, and ended at his jaw with a gentle nip. He shook once beneath you and groaned softly, so quietly that you barely heard it. When you returned to the place between his knees, his lips fell open in a helpless way, as if he were stuck in a trance. When his pants were undone, you ran your hand over his now-very-hard-cock and looked up into his eyes. 

“Go on then,” he whispered, smirking softly as if he were joking. You smiled and pulled down his boxers just enough to find his erection. When it sprang free, he groaned audibly and leaned his head back for a moment. You rolled your tongue around the head slowly, relishing the taste of his precum, showing you just how much he wanted you too. Your hand gripped his shaft and squeezed gently, making him jerk his hips. He cursed beneath his breath as you moved your mouth farther onto his cock. You sucked softly, just wanting to prep him, not to make him cum. His hands tightened on the armrests, his nails digging into the red leather upholstery. You took his cock as far as you could without gagging and rolled your tongue before bobbing up and down. 

“Ah fuck, girl. Slow, slow” he praised gently and closed his eyes as you sucked. When you could hear the distinct sounds of masculine whimpers, you stopped and looked back up at him. Miller exhaled tightly and ran his hand over your hair, fixing how it fell at the side of your face. His hand dropped to your shoulder and played with the soft skin there before pulling one of your bra straps off of your shoulder. You waited as he did the same to the other strap. He sighed as you stood slowly and stepped backwards towards the hotel bed, never used. Miller removed the last of his clothes and followed you slowly, his hand reaching out for your body. You let him pull you closer and kissed him as he felt for the clasp of your bra. He undid it easily and pulled it off of your arms so that he could feel your breasts. He nearly growled as he squeezed your breasts, feeling the hard nipple between his fingers. Miller picked you up easily and laid you back on the bed. He took your knees and pulled them apart so that he could stand between them. Still kissing you, he fit his hands beneath the bands of your thongs on your hips. His hands rubbed back and forth on your love-handles, in no rush to take off your underwear. 

“Turn over, agent Y/L/N,” he muttered against your lips. 

You nodded slowly, your lips starting to feel swollen and hot. You flipped over onto your stomach and felt his hands cup your butt before pulling down your underwear. He pulled them down your knees, over your calves, and off your ankles. 

“Look at you. Good girl…” he whispered and tossed the underwear to the side. You pushed your butt up, signaling your need for him. Miller chuckled briefly in understanding and spread your knees again with his hands. With one of his hands, he feels over your wet cunt and leans over you to nip your shoulder. 

When you moan he nods, “I know, I know. Me too.” 

His long, rough fingers teased you cruelly as you bit your lip to keep from whining. 

“Miller…” you whispered after a while of waiting and teasing. The senior agent smiled and leaned closer to your ear. 

“Patience, girl. It’s an agent’s best virtue.” 

You rolled your eyes and started to respond snippily before you felt him press against you, groaning. He pumped into you, hitting your ass with each quick gentle stroke. His hand that wasn’t being used to support his body went to your chin and pulled your head to lie flat on the side. 

“How does it feel?” He asked. 

“Hhha,” you tried to speak in a small breathless voice. He moved his hand back to your hip so that he could thrust deeper. 

“Mmm fuck, you’re tight,” he panted and moved faster, harder. You cried out in pleasure and arched your back as much as you can beneath his body. “Tell me when you’re close.” 

He groaned in pleasure as he found a good rhythm, your cunt gripping his cock better than his wife ever could. You moaned loudly, nearing yelling as he held you down and subjected you to the brutal honestly of his fucking. 

He leaned down over you to rub his lips against your smooth upper back. He kissed your shoulder blade and slowed his thrusts, savoring the intimacy of your bodies. He moved his hips forward in a slow and flexed manner, straddling the line between climax and continuity. 

“Good girl. Good. fucking. girl.” He muttered, his lips still barely touching your back. 

“Shit I’m close,” you whined, your thighs shaking out of your control. As soon as the words left your mouth, Miller pulled out and picked you up by your hips. Nearly cradling you in his arms, he swapped places with you and placed you on top of his freckled upper chest. 

“Sit,” he instructed calmly, “I’ll finish you off,” he gripped your thighs, waiting for you to move onto his face. You were panting and red in the face and it took a moment for you to realize what he was asking. With another reassuring nod from him, you shifted your body up and slowly lowered yourself down onto his face. You were skeptical and awkward until you felt his tongue glide over the lips of your sex. His nose rubbed against your clit as he sucked and lapped at your cunt. Your mouth fell open and your thighs immediately reacted by quivering. You placed your hands over his, still on your thighs, and cried out. 

“That’s it,” his voice was muffled but still clear as he felt your orgasm building again, “I won’t stop you this time.” 

Your body tried to jerk away from his mouth as your climax came on fast and strong but Miller kept you close to his lips. His arms didn’t let you leave even as you writhed from pleasure. You panted loudly, whining, until you finally orgasmed. Miller felt you orgasm against his mouth and waited until you had ridden it out before letting you pull away. You moved back enough for him to sit up. You were both panting and high on pleasure which made it impossible to speak. Miller looked you up and down, his way of asking if you were ok. You nodded softly and he nodded in return. 

“You didn’t finish,” you observed breathlessly, straddling his lap as he leaned against the headboard.

“No?” He raised a brow, pretending to be ignorant. 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“You’re observant, good for you agent Y/L/N,” he responded evenly, raising both of his brows so that his forehead creased into that judgmental look he did so well. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Already did. Try again,” he tilted his head to the side slightly and nearly smirked. His biceps curled as he ran his hands up and down your arms. When you cocked your eyebrow back, calling him out on his bullshit, he sighed and resigned. 

“That was for you, not for me,” he explained calmly, his eyes meeting yours. 

“Making me finish, you mean?” You asked slowly, your brows furrowed more. 

“Yes,” he nodded slowly and pursed his lips, “that was for you. I wanted to make you come.” 

“And now what?” 

“What do you mean?” Miller asked, confused. 

“What do we do now?”

“We put on our clothes and go back to doing our jobs,” he answered with a half-hearted shrug. You scowled and shook your head. 

“No.”

“No?” He repeated. 

“You want this too, as much as you try to deny it and shame me for it. I’m not just a pity-fuck. Look me in the fucking eyes and say that you didn’t want me,” your voice dropped and you grabbed his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles. He held your gaze calmly but his heart beat faster. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he considered his response. Deciding against words, Miller grabbed the back of your neck and forced you into a hard kiss. You were caught by surprise and moaned tightly as he pulled you close and found your tongue to suck on, delirious with passion. His hands wrapped around you and flipped you over where you were then lying on your back beneath him. 

“Fine, how’s this? I’ll look you in the eyes while I fuck you,” he growled and helped himself inside you. Like this, you could see his bright blue eyes as he held himself up over your body. He was already grunting and panting as he started to move back and forth. Both of your mouths fell open and you cried out in more pain than pleasure at this overstimulation. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, his thumb playing with the ridges of flexed muscles as you panted beneath him. His eyes only left you once when he dropped his head to your breasts to take one of your nipples between his teeth. He didn’t press hard, just enough to make you whimper. He flicked his large tongue over your breast, teasing the nipple with quick aggressive flicks. Your back arched and he growled in pleasure against your chest as he allowed himself to feel his orgasm. He returned his head to its original position so that he could watch your facial expression as he came. His mouth was open, his lips wet and pink. His cheeks hollowed everytime he panted, hitting your hips hard with his at the same time. He said nothing as he came, just slowed his thrusts, focusing instead on going as deeply as he could. His eyes closed and he shuttered, cumming inside you. 

When it was over, Miller remained fixed above you, his grip loosened around your neck. He traced his finger up and down your throat in a strange show of affection. 

“Alright?” Miller asked in a deep, heavy voice. You nodded and ran your hand over his chest. 

“You?”

“Alright.” He nodded once. You stared into each others’ eyes, panting and exchanging hot breath. 

“Alright,” you whispered. 

Another moment of silence passed. 

“Alright,” he repeated, staring now at your lips. Slowly, Miller inched closer. Slowly, your lips touched once more. 

Alright.

[peggyao3]

Kaleidoscope

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: In a fight for freedom or death against the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, his woman figures out how she feels about him, her poor devil wrapped in the skin of a beast.

WORD COUNT: 2,750

TAGS: Third person POV, AFAB she/her FMC, explicit sexual content,  rough sex, PiV, Switch!Feyd, Switch!FMC, but mostly Dom!Feyd, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, blood and injury, pain kink, blood kink, extremely dubious consent, gory nasty smut, blood for lube, mutilation, very public sex, and they lived happily ever after

A/N: Happy FEYDUARY! 🖤 Pulling this one out of the archive (specifically the ao3) for the occasion.

I've been obsessed with trying to decode the Harkonnen language (even though there's just a snippet of it in the fic) and I've found this reddit post and especially this one extremely interesting. The user @/tharpi9145 on YouTube commented under this video that the Harkonnen arena chanting was translated in Chinese theaters and provided the translation, so here's where that's coming from in the fic.

The theme and some of the descriptions in this oneshot are heavily inspired by the RP I'm writing with my sweetest friend.

Reposted from Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @/saradika-graphics

"Ek te stroeng ge e deser xhakhing grul klaxhkseda de haun dau ek se en-Barun Feyd-Rautha!" ~ Our glorious, black sun welcomes you to these special festivities of our beloved na-Baron Feyd-Rautha's holy birthday! ~

The booming echo of boos and whistling from the crowd passes through her heart and soul as she stands poised at the center of the arena, a brutalist behemoth chiseled of coal-black concrete. With her hand wrapped around the chalky hilt of her double-ended spear, she lets the vibrations pass through her in waves, taking deep lungfuls of Giedi Prime's putrid air that gathers in the pit of the arena like a thick bog.

When the crowd begins to chant in Harkunnin, guided by the announcer's guttural timbre, she perceives the world as if through a filter.

sacrifice to House Harkonnen her mortal blood   (give up her blood!) dedicate to House Harkonnen her faithful flesh   (give up her flesh!) leave to herself the deadly fear   (leave the fear!) leave to the mortals the endless fear   (beckon to death!)

The halves of the oval doorway slide open, like a birth canal giving way to its hellish spawn, and Feyd-Rautha marches confidently into the triangular colossus. From the highest stand he is no bigger than a mote on the lens of the binoculars, yet his presence fills the entire arena, more god than man to the one million spectating fanatics.

What is she thinking, challenging their god of blood and rot? Everyone craves to see her fail, no one wishes for her to earn her freedom. No one understands how she could reject their idol who has chosen her - unworthy, unwilling thing - as his concubine.

A putrid breeze catches the fabric of Feyd's tunic as he saunters in a wide half-circle, like a snake drawing closer and closer, hypnotizing its prey with slow movements made of liquid. This is how the gladiators in the Empire of Roma on Old-Earth must have felt, she thinks, thrown into the ring with a beast to fight for life and death. Freedom or death, in her case. Feyd is the beast and she is the human. The only human, going by the fanatic crescendo of Harkonnen chanting.

"May my spear skewer you dead," she greets Feyd-Rautha when he stands before her, a smooth pillar of black and white, unfazed by the chanting and the radiation. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"And mine you." Feyd grins at the brief flicker of confusion as she glances at the weapons he holds so carefully. Blades, not spears.

The crescendo peaks, a beehive of frenetic anticipation, all eyes on who will launch the first attack.

She was never meant to win, she realizes the moment she lunges, soft sand shifting underfoot. The sand in the training pit is harder, more gravelly. Her balance feels off and Feyd knows it.

He playfully parries her attack, then the next and the next. The humor in his eyes is the worst thing, and the condescending gleam. 

Months of hoping and training for her freedom are reduced to nothing and less than nothing within minutes. This is not the fair chance he promised her. All of their training together was a slight. The sweat, blood and tears she shed into the gravelly sand, those times when she scraped him bloody with her spear and made him laugh, made him praise her like he was truly impressed.

"You dishonorable dog!" She screams against the thick smog and the wailing background noise of the crowd. "You promised me a fair fight, you promised!"

Feyd's expression darkens momentarily, pouty lips turned downwards, a storm brewing in his eyes. A telltale muscle in his jaw twitches.

Yes, she's made him angry, good! Perfect!

Feyd's blades smack against her spear, a quick succession of tack, tack, tack. Then a thump as he aims for her fingers with the handle to shatter her bones. She dips backwards, thrusting the spear forwards at the same time. Feyd's shield prickles angrily, repelling her thrust.

Back into defense, quick, tack, thump, sksshhh!

The longer of the kukris scrapes unpleasantly against the spear shaft. She gyrates in a tight circle, piercing Feyd's shield with the lower end of the shaft pressed against his neck. She ushers him with her in a circular orbit until he ducks under the spear and aims for her thighs, slowing his attack just in time to penetrate the shield. Her trousers tear and blood hotly soaks the fabric. It's a shallow cut. He could have sliced her femoral artery.

"Why are you holding back, you motherless bastard? Kill me now!" 

Disbelief slackens Feyd-Rautha's features as he takes a step back, blades dangling from his hands. He looks surreal in the glaring light, stripped of color, stripped of the soft hues that only show themselves in the artificial light of the glow orbs in her room. She is mad for provoking him.

The unbeaten gladiator roars - the birthday boy - he lunges and slams down, not with the blades but with the handles. With brutal force and precision, they hit the center of the spear's shaft, accomplishing the impossible.

A hairline fracture springs over the shaft, Sardaukar craftsmanship damaged by the ferocity of one apoplectic Harkonnen who laughs boyishly at her expression. Abusing her surprise (has her weapon been sabotaged?!), he tackles her to the ground.

Dust puffs up, momentarily obscuring her vision. Instinctively, she yanks up the spear, pressing it through Feyd's shield, shaft against his throat.

He sits on her thighs, blades sinking through her shield to kiss her sternum, tickling without killing. The pressure against his throat draws terrible grunting and choking noises from the na-Baron who laughs open-mouthed, spit dribbling off his teeth, an inky rivulet that penetrates her shield and slips wetly over her bare clavicles. She fights to shove him off with the full force of two hands.

The hairline fracture in the spear begins to branch out, crack by tiny crack. She stares awestruck and with horror as Feyd-Rautha's face turns grey, teeth bared grotesquely as he groans and salivates and laughs like a boy.

Aaaaaa-ooooohh!

The crowd bellows as the spear splinters right in the middle and Feyd's throat bursts through, marred by a fat bruise that stretches black and ugly just below his Adam's apple. His voice is hoarse and barely recognizable when his body pushes into her shield, chests coming flush, and his drooling mouth finds her neck, sucking a bruise as his breath rattles in his throat. His blade-wielding fists push harmlessly into the sand.

"Anything you'd like to feed the dishonorable dog?"

"I want you to choke on sand and die! I want you to- Ahhh!"

Feyd wrenches the spear halves out of her hands and throws them away. She screams into his laughing visage as he pins her to the sand, hikes up her tunic and tears off her shield generator, then slashes through the front of her pants.

When he reaches down to unclasp the armor plate that shields his crotch, she lunges and punches him in the guts, punches him again, only waiting for the crotch plate to come off so she can punch him there, but Feyd slices her hand with a flash of white metal. The lacerating pain momentarily knocks the breath out of her lungs and she falls back, clutching the hand to her chest, howling.

Gazing up, she is looking into a kaleidoscope of madness, a writhing mass of Harkonnens all around, an ensemble for a nightmare and she is the involuntary harlequin.

The heat of the black sun brings a second pulse against the inside of her eyeballs and she feebly lifts her lacerated hand, surprised to see that all of her fingers are still attached, though her middle and index finger stand unnaturally far apart, separated by a glistening, weeping gash diagonally through her palm.

A pale, writhing shape behind her hand catches her attention and Feyd-Rautha's disfigured voice penetrates her brain fog. "You thought you could ever make it off my planet, whore?" His eyes gleam with mania, bleached by the black sun. "Out of my palace, out of my arms, unless I allowed it?!"

His shield is gone, his blades lie next to him in the sand. This is his victor's feast. The crotch plate is gone too and he cuts through more of her trousers and underwear. Groaning, she feels for the spears or knives, hissing when sand grates against her injury.

The wailing crowd convulses like one entity, a parasitic hive mind that undulates back and forth, a sea of black and white.

  (give up her flesh!)   (give up her flesh!)   (give up her flesh!)

She screams when Feyd's hand wraps around her thigh where he cut her earlier, squeezing and prodding until it comes away coated in blood. The hot liquid touches between her thighs, spread over her cunt by calloused fingers that even find the mercy in them to sink into her once, twice, lubricating her walls with her own blood.

Compared to the searing pain in her cut flesh, the ache of his blunt cock sinking into her is dull, almost comforting in its familiarity. How many times has he fucked her by now? It must have been hundreds. Humiliated in front of a million Harkonnens, this still isn't the worst way he's ever fucked her.

The thought makes her giggle and Feyd looks smitten when he crawls over her, fucking her with long, hard strokes. His eyes keep drifting to her lacerated palm, biting his lip at the sight of blood shed on his holy birthday. He supports his weight on his forearms, fingertips tickling her neck.

"Feyd…" she slurs and Feyd feels compelled to lean further down, anticipation on his features and a noticeable swell of his chest.

"I hate you."

Feyd's jaws twitch, serpent eyes becoming pinpricks while his hips roughly slam into her cunt. His hand wraps around her throat, but then he howls, open mouth turned to the sun, cursing, panting, eyes squinted. His own knife in her hand has slashed through his bicep, deep, deep, deep.

Feyd is unbalanced and she knocks him over. He hits his tailbone on the ground, dust billowing all over them. His cock is still buried in her cunt which has begun to warm up to him, offering slick to ease the glide of the thickly veined, velvety flesh.

She will give the Harkonnens something to boo at.

"Stay back!" Feyd laughs at the prowling picadors.

He is paralyzed by arousal, hips bucking on their own accord as she pins his arm down by the crook of the elbow and hacks the blade into the cut. Pieces of blood and gore splatter over his pale flesh and the armor plate covering his shoulder. His free hand clutches her hip, mind split between pleasure and agony, gripping her flesh to rut into her hard and fast, so he doesn't throw up into the sand.

There is a nauseating crack, hack, cchhrrkkk and Feyd bawls until her bloody hands come up to cover his mouth, knife victoriously planted into the sand. How is she covering his mouth with both hands when she's still holding down his arm? Feyd glances to the side and sees his severed arm being snatched away by a picador's hook.

The horned man-creature sprints away quickly, slipping into the bowels of the arena colossus. If the nerves are preserved, the arm  can be reattached later.

"Will you be a good boy now and let me go?" She growls, drawing the attention of black and white glassy eyes back to her. Her pelvis rolls greedily against his. Scratchy sand is trapped between their bloody, sweaty bodies.

Feyd laughs through the pain, laughs and laughs and laughs to mask the raging insanity because his woman still hasn't understood that she will die on Giedi Prime one day and nowhere else. His arm stump twitches against the ground.

"I'm, haha, never a good boy, hnnng-hah!"

"Hah! Yes, that I know!" She blurts out, voice high-pitched. The tears in her eyes may be from laughter as well. She gives a half-assed punch to Feyd's chest. "Fine, then I'll have to make do with a filthy mutt."

Feyd nods, yes, yes, he will be her filthy mutt and it doesn't matter if she wants him or not, if she hates him or not, it is not important, no, it is not important.

"Release me or I'll kill you!" She reaches for the blade again, but Feyd's knee jerks up, slamming into her ribs so she is knocked to the side. Feyd scrambles, crawling on top of her. They're only connected by his plump cock head that is still squished by her wet hole. Feyd's vision prickles with black dots and he sways, trying to catch his weight on the phantom arm that he swears is still there.

He falls down on the stump, howling, howling, like a beast in a bear trap, fighting against unconsciousness. He is the unbeaten gladiator - unbeaten! The ghost of a caring touch prickles against his ribs, stabilizing him.

With his intact forearm pressed against her throat, he throttles her like she did to him with her spear earlier, except that his veined forearm will never shatter, unless she cuts it off too.

She regrets not accepting the contacts that would protect her eyes from radiation. She had been scared of getting sand all over them, but now she wants nothing more than for the burn to stop and the throb-throb-throb behind her eyeballs that somehow matches the drag of Feyd's cock against her walls and the pulse in her slashed hand.

"Why don't you close your eyes, my darling, pretend we're in our bedroom?"

She does close her eyes and the cacophony of chanting voices turns into a warped melody, like wind tearing on leaves and whistling through porous rocks.

Humm, hummm, hummmm.

In this waking nightmare, the vision of her home world is swallowed by the black sun, a ravenous maw in the good universe. She lightly gasps when she feels hot lips against her neck and hot blood dripping on her chest. 

She wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tearing on the shoulder plate over the stump until it comes off. Softly, she caresses his shoulder while the rutting of his hips is anything but soft. Her legs wrap around his waist because at least he is familiar, an island in the sea of faceless, chanting monsters.

This is what happens when one listens to the voice of the devil. It crawls into the soul and rots you from the inside.

And suddenly the beast you've pitted yourself against is no longer a beast but a man and you're friends with the devil. The thought strikes her and she begins to laugh while tears track down her cheeks. Her poor devil has a severe bruise on his neck and she mustn't think about the arm — Oh, her poor devil!

Her laughter drives Feyd over the edge, pain, pleasure and humiliation, and he spills his rot inside her. Thick, lazy pulses of his cock that she finds oddly comforting. Her toes curl inside her boots and her pelvis happily grinds against Feyd's while the warmth of his seed sinks into her core.

Feyd's breath is heavy and strained when he shuffles away from her and stands, gritting his teeth. He is imposing even though a part of him is missing. The glaring light curls around his soft cheeks and full lips and touches his anemic eyes.

She wants to lie here just a little while longer, the sand is so nice and warm, but Feyd's hand cruelly wraps around her biceps and he drags her across the sand. She calls his name but he keeps marching, fueled by the mad cacophony of chanting and stomping. The hive mind salutes. Sand whirls up under his boots and dusts her face. Her shoulder joint screams in agony.

This was never a battle for death or freedom, it was death or rot.

   (Flesh!)   (Flesh!)   (Flesh!)

They probably don't care whose flesh was given.

Feyd-Rautha maintains his posture for show, internally trembling from blood loss, but the people only see the inhuman strength of their idol, virile and unfaltering despite sacrificing an arm. Still unbeaten. 

A black trail of seed and blood stains the white sand where the na-Baron walks and pulls his spoils of battle through the oval door, back into the womb of the concrete behemoth.

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[danmei-confessions]

I think we should talk about Wu Zetian, China’s only female emperor, who historically has been regarded as a horrible and brutal leader.

She was born a commoner, became a concubine to one emperor, married his son and then took the role of emperor for herself when he died. She was politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent.

History has accused her of smothering her newly born daughter and blaming a rival for her death. She had that rivals hands and feet cut off and then had her thrown into a vat of wine in which she was left to drown. She gouged out another rivals eyes and had acid poured down her throat. She wiped out 12 entire branches of a clan. She poisoned her mother. Just how accurate these things are is up for debate, but while these things might not all be true, she certainly did have several family members killed. And she did deal with her rivals and her detractors ruthlessly. Yet none of these things would have attracted criticism if she had been a man. She was no more scandalous than any other ruler during that time period.

But! Her rule was peaceful and prosperous. She avoided wars and welcomed ambassadors from as far away as the Byzantine empire. She changed laws so common people could be chosen for roles in government for their abilities rather than their name or status. She acknowledged and acted on criticisms from her retainers. She built watchtowers along the Silk Road so merchants wouldn’t be harrowed by bandits. Her reign saw women given more freedom(the ability to divorce, hold government positions, travel, hunt and ride horses, to be recognized by scholars).

She supported Buddhism and helped the religion spread and grow through commissioning temples, monasteries, and even a statue of the Buddha said to be carved in her own likeness. In the eyes of the common people, she likely would have been an incredibly popular ruler.

She remains a controversial figure primarily because of stories about her personal actions against her rivals by male Confucian officials who were prejudiced against strong and ambitious women and while they undoubtedly exaggerated aspects of Wu’s life, there is still substantial verifiable evidence of her ruthlessness.

We should also be aware that although she allegedly held her power through murder and merciless, according to Confucian philosophy, ‘while an emperor should not be condemned for acts that would be crimes in a subject, he should be judged harshly for allowing the state to fall into anarchy’ and viewed under this lens, Wu did effectively fulfill her duties as a ruler.

So we have a leader of ancient china who had two faces, one who committed acts of vile cruelty against her family and rivals and one who gave her citizens peace and prosperity.

Through a modern lens she can be viewed as an evil woman who rose from humble beginnings and coldly and calculatingly murdered her way into arguably the most powerful position in the world. A rich woman who threw crumbs to her peasant people while she lived luxuriously. She is a deadly woman, a black widow, an evil stepmother, a kinslayer. But according to historians, “without Wu there would have been no long enduring Tang dynasty and perhaps no lasting unity of China.”

The comparison to a modern mr beast obviously doesn’t hold water, but we can certainly analyze jgy to a more comparable historical figure and argue more accurately in a historical context if jgy was a good leader as the de facto emperor as the cultivation worlds Xiāndū.

It’s easy to see the comparisons between Wu and jgy, both were undesirable and deemed unfit by society. But both were politically adept, highly ambitious and extraordinarily intelligent. Both had family members murdered, perhaps sharing between them filicide. Both had a clans murdered to a man. Both are thought to have had their faces carved on religious relics for their narcissistic pleasure. Both had watchtowers built as a defense for their people. And both were torn down by the men following after them, vilified and distorted. Both forever destined to be speculated upon and misunderstood. Both of their legacy’s destroyed by rumor and falsification. It would not surprise me in the slightest if mxtx didn’t draw on Wu at least a little bit in the creation of jgy. Both Wu and jgy are culpable for some pretty heinous stuff, that can’t be denied. But like Wu, jgy also has a second face.

Moral bias and character motivation aside, his efforts to build watchtowers, his patronage of religion in the building of Guanyin temple, his fight against political corruption, his years long peaceful reign, his charity, all these things lead to the conclusion that under the rule of Confucian, he more than aptly fulfilled his role as a leader for his citizens.

And if you really want to look at Jgys leadership through a modern lens, we really don’t have to look much further than Ingersoll. “If you want to find out what a man is to the bottom, give him power.”

And really that’s part of the tragedy of his character. Because of his background he excelled when he was in a role of leadership. He was good at it.

Whether or not jgy as a literary character is a good person, is subjective and should not be used to measure his role as an effective leader.

All of that being said, jgy is my bestfriend and I love him and would I die for him.

.

[synity]

His salvation

His Salvation: Part 2

Mafia · Protective Love · Domestic Intimacy · Possessive but Tender

what if

What if the first time he saw you wasn’t through the lens of a surveillance camera…but across a café counter, his heart stopping at your smile instead of his enemies' breath? He’d still be the same.Protective. Gentle. Quietly obsessed. The kind of love that curls around your soul without warning, like silk around skin.He’d still learn your favorite snacks. Still remember the way you liked your tea. He’d still stay up to see you get home safe. Still buy you things you mention just once. But instead of mansion gates and bulletproof cars, you'd have: Cozy bookstore dates where he hides notes between pages.Grocery runs where he insists on pushing the cart while you pick the snacks.Random street kisses under flickering lamplight because “I missed you, and we’ve been apart for twenty minutes.”

Soonyoung was made to love you fiercely, no matter the version. Whether in designer suits or oversized hoodies. Whether with power in his name or paint on his fingers. You’d still be his world. He’d still worship the ground you walk on.

The world still feared him.

To the underground, he was still The Tiger cold-blooded, sharp as a dagger, and deadly with a glare. But behind heavy bulletproof doors, inside the grand mansion that overlooked the city…

He was yours. Entirely.

And you were his.

He never said “I love you” lightly.

When he did, it felt like a vow. A promise. Something eternal and dangerous.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he murmured one night, holding your hand while you lay in silk sheets, your head on his chest. “If you do, I’ll burn the world down looking for you.”

You didn’t flinch anymore at words like that. Not when they came from him. Not when you knew that under all the blood and fire he was just a man who loved you too hard.

His love languages were overwhelming in the most Soonyoung way:

“You’re everything to me.” “Don’t ever doubt how important you are.” “I don’t care about anyone else. Just you.”

His voice always calm. Low. Serious. There was never a joke when it came to you.

You mentioned liking a painting at a gallery? He bought the entire gallery. Said you liked a perfume once? He flew you to Paris to pick one yourself. Your favorite artist announced a concert? He bought front row tickets and the VIP lounge just for the two of you.

But your favorite gifts?

The little things.

Matching bracelets with a tiny tiger charm. A playlist he made for you that he’d never show anyone else. A photo album full of polaroids he took of you when you weren’t looking.

He was always touching you. Hand on your lower back in public. Arm slung around your waist like he was daring the world to try something. Thumb tracing your lips when you were sleepy. Kisses so intense they made you forget who he was—until you remembered you were the only one who ever got them.

And when you cried, he held you. Tight. Fierce. As if protecting you from the world wasn’t enough he needed to protect you from yourself, too.

You never had to open a door again. Never carried your own bags. He learned to cook your comfort food and ordered your favorite hot drinks before you even asked. He threatened your landlord just once for raising rent and bought the whole building instead.

“Don’t worry, baby. No one’s ever gonna take from you what’s mine to give.”

Hoshi was the kind of man who could make a grown man cry with just a glance, but then turn around and cry actual tears because you didn’t text him back for 20 minutes. He once kicked down a rival’s office door because they accidentally bumped into you at a party “She flinched. That’s enough for me.” He sends you flowers daily, but not normal ones roses with gold-dipped petals and little notes like “Thinking of you while committing arson”.

The scariest part? He’s so nonchalant about it. He’ll threaten someone’s entire bloodline with one hand while holding your pink glittery phone in the other, helping you pick out nail designs. When you told him a barista got your name wrong, he stared dead into your soul and whispered, “Want me to buy the franchise?” And the thing is... you believed him. Once, you jokingly called someone else “cute,” and he pouted for hours only to come back wearing the exact outfit that guy had on, like, “Is this what you like now? Tell me and I’ll make it permanent.” You’re not sure if you’re dating a mafia boss or the most dangerously obsessed golden retriever on Earth but either way, you’ve never felt safer… or more smothered

But the part of him that made your heart ache the most… was the softness.

The version of Hoshi no one else would ever get.

Like when he set up a surprise picnic on the rooftop under fairy lights and served you food he made himself smiling awkwardly, a bit embarrassed.

Or when he pulled you into a blanket fort in the living room during a thunderstorm, whispering dumb stories just to make you laugh.

Or when he traced circles on your back and asked softly, “Do you really love me? Even after knowing who I am?”

And your answer was always the same:

“Yes. I love you. All of you.”

One night, curled in his lap while a fire crackled, he said,

“I used to think love was a weakness. Now I know… loving you is the strongest thing I’ve ever done.”

He looked into your eyes like you were his lifeline.

“I kill for this city. But I’d die for you.”

He calls you “my pretty problem” because you're the only chaos he gladly welcomes into his life.

He keeps buying you shoes you never asked for, just so he can say, “That way, you’ll never walk away from me.”

You steal his oversized black mafia coat, and he lets you even wears something else so you can have it longer.

He once threatened a florist for messing up your bouquet, but then tripped over his words when you said, “You remembered my favorite flower?”

He sits through your favorite dramas with you, arms crossed, pretending he doesn’t care until he gasps louder than you at a plot twist.

You tried to cook a korean traditional dish for him once, and it was awful, but he ate it all and said, “I’d die for you, and apparently, from this food too.”

He lets you put glitter stickers on his gun case just because you said, “It’s giving ‘lethal but cute.’

The Tiger never needed saving. But somehow, you still became his salvation.

[cera-writes]

Could I request Scott summers x reader with a similar eye mutation. The reader has a gorgon mutation and can turn people to stone, and they meet/ bond over not being able to see properly, eventually getting into a relationship.

A/N: I love this idea! It's so sweet! Tags: just sweet fluff with a shared understanding

A Shared Burden

The sterile walls of the X-Mansion medbay felt like a cage after the chaotic awakening of your mutation. Professor Xavier had explained the X-Men, a sanctuary for mutants like you. But 'sanctuary' didn't quite describe the prickling anxiety that crawled under your skin after Beast's in-depth examination of your petrifying gaze.

Hank had loaned you a pair of mutant specialty eyewear. It was a revelation that dawned on you now. You'd never be able to take them off with turning someone into a slab of concrete; or at the very least, controlling your deadly eyesight.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall man with a kind smile. "Hey there," he said, his voice gentle. "You must be (Y/N). I'm Scott, Scott Summers. Cyclops is fine too."

You offered a weak smile. "Nice to meet you, Scott. Though I wouldn't exactly call turning people to stone a mutant power you'd advertise in the brochure."

He chuckled, a sound that eased the tense knot in your stomach. "Yeah, well, Hank can be a bit… thorough. But hey, at least you get a cool codename out of it. Any ideas?"

You shrugged, a touch of self-deprecation tinging your voice. "Haven't really thought about it. Maybe something Gorgon-related, considering I turn people to stone with a glance. I mean, Medusa would be way too cliche."

Scott's smile softened. "Your power… it's tough, I imagine. But you're not alone. We all have things to deal with here." He gestured towards his head, the unspoken reference clear.

A silent understanding bloomed between you. Scott knew what it was like to live in a world where you had to be constantly on guard, where your very nature made you an outsider. There was a shared burden in his gaze, a quiet empathy.

"How about we get you settled into your room?" Scott suggested, his voice warm. "Maybe tomorrow we can start figuring out how to control your… uh… petrifying gaze."

The following days were dedicated to navigating your mutation. Scott, ever patient, was your guide. You practiced focusing your gaze, not on turning things to stone, but on dampening the overwhelming sensory input that triggered your power. He understood the struggle to keep your emotions in check, the constant battle to avoid accidentally turning someone into a statue.

Slowly, with Scott's steady support, progress came. You actually did learn to somewhat control the intensity of your gaze, to filter the world through your special glasses that dampened your mutant sight but allowed you to function.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, you and Scott found yourselves on the balcony overlooking the X-Mansion grounds. You leaned against the railing, a comfortable silence settling between you. The setting sun cast a warm glow on the world, a world you could only perceive through a muted lens.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Scott said softly, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"They say it is," you replied, a tinge of wistfulness in your voice.

Scott turned to you, a sincerity in his voice that resonated with you. "Maybe someday you'll see it all, (Y/N). But for now, you have something just as valuable."

He reached out, his hand hovering near yours. You mirrored the gesture, the space between your fingers tingling with unspoken emotions. "What's that?" you asked, a whisper that carried on the cool evening breeze.

Scott's smile, though unseen, was evident in the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. "Understanding. You're not alone. We both carry burdens, burdens that make us different, but also burdens that connect us."

In that moment, amidst the muted colors and the filtered light, you felt a warmth bloom in your chest that had nothing to do with the setting sun. You realized, with a jolt, that the hours spent training with Scott weren't just about mastering your power, they were about finding solace in shared experiences. The man beside you, with his unwavering support, was a beacon in a world that often felt isolating.

Weeks turned into months, and your bond with Scott deepened. You found comfort in his quiet strength, in the way he understood your struggles without needing words. You learned to communicate through subtle gestures, stolen glances, and shared laughter. One crisp autumn evening, as you sat by the window, a comfortable silence settling between you once more, Scott spoke.

"We may not see the world in the same way, (Y/N), but we see each other. And that's all that truly matters."

His words, laced with a quiet sincerity, sent a shiver down your spine. You met his gaze, a spark of understanding dancing in your own eyes. Perhaps you didn't need to see the world perfectly to find beauty. Perhaps the most vibrant colors existed in the warmth of shared understanding and the quiet promise whispered in the space between. As you leaned closer, the world blurring at the edges, you knew you had found a connection that transcended sight.

[heel-samizayn]

okay im posting it fuck it.

short but sweet

Title: "Near Fall."

Pairing: Cody/Randy

Rating: Explicit (kind of)

Tension fractures the air. 

The lights sweep wide across the sea of humanity, then narrow, crisp and blinding on Randy Orton and Cody Rhodes.  

Boots shift restlessly across the mat. The crowd booms when the announcer calls the night’s most anticipated names. Every reaction bounces off the arena walls. Every moment has led to this.

The two men take it all in. A breath, a beat. 

The bell. 

Footwork light, Cody circles his former mentor. Showman instinct in his wide and daring grin. He feeds off the energy. It makes his blood sing. Randy’s pace is glacial, intentional. Deadly. 

*

Whether grappling in a marquee match or tangled beneath sheets, they move the same. 

Cody moans into the kiss. Randy’s hand curls beneath his thigh, guiding him open with a groan that is half control, half surrender. Cody restless beneath him, shuddering as Randy sinks deeper, hips steady, measured. 

Their brows touch, sweat slick between them, anchoring them. They nod quietly, everything as it should be.

 “Yours, baby,” Randy murmurs, easing back so Cody can see the gesture: warm palm pressed to his own chest. Their smiles are small, knowing, private. 

 *  

Randy leans in, tightening a chin lock with surgical focus. His frame smothers without trying, keeping Cody caged, worn. Voices ripple through the crowd. 

They know this pattern. The lock, the pace, it’s classic. Orton commands control. It’s only a matter of time. 

The canvas shakes beneath Cody’s body. 

A hard boot finds each limb, a punishing cadence. Unrelenting. Cody fights back. Sharp, fiery, practiced, but Randy’s presence overpowers like echoes from the past. Futile. Familiar.  

Cody starts to fire up. A whip reversal. He ducks under. Hits the ropes.

But Randy catches him. Snap powerslam. Perfect timing, always.

They clash. 

Then, Draping DDT. 

No wasted motion. He covers, forearm pressed to his throat, body stretched down and over. 

The ref counts. 

1…

2…

 *

“Don’t stop,” Cody gasps, like he’s not ready to let go.

His back flush to the mattress, legs curled tight around Randy’s waist. He offers himself up with every stroke.

Randy is smug control, trembling restraint. Brutal, slow. 

The moment is his.

Cody strains upward, eager for more. Every stroke is deliberate. Every gasp, earned.

*  

Kickout. 

Barely. 

Randy sags against him. Then, slowly, he struggles back to his feet. 

Everybody sees the mouse trap hinging, reeling before the clamp. 

The crowd rises with him. This is it. 

He moves behind Cody like memory itself, silent but powerful, chasing the ending they’ve lived a thousand times.

Fated. Inescapable. 

RKO.

1...

2..

No.  

The air shifts. Disbelief swells the space. 

Cody’s still stirring, and Randy feels it slipping. 

 *

The rhythm breaks just enough to breathe. The world stops for a moment. 

“So close,” Randy whispers, eyes intense with need. 

Cody mouths kisses along his cheekbone. 

He counters with a twist, shifting weight with practiced ease, adrenaline cracking between them as he sinks down again, taking Randy back in with a gasp. Here it’s breath for breath. 

Randy blinks up at him. He sinks back, lips part like he might speak, but nothing comes out, only an exhale.

* 

Beneath the shock in Orton’s face, pride swells quietly, waiting to overtake it. Commentary grip their headsets like the moment might tear the whole building apart, brick by brick. 

The roar, the lights, the lens, the arena itself leans toward Cody. 

The frame tightens. He breathes it in like it was always made for him. 

Then, a flicker. 2007. 

He remembers the way Randy moved like a tide rolling in. Deliberate, untouchable, inevitable. Cody, green as his trunks, blood pulsing in his ears, telling himself: don’t fuck this up. 

He lost. But even in the sting, something lodged deep. He understood, clear as day: this was the level. This was destiny. The bar, set. 

Now that same man lies beneath him, lips parted, all but conquered. 

They chant Cody's name like it's theirs to claim, but tonight it belongs only to him. With dull exhaustion in every muscle, he gets to his feet. 

He's in the center, and the world follows every step. Off to the side, still recovering on the mat, a quiet smile twitches at the corner of Randy's lips. 

Look how the world begs for you. 

Don’t say a word. Show them. 

*

His body tightens beneath Cody’s rhythm. Randy’s jaw unclenches, goes slack, sounds pulled from him like exposed secrets.

He stares up through blurred lashes, and thinks it again like a prayer: fucking hell, he’s beautiful.  

*  

Both men rise slowly. Staggered. The crowd builds with them. Every stomp, every movement resonating. 

Cody dodges a right. Hits the ropes. Clothesline. Another. He’s in rhythm now. He feeds on the crowd’s pulse.

Then he stops. For a beat, he looks around, then at Randy, now on the canvas.  

Pressure mounts as he moves behind him, the moment threatening to slip his fingers. He's fighting the same tide, but he lets it carry him. 

Don't fuck this up.

The mat recoils with each pound of his fists. 

Randy stumbles into his orbit. Cody strikes. 

His mentor’s move. 

RKO.

He doesn’t say it. 

Everybody can see. 

‘Yours.’ 

The crowd ruptures. Deafening. Thousands of voices vanish into one cry.  

No hesitation. 

Randy’s eyes widen, a flash of awe breaking through the exhaustion, then Cody twists, and drives him down with love masked as violence. With everything he has left. 

Cross Rhodes. 

“Mine,” he growls, not for the crowd, not for the cameras, but for Randy. 

 *

“Look at me,” Cody says, rough and low. His hand cradles the back of Randy’s neck. Holding him in place. Randy’s eyes drag back up, slow and dazed, drunk on the sight, on him.

Each thrust lands slick, spiraling, undeniable. Cody gasps his name, tight around him. Randy breaks beneath him, trembling. 

“That’s it,” Randy coaxes. “Look at your face. You're so fucking close.”

No spotlight; both seen more clearly than ever. 

 *

They’re on their toes, stomping, chanting. 

He feels the ring vibrate beneath his feet.  

One breath. For a second, everything thrums. Cody then muscles his body over Randy’s, breath ragged, and hooks the leg with worn effort. 

The ref drops.

Instinct fights to kick in. 

1... 

2... 

Randy’s shoulder twitches. 

3.

The bell rings, final.

They collapse. 

The world softens, but this stays in focus.

What he once reached for now holds him steady, like the history that led here. Victory beneath skin. Nothing left to prove. 

[drivinmeinsane]

COLT SEAVERS {Scene Partner}

{ drabble } ※ { masterlist }

※ Pairing: Colt Seavers x GN!Reader

※ Summary: The stunt guy gets recruited to stand in for your scene partner during a sex scene for a highly anticipated blockbuster.

※ Rating: 18+ for highly suggestive content (simulated sex)

※ Word count: 1,157

“If I’m not going to be the main focus of the lens, then forget it! I spent too long in the gym to get sidelined like this.”

You’re leaning against a headboard on the movie set watching as your co-star throws another tantrum. This is just another one of the many that he’s had over the course of filming. It’s been a rough two months and you’re already behind schedule as it is due to his theatrics. You groan and sag against the mattress. You hadn’t even particularly wanted to do the scene with him, but at this point you would gladly let him flex and posture all over you just to get it done so everyone could move forward.

The director desperately tries to talk him down, but he keeps shouting at her. Finally, he throws his hands up and loudly announces that he is not getting in bed shirtless with you because it won’t be a glamorous sex scene. He actually walks off set entirely.  There are a few tensely quiet moments while his agent chases him down and tries to beg the actor to set aside his arrogance and come back on set. The moment the agent returns empty handed with a defeated shake of his head, chaos erupts around you. 

They scramble to find a solution. Two of the crew are sent to find another blond man who could plausibly stand in as a body double for the scene. While they are away, the director and the writer desperately think if there is any possible reworking they can do for the script. Can they make this a solo scene? Edit your partner in later? And on and on they go.

The crew members come back shortly and they’re not alone. With them is a blond man, taller and broader than your co-star. He introduces himself as Colt from the stunt department. He’s distractedly handsome in a rugged sort of way. The stuntman is nothing but polite when he shakes your hand and greets you personally. His eyes crinkle when he smiles at you. You instantly agree to work with him.

The two of you get into position after he’s been prepped by the intimacy coordinator and had a brief explanation of the scene’s requirements. Your hands are on his waist, resting on the leather of his belt. He, for his part, has his fingers pressing into the arc of your spine, coaxing you towards his body with the lightest of touches. He looks almost shy. His hair is falling into his eyes in a way that makes you want to brush it back for him.

“Be gentle. It’s my first time,” he jokes.

You don’t have time to laugh before the scene director is calling quiet on set. You wipe the smile off your face and relax. Colt sobers up as well, looking deadly serious, like he is about to do something life threatening.

“Action!” The clapperboard snaps closed.

The scene starts with the two of you all but lunging towards each other. You meet in a kiss and your scene partner’s beard is rough against your face. His mouth is soft, he’s kissing you like he means it. Your hands clench on his waist and he moves things right along. The stuntman walks you back into the door that is pivotal for the scene. He kicks it open, hard, too hard. It slams into the wall with enough force to knock a hole into the plaster. You gasp into his mouth. A quiet groan answers it. 

Once in the room, you break the kiss and start fighting to get his shirt off. His hands meet yours and you’re working together to pull it over his head. The minute the garment is off and tossed aside, Colt is crowding against you, catching your mouth in another kiss while your hands splay across his chest. They're going to have to edit out his piercings, you realize faintly. If you were touching him under different circumstances, you would explore him in earnest. Learn everything there is to know about his body.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and your mind short circuits when Colt wraps his hands around your waist and tosses you back onto the mattress like you weigh nothing. That had not been in the script. You’re not sure if you’re breathless from the impact or because he is suddenly crawling onto the bed after you. Your legs fall open automatically at the sight of him. For the scene, you’re wearing  modesty undergarments and an oversized shirt that suggests that it’s actually the only thing you have on. 

He slots himself easily between your spread legs and braces himself over you. He rests his forehead against yours and rolls his hips. The pressure is barely there from all the intimacy padding but all the same, the action has you clamping your thighs tightly against him. Irrationally, you wonder what he would feel like for real. You’re barely aware of the cameras, barely aware that this is a scene. It feels too real, too good to be acting. 

The blond man tucks his face against the side of your neck, hiding it from the camera’s eye. You feel the press of his mouth against your skin as he kisses the juncture of your shoulder. That wasn’t a necessary action, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You bring a hand to the back of his head to encourage him, clenching your fingers into his hair. You feel more than hear the moan he makes when your nails scratch lightly over his scalp. Heat floods you at his indication of pleasure and-

“Cut!” The director’s voice cuts through whatever was building. “Excellent work, everyone. I think we got it.”

Colt lifts off of you and rolls to the edge of the bed where he sits for a brief moment before standing. You catch the barest glimpse of a scar on his back before the stuntman is on his feet and getting decent. By the time the director and supervising staff let you get dressed and off set, your impromptu scene partner is nearly out of sight. 

You take off running, ignoring the startled looks of the crew. You might be a total fool, but it had felt like there was something between the two of you in that fake bedroom. Weaving through the milling production staff, you get within yards of him before you slow down. 

“Hey, stunt guy!” You yell, winded.

He stops, startled, and turns to look back at you. He’s not the only one staring. It feels like everyone in the vicinity is watching the performance you’re putting on. You close the gap even further, coming to stand in front of him.

“Hey.” His tone is soft, questioning.

“I think we probably should have had dinner first, but will you accept after?”

He laughs, eyes squinting with the width of his answering smile. “I would like that.”

[rheanyraaaa]

In the Public Eye

pairing: robb stark x roslin frey

Fake Dating, Emotional Slow Burn, Media Pressure, Public vs Private Identity, Power Couple Dynamics, Journalist/Politician Romance, Mild Enemies to Allies, Legacy & Duty, Soft Angst, Mutual Healing - Part 1

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

The Stark family always arrived last, It wasn’t about arrogance it was timing, optics, let the cameras settle, let the chatter buzz, and then let the room turn, heads craned the second Catelyn Stark entered the Langworthy Hall ballroom, the queen of legacy politics wrapped in midnight silk, her husband followed two steps behind, as always, stately and solid, but it was the man between them that pulled the room into his orbit.

Robb Stark, ruff beard, striking in a tailored dark suit, escorted a woman whose every movement commanded the lens, the infamous Talisa Maegyr, she was silent but deadly, and the cameras all knew about her schemes, even if her own PR tried to cover it.

Photographers scrambled as they entered. Flashbulbs captured them mid-laugh, her hand resting lightly on Robb’s chest, his arm curled around her waist like they’d done this a thousand times. It was an image designed to trend before they even reached their seats.

Catelyn watched it unfold from across the room, seated at the high table reserved for the old Westerosi families. The Baratheons were already deep in conversation with the Tyrells oil barons and clean energy rivals still pretending to get along, Mace Tyrell chuckled too loudly, as usual and The Martells sent only Oberyn, looking every bit the charming investor he was, lounging beside Ellaria in red silk. Across the way, Roose Bolton, that opportunistic snake, murmured with one of the Lannister boys, hard to tell which it didn’t matter. They were all born with sharp teeth.

The Starks belonged here, quiet, respected, immovable. And Robb, her eldest, her golden boy, was meant to carry that name forward, which was why Talisa was such a problem, Talisa didn’t know anything about the Stark family, all that she knew was he was rich, honourable and delectable.

She looked the part, slim and styled, dark, pin straight hair cascading down her back, a gown that shimmered just enough to be tasteful, but Catelyn didn’t need a scandal to know the truth.

She knew who Talisa Maegyr was, a journalist, yes. But not one of integrity. The Maegyrs were new money, clawing their way into every closed room they could find. Her father had funded a chain of sensationalist media outlets, he snuggled up to the incredibly rich, while simultaneously shading them in his posts, that’s why they say he licks their shoes and bites their ankles; her mother once tried to bribe her way onto a conservative senator’s campaign staff, and also had set up most of her daughter’s relationships. Talisa had made a name reporting for flashy networks, all smirking exposés and whispered affairs. She dated up, always, a CEO, a congressman, a tech prince with too much press and not enough sense, many different athletes from various sports, she was also never far from the more attractive, sought out men, tabloids did get an opening of her dating a couple gang members (which when was told to Catelyn the poor woman almost had a heart attack) but it was easy for Talisa’s PR to make sure all of that was down.

Now it was Robb, golden boy, young wolf, smart, growing boy with good morals, he’s had a one or two girlfriends before but nothing as big and as serious as Talisa, he liked her a lot, and she liked him a lot too, she challenged him, he found that attractive, but everyone’s almost certain he likes her more then she really likes him. They had been photographed together nearly nonstop for two months, at different events such as charity gala’s, football games, wrapped around eachother or giving soft kisses at the football stands, or with eachother on the steps outside Stark Foundation headquarters. The press called them “magnetic.” “Effortlessly modern.” “A breath of fresh air for the aging Stark image.”

Catelyn called it what it was: reckless.

“They look happy,” Sansa offered gently, seated beside her, her voice cautious.

“They look fake,” Catelyn replied.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Across the ballroom, Robb leaned in close to whisper something to Talisa. She tipped her head back and laughed, loud and bright, tossing her hair in the way she always did when a camera was near.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Dinner was a parade of polite conversation and performative alliances. Robb handled it well, as always. Talisa charmed the room easily, too easily. She knew just who to flatter, just how long to hold a senator’s gaze. She’d traded truth for proximity, and now she sat among the wolves with a practiced smile.

Catelyn said little through the main course, her gaze lingered on Talisa, who leaned in again, touching Robb’s wrist, painting intimacy for the cameras like it was second nature, and it definitely was.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

As the toasts began and the soft lights dimmed, the photographer passed by for one last candid—Robb’s hand resting lightly on Talisa’s knee, her laugh caught mid-breath.

Catelyn sipped her wine. Unmoved. Unsmiling.

“She photographs well,” she said, to no one in particular.

“That’s all.”

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

tags! (tell me if you want to be tagged. It is a slow burn btw! only 20 chapters long!)

@fandomstuffilike

[gaywarcriminals]

Shen Jiu is an Abusive Mother

Yeah this is my Mother's Day post <3 This is just for funsies, and I by no mean think its the best lens through which to see SJ and LBH's relationship— its just a comparison I find interesting, and I was feeling festive 🥰.

To start, none of this is to say that SJ is a feminine character. I don't believe that, and I think that he's often misinterpreted as more feminine by western fans due to differences in gender norms/gender roles (which is a Whole Other Coversation). Maternal/mommy are being used loosely here.

Secondly, I don't think we'd even be looking at SJ through a maternal framework if the man who took over his body wasn't Shen "I would never abort you" Yuan. SJ is mostly pulled into this because he exist in juxtaposition to Mr. Freud's Wet Dream (go read tshirt's SVSSS Freud zine btw, several points here are inspired by it).

The fact remains, though, that even without Mr. Wifebeam Supreme playing the part, there is something distinctly parental about the role of Shizun. Shizuns cannot be compared to teachers or tutors, who the child either go to visit durning the day, or who come to the child's home when it's time for lessons. Even with the respect due to them, a teacher remains distinct from a child's home and family. They do not overly incorporate themselves into these things that define a child's life. 

Shizuns are a little different. There is, ofc, lots of variation within the xianxia and wuxia genres, but in most of the stories I've encountered— and more importantly for our purposes, in SVSSS itself— unless the child’s family home is their sect, when a child is accepted as a disciple, they're expected to join their shizun/shifu either in the master's home/sect, or in free-roaming travel. In both cases, the shizun's home becomes the disciple's home, and their shizun becomes the main adult responsible for the child. The master will take over in guiding the child's development from here, shaping them by their hand. Is that not a parent? I think some such imprinting is inevitable, even among more well-adjusted disciples. Do you know who's not well-adjusted?

Luo Binghe enters the sect soon after the death of his mother. There is a mommy shaped hole in his heart. Though absolutely nothing could replace her, he's a sad, lost, and angry child, coming to a mountain of immortal masters, desperately hoping for one of them to take him as their own. As much as he's motivated by fulfilling his mother's wishes, isn't he also looking for a place to belong in this world, now that the hut that he once called home is ruined by his mother's absence? Doesn't he hope, if only for a short time, that someone else will see fit to care for him? As much as Luo Binghe is already hurt and hardened in many ways, he's still just a child; he's not yet blackened beyond dreaming of someone to love him.

Shen Jiu is very much Not That. Shen Jiu is not a merely a lofty immortal ambivalent to his disciple’s emotional needs. No, Shen Jiu hates Luo Binghe enough to unfairly punish and ostracize him, and even puts him in deadly harm's way twice before just outright trying to kill him (the manual, the demon invasion, the abyss). Going by the framework of SQQ as a parental figure, he's undeniably an abusive one. In what way could this be said to be maternal, though? In my eyes, it comes down to motive.

Shen Jiu has a lot of motivations for abusing Binghe, mostly coming down to the fact that's he's more trauma response than man at this point, but one of these is more explicitly outlined in the text than the others:

Shen Qingqiu saw three things on the original flavor’s face: envy, envy, and more envy. Envy that Luo Binghe had a mother who was “the kindest in all the world to him,” envy of Luo Binghe’s talent, envy that Luo Binghe would enter Cang Qiong Mountain Sect at the best age for cultivating. He was indeed the kind of person to brim with envy and resentment toward a young child.

Envy and jealously, at least in the western canon, are usually associated with female characters (and though it’s outside the scope of this post to dissect, let it not go unremarked that this trope is deeply misogynistic in origin). They are almost always envious of a younger, more beautiful, and/or more skillful woman, who are posed at the moral superior to the jealous woman. That's right, Shen Jiu is an evil stepmother! He tolerates having no superior or equal on his peak, needing his power and superiority to go unquestioned. Outside of his abuse of Binghe, and the references early in the novel to SJ chasing away talented disciples, I think this is also shown by how the male disciple SJ tolerates the most is Ming Fan, who has only middling talent and is obsequious before his shifu, never challenging SJ in any way, and never threatening to surpass him.

But of course, SJ’s relationship to Binghe is the most obvious example. Shen Jiu sees himself in Luo Binghe (derogatory). He sees Luo Binghe as a symbol of everything he never had. Luo Binghe is a creature like himself that, for no rhythm or reason, was given so much more than SJ. It is also notable that, at least as far as Shen Qingqiu, as an outside observer, can tell, the thing which first sparked SJ's ire was the mention of LBH's mother. Never mind that LBH says in the same breath that she's dead; the fact that when she lived, she was a kind and loving mother to LBH is enough for SJ to envy him, and as he finds more to envy, it comes justification to hate the boy, and to punish him for daring to have someone who died loving him. 

(Side note: after consulting the qijiu server about the implications of SJ’s reaction, my reading is that SJ never knew his mother. The only alternative is that she was a bad mother, but I don't think he would find such unilateral comfort in women if that was the case. It's made me wonder if SJ ever believed that having a mother, a protector, would have spared him his fate. But alas, this post is not about SJ's mommy issues. Another day!)

Even outside the realm of cartoonish villains, I think this particular brand of envy is, in some ways, associate with motherhood. There's a natural tendency in parents to see themselves in their children, but as mothers are almost always the ones more involved in raising children and more expected to foster emotional connections with their children, I think this is both more common and more encouraged in mothers than fathers. Mothers are expected to be in charge of and over-involved in most aspects of a child's life, and in turn their lives are expected to revolve around their children, blurring the boarder between the self and the child. The child becomes symbolic of the mother's past self and what she can no longer be. The expectations on the child are the expectations of the mother's idealized self, and whether the child meets them or not, the mother will resent them for it, for daring to fail when they are her, or daring to succeed when they are not.

That's not to say SJ ever had such deep identification with LBH— he certainly never cared for LBH, and if anything, he's more like a mother who resents her child being born (as though he did not pick this boy out of the dirt himself)— but the hatred for a child under his care being like him but supposedly better off feels evocative of this characteristically maternal form of envy.

And finally, there is the fruit of SJ's actions, and the most explicitly/textually maternal aspect of SJ's abuse: it created Luo Bingge.

“Has Shidi ever considered that, if you hadn’t treated Luo Binghe like that in the beginning, everything that unfolded today never would have happened?”

He had singlehandedly created the Luo Binghe of today,

Luo Bingge, the all-powerful demon, the ruler of the three realms, and Shen Jiu's own personal torturer, would never have existed without SJ's intervention. Luo Bingge is shaped in Shen Jiu's image, and everything Shen Jiu ever did to destroy the boy only twisted him to further fit this mold. Luo Bingge's fate, the shape of his very soul, have been defined by SJ. And what is more maternal than giving someone their life defining trauma? 

[nerds-yearbook]

After X-Men 66, cover date March 1970, the title had just become reprint stories (issues 67 - 93). Everything changed with Giant-Size X-Men 1, cover date May 1975. While it also had some reprint elements, it also had an original story where a new team was created to save the original team from the living island Krakoa. The issue introduced Storm, Colossus, Thunderbird, Nightcrawler, Major Chasen, Illyana Rasputin, Mr and Mrs Rasputin, and Krakoa. They were created by Len Wein and Dave Cockrum. The new team for this adventure was made of Wolverine (first appeared in Incredible Hulk 180), Banshee (first appeared in X-Men 28), Sunfire (first appeared in X-Men 64), Storm, Colossus, Thunderbird, and Nightcrawler. Plans were made to continue with quarterly new issues, but the new team was such a hit, that the comic started printing new stories (bi-monthly) with issue 94, and, monthly, starting with issue 112. The issue also featured a cameo by Marvel comic makers Dake Cockrum (his first comic appearance), Glynis Wein, and Len Wein. ("Deadly Genesis!: Chapter One: Second Genesis" "Deadly Genesis: Chapter Two: And When There Was One" "Deadly Genesis: Chapter Three: Assault Force" "Deadly Genesis!: Chapter Four: Krakoa... the Island That Walks Like a Man" "Call Him... Cyclops (X-Men 43)" "I, the Iceman (X-Men 47)" "The Female of the Species" (X-Men 57), Giant Sized-X-Men 1, Marvel Comic Event)

[doamarierose-honoka]

Batman is back with a vengeance. Three years after HBO Max and Cartoon Network first announced Batman: Caped Crusader — the adult-oriented animated series that was eventually canceled by the since-renamed Max streaming service, only to then be picked up at Prime Video — the new Batman TV show is about to hit the small screen. Set in 1940s Gotham City, Caped Crusader is described as "a reimagining of the Batman mythology through the visionary lens" of executive producers Bruce Timm (Batman: The Animated Series and Batman Beyond), Matt Reeves (The Batman and The Penguin), and J.J. Abrams (Alias and Lost).

"We are beyond excited to be working together to bring this character back, to tell engrossing new stories in Gotham City," Timm, Reeves, and Abrams said when announcing the series in 2021. "The series will be thrilling, cinematic and evocative of Batman's noir roots, while diving deeper into the psychology of these iconic characters. We cannot wait to share this new world."

Below, ComicBook is shining the Bat-Signal on everything we know so far about Batman: Caped Crusader, including the voice cast, release date, and the rogues who will populate the first solo Batman animated series in more than a decade.

Where Can I Watch Batman: Caped Crusader?

To watch Batman: Caped Crusader on Amazon's Prime Video, you'll need either a Prime Video subscription ($8.99 per month with ads, or $11.98/mo for ad-free) or an Amazon Prime membership ($14.99 per month with Prime Video ads, or $17.98/mo with ad-free Prime Video).

Batman: Caped Crusader Release Date

All episodes of Batman: Caped Crusader will premiere Thursday, August 1st, on Amazon Prime Video.

How Many Episodes Is Batman: Caped Crusader?

Batman: Caped Crusader season 1 consists of 10 episodes. In 2023, Prime Video announced a two-season order for the new series.

What Is Batman: Caped Crusader About?

The official description: "Welcome to Gotham City, where the corrupt outnumber the good, criminals run rampant and law-abiding citizens live in a constant state of fear. Forged in the fire of tragedy, wealthy socialite Bruce Wayne becomes something both more and less than human — the Batman. His one-man crusade attracts unexpected allies within the GCPD and City Hall, but his heroic actions spawn deadly, unforeseen ramifications."

Who Voices Batman in the Batman: Caped Crusader Cast?

The Batman: Caped Crusader voice cast includes Hamish Linklater (Midnight Mass) in the title role as Batman/Bruce Wayne, Christina Ricci (Yellowjackets) as Catwoman/Selina Kyle, Jamie Chung (Gotham) as Harley Quinn/Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and Diedrich Bader — a DC veteran whose credits include episodes of Batman Beyond, 2006's The Batman, Batman: The Brave and the Bold, and the Max adult animated series Harley Quinn — as Two-Face/Harvey Dent.

Announced cast members in as-yet-unrevealed roles include Mckenna Grace (Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire), Toby Stephens (Percy Jackson and the Olympians), Reid Scott (Venom), Dan Donohue (For All Mankind), Gary Anthony Williams (Hailey's on It!), Jason Watkins (The Crown), John DiMaggio (Futurama), Krystal Joy Brown (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power), Michelle C. Bonilla (9-1-1: Lone Star), Eric Morgan Stuart (Fallout 4), Tom Kenny (SpongeBob SquarePants), and Minnie Driver (The Witcher: Blood Origin).

Batman: Caped Crusader Villains

A cast announcement video revealed Linklater's Batman voice and the Dark Knight's rogue's gallery: The Penguin, Catwoman, Two-Face, Harley Quinn, the pyromaniac Firebug, Natalia Knight (in the comics, a reformed career criminal with photosensitive skin known as Nocturna, the mistress of the night), the phantom criminal called Gentleman Ghost, and Clayface (the Golden Age Clayface of the 1940s was Basil Karlo, a once-famous character actor and makeup expert turned costumed killer). Caped Crusader reimagines Dr. Harleen Quinzel as Asian American — and Bruce Wayne's psychologist. Here, her alter-ego as the jester-costumed Harley Quinn is independent from the Joker, who is noticeably absent from the roundup of Batman characters.

Batman: Caped Crusader Characters

Batman – A cold, remorseless avenger of evil, seemingly more machine than man. Forged in the fire of tragedy, every fiber of his being is dedicated to the eradication of crime. (The Batman suit is influenced by the character's earliest appearances in Detective Comics, by creators Bob Kane and Bill Finger, with longer, narrow ears, a collared cape, and with black gloves rather than the original purple.)

Bruce Wayne - To the public at large, Bruce Wayne is a shallow dilettante, apparently wasting his parents' vast fortune on frivolous pursuits and hedonistic pleasures. In fact, he's an elaborate facade, carefully constructed to divert attention from his activities as Batman.

Selina Kyle / "Catwoman" – Selena Kyle is a blithe and pampered heiress whose family lost their fortune after her father was imprisoned for embezzlement. Despite having the silver spoon yanked from her mouth, Selina refuses to quit living in the lap of luxury and becomes Catwoman as a "fun" way to maintain her lavish lifestyle.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel / "Harley Quinn" – Despite a personable and bubbly demeanor, Dr. Harleen Quinzel is a brilliant psychiatrist who treats some of Gotham's elite. However, as Harley Quinn, she is a different person, entirely. A creepy, quiet, calculating menace who secretly dispenses her twisted justice to the truly despicable among her elite clientele.

Commissioner Jim Gordon – Former beat cop close to retirement, Gordon was hired to play along with the corrupt system and run out the clock till he can draw a pension. But they've sorely underestimated Jim Gordon. His unassailable character brings him into conflict with dirty cops and crooked politicians, alike. Not to mention, he has to reckon with a deranged vigilante beating up Gotham's criminals.

Clayface – Thanks to his "unique" facial features, screen actor Basil Karlo has been forever typecast as a B-movie heavy. Frustrated by the limitations his appearance put on both his career and personal life (he fell hopelessly in love with his co-star), Karlo turned to an experimental serum that promised to change his face. However, not only does this serum ultimately disfigure his face, but it ruptures the last of his sanity – creating the tragic, vengeance seeking villain, Clayface.

Batman: Caped Crusader Creators

Batman: Caped Crusader comes from Warner Bros. Animation (My Adventures with Superman, Bat-Family), Abrams' Bad Robot Productions (Lovecraft Country, the Star Trek films) and Reeves' 6th & Idaho (2022's The Batman, The Batman – Part II). Along with Abrams, Reeves and Timm, Batman: Caped Crusader executive producers include head writer Ed Brubaker (DC's Batman comic, Gotham Central), James Tucker (Justice League Unlimited), Daniel Pipski (The Penguin), Rachel Rusch Rich (Castle Rock), and Sam Register (Justice League: Crisis on Infinite Earths – Part One and Part Two).

[marta-diablo]

Remembering The Mighty Boosh Through The Lens Of Actor And Photographer Dave Brown

“Come with us now on a journey through time and space,” I heard for the fifth time during a recent binge of the beloved BBC comedy series The Mighty Boosh. The televisual project, which stars creators Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt in various workplaces, is how most fans will remember the Boosh, but the legendary comedy troupe scaled the pages of books, the retro realm of radio and the live stage too.

Like Monty Python, the Boosh thrived on surrealism, but while the former made lengthy strides in religious satire and social commentary, the latter specialised in pop culture references, scaly man fish, talking naan bread and virtually anything Fielding and Barratt could conjure from the colourful cauldron of their unfiltered psyches. Ever awoken from a strange dream and decided not to tell the story? “No, it’s too weird,” you might think. Thankfully, the Boosh never held back.

On the topic of naan bread, I’d like to introduce you to today’s featured photographer, Dave Brown. As well as sporting gorilla garb for his role as Bollo, Brown played several other minor characters, including the deadly Black Frost and, of course, an anthropomorphic naan. While coordinating crimps and marshalling the mayhem as the troupe’s self-confessed “organised control freak”, Brown was never far from his camera. Much to our benefit, he took thousands of photos, documenting the Mighty Boosh’s meteoric journey to the big screen and beyond.

Last week, I had the great pleasure of chatting with Brown to sort through his extensive photography collection and discuss his time as a member of the Mighty Boosh. “I was at university with Noel,” he began, revealing how the Boosh came about in the 1990s. “We lived together at uni and, before I specialised in graphic design, in the course that we did, I was Noel’s partner. He was the copywriter, and I was an art director. We used to write various things and do crazy shit that always got horrendous marks, but actually turned out to be way ahead of its time because it was so ridiculous.”

“We used to be into comedy; Noel always wanted to be a comedian,” he continued. “We were basically comedy trainspotters. And there was a comedy club near where we were in Buckinghamshire called Hellfire Comedy Club. We’d been to see everyone, Kevin Eldon and Harry Hill – all of the greats of that era. Julian was on that bill as a comedian, and me, Noel and Nige [Coan; he and his partner Ivana Zorn conducted the animation for The Mighty Boosh] went to see him do the stand-up and then chatted to him after.”

The students became well-acquainted with Barratt, who told Fielding he had won the Daily Telegraph open mic award. Inspired, Fielding also entered the open mic competition, and there began his first foray into Britain’s comedy underworld. “When [Noel] did that, me and Nige kind of shadowed him through the whole journey, which was extremely stressful. I think Frankie Boyle won it, and I don’t think they have a second place, but I think Noel pretty much came in second.”

Energised by the open mic success, Fielding became involved with the Edinburgh festival alongside Chris Addison, Julian Barratt and Frankie Boyle, among others and eventually began working on the first incarnation of the Mighty Boosh stage show with Julian. “They started realising they were kindred spirits and started writing together,” Brown remembered. “They did Mighty Boosh, which was the first live show. They had met Rich Fulcher while doing a sketch called Unnatural Acts. They liked him and asked Rich to be the zookeeper in their first live show, which won the Perrier Newcomer Award.”

The troupe began to take shape in the late 1990s, a time when Brown was working a steady job as a graphic designer. “I was just living with Noel in Hackney, mucking about and helping them out and getting involved in that Monday night stuff [at the Hen & Chickens theatre in Highbury & Islington], playing music dressed up as different shit. Then I went to Australia to work,” he told me. “When I came back from Australia, [Fielding and Barratt] were writing their third live Edinburgh show [Auto Boosh] and wanted a third person in it because they wanted to do various characters and wanted two people on stage while the other changed into different characters. So they asked me, and I agreed to do that.”

Following the success of Auto Boosh in 2000, Fielding and Barratt were commissioned to partake in a six-part radio series, The Boosh. The show aired in October 2001 on BBC Radio 4 and served as a golden gateway to their popular television adaption, The Mighty Boosh, which aired on BBC Three for three series between 2004 and 2007. “My job varied from helping out with props and playing stupid characters when they needed,” Brown said of his role on the set of the TV show. “I was quite influential in the live direction of it and them two [Noel and Barratt], I was a therapist between those two most of the time [laughs].”

With a fine cast including Brown, Fulcher, Michael Fielding (Noel’s brother), Richard Ayoade and Matt Berry, Barratt and Fielding created a world unlike any other that gave fans a chance to escape. It could be hard to fathom how this silly world of surrealism could offer anything beyond laughter and release; however, in 2020, Netflix removed The Mighty Boosh from its catalogue, citing the use of blackface in episodes like ‘The Spirit of Jazz’ and ‘Jungle’.

‘Auto Boosh’ at Edinburgh Fringe 2001

BBC Radio Show 2001

As we touched upon this delicate topic, Brown recalled the show’s censorship as a particularly distressing period for the Mighty Boosh group. While Netflix cancelled the show, the BBC decided to keep it on iPlayer, instead issuing a warning that needs to be accepted before proceeding to the stream. “I love the fact that the BBC stood by us; Netflix just pulled us,” Brown said. “You know, you gotta tread so carefully. I’d hate to think that we ever offended anyone. I think most of our characters were so fantastical and based on surrealism and fantasy, based on our heroes. And everything was a celebration of those heroes and of a surrealist, fantastical, dreamlike child angle on all of that. So when you get accused of something so dark, it really hurts; we were all really hurt by it.”

“We always made sure that everything we did was based on fun, humour and silliness and never wanted to offend, upset or alienate anyone,” he continued. “We had so many people [fans] who felt like they were on the fringes of society all getting together because of their love of the Boosh. And we’d have people sending us letters saying, ‘I was suicidal’ or ‘I was being bullied, then I got together with this Boosh community. You’ve saved my life – you’ve improved my life’. We were always getting beautiful letters and feedback from fans. To then hear that we were getting cancelled for being inappropriate, it was like a double-edged sword where you go, ‘OK, times have changed, and we would never write that stuff now.’ But at the same time, there was never any malice.”

Brown added: “We weren’t dressing up or doing voices to alienate a particular race or particular section of society. But if we did offend anyone or if anyone watches it now and is offended, then that’s really sad, and we’re sorry.”

Towards the end of our conversation, I was keen to ask the question on all fans’ lips: “Have we seen the end of the Mighty Boosh?”

“All of us are still very close,” Brown affirmed. “We talk to each other all the time. I talk to Noel more than anyone else, but still, Julian was down here a couple of weekends ago. You know, life becomes life. Most of us have got children now. Rich has now moved from America to Richmond. We all meet up occasionally. We met up before Christmas at a Kim Noble gig, which was incredible.”

“We have a massive following in Australia; hence, this gallery have contacted me and asked me to put these exhibitions on. I was like, ‘Does anyone give a shit anymore?’ And they’re like, ‘Yeah, it’s massive!’ So there was always talk of doing a reunion show or something. But it’s a hard one, you know – I try and think of Noel squeezing back into it. It would have to be relevant to the time. I don’t know how it would be or what it would be, or whether it be as a band.”

Brown then revealed that, beyond the group’s near-constant musical references and sonic tangents in the various live and TV episodes, they had actually put a lot of work into an album. “We went to Electric Lady Studios in New York and recorded a whole album,” he revealed. “Like 25 tracks properly produced in one of the best Studios in New York, and it never got released because of disputes between the American representatives and English representatives. And Noel and Julian had a meltdown over that.”

As well as their huge following in Australia, The Mighty Boosh aired in the US on Adult Swim and dredged a cult following. “A cult following over there is like ten times bigger than a popular following over here,” Brown said.

They weren’t totally aware of the scale of their influence across the Atlantic until they visited on a DJ tour. “We went to New York and LA and did the big Comic Con in San Diego, and it was just fucking insane,” Brown remembered. “The following was mental. We went to the Bowery Ballroom in New York, and we were just meant to be doing a DJ set. But we ended up doing a bit of a live ad-lib thing, finding costumes and stuff because it was sold out. There were queues like four blocks down the road trying to get in, and the Roxy was the same.”

Below, we present a collection of photographs from Brown’s colossal archive, some of which you may recognise; others have been shared exclusively for his feature. The photographs are arranged chronologically, mapping out The Mighty Boosh’s epic journey from 1997 to 2013.

Dave Brown’s Photographic Journey With The Mighty Boosh:

Show at Hen & Chickens in Highbury & Islington 1997

‘The Mighty Boosh’ at Edinburgh Fringe 1998

‘Arctic Boosh’ at Edinburgh Fringe 2000

‘Auto Boosh’ at Edinburgh Fringe 2001 

‘Auto Boosh’ in Melbourne, Australia 2001

BBC TV Pilot 2003

BBC TV Pilot 2003

BBC TV Series 1 Rehearsals 2004 

BBC TV Series 1 2004

BBC TV Series 2 2005

Live Tour Rehearsals 2006

Dave’s selfie in Bollo eye makeup for the first live show in York 2006

Live Tour 2006

BBC TV Series 3 Filming 2007 

Live Tour Rehearsals 2008 

Live Tour 2008 

Creating Live Tour Artwork 2008

Boosh Festival 2008 

USA Promo Tour Comic Con 2009 

Recording album in USA 2011

x

[danvolodar]

On looking for bloodthirsty savages under the wrong beds

One of the stranger opinions I keep seeing about Pathologic is that it supposedly depicts the Kin as savages (optionally: bloodthirsty ones). This is usually brought up when the game is viewed through an anti-colonialist lens, and I've seen it used as an argument to accuse Pathologic of taking a pro-colonialist and anti-indigenous stance.

And I can't help but wonder: what is shown in the game to paint the Khatanghe as savages? Is it odonghe seeking vengeance against Rubin for knowing and purposeful sacrilege? The sacrifice of Nara - which works its magic as intended? Just what is there? No notable savagery comes to mind, particularly not anything unjustifiable.

And just compare that to the townspeople and the Capital-based civilisation they represent - the supposed "colonisers", whose side the game supposedly takes (I actually have a few thoughts on this subject as well, but it's for a separate post). Literal witch-hunts with burning innocent women alive, attacking a random passerby all vs one with deadly force, and it only goes downhill from there with mass looting and banditry, and culminates with the Inquisitor and her mass hangings, and then the arrival of the Army's death machine.

There's an idiom in Russian coined by Osip Mandelstam, used to describe the XX century - век-людоед, the man-eating century. And indeed, that's when the power of the industry was most egregiously employed to produce death. And the game shows us a glimpse of that industrialised mass murder with how the powers in the Capital deal with the infestation (this is, btw, also what the Deserter saw in Disco Elysium to make him utter his "I saw the mask slipping off" - another wildly misinterpreted piece).

This is the true savagery, and the Kin, whose infrequent violence is always on the personal level and combined with readiness for self-sacrifice, has nothing on it.

[inquisitornocturn]

⊱─ 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕤𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟: 𝕔𝕙.𝟙 - 𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Ascended Astarion x f!reader

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, TW: mentions of childhood sexual abuse, general sexual abuse and mentions of sexual slavery (all of those happened in the past AA is not doing this to reader). PIV, creampie, blood drinking.

➺ 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: you're skilled, driven and most importantly - ambitious. but even as someone in your position, a trained assassin and a leader of your own Guild, you still lend yourself to jobs that are of importance. even if those jobs sometimes mean attending parties. tonight - it's a masquerade and you're bored out of your mind, until the man who hired you to protect him leaves you alone, at the mercy of a stranger who suddenly took a keen interest in you.

this is a 7 chapter fic exploring Ascended Astarion through a lens of 7 deadly sins.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 4,129

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: as voted by my readers - here's Ascended Astarion and my take on 7 deadly sins that i looked at through his character. enjoy! <3

➺ 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: [link]

Another boring party, another boring masquerade.

Your eyes sweep over the crowd but nothing seems unusual for the time being. People dancing, people chatting, people drinking. Most of them you recognize even behind their masks. Simple mannerisms, voices or even who they are spending time with tells you more than they probably would want to let on. It’s not hard for you to tell who’s who. After all, you worked for so many of them already.

Tonight you work as a guard for especially paranoid noble. Normally you don’t let yourself get hired for tasks, you have your whole Guild of experienced thieves and assassins to do all the minor and major works, but when the richest of Baldur’s Gate want your services specifically – you comply. Not only they pay handsomely, you also make connections among the patriars that do pay off in a long run.

No, you’re no Nine-fingers Keane, not yet at least, but you have gathered a respectable resume of deeds that are well known in the underbelly of Baldur’s Gate. You have a goal and that goal is simple – to control every Guild by taking over and uniting them. You’ve been working for years to make this happen and you built yourself from the ground up. Just like you escaped slavery in Hells, so will you become what you want to be – the ultimate ruler of Guilds of this godsdamned city that betrayed you before.

But you won’t let these thoughts distract you, not tonight. Not that you expect anything to happen in the first place. It’s a masquerade after all, who would even target the patriar you’re accompanying is beyond you. He’s a man who is scared to step on anyone’s toes, let alone anyone’s who could be a danger to him. Alas, he hired you and he’s paying so well you couldn’t refuse the offer. So now you’re here, in your best dress, with a domino mask on your face and a glass of wine in your hand. And, of course, couple daggers hidden under your dress. You are always prepared.

The patriar in question, one exalted Lord Goldbrith, is by your side and chatting with gusto to a young man. You suspect he brought you here not only to guard his life, but perhaps to help him disperse the rumors surrounding his sexuality. Not that most would judge in the first place, nobles and patriars probably are the most relaxed people when it comes to sexual liberty. However, Goldbrith’s issue is that his father wants an heir and if your little ‘prince’ over there leaves no such possibility by admitting that he’s not interested in women, well… then he risks losing the inheritance. And you’re not sure this man knows how to tie his own shoes, being pampered like a child all his life.

You almost roll your eyes, thinking how this is the worst some people have to deal with. No, they will never know what it is to be molested by their father and brother, no, they won’t know what it is to be sold to a brothel as a ten-year old and used. No, they won’t know what it’s like to be sold to Hells only to continue being a slave of desires of others just as you have been up here. You don’t scowl, but when you look at these spoiled men and women you feel disgust and anger.

No, stop, inhale… exhale. Your past is your past, but you’re stronger now, better. And you will have Baldur’s Gate by the throat eventually. You just have to be patient, have to spread your connections wider and have as many people indebted to you as possible. So that you can use them when the right time comes.

Again you inhale and slowly exhale, calming yourself. When you become the Guild Leader of Baldur’s Gate then each and every person in this room will have to treat you with respect. And most of them already do because you have made a name for yourself in these past years, for what it counts.

“Dearest, do you mind if I accompany this fine gentleman to the restroom? He says he cannot find it.” Lord Goldbrith is now talking to you, making you snap out of your bitter thoughts, and you look at him.

“Alone?” you ask and the man now seems flustered.

“Yes. There’s no need for you to come along, I think I will be perfectly safe. And it’s not far, if something happens - I’ll shout for you.” a nervous smile, intertwined fingers, yes, you know exactly what he’s going to be doing with this so-called fine gentleman. After all, he hired you to protect him and if he temporarily doesn’t need it…

“Very well, find me when you return, I shouldn’t stray too far.” you respond and Goldbrith pats your hand holding the glass of wine.

“I’ll be fine. Go, dance, mingle. Seems this event is quite safe for me.”

Sure it is, you think to yourself. You see his anxious desire to depart immediately from your company and you have no reason to hold him. He paid you already, after all.

“Of course, Lord Goldbrith.” you nod again and a smile of relief forms underneath his mask, you can see it in how the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“I’ll find you when I’m back.” his hand leaves yours and you watch Goldbrith navigate the crowd with his newest boy toy.

You can’t help but smile to yourself. At least he’ll be happy tonight and it won’t harm you to assure others he’s here with you if anybody asks. When you are paid so handsomely - you will tell people the sky is brown and grass is red.

“I saw your companion leave. Curious to ask why.” a voice you don’t recognize asks for your attention.

You turn to see a man standing close to your left side. His silver hair is immaculate with flowing locks and the domino mask that he’s wearing is bejeweled with what like looks actual gems. Behind the mask you see red piercing eyes. The man smiles and it’s more of a smug smirk than a heartfelt expression. It looks so natural on him that you are sure this is his default expression. A dangerous smile. A smile that spells ruin for those who scorn him; you’ve seen smiles like this before. 

“If you’re curious, why don’t you follow him and ask yourself?” you lift your glass to your lips and take a sip, keeping your eyes on him. 

“I’m not in a habit of following men.” elf responds, his tone of voice is cocky and the implication of his words is clear - he’s the one who leads and not the one who follows. 

Problem is, you don’t recognize him. Even with the mask on, you can tell that he’s a man of beauty, surely you must’ve heard of him even if you haven’t met him. But this is a masquerade, people don’t share names until midnight and there’s still couple hours left on the clock for that. You think how you can get his name out of him but your thoughts get interrupted because this mystery man steps even closer to you and glances at your glass. 

“More wine, my dear?”

Tsk. How much you despise nobles thinking they can use pet names on you. But you bite your tongue.

“I can serve myself if needed.” you step back from him and see his curious eyes examine your masked face. What does he even want?

Your gaze snaps down the moment you see him reach out. His fingers bear silver rings, some of them have gems, you recognize each and every one of those gems even before he steps closer again just to take your hand in his slender, manicured fingers.

“I thought maybe you could grant me a dance since your partner seems to be busy with a gentleman.” a pointed tone that his words carry tell you everything – he knows about the arrangement you have with Lord Goldbrith. How - you have not even a slightest idea, but he knows.

Except you’re not concerned that he knows, instead you notice his warm and soft touch when he raises your hand and leans down to meet it with his lips. Something that should be only a small peck gets prolonged and it’s as if he’s testing you because his eyes meet yours while his lips are still on your hand. It’s a long moment. Too long to be appropriate but you don’t pull your hand away.

“A dance? Perhaps I can do that.” you answer and offer the mysterious white-haired man a smile. He smiles too and straightens his back but keeps holding your hand.

“Wonderful. I think a waltz is about to start.” he says in a voice like honey. He’s interested in you, you can tell that much.

So maybe you could use him, just to relieve some pressure. It doesn’t have to be serious, these types of trysts never are. And you have been with couple other patriars like this before. Sneaking away from the main room, finding an empty study or an unused stairwell, quickly satisfying your needs and his without any need to talk about it afterwards. No strings attached, just pure carnal lust being gratified with a willing partner. This handsome elf could become this type of partner, if only for tonight.

You nod to him and put away your goblet to a nearby table, then feel him tug at your hand. You follow him to the ballroom and instead of staying at the edges of the dance floor as not to interrupt other twirling couples, this noble leads you right to the center. You don’t shy away when there’s attention placed on you, but tonight you are on the job and you would prefer if you weren’t noticed. Nonetheless, once more you let him do as he pleases and don’t pull your hand from his firm grasp or don’t try to hide away.

If he wants a dance with everyone watching – you will give him that dance.

When people part giving him and yourself the way to the center of the floor, this mysterious man finally stops and looks at you with a smirk. Even with the mask covering half his face you can see confidence, no, arrogance etched in every expression he makes. You don’t mind that. Something about arrogant men always intrigued you. Maybe because you too are full of pride, and you think that if only these men knew what you’re capable of, they wouldn’t be so self-assured around you. It gives your ego a boost, feeding your own arrogance, making you almost fearless no matter the situation, no matter the opponent or, just like in this case, no matter the partner. A dancing partner, at that, at least for now.

The man pauses, the music stops for a moment while musicians adjust for the upcoming tune and he steps closer, now pulling you closer with practiced ease. His hand on your lower back push you against his chest and you raise your eyebrows even though he cannot see it because of your own mask. Waltz is not danced chest to chest but it looks like he doesn’t care about etiquette or social manners. You don’t mind that at all, you like a man who knows what he’s doing.

And then the music starts again.

Your partner eases into the music with grace, his steps are easy, fluid and you follow him with as much grace as you can. It’s not your first waltz but he’s obviously a better dancer than you can ever hope to be.

“You know people are watching, right?” you say to the elf, bringing attention to how close he’s holding you and he scoffs arrogantly.

“We’re beautiful together, of course they are watching.” his hand on your lower back pushes slightly harder and you nearly lose your step.

A cocky grin on his face tells you that it was intentional. You smirk back to him because you know what he’s doing or at least trying to do. He’s sparring, trying to establish himself as superior to you in this setting. Maybe he’s trying to show that he’s superior over everyone in this ballroom. You’re not sure nor you care.

“I would like to know your name, darling.” your dancing noble says again when you don’t reply quick enough and you slightly smile, he’s getting impatient.

“It’s a masquerade, Lord. My name’s a mystery just as yours.” your reply rewards you with a chuckle that you feel reverberating from his chest against yours.

“Very well.” the man says and you can feel his fingers give yours a short squeeze. “But I will want to see what’s behind that mask once midnight strikes.” again his eyes pierce into yours and for just a split second the world around you melts away.

The chatter and laughter of patriars disappears, the music is all you hear. You feel the fabric of your dress brush against your legs and his as you both spin in motion to the rhythm of waltz. His hand so warm on yours, so warm even through your dress on your back. At last it feels like you both dance with the grace of gods themselves as he leads your steps. And you realize that you don’t want to wait until midnight to rip his mask off and see what’s underneath.

Yes, he will serve well to satisfy your lust, to help you take off the edge. You smile to him.

“Maybe we don’t have to wait for midnight after all.” you tell him and see a flash of surprise that turns into smugness. You also realize that waltz is coming to an end, perfect timing.

Before the elf replies the music tapers off and you step back from him despite his attempt to keep your body close to his, then you do a proper curtsey in thanks for the dance. Mystery man bows too, one hand behind him, but his eyes never leaving yours.

After you both stand tall again, you turn from him and walk off, sensing rather than knowing that he’s following. No one seems to be paying attention anymore, now that your dance is over and another one begins, and you weave through the crowd with easy expertise of an assassin. Passing unnoticed and uninterrupted. But you do quickly glance back to the spot where you were standing earlier, to check if Lord Goldbrith returned but seeing no sign of a man you turn your attention to the hallway for which you are aiming.

Soon enough you turn a corner but don’t get far before you feel yourself being pulled back by your wrist. You stop and look behind you only to see that the elf indeed has followed you. He tugs at your arm just like he did when leading you to the middle of a ballroom and you smirk, pressing your palms against his chest to soften the impact of your body against his.

He leans closer, his lips seeking yours yet you push away from him, seeing questions in his eyes, but instead of answering you grab his hand and make him trail after you in hurried footsteps. To your relief the elf doesn’t utter a word and you pass couple of doors before you stop and push at the third one, hoping that this room is potentially unoccupied, since you assumed the first two would be. That’s how it usually goes during these types of noble parties.

Yes, the room is empty and the silver-haired man follows you inside hurriedly, pushing the door closed behind him. When you stop he stops too and you release his hand, turning to him. For a moment you look each other in the eyes, you feel your heart beating heavy and fast in your chest. And then both of you step to each other at the same time as if you both heard a silent permission.

He grabs at your mask and you grab at his, pulling them away from your faces just a split second before your lips meet. You kiss him almost harshly, your desire taking control of you and he responds with same passion, pushing his tongue into your mouth in an instant. The masks drop to the floor and he steps forwards with you, pushing you backwards with his hands on your hips and your arms around his neck, until you bump into the bookshelf behind you.

Elf’s hands begin clawing at your dress, lifting the skirts up in a hurry and your hands blindly find their way to the buttons of his pants. The kiss is deep, the wine you taste on his tongue is even better than one from a glass. For a moment your tongue catches on his fang but you don’t have the time to wonder what’s that about. No, this moment is about getting and giving in equal measure.

The kiss breaks for a moment, you feel elf’s breath on your mouth and gasp softly when you feel his fingertips trace the outline of your underwear. You open your eyes and find him looking at you with intense lust-filled gaze, at the same time you finally manage to slip your hand into his pants. As you reach down, his precum stains your fingers and you smirk, palming his hard erection.

But your smile gets wiped off your face as the handsome elf pulls at the hem of your panties and slides two fingers down your slit, dipping just the tips of them into your core. He exhales with obvious lust and removes his hand, grabbing your hips as if preparing to lift you. You don’t waste time and you free his cock out of its confines. The moment you do that, the man lifts you by the hips. Immediately you wrap your legs around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders for purchase. Without delay you feel your panties being pulled to the side and smooth tip of elf’s erection pressing against your soaked cunt.

No words are needed and no time is wasted. He thrusts into you with force and you moan, throwing your head back from the pleasure of him filling you and stretching you in most wonderful way. You quickly bite your lip down, trying to silence any forthcoming cries but you are not successful because when he starts pumping - it’s hard and demanding.

The room fills with pants and groans and you close your eyes, feeling the man’s lips on your neck, kissing and tasting your skin with his tongue. You whine with each snap of his hips, with each claim of his to your body, and you let go of his shoulders, your fingers reach over your head and to your sides, looking for a shelf to grasp onto, but for a while you only find the spines of books, pulling at them and making them drop to the floor with silent thuds.

Then your eyes snap open as pain briefly shoots through your shoulder but you immediately realize what’s going on. Of course he’s a vampire. The crimson eyes, the fangs, strange you didn’t realize it earlier. You let your eyelids drop as the vampire sucks on your blood while relentlessly pounding into you at the same time, and you have to clench your teeth to prevent yourself from shouting into the ceiling. It’s not your first time sleeping with a vampire so you’re not afraid, if anything it gives you a thrill of danger that you never get from other patriars in such short-term arrangements.

You feel the fangs leave your neck and a greedy tongue laps at the bite marks left behind while you finally manage to grasp onto the shelves, clinging for your dear life. You crane your head and look at the elf, seeing that his eyes are on you, then he catches your lips in a scorching kiss, his teeth tugging at your bottom one and you mewl at that, it’s harder and harder for you to keep silent as your pleasure begins to build. Your partner in this quick tryst pounds himself so religiously into you that you are beginning to feel sore already and that only adds to the pleasure.

For a moment the elf just keep thrusting while biting on your lower lip and when you look at him he keeps an eye contact with you, but then his teeth part and he presses his face to the side of your neck that doesn’t have his fresh bite mark. You hear him gasp for air and you know he’s close too. You release the shelf with one hand to tangle your fingers into his hair, grasping firmly just before you close your eyes again and let go.

A deep thrust, another one, then another one - your mewls follow each other of them and your mind swims just before your orgasm overwhelms your senses. You don’t know how loud you are or how hard you are gripping vampire’s hair, all you know is pleasure and his cock pushing you to your limits. You don’t even know how long the waves of pleasure rip through you, making your cunt clench on his shaft so deliciously, as if on a quest to milk him sooner than he wishes. You hear him grunt something, a word, maybe two, you’re not sure and it doesn’t matter.

When your bliss begins subsiding and your mind starts to clear you find yourself still being fucked. You whimper, sore and satisfied, but pull at elf’s hair, making him look at you. His face is sweaty, his teeth are clenched, showcasing his fangs, and you see that he’s close. You heavily kiss him but he doesn’t respond. Instead he grunts against your mouth and then moans, his thrusts becoming erratic at the same moment as he begins spilling himself deep inside of you. You slide your tongue against his teeth, your eyes heavy-lidded from your own pleasure and additional satisfaction seeing that he seems to be enjoying this too, like it’s a compliment to you. And then his hips finally stop, his grip on your hips is slippery and he’s digging his fingers into your flesh, leaving bruises for the future.

The elf opens his eyes to look at you, he’s utterly out of breath but you don’t let him say anything, you just kiss him again and he responds, albeit less energetically now. You had a moment to recover while he just rode out his orgasm to the fullest. With a smirk you lean your head back and push at him slightly, making him set you on the floor. The white-haired man looks disheveled and you most likely look the same, but you just smirk to him, taking in his appearance, the messy hair, the open pants and his softening erection, still leaking last drops of cum. A wonderful view and a state that you like seeing men in.

With sweaty palms you smoothen out skirts of your dress and pick up your domino mask from the floor, then give him a wink, walking out of the room. You don’t see the look the man gives you: one of shock and partial anger that you’re leaving without another word. As if he’s realizing it is you who used him and not the other way around. Your arrogance leaves him stumped. But you finally know who he is: Lord Astarion Ancunin.

With a satisfied grin you walk back to the ballroom, trying to ignore your underwear that’s getting soaked with his seed and your own arousal, but you know he won’t follow you right now, most likely too insulted that you used him to get relief. You put on your mask again and enter the ballroom, immediately seeing Lord Goldbrith impatiently tapping his foot at the same spot where he stood last before leaving with a young gentleman. When you approach him he looks irritated.

“Let’s leave.” he demands and you raise your eyebrows but you don’t argue. If you can leave early and go home to wash up that’s all the better. After all, the moment Lord Goldbrith is in his carriage your job is done and you won’t argue against a short night.

“As you say.” you nod and Goldbrith curtly nods in response, then marches towards the main exit.

You follow him but give one more glance behind you before you leave the room. You notice white curls and a crimson-eyed intense, angry gaze in your direction just before dancing couples hide all of it away.

You smirk to yourself. You have a suspicion you will meet him again.